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A Partner at the Confessional.—His Death.—Consequences.—A Lawsuit.—Thieves.—Dangerous Curiosity.—Destruction of Gutenberg’s Type.—Curious Testimonies.—Value of the Legal Document.—Proof that Gutenberg was the Real Inventor.—The Magistrate’s Just Judgment.—Public Excitement.

Poor Dritzhn! he was sadly lacking in the spirit which upheld Gutenberg. He was a plain matter-of-fact man, with none of the originator,—content to plant in the spring and reap in the autumn, to work in time-worn paths; but dubious things that were years in maturing, were not suited to his nature. The possibility of failure poisoned his enjoyment, palsied his hand, and enfeebled his step. And this, in 1438, after the short space of two years of suspense in the firm.

Father Melchoir, his spiritual adviser, noticed the change.

“My son,” said he, “something troubles thee; confide the matter to me; perhaps I can help thee.”

“I am indeed in trouble,” replied he, glad of a confidant, for the secret and the doubt of success together wore on him. “I fear that I shall be ruined as to worldly prospects.”

“I trust not: how is it, my son? From what source is the danger?”

“Alas, Father, gladly would I tell thee, but I have bound myself with an oath not to reveal the secret.”

“But, my son, the Church does not recognize oaths in such a case. They are null and void for all purposes whatsoever, and thou art free to tell me all thy heart at the confessional: it is even thy solemn duty to do so.”

Dritzhn was only too easily persuaded, and, despite his sacred oath, told Father Melchoir of his connection with the firm.

“I have given hundreds of florins,” said he, “to bring out a hidden art of writing, with the hope long ere this of selling books and getting profits from my money. A few have been sold, but I have received no dividend. Besides, I have earned but little by my trade for these two long years; my time has been thrown away, and I am poorer than ever.”

“A very sad case!” said Father Melchoir, compassionately.

“This load is too heavy for me to bear,” lamented Dritzhn; “it will kill me! To think of throwing away hundreds of florins on a doubtful art, without in return getting back a single obolus!3 What can I do?”

3The very expression of Dritzhn at confessional.

“Get free from this secret league as soon as possible, and resume thy trade.”

“I wish it could be done, Father, but I fear it cannot. If I leave the firm, I shall lose all chance of getting back the money I have lent them. I am in doubt what to do.”

“Leave it by all means!” cried Father Melchoir; “be sure no good will come of their arts.”

“I will see what I can do,” said Dritzhn, and he rose to go. As he entered the shop, he found Gutenberg, Hielman, and Riffe busy setting new type for another work. It was a dictionary, called a “Catholicon.” They were all eager in their toil, and spoke warmly of the ready sale it would find, and the money it would bring in. Dritzhn, a little encouraged, resumed his work with them, nor did he breathe a word of his plan of leaving. It was too great a step to take hastily, although he wished himself safely out of the partnership.

There was so much repairing of type to do, and so many unlooked-for hinderances, that the book was delayed, and 1439 came round before it was finished, although Gutenberg was meanwhile steadily improving his art. At this point of time, the autumn of 1439, just when they were about realizing their hopes in issuing the “Catholicon,” an event occurred which threw everything into confusion. This was the sudden death of Andreas Dritzhn. If ever the adversary hindered an enterprise, it was the art of printing; he had doubtless reasons of his own for multiplying obstacles.

Accordingly the death of Andreas was the pretext; and directly George and Nicholas, brothers of the deceased, two sturdy jogging Germans, who never harmed a fly, on arriving home from Andreas’s funeral, demanded of Gutenberg, Hielman, and Riffe to be admitted to the partnership!

“Very good,” said Gutenberg; “if we can find it in the contract, it shall be done.” Then, producing the document, he read:—

Art. 2. If any one of the partners shall die during the copartnership, the survivors shall pay to his heirs the sum of one hundred florins, in consideration of which the effects shall become the property of the surviving partners.”

“Nay, gentlemen, you cannot become partners, but we will pay you what is due as the heirs of Andreas Dritzhn.” Then, looking over the accounts of the firm, he added, “Your brother is indebted to us in the sum of eighty-five florins; we will pay you the remaining fifteen, which will balance accounts.” George and Nicholas rejected the offer with disdain, and, hastening away, conferred with each other as to what they should do. Two strong principles were at work in their hearts,—avarice and curiosity. From some few hints which Andreas had dropped while living, George and Nicholas were as much excited about the hidden arts of Gutenberg as we covetous moderns are with a chance at a rich vein in a gold mine; and they determined to try a suit at law, and if possible become members of the secret league.

This was in the autumn, and was peculiarly grievous to the inventor. The lawsuit consumed his time, thwarted his plans, and there was great danger that the secrets of his art would become public. The protection of the patent offices was then unknown. No inventor could put in a caveat to hinder the encroachments of trespassers. The lawsuit had bruited abroad that Gutenberg & Co. had a secret art, which, like the philosopher’s stone, turned everything into gold; and curiosity, on tip-toe, used every device to get a peep at the wonder. Gutenberg’s work was at an end. It took all his time to attend the courts, and watch his shop, that no one might steal his art. It required double diligence to do the last, as the shop was in Andreas’s house. Despite his cautions to Hielman and Riffe, one day, in his absence, George and Nicholas managed to take from the shop a part of the printing apparatus. Gutenberg then gave orders to his servants to convey secretly to his house a printing-press and a quantity of letters cut in wood. The theft was a source of great anxiety to him, as he feared that the secret was out. The careful thieves, however, safely hid their booty, and lisped not a word.

At length it became evident to Gutenberg—such was the pitch to which curiosity had risen—that every vestige of the noble art must be destroyed. It was not safe even to hide it in his own house.

“Take the stucke from the forms,” said he to his associates, “and break them up in my sight, that none of them may remain perfect.”

“What, all our labor?” cried Hielman; “here we’ve been at work these three years!”

“Never mind,” replied Gutenberg; “break them up, or some one will steal our art, and we shall be ruined!” and with that they set to work with their hammers and mallets, and the stucke was soon demolished. His precious type lay in the dust, and still the lawsuit was lacerating his sensitive mind.

The following curious testimony was given during this trial:—

“Anna, the wife of John Schultheiss, an engraver on wood, deposed, that on one occasion Nicholas Beildeck came to her house to Nicholas Dritzhn, her relation, and said to him, ‘My Nicholas Dritzhn, Andreas Dritzhn, of happy memory, has placed four pages (stucke) in a press, which Gutenberg has desired that you will take away and separate, that no man may know what they are, for he is unwilling that any one should see them.’

“Also John Schultheiss says that Laurence Beildeck [Gutenberg’s servant] sometime came to his house to Nicholas Dritzhn, when Andreas Dritzhn his brother was dead, and that the said Laurence Beildeck thus spoke to said Nicholas Dritzhn: ‘Andreas Dritzhn, of happy memory, has placed four pages on a press, which John Gutenberg desires you to take therefrom, and break them from one another, so that no man may see what they are.’

“Also Conrad Sachspach deposed that sometime Andrew Hielman came to him upon the Street of Merchants, and said, ‘My Conrad, as Andreas Dritzhn is dead, and you made that press and know all about the matter, go hence and take the pieces from the press, and lay them separate from one another, so that no one may know what it is.’

“Laurence Beildeck says that he was sent by John Gutenberg to Nicholas Dritzhn, after the death of Andreas his brother, to say to him that he should show to no one the press that he had, and that he should see to it. He added that Gutenberg had moreover commanded him that he should go suddenly to the presses, and open that press [frame] which was furnished with two screws or spindles (cochleis) that the pages should fall into pieces, and place those pieces within or upon the press, so that no one should see the matter, or understand what it was.

“The same witness also said that he knew well that Gutenberg, a little before the Feast of the Nativity [Christmas], had sent his servant to take away all forms, which were broken up in his sight, that none of them might be found perfect. Moreover, after the death of Andreas, the witness was not ignorant that many were desirous of seeing the presses, and that Gutenberg had commanded that some one should be sent who might hinder any one from seeing the presses, and that his servants were sent to break them up.

“Also John Dunnius, goldsmith, said that three years or thereabouts previous, he had received from Gutenberg about three hundred florins for materials relating to printing.”

All this affected the Strasbourgers, both priests and people, very differently from what it does ourselves. We prize it as a legal document, showing the existence of separate types, and also two presses, one of them made by Conrad Sachspach and the other by John Dunnius, to whom the firm paid three hundred florins for press-work done in December, 1436. These presses served very different purposes, as Gutenberg commanded his servant to “open that press which was furnished with two screws or spindles.” Plainly one was the “chase” for type, and the other the upright frame with a screw, which moved down the platen to impress the paper placed upon the type. We learn also that the art was a secret at the time when Laurentius Costar lay at the point of death, and those mistake who give him the honor of inventing printing.

We can picture to ourselves the excitement which prevailed, when a man of Gutenberg’s firm character was led to make such utter destruction of his property after the disclosures of the lawsuit. He may have feared that a lawless mob would invade his shop, and scatter the proofs of his invention, and that some person of ingenuity would get a clew to the art, and rob him of his sacred rights. What hours, days and nights of solicitude he suffered! Those only, who in a good cause have met the scoffs and jeers of the rabble excited by unscrupulous leaders, can well imagine the inventor’s emotions.

Happily, Anna was equal to the emergency, and became a very heroine. She had no idea of being crushed, although for a little while she had given way to despondency, and her strong-hearted courage inspired her husband. His home was a little paradise of peace, the resort of flowers and birds and all beautiful things which she instinctively gathered around her. God’s gracious smile rested upon it, and in this sanctuary Gutenberg’s wounded spirit was soothed; here he gained strength, and girded on his armor anew for the battle of life. The fiercer the strife without, the more blessed the peace within this retreat.

The lawsuit dragged its slow length on until December 12th of that year, when the magistrates gave judgment relieving Gutenberg from “the unjust demand of George and Nicholas Dritzhn, upon the payment of the sum of fifteen florins, being the difference of the sum of one hundred florins due to Gutenberg by Andrew on the original contract.”

This was just what Gutenberg had proposed at first; and his adversaries had their trouble for their pains, without, perhaps, the consolation of knowing how much they had annoyed him. The lawsuit was over, but it had exposed the state of Gutenberg’s affairs, and people were curious to learn more. Rumor was busy with her thousand tongues. “He is not willing that any one should see!” “Something wrong!” and in the spirit of the superstition of the times, many cried out, “Mystery! Witchcraft!” The whole community was in a ferment. Time passed, and a little before the Feast of the Nativity, so faithfully had Gutenberg’s orders as to the destruction of the press and type been executed, that nothing remained of the wonderful art, which since the death of Dritzhn, had so much disturbed the good city of Strasbourg.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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