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CHAPTER 6

Give It Up, Peter!

      LATE THAT same evening, Peter opened the door of his father's study. "Sir, may I see you for a few minutes?"

      Rudolph Schoeffer looked up from the book he was reading and gestured toward the high carved chair on the opposite side of the hearth. "Of course, my son."

      Peter sat down facing him. His father had aged in the past year, he thought. Already middle-aged when Peter was born, the old man's flowing hair and beard were now snowy white, and he needed to use his cane even to walk across the room.

      "Father . . ." But it was hard to find the right words.

      "I'm glad you've come to me, Son," Mr. Schoeffer said. "Now that your older brother is getting married, I want to talk to you about your future."

      Hearing this, Peter realized that he must speak at once, because after his father had told him about the "surprise," it would be harder than ever to explain his own feelings. So he said quickly, "That's what I wanted to talk about, too. I have great news to tell you."

      The older man paused. "Yes?"

      Peter took a deep breath. "I expect you've heard about the battle at Constantinople last May — how the soldiers of the Turkish Sultan broke through the walls of the city and burned the great Library?"

      "Of course. It has been the talk of Europe," Mr. Schoeffer nodded, sounding slightly impatient, as if wondering why Peter had changed the subject and begun talking politics. "Many of King Frederick's advisors are saying we should send troops to retake the city. Some people even want to start a new Crusade. But . . . Constantinople is a long way off. And the cost of so many soldiers and supplies —"

      "Is enormous," Peter interrupted, finishing the sentence for him. "So the Pope is going to help raise the money by sending out an official letter from Rome! And that's my news. Guess who's going to print that letter! I am!"

      "You? You have been chosen to reproduce the Pope's letter?" In spite of himself, Peter's father was impressed.

      "Yes, Sir. Just last week we had a visit from Mr. John de Castro, who's representing both the Pope and the King of Cyprus in this matter. They're going to distribute hundreds of the letters all over Germany, and we have the commission to do it!"

      Mr. Schoeffer frowned suddenly, "But Peter, when did you start working as a copyist again? And why are you setting up your shop in Mainz, for Heaven's sake!"

      "It won't be a hand-written letter, Father; I'm a printer now — and we're going to set it in type and print off copies by the hundreds. Isn't that great news! They've heard of our work as far away as Rome!"

      Conflicting emotions crossed Mr. Schoeffer's face — pride, doubt, and even anger could be seen there. Finally he sighed and said patiently, "My boy, we must talk about this printing of yours: When you first started this menial pastime, I really thought your fascination with it would end of its own accord. But you've been in Mainz for too long, Peter. And — I'm going to speak plainly — this is not suitable work for a man of your intelligence and social standing! You're not a laborer; you're gentleman! And it's time you stopped wasting your ability. Get into a profession that will let you live comfortably and marry a girl from a respectable family."

      "Father . . ." Peter began, but the older man held up his hand for silence.

      "What's more, I'm uneasy about that Johann Gutenberg of yours. I've made some inquiries about him, and I'm afraid that he's not a man of good character."

      "Oh, Sir — I'm sure you're mistaken. If you knew him . . ."

      "Son, I do know him — or at least I know more about him than you do. Although he's from a fine Mainz family, his father, old Friele Gensfleisch, was a spendthrift who wasted the entire family fortune and left his widow and children penniless when he died."

      "Well, that's sad, Father, but it certainly wasn't Gutenberg's fault!"

      "True enough — except that he's following in his father's footsteps! As a young man, he took the name of Gutenberg (which was the name of the family estate) and apprenticed himself to a gem-cutter."

      "I knew that," Peter returned calmly. "The skills he learned in the goldsmith's trade are the same ones he uses to precision-cast our type. He also worked for a while as a copyist, just as I did myself. None of that's anything to be ashamed of!"

      "Perhaps not. But before he was thirty years old, he had such a serious dispute with the goldsmith's guild and the city fathers of Mainz that he was thrown out of town! And then, during the 14 years he lived in Strassbourg he was sued for breach of promise by one of the noble ladies of that city!"

      Mr. Schoeffer leaned forward, his face coloring with emotion. "And that's not the only lawsuit! A few years later, a different Strassbourg family took him to court for bilking them out of hundreds of guilders . . . money that was used to finance this wonderful printing machine of his!"

      "Stop, Father! You've been misinformed," Peter answered warmly, "My friend John Mentelin told me what really happened. You see, Gutenberg developed the idea for the printing press years ago, while he was in Strassbourg. And when he told his friends about his ideas, several of them wanted to help him develop it."

      "Yes. He took their money and never returned one stiver of it," Mr. Schoeffer put in grimly.

      "But it wasn't borrowed money — they were all partners! One of them had an old wine-press, which they reuilt to make their first printing press. Another friend, Anthony Heilmann, owned a paper mill, and he was going to supply the paper. Gutenberg and a third partner, Andreas Dritzehen, did the work of casting the separate pieces of type — which was the hardest part of all."

      "Go on," his father said.

      "But then a terrible thing happened. In 1438, just at Christmas, Andreas Dritzehen got sick and died. His greedy brothers had inherited his property, and when they found out that so much of his money had been invested in the printing experiment, they said that all Gutenberg's equipment belonged to them. They took him to court to try to steal it, and the case went on for a whole year! But in the end, Gutenberg was exonerated, sir! The judge decided in his favor!"

      "Then why did he leave Strassbourg without paying his other debts? And why did he borrow even more money as soon as he returned to Mainz? Son — the man's still in debt to the Bishop of Strassbourg! He didn't even repay the Bishop, Peter! How can you respect a man like that!"

      Although Peter was shaken by this last piece of information, and deeply moved by the grief he heard in his father's voice, he never wavered. "Even if all you say is true, Father, and Gutenberg is no better a man than you say . . . the point is that the work itself is worth doing!"

      He leaned forward. "Think of what our printing press can do! When Constantinople fell and the Great Library was burned, some of the greatest books in the world were lost forever! Did you know . . . when the fires started, all the famous scholars who lived nearby rushed into the Library to try to save the manuscripts that were stored there. The building was an inferno — but they kept running in again and again, coming out with their arms loaded with books! Some of them died in the flames, trying to rescue the great works they loved. But in spite of everything they could do, Father, so much was lost! For almost two thousand years, the words Plato, and Homer, and Aristotle have lit up the world — and now, much of that knowledge is gone forever!"

      Peter was on his feet, pacing back and forth across the room. "All the plays of Sophocles were stored in that library. Some of them had never been copied, and they existed no place else in the world. Now there's nothing left of them but ashes!"

      Although his father was trying to speak, Peter couldn't stop the rush of words that flowed from his lips. "Yet in our little shop, father — in only three or four months, we can set type for a book that a copyist would need a year to reproduce — and from that type we can print four hundred copies of it! Five hundred! Even more!"

      He returned to his chair and sat down again facing the older man. "Think of it! The speeches of Cicero, and the diaries of Julius Caesar — right now there are only a handful of copies in all of Germany! But with our one little printing press, we could produce them by the hundreds that they can never be lost!"

      He leaned forward. "Right now, we're at work on the most magnificent Bible you've ever seen. The Bible, Father! And if we keep at it, the day will come when every man can have a copy of his own! Isn't that work worth doing?"

      Peter fell on his knees before Mr. Schoeffer. Taking the old man's hands in his own, he said earnestly, "Oh Father, I know you want me to come home, and you've taught me always to obey your wishes. But even more important — you taught me to do what I know is right. And this work in Mainz is vital! Not just because I want to do it — but because I'm helping to preserve mankind's precious heritage of knowledge!

      "And — I don't mean to seem proud — but without me, it could all fail! Because nothing in the shop ever gets finished unless I see to it. Maybe that's my one gift: when I'm there, the work gets done! And Father, this printing press must succeed. It must spread all over the world! That's why I don't care whether Gutenberg is a tradesman or a gentleman. Even if he's a cheat — our printing press could someday put books into every pair of hands in Europe. That's what's important!"

      A long silence followed Peter's words. Then Mr. Schoeffer laid his hands on his son's shoulders. "My dear boy," he said gently, "I don't know if you're right or wrong about this work of yours, but if you believe in it as strongly as you say . . . go back to Mainz and keep on with it. Go with my blessing!"

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