Chapter XIV.

by Aldous Huxley

　　For their after-luncheon coffee the party generally adjourned tothe library. Its windows looked east, and at this hour of theday it was the coolest place in the whole house. It was a largeroom, fitted, during the eighteenth century, with white paintedshelves of an elegant design. In the middle of one wall a door,ingeniously upholstered with rows of dummy books, gave access toa deep cupboard, where, among a pile of letter-files and oldnewspapers, the mummy-case of an Egyptian lady, brought back bythe second Sir Ferdinando on his return from the Grand Tour,mouldered in the darkness. From ten yards away and at a firstglance, one might almost have mistaken this secret door for asection of shelving filled with genuine books. Coffee-cup inhand, Mr. Scogan was standing in front of the dummy book-shelf.Between the sips he discoursed."The bottom shelf," he was saying, "is taken up by anEncyclopaedia in fourteen volumes. Useful, but a little dull, asis also Caprimulge's 'Dictionary of the Finnish Language'. The'Biographical Dictionary' looks more promising. 'Biography ofMen who were Born Great', 'Biography of Men who AchievedGreatness', 'Biography of Men who had Greatness Thrust uponThem', and 'Biography of Men who were Never Great at All'. Thenthere are ten volumes of 'Thom's Works and Wanderings', while the'Wild Goose Chase, a Novel', by an anonymous author, fills noless than six. But what's this, what's this?" Mr. Scogan stoodon tiptoe and peered up. "Seven volumes of the 'Tales ofKnockespotch'. The 'Tales of Knockespotch'," he repeated. "Ah,my dear Henry," he said, turning round, "these are your bestbooks. I would willingly give all the rest of your library forthem."The happy possessor of a multitude of first editions, Mr. Wimbushcould afford to smile indulgently."Is it possible," Mr. Scogan went on, "that they possess nothingmore than a back and a title?" He opened the cupboard door andpeeped inside, as though he hoped to find the rest of the booksbehind it. "Phooh!" he said, and shut the door again. "Itsmells of dust and mildew. How symbolical! One comes to thegreat masterpieces of the past, expecting some miraculousillumination, and one finds, on opening them, only darkness anddust and a faint smell of decay. After all, what is reading buta vice, like drink or venery or any other form of excessive self-indulgence? One reads to tickle and amuse one's mind; one reads,above all, to prevent oneself thinking. Still--the 'Tales ofKnockespotch'..."He paused, and thoughtfully drummed with his fingers on the backsof the non-existent, unattainable books."But I disagree with you about reading," said Mary. "Aboutserious reading, I mean.""Quite right, Mary, quite right," Mr. Scogan answered. "I hadforgotten there were any serious people in the room.""I like the idea of the Biographies," said Denis. "There's roomfor us all within the scheme; it's comprehensive.""Yes, the Biographies are good, the Biographies are excellent,"Mr Scogan agreed. "I imagine them written in a very elegantRegency style--Brighton Pavilion in words--perhaps by the greatDr. Lempriere himself. You know his classical dictionary? Ah!"Mr. Scogan raised his hand and let it limply fall again in agesture which implied that words failed him. "Read his biographyof Helen; read how Jupiter, disguised as a swan, was 'enabled toavail himself of his situation' vis-a-vis to Leda. And to thinkthat he may have, must have written these biographies of theGreat! What a work, Henry! And, owing to the idioticarrangement of your library, it can't be read.""I prefer the 'Wild Goose Chase'," said Anne. "A novel in sixvolumes--it must be restful.""Restful," Mr. Scogan repeated. "You've hit on the right word.A 'Wild Goose Chase' is sound, but a bit old-fashioned--picturesof clerical life in the fifties, you know; specimens of thelanded gentry; peasants for pathos and comedy; and in thebackground, always the picturesque beauties of nature soberlydescribed. All very good and solid, but, like certain puddings,just a little dull. Personally, I like much better the notion of'Thom's Works and Wanderings'. The eccentric Mr. Thom of Thom'sHill. Old Tom Thom, as his intimates used to call him. He spentten years in Thibet organising the clarified butter industry onmodern European lines, and was able to retire at thirty-six witha handsome fortune. The rest of his life he devoted to traveland ratiocination; here is the result." Mr. Scogan tapped thedummy books. "And now we come to the 'Tales of Knockespotch'.What a masterpiece and what a great man! Knockespotch knew howto write fiction. Ah, Denis, if you could only read Knockespotchyou wouldn't be writing a novel about the wearisome developmentof a young man's character, you wouldn't be describing inendless, fastidious detail, cultured life in Chelsea andBloomsbury and Hampstead. You would be trying to write areadable book. But then, alas! owing to the peculiar arrangementof our host's library, you never will read Knockespotch.""Nobody could regret the fact more than I do," said Denis."It was Knockespotch," Mr. Scogan continued, "the greatKnockespotch, who delivered us from the dreary tyranny of therealistic novel. My life, Knockespotch said, is not so long thatI can afford to spend precious hours writing or readingdescriptions of middle-class interiors. He said again, 'I amtired of seeing the human mind bogged in a social plenum; Iprefer to paint it in a vacuum, freely and sportivelybombinating.'""I say," said Gombauld, "Knockespotch was a little obscuresometimes, wasn't he?""He was," Mr. Scogan replied, "and with intention. It made himseem even profounder than he actually was. But it was only inhis aphorisms that he was so dark and oracular. In his Tales hewas always luminous. Oh, those Tales--those Tales! How shall Idescribe them? Fabulous characters shoot across his pages likegaily dressed performers on the trapeze. There are extraordinaryadventures and still more extraordinary speculations.Intelligences and emotions, relieved of all the imbecilepreoccupations of civilised life, move in intricate and subtledances, crossing and recrossing, advancing, retreating,impinging. An immense erudition and an immense fancy go hand inhand. All the ideas of the present and of the past, on everypossible subject, bob up among the Tales, smile gravely orgrimace a caricature of themselves, then disappear to make placefor something new. The verbal surface of his writing is rich andfantastically diversified. The wit is incessant. The...""But couldn't you give us a specimen," Denis broke in--"aconcrete example?""Alas!" Mr. Scogan replied, "Knockespotch's great book is likethe sword Excalibur. It remains struck fast in this door,awaiting the coming of a writer with genius enough to draw itforth. I am not even a writer, I am not so much as qualified toattempt the task. The extraction of Knockespotch from his woodenprison I leave, my dear Denis, to you.""Thank you," said Denis.