C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
From ‘A Bookman’s Purgatory’
By Andrew Lang (1844–1912)
T
On the day of which I speak he had secured a volume of love poems which the author had done his best to destroy; and he had gone to his club and read all the funniest passages aloud to friends of the author, who was on the club committee. Ah, was this a kind action? In short, Blinton had filled up the cup of his iniquities; and nobody will be surprised to hear that he met the appropriate punishment of his offense. Blinton had passed, on the whole, a happy day, notwithstanding the error about the Elzevir. He dined well at his club, went home, slept well, and started next morning for his office in the city; walking, as usual, and intending to pursue the pleasures of the chase at all the book-stalls. At the very first, in the Brompton Road, he saw a man turning over the rubbish in the cheap-box. Blinton stared at him, fancied he knew him, thought he didn’t, and then became a prey to the glittering eye of the other. The Stranger, who wore the conventional cloak and slouched soft hat of Strangers, was apparently an accomplished mesmerist or thought-reader, or adept, or esoteric Buddhist. He resembled Mr. Isaacs, Zanoni (in the novel of that name), Mendoza (in ‘Codlingsby’), the soulless man in ‘A Strange Story,’ Mr. Home, Mr. Irving Bishop, a Buddhist adept in the astral body, and most other mysterious characters of history and fiction. Before his Awful Will, Blinton’s mere modern obstinacy shrank back like a child abashed. The Stranger glided to him and whispered, “Buy these.”
“These” were a complete set of Auerbach’s novels in English; which, I need not say, Blinton would never have dreamt of purchasing had he been left to his own devices.
“Buy these!” repeated the Adept, or whatever he was, in a cruel whisper. Paying the sum demanded, and trailing his vast load of German romance, poor Blinton followed the fiend.
They reached a stall where, amongst much trash, Glatigny’s ‘Jour de l’An d’un Vagabond’ was exposed.
“Look,” said Blinton: “there is a book I have wanted some time. Glatignys are getting rather scarce, and it is an amusing trifle.”
“Nay, buy that,” said the implacable Stranger, pointing with a hooked forefinger at Alison’s ‘History of Europe’ in an indefinite number of volumes. Blinton shuddered.
“What, buy that—and why? In Heaven’s name, what could I do with it?”
“Buy it,” repeated the persecutor, “and that” (indicating the ‘Ilios’ of Dr. Schliemann,—a bulky work), “and these” (pointing to all Theodore Alois Buckley’s translations of the classics), “and these” (glancing at the collected writings of the late Mr. Hain Friswell, and at a ‘Life,’ in more than one volume, of Mr. Gladstone).
The miserable Blinton paid, and trudged along, carrying the bargains under his arm. Now one book fell out, now another dropped by the way. Sometimes a portion of Alison came ponderously to earth; sometimes the ‘Gentle Life’ sank resignedly to the ground. The Adept kept picking them up again, and packing them under the arm of the weary Blinton.
The victim now attempted to put on an air of geniality, and tried to enter into conversation with his tormentor.
“He does know about books,” thought Blinton, “and he must have a weak spot somewhere.”
So the wretched amateur made play in his best conversational style. He talked of bindings, of Maioli, of Grolier, of De Thou, of Derome, of Clovis Eve, of Roger Payne, of Trautz, and eke of Bauzonnet. He discoursed of first editions, of black-letter, and even of illustrations and vignettes. He approached the topic of Bibles; but here his tyrant, with a fierce yet timid glance, interrupted him.
“Buy those!” he hissed through his teeth.
“Those” were the complete publications of the Folk-Lore Society.
Blinton did not care for folk-lore (very bad men never do); but he had to act as he was told.
Then, without pause or remorse, he was charged to acquire the ‘Ethics’ of Aristotle in the agreeable versions of Williams and Chace. Next he secured ‘Strathmore,’ ‘Chandos,’ ‘Under Two Flags,’ and ‘Two Little Wooden Shoes,’ and several dozen more of Ouida’s novels. The next stall was entirely filled with school-books, old geographies, Livys, Delectuses, Arnold’s ‘Greek Exercises,’ Ollendorffs, and what not.
“Buy them all,” hissed the fiend. He seized whole boxes and piled them on Blinton’s head.
He tied up Ouida’s novels in two parcels with string, and fastened each to one of the buttons above the tails of Blinton’s coat.
“You are tired?” asked the tormentor. “Never mind: these books will soon be off your hands.”
So speaking, the Stranger with amazing speed hurried Blinton back through Holywell Street, along the Strand and up to Piccadilly, stopping at last at the door of Blinton’s famous and very expensive binder.
The binder opened his eyes, as well he might, at the vision of Blinton’s treasures. Then the miserable Blinton found himself, as it were automatically and without the exercise of his will, speaking thus:—
“Here are some things I have picked up,—extremely rare,—and you will oblige me by binding them in your best manner, regardless of expense. Morocco, of course; crushed levant morocco, doublé, every book of them, petits fers, my crest and coat of arms, plenty of gilding. Spare no cost. Don’t keep me waiting, as you generally do;” for indeed bookbinders are the most dilatory of the human species.
Before the astonished binder could ask the most necessary questions, Blinton’s tormentor had hurried that amateur out of the room.
“Come on to the sale,” he cried.
“What sale?” asked Blinton.
“Why, the Beckford sale; it is the thirteenth day, a lucky day.”
“But I have forgotten my catalogue.”
“Where is it?”
“In the third shelf from the top, on the right-hand side of the ebony bookcase at home.”
The Stranger stretched out his arm, which swiftly elongated itself till the hand disappeared from view round the corner. In a moment the hand returned with the catalogue. The pair sped on to Messrs. Sotheby’s auction rooms in Wellington Street. Every one knows the appearance of a great book sale. The long table, surrounded by eager bidders, resembles from a little distance a roulette table, and communicates the same sort of excitement. The amateur is at a loss to know how to conduct himself. If he bids in his own person some bookseller will outbid him; partly because the bookseller knows, after all, he knows little about books, and suspects that the amateur may in this case know more. Besides, professionals always dislike amateurs, and in this game they have a very great advantage. Blinton knew all this, and was in the habit of giving his commissions to a broker. But now he felt (and very naturally) as if a demon had entered into him. ‘Tirante il Bianco Valorissimo Cavaliere’ was being competed for: an excessively rare romance of chivalry, in magnificent red Venetian morocco, from Canevari’s library. The book is one of the rarest of the Aldine Press, and beautifully adorned with Canevari’s device,—a simple and elegant affair in gold and colors. “Apollo is driving his chariot across the green waves towards the rock, on which winged Pegasus is pawing the ground”; though why this action of the horse should be called “pawing” (the animal notoriously not possessing paws), it is hard to say. Round this graceful design is the inscription [Greek] (straight and not crooked). In his ordinary mood Blinton could only have admired ‘Tirante il Bianco’ from a distance. But now, the demon inspiring him, he rushed into the lists, and challenged the great Mr. ——, the Napoleon of bookselling. The price had already reached five hundred pounds.
“Six hundred,” cried Blinton.
“Guineas,” said the great Mr. ——.
“Seven hundred,” screamed Blinton.
“Guineas,” replied the other.
This arithmetical dialogue went on till even Mr. —— struck his flag, with a sigh, when the maddened Blinton had said “Four thousand.” The cheers of the audience rewarded the largest bid ever made for any book. As if he had not done enough, the Stranger now impelled Blinton to contend with Mr. —— for every expensive work that appeared. The audience naturally fancied that Blinton was in the earlier stage of softening of the brain, when a man conceives himself to have inherited boundless wealth, and is determined to live up to it. The hammer fell for the last time. Blinton owed some fifty thousand pounds; and exclaimed audibly, as the influence of the fiend died out, “I am a ruined man.”
“Then your books must be sold,” cried the Stranger; and leaping on a chair, he addressed the audience:—
“Gentlemen, I invite you to Mr. Blinton’s sale, which will immediately take place. The collection contains some very remarkable early English poets, many first editions of the French classics, most of the rarer Aldines, and a singular assortment of Americana.”
In a moment, as if by magic, the shelves round the room were filled with Blinton’s books, all tied up in big lots of some thirty volumes each. His early Molières were fastened to old French dictionaries and school-books. His Shakespeare quartos were in the same lot with tattered railway novels. His copy (happily almost unique) of Richard Barnfield’s ‘Affectionate Shepheard’ was coupled with two old volumes of ‘Chips from a German Workshop’ and a cheap, imperfect example of ‘Tom Brown’s School Days.’ Hooke’s ‘Amanda’ was at the bottom of a lot of American devotional works, where it kept company with an Elzevir Tacitus and the Aldine ‘Hypnerotomachia.’ The auctioneer put up lot after lot, and Blinton plainly saw that the whole affair was a “knock-out.” His most treasured spoils were parted with at the price of waste paper. It is an awful thing to be present at one’s own sale. No man would bid above a few shillings. Well did Blinton know that after the knock-out the plunder would be shared among the grinning bidders. At last his ‘Adonais,’ uncut, bound by Lortic, went in company with some old ‘Bradshaws,’ the ‘Court Guide’ of 1881, and an odd volume of the Sunday at Home, for sixpence. The Stranger smiled a smile of peculiar malignity. Blinton leaped up to protest; the room seemed to shake around him, but words would not come to his lips.
Then he heard a familiar voice observe, as a familiar grasp shook his shoulder:—
“Tom, Tom, what a nightmare you are enjoying!”
He was in his own arm-chair, where he had fallen asleep after dinner; and Mrs. Blinton was doing her best to arouse him from his awful vision. Beside him lay ‘L’Enfer du Bibliophile, vu et decrit par Charles Asselineau’ (Paris: Tardieu, MDCCCLX.).