Night Music (7 page)

“But all of this is beside the point. Both of the manuscripts needed a bit of attention—just a careful clean to remove any dust or other media with a little polyester film. Well, I almost cried when I returned to the library. Some of the water from the ceiling had fallen on the manuscripts: just drops, nothing more, but enough to send a little of the ink from
Moby-Dick
onto a page of the
Alice
manuscript.”

“And what happened?” asked Mr. Berger.

“For one day, in all extant copies of
Alice in Wonderland
, there was a whale at the Mad Hatter's tea party,” said Mr. Gedeon solemnly.

“What? I don't remember that.”

“Nobody does, nobody but I. I worked all day to clean the relevant section, and gradually removed all traces of Melville's ink.
Alice in Wonderland
went back to the way it was before, but for that day every copy of the book, and all critical commentaries on it, noted the presence of a white whale at the tea party.”

“Good grief! So the books can be changed?”

“Only the copies contained in the library's collection, and they in turn affect all others. This is not just a library, Mr. Berger: it's the
ur
-library. It has to do with the rarity of the books in its collection and their links to the characters. That's why we're so careful with them. We have to be. No book is really a fixed object. Every reader reads a book differently, and each book works in a different way on the reader. But the books here are special. They're the books from which all later copies came. I tell you, Mr. Berger, not a day goes by in this place that doesn't bring me one surprise or another, and that's the truth.”

But Mr. Berger was no longer listening. He was thinking again of Anna and the awfulness of those final moments as the train approached, of her fear and her pain, and how she seemed doomed to repeat them because of the power of the book that bore her name.

But the contents of the books were not fixed. They were open not only to differing interpretations, but also to actual transformation.

Fates could be altered.

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, 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. 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, and 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 uncatalogued 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 lent 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 recast, 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 the book 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 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 the 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. Gedeon. He removed from it a bottle of brandy and his favorite fountain pen. He poured himself a large snifter of the 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 treasures of nineteenth-century 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 a large 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 refilled his glass. It had all 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 books surrounded him.

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

In the history of the 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 early afternoon train, his brother having miraculously recovered to such an extent that he was threatening to sue his physicians, and discovered that the theater 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 culminated in Tess's escape from prison, engineered by Angel Clare and a team of demolition 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 alteration, 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 works 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 also damaged the library's collection. How could someone who considers himself a lover of books do such a thing?”