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CHAPTER 9

The Harvest Festival

      JOHANN GUTENBERG shook his head angrily. "Print a patchwork Bible? Never!" he snapped. And in spite of all Peter could say, he was determined to start over again, using the new type.

      As for Christina, she had problems of her own; her father flatly rejected the idea of using the new type at all.

      A few days later, they all met together in a stormy interview. Fust pounded on his oaken table. "I won't tolerate any more delays, I tell you! Work on my Bible and stop playing with your lead toys!"

      "Toys? My printed Bible is going to be a great work of art," Gutenberg roared back at him, red-faced. "And you can't force an artist to work under the whip!"

      Fust leaned across the desk, until they were almost nose to nose. "You'll abide by our contract — or I'll have the law on you!" he bellowed.

      But even as her father shouted, Christina was at his shoulder, whispering, "Why not let him use the new type when it's ready, Father. It's smaller, so they would have more words to a page — and use less paper."

      Fust gave his daughter a black look. "Are you defending him? It's your future that's at risk here!"

      "Of course not," she answered quickly. "But if the work stops now, the money you've already invested will be lost. You don't want that." And after a moment, this Fust nodded a grudging agreement.

      At the same time, Peter was murmuring to Gutenberg, "If we start using the new type at the beginning of a new chapter, the Bible will simply become more beautiful as each page is turned — as if it were growing like a living thing. And remember, Sir, without his money we can't finish it at all!"

      Furiously, Gutenberg shrugged off Peter's words. But he must have listened, because after that, he ceased to argue.

      The banker grumbled a little longer and then muttered, "Well, use whatever type you like, then — so long as it costs no more — and there are no more delays."

      Hearing that, the old printer shrugged again and mumbled something under his breath that sounded like, "Half a loaf . . ." And so, like two old dogs, Gutenberg and Fust each yielded a little ground, still growling. And a sullen bargain was struck between them.

      After that meeting, to everyone's relief, work commenced again on the Great Bible. But anger lingered on both sides. During the long summer, neither Gutenberg nor Fust would see the other. Peter went back and forth to the counting house alone, and, more often than not, it was Christina he met with, not her father.

      Their meetings usually took place in the little sunroom at the back of the house, and when they met, they whispered together like uneasy conspirators.

      Even so, they understood each other perfectly. As Peter told Christina every detail of how he planned to speed up the work, or they discussed new ways to shave an expense, she seemed almost to read his thoughts and anticipate his ideas. When the bills arrived, old Fust never saw them. Christina approved and paid them all.

      In spite of the strain they were under, their happiest moments were spent in each other's company. They worked together as easily as the left hand helps the right — driven by a common urgency to see the great Bible completed.

      At the printing shop, Peter was working harder than ever. The year-end deadline Johann Fust had set was creeping nearer, and he found himself counting the summer days, measuring them against the work that still had to be done. In addition to supervising everything that was already underway and carefully reading every proof page before printing began on it, he found time to help Ulrich Zell and John Mentelin finish thousands of pieces of the delicately-made type.

      Of course, not everything went smoothly. The new type required a lot of refining, and during the first weeks it was being prepared, Gutenberg was abrupt and distant.

      Ulrich Zell, who almost worshiped the old man, blamed Peter for the quarrel with Fust, although almost the reverse was true. From time to time, when the two of them were alone, Zell would lob a sarcastic remark or two in Peter's direction. Once, when Peter asked him a question, Zell answered shortly, "You'd better ask your dear friend, Mr. Fust, about that."

      A few days later, while they were mixing a new batch of ink, Zell snapped, "I do hope your rich friends won't mind that you're getting yourself so dirty today."

      But despite Zell's bad-temper, Peter kept his amiable composure, and once the new type was in use, he and Zell were back on a friendly footing again.

      By early fall, Peter began to think they might actually have the work completed on time — or at least they'd be close enough to completion to satisfy the crusty old banker. And so, when the day of the harvest festival dawned bright and clear, he allowed Zell and Mentelin to carry him off for a half-holiday.

      "Come on, Peter, put down your tools," Zell ordered excitedly. "It's bad luck to work today!"

      "Bad luck," Peter grinned back, "I never heard that before!"

      "Because Ulrich just made it up," Mentelin assured him genially. "But lucky or not, you'll spoil our fun if you don't join us. Come on, we don't want to miss anything!"

      So Peter clapped his hat to his head, and the three of them ran out of the cool stone building and into the hot, bright street.

      It seemed to Peter that he'd never seen Mainz so crowded as it was that day. The town square was thronging with people, all dressed in their best clothes, and the narrow side streets leading to it were clogged with tiny booths where people were selling everything from sausages to flowers.

      "Something to drink, gentlemen? Only one copper," a red-faced man called. Next to him, a little dumpling of a woman was selling soft pretzels, and beyond her, a thin old man in black was calling, "Medals! Come and see these beautiful medals and seals — I brought them all from the Holy Land myself!"

      John Mentelin bought a bunch of red roses from a country girl on the corner. He offered some of them to Peter and Zell, saying, "Everyone's dressed up today, and we have to look as festive as the rest."

      With a smile of thanks, Peter thrust a rose into his leather belt. Zell took several and fixed them securely onto the brim of his soft, cloth hat. "See," he laughed, "Now I'm elegant as a nobleman, bedecked with gems and feathers!"

      Once at the town square, they plunged into the crowd, arm in arm. "Look! Tumblers," Mentelin pointed, "Let's stop and watch them!"

      Inside a circle of interested burghers, a young man was walking on his hands, with his feet aloft unconcernedly in the air. Near him, another acrobat was seated astride his comrade's shoulders and juggling three apples in a great, smooth arc. From the ground, his partner tossed up another, and then he was juggling four — then five, then six! How could he manage so many, Peter wondered. The partner tossed up yet another and the juggler faltered. Would the apples fall? The juggler bit into the seventh one and held it in his teeth, while he kept the other apples moving in a swift circle. At that move, the crowd laughed, and one solid burgher took out a coin and offered it to the partner on the ground. In an instant, the acrobat who had been walking on his hands regained his feet and held out his cap to the crowd. "For us all, Ladies and Gentlemen — we are brothers!"

      The burgher glanced up at the juggler.

      "It's true, Sir," the juggler called down. He tossed the burgher one of his apples. "And we thank you for your generosity!"

      "Ho, Dirk! You're getting your dinner as well as your amusement," someone called from the crowd. At that, everyone laughed again, and many of the spectators gave a coin to the jugglers before they moved on again.

      Peter saw a face he knew well. It was the innkeeper whose establishment was directly across the street from their print shop. "Good day, Mr. Jungman. And good day to you, Gerta," he added, bowing to the innkeeper's young wife. She had on a new white dress, and over it was a colorful apron and vest that were heavy with bright embroidery.

      "Good Day, Mr. Schoeffer," Jungman nodded. "A fine day for the festival, isn't it?"

      Gerta broke in excitedly, "Have you seen the pipers yet? They have the cleverest little dog in the world — it dances on its hind legs in time to the music. It's just across the square, there!"

      Before Peter could answer her, a group of excited children rushed between them. Gerta and her husband stepped aside to let them pass and the crowd closed around them. As more people flowed by, the innkeeper and his wife gave Peter a friendly wave and turned down a side street and vanished.

      Peter looked around for his friends, but they too had been swept away by the crowd.

      He wandered on alone, nodding or bowing to people he knew, looking at the booths that sold pastries, and trinkets, and toys. Suddenly, a voice sounded behind him. "Schoeffer? Is that really you?"

      Peter turned to find himself looking into the handsome, smiling face of a young man about his own age. "Dieter von Erbach," he exclaimed in surprise. "I haven't seen you since Albrecht's wedding! What are you doing in Mainz!"

      "You know I can't resist a party," answered the young nobleman with a laugh. "My uncle's the Elector of Mainz, and I pay him a polite visit every year . . . just in time for the festival!"

      "Your uncle is the Archbishop?" Peter exclaimed. Then, after a moment's thought, "But I should have guessed. His name and yours are the same."

      "Yes, I'm his godson, but we don't get on very well. He thinks I'm a simpleton — and, between us, I consider him a pompous old bore!" Dieter went on confidentially, linking his arm in Peter's. "But I've always tried to get on with him, for mother's sake. And it's lucky I did — because he's going to help me find a rich girl to marry and make my fortune."

      "How very considerate of him!"

      "Don't be sarcastic," Dieter grinned. "We noblemen have to live, just like anybody else. And doesn't that take money? My eldest brother inherits everything — the land, the family titles of nobility, and my father's position. If something were to happen to him (and to his sons), then my next eldest brother comes into the estates, and so forth. With five of us in the family, I need to make my own way."

      "You're a knight, aren't you? Why don't you go to war and serve the king," Peter suggested. "A lot of young men get rich that way — and become famous into the bargain."

      "Yes," Dieter agreed. "And I could also go into the church, like Uncle von Erbach. But you see, I don't have a taste for either preaching or soldiering. And I can't very well disgrace my family by going into trade, like one of you commoners! So what's left for me — but to marry a wealthy woman who can support me in style."

      Peter said nothing. Although he knew that moneyless noblemen often married wealthy commoners, it seemed to him that this was not very different from the buying and selling that Dieter scorned so much. Wasn't he really "selling" his title and position in exchange for his intended wife's money? How did that differ from a baker selling bread?

      Ignoring Peter's silence, Dieter rattled on, "So Uncle has taken pity on me and introduced me to a rich banker with an unmarried daughter. I'm already hard at work courting her, but — Ach! — it's not as pleasant as I hoped. Although she's pretty enough, the girl has a horrible fault: she thinks all the time! And I can't bear intelligent women. I'd sooner go romancing with a dragon!"

      When he said this, Dieter looked so comical and dismayed that Peter had to laugh with him. In his heart, he knew that the young nobleman was a thoroughly frivolous person, but he was certainly an amusing companion for a holiday.

      They strolled along together, pausing now and then to admire a tradesman's display of silvered glass mirrors or copper jewelry. And all the while, Dieter's talk flowed on like a mountain stream. "Now, Peter, you must tell me all your own gossip. Does dear old Albrecht enjoy his married state? Does he like living in Babenhausen and being a gentleman of the land? And how is the rest of your family in Frankfurt? Do you get letters from your clever little sister? Is she as pretty as ever? And what are you doing with yourself, now? Well on your way to becoming a banker, are you?"

      "Oh, no, I'm not in banking," Peter answered with a smile.

      "What brings you to Mainz, then," Dieter persisted. "You're such a studious fellow, that I'm sure you're here for something besides the city's splendid beer!"

      "My work is here," Peter answered. "Johann Gutenberg has developed a new way of reproducing manuscripts, and . . ."

      "Ach, I remember now," Dieter interrupted. "Your little Ilse told me all about it. You're going to become a landmark in history by forcing all the world to learn to read!"

      A charming grin took most of the sting from those slighting words, but even so, Peter felt nettled. "It's important work!"

      Perhaps the young nobleman was more clever than he seemed, for he noticed Peter's irritation and guessed the reason for it at once. "Schoeffer, my friend, don't be cross," he said. "I'll tell you what: I won't tease you about your eccentric passion for printing . . . if you don't begrudge me a trip to the altar with my sharp-tongued heiress — oh yes, I saw you frowning when I said that! But a man must make a living somehow, mustn't he? And — ach, her father is rich as the devil himself!"

      Peter grinned. "All right then. Let each of us follow his own path without complaint from the other."

      "Good! Then you must come and meet my little dragon and her fire-breathing father! We're dining together at my uncle's house, and you must join us."

      "Oh no, I'm with friends, and . . ."

      "Nonsense," Dieter cut him off. "You'll never find them again in this crowd. More important, my uncle sets a fine table, and from his balcony we'll have a good view of the dancing in the square. Come with me. I insist! You'll learn something that will be useful to you all your life: Never to become engaged to a clever woman!" And with these words, young nobleman towed Peter away through the crowd.

      The townhome of the Archbishop and Elector of Mainz, old Dieter von Erbach, was an imposing mansion at the very center of town. On its front walls, between the crossed timbers that supported the structure, were paintings of life-sized scenes from Bible stories. Broad stone steps led up to a huge, carved door, trimmed with brass. A row of frowning windows looked down on the street, and on the second floor, a heavy balcony commanded an excellent view of the square, just as Dieter had promised.

      "Now, you'll get a first-class dinner, and better yet, you can meet the Dragon — my intended bride," Dieter grinned. "Pay careful attention to everything she says. If anyone fails to return a solemn answer, she rends them horribly with her claws! A clever man like yourself should get on with her very well, but you have no idea how hard she is on a silly fellow like me."

      Saying that, Dieter raised the polished brass doorknocker and gave it a terrible thump. A haughty manservant opened the door, and the young nobleman pushed past him and led the way into the house, with Peter close behind him.

     


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