First Impressions: A Novel of Old Books, Unexpected Love, and Jane Austen (11 page)

H
AVING READ FOUR
of his allegorical stories, Mr. Mansfield expressed a wish to be allowed to hear the ending of
Elinor and Marianne
. Jane would not allow it.

“Had you not kept your book a secret from me,” said Jane, “I would consider four stories an adequate compensation for the final four chapters of the adventures of the misses Dashwood, but because you hid your talents from the very friend who is best able to appreciate them, you shall not earn your reward until the book is finished.”

“I count myself lucky that it is but a slim volume,” said Mr. Mansfield. “Were you to strike a similar bargain with the author of, say,
Robinson Crusoe
, that would be inhumane. But surely you understand, Miss Austen, it is because you are best able of all my acquaintances to judge my work that I have been hesitant to share it with you.”

“Yet I allow you to judge my work every day, and I profit from the judgment. Might you not wish to do the same?”

“It is an infuriating thing, Miss Austen,” said Mr. Mansfield with a smile, “to be taught wisdom by one a quarter of one’s age.”

“You shall find a way to bear it, Mr. Mansfield. Now please continue.”

Mr. Mansfield settled back in his chair and read on.

GREGORY THE HERMIT

A MORAL TALE

Happiness is the wish of every individual. It is pursued by the wise and the foolish, the wealthy and the indigent; and, though the attempt is generally unsuccessful, it is continued with avidity till death closes the scene, and puts a period at once to our hopes and our labors. We should indeed be oftener successful did we search for Happiness where she may be found, in a mediocrity of the gifts of fortune, and in the smiling valley of Content. But, dazzled with the fascinating glare of riches, and the ostentatious parade of power, we seek her in places where she was ever a stranger, and at last, when it is too late to correct our error, we are convinced that we have been deluded by a phantom, and pursued a fleeting insubstantial shadow.

The story went on to tell of the simple-living Gregory and the wealthy and ostentatious Alphonso. Gregory counseled Alphonso away from his worldly ways, saying, “The calm blessings of uninterrupted health, and the placid comforts of a mind at ease are not to be bartered for the noisy joys of riot and excess.” But Alphonso did not listen, and only accepted that “the paths of virtue only are the paths of peace” after his palace was destroyed by a volcanic eruption.

“Do you truly believe,” said Jane, “that the primary motivation of humankind is, as I believe the Americans call it, the pursuit of happiness?”

“I do,” said Mr. Mansfield, “though that in itself is not an evil thing. It is only when we attach happiness to those things which are worldly and unimportant that our lives become corrupted.”

“And what of me?” said Jane. “Am I wrong to pursue the happiness I believe would come to me with the publication of my writing?”

“To answer that question, one must first know why you yearn for publication. Do you envision riches and the opportunity for the ‘noisy joys of riot and excess’?”

“You jest with me, Mr. Mansfield, for you know that I do not. You know that, although I enjoy the occasional ball, I am happiest when I am here with you, sharing our thoughts, reading to one another, living simply in the world of the mind. It is not riches that I seek but rather the possibility that my published words might allow me to have a similar communion of thought with those unseen.”

“Then I think we can safely say that you have not fallen into the trap that claimed Alphonso. By your labors at the writing table, Miss Austen, you do anything but, as Gregory says, ‘sacrifice your prospect of distant happiness to the delusive pleasure of an hour.’ I should say you do quite the opposite.”

“It comforts me to hear you say that, Mr. Mansfield.”

“I am pleased to give you comfort,” said Mr. Mansfield. “However, while I am happy that my stories stimulate self-reflection, as was their intent, if we are to discuss the place of each in our own lives, it may be weeks before I discover the fate of the dear Dashwoods.”

“You are right, Mr. Mansfield. In my self-concern I am too cruel. Pray continue.”

And for the next hour, he read, until four more of his stories were finished.

“I wonder,” said Mr. Mansfield, laying the book aside, “if by listening to my meager attempts as a writer you have perhaps come to understand how accomplished you are at that same endeavor?”

“I do not admit to a difference in quality between your work and my own,” said Jane, “only in style and perhaps intent.”

“Nonetheless, were my intent wedded to your abilities, it might produce something rather new,” said Mr. Mansfield.

“You’d best continue reading, Mr. Mansfield,” said Jane, “or we shall never return to
Elinor and Marianne
.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Sophie rang her sister, still feeling delightfully light-headed from her time with Winston.

“I met someone,” she said.

“Marry, kill, or shag?” said Victoria.

“Shag,” said Sophie. “Definitely shag.”

“So you’ve forgotten all about your American?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Sophie. “But Winston has the distinct advantage of being located in this country.”

“Winston? Sounds yummy,” said her sister. “Here I thought I was the woman of action in this family, and in a week you’ve gotten a job, a stack of Uncle Bertram’s books, and a boyfriend.”

“He isn’t my boyfriend.”

“Well, I’m glad you had a good day.”

“It was a good day,” said Sophie, “but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about Uncle Bertram.”

“I know. Oh, God, my boss is coming into the office. I have to go. Love you, Soph,” said Victoria, and she was gone.

—

SOPHIE SPENT THE MORNING
in the basement of the shop, sorting through new acquisitions. The most promising volumes she set aside for cataloguing, ordinary but desirable stock she brought up to Gusty to be priced and shelved in the shop; the dregs she relegated to the bargain display outside. When she had carried the third armload of bargain books outside and stood in the doorway brushing the dust from her clothes, Gusty commented, “You look happy.”

“I am happy,” said Sophie.

“Oh, by the way, I had an old customer in here this morning. He’s on the trail of something and since you seem so talented at mining the want file, I’ll let you take care of him.” He handed Sophie a card on which was written the name George Smedley and a phone number. Below that were the words “Richard Mansfield.
A Little Book of Allegorical Stories
. 2nd edition. 1796.”

“Is this some sort of joke?” said Sophie with a laugh.

“Not at all,” said Gusty. “I know it’s an odd request, but bibliophiles are an odd bunch.”

“I don’t suppose this Smedley is tall and blond and broad-shouldered and good-looking?”

“No,” said Gusty. “I’d say he was my height. Hair is dark and curly and he’s certainly built solidly but he’s hardly classically handsome. Has a face like . . . well, like a bull terrier. Looks rather frightening, but he’s harmless. Used to come in here quite often a year or two back but I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Sophie was on the verge of telling Gusty that another customer had come in yesterday looking for the same book, when it suddenly occurred to her that here, at last, was a real mystery to solve.

“I’ll see what I can do for Mr. Smedley,” she said.

Once back in the basement, Sophie picked up the shop phone and dialed the number on the card Gusty had given her. She heard a click on the line, but no answer.

“Hello?” she said. “Is this Mr. George Smedley?”

“It is,” said a brusque voice. Sophie guessed the accent was from somewhere up north. To her ear he sounded more like an aggravated plumber than a book collector.

“I’m calling from Boxhill’s Bookshop.”

“Why, what rapid service,” said the voice, a bit more cheerfully. “I knew old Gusty would pass my request on to his new shop assistant. Have you found my little book of allegories already?”

“No, sir. I just thought I would give you a call to see if I could get a little more information.”

“And what other information could you possibly need,” said the voice, turning cold again. “You have the title and the author. You know, I presume, that I require the second edition of 1796. You clearly have my name and number. I suggest you get to work.”

“Well, I just wondered—”

“Young lady, I want you to understand that I am willing to pay a lot of money for this book. A lot of money. More than others will be willing to pay. Do you understand?”

“I believe so,” said Sophie, though all she really understood was that this phone call was getting stranger by the second.

“And I can offer you certain, shall we say,
protections
that others will not.”

“Protections?” she said, for the first time feeling genuinely frightened by this strange man.

“Let us say simply that if you find this book for me there will be rewards; if you find it for someone else . . .”

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Smedley?” said Sophie, doing her best to sound confident.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” said the voice. “And another thing. You are to keep this conversation—you are to keep
all
our conversations—confidential, even from your employer. It would be a shame to drag poor Augustus into all this.”

Sophie shivered at the implications of this statement, and the line was silent for a moment. “Now,” said Smedley, “are you looking for my book?”

“Actively,” said Sophie, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “I’ve done some research and I think I may have one or two leads.” This was stretching the truth considerably.

“You’d better not be lying.”

Sophie swallowed hard and decided not to be intimidated. If she was going to get to the bottom of this, she thought, she needed to find out everything she could about Smedley. She pretended to ignore his comment and put on her cheeriest voice.

“Do you live in London?” The line was silent. “I only ask because I thought perhaps we might get together sometime, to discuss your interest in . . . book collecting.”

“Don’t try to outsmart me.”

“I just thought it would be nice to meet,” said Sophie, who could think of nothing less nice than meeting this particular customer. “When I worked at the library at Christ Church it was so much more interesting to meet researchers face-to-face than to talk on the phone or e-mail.”

“You were at Oxford, then,” said Mr. Smedley, softening. “I was at St. John’s, but I’m sure before your time.”

“You don’t sound that much older than me.”

“Suppose we dispense with the detective game.”

“Fine,” said Sophie. “Then I’ll just ask you a question, plain and simple. Why this book? What possible interest could it have?”

“Young lady,” said Mr. Smedley, ignoring her question, “my patience is not infinite, and I don’t think you would like me when I lose my patience.” And with these ominous words he rang off.

“I don’t like you when you
are
patient,” said Sophie aloud to the phone. Her attempts to ferret out information had been all but fruitless. If she was going to discover what was so special about Richard Mansfield’s book, she would have to find another way.

She sat on a stool in the basement, her mind cluttered with questions. Why had two such different customers come to the same shop looking for the same obscure book? None of the other dealers she had talked to the day before had ever heard of Richard Mansfield, much less had requests for his book of allegories. And why was one of these customers issuing not-so-veiled threats? Obviously there was more to this book—or to this particular edition—than met the eye. She wondered if she ought to tell Winston that a mysterious man was after what she had already begun to think of as
his
book, but Mr. Smedley’s threats and demands for secrecy still rang in her ears. She would honor his wishes, until she found out more. But she couldn’t imagine finding two copies of
A
Little Book of Allegorical Stories
, and, she reasoned, Winston had asked first. So if she did find a copy, by all rights she should sell it to him, regardless of the price Mr. Smedley was willing to pay. But what if his threats of punishment were serious?

Her first thought, as she pondered this puzzle, was that Uncle Bertram must have owned a copy of the book, and that was why both men had come to her. But if he had, how would two different collectors have known? Besides, whether or not Bertram had owned such a book was immaterial now. His books were scattered; finding any specific one was virtually impossible. As she thought over the situation, she could hear the voice of her sister in her head: “What can you do? Figure out what you can do and do it and don’t worry about the rest.” What she could do was find out everything she could about Richard Mansfield and his book of allegories.

In a case in the basement, Gusty had a substantial reference library—bibliographies, biographical dictionaries, and biographies of well-known authors. Maybe one of them would include an entry on Richard Mansfield.

She had plowed through most of the biographical dictionaries without success when she finally came across an entry in
Alumni Oxonienses
, a four-volume work that listed every person to attend Oxford University from 1715 to 1886.

M
ANSFIELD,
R
ICHARD
N
ORMAN
, 1s. Tobias Charles, of Bloxham, Oxfordshire, cler. Balliol Coll., matric. 1734, aged 18; B.A. 1737, M.A. 1740. Curate of Bloxham 1743, Master of Cowley Grammar School 1758–1780, Rector of Croft, Yorkshire, 1780. Died 4 Dec. 1796.

So, his father was a clergyman, Richard had attended Oxford, he had worked in his father’s church, taught school for more than twenty years in what was now the Oxford suburb of Cowley, and then gotten a parish of his own in the north. Nothing in his biography sounded remotely interesting. Mansfield, like his book, was completely ordinary. So why all this fuss about his allegories?

“Gusty,” said Sophie, emerging from the basement, “do you mind if I do some work over at the British Library this afternoon? There are some bibliographical questions on some of these want cards that I’d like to work out.” She had already phoned her friend Nigel Cook at the British Library and arranged to have their copy of the first edition of Mansfield’s book waiting for her.

“Of course, of course,” said Gusty. “Wednesdays are always slow once the matinees start.” Thirty minutes later, Sophie was settling into a chair in a light and airy reading room holding a copy of Richard Mansfield’s book.

She copied down the bibliographical details—size, number of pages, and the publication information: “Printed in Leeds by Gilbert Monkhouse, 1795”—and then turned to the text.

Sophie had not previously read any allegorical tales from the late eighteenth century, and it didn’t take her more than a page of
A Little Book of Allegorical Stories
to realize why. Mansfield’s stories had the triple distinction of being heavy-handed, poorly written, and dull. When she read Jane Austen, Sophie felt transported back two hundred years and found herself in a place and time she loved to inhabit—attending balls, taking walks in the countryside, paying visits, all in the company of witty and charming heroines. Reading Richard Mansfield, she found herself in the same era yet in the company of people so dull they would pay actual money to own and read these dreadful stories. It made her want to run screaming back to the present. How could two such different authors, united by a desire to write fiction, represent the same world? In a way, slogging through Richard Mansfield was a revelation to Sophie. We judge the past, if we are readers of novels, only by the output of the best writers, she thought. How differently might we feel if instead of viewing the turn of the nineteenth century through the lens of Jane Austen, we viewed it through the lens of Richard Mansfield?

The best Sophie could say about Mansfield’s allegories was that they were blessedly short. A typical example was titled “Sickness and Health,” and began:

When the original chaos was first reduced to form, and primeval darkness and confusion were superseded by light and harmony, the Gods joined together Exercise and Temperance, and sent them down among mortals to facilitate and hasten the population of the new world. These two had not lived long on earth, before they were blessed with a daughter called Health.

It continued on in this vein, talking of all the good things this daughter H
EALTH
brought to the world until after many generations the men of earth became insolent and “rebelled against the Gods,” who then sent I
NDOLENCE
and L
U
XURY
to “sojourn upon earth,” and wouldn’t you know it, they had a daughter named S
ICKNESS
, and you know what trouble she’s made for everybody ever since. What on earth could Winston Godfrey want with this rubbish?

Sophie scanned the rest of the book, checking for any marginal markings and making a few notes on stories with such scintillating titles as “The Pleasures of Benevolence,” “Youth and Vanity,” and her favorite: “General Depravity of Mankind.” What a wonderful Christmas gift
this
book would make!

By five o’clock she could take no more, and she returned the book to the desk, pushed her way through the glass doors into the brick piazza, and headed toward the tube at King’s Cross. She had looked at every page of the book, racking her brain for any reason why not just one, but two people would want to buy the
second
edition of something so utterly ordinary. This was something worth making veiled threats and offering large sums of money? It simply didn’t seem credible. Sophie wondered if it was all some elaborate hoax perpetrated by Winston. Perhaps
he
was the second customer, disguising his voice on the phone. But then she remembered that Gusty had met Smedley and he looked nothing like Winston. Besides, she couldn’t imagine why Winston would play such a trick. Then again, she also couldn’t imagine why he wanted the second edition of a book that preserved for future generations stories like “General Depravity of Mankind.”