Gibbous House 41

The Professor’s library drew my eye: the entire wall of shelves appeared to have the tomes and papers arranged in no discernible order. Plutarch sat cosily beside Pythagoras and both were Pope’s Dunciad away from the sentimentalist scribbler Dickens. More venerable volumes had titles familiar to me from Moffat’s trunk; several of these were beside vellum and parchment documents. I took only a bundle inscribed with a script identical –it appeared- to the magically appearing hieroglyphs on the blank vellum sheets I had received from the unfortunate Mr Cartwright. There appeared little of a personal nature in the room, at least nothing that I could find among the Professor’s clothing. Nor was there any trace of an escritoire or writing slope. Evidently none of the professor’s duties of curatorship were performed in the privacy of his bedchamber.

That fellow gave a mighty roar of pain, as I tripped over him on the way out of his room. I considered I might issue him with a bell so that one might be warned of his approach. No one should be forced to perambulate their home, eyes fixed downward, on account of a midget. He recovered his equilibrium and his patriarchal voice was calm as he said;

‘Feel free to borrow anything from my library, Mr Moffat. Although I fear there is little that is not in your own, or rather in that which comprises part of the Collection.’

My gorge quite rose:

‘And how would that not be mine?’

‘All writing is posterity’s, Mr Moffat, we merely safeguard it for others.’

I eyed him, astounded at the patronising tone emerging from three feet below my own mouth.

‘Damn’ posterity, Professor and damn’ you!’ and I resolved to be rid of the Collection – whatever it might be – and its eminently damnable curator, as soon as I possibly might.

The tiny man stiffened, made a parody of a bow and informed me that, as it soon would be the hour of eight, he would be delighted if I would join him in the library for a tincture of my own choosing. It was insufferable, the man was treating me as a guest in my own house. It would soon be time for me to go abroad, in search of relief from dangerous passions. I feared there would be little opportunity in rural Northumberland. Nevertheless, I remained outwardly cordial to the man and bade him lead me to the library.

We passed back through the trompe l’oeil looking glass and descended the stairs in silence. Choosing our path carefully through the piled furniture we made for a fine walnut door leading to the East Wing. The professor passed through it and quickened his pace, his gait becoming the scuttle of a roach or other insect, the nails in his tiny boots recalling associated sounds. Surprisingly, I had to make shift myself to stay close on his heels; as a consequence, I could take less note of the rooms we passed through than I might have wished. It was clear, however, that the first - as well as housing objets de mystère in every material, of every shape and size – appeared to be serving as the dining room, at least for this evening. The next room was crammed with products of the taxidermist’s art, from the largest savage feline to the tiniest wren, it seemed as though all creation, or at least an example of every species of fauna, had gathered in the room. It was as though one of each of Noah’s pairs had made the huge journey from Ararat to be rendered glassy-eyed and sinister in Northumbria.

The next room was reminiscent of the Notary’s office and for that reason I was glad that the dwarf’s scurrying pace had not abated and that we passed through the madman’s gallery of images rapidly. Then came a room of geological specimens, agates, beryl, topaz, simpler quartzes, fossils, amber. I would have preferred to tarry in it, but the professor’s hobnails tip-tapped ever on. We passed through a vivarium worthy of the Zoological Society’s Gardens in Regent’s Park, and I shuddered at the slithering behind the foliage darkened vitrines.

At last we came to the library. A vast room: it was a repositary of books such as the fabled Alexandrine library must have been. The dimensions of the room itself were most impressive. In length it comprised 2 chains. One wall was punctuated by high arching windows, between which shelves were bursting with books of every size and shape. One of the shorter walls enjoyed french windows leading out onto the grounds, but they were of course flanked by more books. The remaining longer wall contained thousands upon thousands of volumes. The ceiling was high and vaulted, six chandeliers filled with an unconscionable quantity of candles lit the room. Other candlebrae stood on every available surface. And there were many: low bookcases and tables housed further books; some manner of seating stood by every place where a hand might be laid on a book. One low table by a chaise and an upholstered seat had but one book. The remainder of its surface, thanks be, was taken up by crystal glasses and tantali. The professor, as yet not putting aside his irritating presumption, poured us both a generous glass of Jerez and proposed a toast:

‘To posterity, Mr Moffat.’

‘To purgatory, Professor.’ I replied.