The Millionaire and the Bard

by Andrea Mays

  Henry’s personal appeal fell flat. Indeed, Sibthorp’s reply of February 15, 1900, seemed designed to tweak and then torture Folger. The Englishman could not help but notice Henry’s sleight-of-hand reference to the First Folio as “our Shakespeare” (italics added). Sibthorp would have none of it. The irritating American had forfeited all rights to the book. It was not “our Shakespeare” but “my Shakespeare”:

  Indisposition for this house has been suffering from a visitation of the Influenza which has been raging around us is my apology for the delay in acknowledging the receipt of your letter in which you explained fully to me the circumstances of your postponing to complete the purchase of my Shakespeare according to our agreement by the end of last year. Having once consented to accept your offer of £5000 (if paid within the specified time) I was prepared to keep my word, tho I was by no means anxious to part with my Folio.

  That paragraph was designed to make Folger regret his actions. If only he had paid Sibthorp by the end of 1899, and had not demanded a last-minute return privilege, Augustine Vincent’s folio would now be his. Then Sibthorp rubbed salt in Folger’s wounds. He taunted the collector that the folio was even more valuable than anyone had imagined:

  That you were misled in your opinion as to its true value is certain. In spite of Mr. Wheeler’s opinion (Mr. W is unknown to me) I have now the best authority for believing my Folio is the most valuable from its size & interesting as a Presentation Copy, of any Folio known. Under these circumstances you will not be surprised that, with many thanks, I beg to decline £6000. The sum you now generously offer me for it.

  Stung by the response, Folger failed to reply. Instead, he wrote to A. W. Railton on March 2 complaining that Sibthorp had rejected his generous offer of £6,000. Folger suggested that the folio was worth nowhere near that, or even the original price of £5,000. After all, no one else had offered to pay so much:

  Of course we all recognize that the price named by Mr. Sibthorp did not represent the commercial value of the book, he did not so claim or intend. And we were ready to pay the price knowing that we could never sell except at a large loss. Mr. Sibthorp had named the price to others and we conclude received no response. The additional £1000 we now offer is the penalty we are ready to pay for showing any hesitation.

  The American businessman could not comprehend the English gentleman’s stubbornness. Why did he refuse to sell, when Folger had offered to pay much more than the book was worth, and far more than anyone else in the world was willing to pay for it? Folger was as baffled as if a driller had refused to sell him a barrel of crude oil at double the market price. It wasn’t rational.

  What Folger did not know was that Sibthorp was now troubled by concerns more profound than the sale of a book. Just days after his most recent letter to Henry, Coningsby Sibthorp’s wife died of illness on February 19. It was she who had influenced her husband at the outset, telling Railton, “If we take the Cheque we may spend the money, but in taking the book we shall always have a treasure to look at.”

  Sotheran advised Folger to give up. Sibthorp had visited the firm, and both Railton and Mr. Sotheran had worked him over, but the widower still refused to sell. The dealers left Folger with forlorn hope. Sibthorp promised that if he ever changed his mind and decided to sell the book, he would offer it to Sotheran. With that, on March 20, 1900, Sotheran drew a check on Lloyds Bank of London for $23,783 and refunded Folger’s money.

  Henry Folger’s quest for Augustine Vincent’s First Folio ended in bitter failure, but taught him several important lessons, and transformed him as a collector. He learned that there was a crucial difference between business and collecting. As an executive at Standard Oil, he had mastered the art of striking the best financial deal for the firm. If a particular transaction was not profitable, Rockefeller’s vast wealth and resources made it easy to walk away from the negotiating table. There was always more oil to pump from the earth; there were always multiple suppliers; and there was always more kerosene to be refined. Standard never needed to buy one particular barrel of oil pumped from a particular well on a particular day. The supply seemed infinite. Whatever Standard wanted, it could buy in the open market. Henry Folger’s experience with Coningsby Sibthorp taught him that the business principles that had served him well in the oil business could lead to disaster if applied to his pursuit of Shakespeare. Folger’s misguided attempt to get the best deal from Sibthorp distracted him from his true objective: buying the best book. It had been a mistake to bargain over a unique treasure for which there was no substitute. Henry had lost sight of that and had allowed the most desirable First Folio in the world to slip through his fingers. He also learned that money did not always win the day. In business, no one said no to Standard Oil. There was nothing and no one that John D. Rockefeller could not buy, if the price was right. Sibthorp defied Folger’s rational economic universe of supply, demand, and price. Folger had encountered a book, and a man, that money could not buy. The Sibthorp family had occupied Canwick Hall since the eighteenth century, and its current owner, Coningsby Charles Sibthorp, had been a magistrate and High Sheriff of Lincolnshire. His ancient lineage stretched back to Norman times and the Domesday Book. Folger learned how psychology, personality, and pride factored into the buying and selling of rare books. He also learned something about himself as a collector: no price was too high for something he treasured. He was willing to break all precedents and price records in his quest. Most important, from his failure he learned to never hesitate again when he had an opportunity to buy a great book.

  The Sibthorp debacle intensified Folger’s appetite for other fine First Folios. On April 6, 1900, just over two weeks after Sotheran refunded his £5,000, Henry wrote to the dealer, asking Railton to try to buy one of the finest folios in England, then in the collection of the banking heiress Baroness Burdett-Coutts:

  Some months ago, one of our New York book dealers said to me that he had been told that the Burdett-Coutts copy of the First Folio could be purchased. I paid little attention at the time as I had the Sibthorp copy in mind, and also because I felt that if there was any truth in the rumor you would know about it and would not fail to advise me. Have you heard anything, and if not can you make some judicious inquiries? Should you learn anything favorable, please get [first] refusal and advise me of the price. You know there are two copies in the Burdett-Coutts library. I will be glad to secure both if the price is not prohibitive. This is not to displace any effort to get the Sibthorp copy. I am ready to buy all, at any figures not ridiculously high.

  The phrase “I am ready to buy all” shows how far Folger had advanced as a Shakespearian. His quest for the Sibthorp copy had been a trial by fire from which he emerged a more aggressive and decisive collector. Now he was willing to digest three copies simultaneously: Sibthorp’s at £8,000 and the two Burdett-Coutts copies at probably £5,000 each on average. His April 6 letter was one of several communications in 1900 between him and Railton about teasing folios and other important books in English private collections onto the market. Having lost the Augustine Vincent First Folio, Folger targeted the Baroness and began another long quest for her copies. On April 21, Railton posted a prompt reply and promised to chase down news of her folios.

  Folger now asked Railton to pursue other folios and rare books all over England, whether or not they were for sale. If Sibthorp’s hitherto unknown copy had turned up in a dusty coach house, who knew what other neglected treasures awaited discovery in the town and country houses of Edwardian Britain? The Vincent copy stirred up something inside Folger. Now he wanted to go after all the best copies, and the best libraries. The Vincent pursuit emboldened him—and its failure made him insatiable. Folger was also racing against a ticking clock. He feared that Lee’s forthcoming Census would make it more difficult and more expensive to buy First Folios.

  On December 29, 1900, Railton wrote Folger a long letter to bring him up-to-date on the results of his multiple inquiries. He reported that, as a general matter,
Folger could no longer hope to operate in secret with Sotheran acting as his front man. “I cannot well advertise your wants in the trade here,” Railton wrote, “as you are now well known to the majority [of dealers] as a collector and they naturally prefer to sell direct to you” and cut out Sotheran as the middleman. Folger’s passion was affecting the entire market for First Folios and other choice books. “The leading auctioneers as well as their catalogues are in full sympathy with us and spirit me early advice of any good Shakespeariana,” Railton reported, but “on account of the high prices obtained under the hammer they naturally do not care to sell privately.”

  Railton then advised Folger on the status of the best copies in private hands, beginning with the one owned by the dreaded master of Canwick Hall: “1st Mr. Sibthorp—you may quite rely upon his keeping his word to the effect that if he sells we shall have the offer. We are on the best terms possible with him and no opportunity will be lost should an opening occur of reminding him—unfortunately he does not require money.”

  Railton ran down the list:

  2nd Baroness Burdett-Coutts copy since my interview with her secretary I consider the matter hopeless.

  3rd The Ellesmere Collection: I am assured by the agent will not be sold during the life of the present owner; if any chance I should be in the market we shall hear early.

  4th the Duke of Devonshire is too well off & his library is too well known to admit the possibility of its sale.

  5th I know of several folios in private hands but there is only one where I have the slightest hope of tempting, should he consent I shall get a full description of each volume and advise you. . . . You are probably aware that a facsimile reproduction of the first folio is in progress and when issued will contain a preface by Mr. Lee.

  And speaking of Sidney Lee, continued Railton, the bibliographer threatened to become a vexatious intermeddler in the market for First Folios. “Meantime he has appealed to owners of copies of the first folio to send him particulars for registration so that as far as possible the sale of copies for America or elsewhere may be stopped; of course we have no sympathy with this scheme at some time it will have a deterrent effect on owners selling who have registered, unless in the case of death or hard pressure for money.” It was naïve of Lee—and Railton—to suppose that national pride and fear of shame would stop the owner of a First Folio listed in the Census from selling the book abroad.

  For the next year and a half, from December 1900 until the summer of 1902, Henry Folger made no progress in his pursuit of the Augustine Vincent First Folio. By midsummer, Mr. Sotheran reminded Coningsby Sibthorp that Folger still wanted the book. On July 16, Sibthorp wrote Sotheran that now was not the time, but gave him permission to ask him about it once a year:

  In reply to your letter of July 14 I write first to assure you that you are always at liberty to communicate with me about any of my Books. At the present time there would be an outcry in my own family (& outside it) if I parted with the particular book you allude to, that I cannot entertain Mr. Folger’s renewed offer.

  If it would be any satisfaction to him you are welcome to write to me once a year on the subject (say at Xmas time) to ascertain if there be any change in my views.

  Despite Sibthorp’s protestations, Folger’s failure to close the deal in the fall of 1899 when he had the chance had left an opening for others to pursue the Vincent Folio. He was not the only collector who knew about the treasure, and it was only a matter of time before some other supplicant journeyed to Canwick Hall and knocked on Sibthorp’s door. With each passing year, the value of the Vincent Folio climbed ever higher in Sibthorp’s mind. In the meantime, English prejudice against American collectors ripened. On August 16, 1902, the New York Times published an article—“England’s Shakespearean Losses”—encapsulating the resentment over the “well-known fact that Great Britain is practically drained of purchasable examples of the early editions of Shakespeare’s plays” and of “the manner in which England is losing the most valuable memorials of her literature.” The author of the article, Robert F. Roden, quoted an article by Sidney Lee, “The Shakespeare First Folio,” which had circulated in England in early 1899:

  Public sentiment ought to demand that whenever any specially valuable Shakespearean treasure, which should be regarded as a national treasure comes into the market, the Director of such a national institution as the British Museum should have funds placed by the Government at his disposal to enable him to enter into competition on something like level ground with American amateurs.

  Roden, sympathetic to Britannia’s plight, editorialized, “that was three years ago, and our bibliographical invasion of England has not ceased. Her losses during that time, particularly in the Shakespearean department, were never greater. Mr. Lee and the London Times may well ask themselves, ‘What is the end to be?’ ”

  Would that sentiment influence Coningsby Sibthorp? In the fall of 1902, Sibthorp, despite the numerous assurances he had given Sotheran and Folger, tested the market for his First Folio without telling them. Instead, he went to America’s nemesis, Sidney Lee. By now Sibthorp possessed a copy of Lee’s Census, which allowed him to compare the tantalizing qualities of his folio with all the other known copies. Its dual status as the tallest and only surviving presentation copy intoxicated him with delusions of monetary grandeur.

  On October 25, before Lee sailed for America to examine rare books and meet important collectors, he wrote to Sibthorp, asking if his folio was for sale. Sibthorp wrote back on November 1:

  I am much obliged for your letter of the 25th. I have received several offers to purchase my 1st Folio Edition of Shakespeare. An American gentleman (but not your friend Mr. Perry of Providence) offered me £6000 for it and I declined it. I do not wish to sell the Book. But if Mr. Perry (or anyone else) were to offer me £10000 I might be tempted to part with it.

  Sibthorp had betrayed Folger’s and Sotheran’s trust. He had told Lee enough to expose Henry’s identity—in 1902 only two other Americans, J. P. Morgan and Henry Folger, could possibly have been in the market for such an expensive book. Not only had Sibthorp hinted at Folger’s identity, but he had disclosed the amount of Folger’s confidential offer of £6,000, and he had all but offered to sell it to one of his chief competitors, Marsden Perry of Rhode Island. Perry, a collector driven with fervor and means that matched Folger’s, must have thought the price mad—more than three times the highest sum ever paid for a First Folio—and declined to pursue the book.

  Three weeks after Christmas 1902, on January 17, 1903, Railton mailed to Sibthorp what the dealer assumed was no more than the first of the dutiful, annual letters that Sibthorp had invited him to write concerning the First Folio. Railton had no reason to hope that the resentful eccentric had changed his mind. Sibthorp dispatched a reply that must have shocked and annoyed Railton. Without telling Folger or the Sotheran firm, he had put his Vincent Folio in play:

  During last year another American gentleman (not your Mr. Folger) inquired if I were disposed to sell the 1st Folio in the Canwick Library. I replied that I had been offered and declined £6,000 that I did not wish to sell it, but that if he would offer me £10,000 I would “consider the matter.”

  Had Sibthorp broken his gentleman’s promise to sell the book through Sotheran? Railton wondered. Folger would never forgive the firm if the folio were lost. The next sentence broke the tension: “As I have heard nothing further from the said gentleman, he considers no doubt the price to be prohibitive. So do I.” Sibthorp tried to reassure Railton: “I may add that I would not have accepted £10,000 without giving you the first refusal. You are welcome to continue to write once a year to inquire if I am still of the same mind.” But how could Railton be sure? Why had Sibthorp all but offered to sell the book months ago to a third party for £10,000, but failed to offer Sotheran the same courtesy? What if one of Folger’s rivals decided to actually pay this exorbitant, even absurd, price? Could Sibthorp be trusted anymore to not sell Sotheran out?
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  Railton was not going to wait another year to send an annual Christmas supplication letter to Sibthorp. The distressing news demanded instant action. On January 22, Sotheran sent a coded cable to Folger. In the course of their dealings, Folger and Sotheran often used code words in their cables to keep the details of their business—names or dollar amounts—secret. Folger received the following message: “Bookmen to Folger. Isoscele might buy folio shall we offer.” At this critical moment, Henry had forgotten the secret meaning of the word “Isoscele.” On January 23 he sent an urgent cable to London: “Folger to Bookmen. Cable translation cipher word.” Back came the cable: “Ten thousand pounds.” This time Henry did not delay: “Folger to Bookmen. Buy without fail even at ten thousand cash.” Then Henry made the mistake of adding one of his maddening conditions of the sort that had cost him the book in 1899. “But arrange time payments if you can.” He could not resist the impulse to bargain, one last time, as a businessman. The next day Sotheran wrote to Sibthorp, explaining that after reading his letter of January 22,

  We felt it our duty both to yourself and to Mr. Folger to cable him about it at once. His answer as you see is as follows:—“buy without fail even at ten thousand cash but arrange time payments if you can, Folger.” In spite of the last clause we now as his agents and what we believe to be his interest make you the offer of ten thousand pounds sterling (£10,000) cash on delivery of book to us.

  Henry Folger had just authorized his agents to offer the highest price in the world ever paid for a book, twice the price the book had originally been offered at. As he waited in New York City for news, Henry must have played back in his mind the torturous low points of this quest. Would Sibthorp finally agree to sell him the folio? Folger could not tarry in Manhattan to await the answer—he had to leave town on business. On January 27, 1903, the cable from Sotheran arrived: “Bought for ten thousand payable within ten days please acknowledge. Bookmen.” But Henry was not there to receive the joyous news. His wife, Emily, was. She knew what to do, and acted immediately. After the fact, she penciled a quick note to her husband in Buffalo, New York, telling him what she had done: “Henry C. Folger c/o UoCo Bflo. Cablegram reads ‘bought for 10000 payable within ten days. Pls acknowledge.’—[I] have answered cable gram rec’d terms accepted. Emily C. J. Folger.”