Gutenberg's Apprentice

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MANY YEARS AFTERWARD, when Abbot Trithemius first asked him to recall the true beginnings of the glorious art of printing, Peter Schoeffer refused. The story was too private, he informed the abbot, and not really his.

“Exactly so. No man invents alone! Creation is the Lord’s own province.” The monk, with a wide smile, was pitching toward his guest. “It follows that the man who made this miracle was touched by God.”

He’s young — too young to be the abbot of this hilltop cloister, master of a vaulted study lined with books whose brass clasps shimmer in the golden autumn light. Nor does Peter Schoeffer like the glint of satisfaction in his eyes. Although he knows why it is there: Trithemius has netted him at last, has drawn the celebrated printer up to his own abbey after many tries.

“I plan to write it all,” the abbot says, and lifts an arm to circumscribe the library, the thick stone keep, the Rhineland down below. “A chronicle of all that has transpired here in this blessed time. None of more import, surely, than this great invention in which you, sir, played a part.”

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