Old Books, Rare Friends

by Madeline B. Stern

  In the Paris district Issy-Les-Moulineaux he presided over a small and dilapidated château, which housed his wife, Monique, his boxer, Zouboulou, and his magnificent collection of books and pamphlets on political theory and French history. His extreme erudition was surpassed only by his Gallic patriotism: Monsieur Bernstein actually believed that the French Revolution had influenced the American! We visited him annually for many years, studying his fiches, or descriptive slips, and handing him our selections. Short, pale, precise, he would look at them, nod approvingly, walk to his ceiling-high bookcases, his gummed shoes creaking, immediately find the work he sought, and proudly carry it to us. He spoke nothing but French, although we were sure he understood many languages. A day with Monsieur Bernstein was guaranteed to exhaust—but it was also an education. It was he who educated us about the desirability of a certain discourse by a celebrated French publicist.

  By then Monsieur Bernstein had moved to the heart of the Left Bank in the Sixth Arrondissement, the center of the antiquarian trade. His procedure, however, was unchanged. As we were going through his fiches, Leona picked out a slip describing a Discours sur la Polysynodie, by the Abbé Saint-Pierre, published in 1719. As Monsieur Bernstein brought the little octavo to us, he looked down his nose at it and remarked, “This second edition is nothing much. But, my friends, if ever you find this book in its first edition of 1718 in a larger, quarto format—buy it. Buy it, whatever it costs, and then sell it to me. I have been looking for it all my life, and I would pay anything to own it.” When we inquired about his reasons, Monsieur Bernstein explained that the Abbé Saint-Pierre had described in his Polysynodie a new plan of government and had produced a great landmark in the history of political theory. However, like most innovations, his discourse had been regarded as anti-establishment and had been censored. Its printer was arrested and nearly all copies of this first edition had been suppressed. If any was still around, it was “rarissime.”

  A few days after Monsieur Bernstein’s lecture on the Abbé Saint-Pierre’s revolutionary treatise, we strolled the cobbled walks of the Left Bank to the rue des Écoles and entered the bookshop of Monsieur Thiebaud. Despite his blue eyes and white hair, Monsieur Thiebaud closely resembled a wily fox. He was guarded by three female assistants while he guarded his establishment, especially the upstairs portion, from any undesirables. Although we were always welcome to the main floor, we were not permitted to the upper floor, which contained not only Monsieur Thiebaud’s uncatalogued recent acquisitions but his W.C.—a situation that often made for some uncomfortable moments. On this particular occasion, however, we were well content with the main floor. Almost as soon as we entered the establishment and glanced at the bookshelves, we saw in front of us a large quarto volume bound in calf with the arms of a nobleman impressed in gilt on the spine. We drew it from the shelf. This time we really could not believe our eyes. Monsieur Bernstein had given us a lengthy lesson on the first edition of the Discours sur la Polysynodie, published in 1718 in quarto size, censored, and suppressed. Now it was in our hands. We looked at each other with a wild surmise, not from a peak in Darien, but from a librairie on Paris’s Left Bank; we had found Monsieur Bernstein’s long-sought discourse in “rarissime” first edition, and we had found it for him in his own backyard.

  Serendipity accompanied us not only in the Sixth Arrondissement of Paris but, one year, as far off as the Fourteenth. There, in the Alésia section, we concluded our Paris stay with a purchase that could not have been more appropriate. Although we had originally met when teaching Sabbath School and should have been aware of the day, we had completely forgotten—far away from home—that the Jewish New Year was about to begin. We were a trifle surprised when the proprietor, Monsieur Lévy, looked somewhat disconcerted as we entered his bookshop.

  “I am just about to close for the Holy Day,” he told us. Then it dawned on us. “We’ll just be a minute,” we apologetically replied.

  “I’ll phone my wife and tell her I’ll be a little late.”

  It did not take us much more than a minute to find the most fitting accompaniment for the Holy Day that was about to begin. The purchase we made from Monsieur Lévy at that propitious moment was Der ludenstaat, by Theodor Herzl. The great Zionist plea for a national homeland for the Jews had been published in Warsaw in 1896, the first Hebrew edition of a book that would lead to action. In 1948 the author’s dream was realized and the State of Israel took its place among the nations of the world. Now, on the eve of the Jewish New Year, we had found Der Iudenstaat. Monsieur Lévy shook our hands as we made the purchase. “You could not have selected anything more fitting to commemorate the day,” he said, “Happy New Year. Gut Yontif.”

  We showed off some of our serendipitous finds in our catalogues. Mostly, however, we tried to shape our catalogues around a specific theme—a country, as in La Belle France—an era, as in The Century of Conflict (the seventeenth century). One of our most successful catalogues around this time viewed its subject from a new perspective. Instead of rehashing the age of the Renaissance we emphasized the personalities of the Renaissance, and we called our catalogue The Man of the Renaissance. There were 425 items in it, broken down into 27 sections. Each section was devoted to the followers of a particular profession, from “The Advocate” and “The Artist” to “The Statesman” and “The Tax-Collector.” In between were “Courtier” and “Dramatist,” “Historian” and “Philosopher,” “Physician” and “Poet,” “Ruler” and “Scientist.” In that way we humanized not only the Renaissance but our presentation of that age—our catalogue. Among our highlights were Vasari’s Lives of the Artists, Machiavelli’s Prince, Petrarch’s Sonnets, Rabelais’s Letters. But all the 425 items, whether highlights or lesser lights, reflected the age through the individual and brought it intimately into the ken of the collector. Our catalogue’s cover breathed the spirit of the Renaissance. It was adorned with a portrait of the condottiere, the Marquis of Pescara, in his plumed helmet and full armor.

  Cover, contents, entire catalogue evoked the praise of our peers as well as of our customers. Clifford Maggs, of 50 Berkeley Square, hit the nail on the head when he wrote that he was “much impressed with your idea of stressing the man and not the impersonal subject. ‘The Advocate’ is more stimulating a heading than ‘Law,’ and so on. My warm congratulations.” Another dealer, of the London firm of Stevens and Brown, assured us that “this is the kind of catalogue that starts people off collecting—just what is wanted as an offset to the depressing displaced commas of the bibliographical fanatics.” And librarians too expressed their enthusiasm even when they did not buy—Moses Marx, the distinguished Curator of Hebrew Theological Seminary, commenting upon the “excellent organization of material” and the “very fine description of the books,” and Lawrence Wroth of the John Carter Brown Library, letting us know “how much the catalogue was admired by the staff.”

  Very soon a professor at Rutgers was soliciting copies of our catalogues to use “for instructional purposes in connection with a course called ‘Building Library Collections.’ ” Our reputation was growing, a development that stimulated us to reach still higher. By the time the four hundredth anniversary of Shakespeare’s birth was celebrated, we had the temerity to issue a catalogue for that great occasion. We had not one Shakespeare folio; we had no quartos. Nonetheless, we applied what we had to our purpose and designed a catalogue containing one or two books published each year of Shakespeare’s life. Each book was captioned with a quotation from a Shakespeare play, a challenge that gave us much delight and pleased our customers no end. Books Published During Shakespeare’s Lifetime covered the years 1564 to 1616. Under the date 1566, and under the caption “O brave new world,” we offered Sir Thomas More’s Latin works, including the Utopia; under the date 1587, we described an oration on the death of Francesco de Medici, headed with the quotation “Good-night, sweet prince.” Our labor of love evoked fine responses, the most gratifying of all coming from Lola Szladits, the unforgettable
head of the Berg Collection at the New York Public Library. Lola wrote: “Yr. catalogue is worthy of the Globe and the Bard … I read it (twice) from 0 to End and enjoyed myself hugely. I bet you did too. Concept, timing, presentation are all brilliant and I salute you.”

  Despite our reluctance to take a downtown office, there was no doubt that the firm was expanding. A variety of customers found their way to our house on the hill in the Bronx. A day or two after our return from our trip abroad in 1949 we found David Wagstaff of Tuxedo Park at our doorstep. A noted collector of books on hunting and dogs, he had somehow heard on the bibliophilic grapevine that Rostenberg and Stern had purchased a book in Latin entitled De Canibus Britannicis (On British Dogs). Excitedly, he fondled the volume, all but ignoring our own American dog, Leona’s beautiful Irish terrier Bonaventure Elzevier Rostenberg.

  Unlike Mr. Wagstaff, who was after a single book, Mabel Erler ventured to the Bronx to select in bulk. Mabel prided herself on her position as Acquisitions Chief of Chicago’s Newberry Library, but there was nothing at all stiff or formal about her: “I’m pretty good for a small-town gal from Kansas.” Mabel loved books, bridge, and gin—not necessarily in that order. She appeared at East 179th Street at 11 A.M. during a heavy snowstorm, seated herself at a desk, and plowed through our book descriptions, a martini at her side. By evening she had selected some fifty books, fortified herself with additional martinis, and was ready to relax over a game of bridge. Eventually marrying the Director of the Newberry Library, Mabel came a long way. But she never really changed. Outspoken, natural, in love with fun, she was always the small-town gal from Kansas and the bookseller’s friend.

  From the sedate and beautiful “Molly” Pitcher, of the Folger Shakespeare Library, to Lord John Kerr, who pinched snuff while he scanned the shelves, we welcomed a variety of browsers and prospective customers. When George White, head of the Geology Department of the University of Illinois, came for lunch and books, Leona’s charming mother took special pains to put him at ease by animatedly discussing the geology of the Grand Canyon.

  By 1957 the New York Public Library had chosen us to act as its representatives at New York auctions, and later we served as agents for the Library of Congress, representing it at the extensive and highly publicized Streeter Sales of Americana at the Parke-Bernet Galleries. We were coming into our own.

  Our correspondence testified to our expansion. Letters came to us postmarked from Buenos Aires, Australia, and Nigeria, and some of them were bibliophilic curiosities. A gentleman from Buenos Aires informed us that he had no interest in a book’s subject or editor or date; all he wanted was books that measured less than eight centimeters for a “library of small volumes.” An Australian collector hoped to obtain from us books, paintings, and manuscripts “preferably dating before 1000 A.D.” A Nigerian hopeful wrote that it was his “sincere desire to order 2400 medical books to replace a collection that had been destroyed.” And from nearby New Jersey we received the offer of a 1569 Luther Bible, fourteen inches wide, sixteen inches long, and ten inches thick (worth a few hundred dollars), for which the owners hoped “only to realize a reasonable price offer, which would enable my husband, myself & our 4 young children to purchase a small home.”

  Madeleine OUR MOTHERS TOOK AS MUCH pleasure in such letters as we did. They chuckled over them and recognized them as tokens of our expanding reputation. By early 1957 Leona’s mother, who had welcomed Professor White with her winning charm, began to withdraw. In early March she suffered a fatal heart attack. Her great loss left the house on the hill almost empty and Leona heartsick for months to come. She stayed on with Babette and the books. Gradually she felt a sense of freedom and spent much time with my mother and me.

  My mother had been far more than a mother to me. She had not only made a home that spread a warm and loving protective cloak around her daughter; she had been for me an intellectual companion, a sounding board for my writings, a creative source. She may have pushed me forward, but she never demanded anything else from me. “You must lead your own life,” she had always insisted. Then, in 1958, after a brief illness, she died. Her shocking loss, the end of such a relationship, left me feeling like an amputee. Even during our brief book hunt abroad in the fall of 1958, that feeling persisted. The return home was especially difficult, since there was no mother at the dock to greet us.

  There was never any real question as to our future. I simply moved into the Bronx house on the hill. The partners and friends now became companions for the life to be. Now we were on our own—but too we were truly together.

  ABAA

  Madeleine THE ABAA is really an anomaly in terminology. The letters stand for Antiquarian Booksellers Association of America. Antiquarian booksellers not only in America but all over the world are, almost without exception, individuals sufficient unto themselves, and the word “association” would seem to have no connection with them. Antiquarian booksellers may not live in an ivory tower, but they assuredly do live in a world of their own devising. And yet, in 1949—the same year the North Atlantic Treaty Organization was shaped by the Allies of World War II—a group of strongly individualistic antiquarian booksellers actually banded together to form an association.

  We were among them. True, being so young in the trade, we were shy, if not fearful, sat together in the rear at meetings, and never enunciated an opinion. But we were there, and by the time five years had passed we moved up front to the first row. By then we were part of a closely knit group of antiquarians who discussed the technical points of books, explored second-hand shops together, relished country picnics in the summer and vociferous dinner parties in the winter. The role of women in the ABAA was never discussed. We were accepted without question in the ranks of antiquarian booksellers, but—as of today—of the twenty-four presidents of our association only three have been women. Leona was one of them, but that did not happen until 1972.

  Meanwhile, like all the other members, we were learning the meaning of association and were developing a point of view about our trade to present to the public. When Radio Station WNYC, under the leadership of Ben Grauer, the well-known announcer, collector, and staunch friend of antiquarian booksellers, launched a program on aspects of book collecting, Leona participated. With all the panel she deplored newspaper headlines that featured millionaire princes as collectors and ignored the real backbone of the trade, the faithful, specialized collector of lesser means.

  Antiquarian booksellers all over the world had found that, despite differences in nationality and individuality, they shared a common purpose: to make rare books understandable, desirable, a part of modern life. The ABAA was a member nation of the International League of Antiquarian Booksellers, which by 1954 was hosting biennial congresses in different cities. In 1954 the city selected for the congress was Vienna, and we were among the American delegates. After two days in occupied Vienna, I recorded my impressions in my journal:

  Europe in limbo—Wien in transition—imperial, regal, monstrous architecture in decay—stone houses dilapidated & frequently riddled with bullet holes. Military police in evidence. East plus West. The Russian soldiers are everywhere but completely withdrawn & uncommunicative. It is a captive city, the prey of 4 nations … The city is one of the greatest contrasts: Renaissance, Hapsburg, Baroque, 19th-century dullness, Karl Marx Community houses & Russian occupation coupled with delightful café life, beggars, Tyrolean costumes and superb sacher torte & apfel strudel!

  In early September there were also antiquarian booksellers from all over the world in Vienna. They convened for a general assembly and we sat with the American delegation, our flag waving, all chauvinistically greeting one another. Despite the party politicking and the cliqueing, we came to know each other and enjoy each other over dinner at the Café Mozart or tea at Sacher’s, at the Heuriger in celebration of the new wine or at a performance of Fledermaus. We bought books from the Viennese dealers and strengthened friendships with the American delegates and learned more about the nature of ass
ociation.

  We learned a little something about internationalism, too. Leona caused a minor crisis by informing the Directress of Seating Arrangements for the Farewell Banquet that she would not sit where she had been placed—with the German delegation. After her experiences in Strasbourg, after the revelations of the Holocaust, she simply could not bring herself even to an appearance of civility with the German booksellers. As a result, we were advised that, if we were not sufficiently international-minded, we should not have attended an international conference. All of which was of course true, but at the time neither of us was sufficiently objective to realize it.

  As the ABAA was part of a larger international organization, the Middle Atlantic Chapter was part of the ABAA. By 1956 Leona was elected chair of MAC. Lively, well-attended, her meetings featured talks by librarians and collectors, discussions about cooperative catalogues issued by a group of members, and bookish chitchat. A few years later I followed as chair of MAC, achieving record attendance at meetings in the Club 1407 Restaurant and eventually launching a landmark event in the history of the American antiquarian book trade: the first rare book fair in the United States.

  This seminal undertaking, which would spark a book fair contagion spreading to every hamlet in the country, began with my query at an MAC meeting: “Why don’t we have a book fair?” News of the first British antiquarian fair and its success had reached all of us, and the members of MAC were convinced that we could work together in practical and productive cooperation. They were right. The first book fair committee was no advisory committee; it was a working committee. We selected Steinway Concert Hall on New York’s West Fifty-seventh Street as our location and met regularly and frequently to arrange for all the minutiae essential to book fairs: book shelving, display cases and linings for display cases, signs and posters, publicity, announcements and keepsakes, a budget, hours and days for fair number one. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake I had made back at Barnard when I did everything but advertise the Ben Shahn event.