Londoners know much, but not all. A few secrets are still to be
learned only in the provinces, and one of them is the true value of
the bookstall man. In London a bookstall man is a machine; you throw
pennies at him and in return he throws papers at you. Now and then he
asks you to buy something that you don’t want or recommends the new
sevenpenny; but for the most part he treats you as a stranger, if not
as a foe, and expects for himself treatment no better.
But in the country....
Make your home in a small country town and see how long you can manage
without becoming friendly with the bookstall man. For in the country
he is a power. There is no longer any casual flinging of pennies;
there is the weather to discuss, and a remark to drop on the headlines
in the contents bill. “Another all-night sitting,” you say, from the
security given by eight good hours in bed: “ah well, if people like to
be Members of Parliament, let them!” Then you both laugh. Or, “What’s
this?--another new Peer? Well, it will be your turn soon,” you say,
and then you both laugh again. But there is something more important
than persiflage and gossip--there is the new novel to choose from the
circulating library. For in the country the bookstall man is also
the librarian and adviser; he not only sells papers but he controls
the reading of the neighbourhood. His advice is sound. His instinct
dictates wisely. “Jacobs’s latest,” he says, “is splendid. I read it on
Sunday.” Not, of course, that he has any need to read a story to know
that it is splendid; that would be too mechanical. He knows because
he possesses the sixth sense with which successful handlers of books
are gifted. “What’s new?” he replies, “well, here’s something good.
Take that. You can’t go wrong.” Or, when in a dissuading mood (and
nowadays librarians have to dissuade as much as recommend, poor doomed
varmints), “That one? Oh! I don’t think she would like that. That’s a
little bit--well, it’s strong, that’s what it is. I don’t recommend
that. But here’s a charming story by the author of “Milk and Water....”
And so forth.
What some simple country people would do without their bookstall man
I can’t imagine. Take Peter, for instance. Peter was the friend of
three old ladies who lived in a southern seaport--a sleepy forgotten
town with quiet, narrow, Georgian streets and vast stretches of mud
in its harbour which the evening sun turned to gold. These three old
ladies--sisters and unmarried--lived together in a tiny red brick house
where their several personalities dovetailed perfectly, different as
they were. One was the practical managing sister, one was the humorous
commentator, and one was the kindly dreamer. All were generous and
philanthropic; indeed their benefactions of thought and deed were
the principal business of their placid lives, while the principal
recreation was reading. And herein lay the value of Peter, the
bookstall man, for it was through his library that all their books came
to them. He too divined the character of the books that he circulated
by the mere process of touch; and he was rarely wrong. He knew to a
grain exactly what was to be found in every book he recommended or did
not recommend to these old ladies. In so far as his recommendations
went, Peter was always right; and probably his dissuasions were rightly
based too, although that of course we shall never know, since his
advice was duly taken.
But it is no light matter, is it, to pick out suitable stories for
three old-fashioned old ladies with very decided views as to what is
fitting and nice, and what not, when the books (and here is the real
difficulty) were to be read aloud? For this meant of course that the
three personalities had to be taken into consideration. Each book
had to please, or at any rate not offend, an old lady who was of a
practical managing turn, and an old lady who was herself a bit of a
quiz (as all good novelists must be), and an old lady who had Utopian
dreams.
Peter, you see, must have been rather remarkable. “No,” he would
say, “I don’t think Miss Dorcas would like that ... the gambling
passages.... I’d recommend this if it weren’t for Miss Kate. But she’d
never like the divorce proceedings....” And so on.
Reading aloud was to these old ladies a kind of ritual. They looked
forward to it all day, and then as each chapter was finished they
discussed it and approved or disapproved. When it comes to analyzing
the pleasures of life, the privilege of approving and disapproving in
conversation must be ranked very high, and reading aloud makes it so
very harmless an amusement, since no tale-bearing is involved. This
they did, and not only during the reading but at meals too, and often
they would come down to breakfast after a rather wakeful night with new
theories as to the conduct of hero or heroine. Happy Peter, to set so
much gentle machinery in motion!
Of course, he was not able always to satisfy their programme. Sometimes
for weeks and weeks together no new books (not only fiction, of course:
memoirs and travels they were very fond of) would be published; but
when he really struck gold how happy they all were. I remember that
I found them once--it was thirteen years ago--in a state of joyful
excitement over one of Peter’s most inspired suggestions--Miss Jewett’s
“Country of the Pointed Firs.” Never could three old ladies of simple
tastes and warm hearts have been more delighted with a printed page. I
wished Peter could have seen them.
Is he still acting as friend to that little town, I wonder. He was so
capable that probably he has been promoted to a wider sphere. For that
is what happens to these friends of the small town: they are raised to
positions of more importance and better salaries, and the chances are
that the old personal intimacy goes altogether. They may, for example,
be elevated to the place of manager at, say, London Bridge. Then is all
their kindliness and thoughtfulness over: they become machines: very
targets for pennies and half-pennies all day long, with no time for the
humaner intercourse.
Well, the price of getting on has always been heavy; but here it is
paid not only by the friend but by the small town too. It is hard when
nice old ladies are also penalized.