Titania Arrives
The first pipe after breakfast is a rite of some importance to seasoned
smokers, and Roger applied the flame to the bowl as he stood at the
bottom of the stairs. He blew a great gush of strong blue reek that
eddied behind him as he ran up the flight, his mind eagerly meditating
the congenial task of arranging the little spare room for the coming
employee. Then, at the top of the steps, he found that his pipe had
already gone out. "What with filling my pipe and emptying it, lighting
it and relighting it," he thought, "I don't seem to get much time for
the serious concerns of life. Come to think of it, smoking, soiling
dishes and washing them, talking and listening to other people talk,
take up most of life anyway."
This theory rather pleased him, so he ran downstairs again to tell it
to Mrs. Mifflin.
"Go along and get that room fixed up," she said, "and don't try to palm
off any bogus doctrines on me so early in the morning. Housewives have
no time for philosophy after breakfast."
Roger thoroughly enjoyed himself in the task of preparing the
guest-room for the new assistant. It was a small chamber at the back
of the second storey, opening on to a narrow passage that connected
through a door with the gallery of the bookshop. Two small windows
commanded a view of the modest roofs of that quarter of Brooklyn, roofs
that conceal so many brave hearts, so many baby carriages, so many cups
of bad coffee, and so many cartons of the Chapman prunes.
"By the way," he called downstairs, "better have some of the prunes for
supper to-night, just as a compliment to Miss Chapman."
Mrs. Mifflin preserved a humorous silence.
Over these noncommittal summits the bright eye of the bookseller, as he
tacked up the freshly ironed muslin curtains Mrs. Mifflin had allotted,
could discern a glimpse of the bay and the leviathan ferries that link
Staten Island with civilization. "Just a touch of romance in the
outlook," he thought to himself. "It will suffice to keep a blasee
young girl aware of the excitements of existence."
The room, as might be expected in a house presided over by Helen
Mifflin, was in perfect order to receive any occupant, but Roger had
volunteered to psychologize it in such a fashion as (he thought) would
convey favourable influences to the misguided young spirit that was to
be its tenant. Incurable idealist, he had taken quite gravely his
responsibility as landlord and employer of Mr. Chapman's daughter. No
chambered nautilus was to have better opportunity to expand the tender
mansions of its soul.
Beside the bed was a bookshelf with a reading lamp. The problem Roger
was discussing was what books and pictures might be the best preachers
to this congregation of one. To Mrs. Mifflin's secret amusement he had
taken down the picture of Sir Galahad which he had once hung there,
because (as he had said) if Sir Galahad were living to-day he would be
a bookseller. "We don't want her feasting her imagination on young
Galahads," he had remarked at breakfast. "That way lies premature
matrimony. What I want to do is put up in her room one or two good
prints representing actual men who were so delightful in their day that
all the young men she is likely to see now will seem tepid and
prehensile. Thus she will become disgusted with the present generation
of youths and there will be some chance of her really putting her mind
on the book business."
Accordingly he had spent some time in going through a bin where he kept
photos and drawings of authors that the publishers' "publicity men"
were always showering upon him. After some thought he discarded
promising engravings of Harold Bell Wright and Stephen Leacock, and
chose pictures of Shelley, Anthony Trollope, Robert Louis Stevenson,
and Robert Burns. Then, after further meditation, he decided that
neither Shelley nor Burns would quite do for a young girl's room, and
set them aside in favour of a portrait of Samuel Butler. To these he
added a framed text that he was very fond of and had hung over his own
desk. He had once clipped it from a copy of Life and found much
pleasure in it. It runs thus:
ON THE RETURN OF A BOOK
LENT TO A FRIEND
I GIVE humble and hearty thanks for the safe return of this book which
having endured the perils of my friend's bookcase, and the bookcases of
my friend's friends, now returns to me in reasonably good condition.
I GIVE humble and hearty thanks that my friend did not see fit to give
this book to his infant as a plaything, nor use it as an ash-tray for
his burning cigar, nor as a teething-ring for his mastiff.
WHEN I lent this book I deemed it as lost: I was resigned to the
bitterness of the long parting: I never thought to look upon its pages
again.
BUT NOW that my book is come back to me, I rejoice and am exceeding
glad! Bring hither the fatted morocco and let us rebind the volume and
set it on the shelf of honour: for this my book was lent, and is
returned again.
PRESENTLY, therefore, I may return some of the books that I myself have
borrowed.
"There!" he thought. "That will convey to her the first element of
book morality."
These decorations having been displayed on the walls, he bethought
himself of the books that should stand on the bedside shelf.
This is a question that admits of the utmost nicety of discussion.
Some authorities hold that the proper books for a guest-room are of a
soporific quality that will induce swift and painless repose. This
school advises The Wealth of Nations, Rome under the Caesars, The
Statesman's Year Book, certain novels of Henry James, and The Letters
of Queen Victoria (in three volumes). It is plausibly contended that
books of this kind cannot be read (late at night) for more than a few
minutes at a time, and that they afford useful scraps of information.
Another branch of opinion recommends for bedtime reading short stories,
volumes of pithy anecdote, swift and sparkling stuff that may keep one
awake for a space, yet will advantage all the sweeter slumber in the
end. Even ghost stories and harrowing matter are maintained seasonable
by these pundits. This class of reading comprises O. Henry, Bret
Harte, Leonard Merrick, Ambrose Bierce, W. W. Jacobs, Daudet, de
Maupassant, and possibly even On a Slow Train Through Arkansaw, that
grievous classic of the railway bookstalls whereof its author, Mr.
Thomas W. Jackson, has said "It will sell forever, and a thousand years
afterward." To this might be added another of Mr. Jackson's onslaughts
on the human intelligence, I'm From Texas, You Can't Steer Me, whereof
is said (by the author) "It is like a hard-boiled egg, you can't beat
it." There are other of Mr. Jackson's books, whose titles escape
memory, whereof he has said "They are a dynamite for sorrow." Nothing
used to annoy Mifflin more than to have someone come in and ask for
copies of these works. His brother-in-law, Andrew McGill, the writer,
once gave him for Christmas (just to annoy him) a copy of On a Slow
Train Through Arkansaw sumptuously bound and gilded in what is known to
the trade as "dove-coloured ooze." Roger retorted by sending Andrew
(for his next birthday) two volumes of Brann the Iconoclast bound in
what Robert Cortes Holliday calls "embossed toadskin." But that is
apart from the story.
To the consideration of what to put on Miss Titania's bookshelf Roger
devoted the delighted hours of the morning. Several times Helen called
him to come down and attend to the shop, but he was sitting on the
floor, unaware of numbed shins, poring over the volumes he had carted
upstairs for a final culling. "It will be a great privilege," he said
to himself, "to have a young mind to experiment with. Now my wife,
delightful creature though she is, was--well, distinctly mature when I
had the good fortune to meet her; I have never been able properly to
supervise her mental processes. But this Chapman girl will come to us
wholly unlettered. Her father said she had been to a fashionable
school: that surely is a guarantee that the delicate tendrils of her
mind have never begun to sprout. I will test her (without her knowing
it) by the books I put here for her. By noting which of them she
responds to, I will know how to proceed. It might be worth while to
shut up the shop one day a week in order to give her some brief talks
on literature. Delightful! Let me see, a little series of talks on
the development of the English novel, beginning with Tom Jones--hum,
that would hardly do! Well, I have always longed to be a teacher, this
looks like a chance to begin. We might invite some of the neighbours
to send in their children once a week, and start a little school.
Causeries du lundi, in fact! Who knows I may yet be the Sainte Beuve
of Brooklyn."
Across his mind flashed a vision of newspaper clippings--"This
remarkable student of letters, who hides his brilliant parts under the
unassuming existence of a second-hand bookseller, is now recognized as
the----"
"Roger!" called Mrs. Mifflin from downstairs: "Front! someone wants to
know if you keep back numbers of Foamy Stories."
After he had thrown out the intruder, Roger returned to his meditation.
"This selection," he mused, "is of course only tentative. It is to act
as a preliminary test, to see what sort of thing interests her. First
of all, her name naturally suggests Shakespeare and the Elizabethans.
It's a remarkable name, Titania Chapman: there must be great virtue in
prunes! Let's begin with a volume of Christopher Marlowe. Then Keats,
I guess: every young person ought to shiver over St. Agnes' Eve on a
bright cold winter evening. Over Bemerton's, certainly, because it's a
bookshop story. Eugene Field's Tribune Primer to try out her sense of
humour. And Archy, by all means, for the same reason. I'll go down
and get the Archy scrapbook."
It should be explained that Roger was a keen admirer of Don Marquis,
the humourist of the New York Evening Sun. Mr. Marquis once lived in
Brooklyn, and the bookseller was never tired of saying that he was the
most eminent author who had graced the borough since the days of Walt
Whitman. Archy, the imaginary cockroach whom Mr. Marquis uses as a
vehicle for so much excellent fun, was a constant delight to Roger, and
he had kept a scrapbook of all Archy's clippings. This bulky tome he
now brought out from the grotto by his desk where his particular
treasures were kept. He ran his eye over it, and Mrs. Mifflin heard
him utter shrill screams of laughter.
"What on earth is it?" she asked.
"Only Archy," he said, and began to read aloud--
down in a wine vault underneath the city
two old men were sitting they were drinking booze
torn were their garments hair and beards were gritty
one had an overcoat but hardly any shoes
overhead the street cars through the streets were running
filled with happy people going home to christmas
in the adirondacks the hunters all were gunning
big ships were sailing down by the isthmus
in came a little tot for to kiss her granny
such a little totty she could scarcely tottle
saying kiss me grandpa kiss your little nanny
but the old man beaned her with a whisky bottle.
outside the snowflakes began for to flutter
far at sea the ships were sailing with the seamen
not another word did angel nanny utter
her grandsire chuckled and pledged the whisky demon
up spake the second man he was worn and weary
tears washed his face which otherwise was pasty
she loved her parents who commuted on the erie
brother im afraid you struck a trifle hasty
she came to see you all her pretty duds on
bringing christmas posies from her mothers garden
riding in the tunnel underneath the hudson
brother was it rum caused your heart to harden----
"What on earth is there funny in that?" said Mrs. Mifflin. "Poor
little lamb, I think it was terrible."
"There's more of it," cried Roger, and opened his mouth to continue.
"No more, thank you," said Helen. "There ought to be a fine for using
the meter of Love in the Valley that way. I'm going out to market so
if the bell rings you'll have to answer it."
Roger added the Archy scrapbook to Miss Titania's shelf, and went on
browsing over the volumes he had collected.
"The Nigger of the Narcissus," he said to himself, "for even if she
doesn't read the story perhaps she'll read the preface, which not
marble nor the monuments of princes will outlive. Dickens' Christmas
Stories to introduce her to Mrs. Lirriper, the queen of landladies.
Publishers tell me that Norfolk Street, Strand, is best known for the
famous literary agent that has his office there, but I wonder how many
of them know that that was where Mrs. Lirriper had her immortal
lodgings? The Notebooks of Samuel Butler, just to give her a little
intellectual jazz. The Wrong Box, because it's the best farce in the
language. Travels with a Donkey, to show her what good writing is
like. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to give her a sense of pity
for human woes--wait a minute, though: that's a pretty broad book for
young ladies. I guess we'll put it aside and see what else there is.
Some of Mr. Mosher's catalogues: fine! they'll show her the true
spirit of what one book-lover calls biblio-bliss. Walking-Stick
Papers--yes, there are still good essayists running around. A bound
file of The Publishers' Weekly to give her a smack of trade matters.
Jo's Boys in case she needs a little relaxation. The Lays of Ancient
Rome and Austin Dobson to show her some good poetry. I wonder if they
give them The Lays to read in school nowadays? I have a horrible fear
they are brought up on the battle of Salamis and the brutal redcoats of
'76. And now we'll be exceptionally subtle: we'll stick in a Robert
Chambers to see if she falls for it."
He viewed the shelf with pride. "Not bad," he said to himself. "I'll
just add this Leonard Merrick, Whispers about Women, to amuse her. I
bet that title will start her guessing. Helen will say I ought to have
included the Bible, but I'll omit it on purpose, just to see whether
the girl misses it."
With typical male curiosity he pulled out the bureau drawers to see
what disposition his wife had made of them, and was pleased to find a
little muslin bag of lavender dispersing a quiet fragrance in each.
"Very nice," he remarked. "Very nice indeed! About the only thing
missing is an ashtray. If Miss Titania is as modern as some of them,
that'll be the first thing she'll call for. And maybe a copy of Ezra
Pound's poems. I do hope she's not what Helen calls a bolshevixen."
There was nothing bolshevik about a glittering limousine that drew up
at the corner of Gissing and Swinburne streets early that afternoon. A
chauffeur in green livery opened the door, lifted out a suitcase of
beautiful brown leather, and gave a respectful hand to the vision that
emerged from depths of lilac-coloured upholstery.
"Where do you want me to carry the bag, miss?"
"This is the bitter parting," replied Miss Titania. "I don't want you
to know my address, Edwards. Some of my mad friends might worm it out
of you, and I don't want them coming down and bothering me. I am going
to be very busy with literature. I'll walk the rest of the way."
Edwards saluted with a grin--he worshipped the original young
heiress--and returned to his wheel.
"There's one thing I want you to do for me," said Titania. "Call up my
father and tell him I'm on the job."
"Yes, miss," said Edwards, who would have run the limousine into a
government motor truck if she had ordered it.
Miss Chapman's small gloved hand descended into an interesting purse
that was cuffed to her wrist with a bright little chain. She drew out
a nickel--it was characteristic of her that it was a very bright and
engaging looking nickel--and handed it gravely to her charioteer.
Equally gravely he saluted, and the car, after moving through certain
dignified arcs, swam swiftly away down Thackeray Boulevard.
Titania, after making sure that Edwards was out of sight, turned up
Gissing Street with a fluent pace and an observant eye. A small boy
cried, "Carry your bag, lady?" and she was about to agree, but then
remembered that she was now engaged at ten dollars a week and waved him
away. Our readers would feel a justifiable grudge if we did not
attempt a description of the young lady, and we will employ the few
blocks of her course along Gissing Street for this purpose.
Walking behind her, the observer, by the time she had reached Clemens
Place, would have seen that she was faultlessly tailored in genial
tweeds; that her small brown boots were sheltered by spats of that pale
tan complexion exhibited by Pullman porters on the Pennsylvania
Railroad; that her person was both slender and vigorous; that her
shoulders were carrying a sumptuous fur of the colour described by the
trade as nutria, or possibly opal smoke. The word chinchilla would
have occurred irresistibly to this observer from behind; he might also,
if he were the father of a family, have had a fleeting vision of many
autographed stubs in a check book. The general impression that he
would have retained, had he turned aside at Clemens Place, would be
"expensive, but worth the expense."
It is more likely, however, that the student of phenomena would have
continued along Gissing Street to the next corner, being that of
Hazlitt Street. Taking advantage of opportunity, he would overtake the
lady on the pavement, with a secret, sidelong glance. If he were wise,
he would pass her on the right side where her tilted bonnet permitted a
wider angle of vision. He would catch a glimpse of cheek and chin
belonging to the category known (and rightly) as adorable; hair that
held sunlight through the dullest day; even a small platinum wrist
watch that might pardonably be excused, in its exhilarating career, for
beating a trifle fast. Among the greyish furs he would note a bunch of
such violets as never bloom in the crude springtime, but reserve
themselves for November and the plate glass windows of Fifth Avenue.
It is probable that whatever the errand of this spectator he would have
continued along Gissing Street a few paces farther. Then, with
calculated innocence, he would have halted halfway up the block that
leads to the Wordsworth Avenue "L," and looked backward with carefully
simulated irresolution, as though considering some forgotten matter.
With apparently unseeing eyes he would have scanned the bright
pedestrian, and caught the full impact of her rich blue gaze. He would
have seen a small resolute face rather vivacious in effect, yet with a
quaint pathos of youth and eagerness. He would have noted the cheeks
lit with excitement and rapid movement in the bracing air. He would
certainly have noted the delicate contrast of the fur of the wild
nutria with the soft V of her bare throat. Then, to his surprise, he
would have seen this attractive person stop, examine her surroundings,
and run down some steps into a rather dingy-looking second-hand
bookshop. He would have gone about his affairs with a new and
surprised conviction that the Almighty had the borough of Brooklyn
under His especial care.
Roger, who had conceived a notion of some rather peevish foundling of
the Ritz-Carlton lobbies and Central Park riding academies, was
agreeably amazed by the sweet simplicity of the young lady.
"Is this Mr. Mifflin?" she said, as he advanced all agog from his smoky
corner.
"Miss Chapman?" he replied, taking her bag. "Helen!" he called. "Miss
Titania is here."
She looked about the sombre alcoves of the shop. "I do think it's
adorable of you to take me in," she said. "Dad has told me so much
about you. He says I'm impossible. I suppose this is the literature
he talks about. I want to know all about it."
"And here's Bock!" she cried. "Dad says he's the greatest dog in the
world, named after Botticelli or somebody. I've brought him a present.
It's in my bag. Nice old Bocky!"
Bock, who was unaccustomed to spats, was examining them after his own
fashion.
"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Mifflin. "We are delighted to see you. I
hope you'll be happy with us, but I rather doubt it. Mr. Mifflin is a
hard man to get along with."
"Oh, I'm sure of it!" cried Titania. "I mean, I'm sure I shall be
happy! You mustn't believe a word of what Dad says about me. I'm
crazy about books. I don't see how you can bear to sell them. I
brought these violets for you, Mrs. Mifflin."
"How perfectly sweet of you," said Helen, captivated already. "Come
along, we'll put them right in water. I'll show you your room."
Roger heard them moving about overhead. It suddenly occurred to him
that the shop was rather a dingy place for a young girl. "I wish I had
thought to get in a cash register," he mused. "She'll think I'm
terribly unbusiness-like."
"Now," said Mrs. Mifflin, as she and Titania came downstairs again,
"I'm making some pastry, so I'm going to turn you over to your
employer. He can show you round the shop and tell you where all the
books are."
"Before we begin," said Titania, "just let me give Bock his present."
She showed a large package of tissue paper and, unwinding innumerable
layers, finally disclosed a stalwart bone. "I was lunching at
Sherry's, and I made the head waiter give me this. He was awfully
amused."
"Come along into the kitchen and give it to him," said Helen. "He'll
be your friend for life."
"What an adorable kennel!" cried Titania, when she saw the remodelled
packing-case that served Bock as a retreat. The bookseller's ingenious
carpentry had built it into the similitude of a Carnegie library, with
the sign READING-ROOM over the door; and he had painted imitation
book-shelves along the interior.
"You'll get used to Mr. Mifflin after a while," said Helen amusedly.
"He spent all one winter getting that kennel fixed to his liking. You
might have thought he was going to live in it instead of Bock. All the
titles that he painted in there are books that have dogs in them, and a
lot of them he made up."
Titania insisted on getting down to peer inside. Bock was much
flattered at this attention from the new planet that had swum into his
kennel.
"Gracious!" she said, "here's 'The Rubaiyat of Omar Canine.' I do think
that's clever!"
"Oh, there are a lot more," said Helen. "The works of Bonar Law, and
Bohn's 'Classics,' and 'Catechisms on Dogma' and goodness knows what.
If Roger paid half as much attention to business as he does to jokes of
that sort, we'd be rich. Now, you run along and have a look at the
shop."
Titania found the bookseller at his desk. "Here I am, Mr. Mifflin,"
she said. "See, I brought a nice sharp pencil along with me to make
out sales slips. I've been practicing sticking it in my hair. I can
do it quite nicely now. I hope you have some of those big red books
with all the carbon paper in them and everything. I've been watching
the girls up at Lord and Taylor's make them out, and I think they're
fascinating. And you must teach me to run the elevator. I'm awfully
keen about elevators."
"Bless me," said Roger, "You'll find this very different from Lord and
Taylor's! We haven't any elevators, or any sales slips, or even a cash
register. We don't wait on customers unless they ask us to. They come
in and browse round, and if they find anything they want they come back
here to my desk and ask about it. The price is marked in every book in
red pencil. The cash-box is here on this shelf. This is the key
hanging on this little hook. I enter each sale in this ledger. When
you sell a book you must write it down here, and the price paid for it."
"But suppose it's charged?" said Titania.
"No charge accounts. Everything is cash. If someone comes in to sell
books, you must refer him to me. You mustn't be surprised to see
people drop in here and spend several hours reading. Lots of them look
on this as a kind of club. I hope you don't mind the smell of tobacco,
for almost all the men that come here smoke in the shop. You see, I
put ash trays around for them."
"I love tobacco smell," said Titania. "Daddy's library at home smells
something like this, but not quite so strong. And I want to see the
worms, bookworms you know. Daddy said you had lots of them."
"You'll see them, all right," said Roger, chuckling. "They come in and
out. To-morrow I'll show you how my stock is arranged. It'll take you
quite a while to get familiar with it. Until then I just want you to
poke around and see what there is, until you know the shelves so well
you could put your hand on any given book in the dark. That's a game
my wife and I used to play. We would turn off all the lights at night,
and I would call out the title of a book and see how near she could
come to finding it. Then I would take a turn. When we came more than
six inches away from it we would have to pay a forfeit. It's great
fun."
"What larks we'll have," cried Titania. "I do think this is a cunning
place!"
"This is the bulletin board, where I put up notices about books that
interest me. Here's a card I've just been writing."
Roger drew from his pocket a square of cardboard and affixed it to the
board with a thumbtack. Titania read:
THE BOOK THAT SHOULD HAVE PREVENTED THE WAR
Now that the fighting is over is a good time to read Thomas Hardy's The
Dynasts. I don't want to sell it, because it is one of the greatest
treasures I own. But if any one will guarantee to read all three
volumes, and let them sink into his mind, I'm willing to lend them.
If enough thoughtful Germans had read The Dynasts before July, 1914,
there would have been no war.
If every delegate to the Peace Conference could be made to read it
before the sessions begin, there will be no more wars.
R. MIFFLIN.
"Dear me," said Titania, "Is it so good as all that? Perhaps I'd
better read it."
"It is so good that if I knew any way of doing so I'd insist on Mr.
Wilson reading it on his voyage to France. I wish I could get it onto
his ship. My, what a book! It makes one positively ill with pity and
terror. Sometimes I wake up at night and look out of the window and
imagine I hear Hardy laughing. I get him a little mixed up with the
Deity, I fear. But he's a bit too hard for you to tackle."
Titania was puzzled, and said nothing. But her busy mind made a note
of its own: Hardy, hard to read, makes one ill, try it.
"What did you think of the books I put in your room?" said Roger. He
had vowed to wait until she made some comment unsolicited, but he could
not restrain himself.
"In my room?" she said. "Why, I'm sorry, I never noticed them!"