The Works of Francis Thompson (3 vols.) Social History of Smoking: Apperson The Path to Rome: Hilaire Belloc The Book of Tea: Kakuzo Happy Thoughts: F. C. Burnand Dr. Johnson's Prayers and Meditations Margaret Ogilvy: J. M. Barrie Confessions of a Thug: Taylor General Catalogue of the Oxford University Press The Morning's War: C. E. Montague The Spirit of Man: edited by Robert Bridges The Romany Rye: Borrow Poems: Emily Dickinson Poems: George Herbert The House of Cobwebs: George Gissing
So far had he got, and was beginning to say to himself that in theinterests of Advertising (who is a jealous mistress) he had best call ahalt, when his host entered the room, his small face eager, his eyesblue points of light.
"Come, Mr. Aubrey Gilbert!" he cried. "The meal is set. You want towash your hands? Make haste then, this way: the eggs are hot andwaiting."
The dining-room into which the guest was conducted betrayed a femininetouch not visible in the smoke-dimmed quarters of shop and cabinet. Atthe windows were curtains of laughing chintz and pots of pink geranium.The table, under a drop-light in a flame-coloured silk screen, wasbrightly set with silver and blue china. In a cut-glass decantersparkled a ruddy brown wine. The edged tool of Advertising felt hisspirits undergo an unmistakable upward pressure.
"Sit down, sir," said Mifflin, lifting the roof of a platter. "Theseare eggs Samuel Butler, an invention of my own, the apotheosis of henfruit."
Gilbert greeted the invention with applause. An Egg Samuel Butler, forthe notebook of housewives, may be summarized as a pyramid, based upontoast, whereof the chief masonries are a flake of bacon, an egg poachedto firmness, a wreath of mushrooms, a cap-sheaf of red peppers; thewhole dribbled with a warm pink sauce of which the inventor retains thesecret. To this the bookseller chef added fried potatoes from anotherdish, and poured for his guest a glass of wine.
"This is California catawba," said Mifflin, "in which the grape and thesunshine very pleasantly (and cheaply) fulfil their allotted destiny.I pledge you prosperity to the black art of Advertising!"
The psychology of the art and mystery of Advertising rests upon tact,an instinctive perception of the tone and accent which will be enrapport with the mood of the hearer. Mr. Gilbert was aware of this,and felt that quite possibly his host was prouder of his whimsicalavocation as gourmet than of his sacred profession as a bookman.
"Is it possible, sir," he began, in lucid Johnsonian, "that you canconcoct so delicious an entree in so few minutes? You are not hoaxingme? There is no secret passage between Gissing Street and thelaboratories of the Ritz?"
"Ah, you should taste Mrs. Mifflin's cooking!" said the bookseller. "Iam only an amateur, who dabbles in the craft during her absence. Sheis on a visit to her cousin in Boston. She becomes, quite justifiably,weary of the tobacco of this establishment, and once or twice a year itdoes her good to breathe the pure serene of Beacon Hill. During herabsence it is my privilege to inquire into the ritual of housekeeping.I find it very sedative after the incessant excitement and speculationof the shop."
"I should have thought," said Gilbert, "that life in a bookshop wouldbe delightfully tranquil."
"Far from it. Living in a bookshop is like living in a warehouse ofexplosives. Those shelves are ranked with the most furiouscombustibles in the world--the brains of men. I can spend a rainyafternoon reading, and my mind works itself up to such a passion andanxiety over mortal problems as almost unmans me. It is terriblynerve-racking. Surround a man with Carlyle, Emerson, Thoreau,Chesterton, Shaw, Nietzsche, and George Ade--would you wonder at hisgetting excited? What would happen to a cat if she had to live in aroom tapestried with catnip? She would go crazy!"
"Truly, I had never thought of that phase of bookselling," said theyoung man. "How is it, though, that libraries are shrines of suchaustere calm? If books are as provocative as you suggest, one wouldexpect every librarian to utter the shrill screams of a hierophant, toclash ecstatic castanets in his silent alcoves!"
"Ah, my boy, you forget the card index! Librarians invented thatsoothing device for the febrifuge of their souls, just as I fall backupon the rites of the kitchen. Librarians would all go mad, thosecapable of concentrated thought, if they did not have the cool andhealing card index as medicament! Some more of the eggs?"
"Thank you," said Gilbert. "Who was the butler whose name wasassociated with the dish?"
"What?" cried Mifflin, in agitation, "you have not heard of SamuelButler, the author of The Way of All Flesh? My dear young man, whoeverpermits himself to die before he has read that book, and also Erewhon,has deliberately forfeited his chances of paradise. For paradise inthe world to come is uncertain, but there is indeed a heaven on thisearth, a heaven which we inhabit when we read a good book. Pouryourself another glass of wine, and permit me----"
(Here followed an enthusiastic development of the perverse philosophyof Samuel Butler, which, in deference to my readers, I omit. Mr.Gilbert took notes of the conversation in his pocketbook, and I ampleased to say that his heart was moved to a realization of hisiniquity, for he was observed at the Public Library a few days laterasking for a copy of The Way of All Flesh. After inquiring at fourlibraries, and finding all copies of the book in circulation, he wascompelled to buy one. He never regretted doing so.)
"But I am forgetting my duties as host," said Mifflin. "Our dessertconsists of apple sauce, gingerbread, and coffee." He rapidly clearedthe empty dishes from the table and brought on the second course.
"I have been noticing the warning over the sideboard," said Gilbert."I hope you will let me help you this evening?" He pointed to a cardhanging near the kitchen door. It read:
ALWAYS WASH DISHES IMMEDIATELY AFTER MEALS IT SAVES TROUBLE
"I'm afraid I don't always obey that precept," said the bookseller ashe poured the coffee. "Mrs. Mifflin hangs it there whenever she goesaway, to remind me. But, as our friend Samuel Butler says, he that isstupid in little will also be stupid in much. I have a differenttheory about dish-washing, and I please myself by indulging it.
"I used to regard dish-washing merely as an ignoble chore, a kind ofhateful discipline which had to be undergone with knitted brow andbrazen fortitude. When my wife went away the first time, I erected areading stand and an electric light over the sink, and used to readwhile my hands went automatically through base gestures ofpurification. I made the great spirits of literature partners of mysorrow, and learned by heart a good deal of Paradise Lost and of WaltMason, while I soused and wallowed among pots and pans. I used tocomfort myself with two lines of Keats:
'The moving waters at their priest-like task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores----'
Then a new conception of the matter struck me. It is intolerable for ahuman being to go on doing any task as a penance, under duress. Nomatter what the work is, one must spiritualize it in some way, shatterthe old idea of it into bits and rebuild it nearer to the heart'sdesire. How was I to do this with dish-washing?
"I broke a good many plates while I was pondering over the matter.Then it occurred to me that here was just the relaxation I needed. Ihad been worrying over the mental strain of being surrounded all daylong by vociferous books, crying out at me their conflicting views asto the glories and agonies of life. Why not make dish-washing my balmand poultice?
"When one views a stubborn fact from a new angle, it is amazing how allits contours and edges change shape! Immediately my dishpan began toglow with a kind of philosophic halo! The warm, soapy water became asovereign medicine to retract hot blood from the head; the homely actof washing and drying cups and saucers became a symbol of the order andcleanliness that man imposes on the unruly world about him. I toredown my book rack and reading lamp from over the sink.
"Mr. Gilbert," he went on, "do not laugh at me when I tell you that Ihave evolved a whole kitchen philosophy of my own. I find the kitchenthe shrine of our civilization, the focus of all that is comely inlife. The ru
ddy shine of the stove is as beautiful as any sunset. Awell-polished jug or spoon is as fair, as complete and beautiful, asany sonnet. The dish mop, properly rinsed and wrung and hung outsidethe back door to dry, is a whole sermon in itself. The stars neverlook so bright as they do from the kitchen door after the ice-box panis emptied and the whole place is 'redd up,' as the Scotch say."
"A very delightful philosophy indeed," said Gilbert. "And now that wehave finished our meal, I insist upon your letting me give you a handwith the washing up. I am eager to test this dish-pantheism of yours!"
"My dear fellow," said Mifflin, laying a restraining hand on hisimpetuous guest, "it is a poor philosophy that will not abide denialnow and then. No, no--I did not ask you to spend the evening with meto wash dishes." And he led the way back to his sitting room.
"When I saw you come in," said Mifflin, "I was afraid you might be anewspaper man, looking for an interview. A young journalist came tosee us once, with very unhappy results. He wheedled himself into Mrs.Mifflin's good graces, and ended by putting us both into a book, calledParnassus on Wheels, which has been rather a trial to me. In that bookhe attributes to me a number of shallow and sugary observations uponbookselling that have been an annoyance to the trade. I am happy tosay, though, that his book had only a trifling sale."
"I have never heard of it," said Gilbert.
"If you are really interested in bookselling you should come here someevening to a meeting of the Corn Cob Club. Once a month a number ofbooksellers gather here and we discuss matters of bookish concern overcorn-cobs and cider. We have all sorts and conditions of booksellers:one is a fanatic on the subject of libraries. He thinks that everypublic library should be dynamited. Another thinks that movingpictures will destroy the book trade. What rot! Surely everythingthat arouses people's minds, that makes them alert and questioning,increases their appetite for books."
"The life of a bookseller is very demoralizing to the intellect," hewent on after a pause. "He is surrounded by innumerable books; hecannot possibly read them all; he dips into one and picks up a scrapfrom another. His mind gradually fills itself with miscellaneousflotsam, with superficial opinions, with a thousand half-knowledges.Almost unconsciously he begins to rate literature according to whatpeople ask for. He begins to wonder whether Ralph Waldo Trine isn'treally greater than Ralph Waldo Emerson, whether J. M. Chapple isn't asbig a man as J. M. Barrie. That way lies intellectual suicide.
"One thing, however, you must grant the good bookseller. He istolerant. He is patient of all ideas and theories. Surrounded,engulfed by the torrent of men's words, he is willing to listen to themall. Even to the publisher's salesman he turns an indulgent ear. Heis willing to be humbugged for the weal of humanity. He hopesunceasingly for good books to be born.
"My business, you see, is different from most. I only deal insecond-hand books; I only buy books that I consider have some honestreason for existence. In so far as human judgment can discern, I tryto keep trash out of my shelves. A doctor doesn't traffic in quackremedies. I don't traffic in bogus books.
"A comical thing happened the other day. There is a certain wealthyman, a Mr. Chapman, who has long frequented this shop----"
"I wonder if that could be Mr. Chapman of the Chapman DaintybitsCompany?" said Gilbert, feeling his feet touch familiar soil.
"The same, I believe," said Mifflin. "Do you know him?"
"Ah," cried the young man with reverence. "There is a man who can tellyou the virtues of advertising. If he is interested in books, it isadvertising that made it possible. We handle all his copy--I'vewritten a lot of it myself. We have made the Chapman prunes a stapleof civilization and culture. I myself devised that slogan 'We preenourselves on our prunes' which you see in every big magazine. Chapmanprunes are known the world over. The Mikado eats them once a week.The Pope eats them. Why, we have just heard that thirteen cases ofthem are to be put on board the George Washington for the President'svoyage to the peace Conference. The Czecho-Slovak armies were fedlargely on prunes. It is our conviction in the office that ourcampaign for the Chapman prunes did much to win the war."
"I read in an ad the other day--perhaps you wrote that, too?" said thebookseller, "that the Elgin watch had won the war. However, Mr.Chapman has long been one of my best customers. He heard about theCorn Cob Club, and though of course he is not a bookseller he begged tocome to our meetings. We were glad to have him do so, and he hasentered into our discussions with great zeal. Often he has offeredmany a shrewd comment. He has grown so enthusiastic about thebookseller's way of life that the other day he wrote to me about hisdaughter (he is a widower). She has been attending a fashionablegirls' school where, he says, they have filled her head with absurd,wasteful, snobbish notions. He says she has no more idea of theusefulness and beauty of life than a Pomeranian dog. Instead ofsending her to college, he has asked me if Mrs. Mifflin and I will takeher in here to learn to sell books. He wants her to think she isearning her keep, and is going to pay me privately for the privilege ofhaving her live here. He thinks that being surrounded by books willput some sense in her head. I am rather nervous about the experiment,but it is a compliment to the shop, isn't it?"
"Ye gods," cried Gilbert, "what advertising copy that would make!"
At this point the bell in the shop rang, and Mifflin jumped up. "Thispart of the evening is often rather busy," he said. "I'm afraid I'llhave to go down on the floor. Some of my habitues rather expect me tobe on hand to gossip about books."
"I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed myself," said Gilbert. "I'mgoing to come again and study your shelves."
"Well, keep it dark about the young lady," said the bookseller. "Idon't want all you young blades dropping in here to unsettle her mind.If she falls in love with anybody in this shop, it'll have to be JosephConrad or John Keats!"
As he passed out, Gilbert saw Roger Mifflin engaged in argument with abearded man who looked like a college professor. "Carlyle's OliverCromwell?" he was saying. "Yes, indeed! Right over here! Hullo,that's odd! It WAS here."