The Visions of Quevedo

by Francisco de Quevedo

While he was speaking, we met a troop of booksellers, at whose head was one Peter Marteau, a publisher, of Cologne; he was loaded with a burden so unwieldy, that it was impossible to comprehend how any one man could bear it. They informed me, these were the books printed under his name, after his death. The booksellers of Holland were also very heavily laden; and those of France bore also the books struck off at their houses, with the title of a Dutch bookseller. These people were carrying their books to the furnace, but were prevented by a singular accident: a demon, who passed by with a flambeau, approaching to look at them, their papers caught fire, and instantly spread from one to another through the whole body: when they perceived the flame, they threw down their loads, and fled with all convenient speed. I asked them why they were damned: they answered, for the faults of others.

“An author,” observed they, “often carries a work to the printer, which has no merit, and besides, as unsaleable as a girl, ugly and poor: by this means the printer is ruined; in vain he curses the author, and seeks to reimburse himself by the sale of an unpopular book; this book is the cause of his failure; his creditors seize his goods and shop; he maddens, and resigns himself to despair. A translator, who understands Greek, undertakes a dull work; sometimes he supposes he has discovered a manuscript; he carries his translation to the printer, who, not being able to get rid of it, sells the leaves to the grocer or butter woman. Another cause of our damnation; a bookseller sells at a handsome profit, the satires of Juvenal, the comedies of Terence, and of other poets, as those of Virgil and Ovid; a lackey, a shop-boy, a soldier, a clerk, purchase these works, and amuse themselves among serving girls, with what cost long study to these men of genius. Without mentioning other books we vend, and which obtain circulation, only because they flatter the taste or passions of the buyer, is it not true, that a pretty story of gallantry, secret memoirs, cabinet intrigues, which profess to expose the designs of the government, or the end of some great affair, are the most dangerous books? and these are the kind we sell best. Is it us, then, upon whom reproach ought to fall, or on the readers?”

“He speaks advisedly,” said a Holland publisher; “we have put to press all the follies of certain authors, who wished to revenge themselves, either upon a mistress, judge, minister of state, or prince; and for this we must needs be adjudged guilty of other’s faults, and share their punishment! but that would have been slight, if we had not meddled with books of religion. We have published in Holland the works of all parties; Christians, Jews, Catholics, Protestants, Socinians, Quakers, and every other sect; and often in the same book, sold both sides of the controversy.”

“You have then,” said I, “no religion!”

“We are,” replied the Dutchman, “the historians of authors; and as a historian must have neither relations, country, friends, nor religion, even so we have none of these; but under the name of citizens of the world, have but one object, and that, the advancement of our own interests.”

Immediately upon these words, he hastily fled with the others, to re-assemble themselves near the demon of the book merchants, who called for his whole crew. I felt great compassion at the fate of these unhappy wretches, condemned to hell, because they were brought up to the profession of publishing the dreams and extravagances of authors: it is worthy also of reflection, that they are compelled to consult the taste of the age, and of the multitude. Now the taste of the age is exceedingly fickle: it is not that of learned men and wits; books of morality and criticism are purchased much less readily than novels and profane histories; so that book merchants, in their condition, have an unhappiness that attaches itself to no other trade, independently of the fact, that this business is not held in the same estimation at the present day, that it formerly was. They were then ranked with men of letters; they were admitted to the bar and church; the cardinal Ximenes bestowed on them great preferments; he ennobled him who published the famous Bible d’arrias montars. We see, in his time, publishers who possessed rich abbeys and seats in the council. And what was not done for them by the fifth Sixtus, that incomparable genius? In France, they arrived at great distinction, and have been seen in the first posts of the principal cities of the kingdom; and we know that a celebrated emperor of Germany, was one of the first publishers, if not himself the inventor of printing. But to return from this digression: when the book merchants were re-assembled, the notaries, who had just arrived, wished to place themselves in their ranks; but the devil used his authority to separate them, averring that there was, in fact, a vast difference.

“Without doubt,” said the notaries, “we are the book merchants of manuscripts; we compose and publish our works, to which the public accord the same faith, as to things they have themselves seen; we are faithful public witnesses, the guarantees of contracts, promises, and obligations; the guardians of titles, rights, and privileges; our testimony is true, infallible; above suspicion, deceit, and fraud.”

“Why,” said the devil, “are you come to hell? for if you fulfilled those duties, you are honest people, and I declare, not only useful, but necessary to the public; for, between ourselves, there is so little public sincerity, that if one could not prove, by writings and witnesses, the price at which he bought or sold, he would often find himself cheated of his money.”

“It is,” said one of the notaries, “for some antedates or superfluous ciphers, that we are damned; judge you, if the matter is of such vital consequence; one is so often deceived by writings, and one figure is so easily substituted for another;—the pen too, slips sometimes, and a nought is so easily made!”

“You are right, in truth,” said the devil, addressing himself to me; “they wrong these poor people, in sending them to us; they have committed trifling faults, while they do not punish the apothecaries, even, for putting up the recipes sent them. I have a great mind to send these unfortunate persons home again.—Go; return, my friends; you have suffered great injustice.”