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CHAPTER 14

The Work Must Go On

      WHEN LITTLE Helga who opened the door to Fust's stately mansion, Peter said firmly, "I need to see Mr. Fust at once!"

      "Yes, sir. I'll tell him you are here."

      As usual, she took him into the parlor to wait, but instead of hurrying off, this time she followed him into the room, glancing at him timidly. "Sir — Mr. Schoeffer . . . might I ask you a question?"

      "Of course, Helga. What is it?"

      "It is about an acquaintance of yours, Sir. I know that I have no right to ask about someone who is so far above me — because I'm only a servant girl — but . . ."

      Peter gave her a close look. For the first time he noticed that she no older than Christina. And although she was usually smiling and good-humored with him, today her thin, plain face was pinched with anxiety.

      "It's all right," he said encouragingly, "Ask me anything you like. I won't scold you."

      "And you won't tell Mr. Fust?"

      "I can't promise you that, Helga." Then, seeing her face change, he added. "But you can trust me; if it's not something he needs to know, I'll keep silent."

      She gave him a stern look, as if to search his mind. Then she nodded. "Very well, then, I'll ask it plainly: Your friend, the younger Lord von Erbach. Is he a good man? A kind man?"

      "Dieter?" He was astonished. "Why, he's . . . Helga, what's your reason for asking this!"

      She caught up the edge of her apron and began rolling it and folding it as she answered. "Because Mr. Fust is arranging for our Miss Christina to be married to him."

      "What!" Although he had been expecting this news for a long time, Peter found himself shaken by it.

      "Yes, Sir! And she doesn't want to. She really doesn't!" She says that Lord von Erbach is a person without principles or judgment. What's more — she's afraid he'll treat her badly, just because she's not of noble birth like himself. And she says all he wants is to steal all of Mr. Fust's money, that he's worked so hard for!"

      Peter was torn between dismay at the news and a kind of strangled happiness that Christina had not been fooled by Dieter's sham courtship. But he could see that Helga was ready to burst into tears, and he had to find an answer that would satisfy her. "I've known Dieter von Erbach since we were both children," Peter answered thoughtfully, "And although he's my brother's friend, rather than my own, I can assure you that he's not a bad man."

      "Oh, God in Heaven be praised! Then she's mistaken," Helga cried, her voice trembling.

      "Not . . . not entirely." Peter knew that he should say nothing more, but honesty forced him on. "Christina's a good judge of character, and at least some of what she thinks about Dieter is true."

      Tears were spilling from the little maid's eyes, but Peter couldn't stop himself, "Of course, Helga, Mr. Fust has the legal right to marry his daughter to whomever he chooses, but — I'm sorry to hear of this plan. Christina (I mean Miss Fust), deserves someone far better. She should marry the finest man in the world — someone who will respect her, and care for her, and —"

      Peter broke off abruptly, realizing that he had already revealed far too much of his own feelings. But poor little Helga never noticed. She was crying in earnest now, and she had reduced her apron almost to shreds.

      Seeing her distress, he began trying to comfort her. "On the other hand, there are — there are many worse men who might want to marry Christina. The von Erbachs are a powerful old family, and Dieter himself is not such a bad fellow. He's handsome and well brought up. He's not bad-tempered. And he can be amusing when it suits him. Come on, Helga, stop crying. It's not as bad as it might be!"

      As he said all this, Peter tried to make his voice sound cheerful and confident, and Helga actually seemed comforted. Her sobbing grew less, and after a minute or two she was able to smother her tears. "Th-thank you, sir. You've been very kind. I'll go and find Mr. Fust now, and t-tell him that you're here." She dropped him a lame curtsy and left the room, still sniffling.

      Peter stared gloomily at the beautiful Nuremberg stove. "Christina, Christina . . . she's going to be Lady von Erbach," he thought, "And once that happens, I'll never see her again. Damn Dieter's greed! And damn his title — and him along with it!"

      In that brief moment, Peter actually considered taking his father's offer and becoming a banker after all. If he was a rich man — because of course Johann Fust would never let Christina marry a poor printer — but he might think a banker was a worthwhile son-in-law.

      Then Peter shook his head. No, it was already too late for that. And the printing was too important. Even if it meant losing Christina forever, he could never put that down and walk away.

      He began thinking of Fust's deadline again, and his determination hardened. All right: the old man's social ambitions had deprived him of Christina; there was no way he could reverse that now. But Fust must not close the printing shop!

      I have to convince him somehow, Peter thought. There must be a way. But what is it? How can I manage it?

      He was still deep in thought when Helga returned. "The master is ready to see you. Please follow me, Mr. Schoeffer." She had stopped crying now, but her eyes and nose were still as pink as a rabbit's.

      A few moments later, Peter strode into the old man's office, looking excited and confident. "I have excellent news, Mr. Fust!"

      The rich man looked up from his dark, shining desk. His quill pen paused in midair. "Ach! My Bible is ready?"

      Peter brushed the question aside. "Not yet, sir. You know there have been unusual delays — things entirely beyond our control — but during our enforced pause, we've developed a wonderful new process that will improve the whole printing system!"

      "Bah! Don't talk to me then!" Fust went back to the ledger he had been working on. "If my Bible isn't ready on time, I'll throw you out! The whole pack of you! I've wasted enough money on this printing foolishness!"

      "It certainly will be wasted if you close us down," Peter said coolly. Noticing a chair in the corner of the room, he went and got it and dragged it close to Fust's desk. Then, very deliberately, he sat down.

      The old man looked up in astonishment. Always before, when Peter had come to his office, Fust had kept him standing like a servant. Even Gutenberg had received the same treatment; never once had Fust invited them to sit down.

      Today however, Peter was determined to face the old man like an equal. "Listen to me, Mr. Fust: if you close the printing shop before the Bible is completed, you'll lose every penny you've put into it. That money is gone! You can't take back the workmen's wages. Or resell the metal type — who'd want it? And what use can you make of the thousands of pages we've already printed? They're worthless unless the Bible is completed. But when it is ready . . . ah, Mr. Fust, when that happens you'll have a treasure in your hands!"

      "Nonsense! Because you'll never finish it! But never mind — on the last day of this month I'm going to cut my losses off at the roots and close your doors forever!" The heavy fist thundered against the desktop.

      "What kind of a businessman are you," Peter shouted, "If you bought a piece of good land and planted an orchard, or a vineyard — would you expect to make wine in the first year? Of course not! Good things take time to grow."

      When Peter said these last words, he saw a sudden flicker in Johann Fust's eyes, and he thought, "Thank goodness, I've found the right direction at last." And with that, he took hope. Because until that moment, he had been only searching — struggling to find the words that would reach him. Going on pure courage.

      He hitched the chair closer to Fust's desk. "And just as a good farmer keeps trying to improve his crops," he continued, "We are always looking for ways to work more quickly and economically."

      "Mmmm, Go on." Fust gave a slight nod, and Peter noticed that he put down the quill when he heard the word 'economically.'

      Peter returned the nod. "The printing is going well now, and the pages are beautiful, Mr. Fust! But the illumination — the red capital letters that start each page, and the colored and gilded drawings of scrolls and leaves and animals around the borders of the pages — that goes more slowly, because it must all be done by hand."

      Fust scowled. "Are you trying to get me to leave out that step? I won't permit it! A fine book must please the eye as well as the mind and soul!"

      I'm halfway there, Peter thought, he's giving orders again! Wonderful!

      Aloud he said, "Oh no, Sir, you completely mistake me! I've come to tell you that we've perfected a method for printing the red initial letters, rather than having each one drawn in by hand. Not only will that save us money, it'll save time, too, because right now there are almost a hundred pages awaiting that step alone."

      "Hundreds?" Fust's eyes began to smolder. "Hundreds of pages are unfinished!"

      Peter swallowed nervously. Saying that had been a mistake. He had not wanted the old man to know how far behind they really were.

      "But not for long! As soon as we cast the great initials and set them in place, we'll re-ink the press (with red this time), and they can be printed up in moments! Think of it, Mr. Fust: your printing shop, the first in all the world . . . and it will be printing your Great Bible in two colors!"

      "Ahhhhh . . ." The old man's hands lay relaxed on the table. His head was tipped slightly back, and his gaze was fixed on infinity. Peter wisely remained silent, letting him think about it.

      At last, old Fust's eyes returned to Peter's face. "Very well, Schoeffer. If you can do this — lay in the great red initial letters as a part of the printing process — I will give you more time."

      For a second time, there came a flicker in the rich man's eyes, this time of amusement. "But I must tell you that you really are like some canny farmer who talks me into waiting for my payment until the next harvest. And let's hope you don't have to eat your words instead of your crop! I'll give you until harvest time to accomplish this. Not a day more. Understand me — after this time there will be no more reprieves!"

      Peter's face burned with excitement. "Your harvest will be ready by then. I promise you, it will be ready!"

      But as he left Fust's mansion, Peter's excitement was marred by one anxiety: printing a second color had never even occurred to him until he was sitting in Johann Fust's office. How ever was he going to accomplish it?

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