作者：Rosenbach, A. S. W. (Abraham Simon Wolf)
格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT
The Unpublishable Memoirs试读：
THE UNPUBLISHABLE MEMOIRS
It was very cruel.He was dickering for one of the things he had desired for a life-time.
It was in New York at one of the famous book-stores of the metropolis. The proprietor had offered to him for one hundred and sixty dollars—exactly the amount he had in bank—the first and only edition of the "Unpublishable Memoirs" of Beau Brummel, a little volume issued in London in 1790, and one of two copies known, the other being in the famous "hidden library" of the British Museum.It was a scandalous chronicle of fashionable life in the eighteenth century, and many brilliant names were implicated therein; distinguished and reputable families, that had long been honored in the history of England, were ruthlessly depicted with a black and venomous pen. He had coveted this book for years, and here it was within his grasp! He had just told the proprietor that he would take it.
Robert Hooker was a book-collector. With not a great deal of money, he had acquired a few of the world's most sought-after treasures. He had laboriously saved his pennies, and had, with the magic of the bibliophile, turned them into rare volumes! He was about to put the evil little book into his pocket when he was interrupted.A large, portly man, known to book-lovers the world over, had entered the shop and asked Mr. Rodd if he might examine the Beau Brummel Memoirs. He had looked at it before, he said, but on that occasion had merely remarked that he would call again. He saw the volume on the table in front of Hooker, picked it up without ceremony, and told the owner of the shop that he would purchase it.
"Excuse me," exclaimed Hooker, "but I have just bought it.""What!" said the opulent John Fenn, "I came especially to get it."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Fenn," returned the proprietor, "Mr. Hooker, here, has just said that he would take it.""Now, look here, Rodd, I've always been a good customer of yours. I've spent thousands in this very shop during the last few years. I'll give you two hundred dollars for it."
"No," said Rodd."Three hundred!" said Fenn.
"No.""Four hundred!"
"No.""I'll give you five hundred dollars for it, and if you do not take it, I shall never enter this place again!"
Without another word Rodd nodded, and Fenn quickly grasped the little book, and placed it in the inside pocket of his coat. Hooker became angry and threatened to take it by bodily force. A scuffle ensued. Two clerks came to the rescue, and Fenn departed triumphantly with the secrets of the noble families of Great Britain securely in his possession.Rodd, in an ingratiating manner, declared to Hooker that no money had passed between them, and consequently there had been no sale. Hooker, disappointed, angry, and beaten, could do nothing but retire.
At home, among his books, his anger increased. It was the old, old case of the rich collector gobbling up the small one. It was outrageous! He would get even—if it cost him everything. He dwelt long and bitterly upon his experience. A thought struck him. Why not prey upon the fancies of the wealthy! He would enter the lists with them; he would match his skill against their money, his knowledge against their purse.Hooker was brought up in the mystic lore of books, for he was the son of a collector's son. He had always been a student, and half his time had been spent in the bookseller's shops, dreaming of the wonderful editions of Chaucer, of Shakespeare, of rare Ben Jonson, that some day he might call his own. He would now secure the priceless things dearest to the hearts of men, at no cost to himself!
He would not limit his choice to books, which were his first love, but he would help himself to the fair things that have always delighted the soul,—pictures, like those of Raphael and da Vinci; jewels, like Cellini's; little bronzes, like Donatello's; etchings of Rembrandt; the porcelains (True Ming!) of old China; the rugs of Persia the magnificent!The idea struck him at first as ludicrous and impossible. The more he thought of it, the more feasible it became. He had always been a good mimic, a fair amateur actor, a linguist, and a man of parts. He possessed scholarly attainments of a high order. He would use all of his resources in the game he was about to play. For nothing deceives like education!
And it had another side—a brighter, more fantastic side. Think of the fun he would get out of it! This appealed to him. Not only could he add to his collections the most beautiful treasures of the world, but he would now taste the keenest of joys—he would laugh and grow fat at the other man's expense. It was always intensely humorous to observe the discomfiture of others.With particular pleasure Hooker read that evening in the Post this insignificant paragraph:
"John Fenn, President of the Tenth National Bank of Chicago, departs for home to-night."He laid the paper down immediately, telephoned to the railroad office for a reservation in the sleeping-car leaving at midnight, and prepared for his first "banquet." Hooker shaved off his moustache, changed his clothes and his accent, and took the train for Chicago.
As luck would have it, John Fenn was seated next to him in the smoking-car, reading the evening papers. Hooker took from his pocket a book catalogue, issued by one of the great English auction houses. He knew that was the best bait! No book-lover that ever lived could resist dipping into a sale catalogue.Hooker waited an hour—it seemed like five. Fenn read every word in the papers, even the advertisements. He dwelt long and lovingly over the financial pages, running his eyes up and down the columns of "to-day's transactions." He at last finished the perusal, and glanced at Hooker. He said nothing for awhile, and appeared restless, like a man with money weighing on his mind. This, of course, is a very distracting and unpleasant feeling. Several times he seemed on the verge of addressing his fellow-traveller, but desisted from the attempt. Finally he said:
"I see, friend, that you're reading one of Sotheby's catalogues.""Yes," answered Hooker, shortly.
"You must be interested in books," pursued Fenn."Yes," was the brief response.
"Do you collect them?""Yes."
Fenn said nothing for five minutes. The stranger did not appear to be very communicative."Pardon me, Mr.——, I am also a book-collector. I have quite a fine library of my own."
"Really?""Yes, I always visit the shops when I go to New York. Here is a rarity I picked up to-day."
The stranger expressed little interest until Fenn took from his pocket the "Unpublishable Memoirs." It was wrapped neatly in paper, and Fenn carefully removed the little volume from the wrappings. He handed it to the man who perused so assiduously the auction catalogue."How extraordinary!" he cried, "the lost book of old Brummel. My people were acquainted with the Beau. I suppose they are grilled right merrily in it! Of all places, how did you come to purchase it in the States?"
"That's quite a story. A queer thing how I bought it. I saw it the other day at Rodd's on Fifth Avenue. I did not buy it at first—the price was too high. Thought I would be able to buy it later for less. This morning, I went to see Rodd to make an offer on it, when I found that Rodd had just sold it to some young student. The confounded simpleton said it belonged to him! What did that trifler know about rare books? Now I know how to appreciate them.""Naturally!" said the stranger.
"I've the finest collection in the West. I had to pay a stiff advance before the proprietor would let me have it. It was a narrow squeak,—by about a minute. The young jackass tried to make a scene, but I taught him a thing or two. He'll not be so perky next time. How my friends will enjoy this story of the killing. I can't wait until I get home."The stranger with the freshly-shaven face, the English clothes, and the austere eyes did not seem particularly pleased.
"How extraordinary!" he said, coldly, and returned to his reading.Fenn placed the book in his pocket, a pleased expression on his face, as if he were still gloating over his conquest. He was well satisfied with his day, so intellectually spent among the banks and bookshops of New York!
"By the way, I am acquainted with this Rodd," said the Englishman, after a pause. "He told me a rather interesting story the other day, but it was in a way a boomerang. I don't like that man's methods. I'll never buy a book from him.""Why not?" asked the inquisitive Mr. Fenn.
"Well, you'd better hear the tale. It appears he has a wealthy client in Chicago and he occasionally goes out to sell him some of his plunder. He did not tell me the name of his customer, but, according to Rodd, he is an ignoramus and knows nothing at all about books. Thinks it improves his social position. You know the type. Last winter Rodd picked up for fifty dollars a beautifully illuminated copy of Magna Charta issued about a hundred years ago. It's a fine volume, printed on vellum, the kind that Dibdin raved about, but always considered a 'plug' in England. Worth about forty guineas at the most. You know the book?"Fenn nodded.
"Well, it worried Mr. Rodd how much he could ask his Western patron for it. He left for Chicago via Philadelphia and while he was waiting in the train there he thought he could ask two hundred dollars for it. The matter was on his mind until he arrived at Harrisburg, where he determined that three hundred would be about right. At Pittsburgh he raised the price to five hundred, and at Canton, Ohio, it was seven hundred and fifty! The more Rodd thought of the exquisite beauty of the volume, of its glowing colors and its lovely old binding, the more the price soared. At Fort Wayne, Indiana, it was a thousand dollars. When he arrived at Chicago the next morning, his imagination having had full swing, he resolved he would not under any circumstances part with it for less than two thousand dollars!""The old thief!" exclaimed Fenn, with feeling.
"It was a lucky thing," continued the stranger, "that his client did not live in San Francisco!"At this Fenn broke forth into profanity.
"I always said that Rodd was an unprincipled, unholy, unmitigated—""Wait until you hear the end, sir," said the Englishman.
"That afternoon he called on the Western collector. He had an appointment with him at two o'clock. He left Rodd waiting in an outside office for hours. Rodd told me he was simply boiling. Went all the way to Chicago by special request and the brute made him cool his heels until four o'clock before he condescended to see him. He would pay dearly for it. When Rodd showed him the blooming book he asked three thousand five hundred for it—would not take a penny less—and he told me, sir, that he actually sold it for that price!""Don't you believe it," said Fenn, hotly. "Old Rodd is an unqualified liar. He sold it for five thousand dollars. That's what he did, the damn pirate!"
"How do you know, sir?""How do I know, know, know!" he repeated, excitedly. "I ought to know! I'm the fool that bought it!"
Without another word Fenn retired to his stateroom.The next morning when Fenn arrived at his office in the Fenn Building, he called to one of his business associates, who, like his partner, was interested in the acquisition of rare and unusual books.
"I say, Ogden, I have something great to show you. Picked it up yesterday. In this package is the wickedest little book ever written!""Let me see it!" said Mr. Ogden, eagerly.
Fenn gingerly removed the paper in which it was wrapped, as he did not wish to injure the precious contents. He turned suddenly pale. Ogden glanced quickly at the title-page for fear he would be seen with the naughty little thing in his hands.It was a very ordinary volume, entitled, "A Sermon on Covetousness, a Critical Exposition of the Tenth Commandment by the Rev. Charles Wesley."
"The devil!" exclaimed John Fenn."How the old dodge works," said Robert Hooker to himself on his way back to New York. "The duplicate package, known since the days of Adam! And how easy it was to substitute it under his very eyes! I shall call Beau Brummel's 'Unpublishable Memoirs' number one in my new library."
THE THREE TREES
In the famous cabinet of John Bull Stevens was a superb impression of Rembrandt's celebrated etching, "The Three Trees." It was the only copy known in what print collectors chose to term "the first state." This exquisite work of art had only recently been discovered in Amsterdam by a world-renowned critic, and promptly sold at a fabulous price to the American enthusiast. It had several lines from right to left in the middle tree that had never been noticed in any other copy; the etching, according to the earlier authorities, had existed in but one state.To the uninitiated all this disturbance about a few lines on the trunk of a tree seemed unintelligible and ridiculous, but to the print collectors it was considered a magnificent "find," ranking with the discovery of electricity or the Roentgen rays. Periodicals devoted to the fine arts published many profound articles about the unique "Three Trees," and one of them suggested that such an extraordinary treasure should repose in a museum, where the art-loving public would have an opportunity to enjoy its marvelous beauty; it was a crime that it should be locked away forever in a private residence.
Robert Hooker was reading this one evening in the "Art Journal" when a thought came to him. Why not add this immortal work of Rembrandt's to his museum, which at that time existed only in his mind? Why not appropriate this etching and place it securely under lock and key, awaiting the time when it would be freely offered to the gaze of the public in an institution to be proudly called after his name?He had already some tangible things to put therein,—the famous "Unpublishable Memoirs" of Beau Brummel from the Fenn collection; the "Kann" rug; and a few other wonderful curiosities that he had "borrowed" from celebrated amateurs as the nucleus of a loan collection in his mythical museum. The "Three Trees" should, by right, bloom in his own fair garden.
John Bull Stevens was unapproachable. He did not show his things. He gloated over them alone, in the most selfish, wicked manner, in his dark old mansion on lower Fifth Avenue. Admission was denied to everyone, except a few intimate friends; no one could see the originals of some of the world's masterpieces.Art institutes pestered him with requests to examine this or that; celebrated students everywhere clamored for a view of Whistler's portrait of John Bull himself, or Gilbert Stuart's more celebrated portrait of John Bull's grandfather. When curtly refused admission to his galleries, extraordinary letters were written him, full of caustic and delightful epithets, which had not the slightest effect upon him. It was said he had no conception of the universality of art, which includes kings and paupers,—wicked, rich collectors and virtuous, poor students!
To make himself appear more human, John Bull Stevens at last determined to publish a catalogue raisonné of his pictures, his drawings, his etchings and his engravings. He thought a beautiful reproduction or facsimile would be as satisfying to the critics as a view of the original.Robert Hooker, for one, did not agree with him.
The catalogue was duly announced, to be published within the year and presented to the museums and libraries of this country and Europe. Photographers and printers, art writers and reviewers were employed to get up the sumptuous work.Hooker suddenly became imbued with a passion for photography; he became intimate with the distinguished artist who was to take the pictures of the Stevens collection.
Hooker became so much interested in his new work that he offered his services as an assistant, without pay of course. It was just for the experience. Nothing more.... Hooker spent one whole morning in the Stevens' residence helping the celebrated photographer. They were to take negatives that day of the portfolio of seventeenth century etchings. John Bull was there of course, suspicious and watchful. The photograph of the "Three Trees" was made the exact size of the superb original.When this had been successfully accomplished, Hooker, the careless assistant, seemingly nervous in the presence of the great collector, let fall the frame that held the great etching; the glass was shattered and Stevens swore as many picturesque and artistic curses as there were fragments upon the floor. The assistant was properly rebuked and as quickly dismissed; the unfortunate Hooker offered sixty cents to pay for the shattered glass,—which was promptly accepted! He departed, covered with ignominy under the glances of the angry Stevens.
That evening a plate was made from the negative by a new intaglio process. All that night on the top floor of a dingy building on Thirty-ninth Street engravers worked on the copper, bringing out the excellencies of a famous etching; old paper with the watermark of 1631 had been procured and all that remained to be done was the printing. By noon the next day a facsimile had been made, beautiful as the original itself, as poetic and as glorious as the veritable "Three Trees."But what was to be done with it, now that it had been created, a true brother of the original? The fertile brain of Robert Hooker had long before conceived the answer. The clumsy photographer's assistant had deftly dropped the frame with practiced skill, leaving the etching untouched, the glass alone being injured. There is even an art in dropping a picture!
But before the disgraced apprentice departed he had heard Stevens give directions to a faithful servant: "Take that carefully to Kemble's. See that a new glass is put on it and returned to me to-morrow, without fail!"The next morning Hooker happened to stroll into the picture galleries, known everywhere as "Kemble's," and actually purchased something, paying for it with real money. It came hard with him, for he no longer liked to buy things in what he termed "the ordinary way."
He purchased for sixty dollars a little etching by D. Y. Cameron, and, strange to say, not a frame in that great establishment suited him. One was too brown or too "antique," or not the right width; the salesman, who was a good fellow, became irritated. A whole hour wasted over a three dollar frame. He gave vent to his pent-up feelings by being excruciatingly polite, which is rude. He suggested that as Mr. Hooker did not see anything to suit his fastidious taste among the thousands of mouldings already shown, perhaps he would like to look through the samples in the workshop? Hooker reluctantly consented, and there among the old and new frames, in the company of gilders, fitters and mat-makers he carefully made a suitable selection.Of course the "Three Trees" was there. Its light could not be concealed—its beauty spoke to Hooker from a far corner. This masterpiece of the etcher's art was lying on a table awaiting the glass that was to guard and watch over it. The substitution was quickly and quietly made. The little Rembrandt was carefully, nay tenderly, placed in a commodious side-pocket of Hooker's coat; the treacherous younger brother was left upon the work-table, where it would shine by a false light—the light of the faithless, the reflected brilliancy of the wicked.
When the great museum was founded some years later, when it was acclaimed as one of the art institutes of the world, when great scholars extolled it, and poets sang of it, a list of its treasures was published which amazed the critics of two continents. Collectors in England, in France, in New York, were astounded!Mr. Stevens read with envy that it contained the only copy known of the first state of Rembrandt's "Three Trees." "Another newspaper canard! An infernal lie! A senseless fabrication!" he exclaimed. His was the only one; he did not believe another would ever come to light.
He would examine his own again. He took the etching carefully from the wall. What was the faint blur—was it a line at the bottom? It seemed strange, for he had not noticed it before. He would get his magnifying glass. He read, in microscopic letters: "Facsimile from the unique original in the Hooker Museum."
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