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CHAPTER 11
More Troubles
IT SEEMED to Peter
that from that day forward, they were plagued by troubles. The weather turned unseasonably cold, and ice crystals formed
in a batch of ink they had been mixing. The pages printed with the
damaged ink smudged easily, and the labor of many days was ruined. The
work stopped while they mixed more.
When the cold snap was over, a long, rainy autumn began. The paper
room, which had always remained dry even in the worst weather, suddenly
developed a leaky roof, and a new shipment of paper became thoroughly
wet and was ruined. This caused a second delay, while more paper was
sent for.
What was even more depressing, Fust was again taking an interest in the
printing. He was the one who met with Peter now, just as he had done in
the early part of the year. When Fust was away, Peter's meetings were
with Conrad Henkis, the old man's head clerk. Henkis was a spare,
melancholy-looking fellow, whose balding head made him look older than
he really was. Unlike Fust, he was always pleasant and soft-spoken, but
he let no account go unexamined.
All during that fall and winter, Peter never set eyes on Christina at
all.
Although Fust now treated Peter with greater regard than before, he was
irritated by every delay, and by the expense of buying additional paper.
Again and again, Peter had to soothe the rich man's bad temper and
persuade him to be patient. "Mr. Fust, you cannot hold us responsible
for any of this. Gutenberg works day and night casting type, and we
have put aside everything else to work on your Great Bible. The only
other printing we do is for the Pope's letter, and we can't very well
stop work on that."
"Well, of course for the Pope . . ." Fust nodded reluctantly. "I
recognize that his work must be done."
The old man had conceded almost too easily, Peter thought as he trudged
back to work, late one afternoon. True, he still went over every bill
and growled over every penny of expense, but it was as if his mind was
preoccupied with some other concern.
"Or perhaps the difference is in me," Peter said to himself.
Snow began mixing with the rain that had begun earlier in the day, and
the wind grabbed at his cloak, driving the chill moisture against his
body. But Peter hardly noticed it, as he muttered, "Yes, perhaps it's
that my own thoughts are elsewhere."
He was thinking of Christina, of course. He missed seeing her more than
he wanted to admit. Even on the days when he did not go to Fust's, his
thoughts kept returning to her. Where was she? Why was Fust overseeing
Gutenberg's accounts again? Had she lost interest in the project?
Peter was so lost in thought that he stopped walking. He was
remembering her words: "I believe that the printing press is one of
those great inventions that will change the lives of all those who
follow us." Her face had been like a candle flame when she said that.
No, he thought, Christina would not lose interest or forget!
But he hadn't seen her since the harvest festival. Why had she deserted
them?
As he crossed the town square, he looked up at the spires of the
cathedral, but they were hidden in wet mist. Two horsemen came
galloping down the main road. Peter stopped again to watch them come,
muffled in their woolen cloaks, crouching in the saddle, thick hats
pulled low against the rain.
They were headed right for the spot where Peter stood, and he had to
step aside to avoid being run down. As they passed him, the nearer one
charged right through a pool of rain water. At the touch of the horse's
hoofs, the muddy stuff flew into the air in all directions, and Peter
was splattered hat, cloak, shoes, and all.
The horsemen galloped swiftly away. They never glanced behind them at
the solitary figure in the street, dripping and shivering in the cold
twilight.
"Confound the man," Peter growled, dabbing at the mud and trying to
shake some of the water from his cloak. "He could have avoided that
puddle if he'd tried!"
For some reason, the rider reminded him of Dieter von Erbach. In just
the same careless way, Dieter had come from nowhere to ride roughshod
through Peter's life.
"That's why I haven't seen her, of course. That greedy fool, von
Erbach, has carried her off," Peter muttered. "He'll marry her and ruin
her life and mine and the worst of it is, that he cares absolutely
nothing for her. He only wanted to get his hands on old Fust's money!"
Peter stood for a moment, glowering into the rain. "The old man is
selling Christina to him it amounts to that! so he can brag that
he's related to the nobility! How contemptible!"
Secure of his own real worth and his genuine abilities, Peter had never
envied the titles and privileges of the noble class. But now, for just
a moment, alone in the twilight, he hated Dieter and everything he stood
for.
But then the wind gave another fierce gust, and Peter realized that the
cold was increasing. So he pulled his sodden hat down over his eyes and
slogged back to work.
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