The Museum of Literary Souls (A Short Story) (6 page)

Mr. Berger did not act instantly. He had never considered himself a duplicitous
individual, and he tried to tell himself that his actions in gaining Mr.
Gedeon’s confidence were as much to do with his enjoyment of that gentleman’s
company and his fascination with the Caxton’s contents as with any desire he
might have harbored to save Anna Karenina from further fatal encounters with
locomotives.

There was more than a grain of truth to this. Mr. Berger did
enjoy spending time with Mr. Gedeon, for the librarian was a vast repository of
information about the library and the history of his predecessors in the role.
Similarly, no bibliophile could fail to be entranced by the library’s
inventory, and each day among its stacks brought new treasures to light, some
of which had been acquired purely for their rarity value rather than because of
any particular character link: annotated manuscripts dating back to the birth
of the printed word, including poetical works by Donne, Marvell, and Spenser;
not one but two copies of the First Folio of Shakespeare’s works, one of them
belonging to Edward Knight himself—the book-holder of the King’s Men and the
presumed proofreader of the manuscript sources for the Folio—containing his
handwritten corrections to the errors that had crept into his particular
edition, for the Folio was still being proofread during the printing of the
book, and there were variances between individual copies; and what Mr. Berger
suspected might well be notes in Dickens’s own hand for the later, uncompleted
chapters of
The Mystery of Edwin Drood
.

This latter artifact was discovered by Mr. Berger in an
uncataloged file that also contained an abandoned version of the final chapters
of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s
The Great Gatsby
, in which Gatsby, not Daisy,
is behind the wheel when Myrtle is killed. Mr. Berger had glimpsed Gatsby
briefly on his way to visit Anna Karenina. By one of the miracles of the
library, Gatsby’s quarters appeared to consist of a pool house and a swimming
pool, although the pool was made marginally less welcoming by the presence in
it of a deflated, bloodstained mattress.

The sight of Gatsby, who was pleasant but haunted, and the
discovery of an alternate ending to the book to which Gatsby, like Anna, had
given his name, caused Mr. Berger to wonder what might have happened had
Fitzgerald published the version held by the Caxton instead of the book that
eventually appeared, in which Daisy is driving the car on that fateful night.
Would it have altered Gatsby’s eventual fate? Probably not, he decided: there
would still have been a bloodstained mattress in the swimming pool, but
Gatsby’s end would have been rendered less tragic, and less noble.

But the fact that he could even think in this way about
endings that might have been confirmed in him the belief that Anna’s fate might
be altered, and so it was that he began to spend more and more time in the
section devoted to Tolstoy’s works, familiarizing himself with the history of
Anna
Karenina
. His researches revealed that even this novel, described as
“flawless” by both Dostoevsky and Nabokov, presented problems when it came to
its earliest appearance. While it was originally published in installments in
the
Russian Messenger
periodical from 1873 onward, an editorial dispute
over the final part of the story meant that it did not appear in its complete
form until the first publication of the work as a book in 1878. The library
held both the periodical version and the Russian first edition, but
Mr. Berger’s knowledge of Russian was limited, to put it mildly, and he
didn’t think that it would be a good idea to go messing around with it in its
original language. He decided that the library’s first English-language
edition, published by Thomas Y. Crowell Co. of New York in 1886, would probably
be sufficient for his needs.

The weeks and months went by, but still he did not act. Not
only was he afraid to put in place a plan that involved tinkering with one of
the greatest works of literature in any language, but Mr. Gedeon was a
perpetual presence in the library. He had not yet entrusted Mr. Berger with his
own key, and he still kept a careful eye on his visitor. Meanwhile, Mr. Berger
noticed that Anna was becoming increasingly agitated, and in the middle of
their discussions of books and music or their occasional games of whist or
poker, she would grow suddenly distant and whisper the names of her children or
her lover. She was also, he thought, taking an unhealthy interest in certain
railway timetables.

Finally, fate presented him with the opportunity he had been
seeking. Mr. Gedeon’s brother in Bootle was taken seriously ill, and his
departure from this earth was said to be imminent. Mr. Gedeon was forced to
leave in a hurry if he was to see his brother again before he passed away, and,
with only the faintest of hesitations, he entrusted the care of Caxton Private
Lending Library & Book Depository to Mr. Berger. He left Mr. Berger with
the keys and the number of Mr. Gedeon’s sister-in-law in Bootle in case of
emergencies, then rushed off to catch the last evening train north.

Alone for the first time in the library, Mr. Berger opened
the suitcase that he had packed upon receiving the summons from Mr. Berger. He
removed from it a bottle of brandy and his favorite fountain pen. He poured
himself a large snifter of brandy—larger than was probably advisable, he would
later accept—and retrieved the Crowell edition of
Anna Karenina
from its
shelf. He laid it on Mr. Gedeon’s desk and turned to the relevant section. He
took a sip of brandy, then another, and another. He was, after all, about to
alter one of the great works of literature, so a stiff drink seemed like a very
good idea.

He looked at the glass. It was now almost empty. He refilled
it, took another strengthening swig, and uncapped his pen. He offered a silent
prayer of apology to the God of Letters, and with three swift dashes of his pen
removed a single paragraph.

It was done.

He took another drink. It had been easier than expected. He
let the ink dry on the Crowell edition and restored it to its shelf. He was by
now more than a little tipsy. Another title caught his eye as he returned to
the desk:
Tess of the d’Urbervilles
, by Thomas Hardy, in the first
edition by Osgood, McIlvaine and Co., London, 1891. Mr. Berger had always hated
the ending of
Tess of the d’Urbervilles
.

Oh well, he thought: in for a penny, in for a pound.

He took the book from the shelf, stuck it under his arm, and
was soon happily at work on Chapters LVIII and LIX. He worked all through the
night, and by the time he fell asleep the bottle of brandy was empty, and he
was surrounded by books.

In truth, Mr. Berger had gotten a little carried away.

In the history of Caxton Private Lending Library & Book Depository, the
brief period that followed Mr. Berger’s “improvements” to great novels and
plays is known as the “Confusion” and has come to be regarded as a lesson in
why such experiments should generally be avoided.

The first clue Mr. Gedeon had that something was amiss was
when he passed the Liverpool Playhouse on his way to catch the train back to
Glossom, his brother having miraculously recovered to such an extent that he
was threatening to sue his physicians, and discovered that the theatre was
playing
The Comedy of Macbeth
. He did a quick double take and
immediately sought out the nearest bookshop. There he found a copy of
The
Comedy of Macbeth
, along with a critical commentary labeling it “one of the
most troubling of Shakespeare’s later plays, due to its curious mixture of
violence and inappropriate humor bordering on early bedroom farce.”

“Good Lord,” said Mr. Gedeon aloud. “What has he done? For
that matter, what
else
has he done?”

Mr. Gedeon thought hard for a time, trying to recall the
novels or plays about which Mr. Berger had expressed serious reservations. He
seemed to recall Mr. Berger complaining that the ending of
A Tale of Two
Cities
had always made him cry. An examination of a copy of the book in
question revealed that it now ended with Sydney Carton being rescued from the
guillotine by an airship piloted by the Scarlet Pimpernel, with a footnote advising
that this had provided the inspiration for a later series of novels by Baroness
Orczy.

“Oh God,” said Mr. Gedeon.

Then there was Hardy.
Tess of the d’Urbervilles
now
ended with Tess’s escape from prison, engineered by Angel Clare and a team of
demolitions experts, while
The Mayor of Casterbridge
had Michael
Henchard living in a rose-covered cottage near his newly married stepdaughter
and breeding goldfinches. At the conclusion of
Jude the Obscure
, Jude
Fawley escaped the clutches of Arabella and survived his final desperate visit
to Sue in the freezing weather, whereupon they both ran away and went to live
happily ever after in Eastbourne.

“This is terrible,” said Mr. Gedeon, although even he had to
admit that he preferred Mr. Berger’s endings to Thomas Hardy’s.

Finally he came to
Anna Karenina
. It took him a
little while to find the change, because this one was subtler than the others:
a deletion instead of an actual piece of bad rewriting. It was still wrong, but
Mr. Gedeon understood Mr. Berger’s reason for making the change. Perhaps if Mr.
Gedeon had experienced similar feelings about one of the characters in his
care, he might have found the courage to intervene in a similar way. He had
been a witness to the sufferings of so many of them, the consequences of
decisions made by heartless authors, the miserable Hardy not least among them,
but his first duty was, and always had been, to the books. This would have to
be put right, however valid Mr. Berger might have believed his actions to be.

Mr. Gedeon returned the copy of
Anna Karenina
to its
shelf and made his way to the station.

Mr. Berger woke to the most terrible hangover. It took him a while even to
recall where he was, never mind what he might have done. His mouth was dry, his
head was thumping, and his neck and back were aching from having fallen asleep
at Mr. Gedeon’s desk. He made himself some tea and toast, most of which he
managed to keep down, and stared in horror at the pile of first editions that
he had violated the night before. He had a vague sense that they did not
represent the entirety of his efforts, for he dimly recalled returning some to
the shelves, singing merrily to himself as he went, although he was damned if
he could bring to mind the titles of all the books involved. So ill and
appalled was he that he could find no reason to stay awake. Instead, he curled
up on the couch in the hope that, when he opened his eyes again, the world of
literature might somehow have self-corrected, and the intensity of his headache
might have lessened. Only one alteration did he not immediately regret, and
that was his work on
Anna Karenina
. The actions of his pen in that case
had truly been a labor of love.

He rose to sluggish consciousness to find Mr. Gedeon
standing over him, his face a mixture of anger, disappointment, and not a
little pity.

“We need to have words, Mr. Berger,” he said. “Under the
circumstances, you might like to freshen up before we begin.”

Mr. Berger took himself to the bathroom and bathed his face
and upper body with cold water. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and
tried to make himself as presentable as possible. He felt a little like a
condemned man hoping to make a good impression on the hangman. He returned to
the living room and smelled strong coffee brewing. Tea, in this case, was
unlikely to be sufficient for the task at hand.

He took a seat across from Mr. Gedeon, who was examining the
altered first editions, his fury now entirely undiluted by any other emotions.

“This is vandalism!” he said. “Do you realize what you’ve
done? Not only have you corrupted the world of literature and altered the
histories of the characters in our care, but you’ve damaged the library’s
collection. How could someone who considers himself a lover of books do such a
thing?”

Mr. Berger couldn’t meet the librarian’s gaze.

“I did it for Anna,” he said. “I just couldn’t bear to see
her suffer in that way.”

“And the others?” said Mr. Gedeon. “What of Jude, and Tess,
and Sydney Carton? Good grief, what of Macbeth?”

“I felt sorry for them too,” said Mr. Berger. “And if their
creators knew that at some future date they might take on a physical form in
this world, replete with the memories and experiences forced upon them, would
they not have given some thought to their ultimate fate? To do otherwise would
be tantamount to sadism!”

“But that isn’t how literature works,” said Mr. Gedeon. “It
isn’t even how the world works. The books are written. It’s not for you or me
to start altering them at this stage. These characters have power precisely
because
of what their creators have put them through. By changing the endings, you’ve
put at risk their place in the literary pantheon and, by extension, their
presence in the world. I wouldn’t be surprised if we were to go back to the
lodgings and find a dozen or more unoccupied rooms, with no trace that their
occupants ever existed.”

Mr. Berger hadn’t thought of that. It made him feel worse
than ever.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so very, very sorry. Can anything
be done?”

Mr. Gedeon left his desk and opened a large cupboard in the
corner of the room. From it he removed his box of restorer’s equipment: his
adhesives and threads, his tapes and weights and rolls of buckram cloth, his
needles and brushes and awls. He placed the box on his desk, added a number of
small glass bottles of liquid, then rolled up his sleeves, turned on the lamps,
and summoned Mr. Berger to his side.

“Muriatic acid, citric acid, oxalic acid, and Tartureous
acid,” he said, tapping each bottle in turn.

He carefully mixed a solution of the latter three acids in a
bowl and instructed Mr. Berger to apply it to his inked changes to
Tess of
the d’Urbervilles
.

“The solution will remove ink stains, but not printer’s
ink,” said Mr. Gedeon. “Be careful, and take your time. Apply it, leave it
for a few minutes, then wipe it off, and let it dry. Keep repeating until the
ink is gone. Now begin, for we have many hours of work ahead of us.”

They worked through the night and into the next morning.
Exhaustion forced them to sleep for a few hours, but they both returned to the
task in the early afternoon. By late in the evening, the worst of the damage
had been undone. Mr. Berger even remembered the titles of the books that
he had returned to the shelves while drunk, although one was forgotten. Mr.
Berger had set to work on making
Hamlet
a little shorter but had got no
further than Scenes IV and V, from which he had cut a couple of Hamlet’s
soliloquies. The consequence was that Scene IV began with Hamlet noting that
the hour of twelve had struck, and the appearance of his father’s ghost.
However, by halfway through Scene V, and after a couple of fairly swift
exchanges, it was already morning. When Mr. Berger’s excisions were discovered
many decades later by one of his successors, it was decided to allow them to
stand, as she felt that
Hamlet
was quite long enough as it was.

Together they went to the lodgings and checked on the
characters. All were present and correct, although Macbeth appeared in better
spirits than before and remained thus ever after.

Only one book remained unrestored:
Anna Karenina
.

“Must we?” said Mr. Berger. “If you say yes, then I will
accept your decision, but it seems to me that she is different from the rest.
None of the others are compelled to do what she does. None of them is so
despairing as to seek oblivion over and over. What I did does not fundamentally
alter the climax of the novel but adds only a little ambiguity, and it may be
that a little is all that she requires.”

Mr. Gedeon considered the book. Yes, he was the librarian
and the custodian of the contents of Caxton Private Lending Library & Book
Depository, but he was also the guardian of its characters. He had a duty to
them and to the books. Did one supersede the other? He thought of what Mr.
Berger had said: If Tolstoy had known that, by his literary gifts, he would
doom his heroine to be defined by her suicide, might he not have found a way to
modify his prose even slightly and thus give her some peace?

And was it not also true that Tolstoy’s ending to the novel
was flawed in any case? Rather than give us some extended reflection on Anna’s
death, he chose instead to concentrate on Levin’s return to religion,
Kozynshev’s support for the Serbs, and Vronsky’s commitment to the cause of the
Slavs. He even gave the final word on Anna’s death to Vronsky’s rotten mother:
“Her death was the death of a bad woman, a woman without religion.” Surely Anna
deserved a better memorial than that.

Mr. Berger had crossed out three simple lines from the end
of Chapter XXXI:

The little muzhik ceased his mumblings, and fell to his
knees by the broken body. He whispered a prayer for her soul, but if her fall
had been unwitting then she was past all need of prayer, and she was with God
now. If it were otherwise, then prayer could do her no good. But still he
prayed.

He read the preceding paragraph:

And the candle by which she had read the book that was
filled with fears, with deceptions, with anguish, and with evil, flared up with
greater brightness than she had ever known, revealing to her all that before
was in darkness, then flickered, grew faint, and went out forever.

You know, thought Mr. Gedeon, Chapter XXXI could end just as
easily there, and there would be peace for Anna.

He closed the book, allowing Mr. Berger’s change to stand.

“Let’s leave it, shall we?” he said. “Why don’t you put it
back on its shelf?”

Mr. Berger took the book reverently and restored it gently,
lovingly, to its place in the stacks. He thought about visiting Anna one last
time, but it did not seem appropriate to ask Mr. Gedeon’s permission. He had
done all that he could for her, and he hoped only that it was enough. He
returned to Mr. Gedeon’s living room and placed the key to Caxton Library on
the desk.

“Good-bye,” he said. “And thank you.”

Mr. Gedeon nodded but did not answer, and Mr. Berger left
the library and did not look back.