In the district of the Rheingau, on the right-hand side of the great river, some miles below MaÏence, is a little town to which, in the present day, is given two different names, according to fancy; it is sometimes called Eltvil or Elfeld. When those smoking Leviathans, the steamboats, pass roaring before the modest houses of Eltvil, the sound of the silvery bell has scarcely echoed in the It is at Eltvil that we shall take up again the thread of our story, which was so abruptly broken by the incendiary of MaÏence. Three years What a caravan, and what a journey; and what thoughts must have passed through the mind of the chief actor and guide when he reflected, especially on that first occasion of his flight in this very same “Ah! those were good old times,” said Beildech, sighing and shaking his head. “Yes, thou art right; they were happy times,” replied Gutenberg. “Alas! when will our weary pilgrimage and our sorrows come to an end?” At these words, which fell with some bitterness from his lips, the noble old man fixed his gaze on the glorious setting sun, whose brilliant rays surrounded his thinly covered head, and his pale sorrow-stricken face. One might have said that they wished to form a luminous martyr’s crown around him. Gutenberg did not speak without At the end of three years the peregrinations of the caravan came to an abrupt termination; a termination which it certainly did not seek or desire. Gutenberg fell suddenly dangerously ill. It was with difficulty that his companions procured him shelter and a lodging with a boatman, who possessed, on the left bank of the Rhine, opposite the rich and powerful convent of Erbach, a hut where he earned a scanty livelihood, partly by fishing, partly by the profits he made in carrying over pilgrims in his little boat to the monastery. It was here that Gutenberg was obliged to remain, overcome by sickness. The place suited him inasmuch as it was removed from the haunts of men, which the old man, soured by grief and depressed by misfortune, endeavoured, every day more and more, to avoid; the hut, which was buried It is thus that, in the year of Our Lord Jesus 1465, John Gutenberg, the inventor of the art of printing, was laid up under this wretched roof, a prey to sickness, forgotten and forsaken by mankind. The most trying season of the year had found him still travelling; fatigue, illness, grief, disappointment of every kind, had overpowered the old man, and it was on this account that his two companions watched with so much anxiety and anguish by the side of their master’s pallet. They shared between them the care of the sufferer, and while Claude Musny went about here and there offering his services to the vine-dressers, and the monks of the convent, Beildech remained in attendance on his master. Occasionally, at rare intervals, a monk of On one of the last evenings of the autumn of this same year, Beildech and the young Frenchman sat by Gutenberg’s couch watching his restless and feverish sleep. Outside, the night was dark and gloomy; the waters of the Rhine, swollen by the rain, beat against the walls of the hut, and a sharp wind which blew down in squalls from the hills shook the framework of the miserable dwelling. The sick man had been suffering all day; he complained of a burning heat in his head, especially in his eyes, and Beildech had observed with The hut when Gutenberg awoke was in profound darkness. In a faint voice he asked for a light. Beildech went out and lighted a resinous torch, which he placed in an iron ring in the wall, fastened there for the purpose, and close to Gutenberg’s bed. The latter hearing the door creak on its hinges lifted himself up. “A light—light!” said he; then again, after a short pause, he added in an impatient tone, “Is there then no one here who will condescend to grant the favour of a light to an Beildech, trembling from head to foot, drew the young Frenchman quickly to the other side of the bed. “Beloved Master,” he said, “be so good as to turn and to open your eyes, the torch is in its usual place.” “I tell thee thou liest,” said Gutenberg angrily, “is not everything here as dark as in a tomb? Claude, my son, answer me—where art thou?” He whom he called was close to his master’s head, he shuddered as he bent down towards him. “Here I am,” he said, in a low voice, taking hold affectionately of his master’s hand; but the latter pushed him away, and stretching out his arm towards the torch he laid hold of it, and brought it close to his eyes. He could no longer see it! With a cry of despair, and burying After the first burst of despair, silence once more reigned in the hut. The shepherd, who, in this respect, much resembled the doctors of our own days, when he was at a loss what more to do, slunk noiselessly away. The young Frenchman, quite overcome with grief, was on his knees by the side of the bed, while Beildech, the torch in his hand, held it close to the eyes of the old man, as if he sought by this means to restore Such was the picture presented by the interior of the hut, when the sound of an approaching horse came suddenly to relieve the solitude of our poor sufferers. Beildech was just opening the window to listen, when the fisherman ushered in a horseman wet to the skin, and covered with mud. “Here,” said the boatman, “behold him of whom you are in search.” The horseman bent his tall figure as he entered the low door of the dwelling. “He whom I seek,” said he to Beildech, who advanced gloomily, “is called John Gutenberg, and he is from MaÏence.” The old man, hearing his name pronounced by a stranger, sat up to listen, and motioned to his attendant to be silent. His pride revolted at the idea of being discovered in such “That is a pity,” said the cavalier, casting a doubtful look at the sick man, “yes, it is a great pity that such good news should meet with so rude a reception. He to whom my message is addressed will doubtless receive me with more politeness.” “Are you quite sure of that?” “I think so at least,” said he, drawing from under his doublet a roll of parchment. “Here is what I bring from our worthy Lord Archbishop—a letter which could not fail to rejoice the old gentleman if I could only put it into his hands. I have been for weeks on At these words Lawrence and Claude, in whose face a sanguine curiosity was clearly legible, approached the cavalier. “If you could make up your mind,” said Lawrence, pointing silently to his master, “to leave your message with us, I will answer for it, on my head, that it could not fall into better hands, for the retreat of the noble John Gutenberg is perfectly well known to us.” “Well then,” replied the horseman, who was not slow to understand, “I agree to that readily,” and he placed the scroll in the old man’s hands. “For my part I am glad to be at last released from my troublesome commission, and if the boatman will take me across the river to-night, I can at any rate reach Eltvil, where my The spurs of the horseman were still resounding on the threshold when Claude seized the scroll out of Gutenberg’s hands, and hastily approaching the resinous torch, he took a rapid survey of the missive from which hung, in a case, the great seal of wax of the Archbishop. “Master,” cried he, falling on his knees, with a joyous exclamation, “it is when our distress is at its height that our Lord is nearest to us!” And his tears, which were no longer of sorrow but of joy, and his kisses, covered the old man’s hands. “Peace, peace, young scatter-brain!” said Gutenberg, who could, however, with difficulty control his own emotion. “What can this missive contain capable of thus exciting our little Frenchman?” “Deliverance for you, O my Master!” repeated Claude, in a tone of jubilee, and he gave the parchment back to Gutenberg, whose trembling fingers wandered over the ribbon and the seal. Claude had forgotten that the old man was no longer able to read it; Beildech was obliged to recall the fact to him. Claude then retook the scroll, and began deciphering with some difficulty, and many interruptions from the sobs of Lawrence, this document, a precious relic, which we here re-produce in the simple language of those times. “We Adolphe the elected Lord and installed Archbishop of MaÏence, do recognize by this present, that we have accepted, as useful and agreeable to our person, the services rendered to us by our dear and faithful John Gutenberg, that is why, excited to this act by the especial grace of The scroll of parchment fell from the hands of the reader, and it was a touching sight to see the old Lawrence pressing the right hand of his beloved master, while, with uplifted face towards heaven, he murmured, “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace!” As for Gutenberg, pale and motionless on his pallet, a few stray tears wandered down his cheeks on to his grizzled beard, but not a muscle of his face, or a movement of his body, denoted that life still existed within him; but when his two faithful companions tried each to lay hold of one of his hands, he put them gently aside, sobs escaped him, and he said, shaking his head, “It is too late, these eyes can no longer see anything, they can only weep!” We who have come into the world But here let us be silent, for, Reader, you doubtless recollect a certain old proverb which says, “Vieille chanson vieille histoire!” |