Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

‘But you must at least see the Library before you go,’ cried Dr Daunt suddenly.

‘I’m afraid I must return to London tomorrow.’

‘But we could go now, if that would be convenient.’

Nothing could have been more to my liking, and so I eagerly assented to the proposal. We quickly finished our tea, and Mrs Daunt rose to leave.

‘Good-bye, Mr Glapthorn. I do hope we shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon. Perhaps when you next visit Evenwood, Fate will look more kindly on us and allow us to introduce you to my step-son.’

I said that that would be a pleasure which, I hoped, would not be long deferred.

She had drawn herself up to her full height and I found myself gazing into her grey eyes. How old was she now? Fifty-three or fifty-four? *I could not remember. Whatever her age, she still had about her a fascinating look of practised coquetry. I began to see how she had managed matters with Lord Tansor in respect of her step-son: her undeniable beauty and charm, in concert with her commanding personality, had no doubt been deployed to the full on his behalf. As she looked at me with those winning eyes – it was but for the most fleeting of moments – I felt sure that she had divined that, in some way that she could not yet comprehend, I was a threat to her prosperous condition, and to that of her precious Phoebus. In short, she disliked and distrusted me, as I did her.

Left to ourselves once more, Dr Daunt and I reverted to an earlier discussion concerning the Neoplatonic philosophy, with particular reference to Taylor the Platonist’s †translations of Plotinus and Proclus. The Rector was discoursing on Taylor’s paraphrastic rendering of Porphyry’s De antro nympharum, ‡ which led us on to other equally engaging topics concerning the theologies of the ancient world, a subject in which each of us professed both interest and expertise.

‘Mr Glapthorn,’ said Dr Daunt at length. ‘I wonder whether I might ask a favour of you?’

‘By all means,’ I returned. ‘Name it.’

‘It is just this. Though I am an admirer of Mr Taylor in general, his philological and linguistic skills do not always match his enthusiastic advocacy of these important subjects. His translation of Iamblichus is a case in point. I have therefore presumed to prepare a new rendering of the De mysteriis, * the first part of which is to be published in the Classical Journal. † The piece is now in proof and is being looked over by my friend, Professor Lucian Slake, of Barnack. Perhaps you are familiar with Professor Slake’s work on Euhemerus? ‡The Professor’s knowledge of Iamblichus is sound, but not so complete, I think, as yours. The favour that I would wish very much to ask of you, therefore, is this: would you do me the greatest kindness by agreeing to cast your eye also over the proofs, before the piece goes to press?’

Now this, I thought, was an opportunity to establish a closer relationship with Dr Daunt, which, in turn, might eventually open up an advantageous position with respect to his son. I therefore told him that I would be pleased and honoured to review the work; and so it was settled that Dr Daunt would immediately send word to Professor Slake, asking him to direct the proofs to me at the George Hotel before my departure for London.

‘And now,’ he said brightly, ‘let us be off.’

The collection of books assembled by William Duport, the 23rd Baron Tansor, soon after the Revolution in France, bore comparison with the libraries established by the 2nd Earl Spencer at Althorp, and by the 3rd Duke of Roxburghe. The 23rd Baron had inherited some three thousand volumes, assembled haphazardly by his forebears over the centuries. Shortly after succeeding to the title, he added to this stock by acquiring the entire library of a Hungarian nobleman – around five thousand items, and particularly notable for containing many hundreds of the first printed editions of the Greek and Roman Classics, as well as many outstanding examples of the de luxe printers of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, such as Baskerville and Foulis. He then set about augmenting his collection by methodical – and occasionally unconventional – means, travelling widely in order to seek out early editions of those Classical authors that had eluded Count Laczkó, and gathering along the way a large number of early Bibles, fifteeners, *and – a particular interest of his – examples of Early English literature. By the time of his death, in 1799, the collection had grown to over forty thousand volumes.

The original library at Evenwood had been housed in a dark and rather damp chamber of the Elizabethan period, on the north side of the building, which was soon overflowing with his Lordship’s acquisitions. And so in, 1792, as I have previously described, Lord Tansor wisely determined to refurbish the large ballroom on the West Front, with its famous ceiling by Verrio, into a place fit to hold his rapidly growing collection. The work took but twelve months to complete, at enormous expense, and in the summer of 1793 the books amassed to that date were transferred to their present home, where they were soon joined by many thousands more.

I saw this wonderful room for the first time, in the company of the Reverend Achilles Daunt, on the afternoon of the 27th of October 1853. We had walked through the Park from the Rectory, with the declining sun in our eyes, talking of Mr Carteret.

Away from his wife, Dr Daunt was an altogether different man – voluble, energetic, and enthusiastically companionable. In her presence he had seemed somehow lessened, and unwilling to set his own strong character against hers. Now, in the open air, as we strode together down the hill towards the river, he appeared renewed. We spoke of various matters relating to the Bibliotheca Duportiana , and I congratulated him again on his great achievement – it was, in my view, a work that would keep its compiler’s name alive amongst scholars of the printed book for generations to come.

‘The labour, of course, was very great,’ he said, ‘for the books had not been properly catalogued before, and were in some disorder. There was, to be sure, Dr Burstall’s hand-list of the seventeenth-century English books, which he drew up in – when was it, now? Eighteen ten, or thereabouts. Burstall, *as you perhaps know from his little book on Plantin, was a most careful scholar, and I was able to use many of his descriptions virtually verbatim . Yes, he saved me a good deal of work, though his hand-list also brought to light a little mystery.’

‘Mystery?’

‘I allude to the disappearance of the editio princeps of that minor but most noble work, Felltham’s Resolves. † The book, listed unequivocally in Burstall’s list, simply could not be found. I searched high and low for it. The collection contained later editions, of course, but not the first. It was impossible that Dr Burstall had included it in his list in error, and I was sure it had not been sold. I expended many hours, looking through the records of disposals, which have been most meticulously maintained over the years. The curious thing was that when I mentioned this to Mr Carteret, he distinctly remembered seeing this edition of the work – indeed, he knew that it had been read by Lord Tansor’s first wife, some time before her unfortunate death. It is hard to believe that it was stolen; a wonderful little book, of course, but not especially valuable. Mr Carteret searched her Ladyship’s apartments most assiduously, in case it had not been returned to the Library; but it was nowhere to be found. It has not been found to this day.’

‘Speaking of Mr Carteret,’ I said, as we approached the great iron gates of the Front Court, ‘I suppose that Lord Tansor will be obliged to find another secretary.’