A BOOKMAN'S PURGATORY - A STORY ABOUT HUNTING AND GATHERING OLD BOOKS AS WRITTEN ABOUT IN 1892
IN A BOOK HUNTER'S DAY, SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE, NO MATTER WHAT THE CENTURY
The short story published below, could be one generalized to collectors of all stripes and all interests. If you are an ardent, stalwart, never-say-never collector, maybe you will see yourself in the description of the "Bookman," and his folly. I have seen similar antics and attitudes in the collectors of heritage glass, vintage tools, clocks, oil lamps, records, china, historic documents, coca cola nostalgia, militaria, art, comics, stamps, coins and you name it. There are rogues in the collecting game, just as there have been for centuries. There are times, in the following description, that I can see my old book-hunter buddy, Dave Brown, who although was a gentle, kindly soul, when he was teaching his students about the outdoors, was a particularly aggressive collector of not only books, but historic paper, and documents, plus, on the outside edge of his interests, logging industry artifacts. If there was anything else, of a wildlife heritage value, he could be ruthless, to make an acquisition. On one occasion, he nearly gave himself a heart attack, wrestling a portion of white pine from a swamp near Bracebridge, because he found that on one end, it had been impacted by a logging company stamp, which finding today, still in the wilds of this region, is quite rare. The stamps themselves can attract high values in auctions, depending on the company name and number of stamps still in existence. Single-handedly, he pulled the water-logged portion out of the swamp, and into his canoe, while he walked in the water, sinking in the mud, and getting covered in leaches. I saw his bloody legs just afterwards.
On another occasion, he was called, and asked if he wanted a frozen snake, during the Christmas holiday. Not to have for dinner, but to exhibit in his Hamilton classroom. Dave had lots of wildlife in his outdoor education building, and was always interested in a free critter, if it would fit in one of his terrariums. The problem with this particular snake, is that it was a boa constrictor, that had escaped someone's apartment, and got outside in the cold weather, finding the warm engine of a parked car, the perfect place to lodge itself. Dave found it frozen in the engine compartment, but over the course of a couple of hours, thawing it out, was able to free it without damaging its skin; perfect to send for taxidermy, and then to his classroom. The point is, you didn't want to stand between him and the object of his affections, whether it was a snake for his classroom, a medical skeleton from a doctor's office, or a collection of old books up for auction. Of course, I also see a little of myself in the story below, so obviously, I have a trace of "rogue" as well. But you know, it's a good moral story if nothing else, bestowed upon us from Victorian times. There are still book-hunters like the one described, still out on the hustings, in this brand new year of 2015.
"Thomas Blinton was a book-hunter. He had always been a book-hunter, ever since, at an extremely early age, he had awakened to the errors of his ways as a collector of stamps and monograms. In book-hunting he saw no harm; nay, he would contrast its joys, in a rather pharisaical style, with the pleasures of shooting and fishing. He constantly declined to believe that the devil came for that renowned amateur of black letter, G. Steevens. 'Dibdin' himself, who tells the story (with obvious anxiety and alarm), pretends to refuse credit to the ghastly narrative. 'His language,' says Didbin, in his account of the book hunter's end, 'was too frequently, the language of imprecation.' This is rather good, as if Didbin thought a gentleman might swear pretty often, but not 'too frequently.' 'Although I am not disposed to admit,' Didbin goes on, 'the whole of the testimony of the good woman who watched by Steeven's bedside, although my prejudices (as they may be called) will not allow me to believe, that the windows shook, and that strange noises and deep groans were heard at midnight, in his room, yet no creature of common sense (and this woman possessed the quality in an eminent degree) could mistake oaths for prayers;' and so forth. In short, Didbin clearly holds that the windows did shake, 'without a blast,' like the banners of Branxholme Hall, when somebody game for the Goblin Page."
The passage above, was written by Andrew Lang, in his well known text, "Book and Bookmen," published by Longmans, Green & Company in the year 1892. I purchased this good condition copy from a bookseller in Orillia, and Suzanne, my long-suffering partner, gave it to me as a Christmas gift. I had been checking this copy out, over several months, and when it was still there, a few days before Christmas this year, I begged my dear bride to make a gift of it, to satisfy her need to get me a little something for under the tree. Suzanne and I, as a rule, only buy each other gifts we choose, for ourselves, versus trying to guess what each may prefer that particular year. We also give each other antiques, and this goes back to our first year of marriage. One thing about it, there are no shortage of antiques to choose from out on the hustings.
"But Thomas Blinton would hear of none of these things," writes Andrew Lang. "He said that his taste made him take exercise; that he walked from the City to West Kensington every day, to beat the covers of the book-stalls, while other men travelled in the expensive cab, or the unwholesome Metropolitan Railway. We are all apt to hold favorable views of our own amusements, and, for my own part, I believe that trout and salmon are incapable of feeling pain. But the flimsiness of Blinton's theories must be apparent to every unbiased moralist. His 'harmless taste' really involved most of the deadly sins, or at all events, a fair working majority of them. He coveted his neighbor's books. When he got the chance he bought books in a cheap market, and sold them in a dear market, thereby degrading literature to the level of trade. He took advantage of the ignorance of uneducated persons who kept book-stalls. He was envious and grudged the good fortune of others, while he rejoiced in their failures. He turned a deaf ear to the appeals of poverty. He was luxurious, and laid out more money than he should have done on his selfish pleasures, often adorning a volume with a morocco binding when Mrs. Binton, sighed in vain, fore some old point d' Alencon lace. Greedy, proud, envious, stingy, extravagant, and sharp in his dealings, Blinton was guilty of most of the sins which the Church recognizes as 'deadly.'
"On the very day before that of which the affecting history is now to be told, Blinton had been running the usual round of crime. He had (as far as intentions went), defrauded a bookseller in Holywell Street, by purchasing from him, for the sum of two shillings, what he took to be a very rare Elzevir (you can archive back to reference these miniature books printed in Holland). It is true that when he got home and consulted 'Willems,' he found that he had got hold of the wrong copy, in which the figures denoting the numbers of pages are printed right, and which is therefore worth exactly 'nuppence,' to the collector. But the intention is the thing, and Blinton's intention was distinctly fraudulent. When he discovered his error, then, 'his language,' as Didbin says, 'was that of imprecation.' Worse (if possible) than this, Blinton had gone to a sale, begun to bid for 'Les Essais de Michel Seignor of Montaigne,' (Foppens, MDCLIX) and carried away by excitement had 'plunged' to the extent of fifteen pounds, which was precisely the amount of money he owed his plumber and gas-fitter, a worthy man with a large family. Then, missing a friend (if the book-hunter has friends), or rather an accomplice in lawless enterprise, Blinton had remarked the glee on the other's face. The poor man had purchased a little old Olaus Magnus, fire-drakes and other fearful wild-fowl, and was happy in his bargain. But Blinton, with fiendish joy, pointed out to him that the index was imperfect and left him sorrowing.
"Deeds more foul have yet to be told. Thomas Blinton had discovered a new sin, so to speak, in the collecting way. Aristophanes says of one of his favourite blackguards, 'Not only is he a villain, but he has invented an original villainy.' Blinton was like this. He maintained that every man who came to notoriety had, at some period, published a volume of poems which he had afterwards repented of, and withdrawn. It was Blinton's hideous pleasure to collect stray copies of these unhappy volumes, these 'Peches de Jeunesse,' which, always and invariably, bear a gushing inscription from the author to a friend. He had all Lord John Manner's poems, and even Mr. Ruskin's. He had the 'Ode to Despair,' of Smith (presently a comic writer), and the 'Love Lyrics,' of Brown, who is now a permanent under-secretary, that which nothing can be less gay nor more permanent. He had the amatory songs which a dignitary of the Church published, and withdrew from circulation. Blinton was wont to say he expected to come across 'Triolets of a Tribune,' by Mr. John Bright, and 'Original Hymns for Infant Minds,' by Mr. Henry Labouchere, if he only hunted long enough."
Andrew Lang, continues, by noting of the rogue, Blinton, that, "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, what 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 offence. 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 of 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 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 soul-less 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. 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 for some time, Glatignys are getting rather scarce, and it is an amusing trifle.' 'Nay, buy that,' said the implacable Stranger pointing with a hooked forfinger 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?' 'But it,' repeated the persecutor, 'and that' (indicating the 'Ilio,' of Dr. Schliemann, a bulky work), 'and these (pointing to all Mr. 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,' sunk resignedly to the ground. The Adept kept picking them up again and packing them under the arms 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 Trauts, 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 Chase. Next he secured 'Strathmore,' 'Chandos,' 'Under Two Flags,' and 'Two Little Wooden Shoes,' and several dozens more of Ouida's novels. The next stall was entirely filled with school-books, old geographies, Livys, Delectures, 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 as he might, at the vision of Blinton's treasures. Then the miserable Blinton, found himself, as it were automatically, and without any 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 the best manner, regardless of expense. Morocco, of course; crushed levant morocco, double 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 the amateur out of the room. 'Come on to the sale,' he cried. 'What sale,' said 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 book-case 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 that, after all, he knows little about books, and suspects 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 Valorosissimo 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 Venetian Press, and beautifully adorned with Canevari's device, - a simple and elegant affair in gold and colours. '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 a horse should be called 'pawing' it is hard to say. Round this graceful design is an inscription. 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. The arithmetical dialogue (bidding) went on till even Mr. ______ struck his flag, with a sigh, when the maddened Blinton had said six 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. 'Gentleman, 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 fare 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 Molieres were fastened to old French dictionaries and school-books. His Shakespeare quartos were in the same lot with tattered railway novels. His copy (almost unique) of Richard Barnfield's much too 'Affectionate Shepheard,' was coupled with odd volumes of 'Chips from a German Workshop,' and a cheap, '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 Elsevir Tacitus and the Aldine 'Hyperotomachia.' The auctioneer put up lot after lot, and Blinton plainly saw that the whole affairs 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 a stray volume of the 'Sunday at Home,' for sixpence. The Stranger smiled 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, ve et decrit par Charles Asselineau' (Paris: Tardieu, MDCCCLx). If this were an ordinary tract, I should have to tell how Blinton's eyes were opened, how he gave up book-collecting, and took to gardening, or politics, or something of that sort. But truth compels me to admit that Blinton's repentance had vanished by the end of the week, when he was discovered marking M. Claudins catalogue, surreptitiously, before breakfast. Thus, indeed, end all our remorses. 'Lancelot falls to his own love again,' as in the romance. Much, and justly, as theologians decry, a death-bed repentance, it is perhaps, the only repentance that we do not repent of. All others leave us ready, when occasion comes, to fall to our old love again; and may that love never be worse than the taste for old books.
"Once a collector, always a collector. I have sinned, and struggled and fallen. I have thrown catalogues, unopened, into the waste-paper basket. I have withheld my feet from the paths that lead to Sotheby's and to Puttick's (auctioneers). I have crossed the street to avoid a book-stall. In fact, like the prophet Nicholas, 'I have been known to be steady for weeks at a time.' And then the fatal moment of temptation has arrived, and I have succumbed to the soft seductions of Elsen, or Cochin, or an old book on angling. Probably Grolier was thinking of such weaknesses when he chose his devices, 'Tanquam Ventus,' and quisque suos patimur Manes. Like the wind we are blown about, and, like the people in the Aeneid, we are obliged to suffer the consequences of our own extravagances."
One of my favorite Dave Brown tales, was when he became furious at me, for sending a mutual friend, who also happened to be a well known book dealer, to a second hand shop in the Village of Washago, where they had a large selection of old books in the second story of the converted former blacksmith's shop. The bookseller got back to me, offering thanks, that I had sent him to this shop, operated by a friend of ours, and when I happened to mention this to Dave, on a visit after a stay in Algonquin Park, he was furious, and lectured me for about a half hour, one what bookmen don't do, as favors for the competition. This is where Dave and I differed in philosophy and action. I was running a general antique shop, with a smattering of old books. I had already scouted out the best books for ourselves, and only shared it with Dave, after I had secured the best of the best the vendor had in the shop, and in boxes tucked into the back of the store. I told Dave about it, because I felt confident the best had been combed out of her collection. He did find some books and logging artifacts, so he was glad to know about the shop. But he didn't like the fact I was giving out these tips to other dealers, who might score some big deals at our disadvantage. Although Dave was older than me, I started collecting much younger than him, in childhood in fact, growing up in Burlington. So I wasn't subservient to Mr. Brown, except in the field of old books. The argument reminded me of the opinion I heard, a few weeks earlier, from a collector of Muskoka memorabilia, mostly of our old steamships, who told me straight-up, that he would never recommend our shop to any other regional collector, in case they beat him to the good stuff. In other words, all the good will I had shown the man, was for nought, because he refused to promote our business in any regard, because he wanted all the booty for himself. I was outraged, and told him so, in an equal diatribe, about fair and honest play whether collector or dealer. Why, for gosh sakes, would I be willing to give him a deal, or first refusal ever again, after admitting he used our shop as a sort of "secret fishing hole," where he could pick off the big prizes without competition. He didn't see what was wrong for saying this, but it didn't matter. He wasn't given first refusal ever again, and he never came back either. I told Dave Brown in no uncertain terms, that as small business operators, we needed to network; which meant sending our customers to other locations, if we knew that another business had a stock of what they were looking for. Dave Brown never spent much money at our shop in all the years I knew him, but still wanted an exclusive, not only with our shop, but any ones that I had shared with him. No matter how many times I explained how wrong this was, to expect that I wouldn't help a neighbor business, and my customers get what they were looking for, but it was a waste of breath and time. I don't know if this is a general feeling of collectors, when they get such a "fishing hole," to exploit, but I will never approach anything with that kind of faulty logic. Dealers are supposed to help dealers, collectors be damned. I wouldn't feel right, answering a customer, enquiring about other antiques shops in town, that "there aren't any others," when clearly, the opposite holds true. As I know most of their inventories, I will explain this as well, to assist their positive shopping experiences in our town. I do think of myself as a collector, yet I lack the teeth and, I suppose, the gall, of others who may find themselves, closer in character, to Mr. Thomas Blinton, in his book-hunters purgatory. I know a few who have shared that unfortunate situation, having no exit strategy.
Thanks for joining me for today's blog. Re-published below, as part of my archives collection, is part two of a series of feature columns, I wrote a few years back, regarding two well known "landmark" book shops, that operated for many decades in Paris, France. It's about the "love" of books, more so than the value of books.
THE LITERARY ALLURE OF BOOK SHOPS ……A HAVEN FOR BUYERS AND READERS…..A PORTAL FOR CREATORS
MEETING PLACES FOR THE PASSIONATE - A RESPITE FOR THE UNINSPIRED TO REJUVENATE
I MET ONE OF ONTARIO'S WELL KNOWN OUTDOOR EDUCATORS, AND BOOK COLLECTORS, IN OUR FORMER ANTIQUE SHOP IN BRACEBRIDGE. ACTUALLY, OUR FIRST MEETING, WAS IN THE SHOP PARKING LOT, AND ALL I SAW, AT FIRST GLACE, WERE HIS LEGS AND RATHER LARGE BEHIND, PROTRUDING FROM THE OPEN TRUNK OF OUR CAR. SUZANNE HAD GIVEN MR. BROWN PERMISSION, TO LOOK INTO THE BOXES I HAD JUST DELIVERED TO OUR MANITOBA STREET SHOP. BIBLIOMANIACS AREN'T REALLY WORRIED ABOUT OUTWARD APPEARANCES, AND I SUPPOSE ON THAT DAY, IT WAS JUST FATE AND KARMA ROLLING TOGETHER, TO FORM A DOUGHY, CRAZY KIND OF FRIENDSHIP THAT LASTED FOR QUITE A FEW YEARS…..AND DOZENS UPON DOZENS OF PROFESSIONAL DISAGREEMENTS. IT WAS THE MOMENT WHEN DAVE WOULD DECIDE THE CURRIES WERE THE KIND OF PEOPLE A COLLECTOR SHOULD GET TO KNOW…..ASSOCIATE BOOK LOVERS…..AND I HAD ALREADY ANTICIPATED THAT THIS GUY, BULGING WITH RIPPED SHORTS, FROM THE TRUNK, WASN'T THE KIND OF CHARACTER YOU'D WANT TO DISMISS CASUALLY. SO WHAT ELSE WAS I GOING TO DO BUT BECOME HIS BIOGRAPHER; ALL FOR GOSH SAKES, BECAUSE OF HIS FRIENDLY INTRUSION THAT SUMMER DAY, THE DIRECT RESULT OF OUR MUTUAL INTERESTS IN OLD BOOKS. NON-FICTION OF COURSE. DAVE WOULD GO ON QUITE A TIRADE IF THE DISCUSSION ROLLED AROUND TO LITERATURE. HE ALSO HATED WITH A PASSION, ANY RELIGIOUS BOOKS, AND WARNED ME AGAINST BUYING THEM FOR THEIR ANTIQUARIAN VALUE. THEY APPARENTLY OVER-PRINTED MOST OF THEM, SO RARITY NEVER BECOMES AN ISSUE. HE BELIEVED THE "NOVEL," AND "NOVELISTS" IN GENERAL, WERE ALL THAT WAS WRONG WITH THE WORLD. YET YOU WOULDN'T HAVE DARED TO QUESTION THE WORK OF CHILDRENS' AUTHOR, THORNTON BURGESS, BECAUSE THESE WERE THE KIND OF BOOKS THAT GOT DAVE THROUGH THE DRUDGERY OF CHILDHOOD. DAVE HAD ONE WISH AS A CHILD…….AND IT WAS TO BE AN ADULT.
THROUGH DAVE BROWN, I BECAME FAMILIAR WITH MANY BIBLIOPHILES, BOOK DEALERS, ANTIQUE COLLECTORS, AND HISTORIANS, LIKE ARCHIVIST AND WRITER, ED PHELPS, AND HUGH MACMILLAN, ONE OF THIS COUNTRY'S REVERED FREE LANCE (FREE RANGE) ARCHIVISTS, WHO HAD SO MANY INCREDIBLE STORIES,…..THAT WELL, HE SIMPLY HAD TO WRITE A BOOK TO CATALOGUE AND VARIFY THEY WERE ALL TRUE ACCOUNTS OF HERITAGE ACQUISITIONS. IT'S ENTITLED "ADVENTURES OF A PAPER SLEUTH," AND MY AUTOGRAPHED COPY SITS ABOVE MY DESK, WHERE HIS PORTRAIT LOOKS DOWN UPON ME EACH AND EVERY BLOG SESSION. OF ALL THE PEOPLE WHO HAVE HAD AN INFLUENCE ON ME, AS BOTH A WRITER, HISTORIAN, AND BOOK SELLER, IT IS CURIOUS THAT EACH, WITHOUT MY KNOWING IT, KNEW AND RESPECTED EACH OTHER. DAVE BROWN KNEW WAYLAND "BUSTER" DREW AND ADMIRED HIS WORK ON THE AUTHORSHIP OF "SUPERIOR; THE HAUNTED SHORE," AND HUGH MACMILLAN WAS GOOD FRIENDS WITH BOTH GENTS, GOING WAY BACK I BELIEVE, TO THE HERITAGE OF BIRCH BARK CANOES; COMPANIONING WITH CANOE AUTHORITY, KIRK WIPPER, AND HIS FORMER CAMP CANDALORE, NEAR DORSET. THESE WERE JUST SOME OF THE MANY CONNECTIONS MADE THROUGH OUR LITTLE ANTIQUE SHOP AND BOOK STORE, FORMERLY ON UPPER MANITOBA STREET, IN BRACEBRIDGE. BY THE WAY, THE NEXT BOOK I WANT TO HIGHLIGHT, WILL BE HUGH'S OUTSTANDING BIOGRAPHY, WHICH WILL GIVE YOU AN ENHANCED OVERVIEW OF "HISTORIC PAPER," IN CANADA…..AND WHY YOU SHOULD HANG ONTO THOSE WAR-TIME LETTERS FROM YOUR RELATIVES.
AS I HAVE STRESSED, IN THIS SERIES OF BLOGS ABOUT THE ANTIQUE AND COLLECTIBLE BUSINESS, FROM MANY YEARS OF IMMERSION, I BEGAN THE BUSINESS, ORIGINALLY WITH MY FAMILY, AS A MEANS OF PUTTING MY DEGREE IN CANADIAN HISTORY TO WORK. I HAD NO EXPECTATIONS OF MAKING LOTS OF MONEY, AND IN FACT, I KNEW IT WAS GOING TO BE A STRUGGLE TO MAKE A YEAR ROUND BUSINESS WORK IN A SEASONAL ECONOMY. MANY SIMILAR VENTURES HAD, AND CONTINUE TO FAIL, BECAUSE THEY DON'T PREPARE PROPERLY FOR THE DOWNTURN OF BUSINESS, AFTER THE BUSY SUMMER SEASON HERE IN THE ONTARIO HINTERLAND. WHAT I DID KNOW, EARLY ON, WAS THAT I LIKED THE ASSOCIATION WITH OLD THINGS……AND THE OLD THINGS OF CHOICE, WERE ANTIQUES, COLLECTIBLES, AND OF COURSE, OLD AND OUT OF PRINT BOOKS. I LIKED THE LIFESTYLE. I ENJOYED THE SENTIMENTALITY, NOSTALGIA, AND HISTORY OF EACH OUTING, TO VISIT ESTATES AND ANTIQUE SHOPS, AND EVEN AFTER JUST A FEW YEARS HUNTING AND GATHERING, I HAD MET MANY FASCINATING FOLKS CONNECTED TO THE PROFESSION. IN REALITY, IT WAS THE PEOPLE-CONNECTION MOST OF ALL, THAT WAS THE ALLURE OF SPENDING ONE'S LIFE SELLING WHAT OTHER PEOPLE HAD CAST-OFF AS SURPLUS. EVEN TODAY, THE SAME HOLDS, AND IF I WAS DOING THIS ANTIQUE THING, JUST FOR THE MONEY, THERE WOULDN'T BE ANY POINT OPENING LATER THIS MORNING, OR TOMORROW, OR ALL THE DAYS AFTER THAT…..BECAUSE TRUTH IS, VERY FEW ANTIQUE DEALERS BECOME WEALTHY, UNTIL THEY CLOSE UP SHOP, AND HAVE TO INSURE THE LEFTOVERS. THEN ON PAPER, AT LEAST, THEY BECOME WORTH A CONSIDERABLE AMOUNT OF MONEY.
EVEN NOW, ALTHOUGH I DON'T ADVERTISE THIS AS THE REASON YOU SHOULD VISIT OUR FAMILY SHOP, IT'S THE COLLECTION OF FOLKS, OUR EVER-GROWING CUSTOMER BASE, THAT MAKES OUR DAYS, WEEKS AND MONTHS ENJOYABLE AND INTERESTING. WHILE IT'S CERTAINLY IMPERATIVE TO MAKE RENT, AND A LITTLE PROFIT IN ORDER TO CONTINUE THE SHOP AS A GOING-CONCERN, AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING, SO IS IT THE SAME TODAY. EVEN IN THE FIRST YEAR IN THIS NEW LOCATION, IN THE FORMER MUSKOKA THEATRE BUILDING, ON THE MAIN STREET OF GRAVENHURST, WE HAVE BEEN MAKING GREAT PERSONAL CONTACTS, AND ALREADY WE HAVE RECONNECTED TO MANY OF OUR FORMER CUSTOMERS, WHO MADE BIRCH HOLLOW A SORT OF HANG-OUT, SOMEWHAT IN THE SPIRIT OF ADRIENNE MONNIER'S PARIS BOOKSHOP, THAT WE DISCUSSED IN YESTERDAY'S COLUMN. WHILE IT IS NOT THE CASE, THAT WE HAVE WORLD RENOWNED ARTISTS AND AUTHORS DROPPING IN DAILY, TO SIP TEA, AND CONVERSE, WE DO HAVE SOME VERY FASCINATING FOLKS WALKING THROUGH THAT FRONT DOOR, AND OFFERING SUZANNE AND I SOME VERY INTERESTING BIOGRAPHIES AND HISTORIES……BUT THEN THAT'S WHAT OUR BUSINESS IS FAMOUS FOR……AND IT IS ALL HAPPENING HERE IN THIS PLEASANT BURG IN SOUTH MUSKOKA. BUT IT'S NOT SOMETHING YOU ADVERTISE……AS A PLACE TO COME AND SHARE YOUR STORIES……BECAUSE IT ISN'T NECESSARY. IT'S IMPLIED BY THE FACT WE ALSO SELL OLD BOOKS. THERE'S THE STARTER FOR MEANINGFUL DIALOGUE. SO LET'S GO BACK TO WHERE WE LEFT OFF, IN THE FIRST WORLD WAR YEARS, OF PARIS, FRANCE, AND THE BOOKSELLERS AND AUTHORS WHO DEFIED THE TERROR OF CONFLICT, TO INSPIRE THE LIFE AND GROWTH OF LITERATURE……AND THE ONGOING INSPIRATION OF THE AUTHORS WHO HALF-RESIDED THERE, WITH THEIR PROPRIETOR FRIENDS.
THE VERY RICH HOURS OF ADRIENNE MONNIER IN PARIS
Adrienne Monnier the owner of the bookshop, "La Maison des Amis des Livres, and Sylvia Beach, proprietor of the legendary book store, "Shakespeare and Company," across the road from one another in Paris, France, were champions of literature, in their own country, and abroad. They were considered kindred spirits to well accomplished authors, and their shops were havens to escape the burdens of two wars and the Great Depression. They housed, encouraged, supported, financed, and promoted the writers they came to know, and they provided sustenance, to those who were rich in accomplishment but low on funds, and shared the meagre provisions they had, with those who would help them build their respective businesses; by offering their newly published books for the collection. There is an overview that was written by Adrienne Monnier, about the nature and intent of her business enterprise, and it is so eloquently and effectively written, that it summarizes what most of us, who sell old and new books every day, feel about the shop atmosphere, and the importance of offering books to "the eager and the passionate amongst us." Now in her words:
"We founded La Maison des Amis des Livres with faith; each one of its details seems to us to correspond to a feeling, to a thought. Business, for us, has a moving and profound meaning," Monnier writes. The description of the business, translated from French, is included in the text produced by Richard McDougall, entitled "The Very Rich Hours of Adrienne Monnier," published by Charles Scribner's Sons, of New York, in 1976.
"A shop seems to us to be a true magic chamber; at that instant when the passer-by crosses the threshold of the door that everyone can open, when he penetrates into that apparently impersonal place, nothing disguises the look of his face, the tone of his words; he accomplishes with a feeling of complete freedom an act that he believes to be without unforeseen consequences; there is a perfect correspondence between his external attitude and his profound self, and if we know how to observe him at that instant when he is only a stranger, we are able not and forever, to know him in his truth; he reveals all the good will with which he is endowed, that is to say, the degree to which he is accessible to the world, what he can give and receive, the exact rapport that exists between himself and other men." Mennier notes that, "This immediate and intuitive understanding, this private fixing of the soul, how easy they are in a shop, a place of transition between street and house! And what discoveries are possible in a bookshop, through which inevitably pass, amid the innumerable passers-by, the Pleiades, those among us who already seem a bit to be 'great blue persons,' and who, with a smile, give the justification for what we call our best hopes. Selling books, that seems to some people as banal as selling any sort of object or commodity, and based upon the same routine tradition that demands of the seller and the buyer only the gesture of exchanging money against the merchandise, a gesture that is accompanied generally, by a few phrases of politeness.
"We think, first of all, that the faith we put into selling books can be put into all daily acts, one can carry on no matter what business, no matter what profession, with a satisfaction that at certain moments has a real lyricism. The human being who is perfectly adapted to his function, and who works in harmony with others, experiences a fullness of feeling that easily becomes exaltation when his is in rapport with people situated upon the same level of life as himself; once he can communicate and cause what he experiences to be felt, he is multiplied, he rises above himself and strives to be as much of a poet as he can; that elevation, that tenderness, is it not the state of grace in which everything is illuminated by an eternal meaning? But if every conscious person can be exalted upon his every thought of gain and work that is based upon books, have loved them with rapture and have believed in the infinite power of the most beautiful."
The bookshop owner reports that, "Some mornings alone in our bookshop, surrounded only be books arranged in their cases, we have remained contemplating them for moments on end. After a moment our eyes, fixed upon them, saw only the vertical and oblique lines marking the edges of their backs, discreet lines set against the gray wall like the straight strokes drawn by the hand of a child. Before this elementary appearance that is charged with a should made up of all ideas and all images, we were pierced through by an emotion so powerful that it sometimes seemed to us that to write, to express our thoughts, would solace us; but at the moment when our hand sought for pen and paper - somebody entered, other people came afterward, and the faces of the day absorbed the great ardor of the morning. We have often felt that 'all grace of labor, and all honor, and genius,' as Claudel says in 'La Ville (The City),' were granted to us; in that work there are many other words besides that seem written for us, and we can say with Lala….'As gold is the sign of merchandise, merchandise is also a sign…..Of the need that summons it, of the effort that creates it,……And what you call exchange I call communion'."
"When we found our house (shop) in November 1915, we had no business experience whatsoever, we did not even know bookkeeping, and along with that we were so afraid of passing for paltry tradespeople, that we pretended without end, to neglect our own interests, which was childishness besides," records Monnier. "It is ordinarily believed that life extinguishes enthusiasm, disappoints dreams, distorts first conceptions, and realizes a bit at random what has been offered to it. Neveretheless, we can declare that at the beginning of our undertaking, our faith and our enthusiasm were much less great than they are today. Our first idea was very modest; we sought only to start off a bookshop and a reading room devoted above all to modern works. We had very little money, and it was that detail that drove us to specialize in modern literature; if we had had a lot of money, it is certain that we would have wanted to buy everything that existed in respect to printed works and to realize a kind of National Library; we were convinced that the public demands a great quantity of books above all, and we thought that we had much audacity in daring to establish ourselves with hardly three thousand volumes, when some reading-room catalogs announced twenty-thousand volumes, fifty thousand, and even a hundred thousand of them! Truth is that only one of our walls was furnished with books; the others were decorated with pictures, with a large old desk; and with a chest of drawers in which we kept wrapping paper, string, and everything we did not know where to put; our chairs were old chairs from the country that we still have. This bookshop hardly had the look of a shop, and that was not on purpose; we were far from suspecting that people would congratulate us so much in the future for what seemed to us an unfortunate makeshift. We counted upon our first profits to increase our stock without end. These first profits were above all based upon the sale of new and secondhand books, for we did not dare to hope to find subscribers to our reading room until after several months."
She suggests, "One of the great problems of our commercial beginnings was the construction of an outside display stand for the secondhand sale. This operation required our presence for more than five minutes, during which we were exposed to the looks of the passers-by; we had to carry outside the trestles, the case, then the books and the reviews, which were old things that had come for the most part from family libraries. The first time that we made that display we were aroused to the point of anxiety, and when the last pile had been arranged, we escaped hurriedly into the back room of the shop, just as if we had played a bad trick on the passers-by; we looked through a gap in the curtain at what was for us an extraordinary spectacle, the formation of a little group in front of the books; the faces that appeared behind the shop window sometimes made us burst out laughing, sometimes shiver with apprehensions; if those people were to come in, address words to us! And here was an old lady who took a volume from the display and prepared herself to accomplish that grave act of becoming our first purchaser; one of us decided to emerge from the back room and stammered a ceremonious good day to the lady, who, with a very natural manner, showed what she had chosen - it was Henry Greville's 'L'Avenir d' Aline (The Future of Aline)' marked at seventy-five centimes; she had the kindness not to haggle; if she had haggled the situation would have become painful; we would have been torn between the temptation to give her the volume so that the deal might be more quickly settled and the duty of maintaining our really very modest price to show her that we were serious booksellers who did not charge too much. It was necessary all the same to wrap the book, tie it up with string, take the money, give the change out of a franc; thank effusively. That old lady, at last perceived the extraordinary emotion that she was provoking; she went away more troubled than she wished to let it appear and did not come back."
I will make another return visit to see Adrienne Monnier, in tomorrow's blog, and I would like to highlight some of the meetings she and Sylvia Beach had with famous writers like F. Scott Fitzgerald, T.S. Eliott, and James Joyce. It's enough to make you want to open your own bookshop.
There are times these days, when it seems the printed hard copy book is on the way out, so to speak. I am a loyalist, who while embracing the advances of technology, will never, ever, abandon a real book for an electronic device that claims to be its equal. Like a real Christmas tree…..there's a beautiful aroma of print, paper and binding, that just doesn't emit from an electronic device. My favorite book related movie, of course, was "84 Charing Cross," and to be in the book shop that was depicted in that movie……the dream of dreams. To be the proprietor of a shop of that calibre……well, a fellow can ponder the possibility…..can't he? Hope you can find some time to visit again tomorrow, as we make another visit to La Maison des Amis des Livres, in Paris, via the words of shop owner, Adrienne Monnier.
Thanks for showing your support for book sellers, antique dealers, collectors and all the others, who love history and all the wonderful relics it leaves behind to cheerfully hunt and gather. Books? Just the tip of the proverbial iceberg? There's just so darn much to collect.
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