PERHAPS THE GREATEST rare-book dealer in the history of the United States was Abraham Simon Wolf Rosenbach (1876–1952), who also was a collector of rare books and manuscripts. As a bookseller he was noted for his exceptional scholarship and business acumen.
He received his undergraduate and Ph.D. degrees from the University of Pennsylvania, where he was a teaching fellow for six years before joining with his brother to found the Rosenbach Company; he specialized in books and his brother in antiques. The firm soon became the most lucrative bookselling business in the world, boasting such clients as J. Pierpont Morgan and Henry Huntington. The Rosenbach Company acquired and sold an unimaginable eight Gutenberg Bibles and thirty Shakespeare first folios. During the course of his career, Rosenbach is said to have spent about seventy-five million dollars at auctions.
Among much else, he was particularly noted for his magnificent collection of children’s books, ultimately donated to the Philadelphia Free Library. His book on the subject, Early American Children’s Books (1933), is still regarded as a standard reference book. He was a frequent writer on bibliographical and literary subjects, producing numerous articles and books, including Books and Bidders (1927) and A Book Hunter’s Holiday (1936). His one effort in fiction, The Unpublishable Memoirs (1917), features a bibliophile who finds methods of adding books to his collection that he might otherwise not have found attainable.
“The Unpublishable Memoirs” was originally published in The Unpublishable Memoirs (New York, Mitchell Kennerley, 1917).
IT WAS VERY CRUEL.
He was dickering for one of the things he had desired for a lifetime.
It was in New York at one of the famous book-stores of the metropolis. The proprietor had offered to him for one hundred and sixty dollars—exactly the amount he had in bank—the first and only edition of the “Unpublishable Memoirs” of Beau Brummel, a little volume issued in London in 1790, and one of two copies known, the other being in the famous “hidden library” of the British Museum.
It was a scandalous chronicle of fashionable life in the eighteenth century, and many brilliant names were implicated therein; distinguished and reputable families, that had long been honoured in the history of England, were ruthlessly depicted with a black and venomous pen. He had coveted this book for years, and here it was within his grasp! He had just told the proprietor that he would take it.
Robert Hooker was a book-collector. With not a great deal of money, he had acquired a few of the world’s most sought after treasures. He had laboriously saved his pennies, and had, with the magic of the bibliophile, turned them into rare volumes! He was about to put the evil little book into his pocket when he was interrupted.
A large, portly man, known to book-lovers the world over, had entered the shop and asked Mr. Rodd if he might examine the Beau Brummel Memoirs. He had looked at it before, he said, but on that occasion had merely remarked that he would call again. He saw the volume on the table in front of Hooker, picked it up without ceremony, and told the owner of the shop that he would purchase it.
“Excuse me,” exclaimed Hooker, “but I have just bought it.”
“What!” said the opulent John Fenn, “I came especially to get it.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fenn,” returned the proprietor, “Mr. Hooker, here, has just said that he would take it.”
“Now, look here, Rodd, I’ve always been a good customer of yours. I’ve spent thousands in this very shop during the last few years. I’ll give you two hundred dollars for it.”
“No,” said Rodd.
“Three hundred!” said Fenn.
“No.”
“Four hundred!”
“No.”
“I’ll give you five hundred dollars for it, and if you do not take it, I shall never enter this place again!”
Without another word Rodd nodded, and Fenn quickly grasped the little book, and placed it in the inside pocket of his coat. Hooker became angry and threatened to take it by bodily force. A scuffle ensued. Two clerks came to the rescue, and Fenn departed triumphantly with the secrets of the noble families of Great Britain securely in his possession.
Rodd, in an ingratiating manner, declared to Hooker that no money had passed between them, and consequently there had been no sale. Hooker, disappointed, angry, and beaten, could do nothing but retire.
At home, among his books, his anger increased. It was the old, old case of the rich collector gobbling up the small one. It was outrageous! He would get even—if it cost him everything. He dwelt long and bitterly upon his experience. A thought struck him. Why not prey upon the fancies of the wealthy! He would enter the lists with them; he would match his skill against their money, his knowledge against their purse.
Hooker was brought up in the mystic lore of books, for he was the son of a collector’s son. He had always been a student, and half his time had been spent in the bookseller’s shops, dreaming of the wonderful editions of Chaucer, of Shakespeare, of rare Ben Jonson, that some day he might call his own. He would now secure the priceless things dearest to the hearts of men, at no cost to himself!
He would not limit his choice to books, which were his first love, but he would help himself to the fair things that have always delighted the soul—pictures, like those of Raphael and da Vinci; jewels, like Cellini’s; little bronzes, like Donatello’s; etchings of Rembrandt; the porcelains (True Ming!) of old China; the rugs of Persia the magnificent!
The idea struck him at first as ludicrous and impossible. The more he thought of it, the more feasible it became. He had always been a good mimic, a fair amateur actor, a linguist, and a man of parts. He possessed scholarly attainments of a high order. He would use all of his resources in the game he was about to play. For nothing deceives like education!
And it had another side—a brighter, more fantastic side. Think of the fun he would get out of it! This appealed to him. Not only could he add to his collections the most beautiful treasures of the world, but he would now taste the keenest of joys—he would laugh and grow fat at the other man’s expense. It was always intensely humorous to observe the discomfiture of others.
With particular pleasure Hooker read that evening in the Post this insignificant paragraph:
“John Fenn, President of the Tenth National Bank of Chicago, departs for home tonight.”
He laid the paper down immediately, telephoned to the railroad office for a reservation in the sleeping-car leaving at midnight, and prepared for his first “banquet.” Hooker shaved off his moustache, changed his clothes and his accent, and took the train for Chicago.
As luck would have it, John Fenn was seated next to him in the smoking-car, reading the evening papers. Hooker took from his pocket a book catalogue, issued by one of the great English auction houses. He knew that was the best bait! No book-lover that ever lived could resist dipping into a sale catalogue.
Hooker waited an hour—it seemed like five. Fenn read every word in the papers, even the advertisements. He dwelt long and lovingly over the financial pages, running his eyes up and down the columns of “to-day’s transactions.” He at last finished the perusal, and glanced at Hooker. He said nothing for awhile, and appeared restless, like a man with money weighing on his mind. This, of course, is a very distracting and unpleasant feeling. Several times he seemed on the verge of addressing his fellow-traveller, but desisted from the attempt. Finally he said:
“I see, friend, that you’re reading one of Sotheby’s catalogues.”
“Yes,” answered Hooker, shortly.
“You must be interested in books,” pursued Fenn.
“Yes,” was the brief response.
“Do you collect them?”
“Yes.”
Fenn said nothing for five minutes. The stranger did not appear to be very communicative.
“Pardon me, Mr. ——, I am also a book-collector. I have quite a fine library of my own.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I always visit the shops when I go to New York. Here is a rarity I picked up to-day.”
The stranger expressed little interest until Fenn took from his pocket the “Unpublishable Memoirs.” It was wrapped neatly in paper, and Fenn carefully removed the little volume from the wrappings. He handed it to the man who perused so assiduously the auction catalogue.
“How extraordinary!” he cried, “the lost book of old Brummel. My people were acquainted with the Beau. I suppose they are grilled right merrily in it! Of all places, how did you come to purchase it in the States?”
“That’s quite a story. A queer thing how I bought it. I saw it the other day at Rodd’s on Fifth Avenue. I did not buy it at first—the price was too high. Thought I would be able to buy it later for less. This morning, I went to see Rodd to make an offer on it, when I found that Rodd had just sold it to some young student. The confounded simpleton said it belonged to him! What did that trifler know about rare books? Now I know how to appreciate them.”
“Naturally!” said the stranger.
“I’ve the finest collection in the West. I had to pay a stiff advance before the proprietor would let me have it. It was a narrow squeak—by about a minute. The young jackass tried to make a scene, but I taught him a thing or two. He’ll not be so perky next time. How my friends will enjoy this story of the killing. I can’t wait until I get home.”
The stranger with the freshly-shaven face, the English clothes, and the austere eyes did not seem particularly pleased.
“How extraordinary!” he said, coldly, and returned to his reading.
Fenn placed the book in his pocket, a pleased expression on his face, as if he were still gloating over his conquest. He was well satisfied with his day, so intellectually spent among the banks and book-shops of New York!
“By the way, I am acquainted with this Rodd,” said the Englishman, after a pause. “He told me a rather interesting story the other day, but it was in a way a boomerang. I don’t like that man’s methods. I’ll never buy a book from him.”
“Why not?” asked the inquisitive Mr. Fenn.
“Well, you’d better hear the tale. It appears he has a wealthy client in Chicago and he occasionally goes out to sell him some of his plunder. He did not tell me the name of his customer, but, according to Rodd, he is an ignoramus and knows nothing at all about books. Thinks it improves his social position. You know the type. Last winter Rodd picked up for fifty dollars a beautifully illuminated copy of Magna Charta issued about a hundred years ago. It’s a fine volume, printed on vellum, the kind that Dibdin raved about, but always considered a ‘plug’ in England. Worth about forty guineas at the most. You know the book?”
Fenn nodded.
“Well, it worried Mr. Rodd how much he could ask his Western patron for it. He left for Chicago via Philadelphia and while he was waiting in the train there he thought he could ask two hundred dollars for it. The matter was on his mind until he arrived at Harrisburg, where he determined that three hundred would be about right. At Pittsburgh he raised the price to five hundred, and at Canton, Ohio, it was seven hundred and fifty! The more Rodd thought of the exquisite beauty of the volume, of its glowing colors and its lovely old binding, the more the price soared. At Fort Wayne, Indiana, it was a thousand dollars. When he arrived at Chicago the next morning, his imagination having had full swing, he resolved he would not under any circumstances part with it for less than two thousand dollars!”
“The old thief!” exclaimed Fenn, with feeling.
“It was a lucky thing,” continued the stranger, “that his client did not live in San Francisco!”
At this Fenn broke forth into profanity.
“I always said that Rodd was an unprincipled, unholy, unmitigated—”
“Wait until you hear the end, sir,” said the Englishman.
“That afternoon he called on the Western collector. He had an appointment with him at two o’clock. He left Rodd waiting in an outside office for hours. Rodd told me he was simply boiling. Went all the way to Chicago by special request and the brute made him cool his heels until four o’clock before he condescended to see him. He would pay dearly for it. When Rodd showed him the blooming book he asked three thousand five hundred for it—would not take a penny less—and he told me, sir, that he actually sold it for that price!”
“Don’t you believe it,” said Fenn, hotly. “Old Rodd is an unqualified liar. He sold it for five thousand dollars. That’s what he did, the damn pirate!”
“How do you know, sir?”
“How do I know, know, know!” he repeated, excitedly. “I ought to know! I’m the fool that bought it!”
Without another word Fenn retired to his stateroom.
The next morning when Fenn arrived at his office in the Fenn Building, he called to one of his business associates, who, like his partner, was interested in the acquisition of rare and unusual books.
“I say, Ogden, I have something great to show you. Picked it up yesterday. In this package is the wickedest little book ever written!”
“Let me see it!” said Mr. Ogden, eagerly.
Fenn gingerly removed the paper in which it was wrapped, as he did not wish to injure the precious contents. He turned suddenly pale. Ogden glanced quickly at the title-page for fear he would be seen with the naughty little thing in his hands.
It was a very ordinary volume, entitled, “A Sermon on Covetousness, a Critical Exposition of the Tenth Commandment by the Rev. Charles Wesley.”
“The devil!” exclaimed John Fenn.
“How the old dodge works,” said Robert Hooker to himself on his way back to New York. “The duplicate package, known since the days of Adam! And how easy it was to substitute it under his very eyes! I shall call Beau Brummel’s ‘Unpublishable Memoirs’ number one in my new library.”