the haunted bookshop(闹鬼的书店)-第24章
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one； mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen
downstairs。 The pug； frenzied with excitement； yelled insanely。 A
female voice possibly Mrs。 J。 F。 Smithcried out 〃What's that smell of
burning？〃 Someone else said； 〃They're burning feathers under his nose to
bring him to。〃
〃Yes； Hun's feathers；〃 chuckled Aubrey to himself。 He locked his
door； and sat down by the window with his opera glasses。
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Chapter IX
Again the Narrative is Retarded
Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop。 Sitting at his desk
under a fog of tobacco； he had honestly intended to do some writing on the
twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling。 This chapter was to be an
（alas； entirely conjectural） 〃Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being
Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading
University；〃 and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's
mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his
imagined scene。 He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that
fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as
one of the learned professions。 He could see the great auditorium； filled
with cultivated people： men with Emersonian profiles； ladies whispering
behind their fluttering programmes。 He could see the academic beadle；
proctor； dean （or whatever he is； Roger was a little doubtful） pronouncing
the august words of presentation
A man who； in season and out of season； forgetting private gain for
public weal； has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil
the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands； to whom； and to
whose colleagues； amid the perishable caducity of human affairs； is
largely due the pullulation of literary taste； in honouring whom we seek to
honour the noble and self…effacing profession of which he is so
representative a member
Then he could see the modest bookseller； somewhat clammy in his
extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood； nervously
fidgeting his mortar…board； haled forward by ushers； and tottering
rubescent before the chancellor； provost； president （or whoever it might be）
who hands out the diploma。 Then （in Roger's vision） he could see the
garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience； giving his trailing
gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage； and uttering；
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without hesitation or embarrassment； with due interpolation of graceful
pleasantry； that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of
bookishness that he had often dreamed of。 Then he could see the ensuing
reception： the distinguished savants crowding round； the plates of
macaroons； the cups of untasted tea； the ladies twittering； 〃Now there's
something I want to ask you why are there so many statues to generals；
admirals； parsons； doctors； statesmen； scientists； artists； and authors； but
no statues to booksellers？〃
Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into
fantastic dreams。 Ever since he had travelled country roads； some years
before； selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse； he had
nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels
Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into
the rural byways where bookstores are unknown。 He loved to imagine a
great map of New York State； with the daily location of each travelling
Parnassus marked by a coloured pin。 He dreamed of himself； sitting in
some vast central warehouse of second…hand books； poring over his map
like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition
to various bases where his vans would re…stock。 His idea was that his
travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors；
parsons； and newspaper men； who were weary of their thankless tasks； and
would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road。 One of his hopes
was that he might interest Mr。 Chapman in this superb scheme； and he had
a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels
Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by
serious investors。
These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother…in…law Andrew
McGill； the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living；
who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley。
The original Parnassus； a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived
and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country
roads in the days before his marriage； was now housed in Andrew's barn。
Peg； his fat white horse； had lodging there also。 It occurred to Roger that
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he owed Andrew a letter； and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's
collegiate oration； he began to write：
THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street； Brooklyn；
November 30； 1918。
MY DEAR ANDREW：
It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of
cider； which has given us even more than the customary pleasure。 This has
been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own
thoughts； and I've written no letters at all。 Like everyone else I am
thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us。
I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of
humanity。 I wish there could be an international peace conference of
booksellers； for （you will smile at this） my own conviction is that the
future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on
the librarians。 I wonder what a German bookseller is like？
I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might
have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War。 I fear it
would have bowled him over。 He thought that this is not a world 〃that
sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder。〃 What would he
have said of the four…year shambles we have watched with sickened
hearts？
You remember my favourite poemold George Herbert's Church
Porch where he says
By all means use sometimes to be alone； Salute thyself； see what thy
soul doth wear； Dare to look in thy chest； for 'tis thine own； And tumble up
and down what thou find'st there
Well； I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal。
Melancholy； I suppose； is the curse of the thinking classes； but I confess
my soul wears a great uneasiness these days！ The sudden and amazing
turnover in human affairs； dramatic beyond anything in history； already
seems to be taken as a matter of course。 My great fear is that humanity
will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war； which have never been told。
I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they
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really saw。
You will not agree with me on what I am about to say； for I know you
as a stubborn Republican； but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the
Peace Conference。 I've been mulling over one of my favourite books it
lies beside me as I writeCromwell's Letters and Speeches； edited by
Carlyle； with what Carlyle amusingly calls 〃Elucidations。〃 （Carlyle is not
very good at 〃elucidating〃 anything！） I have heard somewhere or other
that this is one of Wilson's favourite books； and indeed； there is much of
the Cromwell in him。 With what a grim； covenanting zeal he took up the
sword when at last it was forced into his hand！ And I have been thinking
that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what
old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658〃If we will have
Peace without a worm in it； lay we foundations of Justice and
Righteousness。〃 What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is
that he operates exclusively upon reason； not upon passion。 He
contradicts Kipling's famous lines； which apply to most men
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate
conclusion in unmitigated act。
In this instance； I think； Reason is going to win。 I feel the whole
current of the world setting in that direction。
It's quaint to think of old Woodrow； a kind of Cromwell…Wordsworth；
going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell…craters。 What I'm
waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book
about it。 There's a job； if you like； for a man who might reasonably be
supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul！ When that book comes out
I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it。 I ask nothing better！ Speaking
of Wordsworth； I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some
poems concealed somewhere among his papers！ I've always imagined that
he may have written poems on the sly。 And by the way； you needn't make
fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert。 Do you realize that
two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen；
viz。：
Wouldst thou both eat thy cake； and have it？
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