“The pages are uncut,” said Oscar, “which always presents something of a problem.” The problem was that a book with uncut pages was considered more valuable—being in its original unread condition—but leaving the pages uncut meant never reading it.
“Cut them,” said David, slapping the book with his hand. “A book is to read. Don’t tell me you think William Morris wouldn’t cut the pages.”
“Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful,” said Arthur, repeating his favorite Morris quote.
“Exactly,” said David. “No question that book is beautiful, but with uncut pages it’s not very useful.”
“But I can always read the text somewhere else,” said Oscar meekly. “Maybe online?”
“Not the same!” bellowed David. “This is your book. You spent hundreds of hours with miniature cretins and long division to earn it. You should damn well be able to sit in your own chair and read it.”
“Hear, hear,” said Arthur. “Feel the paper, turn the pages. Neither Tolkien nor Morris would abide reading a book any other way.” Arthur passed Oscar a razor-sharp knife that he kept in the drawer of a side table for this very purpose. Oscar took the knife in one hand and gingerly held the book in the other. He laid the book on the coffee table, opened to the first gathering, and slipped the blade between the pages.
“Do it,” said David. “William Morris wants you to.”
Cringing, Oscar pulled the knife through the paper as the others held their breath. The blade made a muffled hiss. Oscar laid down the knife and opened the now accessible pages to the main body of the text. “This is the same translation Tolkien read as a schoolboy,” said Oscar, his voice trembling. The three men sat in silence for a moment as Oscar looked over the first few pages. “Next week,” he said. “By next week I’ll have cut all the pages and found the perfect passage to read.” He closed the book and smiled.
“Well,” said Arthur, “I see the glasses are empty, and I think the opening up of pages that haven’t seen the light of day since they were printed a hundred and forty-six years ago deserves something special. Champers?”
“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” said David. “Hear, hear!”
When the Champagne had been poured, Arthur picked up a small, slim volume from the mantel. He had found this little book several years ago in a bookstall in London’s Portobello Road but had not read it all the way through until the previous week. Published in 1848, it contained the sort of long-forgotten wit that Arthur enjoyed sharing with the BBs. He settled into his chair and cleared his throat. “A reading from the book of The Natural History of Tuft-Hunters and Toadies,” he said solemnly. David did not attend church, but Oscar would understand the allusion. Arthur began to read:
Everybody has some natural antipathy. There are a great many persons of good sense and taste that entertain a rooted objection to Trafalgar Square, and its fountains, around which the little boys of the metropolis love to congregate, and into which the maid-servant threatens to dip the refractory brat which crieth for the what’s-his-name at the top of the great column.
A great many persons dislike Ethiopian Serenaders, the scenery at the Haymarket Theatre, and the farces at the Princess’. Some very good people have a cordial detestation for Joinville ties, halfpenny steam-packets, “gents,” and amateur performances at the Olympic; and there are equally respectable persons who shun railway speculators, Cheap Clothing Marts, and tariff pine apples. We do not affect singularity, but have our antipathies too, and first and foremost of those antipathies, an unmitigated detestation of, and hostility against all Tuft-hunters whatsoever.
Arthur had chosen this passage because it reminded him of his own “natural antipathy” toward the precentor. He read until the cathedral bells rang a quarter to nine. Then Arthur laid aside his book and, as always, excused himself from the party to go up to the cathedral. He slipped quietly through the west door and walked the entire length of the nave, turning left at the crossing to reach the Epiphany Chapel in the north quire aisle, where he took his usual seat for Compline. He could more easily enter through the north transept door, but Arthur loved the long, sober walk down the empty nave, surrounded by ancient stonework that lurked just out of sight in the dimness. He made a point of wearing hard-soled shoes in the evening, so his footsteps would echo in the vastness.
The precentor had instituted the nightly singing of Compline at Barchester many years earlier, and Arthur loved the service. Unlike Evensong, sung by a full choir, Compline was rarely sung by more than three or four people, but the precentor’s rule was strict: Whosoever attends Compline sings Compline. The service was always held in the snug confines of the Epiphany Chapel and lit by only a few candles. The canons took it in turn to lead the service, and some sang better than others. Tonight, the service was led by Canon Howard, who had once been a chorister, so the congregation, of which Arthur constituted one third, stayed on key. Arthur shivered when the canon sang the words:
Be sober, be watchful; your adversary the devil prowls about like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. Resist him, firm in your faith.
Arthur’s voice trembled slightly as he sang in response, “Thanks be to God.”
In the medieval monastery of Barchester, Compline had been the last of the seven daily services, sung just before the monks retired for the night. With its emphasis on endings and its haunting chants, it always put Arthur in a somewhat melancholy mood. The service lasted only a few minutes, and even though he walked home slowly, by nine thirty, he was back in his sitting room, sipping the dregs of the Champagne and listening to David talk about what a coup it was that he had convinced the American author Melanie Stanwick to come to Barchester for a signing. Stanwick was the hottest commodity at the moment in the world of what was politely called “erotic romance.”
“What’s her latest book called?” asked Arthur, “Sleazy Passions? Sensual Unpleasantness?”
“I think it’s The Stultifying Sultriness of a Saucy Suburbanite,” said Oscar.
“Oscar’s been reading the OED again,” said Arthur.
“It happens to be called Spring Heat,” said David, “and it’s a bestseller.”
“And have you read this bestseller?” said Arthur.
“Of course I haven’t. It’s utter rubbish, but that doesn’t mean I won’t sell a hundred copies at the signing.”
“And it doesn’t mean you won’t try to reenact some of the scenes from the book with the author,” said Arthur.
“Just because a woman writes erotic fiction doesn’t mean she sleeps with every bookseller on her tour,” said David.
“So you’re not going to try to take her to bed?” said Oscar.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said David. “Of course I’m going to try to take her to bed—but without prejudice. I’d try just as hard if she were a Nobel Prize winner.”