About ten years ago a foreigner, a man of genius, was overtaken in a Paris café where he had just finished lunching by one of those absurd predicaments in which the profoundly absorbed thinker all too often finds himself. He had forgotten his purse, and was helplessly searching his portfolio for a pound note which might accidentally have strayed there, when his eyes fell, among his papers, on the address of a certain millionaire who lived nearby. He wrote a card to this respected nouveau riche, requesting an hour’s loan of twenty francs, dispatched a waiter with his note, and after a certain interval received as his only reply a no as inflexible as that of Richelieu to Maynard![6] Providentially, a friend appeared and helped him out of his difficulty. Up to this point, the story is in no way out of the ordinary, and hardly merits being told—but it is not yet finished. The man of genius attained fame (something which does occasionally happen to genius) and then died (something which happens sooner or later to everyone). The fame of his works penetrated even the halls of the Bank, and the price paid for his autographs, though not quoted on the Bourse, made something of a sensation in the sales. I myself saw this noble appeal to French urbanity bring 150 francs at an auction sale where our bibliophobe, the man of wealth, had entered it in the hope of catching some collector’s fancy, and I have no doubt that this small capital has by now been tripled in hands so discreet and knowing. All of which goes to show that a favor withheld is no more lost than one that is granted!
There is one type of bibliophobe, however, whom I can pardon for his brutish antipathy toward books. This is the good, sensible man of little cultivation, who feels a horror for books because of the ways in which they are misused and the harm which they do. Such was the attitude of my old companion in misfortune, the Commandeur de Valais, who said to me, gently turning in his hand the sole volume that remained of my library (it was, alas, a Plato!): “Away with it, in the name of God! It is rascals like this who prepared the Revolution.” “For my part,” he added, twisting somewhat coquettishly his gray moustache, “Heaven can witness that I have never read a single one of them!”
The distinguishing marks of the bibliophile are the taste, the delicate and resourceful tact, which he applies to everything, and which contribute an inexpressible charm to life. One might even be so bold as to warrant that the bibliophile is to all intents and purposes a happy man, or at least that he knows how happiness can be achieved. That good and learned book-lover, Urbain Chevreau,[7] has given us a marvelous description of this kind of happiness, as he himself experienced it. You will agree with me, if you will listen to his words for a moment instead of to mine: “I never know boredom,” he writes, “in my solitude, where I am surrounded by a large and well chosen library. Speaking in general terms, all the Greek and Latin authors are to be found there, whatever their profession: orators, poets, sophists, rhetoricians, philosophers, historians, geographers, chronologists, the Church Fathers, the theologians, and the councils. Antiquarian writings are there too, and all sorts of curious tales; many Italians, a few Spaniards, and modern authors of established reputation. I have paintings and prints; outside, a garden full of flowers and fruit trees; and, in one of the rooms, a group of house-musicians who, by their warblings and chirpings, never fail to wake me in the morning and to entertain me at my meals. The house is new and well-built, the air is wholesome, and—to make sure that I do my duty—there are three churches just outside my doors.”
If Urbain Chevreau had lived in the time of Sulla, I wonder whether the Roman Senate would still have dared to proclaim Sulla the happiest man on earth; yet, on second thought, I am inclined to think that it would—for in all probability the Senate would never have known that a person like Urbain Chevreau existed. You will have noted, in fact, that this worthy man—the object and model of my favorite studies and the delight of my happiest hours of reading, praesidium et dulce decus meum—has, in the charming picture he has given us of his so enviable existence, either forgotten to mention, or himself failed to realize, the rarest and most precious ingredient of his happiness. Chevreau was happy because he knew how to be satisfied with what he had, and to do without fame and glory. He was so completely forgotten in his own time that, although he was a superb scholar, he was never made a member of the Academy! Still, envy and hatred passed him by, just as did acclaim, leaving him to die among his books and his flowers in the eighty-eighth year of his age. May the earth rest lightly on this most lovable and erudite of bibliophiles—according to the now consecrated words on his tomb.
But what has become of his books—those books so well chosen by Urbain Chevreau and so well kept, of which there has been no mention in any recent catalogue? Here is a question of vital importance, pressing, insistent; a question which will be of great concern to society once society has dropped its absorption in the absurd nonsense of humanitarian philosophy and bad politics with which it is now infatuated!
The bibliophile knows how to select books; the bibliomaniac hoards and amasses them. The bibliophile puts a book in its right place on the shelf, after having explored it with all the resources of sense and imagination; the bibliomaniac stacks his books in piles without ever looking at them. The bibliophile appreciates the book; the bibliomaniac weighs or measures it. The bibliophile works with a magnifying glass, the bibliomaniac with a measuring-stick. Some who are known to me compute the growth of their libraries in square metres. The harmless, deliciously enjoyable fever of the bibliophile becomes, in the bibliomaniac, an acute malady bordering on delirium. Once it has reached that fatal stage of paroxysm it loses all contact with the intelligence and resembles any other mania. I do not know whether or not the phrenologists, who have discovered so many absurdities, have as yet localized the collector’s instinct—developed to such a high degree in some poor devils of my acquaintance—within the box of bone which houses our poor brain. Long ago in my youth I knew a man who collected corks of historic or anecdotal interest, and kept them arranged in orderly rows in his immense garret, each with its instructive label indicating on what more or less solemn occasion it had been originally drawn from the bottle. One label, for instance, read: “M. Le Maire, Champagne mousseux of first quality: Birth of His Majesty, the King of Rome.”—The skull of the bibliomaniac must have approximately the same protuberances.
Only a step separates the sublime from the ridiculous; only a crise, the bibliophile from the bibliomaniac. The one often turns into the other through mental deterioration or increase of fortune—two grave afflictions to which the best of men are subject, though the first is far more common than the second. My dear and honored master, M. Boulard,[8] was once a scrupulous and fastidious bibliophile, before he amassed in his six-story house 600,000 volumes of every possible format, piled like the stones in Cyclopean walls! I remember that I was going about with him one day among these insecure obelisks (which had not been stabilized by our modern architectural science), when I chanced to ask with some curiosity after a certain item—a unique copy—which I had let go to him in a celebrated sale. M. Boulard looked at me fixedly, with that gracious and humorous air of good-fellowship which was characteristic of him, and, rapping with his gold-headed cane on one of the huge stacks (rudis indigestaque moles), then on a second and third, said, “It’s there—or there—or there.” I shuddered to think that the unfortunate booklet might perhaps have disappeared for all time beneath 18,000 folios; but my concern did not make me forget my own safety. The gigantic stacks, their uncertain equilibrium shaken by the tappings of M. Boulard’s cane, were swaying threateningly on their bases, the summits vibrating like the pinnacles of a Gothic cathedral at the sound of the bells or the impact of a storm. Dragging M. Boulard with me, I fled before Ossa could collapse upon Pelion. Even today, when I think how near I came to receiving the whole series of the Bollandist[9] publications on my head from a height of twenty feet, I cannot recall the danger I was in without pious horror. It would be an abuse of the word to apply the name “library” to menacing mountains of books which have to be attacked with a miner’s pick and held in place by stanchions!
The bibliophile ought not to be confused with the bouquiniste, the second-hand-book addict, of whom I shall now have something to say, although the bibliophile is by no means too proud to visit the second-hand book-stalls from time to time. He knows that more than one pearl has been cast before swine, and more than one literary treasure found in vulgar wrappings. Unfortunately, luck of this sort is extremely rare. As for the bibliomaniac, he never looks over second-hand books, since to do so would again introduce the element of choice. The bibliomaniac cannot choose; he buys.
The true second-hand-book addict is usually an old man living on his small independent income, a retired professor, or a man of letters who has outlived his vogue, but who still keeps his taste for books without having managed to retain enough money to buy them. It is this last type who is constantly in search of that rara avis, the second-hand book of great value, which chance may capriciously have hidden away in some dusty old shop—like an unmounted diamond which the common eye would take for a piece of glass, and only the knowing gaze of the lapidary recognizes for what it is. Have you heard of that copy of the Imitation of Christ for which Rousseau asked his friend Monsieur Dupeyrou in 1765, that he annotated and inscribed with his own name, and one page of which holds the impression of a dried myrtle—the original, authentic flower which Rousseau plucked that same year under the thickets of the Charmettes? M. de Latour is the owner of this jewel of modest mien which is worth more than its weight in gold; it cost him 75 centimes. There is a prize for you! Still, I am not sure that I would not be equally glad to own the volume of Théagènes et Cariclée[10] which Racine laughingly turned over to his professor with the words: “You can burn that; I know it by heart.” If that pretty little book is now no longer on the quais, with its elegant signature and the Greek notes in miniature characters which would identify it among a thousand others, I can guarantee that it once sojourned there. And what would you say to a copy of the original edition of the Pedant joué of Cyrano, in which the two famous scenes[11] are enclosed in large brackets, with this brief note by Molière jotted in the margin: “This belongs to me”? Such are the joys, and for the most part, it must be confessed, the marvelous illusions of the second-hand book. The learned M. Barbier,[12] who published so many excellent notes on the subject of anonymous writings (and who also left much unsaid), promised to issue a special bibliography listing the precious books found on the Paris quais over a period of forty years. If this manuscript of his were lost, it would be a misfortune for the world of letters—but above all for the devotee of second-hand books, that skilled and adroit literary alchemist who is never without his dream of the philosopher’s stone, and who even finds chips of it from time to time, without showing any particular concern for having them mounted in the rich setting of de luxe bindings. The bouquiniste has the life-long conviction of owning something that no one else owns, and would shrug his shoulders patronizingly before the coffers of the Grand Mogul himself; but he has compelling reasons for not decking out his treasures in a meaningless display of luxury, though he disguises his real motives under a thoroughly specious excuse. “The livery of age,” he says, “adds as much to the look of early printing as patina does to bronze. The bibliophile who sends his books to be bound by Bauzonnet[13] is no better than the numismatist who has his medals gilded. Leave brass its verdigris, and the old book its worn leather.” The truth behind all this is that Bauzonnet’s bindings are expensive, while the bouquiniste is far from rich. We agree that cosmetics are a near sacrilege when applied to beauty, and that books should not be abandoned to the dangers of restoration except as a last resort; but rest assured that fine array harms a book no more than it harms a beautiful woman!
