The Bibliomaniac

by Charles Nodier

PREFACE

“Good, amiable Nodier,” are the words by which the world, apart from scholars, characterizes Charles Nodier. He is portrayed with a flowered vest, and a frock-coat with great lapels, finished by one of those collars which, by an easy play upon words, are called les cols (l’école) des vieillards. Nodier’s collar, which turned up slightly at the points in a Prudhommesque manner, touched the corners of his refined, kindly mouth; but it is difficult immediately to associate the remembrance of certain books with this 1835 face, for time obliterates everything.

If Nodier belonged by right of his first literary impressions to the classical school, his liberal spirit soon identified itself with that of the romanticists. His face, full of genial originality, bore the characteristics of a man living between two literary epochs; but history little by little soon effaced all these tints and shades. Nodier was also one of those improvisators who talked their books. Contemporaries, in reading them, seemed to hear him speak, and a little imagination added to the surprises of these written conversations; but when the voice ceases the charm vanishes.

It is certain that the reader of to-day is somewhat at a loss in the company of a book of Nodier’s, and feels very much as when, in a military panorama, he sees the wheel of a real caisson, and often a veritable cannon and cannon-ball, which at first sight blend with the painted canvas, until it is difficult to say where the actual ends and the illusion begins. If we read his reminiscences and studies of his own time in a credulous spirit, we shall constantly say, “Nodier is mistaken; what he tells us is not only wholly improbable but impossible, and is completely at variance with history”—until the wise reader decides that Nodier’s entire writings should bear the title of one of his books, “Contes et Fantaisies.”

Perhaps it would be interesting to separate the true from the false in these works of Nodier, and to show how the thread of truth disappears under his embroidery. In confining the investigation to this little book, “The Bibliomaniac,” taken from “Les Contes de la Veillée,”[1] and rejuvenated by the illustrations of Maurice Leloir, one may have the pleasure of bringing to light, by the aid of letters and comparisons, the best and most absorbing passion that controlled Nodier. Is it not a summary of his passion, from the first lines? If he left the Arsenal Library, where he had been appointed librarian at the end of the year 1823 by a bibliographical minister, M. de Corbière, it was to stroll among the old book-dealers. If he wrote to the friend of his childhood, who became his lifelong confidant, his fellow-countryman of Franche-Comté, Charles Weiss, it was a litany of bibliographical enthusiasm. Small as his means were, Nodier had the incurable mania of book-buying. The noun and the adjective are his own words. But, he said one day, this craze is no more vain in its final results than any other of the illusions of life. Also, in perusing the sayings of the hero of this story, Theodore, we feel that Nodier sympathizes with him from the bottom of his heart. Theodore sometimes resembles him like a brother, and we cannot help regretting that Nodier could not wholly make up his mind to amuse himself fully at his own expense, or to take from real life a man he knew very well, rather than treat him incidentally.

This original and true bibliomaniac, for Nodier’s Theodore is merely a degenerate bibliophile, was celebrated at the time of the Restoration. He was a lawyer named Boulard, who, instead of admiring an imposing row of books in his cabinet, like his fellows, only took pleasure in arranging them on the shelves, or in piling them up in his closets. His library was scattered everywhere in this strange study, which overflowed with cheap literature from auction sales. Finally, there was such an invasion of books that Boulard, becoming the owner of the house in which he lived, expelled all his tenants in turn, and took possession himself of floor after floor for the storage of his books. After this he bought six other houses which he turned into depositories for books. One day, when Nodier asked him for a certain book, Boulard, going from one house to another, struck the stacks, the walls, the ramparts, of books with his cane, saying in triumphant irony, “It is either here or there.” Boulard, growing ill, and no longer able to go out, had the books brought to his bed. He handled them, asked their price, and held them up with admiring affection. As his memory became more and more impaired, he would buy the same book three or four times over. His family, worried at his growing mania, and not desiring to oppose the fervor of his wishes, which were turning violently to certain fixed ideas, conceived the plan of showing him a great part of his own books, which he no longer recognized, as if they were new acquisitions. This gave him a joyous surprise at every moment, and Boulard, having thus delightfully reviewed all his past life, went to sleep forever, over a book, in 1825.

The remembrance of his death doubtless inspired Nodier with the half-sad, half-amusing ending of his Bibliomaniac. Boulard was the type of bibliomaniac whose progressive malady would be the most interesting to study. What was Nodier’s object, then, in searching here and there for materials with which to sketch an imaginary figure, when the notary was at hand? Nodier always followed the plan of taking his imagination as a guide; but imagination has also its moods and caprices, and it is a mistake for an author to be so fanciful that he ceases to follow the simple and fertile lead of nature.

Nodier could have chosen still another original, the Dutch baron Westreeven van Tiellandt. This extraordinary person kept his library under triple lock for forty years. One day, however, in an access of good feeling, he said to two of his best friends: “You have often expressed a desire to see my books. I want to oblige you both, but you must submit to certain conditions: before entering my library you must each put on a dressing-gown which I have expressly prepared, because your clothes might be saturated with a smell which is bad for books; and you must wear the slippers that I have provided, because your shoes might be full of dangerous dust.” The baron, however, invariably found an excuse for postponing the visit to his library, and died without having kept his promise. As the baron survived Nodier some years, this last feature could not have been portrayed with its attendant moral. The “Bulletin du Bibliophile,” which owed its existence in part to Nodier, took upon itself the baron’s funeral oration and reproduced his will. In leaving his library to the city of The Hague, the baron stipulated that it should be open only on the first and third Thursdays of each month, and only to people who had been provided the preceding day with cards of admission. “Never,” he said, “under any pretext, shall the books or manuscripts be taken outside the reading-room.” No further purchases were to be made, except to complete the collections which he had himself begun—he whose restless and jealous spirit wished to hover around his books.

Avarice, either in the Latin sense of the word or in its more modern meaning, is the agony of a man who is made to tremble by every trifle when he contemplates his possessions. Some of these bibliomaniacs are like very rich people, of whom it is said, “They leave a great fortune.” The verb “to leave” has here rather an ironical meaning. It is as much as saying that they have amassed wealth without having been themselves the gainers thereby.

The book-collector belongs to a race of refined egotists. He knows and tastes the subtle, intense joy which comes from the sight and possession of a fine book. Even before opening it, he handles it caressingly, touching its pages lightly as he would the wings of a butterfly.