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CHAPTER 4

A Meeting With Johann Fust

      LATER THAT day, Peter stood with Johann Gutenberg at the door of a handsome house in the finest part of the city. His face and hands were shining, he had brushed his tunic and cloak, and he'd put on clean linen hose.

      He was also feeling a little anxious.

      "It's foolish of me to be nervous, just because the man's rich," Peter thought. "My father's house is almost as nice as this one. And I get on well with my Great Uncle Karl, who used to be a banker when he was a young man. Moreover, Fust has no reason to dislike me, so there's really nothing to fear."

      Nevertheless, when the heavy wooden doors swung open and a little maid ushered them into the ornate parlor, Peter still felt apprehensive.

      "Master Fust will see you in a few minutes," the maid said. Then she gave them a small curtsy and left the room.

      As they stood together in silence, Peter looked around the room, which was flooded with light from several large windows. His eyes took in the splendid furniture, noticed the immense porcelain stove which was decorated with blue Delft tiles. He looked down at the polished wooden flooring under his feet. No doubt about it: Fust was a very wealthy man, and his home contained the best of everything.

      "I've planned out how I want to handle this, so let me do all the talking," Gutenberg murmured. "If he asks you any questions, just say a word or two — but nothing that could offend him!"

      Peter nodded. He was nervous enough himself, and it didn't help to have Gutenberg giving him unnecessary advice. And he certainly wasn't going to offend this banker if he could help it!

      A light step sounded in the hallway, and Peter looked up, steeling himself for this unpleasant meeting. But instead of the dreaded Mr. Fust, the newcomer was a fair-haired young girl in a pale dress. Seeing them, she stopped quite still at the edge of a patch of sunlight.

      Her sudden entry, just when he'd been expecting someone quite different, had an extraordinary effect on Peter's imagination. Gilded as she was by the sun, she looked to him almost like an angel!

      The girl was as startled as Peter. She dropped the papers she had been carrying and cried, "Oh, I'm sorry! I thought Father was . . ."

      Remembering his manners, Peter bent to pick up the papers from the floor. "Here, let me help you," he said, murmured, them to her with his best French bow.

      "Oh my . . . yes. Thank you very much." Her sky-colored eyes appraised him with interest. Then, meeting his look, she turned pink and glanced down at the papers he'd restored to her. "Gentlemen, please excuse me. I must deliver these."

      Peter bowed a second time. "I hope we'll meet again."

      "Perhaps."

      At the door, she paused. "You're here to see Johann Fust?"

      "Yes."

      "And what is your name?"

      "Peter Schoeffer. This gentleman is Mr. Johann Gutenberg."

      "I'll remember," she said. And with a brief nod, she vanished.

      As soon the girl was gone, Peter turned to Gutenberg and said eagerly, "Who was that angel!"

      "Angel?" The old man laughed shortly. "That's Christina Fust, the banker's daughter — completely spoiled! Fust has raised her like the son he never had. She reads Latin like a scholar, works with him on his banking ledgers, and speaks her mind whenever she feels like it. Although her mother's a careful housewife, Christina knows next to nothing about womanly work — they say she can hardly thread a needle. Heaven protect the man who marries her!"

      Peter did not answer. Unlike Gutenberg, he found nothing unattractive in this description. On the contrary, his mother was a clever woman, and his younger sister, Ilse, was studying Latin with his old tutor. He was proud that she learned it as quickly as he had.

      A few minutes later, the young maid returned to say, "Mr. Fust is ready to see you," and Peter put Christina out of his mind.

      They followed the maid through a series of winding corridors and into another wing of the house. Here, in a large room, half a dozen shabby-looking men were working at a long table that was stacked high with handwritten ledgers. Some were diligently entering information about the banker's accounts, while others totaled up long columns of numbers. One was referring to a thick book on another table to check the accuracy of his work.

      Seeing these drab, silent fellows, Peter couldn't help contrasting them with himself. "What a dismal life they lead," he thought. "I'm lucky to have such important and exciting work to do!"

      The maid knocked discreetly on a tall door at the end of the room, and a muffled voice called, "Enter!" At this, she opened the door and gestured them through.

      The thick-set man who faced them across his polished table wore self-importance across his shoulders like a cloak. The weight of it pulled his brows together into a frown, drew down the corners of his mouth, and caused his heavy cheeks to sag like the jowls of an old dog.

      This was Johann Fust: humorless, unyielding, and with enough malicious fire in his eyes to heat the room!

      "What do you want this time?" he growled.

      "I agree to your demands," Gutenberg answered evenly. "I'll produce the Great Bible, but you will own all the copies. In return, you'll tear up our old agreements and advance me the money I need to continue my work."

      Fust glared at him. "You mean forget the money you already owe me? Certainly not! My offer — and certainly nobody else in his right mind would be so generous! — was to extend the term of your existing debt. Which is now almost a year overdue! In return, all you have to do is to fulfill the terms of our original contract."

      The rich man clenched his fist. "But I want the books you promised me! Where's my Great Bible and my illuminated Book of Hours! Where's my glorious volume of Cicero, and the "Meditations of Marcus Aurelius!" The only thing you've printed in the past year is that accursed Latin Grammar of yours — which brings in barely enough to pay your workmen!"

      "We'll start the Bible immediately," Gutenberg answered."I've hired this young man to be my new foreman, and he'll finish off the Donnatus while I and my other assistants begin casting the new type."

      Peter blinked. What? What had Gutenberg said? He, Peter, had been promoted to shop foreman? What a surprise!

      "You're going to start it? You said that two years ago, and I'm still waiting," Fust growled, giving Gutenberg an angry scowl. "Get busy, old man! You promised me hundreds of books. Row upon row of them. Stacked high!"

      "You'll have them," Gutenberg nodded eagerly. "Wonderful Bibles, perfectly printed — and illuminated in red, and azure, and gold. Five hundred years from now, people will still be admiring their beauty! But it takes money, Mr. Fust! We must buy type-metal and paper, and we have to pay the people who do the work."

      "More money," Fust cried. "You've already borrowed a fortune from me, Gutenberg! And I've extended your debts again and again — when nobody else would give you a copper penny! Do you think I'm a fool? I won't pour out more gold to a man who consumes it the way a horse drinks water! What's become of the 800 guilders I lent you two years ago?"

      Peter shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Why couldn't they just sign the papers and get back to work without all this shouting!

      He glanced at his master and then back to the scowling Fust, but as he did so, a new thought occurred to him: Suppose they had not agreed on the loan when they met before. If Gutenberg had really promised to deliver all those books (none of which was even begun) then the banker had good reason to be angry.

      And with this, Peter realized that Fust was not just playing the bully — he was on the verge of refusing Gutenberg the loan! And the printing shop could not run without that money!

      Impulsively, Peter spoke up. "But Mr. Fust, surely you know it takes years to make even a single book in the old way!"

      The banker's heavy head turned toward him. "And you're an expert on creating books?"

      "I certainly am," Peter nodded fearlessly. "I've worked as a copyist at one of the great Universities in Paris — and believe me, it's a great labor to write and illuminate a volume like the one you have in mind. And although our printing is very different from hand copying, it, too, takes time. We have to cast thousands of separate slugs of type and set each one in place, letter by letter, word by word."

      As he spoke, Peter's eyes began to sparkle with excitement. "But when all the forms are set and ready — Ah! Then you'll be dazzled by our speed, Mr. Fust! Astounded by the number of pages that flow from our press. Be a little patient, and you'll have your stack of Bibles! Wait and see!"

      Fust's eyes narrowed. "Hmf! Your new foreman is loyal, Gutenberg. And eloquent. One hopes he can work as well as he speaks!"

      "Forgive him, Mr. Fust — he's young . . ."

      "Indeed he is! But now that he's started, let him speak for himself," the rich man said. Then he turned the full force of his suspicious glance on Peter. "Tell me, boy — who are you, and why should I listen to your opinion?"

      "My name is Peter Schoeffer, Sir, and I was educated at the University of Paris. My father is Rudolf Schoeffer of Frankfurt. My mother's relatives are named Wolff, and she has a brother who is in business in the town of Eltville. Perhaps you know him."

      Fust thought for a moment. "I know of a Hansel Wolff."

      "My uncle, Sir. A cloth merchant."

      The rich man looked at Peter with new interest."Mr. Wolff is a well-respected man. A well-off man."

      "Yes, Sir, he is."

      Fust looked Peter up and down. "So! Then you're not only well-spoken, but also well-connected!"

      Looking a little more genial, the banker returned his gaze to Gutenberg. "Your choice of an assistant does you credit, old man. Hmmm . . . you wish me to extend your loan for another two years — and at the end of that time you will deliver to me the Great Bible. Is that correct?"

      "I must also have the additional money," Gutenberg added stubbornly. "We can't continue without it."

      "Yes, you mentioned that before. How much do you want? Three hundred guilders? Four?"

      "No — I need a thousand! I have to buy lead, and tin, and antimony to make the type. We'll need to buy fine paper. And I must hire additional workman . . ."

      While Gutenberg was speaking, Fust's face contorted as if in pain. He heaved himself from his chair, red-faced, and his mouth opened as if to shout a refusal.

      Seeing this, the printer interrupted himself hastily "— but it could be nine hundred. Yes, nine hundred will do nicely. We can manage with that. Certainly we can!"

      "Nine hundred guilders? You're a madman! Where am I supposed to find such a sum — do you think gold coins fall off the trees like firewood in a forest!"

      "Mr. Fust . . . a man like you has infinite resources," Gutenberg urged gently.

      "If I have resources it's because I take care of my money and pay my debts! Nine hundred guilders is out of the question!"

      "Eight?"

      Fust sat down again. After a long pause. His small eyes turned from Gutenberg to Peter, and he asked almost pleadingly, "Ach, Schoeffer: is he telling me the truth? Will there really be hundreds of Bibles? Will they be of good workmanship? Will I be able to sell them and recoup the money I've poured into the bottomless pit of this old man's printing press?"

      "I can't say what you will sell, Mr. Fust, or how much money you can expect to make," Peter returned steadily, "But as for the work, I swear to you on my honor that the printed materials that come from our press are as clear and easy-to-read as the writing of the finest scribes in Paris. And once the type is cast and set in place, and after the proofs have been read and corrected, and the work is on the press . . . we can produce hundreds of perfect copies of every page. That much I guarantee: we can do the work. And it will be good work!"

      For a while Fust said nothing, but he continued staring at them as if he would search their souls. Then he began muttering to himself, "I've already risked so much — more than a merchant earns in twenty years! And still there's nothing to show for it."

      It was almost as if he'd forgotten they were in the room. Or perhaps he hadn't realized he was speaking aloud. "Such a risk . . . not like lending to a bakery. When a baker fails, I can hire another baker to run his shop. When it makes a profit, the money is slowly repaid. But this — using little bits of metal to create books . . . am I like some crazy alchemist, seeking a magical formula that will turn lead type into gold?"

      At last, Fust turned his heavy head to face them.

      "Very well. What I lent you before is gone, and I'll gamble a little more in trying to get it back — but I'm not a fool, Gutenberg!" His expression hardened. "And you won't hold my money in your hands again. Every week, I want to see a list of your expenses. Send them over with your foreman here; if he can explain each one to my satisfaction, if the charges are fair, I'll pay them. If not — not!"

      "But I need . . ." Gutenberg began impatiently.

      "Don't speak until I've finished," Fust snarled. And Gutenberg fell silent.

      "In addition," the rich man continued, "You will inform me of your progress, week by week. And on the last day of January, 1455, a little more than a year from this day (Observe, Schoeffer: that is how long it takes a copyist to create such a volume!), you will bring my Great Bible here to my office — finished in every detail — and lay it on my desk!"

      "One year," Gutenberg cried. "But how can we . . ."

      Again Fust's voice overrode him. "And on the same day, there are to be at least fifty other such books heaped in great stacks, out there in my counting room!"

      He slapped his heavy hand on his desk and it made a sound like a thunderclap. "Those are my conditions. If you're prepared to meet them, then sign my papers. If not, then get out and don't disturb me again!"

      With these words, the banker leaned back in his great carved chair and regarded them with a menacing stare.

      "Fourteen . . . fifteen months," Gutenberg repeated thoughtfully. "I don't know — it will be over a thousand pages long. Casting the type, setting it, reading and correcting all those pages . . . a year's a very short time. Be reasonable — give us two years."

      "One! Sign the agreement or leave my house!"

      Now it was Gutenberg's turn to hesitate. But after looking at Fust with some doubt, at last he nodded. "Very well. Have the documents drawn up, and I'll do it!"

      Fust raised his voice and bellowed, "Conrad!"

      The door opened promptly and a skinny, balding fellow peered in. "Sir?"

      "Bring in the papers you wrote up this morning, and be quick about it!" He turned back to Gutenberg. "Now! You and I will sign this agreement, old man — and your foreman, here, will watch us, and sign it as our witness. And may God help you if you fail me again!"

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