THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF A BIBLIOMANIAC(藏书癖者的爱情)

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THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF A BIBLIOMANIAC

THE LOVE AFFAIRS

OF A BIBLIOMANIAC

BY EUGENE FIELD

THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF A BIBLIOMANIAC

Introduction

The determination to found a story or a series of sketches on the

delights, adventures, and misadventures connected with bibliomania did

not come impulsively to my brother. For many years, in short during the

greater part of nearly a quarter of a century of journalistic work, he had

celebrated in prose and verse, and always in his happiest and most

delightful vein, the pleasures of book-hunting. Himself an indefatigable

collector of books, the possessor of a library as valuable as it was

interesting, a library containing volumes obtained only at the cost of great

personal sacrifice, he was in the most active sympathy with the disease

called bibliomania, and knew, as few comparatively poor men have known,

the half-pathetic, half-humorous side of that incurable mental infirmity.

The newspaper column, to which he contributed almost daily for

twelve years, comprehended many sly digs and gentle scoffings at those of

his unhappy fellow citizens who became notorious, through his

instrumentality, in their devotion to old book-shelves and auction sales.

And all the time none was more assiduous than this same good- natured

cynic in running down a musty prize, no matter what its cost or what the

attending difficulties. ``I save others, myself I cannot save,'' was his

humorous cry.

In his published writings are many evidences of my brother's

appreciation of what he has somewhere characterized the ``soothing

affliction of bibliomania.'' Nothing of book-hunting love has been more

happily expressed than ``The Bibliomaniac's Prayer,'' in which the

troubled petitioner fervently asserts:

``But if, O Lord, it pleaseth Thee To keep me in temptation's way,

I humbly ask that I may be Most notably beset to-day; Let my

temptation be a book, Which I shall purchase, hold and keep,

Whereon, when other men shall look, They'll wail to know I got it

cheap.''

And again, in ``The Bibliomaniac's Bride,'' nothing breathes better the

spirit of the incurable patient than this: ``Prose for me when I wished

for prose, Verse when to verse inclined,-- Forever bringing sweet

THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF A BIBLIOMANIAC

repose To body, heart and mind. Oh, I should bind this priceless

prize In bindings full and fine, And keep her where no human eyes

Should see her charms, but mine!''

In ``Dear Old London'' the poet wailed that ``a splendid Horace cheap

for cash'' laughed at his poverty, and in ``Dibdin's Ghost'' he revelled in the

delights that await the bibliomaniac in the future state, where there is no

admission to the women folk who, ``wanting victuals, make a fuss if we

buy books instead''; while in ``Flail, Trask and Bisland'' is the very essence

of bibliomania, the unquenchable thirst for possession. And yet, despite

these self-accusations, bibliophily rather than bibliomania would be the

word to characterize his conscientious purpose. If he purchased quaint

and rare books it was to own them to the full extent, inwardly as well as

outwardly. The mania for books kept him continually buying; the love of

books supervened to make them a part of himself and his life.

Toward the close of August of the present year my brother wrote the

first chapter of ``The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac.'' At that time he

was in an exhausted physical condition and apparently unfit for any

protracted literary labor. But the prospect of gratifying a long-cherished

ambition, the delight of beginning the story he had planned so hopefully,

seemed to give him new strength, and he threw himself into the work with

an enthusiasm that was, alas, misleading to those who had noted fearfully

his declining vigor of body. For years no literary occupation had seemed

to give him equal pleasure, and in the discussion of the progress of his

writing from day to day his eye would brighten, all of his old animation

would return, and everything would betray the lively interest he felt in the

creature of his imagination in whom he was living over the delights of the

book-hunter's chase. It was his ardent wish that this work, for the

fulfilment of which he had been so long preparing, should be, as he

playfully expressed it, a monument of apologetic compensation to a class

of people he had so humorously maligned, and those who knew him

intimately will recognize in the shortcomings of the bibliomaniac the

humble confession of his own weaknesses.

It is easy to understand from the very nature of the undertaking that it

was practically limitless; that a bibliomaniac of so many years' experience

THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF A BIBLIOMANIAC

could prattle on indefinitely concerning his ``love affairs,'' and at the same

time be in no danger of repetition. Indeed my brother's plans at the

outset were not definitely formed. He would say, when questioned or

joked about these amours, that he was in the easy position of Sam Weller

when he indited his famous valentine, and could ``pull up'' at any moment.

One week he would contend that a book-hunter ought to be good for a

year at least, and the next week he would argue as strongly that it was time

to send the old man into winter quarters and go to press. But though the

approach of cold weather increased his physical indisposition, he was

not the less interested in his prescribed hours of labor, howbeit his

weakness warned him that he should say to his book, as his much- loved

Horace had written:

``Fuge quo descendere gestis:

Non erit emisso reditis tibi.''

Was it strange that his heart should relent, and that he should write on,

unwilling to give the word of dismissal to the book whose preparation had

been a work of such love and solace?

During the afternoon of Saturday, November 2, the nineteenth

instalment of ``The Love Affairs'' was written. It was the conclusion of

his literary life. The verses supposably contributed by Judge Methuen's

friend, with which the chapter ends, were the last words written by Eugene

Field. He was at that time apparently quite as well as on any day during

the fall months, and neither he nor any member of his family had the

slightest premonition that death was hovering about the household. The

next day, though still feeling indisposed, he was at times up and about,

always cheerful and full of that sweetness and sunshine which, in his last

years, seem now to have been the preparation for the life beyond. He

spoke of the chapter he had written the day before, and it was then that he

outlined his plan of completing the work. One chapter only remained to

be written, and it was to chronicle the death of the old bibliomaniac, but

not until he had unexpectedly fallen heir to a very rare and almost

priceless copy of Horace, which acquisition marked the pinnacle of the

book-hunter's conquest. True to his love for the Sabine singer, the

western poet characterized the immortal odes of twenty centuries gone the

THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF A BIBLIOMANIAC

greatest happiness of bibliomania.

In the early morning of November 4 the soul of Eugene Field passed

upward. On the table, folded and sealed, were the memoirs of the old

man upon whom the sentence of death had been pronounced. On the bed

in the corner of the room, with one arm thrown over his breast, and the

smile of peace and rest on his tranquil face, the poet lay. All around him,

on the shelves and in the cases, were the books he loved so well. Ah,

who shall say that on that morning his fancy was not verified, and that as

the gray light came reverently through the window, those cherished

volumes did not bestir themselves, awaiting the cheery voice: ``Good

day to you, my sweet friends. How lovingly they beam upon me, and

how glad they are that my rest has been unbroken.''

Could they beam upon you less lovingly, great heart, in the chamber

warmed by your affection and now sanctified by death? Were they less

glad to know that the repose would be unbroken forevermore, since it

came the glorious reward, my brother, of the friend who went gladly to it

through his faith, having striven for it through his works?

ROSWELL MARTIN FIELD Buena

Park, December, 1895.

THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF A BIBLIOMANIAC

MY FIRST LOVE THE BIRTH OF A NEW PASSION THE

LUXURY OF READING IN BED THE MANIA OF COLLECTING

SEIZES ME BALDNESS AND INTELLECTUALITY MY

ROMANCE WITH FIAMMETTA THE DELIGHTS OF FENDER-

FISHING BALLADS AND THEIR MAKERS BOOKSELLERS AND

PRINTERS, OLD AND NEW WHEN FANCHONETTE BEWITCHED

ME DIAGNOSIS OF THE BACILLUS LIBRORUM THE

PLEASURES OF EXTRA-ILLUSTRATION ON THE ODORS

WHICH MY BOOKS EXHALE ELZEVIRS AND DIVERS OTHER

MATTERS A BOOK THAT BRINGS SOLACE AND CHEER THE

MALADY CALLED CATALOGITIS THE NAPOLEONIC

RENAISSANCE MY WORKSHOP AND OTHERS OUR DEBT TO

MONKISH MEN

THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF A BIBLIOMANIAC

MY FIRST LOVE

At this moment, when I am about to begin the most important

undertaking of my life, I recall the sense of abhorrence with which I have

at different times read the confessions of men famed for their prowess in

the realm of love. These boastings have always shocked me, for I

reverence love as the noblest of the passions, and it is impossible for me to

conceive how one who has truly fallen victim to its benign influence can

ever thereafter speak flippantly of it.

Yet there have been, and there still are, many who take a seeming

delight in telling you how many conquests they have made, and they not

infrequently have the bad taste to explain with wearisome prolixity the

ways and the means whereby those conquests were wrought; as, forsooth,

an unfeeling huntsman is forever boasting of the game he has slaughtered

and is forever dilating upon the repulsive details of his butcheries.

I have always contended that one who is in love (and having once been

in love is to be always in love) has, actually, no confession to make.

Love is so guileless, so proper, so pure a passion as to involve none of

those things which require or which admit of confession. He, therefore,

who surmises that in this exposition of my affaires du coeur there is to be

any betrayal of confidences, or any discussion, suggestion, or hint likely

either to shame love or its votaries or to bring a blush to the cheek of the

fastidious--he is grievously in error.

Nor am I going to boast; for I have made no conquests. I am in no

sense a hero. For many, very many years I have walked in a pleasant

garden, enjoying sweet odors and soothing spectacles; no predetermined

itinerary has controlled my course; I have wandered whither I pleased, and

very many times I have strayed so far into the tangle- wood and thickets as

almost to have lost my way. And now it is my purpose to walk that

pleasant garden once more, inviting you to bear me company and to share

with me what satisfaction may accrue from an old man's return to old-time

places and old-time loves.

As a child I was serious-minded. I cared little for those sports which

THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF A BIBLIOMANIAC

usually excite the ardor of youth. To out-of-door games and exercises I

had particular aversion. I was born in a southern latitude, but at the age

of six years I went to live with my grandmother in New Hampshire, both

my parents having fallen victims to the cholera. This change from the

balmy temperature of the South to the rigors of the North was not

agreeable to me, and I have always held it responsible for that delicate

health which has attended me through life.

My grandmother encouraged my disinclination to play; she recognized

in me that certain seriousness of mind which I remember to have heard her

say I inherited from her, and she determined to make of me what she had

failed to make of any of her own sons--a professional expounder of the

only true faith of Congregationalism. For this reason, and for the further

reason that at the tender age of seven years I publicly avowed my desire to

become a clergyman, an ambition wholly sincere at that time-- for these

reasons was I duly installed as prime favorite in my grandmother's

affections.

As distinctly as though it were but yesterday do I recall the time when

I met my first love. It was in the front room of the old homestead, and

the day was a day in spring. The front room answered those purposes

which are served by the so-called parlor of the present time. I remember

the low ceiling, the big fireplace, the long, broad mantelpiece, the andirons

and fender of brass, the tall clock with its jocund and roseate moon, the

bellows that was always wheezy, the wax flowers under a glass globe in

the corner, an allegorical picture of Solomon's temple, another picture of

little Samuel at prayer, the high, stiff-back chairs, the foot-stool with its

gayly embroidered top, the mirror in its gilt-and-black frame--all these

things I remember well, and with feelings of tender reverence, and yet that

day I now recall was well-nigh threescore and ten years ago!

Best of all I remember the case in which my grandmother kept her

books, a mahogany structure, massive and dark, with doors composed of

diamond-shaped figures of glass cunningly set in a framework of lead. I

was in my seventh year then, and I had learned to read I know not when.

The back and current numbers of the ``Well- Spring'' had fallen prey to my

insatiable appetite for literature. With the story of the small boy who

THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF A BIBLIOMANIAC

stole a pin, repented of and confessed that crime, and then became a good

and great man, I was as familiar as if I myself had invented that ingenious

and instructive tale; I could lisp the moral numbers of Watts and the

didactic hymns of Wesley, and the annual reports of the American Tract

Society had already revealed to me the sphere of usefulness in which my

grandmother hoped I would ultimately figure with discretion and zeal.

And yet my heart was free; wholly untouched of that gentle yet deathless

passion which was to become my delight, my inspiration, and my solace,

it awaited the coming of its first love.

Upon one of those shelves yonder--it is the third shelf from the top,

fourth compartment to the right--is that old copy of the ``New England

Primer,'' a curious little, thin, square book in faded blue board covers. A

good many times I have wondered whether I ought not to have the

precious little thing sumptuously attired in the finest style known to my

binder; indeed, I have often been tempted to exchange the homely blue

board covers for flexible levant, for it occurred to me that in this way I

could testify to my regard for the treasured volume. I spoke of this one

day to my friend Judge Methuen, for I have great respect for his judgment.

``It would be a desecration,'' said he, ``to deprive the book of its

original binding. What! Would you tear off and cast away the covers

which have felt the caressing pressure of the hands of those whose

memory you revere? The most sacred of sentiments should forbid that

act of vandalism!''

I never think or speak of the ``New England Primer'' that I do not

recall Captivity Waite, for it was Captivity who introduced me to the

Primer that day in the springtime of sixty-three years ago. She was of

my age, a bright, pretty girl--a very pretty, an exceptionally pretty girl, as

girls go. We belonged to the same Sunday-school class. I remember

that upon this particular day she brought me a russet apple. It was she

who discovered the Primer in the mahogany case, and what was not our

joy as we turned over the tiny pages together and feasted our eyes upon

the vivid pictures and perused the absorbingly interesting text! What

wonder that together we wept tears of sympathy at the harrowing recital of

the fate of John Rogers!

THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF A BIBLIOMANIAC

Even at this remote date I cannot recall that experience with Captivity,

involving as it did the wood-cut representing the unfortunate Rogers

standing in an impossible bonfire and being consumed thereby in the

presence of his wife and their numerous progeny, strung along in a pitiful

line across the picture for artistic effect--even now, I say, I cannot

contemplate that experience and that wood-cut without feeling lumpy in

my throat and moist about my eyes.

How lasting are the impressions made upon the youthful mind!

Through the many busy years that have elapsed since first I tasted the

thrilling sweets of that miniature Primer I have not forgotten that ``young

Obadias, David, Josias, all were pious''; that ``Zaccheus he did climb the

Tree our Lord to see''; and that ``Vashti for Pride was set aside''; and still

with many a sympathetic shudder and tingle do I recall Captivity's

overpowering sense of horror, and mine, as we lingered long over the

portraitures of Timothy flying from Sin, of Xerxes laid out in funeral garb,

and of proud Korah's troop partly submerged.

My Book and Heart

Must never part.

So runs one of the couplets in this little Primer-book, and right truly

can I say that from the springtime day sixty-odd years ago, when first my

heart went out in love to this little book, no change of scene or of custom

no allurement of fashion, no demand of mature years, has abated that love.

And herein is exemplified the advantage which the love of books has over

the other kinds of love. Women are by nature fickle, and so are men; their

friendships are liable to dissipation at the merest provocation or the

slightest pretext.

Not so, however, with books, for books cannot change. A thousand

years hence they are what you find them to-day, speaking the same words,

holding forth the same cheer, the same promise, the same comfort; always

constant, laughing with those who laugh and weeping with those who

weep.

Captivity Waite was an exception to the rule governing her sex. In all

candor I must say that she approached closely to a realization of the ideals

of a book--a sixteenmo, if you please, fair to look upon, of clear, clean

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THELOVEAFFAIRSOFABIBLIOMANIAC1THELOVEAFFAIRSOFABIBLIOMANIACBYEUGENEFIELDTHELOVEAFFAIRSOFABIBLIOMANIAC2IntroductionThedeterminationtofoundastoryoraseriesofsketchesonthedelights,adventures,andmisadventuresconnectedwithbibliomaniadidnotcomeimpulsivelytomybrother.Formanyyears,inshortduringthegreaterpart...

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