The Scrivener's Tale by tom weston

The Scrivener's Tale A Tom Weston Story

The Scrivenerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Tale

Image from William Caxtonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s second edition of The Canterbury Tales, printed circa 1483.

The Scrivener’s Tale

“What you got there, Bill?” asked the Landlord. “This here is the future,” replied William Caxton, making sure that he had everyone’s undivided attention. He held a piece of paper, covered in the small black patchwork of ink blots known as writing. “You gone in for necromancy now then, Bill? Be careful. Father Mallory is hanging on to every word.” The priest heard his name and pretended that he was not hanging on to every word. “What was that?” he asked. “I said it’s a good day for a hanging, Father,” said the Landlord. “No,” said Caxton. “Take a look.” He handed the paper to the Landlord. “Bit of manuscript; very pretty writ too. Some of those monks have a right steady hand.” “Not a monk,” said Caxton. “This is scrivener’s work? Can’t be; never seen a scrivener sober enough for work of this quality. Hey Adam, is this one of your scratchings?” the Landlord called out.

The Scrivener’s Tale

Adam the Scrivener also pretended that he was not hanging on every word and simply sipped his beer. “Not a scrivener,” said Caxton. “Now we’re back to the black arts again.” Caxton retrieved the paper from the Landlord. “The text on this paper,” he explained, “was produced by a machine.” “Machine you say?” “Yes, at my new shop; we’ve just had it installed; I brought it back from my trip to Bruges. It’s called a printing press.” “It’s called a piece of paper.” “No, not the paper - the machine which created this text.” “A fine bit of woodcut then. Hate to disappoint you, but woodcut ain’t the future neither, been around since Adam - no, not you Scrivener, the other Adam.” “Wrong again! Every letter you see on this page was made from an individual piece of metal; every letter, number and punctuation mark. We take the letters and arrange them in the order of the text, rub ink on them and then press them against the paper, and voilà!” “Voilà? Not just the machine you got from Bruges then; you’ve picked up a nasty case of the

The Scrivener’s Tale

foreign accents as well. Why didn’t you bring back something useful, like a few bottles of that Burgundy wine?” “Perhaps next trip.” “Sounds like a lot of work to me. It’d be faster to sober up a scrivener and get him to do it.” “No, the beauty of the machine is that once you have arranged the letters, you can print over and over again. Hundreds, thousands of copies, in the time which it would take a scrivener to do just one. And all of them identical and free from human error.” “What’s the good of that? Sounds like a waste of valuable paper if you ask me. Ain’t that right, Adam?” The Scrivener decided to partake in the conversation. “When Sir Woodville asked me to make an inventory of his holdings, he only asked for one copy as far as I can remember. You’ve only got one pair of eyes, why would you need more than one copy to read?” “I’m talking about mass production . . .” The priest started to object. “. . . Production for the populace: pamphlets and newspapers, and books of history, science and knowledge, and instruction; taken from the hands of the few and put into the hands of the many.”

The Scrivener’s Tale

“Oh, the Church’s not going to like that; are you, Father?” shouted the Landlord. “What was that?” asked the Priest. “That’s their job, to instruct people,” said the Landlord. He shouted at the Priest, “I said the Church don’t like books in the hands of the many, Father.” “Excepting the Bible, books are the work of the Devil,” agreed the Priest. “They put ideas in peoples’ heads; they turn God fearing people into dreamers and make industrious people lazy. Books are dangerous in unqualified hands. My advice is to burn the books and that print contraption of yours before it ruins us all. Nothing good ever came out of Belgium. They’re called the Low Countries for a reason, you know.” “Oh, so you were listening after all,” said the Landlord. “Books are not the only things which burn,” muttered the Priest. “Pay no attention to him,” the Landlord said to Caxton. “He’s just unhappy ‘cause he caught one of his flock reading the Canterbury Tales after he had expressly given a sermon against it.” “One of his flock can read? I’m shocked,” said Adam the Scrivener. “Which tale in particular?”

The Scrivener’s Tale

“Never you mind which tale,” chided the Priest. “As I said, work of the Devil.” “And when you’ve finished printing one thing, you can just rearrange the letters and print something else,” said Caxton, paying no attention to the Priest. “Because the letters are made of metal, they last longer than the old woodcuts.” “So this here printing press machine can do all that?” said the Landlord. “There’s a novelty, for sure.” “It will never catch on,” said the Scrivener. “I’ve just opened a shop.” said Caxton. “I’m going to call it a book store. We’ll sell all manner of books to the public.” “What else will you sell?” asked the Landlord. “Just books.” “Just books? You think there’s a living to be had selling books in a town where only one in a thousand can read?” “We shall have to teach them how to read.” “How you going to do that? As I said, that’s Church business and they don’t take kindly to people cutting in on their business.” “We’ll have a place where people can go to learn to read, a school.” “How many books you got in your shop?”

The Scrivener’s Tale

“Well, none yet; we’ve only just set up the press. It will take a little while to create some inventory.” “So to summarize: you’re going to sell books which don’t exist to people who can’t read. Sounds like a winner to me. Why didn’t I think of it first instead of wasting my days trying to persuade people to drink beer and wine? What book you going to sell first?” “Something which will appeal to the largest audience.” “That would be the Bible; you can avoid a hanging if you know a bit of Psalm 51.” “No, nothing in Latin; and not French neither. My books will be for the people, not the establishment. You mentioned the Canterbury Tales. Yes, our first book will be the first English work written in . . . English. I’ve heard many complaints about Chaucer. The manuscripts are all over the place, spelling mistakes, endings changed, bits added and taken out. I think I’ll start with that - yes, a definitive version of the Canterbury Tales will do nicely for our first book.” The priest shook his head and decided that his next sermon would be on the dangers of graven images.

The Scrivener’s Tale

“You’re just asking for trouble, Bill,” said the Landlord. He nodded towards Adam the Scrivener. “Aside from the Church, you’ll have to deal with the Guild of Scriveners. Reading and writing is their profession. And they have some very good friends in high places; and some very bad ones in low places, if you get my meaning. Don’t be surprised if you get opposition from them. They’ll come and stand outside your shop and beat your customers with clubs. Then there are the little accidents in the night which turn your shop to cinders, things like that.” “Hey,” objected Adam the Scrivener. “We’re not all like that.” “Not what I’ve heard,” argued the Landlord. “Take Tybalt Wykham for instance; he met with an accident after he was caught writing without a license; two broken arms.” “Nothing was ever proved,” said the Scrivener. “People are too eager to believe gossip and rush to judgment. You can’t judge a book by . . . Er . . . By its . . . Er? . . .” “By its cover,” completed the Landlord. “That’s all you can judge it by, if you can’t read what’s inside.” Adam the Scrivener sidled up to Caxton. “Don’t do it, Bill. Think of the poor scriveners.

The Scrivener’s Tale

Think of all those people who’ll be thrown out of work if any Tom, Dick or Tybalt can turn out books just by going on holiday to Bruges and bringing back a souvenir. Think of me. Think of my wife and children.” “You ain’t got a wife; you’re a bachelor,” argued the Landlord. “As for children, is there something you’d like to share with your friends?” “Metaphorical wife and children,” explained the Scrivener. “Bill, not just for my sake, do as the good Father says and burn that contraption before it destroys our way of life. You get everyone reading and writing, where will it all end? The Tower of Babel, that’s where!” “This is the 15th Century, not the Dark Ages. You can’t stop progress,” said Caxton. “Dark Ages? Read that in one of your books did you?” asked the Landlord. “But think of the scriveners,” repeated the Scrivener. “What will they do when they are no longer needed to read and write?” “Some one will have to teach everyone how to read,” said Caxton. “There’s bound to be a penny or two in that.” “Don’t be daft; if everyone can read, they won’t need teaching,” said the Scrivener. “And I can’t do that anyway; them’s trade secrets you’re talking

The Scrivener’s Tale

about giving away. The Guild would have my guts for book binding.” “Don’t believe the gossip,” said the Landlord. “I heard tell,” said Caxton. “That there are rumors of a brand new guild. What was that now? Something which would be perfect for a cagey scrivener such as yourself. Don’t know much about it, but they say there’s good money to be made. What was that word? Lawyers! That was it, lawyers. You can become a lawyer.” “Lawyer? What’s that then?” “Look, today you go down to the castles and courts and hang about with the Clerks and the Honorables and write down what they tell you to write down, correct?” “Correct.” “So think about that for a moment. In fact, it’s going to throw even more business your way.” “How?” “Adam, you said it yourself: A Tower of Babel. Everyone is reading. Reading leads to scholarship, Have you ever known two scholars to be in a room together for more than five minutes without starting an argument? And all these newly minted scholars will take to the courts to settle their arguments. But they don’t know how the system works. They’ll have to find someone who does;

The Scrivener’s Tale

someone who is already familiar with the court system; someone they can trust to guide them through the pitfalls of court etiquette. I’m sure there are many pitfalls.” “Oh, hundred, thousands,” smiled Adam the Scrivener. “New ones every day, coming faster than paper from your printing press.” “And I trust they’ll pay handsomely for that trust.” “Oh, what? Yes, trust! Ha, ha. I’ll drink to that,” said Adam the Scrivener. “As I said, ladies and gentlemen,” said Caxton, once more holding up his piece of paper. “This is the future. One day, thanks to the printing press, the world will be full of books and everyone will be able to read and write.” “God help us!” said the Landlord.