Titania Learns the Business
Although he kept late hours, Roger Mifflin was a prompt riser. It is
only the very young who find satisfaction in lying abed in the morning.
Those who approach the term of the fifth decade are sensitively aware
of the fluency of life, and have no taste to squander it among the
blankets.
The bookseller's morning routine was brisk and habitual. He was
generally awakened about half-past seven by the jangling bell that
balanced on a coiled spring at the foot of the stairs. This ringing
announced the arrival of Becky, the old scrubwoman who came each
morning to sweep out the shop and clean the floors for the day's
traffic. Roger, in his old dressing gown of vermilion flannel, would
scuffle down to let her in, picking up the milk bottles and the paper
bag of baker's rolls at the same time. As Becky propped the front door
wide, opened window transoms, and set about buffeting dust and tobacco
smoke, Roger would take the milk and rolls back to the kitchen and give
Bock a morning greeting. Bock would emerge from his literary kennel,
and thrust out his forelegs in a genial obeisance. This was partly
politeness, and partly to straighten out his spine after its all-night
curvature. Then Roger would let him out into the back yard for a run,
himself standing on the kitchen steps to inhale the bright freshness of
the morning air.
This Saturday morning was clear and crisp. The plain backs of the
homes along Whittier Street, irregular in profile as the margins of a
free verse poem, offered Roger an agreeable human panorama. Thin
strands of smoke were rising from chimneys; a belated baker's wagon was
joggling down the alley; in bedroom bay-windows sheets and pillows were
already set to sun and air. Brooklyn, admirable borough of homes and
hearty breakfasts, attacks the morning hours in cheery, smiling spirit.
Bock sniffed and rooted about the small back yard as though the earth
(every cubic inch of which he already knew by rote) held some new
entrancing flavour. Roger watched him with the amused and tender
condescension one always feels toward a happy dog--perhaps the same
mood of tolerant paternalism that Gott is said to have felt in watching
his boisterous Hohenzollerns.
The nipping air began to infiltrate his dressing gown, and Roger
returned to the kitchen, his small, lively face alight with zest. He
opened the draughts in the range, set a kettle on to boil, and went
down to resuscitate the furnace. As he came upstairs for his bath,
Mrs. Mifflin was descending, fresh and hearty in a starchy morning
apron. Roger hummed a tune as he picked up the hairpins on the bedroom
floor, and wondered to himself why women are always supposed to be more
tidy than men.
Titania was awake early. She smiled at the enigmatic portrait of
Samuel Butler, glanced at the row of books over her bed, and dressed
rapidly. She ran downstairs, eager to begin her experience as a
bookseller. The first impression the Haunted Bookshop had made on her
was one of superfluous dinginess, and as Mrs. Mifflin refused to let
her help get breakfast--except set out the salt cellars--she ran down
Gissing Street to a little florist's shop she had noticed the previous
afternoon. Here she spent at least a week's salary in buying
chrysanthemums and a large pot of white heather. She was distributing
these about the shop when Roger found her.
"Bless my soul!" he said. "How are you going to live on your wages if
you do that sort of thing? Pay-day doesn't come until next Friday!"
"Just one blow-out," she said cheerfully. "I thought it would be fun
to brighten the place up a bit. Think how pleased your floorwalker
will be when he comes in!"
"Dear me," said Roger. "I hope you don't really think we have
floorwalkers in the second-hand book business."
After breakfast he set about initiating his new employee into the
routine of the shop. As he moved about, explaining the arrangement of
his shelves, he kept up a running commentary.
"Of course all the miscellaneous information that a bookseller has to
have will only come to you gradually," he said. "Such tags of bookshop
lore as the difference between Philo Gubb and Philip Gibbs, Mrs. Wilson
Woodrow and Mrs. Woodrow Wilson, and all that sort of thing. Don't be
frightened by all the ads you see for a book called "Bell and Wing,"
because no one was ever heard to ask for a copy. That's one of the
reasons why I tell Mr. Gilbert I don't believe in advertising. Someone
may ask you who wrote The Winning of the Best, and you'll have to know
it wasn't Colonel Roosevelt but Mr. Ralph Waldo Trine. The beauty of
being a bookseller is that you don't have to be a literary critic: all
you have to do to books is enjoy them. A literary critic is the kind
of fellow who will tell you that Wordsworth's Happy Warrior is a poem
of 85 lines composed entirely of two sentences, one of 26 lines and one
of 59. What does it matter if Wordsworth wrote sentences almost as
long as those of Walt Whitman or Mr. Will H. Hays, if only he wrote a
great poem? Literary critics are queer birds. There's Professor
Phelps of Yale, for instance. He publishes a book in 1918 and calls it
The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Century. To my way of
thinking a book of that title oughtn't to be published until 2018.
Then somebody will come along and ask you for a book of poems about a
typewriter, and by and by you'll learn that what they want is
Stevenson's Underwoods. Yes, it's a complicated life. Never argue
with customers. Just give them the book they ought to have even if
they don't know they want it."
They went outside the front door, and Roger lit his pipe. In the
little area in front of the shop windows stood large empty boxes
supported on trestles. "The first thing I always do----," he said.
"The first thing you'll both do is catch your death of cold," said
Helen over his shoulder. "Titania, you run and get your fur. Roger,
go and find your cap. With your bald head, you ought to know better!"
When they returned to the front door, Titania's blue eyes were
sparkling above her soft tippet.
"I applaud your taste in furs," said Roger. "That is just the colour
of tobacco smoke." He blew a whiff against it to prove the likeness.
He felt very talkative, as most older men do when a young girl looks as
delightfully listenable as Titania.
"What an adorable little place," said Titania, looking round at the
bookshop's space of private pavement, which was sunk below the street
level. "You could put tables out here and serve tea in summer time."
"The first thing every morning," continued Roger, "I set out the
ten-cent stuff in these boxes. I take it in at night and stow it in
these bins. When it rains, I shove out an awning, which is mighty good
business. Someone is sure to take shelter, and spend the time in
looking over the books. A really heavy shower is often worth fifty or
sixty cents. Once a week I change my pavement stock. This week I've
got mostly fiction out here. That's the sort of thing that comes in in
unlimited numbers. A good deal of it's tripe, but it serves its
purpose."
"Aren't they rather dirty?" said Titania doubtfully, looking at some
little blue Rollo books, on which the siftings of generations had
accumulated. "Would you mind if I dusted them off a bit?"
"It's almost unheard of in the second-hand trade," said Roger; "but it
might make them look better."
Titania ran inside, borrowed a duster from Helen, and began
housecleaning the grimy boxes, while Roger chatted away in high
spirits. Bock already noticing the new order of things, squatted on
the doorstep with an air of being a party to the conversation. Morning
pedestrians on Gissing Street passed by, wondering who the bookseller's
engaging assistant might be. "I wish _I_ could find a maid like that,"
thought a prosperous Brooklyn housewife on her way to market. "I must
ring her up some day and find out how much she gets."
Roger brought out armfuls of books while Titania dusted.
"One of the reasons I'm awfully glad you've come here to help me," he
said, "is that I'll be able to get out more. I've been so tied down by
the shop, I haven't had a chance to scout round, buy up libraries, make
bids on collections that are being sold, and all that sort of thing.
My stock is running a bit low. If you just wait for what comes in, you
don't get much of the really good stuff."
Titania was polishing a copy of The Late Mrs. Null. "It must be
wonderful to have read so many books," she said. "I'm afraid I'm not a
very deep reader, but at any rate Dad has taught me a respect for good
books. He gets so mad because when my friends come to the house, and
he asks them what they've been reading, the only thing they seem to
know about is Dere Mable."
Roger chuckled. "I hope you don't think I'm a mere highbrow," he said.
"As a customer said to me once, without meaning to be funny, 'I like
both the Iliad and the Argosy.' The only thing I can't stand is
literature that is unfairly and intentionally flavoured with vanilla.
Confectionery soon disgusts the palate, whether you find it in Marcus
Aurelius or Doctor Crane. There's an odd aspect of the matter that
sometimes strikes me: Doc Crane's remarks are just as true as Lord
Bacon's, so how is it that the Doctor puts me to sleep in a paragraph,
while my Lord's essays keep me awake all night?"
Titania, being unacquainted with these philosophers, pursued the
characteristic feminine course of clinging to the subject on which she
was informed. The undiscerning have called this habit of mind
irrelevant, but wrongly. The feminine intellect leaps like a
grasshopper; the masculine plods as the ant.
"I see there's a new Mable book coming," she said. "It's called That's
Me All Over Mable, and the newsstand clerk at the Octagon says he
expects to sell a thousand copies."
"Well, there's a meaning in that," said Roger. "People have a craving
to be amused, and I'm sure I don't blame 'em. I'm afraid I haven't
read Dere Mable. If it's really amusing, I'm glad they read it. I
suspect it isn't a very great book, because a Philadelphia schoolgirl
has written a reply to it called Dere Bill, which is said to be as good
as the original. Now you can hardly imagine a Philadelphia flapper
writing an effective companion to Bacon's Essays. But never mind, if
the stuff's amusing, it has its place. The human yearning for innocent
pastime is a pathetic thing, come to think about it. It shows what a
desperately grim thing life has become. One of the most significant
things I know is that breathless, expectant, adoring hush that falls
over a theatre at a Saturday matinee, when the house goes dark and the
footlights set the bottom of the curtain in a glow, and the latecomers
tank over your feet climbing into their seats----"
"Isn't it an adorable moment!" cried Titania.
"Yes, it is," said Roger; "but it makes me sad to see what tosh is
handed out to that eager, expectant audience, most of the time. There
they all are, ready to be thrilled, eager to be worked upon,
deliberately putting themselves into that glorious, rare, receptive
mood when they are clay in the artist's hand--and Lord! what miserable
substitutes for joy and sorrow are put over on them! Day after day I
see people streaming into theatres and movies, and I know that more
than half the time they are on a blind quest, thinking they are
satisfied when in truth they are fed on paltry husks. And the sad part
about it is that if you let yourself think you are satisfied with
husks, you'll have no appetite left for the real grain."
Titania wondered, a little panic-stricken, whether she had been
permitting herself to be satisfied with husks. She remembered how
greatly she had enjoyed a Dorothy Gish film a few evenings before.
"But," she ventured, "you said people want to be amused. And if they
laugh and look happy, surely they're amused?"
"They only think they are!" cried Mifflin. "They think they're amused
because they don't know what real amusement is! Laughter and prayer
are the two noblest habits of man; they mark us off from the brutes.
To laugh at cheap jests is as base as to pray to cheap gods. To laugh
at Fatty Arbuckle is to degrade the human spirit."
Titania thought she was getting in rather deep, but she had the
tenacious logic of every healthy girl. She said:
"But a joke that seems cheap to you doesn't seem cheap to the person
who laughs at it, or he wouldn't laugh."
Her face brightened as a fresh idea flooded her mind:
"The wooden image a savage prays to may seem cheap to you, but it's the
best god he knows, and it's all right for him to pray to it."
"Bully for you," said Roger. "Perfectly true. But I've got away from
the point I had in mind. Humanity is yearning now as it never did
before for truth, for beauty, for the things that comfort and console
and make life seem worth while. I feel this all round me, every day.
We've been through a frightful ordeal, and every decent spirit is
asking itself what we can do to pick up the fragments and remould the
world nearer to our heart's desire. Look here, here's something I
found the other day in John Masefield's preface to one of his plays:
'The truth and rapture of man are holy things, not lightly to be
scorned. A carelessness of life and beauty marks the glutton, the
idler, and the fool in their deadly path across history.' I tell you,
I've done some pretty sober thinking as I've sat here in my bookshop
during the past horrible years. Walt Whitman wrote a little poem
during the Civil War--Year that trembled and reeled beneath me, said
Walt, Must I learn to chant the cold dirges of the baffled, and sullen
hymns of defeat?--I've sat here in my shop at night, and looked round
at my shelves, looked at all the brave books that house the hopes and
gentlenesses and dreams of men and women, and wondered if they were all
wrong, discredited, defeated. Wondered if the world were still merely
a jungle of fury. I think I'd have gone balmy if it weren't for Walt
Whitman. Talk about Mr. Britling--Walt was the man who 'saw it
through.'
"The glutton, the idler, and the fool in their deadly path across
history. . . . Aye, a deadly path indeed. The German military men
weren't idlers, but they were gluttons and fools to the nth power.
Look at their deadly path! And look at other deadly paths, too. Look
at our slums, jails, insane asylums. . . .
"I used to wonder what I could do to justify my comfortable existence
here during such a time of horror. What right had I to shirk in a
quiet bookshop when so many men were suffering and dying through no
fault of their own? I tried to get into an ambulance unit, but I've
had no medical training and they said they didn't want men of my age
unless they were experienced doctors."
"I know how you felt," said Titania, with a surprising look of
comprehension. "Don't you suppose that a great many girls, who
couldn't do anything real to help, got tired of wearing neat little
uniforms with Sam Browne belts?"
"Well," said Roger, "it was a bad time. The war contradicted and
denied everything I had ever lived for. Oh, I can't tell you how I
felt about it. I can't even express it to myself. Sometimes I used to
feel as I think that truly noble simpleton Henry Ford may have felt
when he organized his peace voyage--that I would do anything, however
stupid, to stop it all. In a world where everyone was so wise and
cynical and cruel, it was admirable to find a man so utterly simple and
hopeful as Henry. A boob, they called him. Well, I say bravo for
boobs! I daresay most of the apostles were boobs--or maybe they called
them bolsheviks."
Titania had only the vaguest notion about bolsheviks, but she had seen
a good many newspaper cartoons.
"I guess Judas was a bolshevik," she said innocently.
"Yes, and probably George the Third called Ben Franklin a bolshevik,"
retorted Roger. "The trouble is, truth and falsehood don't come laid
out in black and white--Truth and Huntruth, as the wartime joke had it.
Sometimes I thought Truth had vanished from the earth," he cried
bitterly. "Like everything else, it was rationed by the governments.
I taught myself to disbelieve half of what I read in the papers. I saw
the world clawing itself to shreds in blind rage. I saw hardly any one
brave enough to face the brutalizing absurdity as it really was, and
describe it. I saw the glutton, the idler, and the fool applauding,
while brave and simple men walked in the horrors of hell. The
stay-at-home poets turned it to pretty lyrics of glory and sacrifice.
Perhaps half a dozen of them have told the truth. Have you read
Sassoon? Or Latzko's Men in War, which was so damned true that the
government suppressed it? Humph! Putting Truth on rations!"
He knocked out his pipe against his heel, and his blue eyes shone with
a kind of desperate earnestness.
"But I tell you, the world is going to have the truth about War. We're
going to put an end to this madness. It's not going to be easy. Just
now, in the intoxication of the German collapse, we're all rejoicing in
our new happiness. I tell you, the real Peace will be a long time
coming. When you tear up all the fibres of civilization it's a slow
job to knit things together again. You see those children going down
the street to school? Peace lies in their hands. When they are taught
in school that war is the most loathsome scourge humanity is subject
to, that it smirches and fouls every lovely occupation of the mortal
spirit, then there may be some hope for the future. But I'd like to
bet they are having it drilled into them that war is a glorious and
noble sacrifice.
"The people who write poems about the divine frenzy of going over the
top are usually those who dipped their pens a long, long way from the
slimy duckboards of the trenches. It's funny how we hate to face
realities. I knew a commuter once who rode in town every day on the
8.13. But he used to call it the 7.73. He said it made him feel more
virtuous."
There was a pause, while Roger watched some belated urchins hurrying
toward school.
"I think any man would be a traitor to humanity who didn't pledge every
effort of his waking life to an attempt to make war impossible in
future."
"Surely no one would deny that," said Titania. "But I do think the war
was very glorious as well as very terrible. I've known lots of men who
went over, knowing well what they were to face, and yet went gladly and
humbly in the thought they were going for a true cause."
"A cause which is so true shouldn't need the sacrifice of millions of
fine lives," said Roger gravely. "Don't imagine I don't see the
dreadful nobility of it. But poor humanity shouldn't be asked to be
noble at such a cost. That's the most pitiful tragedy of it all.
Don't you suppose the Germans thought they too were marching off for a
noble cause when they began it and forced this misery on the world?
They had been educated to believe so, for a generation. That's the
terrible hypnotism of war, the brute mass-impulse, the pride and
national spirit, the instinctive simplicity of men that makes them
worship what is their own above everything else. I've thrilled and
shouted with patriotic pride, like everyone. Music and flags and men
marching in step have bewitched me, as they do all of us. And then
I've gone home and sworn to root this evil instinct out of my soul.
God help us--let's love the world, love humanity--not just our own
country! That's why I'm so keen about the part we're going to play at
the Peace Conference. Our motto over there will be America Last!
Hurrah for us, I say, for we shall be the only nation over there with
absolutely no axe to grind. Nothing but a pax to grind!"
It argued well for Titania's breadth of mind that she was not dismayed
nor alarmed at the poor bookseller's anguished harangue. She surmised
sagely that he was cleansing his bosom of much perilous stuff. In some
mysterious way she had learned the greatest and rarest of the spirit's
gifts--toleration.
"You can't help loving your country," she said.
"Let's go indoors," he answered. "You'll catch cold out here. I want
to show you my alcove of books on the war."
"Of course one can't help loving one's country," he added. "I love
mine so much that I want to see her take the lead in making a new era
possible. She has sacrificed least for war, she should be ready to
sacrifice most for peace. As for me," he said, smiling, "I'd be
willing to sacrifice the whole Republican party!"
"I don't see why you call the war an absurdity," said Titania. "We HAD
to beat Germany, or where would civilization have been?"
"We had to beat Germany, yes, but the absurdity lies in the fact that
we had to beat ourselves in doing it. The first thing you'll find,
when the Peace Conference gets to work, will be that we shall have to
help Germany onto her feet again so that she can be punished in an
orderly way. We shall have to feed her and admit her to commerce so
that she can pay her indemnities--we shall have to police her cities to
prevent revolution from burning her up--and the upshot of it all will
be that men will have fought the most terrible war in history, and
endured nameless horrors, for the privilege of nursing their enemy back
to health. If that isn't an absurdity, what is? That's what happens
when a great nation like Germany goes insane.
"Well, we're up against some terribly complicated problems. My only
consolation is that I think the bookseller can play as useful a part as
any man in rebuilding the world's sanity. When I was fretting over
what I could do to help things along, I came across two lines in my
favourite poet that encouraged me. Good old George Herbert says:
A grain of glory mixed with humblenesse
Cures both a fever and lethargicknesse.
"Certainly running a second-hand bookstore is a pretty humble calling,
but I've mixed a grain of glory with it, in my own imagination at any
rate. You see, books contain the thoughts and dreams of men, their
hopes and strivings and all their immortal parts. It's in books that
most of us learn how splendidly worth-while life is. I never realized
the greatness of the human spirit, the indomitable grandeur of man's
mind, until I read Milton's Areopagitica. To read that great outburst
of splendid anger ennobles the meanest of us simply because we belong
to the same species of animal as Milton. Books are the immortality of
the race, the father and mother of most that is worth while cherishing
in our hearts. To spread good books about, to sow them on fertile
minds, to propagate understanding and a carefulness of life and beauty,
isn't that high enough mission for a man? The bookseller is the real
Mr. Valiant-For-Truth.
"Here's my War-alcove," he went on. "I've stacked up here most of the
really good books the War has brought out. If humanity has sense
enough to take these books to heart, it will never get itself into this
mess again. Printer's ink has been running a race against gunpowder
these many, many years. Ink is handicapped, in a way, because you can
blow up a man with gunpowder in half a second, while it may take twenty
years to blow him up with a book. But the gunpowder destroys itself
along with its victim, while a book can keep on exploding for
centuries. There's Hardy's Dynasts for example. When you read that
book you can feel it blowing up your mind. It leaves you gasping, ill,
nauseated--oh, it's not pleasant to feel some really pure intellect
filtered into one's brain! It hurts! There's enough T. N. T. in that
book to blast war from the face of the globe. But there's a slow fuse
attached to it. It hasn't really exploded yet. Maybe it won't for
another fifty years.
"In regard to the War, think what books have accomplished. What was
the first thing all the governments started to do--publish books! Blue
Books, Yellow Books, White Books, Red Books--everything but Black
Books, which would have been appropriate in Berlin. They knew that
guns and troops were helpless unless they could get the books on their
side, too. Books did as much as anything else to bring America into
the war. Some German books helped to wipe the Kaiser off his throne--I
Accuse, and Dr. Muehlon's magnificent outburst The Vandal of Europe,
and Lichnowsky's private memorandum, that shook Germany to her
foundations, simply because he told the truth. Here's that book Men in
War, written I believe by a Hungarian officer, with its noble
dedication "To Friend and Foe." Here are some of the French
books--books in which the clear, passionate intellect of that race,
with its savage irony, burns like a flame. Romain Rolland's Au-Dessus
de la Melee, written in exile in Switzerland; Barbusse's terrible Le
Feu; Duhamel's bitter Civilization; Bourget's strangely fascinating
novel The Meaning of Death. And the noble books that have come out of
England: A Student in Arms; The Tree of Heaven; Why Men Fight, by
Bertrand Russell--I'm hoping he'll write one on Why Men Are Imprisoned:
you know he was locked up for his sentiments! And here's one of the
most moving of all--The Letters of Arthur Heath, a gentle, sensitive
young Oxford tutor who was killed on the Western front. You ought to
read that book. It shows the entire lack of hatred on the part of the
English. Heath and his friends, the night before they enlisted, sat up
singing the German music they had loved, as a kind of farewell to the
old, friendly joyous life. Yes, that's the kind of thing War
does--wipes out spirits like Arthur Heath. Please read it. Then
you'll have to read Philip Gibbs, and Lowes Dickinson and all the young
poets. Of course you've read Wells already. Everybody has."
"How about the Americans?" said Titania. "Haven't they written
anything about the war that's worth while?"
"Here's one that I found a lot of meat in, streaked with philosophical
gristle," said Roger, relighting his pipe. He pulled out a copy of
Professor Latimer's Progress. "There was one passage that I remember
marking--let's see now, what was it?--Yes, here!
"It is true that, if you made a poll of newspaper editors, you might
find a great many who think that war is evil. But if you were to take
a census among pastors of fashionable metropolitan churches--"
"That's a bullseye hit! The church has done for itself with most
thinking men. . . . There's another good passage in Professor Latimer,
where he points out the philosophical value of dishwashing. Some of
Latimer's talk is so much in common with my ideas that I've been rather
hoping he'd drop in here some day. I'd like to meet him. As for
American poets, get wise to Edwin Robinson----"
There is no knowing how long the bookseller's monologue might have
continued, but at this moment Helen appeared from the kitchen.
"Good gracious, Roger!" she exclaimed, "I've heard your voice piping
away for I don't know how long. What are you doing, giving the poor
child a Chautauqua lecture? You must want to frighten her out of the
book business."
Roger looked a little sheepish. "My dear," he said, "I was only laying
down a few of the principles underlying the art of bookselling----"
"It was very interesting, honestly it was," said Titania brightly.
Mrs. Mifflin, in a blue check apron and with plump arms floury to the
elbow, gave her a wink--or as near a wink as a woman ever achieves (ask
the man who owns one).
"Whenever Mr. Mifflin feels very low in his mind about the business,"
she said, "he falls back on those highly idealized sentiments. He
knows that next to being a parson, he's got into the worst line there
is, and he tries bravely to conceal it from himself."
"I think it's too bad to give me away before Miss Titania," said Roger,
smiling, so Titania saw this was merely a family joke.
"Really truly," she protested, "I'm having a lovely time. I've been
learning all about Professor Latimer who wrote The Handle of Europe,
and all sorts of things. I've been afraid every minute that some
customer would come in and interrupt us."
"No fear of that," said Helen. "They're scarce in the early morning."
She went back to her kitchen.
"Well, Miss Titania," resumed Roger. "You see what I'm driving at. I
want to give people an entirely new idea about bookshops. The grain of
glory that I hope will cure both my fever and my lethargicness is my
conception of the bookstore as a power-house, a radiating place for
truth and beauty. I insist books are not absolutely dead things: they
are as lively as those fabulous dragons' teeth, and being sown up and
down, may chance to spring up armed men. How about Bernhardi? Some of
my Corn Cob friends tell me books are just merchandise. Pshaw!"
"I haven't read much of Bernard Shaw" said Titania.
"Did you ever notice how books track you down and hunt you out? They
follow you like the hound in Francis Thompson's poem. They know their
quarry! Look at that book The Education of Henry Adams! Just watch
the way it's hounding out thinking people this winter. And The Four
Horsemen--you can see it racing in the veins of the reading people.
It's one of the uncanniest things I know to watch a real book on its
career--it follows you and follows you and drives you into a corner and
MAKES you read it. There's a queer old book that's been chasing me for
years: The Life and Opinions of John Buncle, Esq., it's called. I've
tried to escape it, but every now and then it sticks up its head
somewhere. It'll get me some day, and I'll be compelled to read it.
Ten Thousand a Year trailed me the same way until I surrendered. Words
can't describe the cunning of some books. You'll think you've shaken
them off your trail, and then one day some innocent-looking customer
will pop in and begin to talk, and you'll know he's an unconscious
agent of book-destiny. There's an old sea-captain who drops in here
now and then. He's simply the novels of Captain Marryat put into
flesh. He has me under a kind of spell; I know I shall have to read
Peter Simple before I die, just because the old fellow loves it so.
That's why I call this place the Haunted Bookshop. Haunted by the
ghosts of the books I haven't read. Poor uneasy spirits, they walk and
walk around me. There's only one way to lay the ghost of a book, and
that is to read it."
"I know what you mean," said Titania. "I haven't read much Bernard
Shaw, but I feel I shall have to. He meets me at every turn, bullying
me. And I know lots of people who are simply terrorized by H. G.
Wells. Every time one of his books comes out, and that's pretty often,
they're in a perfect panic until they've read it."
Roger chuckled. "Some have even been stampeded into subscribing to the
New Republic for that very purpose."
"But speaking of the Haunted Bookshop, what's your special interest in
that Oliver Cromwell book?"
"Oh, I'm glad you mentioned it," said Roger. "I must put it back in
its place on the shelf." He ran back to the den to get it, and just
then the bell clanged at the door. A customer came in, and the
one-sided gossip was over for the time being.