The Man Who Lost
One of Everything
(continued)
Sir Thos never forgave their treachery. For a quarter of a century, Henrietta struggled to set things right. She sent Sir Thos the sweetest of birthday wishes. She wrote contrite letters begging for forgiveness. Sir Thos’ replies were venomous. One sent in 1867 is typical:
Mrs. Halliwell, 6 St. Mary’s Place, Brompton
It appears that you have no power now Harriet to effect a reconciliation between us. The consequence will be that you will fall under the Curse destined for all disobedient Children ‘unto the 2nd & 3d Generation’. I understand the Curse had already commenced by your eldest Daughter being half-witted, & your second, afflicted with a Spinal Complaint. Your husband seems determined that the third shall also incur some misfortune by refusing to make me the Compensation which he once promised.
In such case neither you nor he can expect any blessing of
THOS PHILLIPPS
Henrietta didn’t give up. She sent a sweet reply to “My dear Papa,” assuring him that God had not seen fit to curse the Halliwell children. All of them were “dear, good children” and quite clever. Charlotte’s sketches had just won a prize from the Kensington Museum. And the littlest girls were doing well at school as well. The Baronet was incensed. Such impertinence! If Henrietta were really sorry for what she had done, she must do more than recant. She must atone. Sir Thos made a modest proposal. He would forgive the Halliwells if they would agree to bind their oldest, Charlotte, to marry whomsoever he chose when she came of age. He was confident he could make a profit on the child. Henrietta demurred. Sir Thos fumed. Family and friends tried to intervene, but it was useless. Sir Thos never forgave the Halliwells for their selfishness; he spent thirty years in quest of vengeance.
Sir Thos was equally bitter about the “knavery” of the various secretaries, librarians, booksellers, curators, and printers he employed. He hired James Graham, a wastepaper merchant, to snap up any marriage certificates, diplomas, deeds, mortgages, leases, estate maps, court records, warrants, fines, recoveries, or last wills and testaments that he came upon. Once Sir Thos possessed the documents, he had no need to pay. Graham pleaded with the Baronet to advance him just a bit of the £134 that was owed. His family was starving. “Pity,” said Sir Thos. Soon, Graham was frantic. He was to be imprisoned for debt. Couldn’t Sir Thos pay something? Sir Thos did not reply.
The Baronet recruited armies of servants to catalog, stamp,
copy, and reprint copies of rare books. He promised them sustenance, shelter,
and good salaries in return for their help. But he had no intention of
paying. Eventually, the disgruntled servants left and were replaced by
others, who in their turn would leave as well. Every penny had to be pinched
so that Sir Thos could buy more books. And buy he did.
Sir Thos offers foreign scholars the chance
to examine his great library.
In 1846, I wrote to Sir Thos, asking if he would permit me to view his
vast collection. He immediately invited me to Middle Hill.
I arrived on a sun-spangled midsummer day. As my carriage rattled and bumped along the road to Broadway, I was filled with great expectations. Finally spotting Sir Thos’ country house, I shivered in delight. Just as I had imagined! Middle Hill was built of honey-colored Cotswold stone. On that day, it glowed warm in the summer sun. A deep green lawn fronted the house. True, the lawn was not quite so well kept as I had expected, but no matter. Behind the house were meadows, riotous with summer wildflowers: Welsh poppies, gentians, and sage. And beyond the fields, a stately forest of oak, ash, and elm rose up.
Crossing the threshold into the dark of the house, however, I could scarcely believe my eyes. The heavy, dusty curtains were drawn and the windows had been nailed shut. The air was dank and close. Through the dim, I gradually made out a scene of ruinous decay. It appeared as if not a single soul had inhabited these dreary rooms for centuries. Apparently, snow, sleet and wind had been allowed to blow in unimpeded through the rotted slate roof, ill-fitting casement windows, and ill-hung doors, for the ancient wallpaper was badly stained and discolored. The sitting room chairs were ripped and worn, rotted by the damp. The whole house smelt of mould and neglect.
As Sir Thos and I threaded our way through the shambles, I gazed about, thunderstruck. Everywhere—in the entrance hall, sitting room, dining parlours, library, and bedrooms—papers and packages, cartons and crates, were stacked from floor to ceiling. No space had been spared for living. There was no place to sit in the sitting room, to dine in the dining rooms, or to sleep in the bedrooms. Packages had split open, spilling their contents to the floor. Papers cluttered tables, chairs, and ladders. Even the narrow passageways were clogged with piles of papers stuffed in among outworn printing presses. Trash lay strewn in heaps underfoot. Rats scuttled among the debris.
How did Lady Phillipps manage to move about in her tiny sleeping alcove, I wondered, with such a great sprawl of books spilling over her dressing table and bed and cartons crowding in upon her? At dinner she observed: “I have been “booked out of one wing and ratted out of the other.” Sir Thos possessed no bedroom. He chose to nap, fully dressed, on a decaying sofa in the sitting room.
Surveying this appalling scene, I had to remind myself that I had not come to view Middle Hill, but to admire Sir Thos’ renowned collection. But there, too, I was to be disappointed. The Baronet had no idea where his various manuscripts were to be found. He’d assembled a Catalogue of Printed Books at Middle Hill, but it seemed a hopeless muddle. The “catalogue” actually consisted of thousands of scraps of paper, haphazardly arranged. On the scraps, Sir Thos, his daughters, and a miscellany of assistants had scribbled the titles of his acquisitions or the names of the booksellers who had sold the books or the customs officials who had certified the boxes or the numbers that had been stenciled on the sides of the crates or the names and addresses of the foreign warehouses where the books had been stored in order to avoid the payment of import duties. Sorted in among the scraps, in no particular order, were various printed versions of Sir Thos’ Catalogue. But alas, these folios, too, were anarchic. Assembled by different printers at different times, each employing different schemes for classifying the acquisitions. The booklets themselves were printed in different inks, on sheets of different kinds and sizes. The Catalogue was useless.“Well,” suggested Sir Thos, “we will just have to search the boxes and find what we want.” Search the boxes, indeed! After prying open a few of the most promising looking packing cases, it became evident the search was doomed. There was no way of guessing what was in them. In one carton, we found: a crudely forged copy of The Hesiod (which Sir Thos claimed was a relic from Alexander the Great’s library!), a dozen manuscripts of no earthly interest, and then—buried in a clutter of crumpled wastepaper—a tiny Greek Aesop, with a hundred brilliant miniatures! Oh, that I could’st weep!
Sir Thos wasn’t even sure if the books I had traveled so far to see were even in England! Whenever he was abroad the Baronet bought wildly. But—as he was too miserly to pay the custom’s fees required to import the books into England—he was often forced to abandon the books to the care of booksellers. Perhaps they stole them, perhaps not. I gave up any idea of viewing Sir Thos’ collection.
In the evening, over a glass of port, amid the chaos of his collection, Sir Thos talked of the ruin of his life. For more than fifty years he had been plagued by the selfishness, stupidity, and meanness of his fellows. His days had been blighted by endless debt, makeshift borrowings, claims and counter-claims, arrests, and near imprisonment. But at least he had his books.Chapter 4
In his last years, Sir Thos began to plan for Eternity. His collection must survive, even if he did not. Under no circumstances must it fall into the hands of his enemies. But, the Baronet had a problem. His father had not simply ceded the property directly to him. It was held in trust. When Sir Thos died, everything would be passed on to his children and his children’s children, aye onto the next generation. In short, it would go to those whom the Baronet most hated, his family. But then, Sir Thos had a brilliant idea. He was the owner of the million or more books and manuscripts in his library. He could leave those to anyone he chose. Further, although the law might prevent him from selling Middle Hill and the adjoining forests, he had every right to sell parts of his property. And, there was nothing in the law that deemed him responsible for maintaining his estates. Sir Thos was jubilant. He quickly located an abandoned estate, Thirlestaine, and moved in. Transferring his library was a bigger task. It took 160 men and 230 horses eight months to haul his vast collection from Middle Hill to Thirlestaine.
Then Sir Thos embarked on his plans for retribution and destruction. He started at the top. He stripped the blue tiles and the lead from the roof of Middle Hill. Both could be sold. Next he ripped out the gutters, pipes, and stoves. When his children saw what he was doing, they persuaded the court to issue an injunction to prevent him from going further. But Sir Thos was wily. His heirs couldn’t issue an injunction against vagrants and vandals. He left Middle Hill open to the elements and unattended. Soon the word spread, and itinerant travelers began to squat there. They left straw bedding and garbage behind. Other vagrants built small fires in the various rooms to keep warm. The law couldn’t stop that, thought Sir Thos gleefully! His hatred was implacable. He instructed his groundsmen to fell the rich canopy of ornamental trees that had once lined the roads leading to Middle Hill. Ha! The law had no power to prevent that either!
Sir Thos died in February of 1872, at the age of 80. His will was designed to ensure that the Sir Thomas Phillips Collection would survive, exactly as he wished it, for eternity. But his will, like his great Catalogue, was a muddle and a mess. In his determination to prevent his heirs from disobeying the slightest of his wishes, he so hemmed them in that they could not have fulfilled his wishes even if they had wanted to do so. None was given the power or the money to do as Sir Thos instructed. So, with the passage of time, Sir Thos’ library, such as it was, was sold off, bit by bit.
* * *
The last time I saw Middle Hill was two years after Sir Thos died. I arrived on an icy winter day. As my carriage rattled and bumped along the frozen road, I was filled with shriveled expectations. When I finally spotted Middle Hill, I shivered, heartsick. The blackened ruins of Middle Hill stood etched against a frozen silver green sky. Behind the ruins lay snowy fields that had been reclaimed by thistles and weeds. The ancient forest that had once towered up behind the house was gone. Sir Thos had hacked down the ornamental oak, ash and elm and sold them for £23,000. All that remained were the ghostlike stumps of trees.
1 Based on A. N. L. Munby’s (1967) Portrait of an
Obsession. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons and Harold Rabinowitz and
Rob Kaplan’s (1999) A Passion for Books. New York: Random House.
