“How do you get your books?”
“Oh, people come to us. You know, we often act as agent for people trying to sell collections of their private papers to libraries.”
“Really.”
“Yes. That’s another one of our businesses. Michael is very well known. People have contacted us from all over the world. He’s handled the papers of some very important people.”
“Like who?”
“Well, we’re not really supposed to say. Most of the people Michael represents don’t want anyone to know that they’re selling their papers. They think that it makes them look kind of mercenary.” Then she lowered her voice and proceeded to whisper the name of one of the world’s best-known playwrights.
The American Legion Hall was a one-story, white vinyl-sided building, about thirty feet by fifty, with the obligatory cannon and flagpole out front. There were also two signs sitting on the lawn: BOOK AUCTION, MONDAY, 6:30, and KIWANIS LAS VEGAS NIGHT, MAY 20TH.
The interior of the American Legion Hall consisted of one large room with adjoining bathrooms and kitchen. The walls were paneled in a pale yellowish brown, fake-wood laminate with painted (although not recently) concrete floors and the kind of metal folding chairs you find in the emergency rooms of bad hospitals. Dirty burnt orange curtains hung resolutely over undersize windows. There were a number of bulletins posted on the wall, but our eyes were immediately drawn to:
AMERICAN LEGION POST 340
FUNERAL DETAIL
ELIGIBILITY DATES (WWI, WWII, KOREA, VIETNAM)
NEW ELIGIBILITY DATES (GRENADA/LEBANON, PANAMA,
PERSIAN GULF)
The kitchen was large and institutional with stainless steel everywhere. We looked inside and thought cholesterol. An open package of doughnuts sat on the counter that separated the kitchen from the main room, two remaining unclaimed from the original twelve. It was unclear whether it was tonight’s participants or some previous group that had devoured the other ten.
At Helen’s suggestion, we had arrived about an hour early for the preview. A double row of long brown Formica tables had been set up along the south side of the room to accommodate the over two hundred lots that made up the auction. Each lot had a numbered white index card sitting neatly in front of it, identifying its place in the order of items to be bid on. About fifty people were already there, milling around the room, a few of whom we knew. Most of the browsers were obviously dealers. There was an overrepresentation of beards, checked shirts, and baseball hats. The feel was vaguely agricultural except that everyone was wearing glasses.
Esther had come (although not David), as had Bob and Bonnie Benson from Yellow House, and Bruce Gventer. Although everyone seemed to know one another, no one spoke, except for some occasional snippets of forced conversation. The dealers walked up and down the aisles, examining the lots, making quick, surreptitious notes in catalogues or notebooks.
Even Esther was not as we had come to know her.
“Hi, Esther,” we said, smiling.
“Oh,” she replied, appearing startled. “Hello.” She closed her notebook.
“Are you going to bid?”
“Oh, there might be one or two things,” she replied, glancing furtively from side to side.
“Which ones?”
“Oh, there might be one or two things,” she repeated vaguely, moving off.
Although Sale 10 was billed as a “rare book” auction, there was an extraordinary variety of other items on which to bid. There were hundreds of volumes, both individual and in sets but we also saw old maps, illustrated plates, cartoon cels, Soviet propaganda sketches, theatrical playbills, obscure magazines, atom bomb memorabilia, and a folder of letters from the files of a Hollywood business manager that included “a most provocative ALS (autographed letter, signed) from Elizabeth Taylor.” The books themselves were equally diverse. Everything from a 1795 copy of The Poems of William Shakespeare to a first edition of Mark Twain’s A Tramp Abroad to Gertrude of Wyoming: A Pennsylvanian Tale to the 1830 edition of Papyro-Plastics, or the Art of Modeling in Paper. Being an Instructive Amusement for Young Persons of Both Sexes. From the German.
There was quite a bit of Americana. The Berkshires is known for its Americana. “Ana” has a very specific meaning to bibliophiles. We knew because we had looked it up in ABC for Book-Collectors. It said that “ana” was:
A collective noun meaning a compilation of sayings, table talk, anecdotes, etc. Southey described Boswell’s Johnson as “the Ana of all Anas.” Its most familiar use is, however, the original one (from which the noun was made) in the form of a Latin suffix, meaning material relating to as distinct from material by; e.g. Boswelliana, Railroadiana, Etoniana. Like other such suffixes it is not always easily attachable to English names, even assisted, as commonly, by a medial i. Shaviana, Harveiana and Dickensiana are well enough; but Hardyana is repugnant to Latinity; and should one write Wiseiana, Wiseana or Wisiana?
We hypothesized from all this that Americana is anything about America as opposed to anything written by an American. We had no idea who Wise was.
Americana, therefore, took in a lot of territory. At this auction, for example, Acts Passed at the Third Congress of the United States of America, was Americana, as was Gertrude of Wyoming, but Mark Twain was not. Or maybe he was. To tell the truth, we weren’t sure. All these specifics made things very vague.
When we had gone through the catalogue at home, we actually had seen something on which we might want to bid. It was lot 100:
100. Folio Society: Dickens Novels and Dickens Encyclopedia. London, 1977–89. Original cloth and decorated boards, and slipcases, in near-fine condition. 17 vols.
$150–200
This looked like a fabulous opportunity. Dickens was one of our favorites and here was a chance to get either a complete set or close to a complete set of his work for as little as $150 or even less.
The lots were arranged in order of bidding and we walked down the table until we found the pile of books labeled lot 100. As advertised, each of the seventeen volumes was bound in a dark, almost hunter green cloth, the covers were decorated, and each was in its own dark green slipcase. (“Boards,” by the way, in this case meant that the covers were made from cardboard as opposed to leather, not that they were slabs of wood.)
We took out Oliver Twist and examined it. The paper had body, the illustrations were quite nice and the book was in excellent condition. In fact, it did not look as if anyone had ever opened it before. But the second we looked at it, we knew we didn’t want the set. The books were somehow too … new. Dickens should be … old. For people who love Dickens, part of the joy is being transported back to nineteenth-century London. You can almost feel the city around you when you read him, hear the clatter of hoofbeats on the cobblestones, feel your breath choked by the smoke and soot in the air. To have such a new, essentially utilitarian set as the representative of Charles Dickens in our library felt like sacrilege.
The only other item in the catalogue that had drawn our interest was lot 67:
67. Clemens, Samuel [Mark Twain]: Life on the Mississippi. First edition, First state. Boston, 1883. Original pictorial cloth, gilt edges (with the urn on p. 441 and “St. Louis Hotel” on p. 443). Shaken; some slightly splotchy fading to top cover and spine; bottom cover stained and bubbled, inner gutter cracked, marginal tears from p. 481–550. ARTHUR SWANN’S COPY, with his bookplate and pencilled notations on front pastedown, and a typed bibliographical note (2pp.) asserting that probably not more than 100 copies were printed with this presentation binding.
$200–250
Upon examination however, the book proved mostly to be a teaching aid in the terms used in all those books to describe flaws. “Shaken,” for example, meant that the book was no longer firmly attached to its covers, “bubbled” that the cloth on the cover had partially detached from the boards. In other words, the book was in terrible shape. We certainly weren’t going to pay two hundred dollars for a book that was falling apart.
All the same, we were disappointed. Now that we were here, we wanted to bid on something. To bid successfully, actually. We wandered a little bit down the table and our attention was drawn to a small pile of cream-colored books with delicate ornate gold script lettering and the kind of olive green flower pattern you see on Laura Ashley bedspreads. The little white card at the top read lot 91. We consulted the catalogue.
91. [Dulac]: The Novels of the Sisters Brontë. 10 vols. London, 1905. Orig. Illust. cloth. One or two covers a little worn/soiled. With six color plates by Dulac.
We looked at the books. “A little worn/soiled” was something of an understatement. They were, in fact, dirty. In addition, some of the covers were torn along the spines. Still, they weren’t that dirty and it was a charming set, just right for the Brontës. The colored illustrations by Dulac (whoever he was) were wonderful.
The catalogue provided an estimated value of each lot. The most expensive was lot 179, Soldini, Francesco Maria: De Anima Brutorum Comentaria, a beautiful, engraved first edition of the Florentine book on vegetarianism printed in 1776, valued at $3,500 to $4,000. It was this book that had been the source of the cover illustration on the catalogue. The Brontë set that we were now looking at was listed at $30 to $60.
We spent a little more time browsing, then looked up at the clock. There was still almost half an hour before the auction was scheduled to begin.
We went outside. It was unusually warm for late April in the Berkshires. People were in shirtsleeves instead of ski jackets, probably for the first time in five months. The sky was cloudless and brilliantly blue. It was that time in late afternoon when the shadows were long but you could still feel the sun on your skin. Many of the dealers had also finished their inspections, moved outside, and were now chatting amiably in small groups. Most were eating. They were as collegial out here as they had been stealthy going up and down the aisles.
Michael was standing just outside the door in animated discussion with two other dealers. One of them was sitting on the ground with his back against the wall eating salad out of an aluminum container and the other was standing and eating a hot dog with a variety of condiments dripping out the sides. Michael was expounding on how the University of Texas, where he apparently had placed some papers, had used oil and cattle money to establish one of the premier libraries in the country.
We stood for a moment, not knowing in which direction to walk, feeling like we had just arrived at a cocktail party where we didn’t know anyone except the host. So we walked up to the host.
We didn’t expect much. Michael had always been a little distant with us. But now he was expansive and charming.
“Hello. Lovely to see you. How good of you to come,” he said, immediately including us in his group. He leaned forward a little and again addressed the dealer sitting against the wall, giving us a sideways mischevious grin. “I brought one of the lots out here with me. Can you tell me where it is?”
The dealer looked up from his salad. “Give me a hint,” he said.
Michael leaned a little farther over. “I’m the hint,” he said.
“You stuffed something in your shirt,” said the dealer.
“No,” said Michael. “I’m wearing it.”
“Oh,” said the dealer. “The medallion.”
“Correct!” said Michael, lifting a little medallion that he was wearing on a chain around his neck. He leaned down to give the dealer a closer look, then stood up and turned so we could see it. “Lot one seventy-five,” he said.
We looked at it. It was small and appeared to be a silver coin with a picture of William Shakespeare on it. While Michael continued his discussion, we checked in the catalogue:
175. [Shakespeare—Jubilee Medal]: Silver medallion, approx. 1 1/4″ in diameter with a relief portrait on the obverse of Shakespeare circumscribed by the words, “we shall not look upon his like again”. The reverse has the words “Jubilee at Stratford in honour and to the memory of Shakespeare. Sept 1769 D.G. Steward”. The medal was designed by David Garrick, the portrait was executed by David Piper, and the medals were struck by Westwood of Birmingham. The medals were worn by guests and townspeople at the Shakespeare Jubilee festivities in Stratford organized by Garrick.
$600–750
Wow. We asked to see the medallion again. Michael leaned our way to let us see it but he was already off on another subject.
“We have some genuinely unique items this time,” he was saying. “We’re beginning to get calls from everywhere. Next time, we’re going to have the entire stock of the old Raven bookshop in New York. And we’ve just finished placing a set of private papers at a major library.”
“Whose?” asked the dealer with the hot dog.
Michael smiled and without the slightest hesitation repeated the name of the same world-famous playwright.
Now that we had determined that we were going to bid, it became necessary to figure out how to do it. We went back inside and walked to the front of the room where Helen sat at a table to the right of the podium with a small metal cash box, card file, and stack of cards in front of her. A dark-haired teenage girl sat beside her.
“Oh, hi,” Helen said, smiling radiantly. “I’m so glad you came.” She was so gracious that we expected a tray of canapes to appear at any moment. “Have you met my daughter?” she asked, introducing us.
We smiled and said hello. Now that we looked, there seemed to be a number of teenagers stacking books. “Are all of these yours?”
“No, just those two,” she said, pointing to another girl and a boy. “The rest are their friends. They help out. It’s really nice to have the kids here.”
“We’re thinking of bidding on something,” we said.
“Oh,” she said, smiling again. “I’m so glad. It’s a lot of fun.”
“Uh—how do we do it?”
“Oh, it’s easy,” she replied. “Just fill this out …” She handed us a blank invoice form with a “46” on top and space to put our name, address, and dealer’s resale number for sales tax exemption (we didn’t have one of those). “Then you take this card …” It was a piece of construction paper about eight inches square with a “46” on it. “And hold it up every time you want to make a bid.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“You have a big advantage,” she said, without bothering to lower her voice. “All the dealers have to mark up what they buy, so they never go higher than fifty percent of retail. Usually they try and get it for a third. You can top their bids and still get things for a lot less than you’d pay at a shop.”
Armed with this information and clutching our little card, we moved back toward the folding chairs and tried to figure out where to sit. We decided on the second row because we wanted to make sure that Michael saw us when we raised our card to make a bid. As soon as we sat down, it was immediately apparent that our choice of seating was a tactical blunder. The sawier bidders had chosen to locate themselves in the rear in order to observe the competition without having to turn around.
Michael was at the lectern in the front now, waiting patiently as the remaining participants shuffled to their seats. No one seemed in much of a hurry.
“I’d like to begin if it is all right with you,” Michael called, sounding a little annoyed and homey at the same time. The shuffling did not proceed any faster.
Finally, everyone was seated. It was six thirty-five. Lot 91 seemed a long way down the list and we wondered if we would be able to wait around until he got to it. Our baby-sitter had to leave by ten (Emily’s ability to mimic language had progressed to the point that we were now using high school girls instead of Claire) and we had hoped to sneak in some dinner before we went home. Given the pace of other auctions we had observed—in North by Northwest for example—the likelihood of both bidding and eating began to seem remote.
Michael took his place. “Thank you all for coming,” he began, sounding a bit like a traveling Shakespearean actor giving a reading in a Wild West saloon. “We wi
ll begin with lot number one.” He held up an old, large book. “A Complete Practical Treatise on Venereal Disease,” he announced. “First edition, 1846. Contemporary boards, very worn, top board detached.” He opened the book and held it high for all to see. There was a full-page picture of a man with hideous sores on his face. Michael paused. “With some remarkable chromolithographs,” he added.
The auction proceeded at a surprisingly fast pace. It was rare that the bidding on any item exceeded ten seconds. No one bid on the venereal disease book at all. As soon as one book or group of books was auctioned, one or more of Michael’s children or their friends picked up the books and carried them over to the winning bidder while the other kids paraded down the aisles with the next lot, opening the books so the audience could see them, then placing them on the table next to Michael for bids. Then, while the bidding on that item was being conducted, the kids would begin exhibiting the next.
The kids took their jobs very seriously. You could see the respect they had for their father, for the books, and for the process. An associate at Christie’s handling a priceless Ming vase was no more serious and professional than these kids in T-shirts and baggy jeans walking up and down the aisles of the American Legion Hall in Sheffield. It was like watching a Frank Capra film.
All went well until about lot 20, when, while Michael was taking bids, there was a sudden thud in the left aisle. The boy who had dropped the book—he could not have been more than fifteen—just stood there, paralyzed, staring down at the floor with a look of horror on his face as though he had been baby-sitting and just dropped an infant. There was a momentary hesitation in the bidding but Michael never faltered. Except for a brief flick of his eyes in the direction of the incident, he continued the bidding as if dropping a book was a standard manner of exhibition.
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