Seesaw

I

‘MY dear fellow,’ said Chickering, extending the book toward him. ‘I gladly would if I could — but I honestly don’t know what we’re coming to. I have n’t,’ he lowered his voice with a glance toward the window where someone stood examining a rare volume by the light that filtered through the lozenged heraldic-shielded panes, ‘I have n’t made a sale of any size in months. And, as I’ve shown you, I have all Prosser’s firsts already. And nothing moves now. Why should I purchase these?’

‘They were — worth quite a bit,’ faltered the other man.

‘When you bought them — yes; but even so, Prosser’s not the jewel of collectors that he once was.’ Chickering half-turned as the figure over by the window moved suddenly to replace on fascinating shelves the volume it had perused, and continued quietly to browse along the glimmering morocco bindings. ‘But, good Lord,’ the rarebook dealer continued, ‘good Lord, my dear Philbin, you can’t be reduced to books as a medium of exchange in these times! It’s a very bad choice. I would rather suggest kitchen hardware, or — or anything else you happen to have around the house. Almost anything seems to be worth more at the moment! ’

He laughed nervously, and Philbin laughed with him, albeit ruefully, busying himself with restringing his package. ‘Well, no harm done,’ he said, forcing a grin. ‘Thanks, Chickering! Sorry times are so bad. Be seeing you soon, I hope.’

‘Right you are,’ replied the dealer. ‘Drop around one day and we’ll have a spot of lunch together. Glad you looked in!’

Philbin raised a thin hand in valediction and turned away toward the door of the swank little shop. In his mind he counted, — a la Monte Cristo, — ‘Six!’ All the best dealers in town — and no one wanted his Prosser firsts. They were n’t complete, of course — only five volumes. But even so! Hunching the package under his arm, he rattled the coins in his left-hand trouser pocket. Two coins are not so easy to rattle, particularly if they are so small and thin as dimes; and that happened to be all the money Philbin possessed now.

His shoulders drooped as he opened the door. The autumn weather had become brisker, and his blue summer suit, though it looked more or less all right, seemed flimsy without an overcoat. He went slowly down the one flight of stairs to the street. In his mind he carried a vivid picture of the outer room of Chickering’s shop. The long tables, the beautiful built-in shelves, the fine bindings — but, more than this, the long array of backs and titles, rather undistinguished to outward view, among which might readily be identified certain rare things in literature, presented in the very first copies, to be ignored by a contemporary public that did not realize what it was passing by.

The thought of such book histories never ceased deeply to stir Philbin. And even now, as he shrank on the stairs from the prospect of facing the shrewd November wind again, once he passed that outer door, his package felt somehow warm within his arm and as though he clasped a living thing to his breast. Prosser’s works — how had he ever spurred himself into the mood to part with them? Desperation only. They remained his sole possession of value.

II

He pushed at the street door. The catch stuck, and, as he wrestled with the knob, the package was about to slip from under Philbin’s arm when a hand steadied it. Another hand pushed at the door, which opened. ‘Thanks,’ murmured Philbin, craning round as he went through, in order to see the man who followed him.

The man’s hair was iron-gray, what there was of it to be seen. His rather large face was leathery and seamed and lined, but his brown eyes sparkled as though he were very young. ‘Disposing of some books?’ he said, pleasantly enough; then, as Philbin started, surprised, ‘You see, I was up there too, just now — over by the window.’

‘Oh — you know Chickering?’ asked Philbin.

‘No, not at all — nor does he apparently know me. Strolled in by chance, that’s all. Looking for a Lionel Johnson. No one collects him any more, but I do. Found what I wanted, too. Eighteen ninety-five edition of the poems — one of twentyfive copies — his signature.’ He held a thin volume under Philbin’s eyes in the shadow of the arcade entrance to the building, and the latter noted the slightly faded autograph with that silence almost of awe which is a hallmark of the true devotee of books. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘“The Statue of King Charles,” “The Dark Angel” — those are great poems! ’ Then, queerly enough, he broke off with a rather discordant laugh.

His new acquaintance looked at him inquiringly.

‘I was just thinking,’ said Philbin, to explain himself, ‘that Chickering has made a sale after all! ’

‘Meaning?’

‘Well, he was telling me up there how particularly terrible times were in the rare-book business.’

‘Yes — I know — I could n’t help overhearing a little. I say,’ the other exclaimed, ‘look out there — your package’s coming untied!’

Sure enough, in his nervousness Philbin had not secured the wrapping of his books properly, and now again the package slipped even more disastrously from his weak clutch as a passer-by jostled him. Books and wrapping paper collapsed on the pavement. Both stooped to gather them up. Philbin’s acquaintance proffered a volume. ‘ Prosser’s Brig o’ Dread, I see,’ he remarked. ‘That was his earliest.’

Philbin accepted the book. ‘Oh, you know his work?’ His face was alight with a feverish flush as he struggled to bundle together the package.

The other nodded. Then he said, ‘That was a first. Are they all firsts?’

‘All; though all I have is five,’ returned Philbin earnestly. ‘But they’re his best — his early stuff. Of course I have the other more popular ones too — in later editions.’ Suddenly he flushed. ‘I would n’t have you think,’ he said, ‘that I’d sell these to-day if I were n’t —’

The other eyed him keenly.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Once, God help me, I sold a specially inscribed Thomas Hardy. You are n’t half a criminal. But apparently you can’t rid yourself of your Prossers?’

‘Well, you see, the market’s so shot that even these — ’

‘Yes, I know. And Prosser is n’t quite the collector’s item he was. But you really have to sell those books, don’t you?’

‘I’ve finally come to that,’ said Philbin briefly, and without warning his teeth began to chatter.

‘I’ll tell you,’ said the other suddenly. ‘Hi, Taxi! . . . How about coming up to my place and letting me have a look at them? I’m something of a collector.’

III

Philbin found that he could only nod. In the cab he sat curled over his package of books. The fact that he had not eaten for twenty-four hours was suddenly borne in upon him.

He managed to follow his acquaintance into the lobby of a superb East Fifty-Seventh Street apartment house, whence they were borne aloft. Somebody took his hat at an apartment door. And then, somehow, he was comfortably cushioned before a large fireplace from which came cheery cracklings. A person in a striped waistcoat was handing him a ruby glass on a silver tray.

He sipped desperately at the sherry, and the daze that had held him cleared. His companion, beside him on the davenport, had the package of books.

‘Mind if I open it?’

‘ Please do,’ Philbin was able to say.

There ensued a moment of silence.

’Dealers’ prices still in them,’ murmured the other.

‘Yes,’ said Philbin. Speech seemed forced from him. ‘Sizable, were n’t they? You see, well — I’ve had my flush times. And then — that was the top of Prosser’s market, I guess. I could n’t hope to get those prices now. But I thought —’ He broke off.

‘You really want to sell them?’

‘Good God, no! I have to!’

The other appraised Philbin’s vehemence.

‘Everything’s gone to pot for me,’ Philbin ran on. ‘I can’t get a job. I can’t write. Why, I can’t even seem to think these days.’

‘ You ’re a writer? ’

‘I used to be. Emery Philbin, if you’ve ever heard of him.’

‘Why, of course! Emery Philbin — The Thorn Thicket. But that was a best-seller! ’

‘Yes. That was the top of my market. A long time ago.’

‘Emery Philbin,’ mused the other. He gazed hard at the pale face near him. Suddenly he sprang up.

‘Emery Philbin, we’re going to have lunch together. And I want to buy these books!’

‘Thanks.’ Philbin stiffened. ‘But I could n’t let you. You ’d only be doing it —’

‘Not at all. At how much do you value them?’

Philbin said slowly, ‘At a price no one could pay.’

‘It happens,’ returned the other, ‘that I do too. Give me the pleasure, at least, of expressing my—let’s say my vanity. You see, Philbin — I’m Prosser!’