by Sam Gafford
He led me through the doorway and down a stairway with a horribly low ceiling. I had to watch my head as I walked to keep from cracking my skull. “That’s why Robert doesn’t come down here.” Wendall chuckled. “Well, that’s one of the reasons, anyway.” There were books on every stair, and I had to carefully step around them while avoiding the ceiling. “Your desk’s right over here,” Wendell said as he led me to a small wooden structure (which could have been a pedestal at one point) illuminated by a small gas jet. He turned it up slightly, but it did not improve the sight.
The cellar was indeed a ‘Black Hole.’ It was small, or at least it seemed small. It ran the length of the shop but was crammed even more full of books than the room upstairs, if that was at all possible. There were some papers on the ‘desk’ which were covered by notations in a small spidery hand. “Here we are,” Wendell said. “This is where Arthur used to work before his health got too bad. That’s when we gave him the ‘stay home’ work on the Casanovas. Keeps him busy, I suspect!”
I looked at the papers. They looked highly disorganised. “How many books need to be catalogued?”
“‘How many?’” Wendell laughed. “Why, all of them, of course!”
I looked around the room. It would take me a lifetime to catalogue all these books in the depth they deserved. If I had had any thoughts of the work not lasting, they quickly disappeared.
“Moreover,” Wendell continued, “we are always getting new stock. We go to all the major auctions and such, except Gilbert’s. Robert can’t stand Gilbert, so we miss out on some things there, but we still do all right. Most of our business comes from old customers. We’ve been around for quite some time now, you know, and have many regulars who look to us to find them that single, elusive item for their collection. We’ve even had”—and here his voice dropped to a whisper—”some royal interest from time to time.” I searched his face but could not tell if he was lying or not. Until this moment, I had never even considered the possibility of royals actually buying their own books. Surely they must have people who do that sort of thing for them?
“Well, Albert,” Wendell said, looking at his pocket watch, “it’s nearly ten. Time for you to get to work. You can have a half-hour for lunch around two, and then it’s straight on until six. There may be an occasion where we’ll have you watch the store if we have to pop out for something, but to be honest it doesn’t happen all that often. Sure you’ll be fine down here by yourself?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I’ll be so busy I won’t even notice the time.” Wendell chuckled at that. Here was a man who enjoyed laughing!
“Yes, well, we’ll see about that, young Albert! We’ll see about that!”
I sat down on the chair as Wendell climbed out of the dungeon. Looking around, I was befuddled. Where to begin? There appeared to be no order to anything. I read over Arthur’s last notes to get the order and form of them in my head; then, figuring any place was as good as the other, I picked a book off the pile and started in.
I was working! It may not have been in the highest levels of literature, but it was a position with books. And, most importantly, I would be able to eat and support myself. I felt that I was the king of the world and that all these books were my loyal subjects, waiting for my touch and royal notice, all clamouring to be put into my ledger. Things were so simple at that point. I would have money, food, and warmth. What else could I want? I was so naïve then.
Chapter 3
London is the epitome of our times, and the Rome of to-day.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
That first day was a festival of bookish delight. I spent it flipping through one book after another. Books that I had heard of but never dreamed I would hold in my hands. Novels by Dickens, Walpole, Radcliffe, Flaubert, Austen, Swift, Defoe, Dumas, and so many others. Volumes of poetry by Byron, Shelley, Keats, Swinburne, and hundreds more! There was an original folio of Shakespeare’s plays! Here was a set of Dante’s Inferno! Everywhere I turned, a treasure. It was hard to concentrate on my work with so many wonderful books around me. I so wanted to stop and indulge in each one; exult in the feel of the pages and the smell of the leather covers. But I did not want to risk losing the good fortune that had come my way, so I forced myself to sit at my desk and scribble away.
Even so, it was difficult to keep from flipping through each book as I catalogued it. Purely for detail’s sake, of course! I said to myself. After all, I had to make sure that each volume was complete with nothing missing and no defects. If my eye happened to catch on a pleasing phrase or stanza, surely that could not be helped?
For hours, I worked in that wonderland of books. I had no watch of my own, so I had no idea how much time had passed. It was all a blur to me as book after book passed through my careful hands. So I was quite surprised when I heard Wendell’s voice behind me.
“My goodness, Albert, still at it? Don’t you realise that it is six o’clock already?” He chuckled to himself. “You’ve done more than enough for one day. Come back into the light, for heaven’s sake.”
“It’s that late? I had no idea. I’ve been no engrossed in the books.”
“So I see, so I see. Looks as if you’ve made quite a bit of progress today, eh? But aren’t you hungry at all? You didn’t even stop for lunch!”
I suddenly realised that I was starving. I hadn’t eaten anything since that huge breakfast earlier, and now, thrust out of my bibliophile trance, I was amazingly hungry.
“Come along now, Albert. Arthur’s waiting for you upstairs.”
I bounded quickly up the stairs behind Wendell and back up into the store. Arthur was there talking quite animatedly with Robert. “Oh, please, Arthur,” Robert said, “you cannot say that you seriously believe what you’re saying?”
“I do! Most seriously. I tell you that we, as men, have no conception of true sin. It is beyond our comprehension.”
“Nonsense! How could a man who murders not be a sinner?”
“It lies in the definition of sin. A man can be evil, as we comprehend him, but that does not make him sinful.”
Wendell waded between them. “And here we go again. How many times are you two going to have this same argument?”
Arthur laughed. “As many times as it takes to make Robert see reason!”
Robert snorted. “Then we will be having this argument for many years to come.”
“Enough of that now, Arthur,” Wendell said, “your young apprentice has done yeoman’s work today. I dare say the poor boy is in need of food before he falls upon his face! He worked through his lunch.”
“Did he really? I see in your eyes, Albert, the gaze of someone who has been bewitched with books. All well and good, but we cannot forget the body as well. Come! Let us eat!”
I grabbed my coat and rushed after Arthur who turned to smile at Robert. “And we shall pick up this conversation tomorrow!”
“Bah!” Robert answered. “FINISH THE CASANOVAS!”
Laughing, Arthur led me out into the street.
Once again, I had a little trouble keeping up with Arthur, but I was soon able to match his pace. I could, however, not talk as easily as he did.
“So it was a good day, Albert?”
I smiled. My grin was so large that I probably looked quite the fool to the others on the street.
“A very good day. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many books in one place before.”
“Indeed! The Brothers have a thriving business and are always buying new stock. I have brought home more than my share of their inventory. But I daresay that the day has agreed with you. Even your step is stronger, more hopeful.”
“I cannot tell you how good it felt, Arthur. It may not be writing or editing, but to be finally working with books!”
Arthur laughed. “Oh, believe me, Albert, I know only too well. Ah, here we are!”
We had stopped in front of a comfortable-looking house on one of the side streets not too far from the bookshop. It was a nice little house: two floors w
ith a basement and a small flower garden in front. The traffic was less here and it was obviously a residential area that was winding down for the night. Once again, Arthur was delighting in confusing me.
“I thought we were having dinner,” I said. “This is not a pub or even your house.”
“Indeed it is not my house, Albert, it is yours.”
I stared at him uncomprehendingly.
“What are you talking about? This is not my home. You know my place is back at Tottenham Court Road.”
“That was where the old Albert Besame lived. The one pre–Arthur Machen! This is your new home now. Come on, dinner awaits!”
Arthur bounded up the small set of stairs and knocked sharply at the door with his cane. Within a minute, the door opened to reveal a short, rather round older woman wiping her hands in her apron. There was a smile on her face before she even started talking.
“Oh, Mr. Arthur,” she cooed, “right on time as always. I swear that they could set Big Ben by you!”
“You flatter me, my dear. But please let me present your new boarder, Mr. Albert Besame, late of Cornwall.”
I stood on the sidewalk, speechless, not sure what was happening.
“Mr. Albert! Come in, come in, don’t just stand there in the street!”
I walked up the stairs and they ushered me into the house. It was a nicely decorated house, the sort that was warming and welcoming. I felt at home immediately.
“Albert, meet Mrs. Hutchins. She is a wonderful cook and housekeeper and just the sort to keep a young man of letters in line.”
Mrs. Hutchins blushed. “He does go on, doesn’t he?” she whispered to me. “How do you do, Mr. Albert? I’m told that you are working for Mr. Arthur’s old bosses, yes?”
Her voice was soft with just a hint of Scottish accent. Perhaps she had come to London from Scotland as a young girl and still carried a bit of it with her.
“Um, yes, yes, I am. I just started with them today actually.”
“Oh, you’ll get along well with them, I can tell. You’re just like Mr. Arthur here, smitten with books.”
“And Mr. Arthur is also smitten with food which,” Arthur interrupted, “smells wonderful! Is that a freshly roasted chicken I smell?”
Mrs. Hutchins faked a look of indignation. “Oh, you know full well it is! It’s what you asked me to make this afternoon.”
Arthur turned to me and said, “Mrs. Hutchins makes the most exquisite Scottish chicken with spices that will make your mouth dance.”
“And if you two care to sit down, I could actually serve it! And they say that women talk too much.”
We walked down the hall to the first door on the right and entered a small dining room with a table set for two. There were some portraits on the wall which I assumed to be of family and a landscape of a lake region, possibly a Scottish loch. It was a perfectly respectable Englishwoman’s home. This was something I had previously only read about in books or seen through windows during my long, lonely night walks. Before we had even sat down in the chairs, Mrs. Hutchins was coming in the room with two large plates of food. I gazed in amazement at the large portion of chicken with fresh potatoes and greens. A fine glass of beer was before me and Arthur was attacking his plate before I could say a thing.
With the first bite of chicken, I was in love. It was perfectly cooked and seasoned with spices I had never tasted before. It was as if I were eating chicken for the first time in my life. The potatoes and greens were rich and buttery and the beer was thick and tasty. Since I had met Arthur, I had eaten meals that I had never dreamed could be so good.
Mrs. Hutchins was constantly flitting back and forth between the dining room and the kitchen, bringing fresh baked biscuits or filling our glasses. I tried to speak, but neither she nor Arthur stopped long enough to notice.
At the end of the meal, Mrs. Hutchins brought in a delicious pie made with fresh berries with a dollop of cream on top. Finally, I could eat no more and pushed away from the table just as Mrs. Hutchins brought in a steaming cup of coffee. “Please,” I said, “this has been a most excellent meal, but I really cannot eat one more thing.”
“Oh, yes, you will, Mr. Albert. A meal is not complete without some coffee at the end. Drink up!”
I put the cup to my lips and tasted the most seductive blend of coffee and cinnamon. It was really all too much!
“Albert,” Arthur said, “why don’t we take our coffees upstairs to your room and give Mrs. Hutchins some space. My compliments, Mrs. Hutchins, a splendid meal as always.”
“Arthur, really, you must tell me what’s going on . . .”
“Hush, Albert, all in good time. Just follow me.”
We went upstairs, where Arthur ushered me into another room. It was actually a very small room but, considering what I had been accustomed to, it seemed palatial. There was a bed against the far wall, a fireplace in the middle of the opposite wall, and a bureau near the door. In the middle of the room were two comfortable armchairs and a small writing desk and chair in the corner. I could be very happy here, but I wasn’t sure I could afford it. After all Arthur had done, I could not wonder about his motives and what the cost would be.
There was a table next to the chairs and we set our coffees down. Settling into his armchair, Arthur looked at me. “So, Albert, what do you think? Will this do?”
“‘Do’ for what, Arthur? I swear to you that I don’t understand anything that is happening here.”
“Ah, my mistake. I thought I had been clearer. This is the home of Mrs. Moira Hutchins and she, on occasion, takes in borders. Her husband has been dead for several years now and it helps her make ends meet, so to speak.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Mr. Hutchins died of the drink, I fear. Anyway, she has a son, William, who works in one of the slaughterhouses and helps her out a bit, but her life is still tight without this extra income.”
Arthur’s voice returned to its normal volume. “From time to time, I have sent a lodger her way, but only those of honest character. She is a strong Scotswoman and does not put up with any nonsense, but she delights in making her boarders comfortable and welcome. When I thought of you returning to that hole on Tottenham Court Road, I knew that I could not let that happen. So, after I left you at The Brothers this morning, I stopped by here. Thankfully, she had a room available, but mind you, it took some talking to convince her. I had to vouch for your character, Albert, because her other lodger is a young lady and she was very nervous about having a strapping young lad like yourself under the same roof!”
“But, Arthur, really. I cannot accept this. You’re already done far too much for me. How can I possibly repay you?”
Arthur looked pained and I immediately regretted speaking to him this way. “Albert, tell me truly, do you feel as if I have helped you only to have you in my debt? Is that what you truly think?”
I felt terrible for questioning him so. “Well, what can I think? I have only known you for one day and already you have found me a job and now a new home. Do you not see that I would have reason for concern? It is not that I am ungrateful truly, but I am worried. I mean, I do not know how I can possibly repay you.”
Arthur sat quietly for a moment. “Albert, you do not owe me a thing, for it is true that I have done this for my own reasons and not solely for you. It may seem to you that what I have done for you is excessive, but it does not feel that way to me. Please understand.”
He sat there with his coffee in his hand. I had the feeling that what he wanted to say was painful for him, so I gave him time to gather his words.
“When I arrived here in London, Albert, I was very much like you: little money, no contacts. But a fire for literature that made me feel that I would soon conquer this city. And, like yourself, I was soon at my wit’s end. No one helped me then. There was no one to give me a helping hand or even a crust of food. If it had not been for an unexpected inheritance, I have no doubt that I would also have been searching for a river with a pocket full of stones.
“So when I found you in the road last night, I wasn’t only seeing you, I was seeing myself several years ago. When I gave you a hand out of the street, I was helping myself as well. Because there was no one to help me when I most needed it, I simply could not turn my back on someone going through what I once went through. That has been my only motive in helping you. I require nothing in return save perhaps your friendship. If you now wish me to leave and never darken your door again, I shall do so. But I truly do not want you to feel that you owe me your life.”
“Arthur,” I said, “I do feel that way for good reason, and although you may never ask for it, I shall always be looking for ways to repay you. I’m sorry to question you, but I want you to know that you shall always have my friendship and my gratitude.” I stood up and held out my hand.
Arthur grasped it firmly in his and said, “Well said, good sir. So now before we start bawling like a pair of old women, I shall be on my way.”
“I thought we would be going for a walk tonight.”
Arthur laughed. “I think you have had enough excitement for one day. We’ll start our walks tomorrow, shall we? You’ll be a native of London before you know it. Now, before you object, I should tell you that my wife sent along an assortment of some of my older clothes for you. They’re in the wardrobe and you may keep them as long as you wish. Couldn’t have you living in one pair of clothes forever, you know!”
I followed him out the door and down the stairs. He turned and said, “I’ll meet you here after supper tomorrow, all right? Oh, and should you feel the need, there are fresh paper, pens, and ink in the desk upstairs. I just hope you’ll let me get first peek at whatever you produce! Ah, and this must be the fabled other lodger!”
As we were walking to the front door, it opened before us to reveal the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was probably just a little over five feet tall, with sparkling brown eyes and a fresh, open smile. Her hair was deep brown and swept carefully under her hat. The dress was fine and stylish but not so much so that it spoke of great wealth or privilege. My first thought was that she might be a schoolteacher or a tutor, but when she spoke her voice was musical and pulsed with life. Arthur, as always, was before me.