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Updated: April 30, 2025
Scarcely had these words been uttered, when catching the ear of Frau Gensfleisch, she started from her seat, and pushing aside the monks, who stood around the stranger, she made her way up to him, and she said, as she laid hold of his cloak and looked him in the face, "Stranger, what is thy name what is thy true name? Is it not Hans Gensfleisch wert thou not born here art thou not my son?"
He promised Frau Gensfleisch, however, that she should see him and question him herself about her son, as soon as the stranger returned from the palace of the Archbishop, where had gone to exhibit his wonderful book, and he left her in his cell, promising to return and fetch her when the stranger should arrive. Frau Gensfleisch sat in silence and alone for two heavy hours.
And in her anger the Frau Gensfleisch swept the precious letters off the table and threw them into the fire. Hans started forward in dismay to save them but it was too late. One =g= alone remained of his treasured letters, but it was enough. He had his knife and he could make others and more than that, there was left with him a valuable thought.
With her dying breath she cried out that the Voices were real, and that she had obeyed God in listening to their counsels. Her last word was the name of Jesus. By ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE Hans Gensfleisch Gutenberg von Sorgeloch was a young patrician born at Mainz, a free and wealthy city on the banks of the Rhine, in the year 1400.
He did so slicing them carefully off, so that they were not split or broken, and he was thus able to carry home to his mother, as she would not come to see them, this first specimen of his own writing. We shall see how the carrying home of those letters was afterwards to influence the fate of Hans Gensfleisch and of the whole world!
Scarcely had the letter laid an instant on the white leather than Frau Gensfleisch, turning round, saw with dismay the mischief that was done; a large =h= was marked upon the chamois skin! "Ah Hanschen! Hanschen!" cried she, "what art thou about thou hast ruined thy poor mother.
In return, Frau Gensfleisch got one of the monks to write for her a letter, in which she told Hans of the recovery of the youth whom he had wounded, and begged him to return to her. This letter was given into the charge of the same monk, who, after visiting several other cities, was likely to return to Worms; but as it did not bring Hans home again, no one felt sure that it had ever reached him.
For instance, a woman who had fashioned for her husband a rudely knitted vest of wool of her own spinning; would bring the rather dingy garment to Frau Gensfleisch to have it made red or blue, so that, worn under his brown leather jerkin, it might look smart and gay; or the young hunter, on going to the chase, would come to her to have the tassels of his bow or horn made scarlet or yellow; or the knight equipping himself for war would send to her the soiled plume of his helmet, to be made of a brilliant crimson to say nothing of the knight's lady, who, as she sat at home in her dismal castle, with little else to amuse her but the embroidery frame, would be forever sending down her maidens and serving-men into the valley with skeins of wool and silk, to be dipped into Frau Gensfleisch's dye-pots, and brought back to her of every color of the rainbow.
This was, of course, something the same as what we call ink and it so happened that Frau Gensfleisch was in possession of a secret by which a black dye could be made, which would not turn brown with time, as that of many of the manuscripts.
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