A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil5 the love of reasonable letters into countless6 thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable7 caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member——
Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities8 and lost within his academic robe and hood9, nervously10 fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers11, and tottering12 rubescent before the chancellor13, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft14 rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation15 or embarrassment16, with due interpolation of graceful17 pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse18 on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished19 savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you—why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?"
Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured20 Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn21 by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse23 of second-hand24 books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition25 to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend26 and be much sought after by serious investors27.
These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint28 old blue wagon29 in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg30, his fat white horse, had lodging31 there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration22, he began to write:
THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP
163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn,
November 30, 1918.
MY DEAR ANDREW:
It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like?
I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder32." What would he have said of the four-year shambles33 we have watched with sickened hearts?
You remember my favourite poem—old George Herbert's Church Porch—where he says—
By all means use sometimes to be alone;
Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own,
And tumble up and down what thou find'st there—
Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy35, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover36 in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw.
You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books—it lies beside me as I write—Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating37" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting38 zeal39 he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack40 strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658—"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men—
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.
In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction.
It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed42 somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted43 to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations44 in our language come from his pen, viz.:
Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it?
and
Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly;
Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled46 melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes47, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming—I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere48 huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day—I marked the passage for you
Baudelaire has a touching49 poem about an albatross, which you would like—describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure—but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth—or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment50 it with tobacco pipes, etc.
You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted—as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad51 of Reading Gaol52, so you can see how varied53 are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation54. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment55 and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore56 wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions57 of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession58 thus—
My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch … the great solution will come. My heart is aglow59, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!"
And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket.… I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked!
Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined60 by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be.
Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old—
TO GERMANY
You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed,
And no man claimed the conquest of your land.
But gropers both through fields of thought confined
We stumble and we do not understand.
You only saw your future bigly planned,
And in each other's dearest ways we stand,
When it is peace, then we may view again
With new-won eyes each other's truer form
And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm
We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain,
When it is peace. But until peace, the storm
The darkness and the thunder and the rain.
Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for—some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking63 cinders64 and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes65 of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension66 that Germany won't be punished sufficiently67 for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama68 of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization69 of the sanctity of life—all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble70 and astound71 you with all that amazing and grotesque72 variety of living energy?
What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort—some unexplained motive73 power that impels74 even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling75 along—why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos76 of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration77, some lurking78 pang79. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone.
Don't you think there is a kind of parable80 there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment81 torments82 him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic83 grimace84 of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely85. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably86 out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment87 the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess3 itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy88!
I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge89 of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless90 and unimpeachable91 achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would.
You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling92 man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid93 portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles94 is so triumphantly95 delightful96 that one forgets the futility97 of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay98 me, yet will I make fun of Him!"
Yes, books are man's supreme99 triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare100 writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed101 in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face."
Well, I've been scribbling102 away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice103 bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor104 of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte105 of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name.
Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl106. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts.
Yours ever,
ROGER MIFFLIN.
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1
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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instil
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| v.逐渐灌输 | |
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countless
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perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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ushers
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| n.引座员( usher的名词复数 )；招待员；门房；助理教员v.引，领，陪同( usher的第三人称单数 ) | |
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tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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deft
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hesitation
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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second-hand
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ammunition
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dividend
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| n.红利，股息；回报，效益 | |
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investors
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| n.投资者，出资者( investor的名词复数 ) | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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peg
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lodging
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shudder
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shambles
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salute
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melancholy
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turnover
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elucidating
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covenanting
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| v.立约，立誓( covenant的现在分词 ) | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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smack
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logic
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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thereby
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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anguishes
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| v.（尤指心理上的）极度的痛苦( anguish的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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varied
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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sediment
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| n.沉淀，沉渣，沉积(物) | |
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offshore
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| adj.海面的，吹向海面的；adv.向海面 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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64
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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astound
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| v.使震惊，使大吃一惊 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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impels
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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cryptic
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| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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tersely
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| adv. 简捷地, 简要地 | |
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inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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unimpeachable
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| adj.无可指责的；adv.无可怀疑地 | |
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hustling
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| 催促（hustle的现在分词形式） | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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neophyte
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| n.新信徒；开始者 | |
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scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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