The Book-Hunter at Home Part 2

Besides, before the advent of railways, there was not the same facility for distributing books, and one might travel many leagues and visit many villages without coming to a place where there would be a bookshop. In travelling nowadays one is continually in the presence of cheap books.

The fate of the little Pastissier was probably that of many popular books. There must have been thousands of copies of it printed. Dumas, in that delightful chapter of 'Mes Memoires' which we have just quoted, makes Nodier say, 'Techener declares that there were five thousand five hundred copies issued, and I maintain that there were more than ten thousand printed'; and he goes on to declare that 'there are probably only ten examples of it left in Europe.' Willems, however, in his bibliography of the Elzeviers published in 1880, enumerates some thirty copies, and states that the highest price yet paid for the Pastissier was 10,000 francs. But that was for a quite exceptional copy. From 4,500 francs to 5,500 francs seems to have been the average value of the book in Willems' time, and, enthusiast as he is, he hesitates not to describe it as a 'bouquin insignifiant et mediocrement imprime.'

Its scarcity at the present day is, perhaps, not surprising; for, from the very nature of its contents, its habitat must always have been the kitchen rather than the library. How long would such a tiny volume, with its 130 thin paper leaves, bear the rough and greasy handling of chefs and 'pastissiers'? Book-shelves are rare in kitchens, and the little book must have been continually moved from pillar to post. Besides, it is unlikely that copies for kitchen use would be strongly bound in morocco.

The very printing and paper of the book sufficiently indicate the use to which its producers at least expected it to be put. So the little 'French pastrycook' gradually disappeared. Those for whose benefit it had been written would soon learn its secrets by heart and confide them verbally to their apprentices; and it would not be long ere the tattered and greasy booklet found its way into the dustbin.

Of all the _rarae aves_ sought by book-collectors this little volume is perhaps the most widely known. That copies may still exist in this country is shown to be possible by the fact (recorded by Willems) that one was sold at an auction in Belfast. Another was found at Brighton, and occasionally one appears in the London salerooms, as we have shown. It requires little imagination to picture merchants and travellers, whose paths led through the Low Countries at that time, slipping copies into their pockets or holsters for use in the household across the water. Many a courtly exile during the Protectorate, glancing through the bookshops of Amsterdam, must have chanced upon the little volume as a gift for wife or daughter.

Numbers, also, must have found their way to France. Some years ago our book-hunter happened to stay at an ancient hostel in Rouen. From the outside the building was everything that could possibly be desired by bibliophile or antiquary. It was situated in one of those quaint narrow back streets that lead towards the Place Henri Quatre; and the courtyard was so small as scarcely to allow a baker's cart to turn round in it.

Like many of the houses in this ancient town, its crookedness was such that it seemed impossible for it to remain standing much longer.

Misgivings arose within him as he ascended the staircase, which seemed to sway as he avoided the broken treads. But the sight of the bedroom he was to occupy, furnished with such furniture and such a bed, all spotlessly clean and polished, sent him into the seventh heaven of delight. Here he could read and write undisturbed for as long as he chose to stay. Surely pleasant surprises must be in store for one in every way in such surroundings as these!

It was not long before he got one.

'Will Monsieur require anything to be cooked for him to-night?' inquired the trim hostess.

It was rather late and our bookman was disinclined to seek a restaurant.

Besides, he was anxious to explore his lodging before it got too dark. An omelette would be delicious, provided she could make one properly.

'Eggs, perhaps, and tea, with bread and b.u.t.ter'--could she turn the eggs into an omelette?

'Why certainly,' with a merry laugh, 'of course--_I can prepare eggs in more than sixty ways._'

To say that our book-hunter started would be to put it mildly. A certain t.i.tle-page instantly rose before his eyes. There was only one way in which anybody could possibly learn to cook eggs in sixty different ways, and that was by studying the 'Pastissier Francois.' Without the slightest doubt the hostess possessed a copy, and he was at last to look upon the tiny volume that he had sought for so long. But as she seemed so proud of her achievement, could she be induced to part with the precious tome?

These and many other kindred thoughts pa.s.sed rapidly through his mind as he repeated slowly 'en plus de soixante facons?'

She laughed again. Ah yes, but she couldn't repeat them _d'abord_, she would have to _refer to her book_.

He had difficulty in controlling his voice sufficiently to inquire what her book was.

Oh, it was just a little book which her mother had given her, a little book of _la cuisine_. Could he see it? Why certainly, but it could not possibly interest monsieur, it was only a common little book, and dirty.

Ah, as usual it would be soiled, perhaps badly, for it was evidently still in constant use; but so long as it were complete one might possibly be able to clean it. What delightful thoughts and antic.i.p.ations pa.s.sed through his mind as the hostess slowly descended the rickety stairs to fetch her treasure! At last he had found it, and just in the very sort of house and town where he had always expected to come across it. Well, well, if you make up your mind to have a thing and search eagerly enough for it, you are bound to obtain it in the long run.

Then another thought entered his mind: how much should he offer her for it? Probably she would not part with it unless he named a sum which she could not resist; yet if the sum were at all large she might suspect the book's value and refuse. Ten francs, twenty-five, a hundred? While he was deliberating this important point she was ascending the stairs. Should he turn his back to her, shut his eyes, and tell her to place the volume on the middle of the table, then suddenly turn about and gloat upon the little treasure?

Before he could make up his mind she came in and he got his second surprise that day. It was not as pleasant as the first, for in her hands she held a thick octavo volume bound in s.h.i.+ny black leather. Heavens!

... a large-paper copy? ... No, no, impossible... .

'Le voici, m'sieu.'

Our poor book-hunter's feelings almost overcame him, and he opened the dirty ma.n.u.script volume mechanically, feebly muttering 'tres interessant.' She watched him closely, and from that moment considered him slightly mad. However, the book certainly did contain sixty-two recipes for cooking eggs as well as receipts for making fancy pastry and cakes. Whether it was copied out of the 'Pastissier' I know not; but certain it is that the hostess had no knowledge of, nor had ever seen, that volume.

There must be many book-treasures lying hid in all these ancient towns of Northern France, towns also that lie far off the restless tourist's track, small country towns in which the majority of the houses are slipshod timbered relics of a bygone age. No striking or unusual feature can they offer to the curious, and so for the most part they are dismissed in brief by the guide book. Yet there is many an aged building in Brittany where old books do still lie hid, as our bookman knows from the library of a friend who lives in Finisterre. St. Brieuc, Guingamp, Morlaix, Quimper, even Brest, all these must harbour long-forgotten books.

But there are other towns which no power on earth shall force our book-hunter to disclose. One there is far off the beaten track, where the houses, painted with bright colours, lean all askew, supporting each other and sometimes almost toppling across the narrow winding streets. So that, entering it, one seems to have stepped suddenly into some such fairy town as exists in the pages of Grimm or Hans Andersen; and, half ashamed, one peers curiously at the dwellers in this goblin town, as though expecting to find that they have pointed ears and narrow elfin feet. They never seem to move about, and, sitting at almost every doorstep, watch one intently from weird nooks and crannies. Hurry and bustle are here unknown, and though they will reply to you in the best of French, yet to each other the townsfolk speak a strange and uncouth tongue.

Once, rambling in the narrow alleys about the ancient church, our book-hunter ventured through a gothic doorway along a broad pa.s.sage that was guarded by a huge and ancient iron grille and presently he found himself in a small courtyard paved with moss-grown cobbles. About it was a timbered gallery, roofed, once doubtless level, now gently and gracefully undulating so that it seemed about to fall from off the wall to which it was attached. But the walls had also subsided with the gallery, so that the whole still showed a symmetry that was pleasing to the eye. Above the gallery and across the front of the building had been painted the legend HOTEL DU LION D'OR, and a dim weatherbeaten s.h.i.+eld above the doorway still bore the trace of a rampant lion. It seemed a large building, judging by the number of its windows, far larger than its present-day custom could possibly warrant.

The place was curiously still, for the noise of carts and footsteps could never penetrate into that silent court, and it must have been many years since chaise or horseman clattered across its now mossy _pave_. The stillness was almost uncanny, forbidding, and our book-hunter hesitated to cross the courtyard lest the sound of his footsteps should disturb the slumber of the ancient building. Presently a rat squealed somewhere along the gallery, and a voice called out sharply within. The spell was broken, and entering the house he called for a 'pet.i.t verre' preparatory to finding out something of the inn's history.

Yes, it was very old, and madame had been born in it; but now that she was left alone with Jeanne it was very lonely, and there was little custom. Did they have many travellers there? Oh no, not for a long time, the house was not easy to find, and as the old customers died none came to fill their places. But sometimes Messieurs So and So came in of an evening and took a 'pet.i.t verre,' and then the neighbours were very friendly, so it was not so bad.

So the hostess prattled on, only too pleased to impart the news of her little world to a newcomer from the greater one, while all the time fantastic visions rose before him. He pictured old hide-bound trunks that had been left behind by travellers who had never returned, trunks which, opened, would prove to contain priceless black-letter books: boxes, stored in attics and cellars and in concealed presses, which would contain ancient apparel with copies of the 'Pastissier' in the pockets: small travelling bags, tendered by needy scholars in lieu of payment, which he would find stuffed with rare Elzeviers: rusty iron-bound chests enclosing missals, books of hours and antiphonals: in short to such heights did his imagination soar that he resolved to sojourn there till he had explored the old house from attic to cellar.

Then a rat squealed again, near at hand. Oh yes, they were everywhere, ever since Monsieur Gautier rented the left wing of the house to store grain in; and they were _so_ tame and _so_ large that Madame was obliged to keep miou-miou in her bedroom every night.

That decided our book-hunter. Enthusiasm can be carried too far. Even the possibilities of a rich trover would not compensate for having rats running about one's bed at night. Moreover the vermin would surely have gnawed, if not devoured, any copies of the 'Pastissier' that might have been lying about, even if these were innocent of bacon-grease stains. And so consoling himself, he took another 'pet.i.t verre' and departed, casting more than one regretful glance backwards at the old Lion d'Or.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Apparently there is only one copy of Upton's work in the United States at present--that which was formerly in the Huth Library. It was purchased at Sotheby's in July, 1920, by a well-known New York dealer, Mr. G. D. Smith, for ten guineas, the writer of these lines being the underbidder. Mr. Smith had sent "an unlimited commission" to secure it.

An announcement in _The Bookman's Journal_ (1920) asking for information respecting other copies elicited but one response.

Since writing the above, the author has secured the splendid presentation copy given by Upton's editor (Bysshe) to the great Parliamentary leader, Sir Humphrey Mackworth, of Neath, in Glamorgans.h.i.+re. It had remained at Glen Uske until the dispersal of the Mackworth Library in 1920.

[2] No. 16096. See page 164.

[3] Possibly the t.i.tle was _Nigromanser_, from _niger_, black, and _manser_, a b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

[4] The perfect copy was purchased by Mr. Pierpont Morgan at the sale of the Hoe Library, in 1911, for 8,560. It formed originally one of the twenty-two Caxtons which were dispersed in 1698 with the library of Dr.

Francis Bernard, Physician to King James the Second, when it realised two and tenpence! It became the property of the great Robert Harley, Earl of Oxford, and was acquired later by the Countess of Jersey for two and a half guineas. Pa.s.sing thus into the Osterley Park collection, it was purchased, when that library was sold in 1885, by Bernard Quaritch for 1,950, becoming the property, the same year, of Mrs. Abby E. Pope, of Brooklyn, U.S.A.

[5] By Edward More of Hambledon, Bucks.

[6] Mr. E. G. Duff.

[7] For this romantic story see _Books in Ma.n.u.script_, by Mr. Falconer Madan, 8vo, 1893, p. 107 _et seq._

[8] Book-collectors always speak of _The_ Farringdon Road; why, I know not, but the definite article certainly gives it an old-world tang.

[9] Alas for romance! Truth compels me to add that as the Great Fire swept across this very court, the existing house must date at earliest from King Charles' reign. But the site and tradition as to its former owner may well be true.

[10] _The Courtier_, by Balda.s.sare Castiglione, was first printed at Venice in 1528, folio. This letter was written by the fearless churchman, then of Wolsey's household, on the great Cardinal's 'last lingering journey north.' There is, perhaps, a certain significance in his wish to study a volume which treats of the art of living in courts, and of becoming useful and agreeable to princes, for he was shortly to transfer his services to a royal master.

[11] At the sale of Baron Seilliere's books in 1887, a copy of this prototype of the Elzevier volume, printed at Paris 'chez Jean Gaillard,'

1653, brought only 6, 10s. It was described as 'a beautiful copy, red morocco, super extra, gilt edges, by Pet.i.t.' It is exceedingly rare, but--it is not an Elzevier.

[12] A recent (1920) catalogue offers a copy for thirty-five s.h.i.+llings.

[13] I confess that I do, but then I am hopelessly out of date, or I shouldn't be fond of Elzeviers.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER II