form this library, which has been the passion of my life. I read all
the catalogues, became skilled in bibliography, lived in the bookshops;
spent all my time collating and going over my precious volumes. In the
evenings, instead of talking to my wife about the Ives' coming ball, or
a problem in bridge, or the newest shades of silk, I pored over the
catalogues which came to me from all parts of the world. My wife said
nothing at first, but when one bookcase was added to another, crowding
out the little Sheraton writing tables, and the bijou cabinets, she
objected mildly, 'Why bring all this trash into the house? And besides
you never read them. I suppose they don't cost you much. I loaned a
few to one of my friends yesterday.'
"I winced; but said nothing.
"Gradually I became absorbed in the pursuit. Other collectors--men
after my own heart--rich, and always wearing the oddest clothes--so my
good wife said--came to visit me. We would stay up far into the night
relating our experiences, telling wonderful stories of how we secured
our rarest volumes, and remarking about the prices, which seemed always
soaring! My wife knew at last that these old books cost a great deal
of money; that I would spend a hundred dollars for an old almanac or an
Aldus, while I objected to the forty dollars she paid for a hat. She
said she would stand it no longer. I remonstrated, but in vain. She
remarked that I had changed--that I no longer loved her. This was not
true; I loved her as I always did--but I would not allow anyone to
dictate to me.
"However, I displayed no longer the little morocco things that I had
bought, but brought them home surreptitiously, placing them in the
corners of the bookcase. I concealed them in my newspaper of an
evening, or had them sent home when my wife was out shopping, or
visiting her friends. Sometimes she would catch me _flagrante
delicto_, as I would stealthily remove my beloved from its brown
wrapping-paper; or catch me napping with a first edition that she was
sure she had not seen before.
"The situation grew intolerable. I could not bear to have some one who
had promised to obey me, taunting me at every turn, remorselessly
dropping an Elzevir on the floor, or shattering my nerves by insolently
showing me a receipted bill for a presentation copy of 'Endymion.' I
tried to be gentle with her, to reason with her, to tell her what a
scholarly thing I was doing,--but it was of no avail. She became
actually jealous of my books. She looked with distrust at every parcel
that arrived; she was suspicious of everything that had the
_appearance_ of a book.
"At first she was only mildly oppressive; she now became severe,
scolding continually, making my life a burden. She said my love of
books was unnatural, wicked, unspeakable. I could stand it no longer;
I could not live with a woman who treated me in so cruel a way. When I
told her this she was docile at first, but the fire broke out anew at
some new victory of mine in the auction rooms, which one of my spiteful
friends told her about. Matthews was always jealous of me, because I
had more courage than he and snatched the uncut 'Comus' from him when
it was almost within his grasp.
"I tried no longer to bear with my wife--she was a vixen, a mad woman,
a very devil. I resolved to divorce her--but on what grounds? I could
not think of a single charge that could be placed before a
jury,--American juries generally consisted of the most stupid and
unimaginative men. My wife said she ought to secure the action on the
grounds of infidelity,--that I loved my first folio of Shakespeare more
than I did her!
"Things came to a climax at last. The famous library of Richard
Appleton was to be sold at auction. I was intensely excited, as you
can imagine. I read the catalogue item by item, word by word. I
marked with ink the things I most _needed_ and determined to buy a few
exquisite volumes even at the risk of bankruptcy. And there was 'Les
Quinze Joyes de Mariage,' the first edition in the superb binding made
by Nicolas Eve for Diane de Poitiers. I had resolved to purchase it
many years ago when Appleton wrested it from me at the Amherst sale. I
had even waited for his death knowing it would again come upon the
market. I resolved to have it at all costs. The eventful day arrived.
I went to the rooms in person. The little volume started at one
hundred dollars and rose to three thousand. It was already beyond my
means. I just had to have it. I nodded. There was no other bid.
"I drew my check for the amount and carried it home. I was reading it
in the library when my wife entered. I casually, in an unconcerned
way, although my heart was trembling, placed it on the table. I looked
at my wife. Her eyes were flashing. She held the evening paper on
which I could read the headlines.--'Rare Book brings $3010.'
"I knew the storm was coming. She said I was an ingrate, a dissipater
of her fortune, a fool, a heartless villain, a--
"She went no further.
"I grabbed the first thing at hand,--it was 'The Fifteen Joys of
Marriage,'--and threw it at her head. It struck her arm and fell upon
the floor. When I stooped to pick it up, noticing the poor, bruised,
broken corner, I looked about. My wife was gone.
"The next day she served me with the papers for the divorce which is
now a _cause celebre_.
"At last I was free!"
End of Project Gutenberg's The Unpublishable Memoirs, by A. S. W. Rosenbach