CHAPTER XIV.
For their after-luncheon coffee the party generally adjourned to thelibrary. Its windows looked east, and at this hour of the day it was thecoolest place in the whole house. It was a large room, fitted, duringthe eighteenth century, with white painted shelves of an elegant design.In the middle of one wall a door, ingeniously upholstered with rowsof dummy books, gave access to a deep cupboard, where, among a pile ofletter-files and old newspapers, the mummy-case of an Egyptian lady,brought back by the second Sir Ferdinando on his return from the GrandTour, mouldered in the darkness. From ten yards away and at a firstglance, one might almost have mistaken this secret door for a section ofshelving filled with genuine books. Coffee-cup in hand, Mr. Scoganwas standing in front of the dummy book-shelf. Between the sips hediscoursed.
"The bottom shelf," he was saying, "is taken up by an Encyclopaedia infourteen volumes. Useful, but a little dull, as is also Caprimulge's'Dictionary of the Finnish Language'. The 'Biographical Dictionary'looks more promising. 'Biography of Men who were Born Great', 'Biographyof Men who Achieved Greatness', 'Biography of Men who had GreatnessThrust upon Them', and 'Biography of Men who were Never Great at All'.Then there are ten volumes of 'Thom's Works and Wanderings', while the'Wild Goose Chase, a Novel', by an anonymous author, fills no lessthan six. But what's this, what's this?" Mr. Scogan stood on tiptoe andpeered up. "Seven volumes of the 'Tales of Knockespotch'. The 'Talesof Knockespotch'," he repeated. "Ah, my dear Henry," he said, turninground, "these are your best books. I would willingly give all the restof your library for them."
The happy possessor of a multitude of first editions, Mr. Wimbush couldafford to smile indulgently.
"Is it possible," Mr. Scogan went on, "that they possess nothing morethan a back and a title?" He opened the cupboard door and peeped inside,as though he hoped to find the rest of the books behind it. "Phooh!"he said, and shut the door again. "It smells of dust and mildew. Howsymbolical! One comes to the great masterpieces of the past, expectingsome miraculous illumination, and one finds, on opening them, onlydarkness and dust and a faint smell of decay. After all, what isreading but a vice, like drink or venery or any other form of excessiveself-indulgence? One reads to tickle and amuse one's mind; onereads, above all, to prevent oneself thinking. Still--the 'Tales ofKnockespotch'..."
He paused, and thoughtfully drummed with his fingers on the backs of thenon-existent, unattainable books.
"But I disagree with you about reading," said Mary. "About seriousreading, I mean."
"Quite right, Mary, quite right," Mr. Scogan answered. "I had forgottenthere were any serious people in the room."
"I like the idea of the Biographies," said Denis. "There's room for usall within the scheme; it's comprehensive."
"Yes, the Biographies are good, the Biographies are excellent," MrScogan agreed. "I imagine them written in a very elegant Regencystyle--Brighton Pavilion in words--perhaps by the great Dr. Lemprierehimself. You know his classical dictionary? Ah!" Mr. Scogan raised hishand and let it limply fall again in a gesture which implied that wordsfailed him. "Read his biography of Helen; read how Jupiter, disguisedas a swan, was 'enabled to avail himself of his situation' vis-a-vis toLeda. And to think that he may have, must have written these biographiesof the Great! What a work, Henry! And, owing to the idiotic arrangementof your library, it can't be read."
"I prefer the 'Wild Goose Chase'," said Anne. "A novel in sixvolumes--it must be restful."
"Restful," Mr. Scogan repeated. "You've hit on the right word. A 'WildGoose Chase' is sound, but a bit old-fashioned--pictures of clericallife in the fifties, you know; specimens of the landed gentry; peasantsfor pathos and comedy; and in the background, always the picturesquebeauties of nature soberly described. All very good and solid, but, likecertain puddings, just a little dull. Personally, I like much betterthe notion of 'Thom's Works and Wanderings'. The eccentric Mr. Thom ofThom's Hill. Old Tom Thom, as his intimates used to call him. He spentten years in Thibet organising the clarified butter industry on modernEuropean lines, and was able to retire at thirty-six with a handsomefortune. The rest of his life he devoted to travel and ratiocination;here is the result." Mr. Scogan tapped the dummy books. "And now we cometo the 'Tales of Knockespotch'. What a masterpiece and what a great man!Knockespotch knew how to write fiction. Ah, Denis, if you could onlyread Knockespotch you wouldn't be writing a novel about the wearisomedevelopment of a young man's character, you wouldn't be describing inendless, fastidious detail, cultured life in Chelsea and Bloomsbury andHampstead. You would be trying to write a readable book. But then, alas!owing to the peculiar arrangement of our host's library, you never willread Knockespotch."
"Nobody could regret the fact more than I do," said Denis.
"It was Knockespotch," Mr. Scogan continued, "the great Knockespotch,who delivered us from the dreary tyranny of the realistic novel. Mylife, Knockespotch said, is not so long that I can afford to spendprecious hours writing or reading descriptions of middle-classinteriors. He said again, 'I am tired of seeing the human mind bogged ina social plenum; I prefer to paint it in a vacuum, freely and sportivelybombinating.'"
"I say," said Gombauld, "Knockespotch was a little obscure sometimes,wasn't he?"
"He was," Mr. Scogan replied, "and with intention. It made him seem evenprofounder than he actually was. But it was only in his aphorisms thathe was so dark and oracular. In his Tales he was always luminous. Oh,those Tales--those Tales! How shall I describe them? Fabulous charactersshoot across his pages like gaily dressed performers on the trapeze.There are extraordinary adventures and still more extraordinaryspeculations. Intelligences and emotions, relieved of all the imbecilepreoccupations of civilised life, move in intricate and subtle dances,crossing and recrossing, advancing, retreating, impinging. An immenseerudition and an immense fancy go hand in hand. All the ideas of thepresent and of the past, on every possible subject, bob up amongthe Tales, smile gravely or grimace a caricature of themselves, thendisappear to make place for something new. The verbal surface of hiswriting is rich and fantastically diversified. The wit is incessant.The..."
"But couldn't you give us a specimen," Denis broke in--"a concreteexample?"
"Alas!" Mr. Scogan replied, "Knockespotch's great book is like the swordExcalibur. It remains struck fast in this door, awaiting the coming of awriter with genius enough to draw it forth. I am not even a writer, Iam not so much as qualified to attempt the task. The extraction ofKnockespotch from his wooden prison I leave, my dear Denis, to you."
"Thank you," said Denis.