Buried...

XVIII

“I sometimes think that never blows so red

The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;

That every Hyacinth the Garden wears

Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.”

There is always joy in unearthing something wonderful, discovering something heretofore unknown. Treasure comes in different forms and its discovery elicits a frisson of excitement and an exquisite sense of pleasure. Oftentimes the process of finding treasure is its own reward and far outweighs the treasure itself.

I have recently returned from a holiday in New Zealand and, while there, I discovered some treasures of my own. Some of these returned with me but others were not the kind of things that can be purchased, much less re-located. My greatest discovery was an amazing bookshop in Dunedin – south of the Octagon, if that means anything to you – called “Dead Souls”, after the novel by Gogol.

The place has recently moved from its original location to a new place on Princes Street, but you’d never know it: it already has that lovely worn-in feel that all the best bookshops have. The front of the store gleams with bright leather and gilt lettering; there are fresh flowers in vases and Persian rugs; and the ceiling and walls are decorated with a mosaic of old torn dustwrappers, slowly creeping over all the blank space. And yes, there is a giant Jesus in the front window.

Architect of the emporium is Dean, bibliophile and publisher, with whom I enjoyed a long conversation about all things book-related, comparing notes on our particular markets and the current trends in sales. I was amazed to learn on this trip, that most NZ booksellers eschew the Internet in favour of a more personalised, face-to-face approach, and the Godzone is very much the type of place where such endeavours can absolutely thrive. Let’s hope it stays that way.

While with Dean, I asked about copies of the Rubáiyát and he threw me an absolute winner:

FITZGERALD, Edward, The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam, Rendered into English Verse by Edward Fitzgerald, The Riccardi Press for Philip Lee Warner publisher to the Medici Society, London, 1913.

Quarto; hardcover, quarter-bound in papered boards with gilt spine and upper-board titles and a green ribbon; 50pp. [i-xxiv + 1-26], on laid paper with wide margins, all opened, top edge gilt. Moderate wear; boards mildly rubbed with some scattered foxing and light bumping to the edges; text block edges lightly spotted; mild offset to the endpapers; ribbon lightly frayed; previous owners’ ink inscriptions to the front pastedown and the half-title; numbered in ink on the limitations page. Number 66 of 1,000 copies. Very good.

The Riccardi Press of London was established in 1909 by Herbert Percy Horne (1864-1916), a poet, typographer, designer, art historian and antiquarian, who also edited magazines of art appreciation through the Edwardian era. In his later years he re-located to Florence and restored an old palazzo into which he moved, living there until his death. The Riccardi Press published books on behalf of The Medici Society, a London operation started in 1908 by Philip Lee Warner and Eustace Gurney, whose avowed purpose was to bring reproductions of fine art to the masses "for the lowest price commercially possible". Initially, the Riccardi Press produced all the Society’s books until they began to focus exclusively on prints and cards, which they do to this day.

Given their various peccadilloes, it’s not surprising that these guys would bring a copy of the Rubáiyát to light. I had heard of this edition before, but finding a copy of it in Dunedin wasn’t even on my radar. Buried treasure indeed! To make things better, this copy includes a printed leaflet advertising other works produced by the Riccardi Press, a bookmark with advertising information about the Medici Society, and two black-and-white box-brownie photographs belonging to the previous owner. This kind of stuff, for me, adds all kinds of value and interest to the business of collecting.

One photo is of a studious young fellow posing before some stone edifice with a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm; the other shows a laneway bordered by Tudor architecture, with the phrase “Chef d’oeuvre” (“masterpiece”) in ink on the back. The oldest inscription in the book is by “M. Saxton” and dated November 1913, so one might assume that the previous owner was an ex-pat Kiwi studying in either Oxford or Cambridge.

Of course, such conclusions cannot be taken as read, based as they are upon such nebulous fragments; but such tiny sparks are apt to set off a raft of fiery imaginings. The Rubáiyát, as we have seen before, is a book into which its owners impress a wealth of meaning and import, and these windows into past lives are the main reason that I collect my copies.

“M. Saxton” may not be some “buried Caesar”, but his or her Rubáiyát is definitely one of the brightest roses to fall into my garden!