“Thanks, my son. It is always a pleasure to examine thy manuscripts.”
The monks gathered around the Abbot to look at the new volume. “It is strange,” said one of them, named Father Melchior. “How canst thou make so many books? Thou must have a great company of scribes.”
Another was turning over the pages of the book. “It is not quite like the work of our hands,” said he.
“It is certain that none of us can compete with thy speed in writing,” went on Father Melchior. “Every few weeks thou dost bring in twelve or more books, written in half the time it takes our quickest scribe to make a single copy.”
“Moreover,” said another, “the letters are all so exact and regular. Thou hast brought two copies, and one has just as many letters and words on a page as the other, and all the letters are exactly alike.”
The Abbot had been studying the book closely. Now he asked the monks to withdraw. When Gutenberg and he were alone, he said, “Are these books really made with a copyist’s pen?” He cast a searching glance at the lapidary.
Gutenberg, much embarrassed, had no answer for him.
“It is as I guessed,” said the Abbot. “They are made from blocks, like the St. Christopher.”
The Abbot smiled at the look of dismay on Gutenberg’s face. “Have no fear,” he added. “It may be that I can supply thee with better work for thy skill. We need more copies of the ‘Biblia Pauperum’ for our use here, and I have no doubt thou couldst greatly improve on the best we have.”
“I should like to do it,” said Gutenberg, “if there were not too much expense.”