Tempest-Tost

  “Whatever made Valentine do it?”

  “Apparently, two or three years ago, the old chap said something, just in passing, about wanting his books dealt with that way. And they’re quite unsaleable, you know. A bookseller wouldn’t give five cents apiece for the lot.”

  “Have you seen them, Solly?”

  “No; but you know how hard it is to get rid of books. Especially Theology. Nothing changes fashion so quickly as Theology.”

  “But there might just be a treasure or two among them.”

  “I know.”

  “Still, I don’t suppose a preacher would know a really valuable book if he saw one. They’ll go for the concordances and commentaries on the Gospels. Do you suppose Val would let us look through what’s left?”

  “Freddy, my innocent poppet, there won’t be anything left. They’ll strip the shelves. Anything free has an irresistible fascination. Free books to preachers will be like free booze to politicians; they’ll scoop the lot, without regard for quality. You mark my words.”

  Freddy recognized the truth of what he said. She herself was a victim of that lust for books which rages in the breast like a demon, and which cannot be stilled save by the frequent and plentiful acquisition of books. This passion is more common, and more powerful, than most people suppose. Book lovers are thought by unbookish people to be gentle and unworldly, and perhaps a few of them are so. But there are others who will lie and scheme and steal to get books as wildly and unconscionably as the dope-taker in pursuit of his drug. They may not want the books to read immediately, or at all; they want them to possess, to range on their shelves, to have at command. They want books as a Turk is thought to want concubines—not to be hastily deflowered, but to be kept at their master’s call, and enjoyed more often in thought than in reality. Solly was in a measure a victim of this unscrupulous passion, but Freddy was wholly in the grip of it.

  Still, she had her pride. She would not beg Valentine to regard her as a member of the clergy for a day; she would not even hang about the house in a hinting manner. She would just drop in, and if the conversation happened to turn upon books, as some scholarly rural dean fingered a rare volume, she would let it be known, subtly, that she was deeply interested in them, and then—well, and then she would see what happened.

  WITH THIS PLAN IN VIEW she was at the residence of the late Dr. Adam Savage at five minutes to ten on the following morning, dismayed to find that an astounding total of two hundred and seventeen clergymen were there before her, waiting impatiently on the lawn. They ranged from canons of the cathedral, in shovel hats and the grey flannels which the more worldly Anglicans affect in summer, through Presbyterians and ministers of the United Church in black coats and Roman collars, to the popes and miracle workers of backstreet sects, dressed in everything under the sun. There was a young priest, a little aloof from the others, who had been instructed by his bishop to bespeak a copy of The Catholic Encyclopaedia which was known to be in the house, for a school library. There were two rabbis, one with a beard and one without, chatting with the uneasy geniality of men who expect shortly to compete in a race for a shelf of books on the Pentateuch. There were High Anglicans with crosses on their watch chains, and low Anglicans with moustaches. There were sixteen Divinity students, not yet ordained, but trying to look sanctified in dark suits. There was a stout man in a hot brown suit, wearing a clerical stock with a wing collar; upon his head sat a jaunty grey hat, in the band of which was fixed a small metal aeroplane; it was impossible to say what he was, but he wore a look of confidence which bespoke an early training in salesmanship. There was a mild man with a pince-nez, who was whispered to be a Christian Science practitioner. There was no representative of the Greek Orthodox, the Syrian or Coptic Churches; otherwise Christianity in its utmost variety was assembled on that lawn.

  It was never discovered how clergymen for a radius of fifty miles around Salterton got wind of Dr. Savage’s posthumous bounty. The local newspaper took the great assembly of holy men as a tribute to the power of its advertising columns; indeed, as Freddy approached, a press photographer was climbing into a tree to take a picture of the extraordinary sight. However, the orgulous pride of newspapers is widely understood. The gossips of Salterton decided, after several weeks of discussion, that the matter was beyond any rational explanation, but that the Christian Church must be better organized, and more at one on certain matters, than they had thought.

  At five minutes past ten, when the clergy were beginning to buzz like bees, a car stopped in front of the lawn and young Mr. Maybee and Valentine climbed out of it. They were a good deal surprised and discomposed to find a crowd waiting for them, and hurried to open the front door. It had been their intention to sit quietly in the library at a table, arranging some final details of the sale and welcoming the occasional clergyman who might drop in for a book. Instead they were closely followed up the steps, not rudely, but as cattle follow a farmer with a pail of hot mash. When the door was opened the clergy increased their pace, still without rudeness, but with a kind of hungry fervour, and Valentine and young Mr. Maybee found that they were entering the library at a brisk trot. It was a room of moderate size, and might perhaps have held fifty people when full. Seventy rushed into it in sixty seconds, and the remainder crowded as close to the entry as they could.

  One does not describe the activity of clergymen in a library as looting. They were, in the main, quiet and well-bred men, and it was in a quiet and well-bred manner that they went to work. The pushing was of a moderate order, and the phrase “Excuse me” was often heard. Natural advantages, such as long arms, superior height, and good eyesight were given rein, but there was no actual snatching nor were the old intentionally trodden upon. No very wide choice, no thoughtful ranging of the shelves, was possible in such a crush, and with good-humoured philosophy the visitors seized whatever was nearest. There were a few friendly disagreements; a shovel hat and the brown suit had each got hold of five volumes of a nicely bound ten-volume set of the works of a Scottish metaphysician, and neither could see why the other should not yield his portion. The rabbis, pushed into a corner where there was little but New Testament material, struggled feebly to reach their Promised Land, without knowing precisely where it was to be found. The young priest found his encyclopaedia, but it was too bulky to be moved at one time, and he knew that it would be fatal to leave any part of it behind him, in the hope of making a second trip. An elderly Presbyterian fainted, and young Mr. Maybee had to appeal in a loud voice for help to lift him through the window into the open air; Valentine took her chance to crawl out to the lawn, in the wake of the invalid.

  “What shall we do?” she asked the auctioneer, who was a nice young man, and supposedly accustomed to dominating crowds.

  “God knows,” said Mr. Maybee; “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “You must cope,” said Valentine, firmly.

  Mr. Maybee climbed back upon the windowsill. “Gentlemen,” he called in a loud voice, “will those who have chosen their books please leave as quickly as possible and allow the others to come in? There is no need to crowd; the library will be open all day.”

  This was no more effective than a bus-driver’s request to “Step right down to the rear, please.” The clergy at the door would not budge, and the clergy in the library would not attempt to leave until they had filled their pockets and heaped their arms impossibly high. Young Mr. Maybee at last climbed down from the windowsill, and confessed defeat to Valentine.

  There are times when every woman is disgusted by the bone-lessness of men. Valentine had, in her time, directed outdoor pageants with as many as five hundred supernumeraries in the crowd scenes. She quickly climbed upon the window-ledge herself.

  “This won’t do,” she cried in a loud, fierce voice. “You must follow my directions to the letter, or I shall have to call the police. Or perhaps the Fire Department,” she added, noticing that the magical word “police” had done its work upon these ministers of peace. “All
those in the hall go to the lawn at once.” With some muttering, the brethren in the hall did as they were bid. “Now,” she cried, to the crowd in the library, “you must take the books you have chosen and leave by the back door.” In three minutes the library was empty.

  By half-past eleven two hundred and thirty-six clergymen had passed through the library, some of them three and four times, and the shelves were bare. Dr. Savage’s bequest had been somewhat liberally interpreted, for an inkwell, a pen tray, two letter files, two paperweights, a small bust of Homer, a packet of blotters and an air-cushion which had been in the swivel chair were gone, as well. The widest interpretation had been placed on the word “library” in the advertisement, for some of the visitors had invaded the upstairs regions and made off with two or three hundred detective novels which had been in the old scholar’s bedroom. Even a heap of magazines in the cellarway had been removed.

  “I don’t think there is a scrap of printed matter left in the house,” said young Mr. Maybee.

  HE WAS MISTAKEN. After the rehearsal that night Valentine sat on the lawn with several of the cast of the play who wanted to hear about the adventures of the morning. A picture and an account of the distribution of Dr. Savage’s library had appeared in the newspaper, but rumours were abroad that clergy had come to blows, that a Presbyterian had been struck down with thrombosis while taking Calvin on the Evangelists from a high shelf, that a book of photographs called Nudes of All Nations, which had appeared unexpectedly at the back of a shelf of exegesis, had been whisked away under the coat of a bachelor curate, that Voltaire’s Works in twenty-four octavo volumes had been seized by a Baptist fundamentalist and thrown from an upstairs window to his wife, who was waiting on the lawn with a sack—the range of speculation was limited only by the fancy of the people of Salterton. Valentine was able to set their minds at rest, though in doing so she lowered the spirits of several anti-clericals and Antinomians among her hearers.

  “Nothing really wild happened,” said she; “it was all quite orderly, after the beginning, though it was amazingly quick and a bit dishevelled at times.”

  “But every book went?” said Freddy.

  “Not even that. Every book that could be seen went, but when Mr. Maybee and I began a complete clear-out of grandfather’s vault we found about ten or twelve more books. They were stored away very neatly in a wooden box; somebody had even wrapped them in brown paper. I can’t imagine why; they looked like the most awful junk. Victorian novels in three volumes, and that sort of thing.”

  “They sound fascinating,” said Griselda. “I love Victorian novels.”

  “These aren’t really good ones,” said Valentine. “Nothing, I mean, that anybody would want to read. I looked at one or two. We’ve put them in the sale, as a single lot.”

  The conversation had passed to other things. But Hector had heard. If Griselda liked Victorian novels he would get these for her. It would be a distinguished gift—not expensive, but a sign of his attentiveness to her tastes. Besides, books were always a safe gift; in his journey through the world Hector had somewhere picked up the information that only books, candy and flowers might be given to a lady without seriously compromising her honour.

  Freddy had heard, also. If Dr. Savage thought enough of a handful of books to keep them in his vault, they were worth her investigation. Imagine Valentine putting them in the sale without so much as a thought! What ignoramuses theatre people were! Before Freddy went to bed that night she carefully counted her money. She did not expect to have to pay a big price, but she wanted to know just where she stood. Reading a favourite chapter of Life Through the Neck of a Bottle before she went to sleep, she was conscious of a warm glow—a book-collector’s glow when he thinks he may be on the track of a good thing. Old books, old wine—how few of us there are, she reflected, who really appreciate these things.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, the Thursday before the sale, was an anxious and difficult one for Hector. At lunchtime he hurried to Dr. Savage’s house, feeling guiltily conspicuous, as some men do when they are upon an errand connected in their minds (but in nobody else’s) with love. There were few people about, and he quickly found what he was looking for; it was a box which had, long ago in the past, served for the shipping of a small typewriter; the maker’s name was painted on its sides. Within it were several books, neatly wrapped in brown paper; Hector lifted one out and began to unwrap it.

  “Mus’ ast yuh not t’ handle the stuff,” said a voice behind him. It was an employee of Elliot and Maybee, a seedy man who smelled of beer.

  “I merely want to see what these books are,” said Hector.

  “Tha’s all right. My instructions are, mus’ ast yuh not t’ handle the stuff.”

  “But how can I tell what this is unless I look?”

  “T’ain’t nothing. Just books.”

  “But what books?”

  “Dunno. Mus’ jus’ ast yuh not t’ handle the stuff.”

  “Is there anyone in charge here?”

  “Eh?”

  “Who is in charge here?”

  “Me. Now lookit, Joe, we don’t want no trouble. You jus’ slip away, see, like you was never here. Don’t want yuh handlin’ the stuff.”

  Hector was not an expert in the management of men, but occasionally he had an inspiration. He reached into his pocket and took out a dollar.

  “Let me see what these books are, and it’s yours,” said he.

  “Okay, Joe. But we don’t want no trouble, see?”

  Hector unwrapped several of the books. They were old, undoubtedly, and they had a musty smell. He had a notion that really old books were bound in leather; these were bound in dingy cloth, and the gold on their bindings was faded. Still, if Griselda wanted them, he would see that she got them. He gave the beery attendant the dollar, and an extra twenty-five cents.

  “May I use the telephone?” said he. He was shown that instrument, which Dr. Savage, after the custom of his generation, had kept decently out of sight in a low, dark cupboard under the stairs. The mouthpiece looked as though it had not been cleaned in the twenty years of its installation. After a long and rather complicated conversation with a girl in the office of Elliot and Maybee, he extracted a promise that she would ask old Mr. Elliot not to put the box of books up for sale until at least a quarter past four on the following day; she could make no promises; she could not say exactly when Mr. Elliot himself was likely to be in the office; Mr. Maybee had gone to the country on business; he could try to talk to Mr. Elliot after four o’clock, but she could promise nothing. Hot and annoyed and frustrated, Hector escaped from the black hole under the stairs just in time to hurry back to school for the afternoon session. His stomach was upset. He had still to make his arrangements with Pimples Buckle.

  UUNDER ORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES NOTHING would have persuaded Hector to visit such a person as Pimples Buckle, who was Salterton’s nearest approach to a gangster. But Pimples was reputed to be able to provide what Hector, at this moment in his life, wanted more than anything else in the world—a card of admission to the June Ball.

  The June Ball was the glory of Salterton’s social year. Given by the cadets of the great military College which lay at the eastern entrance to the city, it had for many years been surrounded in the highest degree by that atmosphere of smartness and social distinction with which the military so cleverly invest their merry-makings. In Salterton, to be asked to it was to be a person of social consequence; not to be asked to it was to be a nobody. The invitations sent out by the cadets themselves were, of course, to young ladies who had entertained them, in one way or another, during the year; there were cadets so dead to all decent feeling that they invited girls from other cities, but the majority were properly sensible of the great cubic footage of cake and the vast gallonage of tea which they had consumed on Sunday afternoons, and they did their duty—often an extremely pleasant duty. Other guests, distinguished persons from out-of-town and the nobility and gentry of Salterton, were asked by the Commandant a
nd his staff. There were those who said it was easy to get an invitation; there were others, and Hector was one of them, who found it the hardest thing in the world.

  He wanted to go, of course, because Griselda would be there. Had not Roger declared, during that memorable night at Solly’s, that he was taking her? The Ball, indeed, had split the cast of The Tempest into sheep and goats: most of them were going, and the Torso had received a choice of five escorts; Valentine had been asked, as a distinguished visitor to the town, and anyhow, as Dr. Savage’s grand-daughter, she had a prescriptive right to an invitation; all the girls in the cast had been asked, and even Miss Wildfang was to be present as the partner of a professor who liked well-matured women; even Geordie was to be there, through some miscarriage of social justice, for he announced with a wink that he had drag in a certain quarter. The Leakeys had had no invitation, and expected none; indeed, Mrs. Leakey made this a point of perverse pride, telling the world that she was no high-flyer, whatever other people might be. Professor Vambrace had received an invitation for himself and his wife and daughter, and had refused it without consulting either of them, assuming that they would not wish to be present. Everybody who wanted an invitation, it appeared, had received one. Several of Hector’s colleagues at the school had been invited, and it was to the head of the English department, Mr. Adams, that he first turned for advice.

  “Just suppose,” he said in a falsely jocular tone, “that I wanted a bid to the Ball; where could I get one?” He thought that “bid” was rather good; just the right note of casualness.

  “Well,” said Mr. Adams, who was not at all deceived; “you might be able to get a card from somebody who had one and decided not to use it. That’s sometimes done.”