The delight of his youth had become
the burden of his old age. Forty years ago Wormald desired nothing better than
to spend a whole day in book-hunting. Regardless of fatigue and of
shoe-leather, he tramped the
Could he but creep into some quiet corner, and
there lie unmolested, with never a book in sight!
Forty years ago he pictured for himself quite
another close of life. He bore a brain; the world must yield before him;
poverty could not repress his noble rage. Nor was specific hope denied. There
came the moneyed friend, who read and admired his poems -- yea, who bore the expense of printing them. A glorious day! His
little blue volume was the latest birth of time; for this had the great world
toiled and travailed through ages numberless; with this began a new era! Reviewers
gave it but a chilly welcome, the little blue volume. The public sought it not.
No matter! What was the reception of 'Endymion'? What of 'The Revolt of Islam'?
In those days he had a fine head of hair, a
beaming eye, ripe lips that smiled seductively or with disdain. If hunger
pinched him, he did not much care. It was natural to him to walk with gallant
mien -- erectos ad sidera tollere vultus. Now, the poor old hat served
to disguise his baldness; his eyes were rheumy, dim; he plodded looking on the
ground. The world had been too strong for him. No second volume had ever come
forth with his name on the title-page, and of the little blue book not even he
possessed a copy. All he once owned had gone to wreck -- scattered like the
memories of his life in waste places, in remote deeps.
One morning as he stood in the shop making up
his collecting-book, writing to dictation, an incredible thing happened.
'"Songs of Youth." By Alfred
Wormald. Robinson, 1852.'
His hand paused; he looked up at the dictator.
'What? I didn't quite hear ----'
'Some bygone namesake of yours, Mr.
Wormald. "Songs
of Youth" ----'
The details were repeated, and Wormald
mechanically jotted them down. There followed a dozen other books, and the list
was finished; then the collector again spoke.
'Can you tell me whose order that is, sir?' His
voice shook a little. 'The "Songs of Youth" ----'
'Why -- you don't mean to say ----?'
'Yes, I wrote it; I published it ----'
'Ah! Odd thing! Let me see; it's Mr.
Freshwater, of Chiswick. You probably have a copy to dispose of?'
Wormald shook his head, muttered a few
indistinct remarks, and set out for the day's work. But not in his wonted frame
of mind. Instead of making doggedly towards the first point indicated by his
list, he began to stray about the street, abstracted, heedless of duty. Gradually
he was grasping the fact that some mortal desired to obtain his little blue
volume. Such a thing had never happened in his eight years' collectorship; nay,
such a thing had never occurred to him as possible. What could it mean? Who was
Mr. Freshwater, of Chiswick?
At length, having wandered quite out of his
way, he checked himself, and stood staring at tile nearest shop. 'Can't you
understand? It is the very truth. Mr. Freshwater, of Chiswick, wants your book,
has given a special order for it, is eager to obtain it A student of
literature, no doubt; perhaps himself a poet. Some one has spoken to him of
"Songs of Youth." Some one has read passages to him. He was moved
with enthusiasm, with wonder that he had never heard the name of Alfred
Wormald. He wrote at once to his bookseller ----'
The old man straightened himself, seemed to
shake off a score of years. Having a few coppers in his pocket, he made for a
public-house, and drank a glass of spirits. Now he was ready!
That day he sought in vain. Robinson, a
publisher extant in 1852, had long since vanished into space -- forgotten as
the booksellers of old
The volume, as he ascertained (it was become
something of a joke in the shop), had been despatched to Mr. Freshwater on
Friday. On Saturday afternoon, having made himself as presentable as he could,
the old man journeyed to Chiswick. The directory had informed him of Mr.
Freshwater's address; of course, he would not allow his employers to suspect
the purpose in his mind.
A large house; a flue old garden,
just now in summer loveliness. Wormald shook in every limb as he approached the front door. Mr.
Freshwater might not be at home: in that case it would be best to go away
without leaving a name, and to write a letter. Would not the letter have been a
wiser course, to begin with? Well, he was here now, and would take his chance. Yes,
Mr. Freshwater was within. What name? With dry, half-paralysed tongue, he
gasped 'Alfred Wormald,' then hurriedly repeated it, with the prefix 'Mister.'
And he was led through the hall into the
library -- a beautiful, luxurious room, the kind of room which, forty years
ago, would have given his pulses a divine thrill. Mr. Freshwater stood there by
his writing-table; he was a smooth-shaven, shrewd-faced man of middle-age,
tending to corpulency, and he regarded the visitor with a polite surprise.
'Sir -- I am Alfred Wormald.'
'Oh! -- ah! -- I'm
afraid I don't recall your name.'
The old man tottered slightly; his eyes
wandered.
'You have received from your booksellers, sir, a copy of "Songs of Youth" ----'
His tongue failed; he had so strange a look
that Mr. Freshwater began to feel uneasy.
'"Songs of Youth" -- have I? I
suppose my librarian ordered it. A volume of poems, I suppose? How -- what do
you wish to see me about?'
The other, commanding himself, fixed upon Mr.
Freshwater a look not without dignity.
'You collect poetical works, sir?'
'Why, yes, I do. But I must refer you to my
librarian about that. Not all poetical works. I am at present getting
together those published in the Victorian time by houses which have ceased to
exist. Presumably, you are in the trade? Have you a catalogue? By all means
send it. I shall next be turning my attention to early Victorian periodicals. But
by all means send in your catalogue. You had no other business with me?'
'Thank you, sir, that
was all.'
And Wormald withdrew.
'Queer old chap,' Mr. Freshwater murmured to
himself. 'Broken-down bookseller, evidently. There
ought to be a home for them.'
He resumed his seat and the examination of the
latest volume of 'Book Prices Current.'
(Provided by Mitsuharu
Matsuoka, Nagoya University, Japan,
on 11 November 1997.)