% Baxter's Procrustes
% Charles Waddell Chesnutt
% 1904
->Baxter's Procrustes
Charles Waddell Chesnutt
1904<-
Baxter's Procrustes is one of the publications of the Bodleian Club.
The Bodleian Club is composed of gentlemen of culture, who are
interested in books and book-collecting. It was named, very
obviously, after the famous library of the same name, and not only
became in our city a sort of shrine for local worshipers of fine
bindings and rare editions, but was visited occasionally by pilgrims
from afar. The Bodleian has entertained Mark Twain, Joseph Jefferson,
and other literary and histrionic celebrities. It possesses quite
a collection of personal mementos of distinguished authors, among
them a paperweight which once belonged to Goethe, a lead pencil
used by Emerson, an autograph letter of Matthew Arnold, and a chip
from a tree felled by Mr. Gladstone. Its library contains a number
of rare books, including a fine collection on chess, of which game
several of the members are enthusiastic devotees.
The activities of the club are not, however, confined entirely to
books. We have a very handsome clubhouse, and much taste and
discrimination have been exercised in its adornment. There are
many good paintings, including portraits of the various presidents
of the club, which adorn the entrance hall. After books, perhaps
the most distinctive feature of the club is our collection of pipes.
In a large rack in the smoking-room -- really a superfluity, since
smoking is permitted all over the house -- is as complete an
assortment of pipes as perhaps exists in the civilized world.
Indeed, it is an unwritten rule of the club that no one is eligible
for membership who cannot produce a new variety of pipe, which is
filed with his application for membership, and, if he passes,
deposited with the club collection, he, however, retaining the title
in himself. Once a year, upon the anniversary of the death of Sir
Walter Raleigh, who it will be remembered, first introduced tobacco
into England, the full membership of the club, as a rule, turns
out. A large supply of the very best smoking mixture is laid in.
At nine o'clock sharp each member takes his pipe from the rack,
fills it with tobacco, and then the whole club, with the president
at the head, all smoking furiously, march in solemn procession from
room to room, upstairs and downstairs, making the tour of the
clubhouse and returning to the smoking-room. The president then
delivers an address, and each member is called upon to say something,
either by way of a quotation or an original sentiment, in praise
of the virtues of nicotine. This ceremony -- facetiously known
as "hitting the pipe" -- being thus concluded, the membership pipes
are carefully cleaned out and replaced in the club rack.
As I have said, however, the raison d'etre of the club,
and the feature upon which its fame chiefly rests, is its collection
of rare books, and of these by far the most interesting are its own
publications. Even its catalogues are works of art, published in
numbered editions, and sought by libraries and book-collectors.
Early in its history it began the occasional publication of books
which should meet the club standard, -- books in which emphasis
should be laid upon the qualities that make a book valuable in the
eyes of collectors. Of these, age could not, of course, be imparted,
but in the matter of fine and curious bindings, of hand-made linen
papers, of uncut or deckle edges, of wide margins and limited
editions, the club could control its own publications. The matter
of contents was, it must be confessed, a less important consideration.
At first it was felt by the publishing committee that nothing but
the finest products of the human mind should be selected for
enshrinement in the beautiful volumes which the club should issue.
The length of the work was an important consideration, -- long
things were not compatible with wide margins and graceful slenderness.
For instance, we brought out Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, an essay
by Emerson, and another by Thoreau. Our Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
was Heron-Allen's translation of the original MS in the Bodleian
Library at Oxford, which, though less poetical than FitzGerald's,
was not so common. Several years ago we began to publish the works
of our own members. Bascom's Essay on Pipes was a very creditable
performance. It was published in a limited edition of one hundred
copies, and since it had not previously appeared elsewhere and was
copyrighted by the club, it was sufficiently rare to be valuable
for that reason. The second publication of local origin was Baxter's
Procrustes.
I have omitted to say that once or twice a year, at a meeting of
which notice has been given, an auction is held at the Bodleian.
The members of the club send in their duplicate copies, or books
they for any reason wish to dispose of, which are auctioned off to
the highest bidder. At these sales, which are well attended, the
club's publications have of recent years formed the leading feature.
Three years ago, number three of Bascom's Essay on Pipes sold for
fifteen dollars; -- the original cost of publication was one dollar
and seventy-five cents. Later in the evening an uncut copy of the
same brought thirty dollars. At the next auction the price of the
cut copy was run up to twenty-five dollars, while the uncut copy
was knocked down at seventy-five dollars. The club had always
appreciated the value of uncut copies, but this financial indorsement
enhanced their desirability immensely. This rise in the Essay on
Pipes was not without a sympathetic effect upon all the club
publications. The Emerson essay rose from three dollars to seventeen,
and the Thoreau, being by an author less widely read, and, by his
own confession commercially unsuccessful, brought a somewhat higher
figure. The prices, thus inflated, were not permitted to come down
appreciably. Since every member of the club possessed one or more
of these valuable editions, they were all manifestly interested in
keeping up the price. The publication, however, which brought the
highest prices, and, but for the sober second thought, might have
wrecked the whole system, was Baxter's Procrustes.
Baxter was, perhaps, the most scholarly member of the club. A
graduate of Harvard, he had traveled extensively, had read widely,
and while not so enthusiastic a collector as some of us, possessed
as fine a private library as any man of his age in the city. He
was about thirty-five when he joined the club, and apparently some
bitter experience -- some disappointment in love or ambition -- had
left its mark upon his character. With light, curly hair, fair
complexion, and gray eyes, one would have expected Baxter to be
genial of temper, with a tendency toward wordiness of speech. But
though he had occasional flashes of humor, his ordinary demeanor
was characterized by a mild cynicism, which, with his gloomy
pessimistic philosophy, so foreign to the temperament that should
accompany his physical type, could only be accounted for upon the
hypothesis of some secret sorrow such as I have suggested. What
it might be no one knew. He had means and social position, and was
an uncommonly handsome man. The fact that he remained unmarried
at thirty-five furnished some support for the theory of a disappointment
in love, though this the several intimates of Baxter who belonged
to the club were not able to verify.
It had occurred to me, in a vague way, that perhaps Baxter might
be an unsuccessful author. That he was a poet we knew very well,
and typewritten copies of his verses had occasionally circulated
among us. But Baxter had always expressed such a profound contempt
for modern literature, had always spoken in terms of such unmeasured
pity for the slaves of the pen, who were dependent upon the whim
of an undiscriminating public for recognition and a livelihood,
that no one of us had ever suspected him of aspirations toward
publication, until, as I have said, it occurred to me one day that
Baxter's attitude with regard to publication might be viewed in the
light of effect as well as of cause -- that his scorn of publicity
might as easily arise from failure to achieve it, as his never
having published might be due to his preconceived disdain of the
vulgar popularity which one must share with the pugilist or balloonist
of the hour.
The notion of publishing Baxter's Procrustes did not emanate from
Baxter, -- I must do him the justice to say this. But he had spoken
to several of the fellows about the theme of his poem, until the
notion that Baxter was at work upon something fine had become pretty
well disseminated throughout our membership. He would occasionally
read brief passages to a small coterie of friends in the sitting-room
or library, -- never more than ten lines at once, or to more than
five people at a time, -- and these excerpts gave at least a few
of us a pretty fair idea of the motive and scope of the poem. As
I, for one, gathered, it was quite along the line of Baxter's
philosophy. Society was the Procrustes which, like the Greek bandit
of old, caught every man born into the world, and endeavored to fit
him to some preconceived standard, generally to the one for which
he was least adapted. The world was full of men and women who were
merely square pegs in round holes, and vice versa. Most
marriages were unhappy because the contracting parties were not
properly mated. Religion was mostly superstition, science for the
most part sciolism, popular education merely a means of forcing the
stupid and repressing the bright, so that all the youth of the
rising generation might conform to the same dull, dead level of
democratic mediocrity. Life would soon become so monotonously
uniform and so uniformly monotonous as to be scarce worth the living.
It was Smith, I think, who first proposed that the club publish
Baxter's Procrustes. The poet himself did not seem enthusiastic
when the subject was broached; he demurred for some little time,
protesting that the poem was not worthy of publication. But when
it was proposed that the edition be limited to fifty copies he
agreed to consider the proposition. When I suggested, having in
mind my secret theory of Baxter's failure in authorship, that the
edition would at least be in the hands of friends, that it would
be difficult for a hostile critic to secure a copy, and that if it
should not achieve success from a literary point of view, the extent
of the failure would be limited to the size of the edition, Baxter
was visibly impressed. When the literary committee at length decided
to request formally of Baxter the privilege of publishing his
Procrustes, he consented, with evident reluctance, upon condition
that he should supervise the printing, binding, and delivery of the
books, merely submitting to the committee, in advance, the manuscript,
and taking their views in regard to the bookmaking.
The manuscript was duly presented to the literary committee. Baxter
having expressed the desire that the poem be not read aloud at a
meeting of the club, as was the custom, since he wished it to be
given to the world clad in suitable garb, the committee went even
farther. Having entire confidence in Baxter's taste and scholarship,
they, with great delicacy, refrained from even reading the manuscript,
contenting themselves with Baxter's statement of the general theme
and the topics grouped under it. The details of the bookmaking,
however, were gone into thoroughly. The paper was to be of hand-made
linen, from the Kelmscott Mills; the type black-letter, with
rubricated initials. The cover, which was Baxter's own selection,
was to be of dark green morocco, with a cap-and-bells border in red
inlays, and doublures of maroon morocco with a blind-tooled design.
Baxter was authorized to contract with the printer and superintend
the publication. The whole edition of fifty numbered copies was
to be disposed of at auction, in advance, to the highest bidder,
only one copy to each, the proceeds to be devoted to paying for the
printing and binding, the remainder, if any, to go into the club
treasury, and Baxter himself to receive one copy by way of remuneration.
Baxter was inclined to protest at this, on the ground that his copy
would probably be worth more than the royalties on the edition, at
the usual ten per cent, would amount to, but was finally prevailed
upon to accept an author's copy.
While the Procrustes was under consideration, some one read, at one
of our meetings, a note from some magazine, which stated that a
sealed copy of a new translation of Campanella's Sonnets, published
by the Grolier Club, had been sold for three hundred dollars. This
impressed the members greatly. It was a novel idea. A new work
might thus be enshrined in a sort of holy of holies, which, if the
collector so desired, could be forever sacred from the profanation
of any vulgar or unappreciative eye. The possessor of such a
treasure could enjoy it by the eye of imagination, having at the
same time the exaltation of grasping what was for others the
unattainable. The literary committee were so impressed with this
idea that they presented it to Baxter in regard to the Procrustes.
Baxter making no objection, the subscribers who might wish their
copies delivered sealed were directed to notify the author. I sent
in my name. A fine book, after all, was an investment, and if there
was any way of enhancing its rarity, and therefore its value, I was
quite willing to enjoy such an advantage.
When the Procrustes was ready for distribution, each subscriber
received his copy by mail, in a neat pasteboard box. Each number
was wrapped in a thin and transparent but very strong paper through
which the cover design and tooling were clearly visible. The number
of the copy was indorsed upon the wrapper, the folds of which were
securely fastened at each end with sealing-wax, upon which was
impressed, as a guaranty of its inviolateness, the monogram of the
club.
At the next meeting of the Bodleian, a great deal was said about
the Procrustes, and it was unanimously agreed that no finer specimen
of bookmaking had ever been published by the club. By a curious
coincidence, no one had brought his copy with him, and the two club
copies had not yet been received from the binder, who, Baxter had
reported was retaining them for some extra fine work. Upon resolution,
offered by a member who had not subscribed for the volume, a committee
of three was appointed to review the Procrustes at the next literary
meeting of the club. Of this committee it was my doubtful fortune
to constitute one.
In pursuance of my duty in the premises, it of course became necessary
for me to read the Procrustes. In all probability I should have
cut my own copy for this purpose, had not one of the club auctions
intervened between my appointment and the date set for the discussion
of the Procrustes. At this meeting a copy of the book, still sealed,
was offered for sale, and bought by a non-subscriber for the
unprecedented price of one hundred and fifty dollars. After this
a proper regard for my own interests would not permit me to spoil
my copy by opening it, and I was therefore compelled to procure my
information concerning the poem from some other source. As I had
no desire to appear mercenary, I said nothing about my own copy,
and made no attempt to borrow. I did, however, casually remark to
Baxter that I should like to look at his copy of the proof sheets,
since I wished to make some extended quotations for my review, and
would rather not trust my copy to a typist for that purpose. Baxter
assured me, with every evidence of regret, that he had considered
them of so little importance that he had thrown them into the fire.
This indifference of Baxter to literary values struck me as just a
little overdone. The proof sheets of Hamlet, corrected in Shakespeare's
own hand, would be well-nigh priceless.
At the next meeting of the club I observed that Thompson and Davis,
who were with me on the reviewing committee, very soon brought up
the question of the Procrustes in conversation in the smoking-room,
and seemed anxious to get from the members their views concerning
Baxter's production, I supposed upon the theory that the appreciation
of any book review would depend more or less upon the degree to
which it reflected the opinion of those to whom the review should
be presented. I presumed, of course, that Thompson and Davis had
each read the book, -- they were among the subscribers, -- and I
was desirous of getting their point of view.
"What do you think," I inquired, "of the passage on Social Systems?"
I have forgotten to say that the poem was in blank verse, and divided
into parts, each with an appropriate title.
"Well," replied Davis, it seemed to me a little cautiously, "it is
not exactly Spencerian, although it squints at the Spencerian view,
with a slight deflection toward Hegelianism. I should consider it
an harmonious fusion of the best views of all the modern philosophers,
with a strong Baxterian flavor."
"Yes," said Thompson, "the charm of the chapter lies in this very
quality. The style is an emanation from Baxter's own intellect,
-- he has written himself into the poem. By knowing Baxter we are
able to appreciate the book, and after having read the book we feel
that we are so much the more intimately acquainted with Baxter, --
the real Baxter."
Baxter had come in during this colloquy, and was standing by the
fireplace smoking a pipe. I was not exactly sure whether the faint
smile which marked his face was a token of pleasure or cynicism;
it was Baxterian, however, and I had already learned that Baxter's
opinions upon any subject were not to be gathered always from his
facial expression. For instance, when the club porter's crippled
child died Baxter remarked, it seemed to me unfeelingly, that the
poor little devil was doubtless better off, and that the porter
himself had certainly been relieved of a burden; and only a week
later the porter told me in confidence that Baxter had paid for an
expensive operation, undertaken in the hope of prolonging the child's
life. I therefore drew no conclusions from Baxter's somewhat
enigmatical smile. He left the room at this point in the conversation,
somewhat to my relief.
"By the way, Jones," said Davis, addressing me, "are you impressed
by Baxter's views on Degeneration?"
Having often heard Baxter express himself upon the general downward
tendency of modern civilization, I felt safe in discussing his views
in a broad and general manner.
"I think," I replied, "that they are in harmony with those of
Schopenhauer, without his bitterness; with those of Nordau, without
his flippancy. His materialism is Haeckel's, presented with something
of the charm of Omar Khayyam."
"Yes," chimed in Davis, "it answers the strenuous demand of our
day, -- dissatisfaction with an unjustified optimism, -- and voices
for us the courage of human philosophy facing the unknown."
I had a vague recollection of having read something like this
somewhere, but so much has been written, that one can scarcely
discuss any subject of importance without unconsciously borrowing,
now and then, the thoughts or the language of others. Quotation,
like imitation, is a superior grade of flattery.
"The Procrustes," said Thompson, to whom the metrical review had
been apportioned, "is couched in sonorous lines, of haunting melody
and charm; and yet so closely inter-related as to be scarcely
quotable with justice to the author. To be appreciated the poem
should be read as a whole, -- I shall say as much in my review.
What shall you say of the letter-press?" he concluded, addressing
me. I was supposed to discuss the technical excellence of the
volume from the connoisseur's viewpoint.
"The setting," I replied judicially, "is worthy of the gem. The
dark green cover, elaborately tooled, the old English lettering,
the heavy linen paper, mark this as one of our very choicest
publications. The letter-press is of course De Vinne's best, --
there is nothing better on this side of the Atlantic. The text is
a beautiful, slender stream, meandering gracefully through a wide
meadow of margin."
For some reason I left the room for a minute. As I stepped into
the hall, I almost ran into Baxter, who was standing near the door,
facing a hunting print of a somewhat humorous character, hung upon
the wall, and smiling with an immensely pleased expression.
"What a ridiculous scene!" he remarked. "Look at that fat old
squire on that tall hunter! I'll wager dollars to doughnuts that
he won't get over the first fence!"
It was a very good bluff, but did not deceive me. Under his mask
of unconcern, Baxter was anxious to learn what we thought of his
poem, and had stationed himself in the hall that he might overhear
our discussion without embarrassing us by his presence. He had
covered up his delight at our appreciation by this simulated interest
in the hunting print.
When the night came for the review of the Procrustes there was a
large attendance of members, and several visitors, among them a
young English cousin of one of the members, on his first visit to
the United States; some of us had met him at other clubs, and in
society, and had found him a very jolly boy, with a youthful
exuberance of spirits and a naive ignorance of things American that
made his views refreshing and, at times, amusing.
The critical essays were well considered, if a trifle vague. Baxter
received credit for poetic skill of a high order.
"Our brother Baxter," said Thompson, "should no longer bury his
talent in a napkin. This gem, of course, belongs to the club, but
the same brain from which issued this exquisite emanation can produce
others to inspire and charm an appreciative world."
"The author's view of life," said Davis, "as expressed in these
beautiful lines, will help us to fit our shoulders for the heavy
burden of life, by bringing to our realization those profound truths
of philosophy which find hope in despair and pleasure in pain. When
he shall see fit to give to the wider world, in fuller form, the
thoughts of which we have been vouchsafed this foretaste, let us
hope that some little ray of his fame may rest upon the Bodleian,
from which can never be taken away the proud privilege of saying
that he was one of its members."
I then pointed out the beauties of the volume as a piece of bookmaking.
I knew, from conversation with the publication committee, the style
of type and rubrication, and could see the cover through the wrapper
of my sealed copy. The dark green morocco, I said, in summing up,
typified the author's serious view of life, as a thing to be endured
as patiently as might be. The cap-and-bells border was significant
of the shams by which the optimist sought to delude himself into
the view that life was a desirable thing. The intricate blind-tooling
of the doublure shadowed forth the blind fate which left us in
ignorance of our future and our past, or of even what the day itself
might bring forth. The black-letter type, with rubricated initials,
signified a philosophic pessimism enlightened by the conviction
that in duty one might find, after all, an excuse for life and a
hope for humanity. Applying this test to the club, this work, which
might be said to represent all that the Bodleian stood for, was in
itself sufficient to justify the club's existence. If the Bodleian
had done nothing else, if it should do nothing more, it had produced
a masterpiece.
There was a sealed copy of the Procrustes, belonging, I believe,
to one of the committee, lying on the table by which I stood, and
I had picked it up and held it in my hand for a moment, to emphasize
one of my periods, but had laid it down immediately. I noted, as
I sat down, that young Hunkin, our English visitor, who sat on the
other side of the table, had picked up the volume and was examining
it with interest. When the last review was read, and the generous
applause had subsided, there were cries for Baxter.
"Baxter! Baxter! Author! Author!"
Baxter had been sitting over in a corner during the reading of the
reviews, and had succeeded remarkably well, it seemed to me, in
concealing, under his mask of cynical indifference, the exultation
which I was sure he must feel. But this outburst of enthusiasm was
too much even for Baxter, and it was clear that he was struggling
with strong emotion when he rose to speak.
"Gentlemen, and fellow members of the Bodleian, it gives me unaffected
pleasure -- sincere pleasure -- some day you may know how much
pleasure -- I cannot trust myself to say it now -- to see the evident
care with which your committee have read my poor verses, and the
responsive sympathy with which my friends have entered into my views
of life and conduct. I thank you again, and again, and when I say
that I am too full for utterance, -- I'm sure you will excuse me
from saying any more."
Baxter took his seat, and the applause had begun again when it was
broken by a sudden exclamation.
"By Jove!" exclaimed our English visitor, who still sat behind the
table, "what an extraordinary book!"
Every one gathered around him.
"You see," he exclaimed; holding up the volume, "you fellows said
so much about the bally book that I wanted to see what it was like;
so I untied the ribbon, and cut the leaves with the paper knife
lying here, and found -- and found that there wasn't a single line
in it, don't you know!"
Blank consternation followed this announcement, which proved only
too true. Every one knew instinctively, without further investigation,
that the club had been badly sold. In the resulting confusion
Baxter escaped, but later was waited upon by a committee, to whom
he made the rather lame excuse that he had always regarded uncut
and sealed books as tommy-rot, and that he had merely been curious
to see how far the thing could go; and that the result had justified
his belief that a book with nothing in it was just as useful to a
book-collector as one embodying a work of genius. He offered to
pay all the bills for the sham Procrustes, or to replace the blank
copies with the real thing, as we might choose. Of course, after
such an insult, the club did not care for the poem. He was permitted
to pay the expense, however, and it was more than hinted to him
that his resignation from the club would be favorably acted upon.
He never sent it in, and, as he went to Europe shortly afterwards,
the affair had time to blow over.
In our first disgust at Baxter's duplicity, most of us cut our
copies of the Procrustes, some of us mailed them to Baxter with
cutting notes, and others threw them into the fire. A few wiser
spirits held on to theirs, and this fact leaking out, it began to
dawn upon the minds of the real collectors among us that the volume
was something unique in the way of a publication.
"Baxter," said our president one evening to a select few of us who
sat around the fireplace, "was wiser than we knew, or than he perhaps
appreciated. His Procrustes, from the collector's point of view,
is entirely logical, and might be considered as the acme of bookmaking.
To the true collector, a book is a work of art, of which the contents
are no more important than the words of an opera. Fine binding is
a desideratum, and, for its cost, that of the Procrustes could not
be improved upon. The paper is above criticism. The true collector
loves wide margins, and the Procrustes, being all margin, merely
touches the vanishing point of the perspective. The smaller the
edition, the greater the collector's eagerness to acquire a copy.
There are but six uncut copies left, I am told, of the Procrustes,
and three sealed copies, of one of which I am the fortunate possessor."
After this deliverance, it is not surprising that, at our next
auction, a sealed copy of Baxter's Procrustes was knocked down,
after spirited bidding, for two hundred and fifty dollars, the
highest price ever brought by a single volume published by the club.