The New Bibliopolis: French Book Collectors and the Culture of Print, 1880-1914 9781442688698

Table of contents :
Contents
Illustrations
Acknowledgments
Abbreviations
Introduction: The New Bibliopolis
1. Books Worthy of Our Era? Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book
2. Ancients against Moderns: Bibliophilia at the Fin de Siècle
3. Everything to the Moderns: Independent and Contemporary Bibliophiles
4. Artist and Amateur in the Creation of Fin-de-Siècle Illustrated Books
5 Unpacking His Library: Robert de Montesquiou and the Aesthetics of the Book
6. The Enemies of Books? Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination
7. Conclusion: The End of Books?
Notes
Select Bibliography
Illustration Credits
Index

Citation preview

THE NEW BIBLIOPOLIS: FRENCH BOOK COLLECTORS AND THE CULTURE OF PRINT, 1880–1914

This page intentionally left blank

The New Bibliopolis French Book Collectors and the Culture of Print, 1880–1914

WILLA Z. SILVERMAN

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS Toronto Buffalo London

© University of Toronto Press Incorporated 2008 Toronto Buffalo London www.utppublishing.com Printed in Canada ISBN 978-0-8020-9211-3 (cloth) (Studies in Book and Print Culture)

Printed on acid-free paper

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Silverman, Willa Z., 1959– The new bibliopolis: French book collectors and the culture of print, 1880–1914 / Willa Z. Silverman. (Studies in book and print culture) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-8020-9211-3 1. Book collectors – France – History. 2. Books – France – History – 19th century. 3. Books – France – History – 20th century. 4. Book collecting – France – History. 5. Bibliomania – History. I. Title. II. Series. Z987.5.F8S54 2008

002.0944'075

C2007-905439-0

University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial assistance to its publishing program of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council.

For Michael and Ben

This page intentionally left blank

Le monde est fait pour aboutir à un beau livre. (The world’s sole purpose is to become a fine book.) Stéphane Mallarmé, response to Jules Huret, ‘Enquête sur l’évolution littéraire’ (1891)

This page intentionally left blank

Contents

List of Illustrations Acknowledgments Abbreviations

xi xv

xix

Introduction: The New Bibliopolis 3 1 Books Worthy of Our Era? Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 21 2 Ancients against Moderns: Bibliophilia at the Fin de Siècle 61 3 Everything to the Moderns: Independent and Contemporary Bibliophiles 89 4 Artist and Amateur in the Creation of Fin-de-Siècle Illustrated Books 116 5 Unpacking His Library: Robert de Montesquiou and the Aesthetics of the Book 141 6 The Enemies of Books? Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination 165 7 Conclusion: The End of Books? 200 Notes

219

Select Bibliography

267

Illustration Credits

289

Index

291

This page intentionally left blank

Illustrations

0.1 Portrait of Baron Jérôme-Frédéric Pichon, frontispiece for Georges Vicaire, Le Baron Jérôme Pichon 4 0.2 Cover illustration by Eugène Grasset for Histoire des quatre fils Aymon, très nobles et très vaillans chevaliers 9 0.3 Portrait of Henri Beraldi, etching by Félix Bracquemond 13 0.4 Portrait of Octave Uzanne, frontispiece by A. Giraldon and Eugène Abot for Le Livre Moderne 15 0.5 Illustration by Paul Avril for Lettre d’un candidat ou l’entrée à bibliopolis 19 1.1 Frontispiece by Adolphe Lalauze for Octave Uzanne, Le Bric-à-brac de l’amour 26 1.2 Portrait of Octave Uzanne, wood-engraving by Brauer 28 1.3 Poster-binding (reliure-affiche) by Louis Guingot for Octave Uzanne, L’Art dans la décoration extérieure des livres 46 1.4 Binding by Pétrus Ruban for Voltaire, Zadig, ou, La Destinée 47 1.5 Mosaic binding by Camille Martin for Louis Gonse, L’Art Japonais 48 1.6 Mosaic binding by Marius Michel for Anatole France, Le Lys rouge 49 1.7 Mosaic binding by Charles Meunier for Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du mal 50 1.8 Cover illustration by George Auriol for Octave Uzanne and Albert Robida, Contes pour les bibliophiles 52 1.9 Portrait of Octave Uzanne, woodcut by Félix Vallotton 55 1.10 Cover illustration by Félix Vallotton for Badauderies parisiennes. Les Rassemblements. Physiologies de la rue 56 1.11 Illustration by Félix Vallotton for Badauderies parisiennes. Les Rassemblements. Physiologies de la rue 58

xii Illustrations

2.1 Damascène Morgand, photograph 65 2.2 ‘Everything to the moderns.’ Vignette featuring Octave Uzanne’s initials, in Le Livre Moderne 68 2.3 ‘Le Bibliophile d’autrefois,’ frontispiece by Félicien Rops for Octave Uzanne, La Nouvelle Bibliopolis 69 2.4 Binding by Antoine Bauzonnet for Contes des Frères Grimm 71 2.5 Portrait of Eugène Paillet in L’Œuvre et l’Image 78 2.6 Louis Morin’s menu for the Bibliophiles Contemporains 81 2.7 Jules Chéret’s menu for Henri Beraldi 82 2.8 Binding by Georges Trautz for Vie du Chevalier Bayard 85 3.1 Cover illustration for Le Livre Moderne 90 3.2 Daphné, ou Le Livre Moderne, etching by Félicien Rops 92 3.3 Henri Vever, cabinet photograph by Léon Colson 94 3.4 Cover illustration by Léon Rudnicki for Edmond Haraucourt, L’Effort 97 3.5 Eugène Rodrigues, lithograph by P. Mathey 100 3.6 The Rodrigues Sisters by Mary Cassatt 101 3.7 Illustration and etching by Louis Legrand for Erastène Ramiro, La Faune parisienne 102 3.8 ‘Useless or Harmful Works,’ frontispiece by Félicien Rops 105 4.1 Paul Gallimard by Eugène Carrière 117 4.2 Illustration by Auguste Rodin for Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du mal 118 4.3 Madame Paul Gallimard by Pierre-Auguste Renoir 120 4.4 ‘Salomé,’ woodcut illustration by Lucien Pissarro for Jules Laforgue, Les Moralités légendaires 126 4.5 New Year’s card by Georges de Feure for Octave Uzanne 128 4.6 Cover illustration by Georges de Feure for Féminies, huit chapitres inédits dévoués à la femme, à l’amour, à la beauté 130 4.7 Frontispiece (closed) by Georges de Feure for Marcel Schwob, La Porte des rêves 132 4.8 Frontispiece (open) by Georges de Feure for Marcel Schwob, La Porte des rêves 133 4.9 Illustration by François Courboin for Octave Uzanne, Les Modes de Paris 135 4.10 Rue de la Paix by Pierre Vidal 137 4.11 Engraved drawing by Moreau le Jeune for Restif de la Bretonne, Monument du costume physique et moral de la fin du XVIIIe siècle, ou, Tableaux de la vie 138 5.1 Robert de Montesquiou, woodcut portrait by Félix Vallotton 142

Illustrations xiii

5.2 Charles Gillot, photograph 150 5.3 Harmony in Blue and Gold: The Peacock Room by James McNeill Whistler 154 5.4 Reading canapé belonging to Robert de Montesquiou 156 5.5 Mosaic binding by Charles Meunier for Robert de Montesquiou, Les Chauves-Souris 161 6.1 ‘Physiology of the Reader: The Enemies of Books.’ by H.P. Dillon 170 6.2 ‘The Bookbinder’ (‘La Relieuse’) by Maurice Favre 197 6.3 ‘The Women Binders.’ Illustration for Octave Uzanne, Dictionnaire bibliophilosophique 198 7.1 ‘Dear companion[s] of brush and pencil’: Octave Uzanne and Albert Robida, by Albert Robida 202 7.2 ‘The Leather-Gilder,’ by Albert Robida 203 7.3 ‘The malevolent work called phonograf by the sorcerer Edisonas justly burned at the stake on ___,’ by Albert Robida 207 7.4 ‘Patent’s Office. Guarantee against Counterfeit,’ by Albert Robida 209 7.5 ‘The people will be able to get drunk on literature as if it were fresh water,’ by Albert Robida 211 7.6 Illustration by Albert Robida, for Uzanne and Robida, ‘La Fin des livres,’ Contes pour les bibliophiles 212 7.7 ‘Apartments for rent – to let – water, electricity, beer, théâtrophone, and music on every floor,’ by Albert Robida 214 7.8 ‘Sprawled out on sofas or cradled in rocking-chairs,’ by Albert Robida 217 7.9 ‘Hygiene and instruction,’ by Albert Robida 218

This page intentionally left blank

Acknowledgments

This book about fine books and those who love them has benefited from the talents and generosity of a great many individuals and institutions – all of them, in some sense, bibliophiles. I am deeply indebted to each of them for both their individual and collective efforts, without which this book could not have been brought to fruition. A good number of those listed below have given me the double gift of both their professional assistance and their friendship, for which I am most grateful as well, and which has made writing this book an all the more pleasurable adventure. Research for this book has been supported by the National Endowment for the Humanities and the Bibliographical Society. It has been funded as well by my home institution, The Pennsylvania State University, in the form of grants and fellowships from its Global Fund, Institute for the Arts and Humanities, and College of the Liberal Arts Research Office. Moreover, a generous publication subvention was granted by Penn State’s College of the Liberal Arts Research Office, Department of French and Francophone Studies, and Program in Jewish Studies. At Penn State I have benefited from the help and counsel of many smart, skilled, and kind colleagues with whom it is a pleasure to work. I wish to thank in particular Sandra Stelts, Curator of Rare Books and Manuscripts at the University Libraries, for her help on many occasions over the years. I also thank the staff of the University Libraries Interlibrary Loan service for tirelessly facilitating my access to works from and about the world of fin-de-siècle bibliophiles. My colleague Christiane Makward and doctoral candidate Stéphanie Perrais supplied crucial help with translations from French, as did Paul Harvey with translations from Latin. I also offer sincere thanks to Kathryn M. Grossman, Thomas A. Hale, Brian Hesse, Norris J. Lacy, Nancy Locke, Bénédicte Monicat, Jean-Claude Vuillemin, James L.W. West III, and Monique Yaari. Peter J.

xvi Acknowledgments

Potter, Gloria J. Kury, and Sanford G. Thatcher, former Editor-in-Chief, former Art and Humanities Editor, and current Director of Penn State Press respectively, were valuable interlocutors regarding a variety of editorial questions. Hughes Photographics most competently produced many of the images included in this book and worked closely with me on this task. Electronic Publishing Consultant Steve Dahm was indispensable in helping format the final manuscript. I also thank Jan Williams for compiling the index to this book. Superb colleagues at many institutions in the United States, France, and Great Britain also did not fail in helping me improve the quality of this book in ways too numerous to mention in detail here. James Smith Allen and Allan H. Pasco read early drafts of the entire manuscript, while Venita Datta and Elizabeth Emery read chapters of it. I benefited from feedback received when in spring 2005 I presented my work to the Washington Area Group for Print Culture Studies, during a visit coordinated by Eleanor F. Shevlin. My most sincere thanks as well, for their invaluable help, to Carol Armbruster, Catherine Bertho-Lavenir, Roger Chartier, Antoine Coron, Vincent Duclert, Jean Hébrard, Véronique Leblanc, Rosemary Lloyd, Ian Millman, Jean-Yves Mollier, Marshall Olds, Stéphane Pillet, Christophe Prochasson, Jonathan Rose, Lawrence R. Schehr, Richard Sieburth, and Gabriel P. Weisberg. The staffs of many libraries, archives, and museums whose materials enriched my project proved unfailingly helpful. Several of these professionals went beyond the call of duty, however, in assisting me as I tracked down little-known materials, or in greatly facilitating my access to them. My thanks in particular to Marie-Claude Loup and Barbara Roth at the Bibliothèque publique et universitaire in Geneva; Luce Abélès at the Musée d’Orsay; Blandine Otter and Anne-Laure Poissonnier at the Musée de l’École de Nancy; Katia Poletti at the Fondation Félix Vallotton in Lausanne; Dell Hollingsworth, Margaret Tenney, and Richard Workman at the Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center, University of Texas at Austin; Cory E. Grace, David Hogge, and Linda Raditz at the Freer Gallery of Art and Arthur M. Sackler Gallery Archives, Smithsonian Institution; Meg S. Rich and AnnaLee Pauls at the Princeton University Library; Marla M. Hand at the Robert B. Mayer Family Collection; and Rebecca Akan and Mary Zuber at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Pierre Assouline, Christian Galantaris, Sylvie Le Gratiet, J.-H. Marotte, Jean-Paul Morel, Rodolphe Rapetti, and Barbara E. White indicated leads to hard-to-find images. Over lunch one day, my friend Wendy Snetsinger made a simple suggestion that allowed me to see clearly how I should organize this book.

Acknowledgments xvii

At the University of Toronto Press, Leslie Howsam, general editor of the Studies in Book and Print Culture series, took an early interest in my manuscript, and her enthusiasm for my project greatly encouraged me. My editor, Jill McConkey, has judiciously and skilfully worked with me throughout the editorial process. Barbara Porter, associate managing editor, patiently answered many of my questions. Copy-editor Miriam Skey improved the quality of my manuscript through her conscientious work on it. I also thank the two anonymous readers for the Press for their careful reading and many useful suggestions. If I have forgotten to include anyone else here, I apologize for this unintentional oversight. Earlier versions of three chapters of this book have appeared in print as ‘The Enemies of Books? Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination in Fin-de-Siècle France,’ Contemporary French Civilization 30.1 (winter 2005/ spring 2006): 47–74; ‘Books Worthy of Our Era? Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the livre de luxe in Fin-de-Siècle France,’ Book History 7 (2004): 239–84; and ‘Unpacking His Library: Robert de Montesquiou and the Esthetics of the Book in Fin-de-Siècle France,’ Nineteenth-Century French Studies 32.3–4 (spring-summer 2004): 316–31. My final thanks are reserved for my family. My parents, Kenneth E. Silverman and Sharon Silverman, offered valued practical and moral support for which I am ceaselessly grateful. My grandmother, the late Bessie Silverman, took a keen interest in everything I did; an avid reader herself, she would have been excited to see this book in print. Both my husband, Michael B. Berkman, and my son, Ben Berkman, have over the years supplied the right mix of advice, encouragement, assistance, patience, reprimanding, distraction, laughter – and love. This book is dedicated to the two of them.

This page intentionally left blank

Abbreviations

Ad AN BB BnF C CM DB

EL F HV

N.a.f. NB P Q

Quais Rm Z

Octave Uzanne, L’Art dans la décoration extérieure des livres en France et à l’étranger Archives nationales, Paris Henri Beraldi, La Bibliothèque d’un bibliophile, 1865–1885 Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris Octave Uzanne, Caprices d’un bibliophile Collection Charles Meunier, Bibliothèque publique et universitaire, Geneva Octave Uzanne, Dictionnaire bibliophilosophique, typologique, iconophilesque, bibliopégique et bibliotechnique à l’usage des bibliognostes, des bibliomanes et des bibliophilistins Henri Beraldi, Estampes et livres, 1872–1892 Octave Uzanne, La Femme à Paris Henri Vever papers (gift of François Mautin, 1988), Freer Gallery of Art and Arthur M. Sackler Gallery Archives, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C. Nouvelles acquisitions françaises Octave Uzanne, La Nouvelle Bibliopolis Octave Uzanne, Le Paroissien du célibataire Octave Uzanne, Quelques-uns des livres contemporains en exemplaires choisis, curieux ou uniques revêtus de reliures d’art et de fantaisie tirés de la bibliothèque d’un écrivain et bibliophile parisien dont le nom n’est pas un mystère Octave Uzanne, Bouquinistes et bouquineurs: Physiologies des quais de Paris du Pont Royal au Pont Sully La Reliure moderne artistique et fantaisiste Octave Uzanne, Les Zigzags d’un curieux

This page intentionally left blank

THE NEW BIBLIOPOLIS: FRENCH BOOK COLLECTORS AND THE CULTURE OF PRINT, 1880–1914

This page intentionally left blank

Introduction: The New Bibliopolis

Much has been written about the taste for books, but much has been badly written. Henri Beraldi, La Bibliothèque d’un bibliophile, 1865–851

For a week in April 1869, the famous Parisian auction house in the rue Drouot buzzed with the sale of Baron Jérôme-Frédéric Pichon’s library. During the quarter century leading to the auction, Baron Pichon (figure 0.1) had presided over the venerable Société des Bibliophiles François, France’s oldest rare book-collectors’ fellowship. Typical of the treasures featured in the sale, which included thousands of works on theology, jurisprudence, science, and history, was a valuable seventeenth-century manuscript, Occupation de l’âme pendant le saint sacrifice de la messe. Encased in its original black leather binding studded with small gold-covered nails, the volume bore the emblem of Anne Marie Louise d’Orléans, Duchesse de Montpensier. Twenty-five years later, in 1894, another notable book collection was brought to the block at the Hôtel Drouot, this one featuring not livres anciens but contemporary works, exclusively. The library’s owner was a paragon of bibliophilia in late-nineteenth-century France, Octave Uzanne. Uzanne’s collection boasted what he and many in his circle had come to consider perhaps ‘the most beautiful [book] of the century’ (Q 82): Histoire des quatre fils Aymon, très nobles et très vaillans chevaliers, a medieval chanson de geste updated in 1883 with 240 dramatic four-colour illustrations by Eugène Grasset (1845–1917) (figure 0.2). The book’s fabrication had required the use of over one thousand plates and a groundbreaking photomechanical printing technique.

4 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 0.1 Portrait of Baron Jérôme-Frédéric Pichon, frontispiece for Georges Vicaire, Le Baron Jérôme Pichon (1897)

Introduction: The New Bibliopolis

5

What had happened between these two sales to legitimize the production and collecting of such ‘rare’ contemporary editions as the Quatre Fils Aymon, as opposed to the antiquarian volumes vaunted in the Pichon sale? And to discredit as a model collector the austere aristocrat Pichon in favour of the outlandish dandy Uzanne, described by the Belgian Symbolist painter Félicien Rops (1833–98) as ‘this Bibliophile’s dream’?2 And to promote the flowering of a kind of book lovers’ utopia, heralded by Uzanne in the title of his 1897 manifesto as ‘the new bibliopolis’? Linked semantically to ‘cosmopolis’ and ‘metropolis,’ Uzanne’s neologism, typical of his quirky style, was meant to conjure the image of a self-contained, urbane polity in which an elite group of collectors produced for one another small numbers of contemporary illustrated works, distinguished by their luxurious material quality. In the new bibliopolis, a retrospective, accumulative approach to collecting would be banned. It would cede to a forward-looking method in which individual amateurs played a vital role in crafting volumes designated in advance as collectible. Acting either alone or through the many societies they founded during this era of ‘bibliophilic frenzy,’ as designated by the so-called prince of bibliophiles, Henri Beraldi, such amateurs would oversee the selection of texts and artists to illustrate them, the choice of paper, page layout, typography, advertising, and more, acting as collaborators in the creative process.3 The development of this new culture of book collecting in France from the early Third Republic to the onset of the First World War is the subject of the present book. A small number of outdated narratives chart the history of this crucial period for bibliophilia in France, during which Parisian bibliophile societies proliferated for the first time since the founding of the Bibliophiles François a half century earlier.4 Other studies have analysed this turn of the century largely from the perspective of the book arts, especially book illustration.5 They examine how aesthetic trends associated with Symbolism, Decadence, Art Nouveau, and the English Arts and Crafts movement revitalized fine book production in both Europe and the United States, at the same time showcasing the work of a young generation of artists and artisans. My aim, however, is different. In a series of thematically organized chapters, I set out to examine the elaboration of what Beraldi in an 1897 essay termed ‘creative’ or ‘prospective’ bibliophilia. For Beraldi, creative bibliophilia was an especially significant manifestation of profound changes both in the field of book production, largely due to the impact of mechanization, and in French society and culture, owing in part to

6 The New Bibliopolis

the new prominence, with the advent of the Third Republic in 1870, of conspicuously consuming, upper-bourgeois elites. Situating itself at the juncture of the overlapping disciplines of book history and French sociocultural history, this study poses questions central to each, while at the same time revising these same questions and the assumptions underlying them.

What Is the History of Bibliophilia? In a seminal essay on book history entitled ‘What Is the History of Books?’ Robert Darnton asserts that one of the central tasks of book history is ‘to propose a general model for analyzing the way books come into being and spread through society.’6 To this end, Darnton elaborates a communications circuit, running from the author to the publisher or bookseller to the reader and then back again, through the reception of the book, to the author. The case of the new bibliopolis, however, forces us to revise Darnton’s model for the dissemination of print, which presupposes the existence of numerous intermediaries. In contrast to an increasing division of intellectual labour characterizing commercial publishing in France at the fin de siècle – for example, the professions of publisher (éditeur) and bookstore owner (libraire), once exercised in tandem by one person, were now often separate – the field of fine book production was tending toward an ever greater concentration of the functions involved in making livres de luxe. Among the new bibliophiles and those in their orbit, both Léon Conquet and Henri Floury, for example, were old-style éditeurs-libraires, exercising both the intellectual and entrepreneurial functions associated with these professions. Charles Meunier (1866–1948), one of the major figures in the renewal of fine binding, also founded a small press (the Maison du Livre), a review (L’Œuvre et l’Image), and a bibliophile society (the Société des Amis du Livre Moderne). Lucien Pissarro, founder of the Eragny Press, was both a book publisher and illustrator, providing one example of the meshing of the worlds of fine book production and the graphic arts – and of word and image – during this period. All these men were, of course, readers, and many of them collectors. Such a consolidation of the range of creative, administrative, and financial responsibilities was indeed one of the hallmarks of the new bibliophilia, commented Beraldi, as was the reduction of print runs to a small number of copies, even at times a single one. While the sites of luxury book production were in fact becoming more dispersed during this

Introduction: The New Bibliopolis

7

period – they now included specialized and commercial presses, little reviews such as the Mercure de France and the Revue Blanche, binders such as Meunier, art dealers, and individual patrons such as Beraldi – the functions involved in the production, distribution and consumption of these books were tending toward greater concentration. In the new bibliopolis, then, ‘books [came] into being and spread through society’ differently than in the manner proposed by Darnton. But why did they do so? To answer this question, it is useful to rely on another model, the sociologically oriented model of cultural production elaborated by Pierre Bourdieu. The new bibliopolis bears many characteristics of what Bourdieu describes as a ‘market of symbolic goods.’7 In this small-scale market, producers (in this case of luxury books) produce solely for other producers of such products as opposed to a mass market.8 Such a closed market generally develops when the field of cultural production in its entirety has achieved a high degree of autonomy from institutional control. This was certainly the case in France under the early Third Republic. Renewing the libertarian and egalitarian traditions of the French Revolution, in 1881 the regime reinstated freedom of the press and publishing after nearly a century. At the same time, the Republic eased its influence on aesthetic canons by allowing competing artistic salons to coexist with the official, state-sponsored ones. In 1884 unions, including those representing the book trades, were legalized. The literary field, and the subfield of fine book production within it, was thus liberated from governmental interference in the form of censorship, officially sanctioned genres or styles, and restrictions on labour. Given this recently gained autonomy, and rebelling as well against the profitmaking ethos of commercial book production in this era of industrial capitalism and rapid expansion of a public of reader-consumers, the new bibliopolis fashioned itself as an economic world reversed. In this milieu profit and mass production were disdained – ‘any idea of lucre banished,’ declared the critic Pierre Dauze in the inaugural issue of his Revue Biblio-Iconographique – and commercial failure viewed as success.9 The ethos of l’art pour l’art characteristic of the new bibliopolis intensified in the late 1880s in reaction to a crisis in the field of commercial book production, as will be discussed in the first two chapters of this study. Triggered in part by overproduction, le krach, as it came to be known, rippled through the milieu of fine book production, reinforcing its elitist tendencies. In this market of symbolic goods, legitimization of the new livres de luxe – both of their contents and their often wilfully esoteric material appearance, among other signs of ‘distinction’ – was

8 The New Bibliopolis

provided by the members of the mutual admiration societies that peopled the many bibliophile clubs founded during this period. Validation depended as well on a network of cultural, and overwhelmingly Parisian, intermediaries: publishers such as Léon Conquet (1848–97), Édouard Rouveyre (b. 1848), Albert Quantin (1850–1933), Édouard Pelletan (1854–1912), and Henri Floury (1862–1961), bookstore and gallery owners, auction houses, and book exhibit organizers – all touted by their partisans as ‘new.’ Finally, legitimacy was provided by the range of publications through which these intermediaries disseminated their ideas concerning fine book production: reviews, sale catalogues, yearbooks, and bibliographies. In this rarefied world, the taste for the new livres de luxe needed to be both inculcated and approved by members of a peer group. It was logical, then, that authors of these works should also be their critics, that a publisher become a collector, that creators be consumers, and so on, in order to constantly confirm the judgments of these unusual goods. Bourdieu’s theory of cultural production thus proves valuable in addressing a number of questions raised in this study: How and why are certain cultural products and practices legitimized at varying historical moments? How is their value, both economic and symbolic, determined? How does taste, in this case for ‘newness,’ evolve? And how do all these questions highlight the disposition of resources and agents in a particular field during a given historical era? Again, however, in the study of fin-desiècle bibliophilia Bourdieu’s model needs to be refined, especially when applied to the relationship between what he terms the sectors of ‘mass’ and ‘restricted’ production, between popular and elite culture. Whereas Bourdieu envisions these two sectors as coexisting largely in opposition, the reality is more complex. For example, as I discuss in the first chapter of this study, the new technologies transforming book production during this period did not create an uncrossable divide between the ‘industrial’ and the ‘luxury’ book. On the contrary, many new bibliophiles, foremost among them Uzanne, were fascinated by how judiciously applied photomechanical techniques could enhance the cachet of the newly ‘rare’ book. The myriad innovative techniques of the second industrial revolution were thus appropriated variably by each sector in accordance with differing conceptions of the book and its functions. Further blurring the distinction between these two sectors of book production was the inclusion of many livres de luxe, including the Quatre Fils Aymon (figure 0.2), at the Paris World’s Fairs of 1889 and 1900, both shrines to France’s technological progress and commercial might. How

Introduction: The New Bibliopolis

9

Image Not Available

Figure 0.2 Cover illustration by Eugène Grasset for Histoire des quatre fils Aymon, très nobles et très vaillans chevaliers (1883)

10 The New Bibliopolis

were these elite products to be ‘read’ in the context of these democratizing, ‘universal’ exhibitions? Finally, while the new bibliopolis prided itself on disinterest in profit, this pose was at times disingenuous, especially when the deep pockets of bibliophile patrons wore thin, requiring the supplementing of an exclusive collector’s edition with a larger commercial edition whose profits would sustain further publications. Far from being an entirely self-contained world, then, the new bibliopolis in fact maintained an intimate yet tense connection with commercial book production. Its example thus provides a novel perspective on how elite and mass culture interacted during this period. Also closely connected was the revival of book arts occurring in France and in other countries. Lucien Pissarro was a Frenchman working in England yet dependent on the support of French patrons. The Belgian artist Rops lived in France and worked for French publishers, as did the Swiss-born artist, Félix Vallotton. Uzanne’s articles in the English arts magazine, The Studio, introduced a British public to the illustrations of Grasset and Georges de Feure, and one of Uzanne’s books recounted his visit to notable private libraries in New York. The German-born art dealer Siegfried Bing organized a major international exhibit in Paris on the modern illustrated book. The Art Nouveau jeweller Henri Vever met the Czech graphic artist Alphonse Mucha in his Paris studio. Again, while seemingly hermetic, the Parisian new bibliopolis, due in part to improved transportation and communications, remained highly permeable to the range of international aesthetic influences and cultural trends that would affect fine book production in France. If books are symbolic goods, what did they symbolize to the new bibliophiles of the fin de siècle? The multiple significations attached to the term ‘livres de luxe’ during this period are revealing of both the shifting meanings of books in general at the apogee of this ‘civilization of print,’ and the changing profile of collectors and collecting.10 For example, new bibliophiles sometimes warmed to, sometimes rejected the description of books as bibelots, and of book collecting as, in Beraldi’s words, ‘a form of bibelotage like any other’ (BB 37). As will be discussed in chapter 5, the yellow silk cover of the edition Robert de Montesquiou commissioned for his poems, Les Chauves-Souris, its elaborately watermarked paper and crushed morocco binding strewn with platinum leather stars made it, in some sense, the equivalent of the variety of magnificent ‘baubles’ accumulated by other fanatical collectors of this period. At the same time, however, the connection between the strangely homynymic (yet etymologically distinct) activities of bibelotage and bibliophilia was

Introduction: The New Bibliopolis

11

also suspect to new bibliophiles, for several reasons. Any emphasis on a book’s materiality was liable to deepen the association between livres de luxe and other types of ‘goods’ produced, and often reproduced, in greater quantities during this era, whether bicycles, foodstuffs, lottery tickets, or cheap paperbacks. As mass-reproduced commodities, books were now being severed from a long tradition that had endowed the printed word with prestige. It was precisely this ‘tremendous shattering of tradition’ and ‘withering of the book’s aura,’ hallmarks for Walter Benjamin of the age of mechanical reproduction, that led some new bibliophiles to place livres de luxe squarely in the domain of pure art, or even of the sacred, rejecting any attempt to ‘bibelotize’ the book.11 As the painter Camille Pissarro affirmed in a letter to his son Lucien: ‘If one creates a rare book … it is a work of art in the same manner as a painting.’12 Finally, for some, bibliophlia as bibelotage was a feminine practice, associated with the beautification of the home. In an era of shifting conceptions of gender epitomized by the intertwined figures of the femme nouvelle and the femme fatale, the gendered language of book collecting, the subject of chapter 6, served both to stigmatize certain collecting styles as ‘unmanly,’ just as it united a brotherhood of ‘bookmen’ around a common object of desire, the ‘female’ book. Was the new luxury book, then – echoing an aesthetic debate at the heart of Symbolism – an expression of materialism or of idealism? Perhaps both, as suggested in the engraver and critic Félix Bracquemond’s invocation of ‘this object at once so concrete and so complex: a book.’13 Were the creations of the new bibliopolis to be considered primarily as texts, or as their physical supports in the form of paper, binding, typeface, and so on? Or perhaps more aptly, as D.F. McKenzie has suggested, as ‘texts which have been given a particular physical form,’ in this case an especially sumptuous one, which in turn helped fashion the reception of these volumes?14 Were luxury books perceived primarily as sources of erudition or as decorative objects, and as such should they be read, or simply looked at? Art or industry? Valuable personal property, the stuff of a healthy inheritance? ‘Male’ or ‘female?’ Was a book’s text to be valued above its images, or vice-versa? In analysing the development of the new bibliophilia as what McKenzie has termed ‘a history of material objects as symbolic forms,’ then, the present study opens onto a history of both fin-de-siècle mentalités and of the social uses of books. As such, it hopes to bridge a gap between an Anglo-American approach to book history, which has often relied on analytical bibliography, and the grounding in social and cultural history more typical of an histoire du livre associated with France.15

12 The New Bibliopolis

Bohemian Gentlemen Among the foremost agents of creative bibliophilia were individual amateurs, a term defined by Uzanne in his whimsical Dictionnaire bibliophilosophique (1896) as ‘[those] who are passionate about beautiful editions and rare books’ (12). At the fin de siècle these were men generally in their thirties and forties, at the pinnacle of their careers. For the most part, they belonged to the generation that came of age with the disastrous 1870 French defeat by Prussia. The patriotic family of the jeweller and bibliophile Henri Vever, for example, exhumed and packed up the buried remains of relatives before leaving its native Metz for Paris following the defeat, unwilling to leave these ancestors behind in Lorraine, territory that was occupied by Germany.16 Vever and other members of this generation were eager, according to Uzanne (who attained the rank of lieutenant shortly after the war), to help revive French pride through promoting a renewal of its decorative arts. These men shared a uniform social profile, as well. Whether rentiers or successful professionals, they conformed closely to Bourdieu’s apt designation of such individuals as ‘bohemians of the upper bourgeoisie.’17 In Uzanne’s description these men were ‘bohemian gentlemen,’ rebels against social constraint influenced by the cultures of snobbism and dandyism.18 Well-educated, wealthy representatives of the social elites who rose to power by the early decades of the Third Republic, upperbourgeois bohemians shared an unconventional aesthetic temperament and enthusiasm for little-known authors and especially artists of their own day. Not all contemporaries viewed these refined men indulgently, however. The German cultural critic Max Nordau, for one, asserted in his highly influential work Degeneration (1892) that when such hyperrefined aesthetes and collectors, urban dwellers all, were organized into ‘close groups or schools uncompromisingly exclusive to outsiders,’ they clearly bore the symptoms of the modern ‘pathology’ of degeneration.19 Who were these aesthetic impresarios, these devotees of the contemporary livre de luxe? The iconoclastic collector Edmond de Goncourt (1822–96), who kept his distance from book lovers’ societies and cultivated instead a most personal form of bibliophilia, was an aesthetic maître in this matter to many younger collectors, Robert de Montesquiou (1855–1921) among them. Vehemently disdaining the tradition of antiquarian book collecting associated with Baron Pichon, Goncourt looked toward both the French Rococo movement and Asia as sources of a revival in book design. Henri Beraldi (1849–1931, figure 0.3), an official

Introduction: The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 0.3 Portrait of Henri Beraldi, etching by Félix Bracquemond (1884)

13

14 The New Bibliopolis

at the Ministère de la Marine, wrote prolifically and with wry acumen on all aspects of fine books and prints, and on the market for such products. Crafter of sumptuous single-copy editions and a president of the Société des Amis des Livres, Beraldi was above all others, in Bracquemond’s view, the model of the bibliophile-publisher who, instead of striving for financial gain, ‘toils for the glory of having marked [the book] with the imprint of his refined taste.’20 The pseudonymous Ramiro, Eugène Rodrigues (1853–1928) was a prominent lawyer at the Paris bar and founder of the Cent Bibliophiles. Intimate friend and confidant of the formidable artistic enfant terrible, Félicien Rops, Rodrigues produced catalogues raisonnés of the artist’s work, thus becoming in Uzanne’s view the official ‘Ropsian iconographer.’21 Like Rodrigues, who was a descendant of a prominent Sephardic family, Pierre Dauze (Pierre-Louis Dreyfus-Bing, 1852–1913), founder of Les XX, was also Jewish, signalling a social marginality, in the perception of some contemporaries, common to several of these upper-bourgeois bohemians. Henri Vever (1854–1942), winner of a Grand Prix for jewellry making at the 1889 Paris World’s Fair, belonged to several bibliophile societies. A selfdescribed ‘incorrigible’ collector and fervent japonisant, much like the innovative printer Charles Gillot (1853–1904) and many other new bibliophiles, he collaborated with Grasset on volumes at the juncture of jewellery and book arts.22 Paul Gallimard (1850–1929), theatre director, free-spending patron of the Impressionists, and father of Gaston, who in 1911 founded the legendary publishing house, soon turned to commissioning lavish volumes for his own pleasure and those of select friends. Astonished by the unique creations executed under Gallimard’s direction, with illustrations by Jean-François Raffaëlli, Auguste Rodin, and others, Goncourt hailed Gallimard as a ‘grand seigneur of publishing.’23 To Goncourt, Gallimard was the heir of the eighteenth-century fermiers généraux, the newly rich upper-bourgeois royal tax collectors who had invested their income in commissioning magnificent illustrated volumes of works by La Fontaine and others. The high priest of fin-de-siècle bibliophilia, however, was Octave Uzanne (1851–1931, figure 0.4): author (over fifty volumes of fiction and criticism), journalist (regular contributions to L’Écho de Paris and numerous other French and foreign periodicals), bibliographer, and publisher. Passionately and prodigiously engaged with the printed word, Uzanne founded three influential reviews devoted to the book: Le Livre: Bibliographie Moderne (1880–9), Le Livre Moderne: Revue du Monde Littéraire et des Bibliophiles Contemporains (1890–1), and L’Art et l’Idée: Revue Contemporaine

Introduction: The New Bibliopolis

15

Image Not Available

Figure 0.4 Portrait of Octave Uzanne, frontispiece by A. Giraldon and Eugène Abot for Le Livre Moderne, vol. 1 (10 January 1890). The inscription in the open book reads: ‘The book, which is the clothing of thought, must express the artistic style and formal mode of an era’ (‘Le livre, qui est le vêtement de la pensée, doit exprimer le style d’art et la mode formelle d’une époque’).

16 The New Bibliopolis

du Dilettantisme Littéraire et de la Curiosité (1892–3). 24 A habitué of bibliophile societies, he ran two of his own, the Société des Bibliophiles Contemporains (1889–94) and the Société des Bibliophiles Indépendants (1896–1901). Breaking with the tradition of retrospective bibliophilia solidly established in France, Uzanne cast himself as a reformer, who proclaimed that ‘the future and success will belong to innovators.’25 He called for change in all matters concerning the luxury book, especially in illustration, binding, and typography. This ally of the Symbolist poets and painters became the herald of the new bibliophilia, which privileged close collaboration between artists, authors, publishers, and collectors. He proudly claimed for himself the title of bibliophile – in his view, ‘the privilege of the veritable friend of books, of the cultured spirit, endowed with respect and the religion of letters.’ He even deemed himself a ‘bibliophilosophe’ – ‘the wise friend of books, free from all ostentation and vanity’ – in order to distinguish himself from the vulgar bibliomane, who in a maniacal frenzy amassed books simply out of cupidity and not love of learning.26 The narrow definitions Uzanne and others forged of their ‘bibliophile’ title often served as a means to restrict entry to this fellowship of collectors. Hailed by Félicien Rops as a ‘Parisian, Frenchman, and artist,’ Uzanne, a rentier from Burgundy, had come to Paris shortly after the FrancoPrussian War to pursue a literary career.27 In his eccentric individuality he emerges from contemporary accounts as an almost archetypal figure of the belle époque – the ‘handsome monsieur with a beard’ admired by Rops, an ‘elegant storyteller,’ according to Anatole France. Others noted with displeasure his rakishness. Watching Uzanne flirt with a married American socialite and make risqué jokes at a Parisian dinner party, the son of the Philadelphia publisher George Barrie found Uzanne ‘the greatest poseur I have ever met, the lion of the evening.’28 The gossipy Abbé Mugnier, a caustic observer of Parisian high society, dismissed Uzanne and the ether-drinking author Jean Lorrain as ‘two swine,’ who had tried to drag the author Joris-Karl Huysmans to the Folies-Bergère against his will.29 As Uzanne confided in a letter to his friend, the author Émile Rochard, although he was dreaming of ‘suave love affairs that [my] still intact Heart would preserve piously,’ and while aspiring to ‘pure fountain-water’ in terms of love, he repeatedly found himself ‘slurping up the filth from the gutter.’30 Another contemporary who eyed Uzanne with suspicion was Edmond de Goncourt. Although Uzanne unsuccessfully sought Goncourt’s approbation for two decades, the novelist insultingly identified Uzanne in his journal as ‘this man who has a drop of sperm

Introduction: The New Bibliopolis

17

spurted into his eye.’31 Indeed, to one critic Uzanne seemed ‘a slightly smutty disciple of the Goncourt [brothers]’ for his many libertine chronicles that were both ‘learned and titillating,’ conjuring up in their frilly, Rococo style the final decades of the ancien régime.32 A monocle-sporting bachelor, Uzanne frequented the tony Café Napolitain with James McNeill Whistler. A self-professed ‘impenitent globe-trotter’ [sic], his travels took him to Holland, Belgium, Switzerland, Venice, Cairo, and to America for three months in 1893 where, reporting for Le Figaro, he interviewed both President Grover Cleveland and Thomas Edison and toured the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago.33 An enthusiastic Anglophile who peppered his French with Anglicisms, he frequently crossed the Channel for theatre at Covent Garden and boating on the Thames. Visitors entered his fantastical top-floor apartment that overlooked the booksellers’ stalls on the quai Voltaire through a sculpted iron double door resembling ‘the gate of paradise imagined by a Byzantine artist.’34 His elegant attic overflowed with bibelots, icons, enamelled plaques, watercolours, vases of irises and nasturtiums, and one of Marie-Antoinette’s gloves – propped upright and irreverently transformed by Uzanne into a cigar holder.

Collectors The cultlike veneration of beaux livres common to Uzanne and his followers was not merely an expression of their eccentric personalities. While individual agents played a preponderant role in orchestrating fine book production during this period, their actions were in part shaped by broader social, cultural, and economic forces. Among the interrelated trends that influenced the practices of these amateurs, materialism – described lovingly by Goncourt as ‘that almost human tenderness for things,’ and far less lovingly by Karl Marx as a hunger for fetishized commodities spawned by capitalism – led many of them not only to produce beautiful books for their own pleasure but also to be passionate collectors.35 Materialism provided one motivation for collecting, but collecting also expressed the social aspirations of some members of the upper bourgeoisie at the fin de siècle. The collection of such highly symbolic commodities as fine books, as the sociologist Thorstein Veblen keenly observed of his contemporaries, served as ‘badges of prowess’ that substituted for such traditional signs of honour as weaponry. These signs were associated with an aristocracy that at the fin de siècle had lost much of its political power but none of its cachet.36

18 The New Bibliopolis

Book collecting, of course, had a long history as an elite social practice in France, extending back to the great royal and aristocratic libraries of the ancien régime. Adopting, albeit irreverently, a chivalric vocabulary, Beraldi remarked: ‘Given the honour in which bibliophilia is held, people loudly proclaim their prowess in this arena; and given the monetary efforts necessary to possess a book, people boast about this: the bibliophile shouts his purchase prices like an athlete shows off his biceps.’37 In light of the honorific value attached to book collecting and collecting in general during this period, upper-bourgeois amateurs were eager to flex their muscles – and open their wallets – to obtain the social recognition gained from this act of conspicuous consumption. If collecting served a social function for new bibliophiles, it fulfilled other purposes as well. Unique volumes and related accoutrements, such as Henri Vever’s magnificent collection of Islamic bindings, were as much expressions of individual identity as were Robert de Montesquiou’s canes. The narcissistic pose of a fin-de-siècle new bibliophile bore something of that of the dandy or snob, avid to secure his often idiosyncratic reputation. Indeed, the éditeur-libraire Léopold Carteret described the book collector as ‘an often vain man, who … collects books as he would shells or ashtrays.’38 Finally, as the rhetoric of fin-de-siècle book love (or lust) reveals, for the new bibliophiles collecting at times served not only aesthetic and social purposes, but sexual ones as well. The remarkable number of bachelor-bibliophiles, Uzanne first among them, conform closely to Freud’s conception of a collector as ‘an individual who directs his surplus libido at something inanimate: love of things.’39 The highly charged practice of collecting, then, proved a powerful motivation for new bibliophiles, whose social profile had changed considerably over the course of the century. The collector of yesteryear, according to the prominent fin-de-siècle book illustrator Louis Morin, was ‘a gentle and studious soul, who spends his days laboriously hunting books in the stalls of bouquinistes, and the evening reading assiduously under the familial lamp, by the hearth.’ By contrast, the bibliophile of Morin’s own day was ‘a wealthy man, educated, with refined taste’ who, tired of searching for books, decided to make them himself. In so doing, ‘he inspired a new industry to bloom.’40 The new bibliophiles operated within a world in which, in part under the impetus of technology, formerly rigid polarities were breaking down: elite versus popular culture, art versus industry, the luxury edition versus the commercial book. Such blurring of commonly accepted dichotomies did not result solely from technological change, of course. It also revealed the tensions exacerbated during this

Introduction: The New Bibliopolis

19

Image Not Available

Figure 0.5 (1896)

Illustration by Paul Avril for Lettre d’un candidat ou l’entrée à bibliopolis

period by the progressive social, political, and economic enfranchisement of more of the French, and by international competition soon to find one outlet in war. Often highly ambivalent about these tensions, Uzanne and his fellow bibliophiles established themselves as champions of a paradoxical ‘newness’ that in fact attempted to combine an allegiance to modernity with a stalwart defence of French traditions. In a beautiful twelve-page book illustrated by Paul Avril and entitled Lettre d’un candidat ou l’entrée à bibliopolis (figure 0.5), 115 copies of which were printed in 1896 for a Mr A. Girard, a Muse instructs the hapless protagonist, who wishes to enter ‘bibliopolis,’ to call out the names of ‘our contemporaries, what an illustrious phalanx!’ Dutifully, this aspiring new bibliophile invokes contemporary book illustrators (‘Grasset planting the sons of Aymon on horseback’); fine book dealers (‘you

20 The New Bibliopolis

whose shop has treasures, Conquet’); and, finally, bibliophiles: ‘Beraldi full of good humour’ and ‘Uzanne / Riding astride the chimera in flight toward the ideal.’41 Having successfully completed this ritual, the candidate sees emerge, in the form of a book surrounded by an aureole, the ‘Chef de Bibliopolis.’ This all-seeing, all-knowing deity ushers the initiate into the inner sanctum of the book, where he is confronted by a phrase that provides a clever twist on the Jesuit motto ‘To the greater glory of God’: Ad majorem libri gloriam. The apotheosis is complete. Let us too, then, enter.

1 Books Worthy of Our Era? Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book

Renovata resurgo (Renewed, I rise again) Motto appearing on Uzanne’s first publications The thought is not to shine on timeless sheepskin bindings Belatedly, nonchalantly I salute you, Octave Uzanne. Stéphane Mallarmé, Vers de circonstance (1898)1

One of the foremost themes in the writings of Octave Uzanne and other new bibliophiles was a concern for the effects of technology on book production. Superficially at least, Uzanne seemed optimistic about the many possibilities for creativity afforded by technological advances. He probably warmed to Félicien Rops’s suggestion that the pair visit the 1882 Exposition des Arts Industriels because, as Rops informed Uzanne, ‘they have machines there that are quite interesting for us! – We’ll make two beautiful colour books for next year.’2 What such machines would help the two rebels bring about, as Rops declared in an exalted letter that reads like a manifesto, was nothing less than ‘[the] total reform of the illustrated book.’3 According to Rops, he and Uzanne would begin by experimenting with colour printing techniques based on photography, although by Rops’s admission the work ‘won’t be good at the beginning – no illusions! – we must create the engraver, the worker, the printer, none of that exists.’ New techniques, new technicians, then, would endow books with what Rops deemed a ‘modern allure,’ and such experimentation,

22 The New Bibliopolis

costly at times, would come to characterize a sector unconcerned with financial profit. Rops warned an older breed of bibliophiles: ‘Tough luck for the archaeologicians [sic] of the book … We’re going to trash and trample all of it.’4 Like Rops, Uzanne relentlessly championed what he referred to as ‘the pretty things of modern industry’ (C 112) when applied to book production. These ‘pretty things’ were featured prominently at the 1894 state-sponsored international exhibit of the book- and paper-making industries, which was held at the Palais de l’Industrie in Paris and featured over one thousand exhibitors. Such novelties included colour illustrations, machine-made bindings, and chemically tinted paper. Similarly, the 1900 Paris World’s Fair confronted visitors with machines for folding, sewing, and gluing together sheets of paper; gilding and rounding the corners of covers; laminating, watermarking, engraving, typesetting, enlarging, and reducing images – and executing many other procedures previously done manually.5 These inventions exemplified the culmination of technological changes that had been radically transforming the book trade throughout the nineteenth century to meet the demands of the burgeoning market for print. Printing presses, for example, had become more complex machines over the course of the century. Hippolyte Marinoni’s rotary press was introduced in France around 1866, coinciding with the replacement of rag-based by wood pulp–based paper, to print twenty thousand copies per hour of the popular daily newspaper, Le Petit Journal. Completed by Ottmar Mergenthaler’s linotype and Tolbert Lanston’s monotype machines (debuting in France to much fanfare at the 1889 and 1900 World’s Fairs, respectively), these inventions contributed to the phenomenal increase in the volume of printed matter over the course of the century and assured the virtual disappearance of the traditional, manual Gutenbergian atelier. Uzanne valued the increasing sophistication of printing processes and other such technological innovations. But he did so only to the extent that they helped advance an elitist aesthetic of the book based on originality, novelty, and fantasy. He disparaged technology’s potential to replicate, leading to overproduction and (worse in his view) democratization of the type of livre d’amateur he envisioned. He was, in fact, a peculiar herald whose desire for reform coexisted with conservative, even reactionary leanings. His elitism led him, in the end, to advocate two strategies for producers of fine books in this age of mechanical reproduction. The first entailed appropriating the most modern technologies but in ever more singular ways, for the exclusive benefit of a

Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 23

select clientele of collectors. The second also encouraged innovation, although not by technological means but by a return to traditional techniques associated with the woodcut. Uzanne’s example suggests that during this period mechanical fabrication was not necessarily a dividing line between large-scale and elite book production. Instead, each sector envisioned differing forms of appropriation of the new technologies in accordance with opposed conceptions of the book as either agent of democratization and progress or marker of social and cultural distinction. Rather than merely coexisting in opposition to one another, the sectors of commercial and fine book production were in fact closely interrelated, with technology serving as an essential link between them.

A Reactionary Modernist? A glimpse at Uzanne’s early career reveals a tension between modernism and anachronism that would characterize his attitude toward technology as well. Born into the commercial and office-holding bourgeoisie of Auxerre, Burgundy, Uzanne was sent to Paris soon after his father’s death. As a boarder at the Collège Rollin, a training ground for the sons of the upper bourgeoisie and aristocracy, France’s future elites, he received a rigorous classical education. A desultory attempt at a law career followed, soon abandoned when a well-timed inheritance in 1872 allowed him to pursue his literary inclinations. He became a habitué of the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal in Paris, rendezvous for a coterie of erudite book lovers, all disciples of the author, and former Arsenal curator, Charles Nodier. These included the then-current Arsenal curator and lexicographer Loredan Larchey, the journalist and critic Charles Monselet, and the aptly nicknamed ‘Bibliophile Jacob’ (né Paul Lacroix), the Arsenal’s curator of manuscripts. Uzanne’s mentors conveyed to him a shared passion for the lateseventeenth and eighteenth centuries and a dedication to reviving the reputation of their forgotten authors. Monselet’s Oubliés et dédaignés: Figures de la fin du XVIIIe siècle (1857) and Bibliophile Jacob’s XVIIIe Siècle: Institutions, usages et costumes, France 1700–1789 (1875) may have provided models for Uzanne’s four-volume series, Poètes de ruelles au XVIIe siècle (1875–8).6 The series was published by Damase Jouaust, a secondgeneration printer-publisher of fine editions. Jouaust’s Librairie des Bibliophiles series, inaugurated in 1869, featured new editions of classic French texts with etchings reproducing illustrations by François Boucher and other eighteenth-century artists; this collection set the

24 The New Bibliopolis

standard for refined limited editions until Jouaust’s 1891 retirement. Uzanne completed his monumental task of resurrecting the works of forgotten eighteenth-century authors, especially those with a libertine bent, with three additional series published by the printing and publishing firm of Albert Quantin. Quantin had taken over the business of one of the foremost Second Empire printers (notably of the prestigious Revue des Deux Mondes), Jules Claye. Quantin quickly distinguished his own firm by gaining monopolies not only on the printing work of the French Chamber of Deputies but also, in collaboration with the publisher Jules Hetzel, on an edition of Hugo’s complete works. At the same time, Quantin gained a reputation as a printer of high quality illustrated art books, relying for their production on sophisticated equipment. Uzanne devoted the more than twenty volumes in these series – featuring the elegant paper, sateen covers, Elzevir font, and tasteful vignettes readers had come to expect from Quantin – to the chroniclers, poets, and mores of the eighteenth century.7 This massive rehabilitation of the previous century’s petite littérature for the benefit of new collectors nostalgic for the France of Louis XV earned Uzanne a reputation as the ‘uncontested maître’ of that epoch.8 This reputation was self-servingly accorded through relentless trumpeting in publicity by Quantin and in the bibliographic review Uzanne himself published in the 1880s, Le Livre. The eighteenth-century revival thus led Uzanne backward, relying on his erudition and bibliographic talents to pay homage to the lesserknown authors of that century and the aristocratic culture that produced them. Indeed, his indefatigable editorial efforts, along with his reviews and bibliographic notices for the short-lived Conseiller du Bibliophile (1876–7), marked his emergence at age twenty-four as a critic, bibliographer, and bibliophile under the sway of the ancien régime. Yet Uzanne’s devotion to the France of Louis XIV and Louis XV would also lead him forward, as a proponent of the neo-Rococo aesthetic and decorative arts that at the turn of the twentieth century inspired Art Nouveau. In this pursuit, his mentors would also be bibliophiles – not the érudits of the Arsenal but aesthetes fascinated by the eighteenth century who, like Uzanne, were standard-bearers for a curious blend of modernism and reaction: the Goncourt brothers. In 1875 Uzanne would introduce himself by letter to Edmond de Goncourt as ‘one of your greatest admirers.’9 Uzanne’s affinity for the eighteenth century, and for historical pastiche in general, were on display in one of his earliest works, Le Bricà-brac de l’amour (1879) – one of several for which he would devise fanciful and decidedly nonscholarly titles. As suggested by its frontispiece, a

Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 25

neo-Rococo etching complete with cherubim and garlands, Le Bric-àbrac offered mildly licentious reflections on love written in a precious style (figure 1.1). The traditional frontispiece of this work, however, was overshadowed by its technically groundbreaking two-tone blue cover, one of the earliest examples of a procedure developed in the mid-1870s by the second-generation printer-inventor, Charles Gillot. In 1850 Charles’s father, Firmin, had developed the process known as gillotage, or zincography, whereby a line-drawn, etched, or lithographic image is transferred to a zinc relief plate. Gillot fils adapted his father’s invention to the photographic image. Uzanne’s experiment with photomechanical reproduction in Le Bric-à-brac de l’amour thus owed much to the pioneering work of Charles Gillot, a prominent book collector in his own right. Uzanne added rudiments of colour reproduction to his book as well, using textured paper also invented by Charles Gillot to create subtle tone and shading effects.10 While gillotage would soon become the procedure most commonly used for book illustration by printers in France, in 1879 its use was still quite limited. Indeed, Uzanne’s reliance on relief photoengraving placed him on the cusp of the photomechanical ‘revolution’ brought about by new technologies and prepared by a half century of experimentation. A great variety of printed products were working themselves into every feature of daily life during this ‘age of paper,’ signalled by the proliferation of newspapers, bank notes, travel guides, posters, and department store catalogues.11 Enlivening these printed products was a stunning diversity of images that owed their appearance to new techniques, with lithographs and woodcuts ceding to the unparalleled verisimilitude afforded by processes relying on photography. Indeed, the development of photography in the late 1830s by Abel Niepce de Saint-Victor and Jacques Daguerre in France and William Henry Fox Talbot in England had by mid-century begun to generate numerous techniques for applying photography to the not dissimilar technology of printing. Known collectively as photogravure, these techniques exploited diverse chemically treated surfaces (metal, wood, glass, stone) onto which photographic images were transferred and often engraved to print the equally varied types of illustrations now available to the public. The difficulty of adding shading and gradation to these illustrations was resolved initially with the use of textured paper and most importantly in the 1880s with the introduction of halftone screens, anticipating the ‘colour revolution’ soon to come. The beginning of Uzanne’s bibliophilic activities in the early 1880s, then, coincided with

26 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 1.1 Frontispiece by Adolphe Lalauze for Octave Uzanne, Le Bric-à-brac de l’amour (1879)

Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 27

the gradual displacement of manual methods of illustrating print by photomechanical ones, as evidenced by the flood of mass-produced, highly realistic images characteristic of the popular press and book publishing during this era.12 While admittedly ‘looking for new procedures’ (Q 159) with his adoption of gillotage, Uzanne showed an interest in photomechanical techniques not for their democratizing potential, but rather for the esoteric effects they could produce. He made this clear in the ‘iconographic prelude’ he wrote for a limited edition of the 1894 Album Mariani.13 Part of a series that would eventually include eleven volumes, this first album featured photomechanically produced likenesses of seventy-five contemporary ‘personalities’ – politicians, journalists, actors, artists, novelists – accompanied by biographical sketches. The yearbook owed its publication to the patronage of a wealthy Corsican scientist-entrepreneur, Angelo Mariani, creator of a wildly popular coca-laced wine tonic. Indeed, each celebrity in the album vaunted the virtues of the potent ‘vin Mariani.’14 Despite the blatantly commercial premise of these albums, their material form, at least at the inception of their publication, was luxurious. On behalf of the ‘distinguished and select public’ for which this work was destined, Uzanne praised Mariani, ‘a business gentleman’ (and, by virtue of his book-collecting habits, a member of Uzanne’s society, Les Bibliophiles Contemporains), for the superb Vosges paper of the five hundred copies of the édition de grand luxe. And for its ‘remarkable’ typography and skilful engravings on both wood and copper, made from photographs of this ‘small Pantheon of our contemporary glories,’ including Uzanne himself (figure 1.2). Shortly after the publication of the 1894 Mariani album, however, its status as a ‘unique Book,’ as Uzanne recalled in his preface, was jeopardized by a potentially enlarged, socially diverse readership – ‘a crowd of surging beggars, veritable throng incited by the clamour surrounding the first volume.’ Faced with the disarming prospect of an elite product’s becoming popular, Mariani (and Uzanne) devised a snob’s response: ‘build a dam,’ in Uzanne’s phrase, between the deluxe bibliophile edition of the album and its newly devised ‘popular’ edition. Any budget shortfall incurred by sales of the less expensive edition would be compensated by those of the pricey limited one. Thus, Uzanne concluded, ‘according to the sound principles of humanitarian bakers, the price of brioche will help lower the price of ordinary bread. It is good social policy to ask the richest and most gracious individuals to provide an opportunity to assist the masses.’

28 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 1.2 Portrait of Octave Uzanne, wood-engraving by Brauer from a photograph for Album Mariani (1894)

Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 29

The condescending pseudopopulism of Uzanne’s preface revealed his feelings about the appropriateness for ‘the masses’ of certain applications of technology. For this ‘veritable throng,’ he felt, such photo-realistic images, in degraded form and unaccompanied by refined material support, were fitting. In fact, they typified what Uzanne perceived as an era in which ‘advertising is becoming brutally Americanized, when the millionaires of industry seek means of attracting attention through vulgar announcements, through the half-witted tricks on their posters.’ For the elite, however, these same photomechanically produced portraits, enhanced by costly paper, elegant typography, and a small print run, only increased the allure of an album destined for the happy few. It was not technology per se that Uzanne rejected, then. After all, as Mariani’s example proved, even an industrialist could be an aesthete. Rather, Uzanne wished to distance himself from technology’s association with ‘Americanization,’ a term that in his day equated the American republic with gigantism, mass production, industrial capitalism, ugliness, and conformity. In the introduction to the inaugural issue of his review, L’Art et l’Idée, he bemoaned the ‘heart-rending, dismal and flat appearance’ of photographic reproductions in school books, travel guides, and the press, blaming them for having ‘forbidden any fluttering of our imagination, so desirous of the great beyond.’15 Characteristically, in his bibliophilic pursuits Uzanne continued to turn to more esoteric, often hybrid photomechanical procedures developed in the 1890s – phototypography, photolithography, photozincography – in search of the livre unique. Exploiting new techniques to help create a vogue for fine illustrated books united Uzanne in a common effort with the publisher of Le Bricà-brac, Édouard Rouveyre. An ambitious bookstore owner and publisher of collector’s editions three years Uzanne’s senior, Rouveyre too was embarking on his career. He hoped to develop networks drawing together older, ‘retrospective’ bibliophiles and those Uzanne considered the ‘new strata of book lovers’ (Q 155).16 The activities of both Rouveyre’s publishing house and bookstore and of a coedited monthly review, Les Miscellanées Bibliographiques (1878–80), were part of a strategy elaborated by these ‘two daring men’ (as Uzanne remembered the pair) in an effort to consolidate the field of fine book production.17 Within this field, Uzanne intended to exercise an extraordinary degree of editorial control over his publications, becoming their quasi-publisher while retaining the financial and technical support of an established firm. Writing about his work with Rouveyre, Uzanne described himself as ‘very intransigent about the decoration of his books,’ and noted that

30 The New Bibliopolis

‘already [in 1878] [I] intended to oversee the smallest details and to intervene hands-on as well in the drawings, etchings, vignettes, page layout, and the rest.’18 An 1886 brochure put out by the firm of Albert Quantin went so far as to state that ‘M. Uzanne is the publisher as much as the author of his works,’ while Félicien Rops designated Uzanne the ‘inspirer and moral director’ of the Maison Quantin.19 In Rops’s view Uzanne was also the aesthetic heir of Auguste PouletMalassis, publisher and friend of Charles Baudelaire. Poulet-Malassis had distinguished himself by his attention to the quality and originality of his books, attracting both like-minded authors and readers and earning a reputation as the ‘bibliophiles’ publisher’ until his 1862 bankruptcy. ‘[S]tudent of Malassis moreover, in all respects,’ wrote Rops. ‘[Uzanne] resembles Malassis enormously – morally.’20 In the smallscale milieu of fine book production, publishers such as Rouveyre and Quantin, and Jouaust and Poulet-Malassis before them, were important cultural intermediaries, among the foremost shapers of a book’s reception and symbolic value, as well as, to Félix Bracquemond, ‘architects’ of the book.21 Close collaborator of two of these publishers and symbolic descendent of two others, Uzanne would exploit the multiple editorial functions he was accumulating to procure for himself a decisive role in fostering a renaissance of the book arts in France. The shock of the new combined again with a taste for reaction in Uzanne’s audacious choice of a preface writer for Le Bric-à-brac de l’amour. Jules Barbey d’Aurevilly was seventy when he endowed the twenty-eightyear-old Uzanne’s work with a sensational preface. As Uzanne recalled, this preface ‘exploded like a grenade in the world of letters in 1880 and was famous for a short while.’22 Five years earlier the man Uzanne remembered as ‘that impenitent and flamboyant romantic who exuded the extraordinary’ had authored a notorious hallmark of Decadent and Satanic fiction, Les Diaboliques. Barbey would provide Uzanne an entrée into the world of authors and artists within the realm of Symbolism, among them the occultist Joséphin ‘Sâr’ Péladan and Rops, the illustrator of Barbey’s Les Diaboliques, both of whom were drawn, like Barbey, to what many fin-de-siècle Parisians deemed stylish ‘perversions.’ An ‘unfortunate and above all misunderstood’ author (in his persecuted view of himself), Barbey felt he lacked the stature necessary to confer a ‘certificate of talent,’ even a ‘stupid … useless’ one, on the fledgling author Uzanne.23 Nevertheless, Barbey praised Uzanne’s broad knowledge, charm, and literary talent: ‘I am certain of only one thing, that You are charming … You [are] … a scholar capable of making my ignorance

Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 31

tremble … You are above all or below all … an Author … that is, what is most rare among those who write and believe they write!’24 With this vibrant endorsement, Barbey immediately invested Le Bric-à-brac with a scandalous legitimacy derived from his fame as an auteur maudit. For his part, Uzanne admired his maître (and fellow book lover) Barbey as an iconoclast and dandy. ‘Dandyism’ for Barbey and soon for his disciple Uzanne manifested itself superficially as a distinctive personal style, in the extravagant capes, scarlet vests, and merciless verbal barbs of this legendary Latin Quarter personality. Yet dandyism expressed itself not only as a pose but also more broadly in a variety of aesthetic, social, and political positions. Common to them all was disdain for ‘mediocrity’ and ‘vulgarity’ in every domain – a snob’s attitude that would clearly mark Uzanne’s aesthetic of the book. Among the conservative, even reactionary positions embraced by the two men were intransigent Catholicism in the case of Barbey and anti-Semitic leanings in Uzanne. His pun on the name of the celebrated literary publishers, Michel and Calmann Lévy, whom he dubbed ‘Caïman Lévy,’ and his assertion that ‘I’m leaving these dirty Jews in peace and ask only that they do the same to me’ tapped into a wellspring of resentment toward the successful brothers by those in the literary and publishing fields.25 Whether out of ideological sympathy or opportunism, Uzanne helped find a printer for Édouard Drumont’s La France juive (1886), the antiSemitic blockbuster that was one of the greatest publishing successes in nineteenth-century France. Uzanne contributed as well to Drumont’s anti-Semitic newspaper, La Libre Parole, and described Drumont as the ‘creator of one of the greatest intellectual movements in France.’26 Finally, both Uzanne and Barbey made clear their ambivalent feelings toward women, which blended attraction with disdain.

The Book Trade in Fin-de-Siècle France Conditioned by the elitist culture of dandyism, Uzanne seemed predisposed to scorn the effects of industrialization on book production. And his rants against ‘Americanization’ convey to some extent a diffuse ambivalence shared by many of his contemporaries toward the ‘progress’ – social, political, economic, technological – associated with industrialization. Yet why and how he could maintain this position while at the same time exalting technology as crucial to the revival of book design at the fin de siècle is best understood with reference to the evolution of the book trade, both in France and internationally, during this

32 The New Bibliopolis

period. Changes in the quantity and quality of books produced, the social status of readers and collectors, and the availability of books deemed collectible all informed Uzanne’s paradoxical stance. Among the consequences of mechanization repellent to Uzanne, overproduction seemed especially pernicious. Compounded by competition from the popular press, overproduction triggered the krach that destabilized the book market during a general economic downturn in France from the late 1880s through about 1900. The doubling of the number of works published in France between the middle and the end of the nineteenth century had various causes, but industrialization of book production figured importantly among them. The increased output of print also corresponded to the liberation of the press and publishing in 1881 after nearly a century of restrictions, freeing both publishers and booksellers from the once obligatory licence allowing them to operate.27 Finally, the inflated supply of books was in part a response to growing demand from a reading public becoming more literate and socially diverse during this same period, a result of successive educational reforms – or in Uzanne’s pessimistic view, of ‘instruction given to everyone, everywhere … without distinction made among levels of class or wealth.’ A broad spectrum of social strata, he noted, was now reading, ‘from the milkmaid selling her milk in the morning … to the duchess on her chaise longue.’28 The democratization of instruction had led to increased numbers not only of readers but of writers, too; Uzanne referred to the latter as a teeming horde, ‘a formerly sparse breed whose numbers today challenge the best organized statistics.’29 These trends again led to both an inflation of the number of books and at the same time a lowering of their cost and often their material and literary quality: ‘everybody writes, without exception,’ Uzanne noted with displeasure, ‘well or poorly, poorly above all.’30 What this expanding public read was changing, too. The massive output of print coincided with the consecration of a formerly maligned but now burgeoning genre, the ‘bourgeois’ realist novel, and the decline in prestige of such a classical genre as poetry, soon to be reclaimed by bibliophiles (published plays were also suspect for Uzanne; why read a play when one could see it in person?). After initially praising the novel, Uzanne later railed against what the critic Charles Augustin SainteBeuve had termed such ‘industrial literature’ – and its philistine readers – as ‘this intellectual nourishment of corrupt and decadent peoples, [which] reaches us from everywhere like a final plague from Egypt.’31 Elsewhere he blasted novels as ‘these dupers of the imagination and

Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 33

useless time-wasters,’ which he hoped would one day be banned.32 In the plague-like proliferation of print spawned in part by mass production, finally, Uzanne observed numerous ancillary effects, all regrettable: critics could no longer identify new talent among the crush of review copies they received; writers became bitter over brutal competition and retreated to ‘the great legion of malcontents and misunderstood’ (Z 17); publishers floundered. In short, the unfortunate marriage of technology and democracy, in Uzanne’s view, had engendered a lamentable situation for the book, of which overproduction was the most notable symptom.33 Finally, Uzanne blamed the crash on various other phenomena: competition from new leisure activities; the practice of printing the same book in a variety of formats; the small size of Parisian apartments in relation to the flood of publications now available. While the vast bibliothèques of the château de Chantilly or James de Rothschild’s Parisian hôtel evoked an era when bibliophiles collected liberally, in multiple formats and editions, fin-de-siècle Parisian collections, conditioned by the exigencies of apartment size during the era of Haussmannization, were forced to limit themselves to either the rarest example of each book, or a specific criterion (an author, century, binder, paper type, edition, and so on). Like Uzanne, Henri Beraldi saw a correlation between the ‘multitude of small collections (everyone collects these days)’ and the ‘diminutive size of modern apartments’ (BB 7). Edmond de Goncourt attributed sluggish book sales to the diminished capital available to Parisian rentiers in the years following the 1882 collapse of the Union Générale bank, whose clientele was heavily Catholic and aristocratic. Hard pressed to assure steady revenues from their estates, the income of these amateurs fluctuated wildly and they bought less, leaving publishers like Georges Charpentier and Albert Quantin to moan, as Goncourt observed: ‘Things are bad, and getting worse!’34 Yet Uzanne saw few solutions to the debacle he described as ‘this Panama of publishing,’ an allusion to the great financial scandal that in 1891 discredited the early Third Republic and cast opprobrium on two Jewish middlemen accused of bribing deputies.35 Perhaps publishers should earn less, he suggested; perhaps the practice of bookstore owners returning unsold copies to publishers, who would in turn sell them to revendeurs, should be further developed. What was clear in Uzanne’s opinion, however, was the effect of the crash on most sectors of book production, with the exception, for example, of the pedagogical publications to which Louis Hachette owed his fortune: ‘the fatal, logical,

34 The New Bibliopolis

predictable debacle came to pass, with production far exceeding consumption.’36 As a result, many publishers foundered, including Quantin, who produced several of Uzanne’s most striking illustrated books. Not all amateurs were saddened by Quantin’s demise, however. Echoing the convergence of anti-capitalist and anti-Semitic themes finding their way into the fine book market as into many other quarters during this period, Edmond de Goncourt confided to his journal that the poor quality of the firm’s 1888 edition of Goncourt’s Histoire de la société française pendant la Révolution proved to him the ‘sordidness of the penny-pinching’ and the ‘absolute ignorance about book illustration’ of this ‘Jewish firm.’37 He mockingly noted the 1896 sale of the maison Quantin to the ‘button merchant [Henry] May,’ one of a ‘curious class’ of emerging publishers composed of ‘merchants who made their fortune in inferior industries or wholesale trades.’38 Mass production and commercialism, then, Uzanne and others felt, had led to not only overproduction but also a lowering of the material quality of many types of books, accompanying the drop in manufacturing costs and sale prices. In the newspaper Le Radical, the reactionary author and book lover Albert Cim denounced ‘these pitiful volumes printed at a discount, on cheap paper, dotted with typographical errors, inundated with inaccuracies, with no regular page justification.’39 The shabbiness of mass-produced novels, visible in their ‘modest yellow cover[s],’ made Uzanne despair, too.40 He bemoaned the state of bookshop windows, which confronted ‘the heartbroken eyes of the passerby with these sad exhibits of little yellow parallelepipeds, of such vulgarity that they evoke the edible memory of packets of chocolate on sale in grocery stores.’ Mass merchandise was again on Uzanne’s mind when he dubbed the commercial publisher Flammarion ‘the Boucicaut of the book,’ in an allusion to the founder, in 1852, of the immensely successful department store, the Bon Marché.41 The inability to distinguish among books, foodstuffs, and other merchandise, for Uzanne, ominously foretold the advanced stages of commodification and desacralization of print brought about by industrial production. Faced with a glut of print, it became ever more crucial, some felt, for ‘genuine’ livres de luxe to distinguish themselves by all possible means. Ironically, the solution Uzanne and others proposed to the inflated quantity and degraded quality of fine books relying on technology for their production would entail increasingly unique uses of this same technology. On one hand, then, Uzanne denigrated technology to distance

Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 35

himself from popular readers and the industrial literature they favoured. On the other, though, he championed the products and techniques of modern industry to distinguish himself and like-minded bibliophiles from a different group of reader-collectors, that of traditional, established bibliophiles as embodied by the Bibliophiles François. In a milieu dominated by conservative, largely aristocratic fine book collectors, Uzanne’s intermittent upholding of new technologies as they applied to fine book production may have served a strategic purpose. Such a position allowed him to legitimize the activities of his cohort of bibliophiles and establish his ‘new bibliopolis.’

Technology on Display: ‘Reading’ Livres de Luxe at the International Exhibitions ‘What we want,’ Uzanne proclaimed in 1890, are ‘books worthy of this era, which is witnessing a transformation of all received ideas … [and which] is beginning to … revolutionize logically and intelligently the simple-minded rules that habit alone made us respect until now.’42 ‘Books worthy of this era,’ for Uzanne and many other new bibliophiles, encompassed those relying for their fabrication on the latest techniques – essential to freeing books from ‘typographical and iconographic … traditions and prejudices’ – thus setting Uzanne’s group apart from its predecessors. Such openness permitted a strategic rapprochement between fine book production and related fields, such as that of the graphic arts, which had proved receptive to photomechanical and other new techniques. Moreover, the rhetoric of novelty was informed by struggles within not only the French bibliophilic sphere but the international one as well. During this climactic era of European nationalism and imperialism, international competition was enacted symbolically at the World’s Fairs and other ‘universal’ exhibits in part through displays of each country’s technological prowess. Applications of photography to book illustration, for example, appeared prominently in a section devoted to ‘Photographie et arts graphiques qui en dérivent’ at the 1894 Paris Exposition internationale du livre moderne et des industries du papier. An interest in photography was also on show in the exhibits organized from 1880 on by the Cercle de la Librairie. This federation, which from its founding in 1879 represented the interests of many recently unionized grands patrons from all branches of the book trades, considered its participation in large-scale exhibits a matter of national honour.43

36 The New Bibliopolis

Indicative of the competitive nature of these exhibits were the contrasts that journalists assessing them pointed out between France and other countries in regard to book production. One such visitor to the 1894 Paris exhibit, for example, concluded that overall, ‘in first place, we must name Russia’ – the country with which France had just concluded a crucial military alliance – while still contending that, ‘regarding publishing, France holds first place here.’44 Similarly, the noted critic and collector of Japanese objets d’art, Philippe Burty, observed that the quality of French industrial bindings had improved since the 1878 World’s Fair, at which ‘we were visibly outdistanced by English publishers.’45 Nearly two decades later, the publisher Édouard Pelletan still found English luxury books superior to their French counterparts, deeming work by his compatriots ‘a veritable outrage to good taste.’46 To a certain extent, then, these fairs represented, as suggested shortly before the opening of the 1914 Leipzig Exposition internationale du livre, des arts graphiques, et de la photographie, ‘a new but peaceful battle among nations.’ In this context, books became weapons with which to ‘fight the good fight.’47 Such sizing up of France’s diplomatic allies and enemies through the barometer of technological clout was standard fare for these pre–First World War exhibitions. And the prickly tone of the French critics may convey to some extent the uneasiness with which they observed French industrial production lagging behind that of Germany, England, and the United States. According to statistics compiled by the Cercle de la Librairie, French annual book production had progressed only slightly in the three decades between 1866 and 1898, leaving France trailing Germany and only marginally ahead of England in this area, and mirroring an overall commercial trend.48 By 1914 French and English book production had decreased while Germany’s had increased by 25 per cent.49 The repeal in 1885 by the Chamber of Deputies of the tax on paper was one of several measures aimed at shoring up French book production internationally. It is surprising, however, to find echoes of such competition in the decidedly more l’art pour l’art milieu of the privately organized fine book exhibits. The prominent Japanese art dealer and Art Nouveau impresario Siegfried Bing, for one, hoped that his important 1896 exhibit devoted to international modern fine book production – its organizing committee included both Uzanne and Gallimard – would foster exchange among artists of the book from many countries. However, some critics viewed this as improbable. If the show held in Bing’s gallery proved anything, asserted Edmond Cousturier in La Revue Blanche, it

Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 37

was the ‘decadence’ of the French luxury book compared to its English counterpart, a result, he felt, of the excessive influence of publishers and bibliophiles in France, to the detriment of illustrators.50 After viewing this ‘frail display of the best we have produced,’ the critic concluded grimly that for three centuries, ‘French publishing has not produced a truly beautiful book.’ The exhibit’s value for French luxury book producers, Cousturier felt, was essentially didactic, pointing out ‘imperiously, what remains for us to do.’ The nationalist and often xenophobic ethos that pervaded the largescale state exhibits during this prewar period, then, was not absent from smaller private shows frequented by elite collectors. Among the most vocal defenders of French leadership in the decorative and graphic arts was, in fact, Siegfried Bing. An entire section of his 1896 exhibit, which featured 1,100 entries, displayed French publications illustrated by mechanical procedures, with examples showcasing both the popular press and specialized reviews such as Bing’s own Le Japon Artistique, for whose attractive colour printing Charles Gillot designed the plates.51 The entire show, in fact, provided an opportunity for the selective application of photomechanical procedures to fine book production, French and other. Bing’s status as a German-born Jew naturalized in 1876 as a French citizen seemed to have made him particularly sensitive to the imperative of asserting his ‘Frenchness.’ This necessity may have seemed especially urgent to Bing in light of the xenophobic and anti-Jewish sentiments revealed, for example, by Edmond de Goncourt in his 20 April 1896 journal entry: ‘Bing, this dirty and base Jew … clings to me, forces me to shake hands with him, solicits my help for an international exhibit of the modern book, overwhelms me with shows of affection and, at the door, again holds out his hand, which I don’t take.’52 If technology, then, might enable French dominance, whether in book production or on the battlefield, Uzanne, along with other of his contemporaries who had lived through the ‘terrible year’ of 1870 as young men, proved eager to become its partisans. Their stance was consistent with the general receptiveness toward the application of technology to luxury craftsmanship that distinguished France from both England and Belgium, whose craft reformers largely viewed mechanization as antithetical to artisanship.53 Showcases for France’s technological clout, fin-de-siècle fairs thus served as vectors of national prestige. And books were additionally meaningful to bibliophiles in this context as traditional signifiers of French civilization in its association with print culture, as well as with high-end craftsmanship.

38 The New Bibliopolis

At the same time as these exhibits interpreted the revolution in print as offspring of the industrial revolution and symbol of French commercial might, though, they also took pains to present books as industry’s seeming antithesis: art. Indeed, one of the great attractions of the 1894 Paris exhibit, claimed its director, Georges Sénéchal, was its ‘artistic and literary side,’ on view in a class devoted, somewhat surprisingly, to both ‘Éditions de luxe et à bon marché.’54 To a certain extent, such ‘artistic’ exhibitions may simply have been those displaying art in the form of illustrations that were by the fin de siècle the indispensable complement of the texts they accompanied, the stock in trade of nearly every publisher at these shows. That illustration had become such an integral feature of book production was apparent in the exhibits the Cercle de la Librairie devoted to specific illustrators and in the inclusion of ‘BeauxArts’ as one of the main groups in the 1894 Paris Exposition du Livre. Synonym for the illustrated book, the ‘artistic’ book at times appeared the correlate of France’s past as depicted in the ‘retrospective’ sections of many of these exhibits. Often stocked with treasures lent by individual collectors, in the context of the larger, all-inclusive exhibits these historical sections had the appearance of small museums. A Louis XIV–era binding featuring a carved ivory bas-relief caused an American visitor to France’s retrospective book exhibit at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago to remark that these works ‘must be viewed as objects of art purely, rather than as books in artistic dresses.’55 ‘Artistic,’ then, often seemed to describe works at these fairs that were artisanally (as opposed to industrially) produced, expensive, and luxurious rather than sturdy and workmanlike. Above all, these exhibits taught, ‘artistic’ seemed to connote France’s heritage and a distinguished tradition of book making associated with the monarchy and aristocracy. Moreover, the symbolic capital associated with such craftsmanship was deployed strategically by the French organizers of these exhibits to their country’s advantage. Realizing that by 1914 France was being outpaced by Germany in industrial book production, the French preparatory committee for the Leipzig exhibit urged that France concentrate its efforts on displaying, in a subsection of the larger ‘Publishing’ group devoted to ‘Éditions d’art,’ unique bindings and illustrated livres de luxe, ‘the finest flower of French publishing and the sector in which we are certainly the strongest.’56 These would be represented by works published by such small bibliophile firms as those of Damase Jouaust, whose Librairie des Bibliophiles series featured expensive books that were ‘at the same time veritable art objects’;57 Édouard Pelletan, publisher from

Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 39

1898 of the Almanach du bibliophile, whose Éditions d’Art featured wood engravings in the tradition of Dürer; Jean Grand-Carteret, organizer of the retrospective exhibit at the 1894 fair; and the binder-printerpublisher Charles Meunier, whose Maison du Livre favoured Symbolist authors and illustrators. Bindings by master craftsmen such as Léon Gruel and Marius Michel, who worked in small-scale, traditional ateliers, were also featured. Ironically, then, exhibits organized under the patronage of a democratic Republican regime and often emphasizing the centrality of print culture to universal education as a vehicle of progress also relied on elite book production to compensate for France’s lagging industrial book output. Indeed, prominently displayed at Leipzig were books considered outside of mainstream publishing. These were produced in minimal quantity by small presses for a wealthy clientele demanding of beautiful items, and which itself often disdained the commercial book production prominently displayed at these fairs. Thus was ‘artistic’ luxury craftsmanship produced largely for such elite amateurs as Uzanne reclaimed and ‘officialized’ at these exhibits by the Republican regime as another means of international competition.58 Art and industry at these exhibits, then, often appeared at opposite ends of the spectrum of book production. On visiting the 1894 Paris exhibit, one visitor concluded that typography ‘today … is an art with and for the few, an industry with and for the many.’59 Moreover, many publishers exhibiting at these fairs reinforced this view, associating ‘artistic’ and ‘industrial’ book production with two different readerships – elite and popular – in an effort to cultivate each. An 1894 advertisement for the firm of Firmin-Didot, for one, boasted ‘all types of works, expensive luxury books for the libraries of amateurs, as well as more modest books destined for the schools of the people.’60 Other visitors to these exhibits, however, commented not on the gulf between ‘artistic’ and ‘industrial’ books, but in fact on their integration in the judicious use of the latest technologies by bibliophile presses. Exhibited at the 1894 Paris exhibit, the Histoire des quatre fils Aymon, bold example of the new process of gillotage, became the ne plus ultra for many Parisian amateurs. The inclusion of works such as Les Quatre Fils Aymon in these exhibits caused one visitor to remark not on the backwardlooking nature of such livres de luxe, but indeed on their originality and modernity that lay in part, as in the work of the Impressionist painters, in ‘the good use made of the latest mechanical inventions.’61 Similarly, a long article in the Revue des Arts Décoratifs on fine book production at the

40 The New Bibliopolis

1889 Exposition Universelle commented favourably on the skilful use of photographic techniques in works such as the Conte d’Archer, published by Rouveyre, in which colour heliographs had produced illustrations that resembled ‘old manuscript illuminations.’62 Thus, in this era of high bibliophilia the Republican organizers of these exhibits attempted to reposition fine book production in France as prolonging a tradition associated with luxury craft manufacture and imbued with its cachet, but now updated through reliance on the most modern technologies. In this way, paradoxically, the goals of both the egalitarian and democratic Third Republic and the cultural elites clustered around Uzanne converged.

Technology and the Livre de Luxe By the end of the century, then, fine books incorporating features of industrial production belonged to the personal libraries of many upperbourgeois collectors. These were published by small firms such as that of Henry Piazza, whose 1898 edition of Étienne Dinet’s translation of the heroic Arabic poem Antar featured ‘artistic, remarkable’ photomechanically reproduced watercolours, perpetuating a tradition inaugurated a decade earlier with the illustrations for Les Quatre Fils Aymon.63 Uzanne’s rallying cry of ‘Let’s be contemporary!’ had thus succeeded in helping mobilize support for the new bibliophilia.64 Yet in Uzanne’s lexicon ‘contemporaneity’ and ‘modernity’ had a peculiar twist. To be modern meant creating not a new democracy but a new aristocracy of taste, a snob’s paradise from which would be barred both France’s traditional aristocratic cultural elites and the expanding population of consumers of mass print culture. ‘Modernity’ entailed lauding the marriage of industry and the book, but only to better renew a tradition of French preeminence in luxury craftsmanship. And it meant conceiving of the book not necessarily as agent of instruction and edification, but as object, artwork, fetish even. Technical panache and flouting of tradition, then, were to be the hallmarks of the new livres de luxe. Unsurprisingly given these criteria, the book Uzanne considered ‘certainly the most original in terms of decoration of a new style and chromotypographic perfection’ (Q 82) was, in fact, the 1883 Launette edition of the Histoire des quatre fils Aymon. Ironically, the subject of this book was hardly contemporary but inspired by a twelfth-century epic poem recounting the struggle between the four sons of the duc d’Aymes and Charlemagne. This

Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 41

updated chanson de geste, typifying the medieval revival of both the French and English fin de siècle, exemplified, for Uzanne, ‘popular literature’ (Q 82), elevated here to the status of bibliophilic treasure. The publication signalled a remarkable collaboration between an artist, the Swiss-born lithographer Eugène Grasset, and the champion of photomechanical printing techniques, Charles Gillot. Each of the book’s 240 pages boasted boldly integrated image and text (featuring a typeface designed by Grasset), dramatic asymmetrical compositions, elaborate ornamentation, and the use of emblems typical of both Celtic art and japonisme. Grasset’s style revealed his aesthetic affiliation with English artists such as Walter Crane, and their common wish to revitalize book illustration by elevating it to the status of art. Les Quatre Fils Aymon broke new ground not only stylistically but also technically, as it marked the debut of four-colour printing in France. Executed by Gillot ‘with fastidious care, in regard to the … placing of the blocks’ (as Uzanne pointed out for the English readership of the prominent decorative arts review, The Studio), four-colour printing was used here to translate Grasset’s original watercolours.65 This colourrelief printing technique, along with the special paper Gillot had developed to enhance effects of tone, grain, and shading, liberated colour, much as it did in the posters by Grasset that Uzanne also appreciated. The technique allowed colour, in Uzanne’s words, ‘to triumph in the modern decoration of books’ (NB 28) and to stimulate the imagination, not merely to record reality as photography would do. Grasset’s work in this large-format book revealed his simultaneous enthusiasm for both the medieval artisanal ideal and the most modern techniques of any era, from medieval weaponry and fortifications (visually depicted in great detail in Les Quatre Fils Aymon) to nineteenthcentury colour printing. As a fellow proponent of reconciling nostalgia and newness through a style, as Uzanne noted, both ‘very modern’ and ‘strangely informed by archaism,’ Grasset undoubtedly pleased Uzanne, who became the artist’s earliest and most zealous promoter in both France and England.66 So new in fact did Grasset’s images appear in this major work of his career as an illustrator that they failed to entice certain bibliophiles, even when printed on the Imperial Japan or China paper of the two-hundred-copy limited edition. Until the late 1890s many amateurs preferred to collect books featuring illustrations executed with more traditional methods. And while much of Grasset’s work was commercial – posters, calendars, invitations, stamps, sheet music – he also created the unique collector’s objects Uzanne valued. These

42 The New Bibliopolis

included a set of elaborate Art Nouveau furniture for Charles Gillot’s Parisian town house, a fitting setting for the printer’s impressive collection of Japanese art. In Uzanne’s view, then, Grasset had successfully navigated between ‘mass’ and ‘class,’ producing works that Uzanne deemed appropriate for each. Uzanne’s ‘profound enthusiasm’ (Q 83) about ‘the great perfection of the colour printing’ of Les Quatre Fils Aymon revealed him to be a herald of the ‘colour revolution’ that would soon overtake Paris.67 Like the photomechanical revolution and in fact intertwined with it, the riot of colour appearing in print by the fin de siècle had been prepared by nearly a century of experimentation in France, beginning with Godefroy Engelmann’s 1837 patenting of colour lithography. But it was only at the end of the century that several trends converged to foster the flowering of colour in print. These included political developments (the 1881 French law on the freedom of the press legalizing the placement of posters anywhere except on official buildings, and requiring their printing on tinted paper); aesthetic currents (the captivating influence on many artists of Japanese colour woodblock prints); and, again, technological advances (the invention, for example, of presses capable of holding very large lithographic stones). Soon colour was enlivening the range of artistic techniques and print media. These included both the photomechanical technique of chromotypogravure, used for example to produce colour images for the 1881 Christmas issue of the mass-circulation newspaper, L’Illustration, and the traditional techniques of wood engraving, etching, and especially lithography, the privileged medium of 1890s printmakers and poster-artists. Colour also abounded on playbills, sheet music, typeface, religious iconography, and calendars. And it transformed the appearance of illustrated books, notably children’s books, keepsakes, and nostalgic works such as Bibliophile Jacob’s 1874 Mœurs, usages et costumes au Moyen Age et à l’époque de la Renaissance, which evoked the rich colour and gilding tradition of medieval manuscripts. Unlike Uzanne, many in the artistic establishment disdained chromolithography, associated with reproductive, industrial printing. For this reason, until 1899 colour prints were banned from the official French artistic Salon. At the same time, however, networks were emerging whose activities helped legitimize colour printing as an artistic medium. A shared interest in the new technique brought together wealthy collectors; print and poster dealers such as Edmond Sagot; printers; specialized professional societies and journals such as André Marty’s L’Estampe Originale (1893–5); and exhibits displaying the work of

Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 43

contemporary printer-engravers, including the one held in 1896 in Ambroise Vollard’s gallery. While unified by a common allegiance to colour printing, however, these new connoisseurs disagreed about the extent of the social benefits of the colour revolution. Some of them, such as the art critic André Mellerio, director of L’Estampe et l’Affiche (1897–9), championed the educative benefits of democratizing colour printing. He asserted that, in the interest of ‘further purify[ing] public taste,’ it ‘does not degrade the personality of the artist, thanks to means that science gives him, to be able to place, for very modest prices, true works of art within the reach of ever larger groups of people.’ Such a pedagogical process, Mellerio continued, would have the salutary effect of eventually increasing the number of collectors, especially among those ‘now numerous representatives of the middle class who dedicate their leisure time, a portion of their intelligence, and their money, to nosing about, to being interested in, and to buying’ colour prints and posters.68 Unlike Mellerio, however, other colour printing enthusiasts – Uzanne among them – hoped that elevating high quality applications of this technique from industrial product to art would render them inaccessible to all but an elite. Therefore, when in 1897 Uzanne echoed many other critics in extolling the poster artist Jules Chéret as ‘the uncontested king of the contemporary polychrome mural’ (NB 111) and praised posters as the ‘aesthetic banners of the new [artistic] schools’ (NB 179), he was writing from the perspective of a coterie of collectors who, in his words, ‘help … augment the riches of [our] national art’ (NB 92) by preserving what some contemporaries considered ephemera. He lauded the colour revolution, the avant-garde artists who embodied it, and its technological underpinnings. But he did so, ironically, only to promote what this phenomenon might contribute to elite culture – the limited edition and not the wall print, the collector’s portfolio versus the cheap facsimile, form versus function.69 When Uzanne praised Grasset and Gillot’s work with colour printing, and recalled the ‘joy of the bibliophile when I first saw this masterpiece,’ he was writing as not merely a critic but also a practitioner of this new technique.70 In fact he had been conducting his own experiments with colour printing and a gamut of other procedures at least a year before Grasset’s work appeared. His own ‘research in coloration, tints, inks … the first experiments in heliography, printing on papers of varying weights’ materialized in a collection of loose pages he printed himself in preparation for his 1882 and 1883 books, L’Éventail and L’Ombrelle – le gant – le manchon, illustrated by Paul Avril, another of Uzanne’s partners in

44 The New Bibliopolis

experimentation.71 Uzanne considered these printed sheets ‘a document for the future’ (Q 161). Another edition of L’Éventail featured marine blue paper, while a third, produced solely for Uzanne at his request, was printed in monochrome, black ink on black paper – feats of technical bravura that caused Uzanne to complain that ‘the material side of [L’Éventail] has gluttonously eaten up all my time.’72 He found the overall effect of this last volume ‘distinguished,’ but doubted that the public, ‘much taken with colour, oppositions of tones, gilding,’ would appreciate his bold experiment.73 Further, he claimed, the subtle effects of etching and typography would be lost on them. Refined and traditional in its subject, L’Éventail betrays Uzanne’s nostalgia for the elegance of bygone eras, as evidenced by its wistful homage to the fan. At the same time, though, this work, as well as its pendant devoted to the parasol, the glove, and the muff – books fit for the boudoir – figure among the first uses of the aquatint grain colour relief process. In this procedure, minute crackle etched on the copperplate helps achieve, after printing, an effect approximating the flat tints of wash or ink drawings. It was this and other modern techniques made available through the development of industry, chemistry, and photography that would help achieve rarefied effects, Uzanne believed, not for ‘the masses’ but for an elite group of connoisseurs. While Uzanne named L’Éventail ‘the most beautiful specimen of colour printing ever produced by our Parisian presses,’ he seemed somewhat less enthusiastic about the possible contributions of new technologies to binding.74 Novelty and variety remained his guiding principles: ‘I will never cease to preach,’ he wrote in one of his two treatises on the subject, ‘the artistic renaissance of binding in all its varieties of workmanship’ (Rm 248). However, the real renaissance of Uzanne’s day was spawned not by artistic binding but by the spectacular flourishing of industrial binding. Covers of cloth or percale, no longer bearing traditional motifs but eye-catching illustrations sometimes lifted from within the text itself, were mass produced with the help of hydraulic presses, circular shears, and other machines. These publishers’ bindings were often accessorized with colourful satin and moiré endpapers, silk ties, and attractive boxes. They enclosed almanacs, keepsakes, prize books, and other genres appealing to the expanding categories of female and juvenile readers and offering them the novelty of modestly priced luxury. So unusual did these case bindings (cartonnages) appear initially that they came to represent the avant-garde of binding, indeed furnishing a model for art binding until the last decade of the century, when the situation reversed.75 A relentless promoter of new techniques,

Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 45

Uzanne devoted a long chapter to industrial binding in his influential 1898 work, L’Art dans la décoration extérieure des livres, whose own ‘poster binding’ alluded to the ubiquity of the new medium of the colour poster, at the juncture of art and industry (figure 1.3).76 Moreover, he praised cartonnages as ‘new, fresh, pleasing’ and hailed Émile Carayon, who had built a reputation on attractive commercial bindings, as a ‘veritable artist of cloth binding.’77 Yet although Uzanne condemned an older generation of art binders as ‘stuck in tradition, mummified in the humdrum quality of their craft,’ he was not prepared to anoint industrial or commercial binders, even ‘artistic’ ones such as Carayon, as the next vanguard of talent in this domain.78 Rather, he considered much of their work mediocre, produced hastily for a growing clientele and always subject to the control not of the individual collector but of publishers. In the 1890s, under the sway of Art Nouveau and convinced also that France was doomed to remain inferior in the realm of industrial binding, he emerged as a standardbearer for a younger generation of extraordinarily innovative binders of fine editions, thereby elevating their status from artisan to artist. In his view, these binders were spearheading a revolution comparable to the one reinvigorating all the decorative arts of the period (NB 38). His private library boasted volumes bound by about a dozen such ‘revolutionary’ artists: the precursor Amand, whose allegorical bindings were among the first to incorporate scraps of Asian fabrics and paper;79 the Lyonnais binder Lucien Magnin, whom Uzanne termed ‘a modern in every sense of the word’ (Rm 187–8); and Pétrus Ruban, a master mosaicist versed in both traditional techniques and the stylistic and thematic novelties of Art Nouveau (figure 1.4). Uzanne reserved special praise for three binders from Lorraine’s ‘Rococo’ city, Nancy. Camille Martin, René Wiener, and Victor Prouvé, all close in age to Uzanne, were at the forefront of reviving the decorative arts at the turn of the century. In the 1890s Martin perfected pyrography, a new binding technique reminiscent of the group’s efforts in furniture making, in which designs were engraved directly on leather or wood with heated metal tools, thereby enhancing the sophistication and detail of the cover’s graphics to create a painterly (and in certain cases sculptural) effect. Technically innovative, the bindings of the École de Nancy also broke with tradition by featuring enamelled panels, a brilliant range of colours, and spine designs integrated into the overall composition of the cover, thus transforming it into a unified surface (figure 1.5).80

46 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 1.3 Poster-binding (reliure-affiche) by Louis Guingot for Octave Uzanne, L’Art dans la décoration extérieure des livres (1898)

Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 47

Image Not Available

Figure 1.4 Binding with silver and gold tooling by Pétrus Ruban (1896) for Voltaire, Zadig, ou, La Destinée (1893)

48 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 1.5 Mosaic binding by Camille Martin (n.d.) for Louis Gonse, L’Art Japonais, vol. 2 (1893)

But the darling of individualistic amateurs such as Robert de Montesquiou, Edmond de Goncourt, and Uzanne himself was Charles Meunier, whose binding for the Histoire des quatre fils Aymon Uzanne deemed a ‘[m]asterpiece of binding; one of the most beautiful specimens of incised leather of this era.’81 This ‘binder of the future, on hold for the beginning of the twentieth century,’ wrote Henri Beraldi in 1897, had apprenticed with the renowned Marius Michel, whose ornamental floral style and leather inlays he adopted (figure 1.6).82 Yet at twenty the apprentice soon set up shop for himself in a stylish boutique near the Madeleine, signalling through his move to this newly fashionable, upperbourgeois neighbourhood the increasing autonomy of fine books as a separate sector of the book market. Like Uzanne he became both an influential intermediary in this sector and a spokesman for the new bibliophilia, while at the same time reverting to a traditional model of binder-printer-publisher. He invested profits from his bindery in both the monthly review he published devoted to book arts, L’Œuvre et l’Image (1900–3), and his small press, La Maison du Livre. He established the latter largely to publish limited editions for the members of the bibliophile

Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 49

Image Not Available

Figure 1.6 Mosaic binding by Marius Michel (1907) for Anatole France, Le Lys rouge, vol. 1 (1903)

50 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 1.7 Mosaic binding by Charles Meunier (n.d.) for Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du mal (1857)

Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 51

society he founded in 1908 and ran until 1924, Les Amis du Livre Moderne. His elite clientele valued his stunning, incised leather panels encasing the works of nineteenth-century authors – Balzac, Baudelaire (figure1.7), Daudet, Huysmans, Louÿs, Maupassant, Verlaine, Zola – and illustrators such as the Symbolist Carlos Schwabe.83 Meunier’s work featured a wide array of symbols in harmony with the subject of each book, serving almost as a critical gloss on it. His expensive, esoteric materials, and the striking floral motifs adorning his covers, replaced the limited range of formal patterns distinguishing earlier fine bindings. Some fin-de-siècle bibliophiles, however, criticized the prolific Meunier for producing what they considered ‘gaudy and crudely executed commercial ventures pandering to the tastes of the … bourgeoisie.’84 While in fact Meunier did exploit the new technique of pyrography developed by Camille Martin and his collaborators in Nancy, in Uzanne’s view this method was useful only insofar as it served an aesthetic of originality and uniqueness, and did not promote the qualities of technical perfection and repetitiveness valued by many commercial publishers. Technical perfection concerned Uzanne little. He thus approved, for example, Meunier’s unorthodox practice of refusing to polish down the coarse grain of the leather he used, resulting not in a smooth surface but in a handmade look. ‘Let us not tolerate any longer only what is well made,’ Uzanne urged. ‘True talent is always a bit excessive, frisky, innovative, uneven.’85 For Uzanne, ‘books worthy of our era’ featured not only unique illustrations and binding but also a third characteristic, which benefited at the end of the century from industrial developments and the proliferation of advertising: singular typography. The time had come, Uzanne proclaimed, to discard the tired Didot and Gothic fonts (and their sometimes unseemly hybrids) standard in most nineteenth-century French publications. Instead, innovative foundries (such as that of Georges Peignot), publishers (Pelletan), and bibliophile societies collaborated in promoting the work of such rejuvenators of typography as George Auriol and, again, Eugène Grasset. Auriol’s work was featured on the cover of Uzanne’s Contes pour les bibliophiles (1895), coauthored and illustrated by the futurist writer Albert Robida (figure 1.8). To create the audacious mix of upper and lower case characters – an unorthodox break with the traditional typographical unity of the page typical of French publications at that time – Auriol relied on photographic enlargements and reductions of his original designs to permit greater accuracy in the engraving of the characters.86

52 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 1.8 Cover illustration by George Auriol, photomechanical colour printing process, for Octave Uzanne and Albert Robida, Contes pour les bibliophiles (1895)

Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 53

A decade earlier, the same application of photography to typography had enabled, surprisingly, the experiments of the ferociously anti-industrial designer William Morris, whose typographical innovations Uzanne greatly admired, and who appeared to distinguish between machines that abased humanity and those that merely served as tools to simplify the task of book designers. From this perspective, the work of Morris’s Kelmscott Press, ‘quintessential example of an arts-and-crafts longing for the pre-industrial age’ – but one that relied nevertheless on the sophisticated technological foundation of photography – seems informed by the same simultaneous acceptance and rejection of new technologies that is a leitmotif in Uzanne’s writings and activities.87 Some French critics, however, saw only anachronism in Morris’s versions of old Anglo-Saxon typefaces, with Grasset dismissing them as ‘fetishis[tic] … archaeological trifles.’88 Even Uzanne, who generally admired Morris’s work, suggested that the overuse of Morris’s fonts had become monotonous; ‘many among us,’ Uzanne concluded, ‘have laboured in the field of typography with more salutary results than has William Morris.’89 Morris thus shared with Uzanne a dual longing for past eras of artisanal excellence combined with a desire to rely on the most modern industrial technology to attain an aesthetic, non-commercial goal. However, the elitist Uzanne shared none of Morris’s socialist convictions. Indeed, it was only for an intimate circle of like-minded bibliophiles, not for the popular classes, that Uzanne destined those of his works boasting striking Art Nouveau lettering and typographical ornamentation. Technology, then, enabled Grasset’s illustrations, Carayon’s artistic case bindings, and Auriol’s stylized typeface – all the markings of the livre de luxe of the turn of the century. At the same time, however, to Uzanne’s displeasure technology was progressively coming to serve the ideals of technical perfection and realism, which he denigrated, to the detriment of creativity and experimentation. In the early 1890s this frustration led him to reject the many industrial and commercial techniques he had touted so enthusiastically, in favour of traditional craftsmanship represented for him by the woodcut. Previously considered a rather ‘plebeian’ genre and the most common one for book illustration until the 1880s, the woodcut was undergoing a revival in the last decade of the century. Motivating this movement in part was a desire to ‘rescue’ the woodcut from the ravages wrought by the zinc printing block. According to Uzanne, prints made in this fashion, of a ‘dull exactitude,’ had replaced the work of wood engravers in the popular press.90 Three avant-garde reviews – Alfred Jarry and Remy de Gourmont’s L’Ymagier (1895–6), Paul

54 The New Bibliopolis

Fort’s Le Livre d’Art (1896), and Roger Marx’s L’Image (1897) – led the crusade against photomechanical printing processes by featuring woodblock illustrations exclusively, prompting Édouard Pelletan to declare in 1896 that ‘[the] cause of the woodcut … is definitively won.’91 The following year, Félix Bracquemond provided a laudatory analysis of the work of the man he considered a technical and artistic virtuoso of ‘primitive’ woodblock engraving, Auguste Lepère. Paradoxically, however, the traditional craft of wood engraving had itself been modified by new technologies beginning in the mid-nineteenth century with the introduction of electrotyping. This process involved the transfer of drawings on potentially fragile woodblocks to durable intaglio metal plates through the medium of moulds created by electrolysis. Once again suspicious of the potential for mass production of woodcuts enabled by electrotyping, though, Uzanne advocated instead the artisanal, manual (and considerably more expensive) methods of medieval wood engraving, familiar to him through the work of Morris’s Kelmscott Press. Uzanne’s patronage of the Swiss wood engraver Félix Vallotton, closely associated with the avant-garde Revue Blanche and the Nabi group, exemplifies this turn toward traditional craftsmanship (figure 1.9). In an article on Vallotton full of praise, Uzanne concurred that woodcutters had been ‘vanquished’ by photomechanical techniques, and felt they were misguided in attempting to ‘rival the precision of gillotage’ when they strove to produce ever more realistic effects. Because zincography and related techniques would soon afford ‘prodigious’ levels of preciseness, Uzanne urged woodcutters to abandon their senseless turf war.92 Instead, they should embrace the ‘desired awkwardness’ as well as the ‘primitive workmanship’ of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century xylographers, among them Holbein and Dürer, and such nineteenth-century successors as Gavarni. Abandoning the etching needle for the pen-knife and the zinc plate for a block of pear wood, in the 1890s Vallotton was clearly Uzanne’s man. The engraver supplied the cover and thirty woodcuts – if we are to believe the title page – for Badauderies parisiennes. Les Rassemblements. Physiologies de la rue (1896) (figure 1.10). Fifteen of his fellow Revue Blanche collaborators contributed the texts, and Uzanne the preface, to this volume. The inaugural publication of Uzanne’s Bibliophiles Indépendants, the Badauderies was produced by Henri Floury, bookstore owner and publisher, notably, of the works of wood engravers. This satirical view of contemporary Parisian life and social types features the skewed perspectives, ingenious compositions, and large flat monochrome surfaces associated

Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 55

Image Not Available

Figure 1.9 Portrait of Octave Uzanne, woodcut by Félix Vallotton, in L’Art et l’Idée (February 1892)

56 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 1.10 Cover illustration by Félix Vallotton for Badauderies parisiennes. Les Rassemblements. Physiologies de la rue (1896)

with both Japanese prints and the Nabi group with which Vallotton was affiliated. Moreover, as with all artists he admired, Uzanne appreciated Vallotton’s originality, artistic vision, and willingness to break with ‘the grizzled methods of [his] elders,’ even while returning to a traditional technique. So while Uzanne conceded that ‘industrially treated images’ were perfectly appropriate for ‘the mass public’ – in fact he insisted that it would be ‘folly’ to abandon them in this context – they had no place in ‘art books … works destined for an elite.’ This point would be made more adamantly by Félix Bracquemond, who in his 1897 treatise on the use of lithography and wood engraving in illustrated books asserted that while the use of ‘grievous procedures spawned by photography’ could be justified by both bookstore owners and the public for commercial and economic reasons, they could not be excused on artistic grounds as they eliminated direct, original action by the artist and engraver on stone or wood. Thus, as he both declared and warned, ‘the bibliophile who accepts [photomechanical procedures] betrays his good name.’93 Clearly, then, by the end of the century Uzanne had come to feel that not all readers were deserving of the ‘books worthy of our era’ – perhaps ‘his era’ is more fitting – that he envisioned.

Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 57

Once again, however, in praising Vallotton Uzanne seemed to waver between dual allegiances to both past and future, craftsmanship and industry. Despite his description of Vallotton’s style as ‘voluntarily reactionary and barbaric,’ he was also clearly interested in Vallotton as a modern in the artist’s choice of subject matter. Vallotton did rely on traditional techniques; nevertheless, as a collaborator of both La Revue Blanche and the Nabis he was at the epicentre of the literary and artistic avant-garde, under the sway of Symbolism, japonisme, and anarchism. The ‘brutality’ and ‘primitivism’ of his technique were offset by the contemporary nature of his subject: Parisian scenes in which crowds of assorted badauds (gawkers) – schoolboys, workers, servants – assemble to view sidewalk performances, a presidential procession, and other new spectacles of modern urban life (figure 1.11). These images were often almost identical to those Vallotton had produced for the popular illustrated press (Le Courrier Français, Le Rire, Le Cri de Paris). The reappropriation by Vallotton and Uzanne of these same mass-produced images in a livre de luxe destined for bibliophiles was in itself original. Much like the selective use of new technologies, it exemplifies the fluidity of the boundaries between elite and popular book production at the fin de siècle.94 In fact, the boundary nearly collapses when considering the startling suggestion by Vallotton’s biographer, the art critic and dealer Julius Meier-Graefe, and corroborated by two contemporary art historians, that Vallotton’s illustrations for Les Rassemblements are not woodcuts at all, but images produced photomechanically from the artist’s drawings.95 If this is indeed the case, it is possible that Uzanne may have passed off photomechanical images as woodcuts to better woo a clientele that by 1896 was enthralled by the work of artisans associated with the English Arts and Crafts movement and susceptible to the cachet of their techniques.

Uzanne the ‘Evolutionary’? As suggested by the example of Les Rassemblements, the most modern technological procedure, photography, might be used to approximate a most traditional technique, the woodcut, itself updated by Vallotton and Uzanne to depict fin-de-siècle Parisian cityscapes. And this technique, once employed to illustrate popular chapbooks, might become the emblem of the dandified coterie of aesthetes comprising Uzanne’s ‘independent bibliophiles.’ Yet the contradictions represented by Les Rassemblements, while quite notable, resonated widely in the field of print production during this period. Whereas prior to the nineteenth century,

58 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 1.11 Illustration by Félix Vallotton for Badauderies parisiennes. Les Rassemblements. Physiologies de la rue (1896)

Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 59

for example, printed illustrations had appeared at the two ends of a spectrum – in works for either an aristocratic elite or an often semi-literate peasantry – in the nineteenth century technology enabled images to permeate the variety of printed products and genres destined for a highly diverse readership. By the end of the century some of these illustrations, in the form of colour lithographs, showed up both as inexpensive wall prints and in collector’s portfolios. Editions of newly ‘classic’ authors such as Victor Hugo were available in both popular editions – the fortythree volume illustrated ‘monument’ to this Republican hero published by Lemonnier – and in print runs of three hundred copies, as in the case of Quantin’s 1885 edition of Hugo’s Le Pape. And while small-scale publishers such as Launette and Morris’s Kelmscott Press provided refined versions of popular legends for an elite audience, mass-circulation publications such as Le Figaro Illustrée, conversely, featured the work of artists such as Toulouse-Lautrec, soon associated with the livre d’artiste. While technology provided one means to dissolve the contradictions exemplified by the previous examples, in the end it led to the creation of new ones. Under the banner of contemporaneity, Uzanne, for one, proved eager to appropriate technology to achieve the spectacular effects desired by an elite clientele and to enhance the prestige value of the book. In the end, then, the livre unique existed not only in spite of – but because of – technology. Yet while both a spokesperson and practitioner of the new bibliophilia, Uzanne was at the same time a lover of the aristocratic eighteenth century and an inveterate dandy who despised all forms of mediocrity. The progressive marriage of technology with commercialism and a dully realistic style led him at times to reject industrial techniques and promote more esoteric creations executed by master craftsmen, in line with the aesthetics of Symbolism. Uzanne eschewed the democratizing potential associated with technology by the French Third Republic and with craftsmanship by William Morris and his followers. Instead, he looked to both these means as marks of distinction and basis for a haut bourgeois elite culture, given physical form in the ‘new’ luxury book. That Uzanne proved successful in securing a new social grounding for aesthetic taste, which in turn served to reinforce the prestige of this social elite, is in part the measure of the influence he had accrued in his unique role as author, reader, publisher, critic, and collector of fine illustrated books. Such a multiplication of functions was typical of a milieu in which producers of fine books produced exclusively for their peers, unfettered by governmental control in the form of censorship or

60 The New Bibliopolis

expectation of profit. Further, this accumulation of roles, as will be shown in the following chapter, also allowed Uzanne to challenge the ‘old guard’ represented by the Société des Bibliophiles François. Yet while Uzanne and others in his cohort were devotees of ‘newness,’ they nevertheless shared with their predecessors preoccupations common to all book collectors: What makes a book rare and collectible? What, and who, determines its value and beauty? The struggle between ‘old’ and ‘new’ bibliophiles at the fin de siècle thus often took the form of a symbolic contest over questions of taste, definition, and worth. And in this contest originality provided by the most unusual applications of technology became one of the distinguishing signs of a newly ‘rare’ book. It is tempting to consider Uzanne emblematic of a turn of the century that, Janus-like, pointed both backward and forward, toward past and future. Against a backdrop of rapidly accelerating change – near the outbreak of the First World War Charles Péguy pronounced that the world had changed more in the previous thirty years than it had since Jesus Christ96 – Uzanne witnessed both the excitement and anxiety generated by technology in an era in which the electric light, telephone, phonograph, radio, cinema, bicycle, linotype, and myriad other inventions were transforming the shape and pace of daily life for many French. Uzanne characterized his self-contradictory vision as ‘evolutionary,’ and called for a compromise between ‘progressives’ and ‘reactionaries,’ because ‘sudden revolutions,’ in his view, ‘have never fruitfully served the interests of sincere reformers.’97 And clearly Uzanne worried about where such ‘sudden revolutions’ might lead and what radical innovations might mean for the future of the printed word. In 1897 he mused: ‘Who might tell us, in effect, what will be the state of Bibliophilia in the year 2000? Will the art of typographic impression still exist at that date, and will the phonograph … not definitively replace printed paper and illustration with some advantage?’98 Propagandist of the new bibliophilia, Uzanne skilfully articulated the challenges posed by technology to the book and its material means of support. And far from being removed from the debates generated by these challenges, the seemingly hermetic world of bibliophiles that he represented was in fact not far from their centre, as privileged interlocutors of the printed word.

2 Ancients against Moderns: Bibliophilia at the Fin de Siècle

Memor fui dierum antiquorum (I was mindful of ancient days) From Baron Pichon’s ex libris I open the eye. From Léon Conquet’s ex libris1

The Old Guard: The Société des Bibliophiles François Dominating the book-collecting milieu as the Third Republic began – and ridiculed by Edmond de Goncourt for ‘the stupidity of its old junkcollecting’ – was the Société des Bibliophiles François.2 The somewhat precious, Old French nuance of its title signalled its retrospective orientation – just as Uzanne’s idiosyncratic (yet equally precious) lexicon, brimming with neologisms and Anglicisms, was meant to draw attention to the novelty of his endeavours. Baron Pichon, president for sixty years of this venerable group, was a diplomat’s son, who at thirty-four had exchanged a law career culminating with a position as auditor at the Conseil d’État for a career pursuing books. In the bookshops and auction houses of Paris under the July Monarchy that he had frequented as a young man under the sway of Charles Nodier and Bibliophile Jacob, Pichon had paid exorbitant prices for thousands of treasures bearing royal and noble coats of arms, keeping their original bindings to signal their illustrious provenance. His bibliomania – ‘I became more and more avid as my library thrived,’ he noted – resulted in 6000 francs debt, settled only when he sold his valuable watch and chain.3

62 The New Bibliopolis

Pichon’s passion for collecting eventually extended to other objects: medals, silverware, stamps, autographs, miniatures. Drawing him to all these curiosités was their association with France’s past, whether manifested in the history of the French monarchy or in such daily pursuits of the nobility as falconry, hunting, banquets. ‘[A]ll that could awaken in him some memory of the past,’ according to fellow Bibliophile François member (and director, from 1890, of the Bulletin du Bibliophile et du Bibliothécaire), Georges Vicaire, ‘excited his desires.’4 In search of such frissons as the past might provide, Pichon spent his days at the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, ferreting out information on the provenance of each object he collected; compiling bibliographies and inventories; and attending meetings of the numerous historical and antiquarian societies to which he belonged. An erudite bookworm ‘profoundly enamoured of things from the past,’ according to Vicaire, Pichon felt only ‘a very cold indifference’ for the literature of his own century, with the exceptions of Alfred de Musset, Alfred de Vigny, and Prosper Mérimée.5 Indeed, the Latin quote from the Psalms that adorned his ex libris clearly indicated his tastes: ‘I was mindful of ancient days.’ The society Pichon presided over was founded in 1820 by a group of amateurs and érudits, among them the playwright Guilbert de Pixérécourt and the entomologist and geographer Charles-Athanase de Walckenaer. As throughout the society’s history, in the late nineteenth-century aristocrats and military officers, the Prince von Metternich and Marshal Louis Lyautey among them, still comprised the majority of its twenty-nine members, which included five foreign associates; a few prominent upperbourgeois men had also been admitted. Those actually involved in book trades, however, were excluded from membership. Indeed, it was the ancien régime that provided models of sociability for this group. Part historical and scientific academy, boasting the honorific title of ‘Majores’ for its members, part literary salon, the society ‘laboured … for the defence of French esprit and the illustration of the French language.’6 Filiation with the France of the absolute monarchy was signalled in the site, until 1896, of the society’s bimonthly, January to June, meetings: Pichon’s residence in the sumptuous Hôtel Lauzun on the Île SaintLouis, designed for one of Louis XIV’s famous courtiers. Ocasionally, meetings took place in the château de Chantilly, home of the society’s honorary president, the Duc d’Aumale. Annual dinners were held at select men’s clubs frequented by the society’s members. At the Cercle de l’Union Artistique, for example, artists rubbed shoulders with gens du

Bibliophilia at the Fin de Siècle 63

monde. Despite the cachet of these meetings, Edmond de Goncourt left one of them feeling unimpressed by the ‘[club’s] slightly pretentious sense of self-assurance and the superior tone that the club’s members adopt in their shallow chattering about everything.’7 The private and familial libraries of the Bibliophiles François set the tone and provided materials for the society’s publishing program. An 1881 facsimile edition of the Suite des œuvres poétiques de Vatel, from the original manuscript owned by the Duc d’Aumale, for example, helped fulfil the society’s goal, as its statutes indicated, of publishing or reprinting ‘unpublished or rare works, but especially those of interest for the study of French history, literature, or language.’ Moreover, the society aimed to perpetuate in its publications ‘the traditions of old French printing.’8 Such allegiance to an artisanal tradition of French printing was apparent in the society’s practice of using original matrices once owned by eighteenth-century Dutch printers. These moulds were deftly handled by one of several respected printers the society employed, among them Alexis Lahure. A second-generation Parisian printer who worked for numerous bibliophile societies and publishers, Lahure was renowned for using a manually operated press, an increasing rarity in this era of the industrialization of print.9 Of less interest to the society as a defining feature of a printed work was illustration, and the collaboration between author and illustrator concerned the society little. The society valued illustration above all for its documentary and historical value, thus explaining the reproduction of original illustrations in many of its publications. Its 1894 facsimile edition of commentaries on Caesar’s Guerres Galliques by Albertus Pichius, a colleague of Erasmus, for example, featured reproductions of Renaissance miniatures. Such a publication typified the work of this society, which crafted well-printed rather than beautifully printed books, distinguished by their provenance and state of conservation.10 Fin-de-siècle bibliophile societies often worked in tandem with publisherbookstore owners who shared their aesthetic vision and often occupied similar positions in the field of fine book production. The second half of the nineteenth century in France had witnessed the emergence of publisher as a profession autonomous from that of libraire, the former focused primarily on the production of books, the latter on their diffusion. This trend was made official with the formation in 1892 of separate national unions representing these two professions, while in 1895 the master printers’ union was founded. However, in the luxury book sector

64 The New Bibliopolis

these functions continued to merge. In Uzanne’s view, the profession of éditeur-libraire was highly complex and demanding, requiring not only commercial savvy and financial means, but also literary and artistic flair, erudition, knowledge of typography and engraving, and many other qualities. Because of the unusual combination of skills this profession required, in Uzanne’s view, Paris could boast only a few expert éditeurslibraires, but many mediocre ones. Both livres anciens and livres de luxe represented specialized sectors of a larger, increasingly diversified Parisian readership and hence, bookselling market. In 1879 France counted one bookshop for every 5,000 inhabitants compared to Germany’s 12,000. Between 1840 and 1918, however, while France’s population increased by 18 per cent, the number of its bookshops tripled, surely owing in part to the elimination in 1881 of the licensing requirement for bookstore owners.11 The social status of fine book dealers such as Techener, Morgand, Conquet, and later Floury differed from that of sellers of commercial books as well. The typical profile of many vendors of commercial books during this period was that of a petit bourgeois shopkeeper rather than a savant, perhaps enhanced somewhat by the culturally prestigious nature of their wares. Libraires specializing in livres anciens and livres de luxe, however, despite their provincial and petits bourgeois roots, were known in the capital as not only book purveyors but also érudits, bibliographically savvy and often well versed in both Latin and modern languages. Further distinguishing the new group of fine book dealers from other small shopkeepers were their activities as collectors, which helped foster relations of fellowship with their clients. The ‘official’ éditeurs-libraires of the Bibliophiles François were champions of retrospective bibliophilia. Until 1887 this role was filled by JeanJacques Techener, founder with Nodier in 1834 of the Bulletin du Bibliophile et du Bibliothécaire. After that date, this function belonged to Damascène Morgand (figure 2.1). A former assistant to the bookshopowner Auguste Fontaine, whose rare books department he had overseen like an ‘absolute viceroy’ (BB 68), Morgand in the mid-1870s set up shop with his associate, Charles Fatout. Their Right Bank boutique in the passage des Panoramas attracted a composite crowd: mondains and flâneurs of the grands boulevards; auction-goers of the neighbouring rue Drouot; and wealthy patrons fresh from the nearby Bourse, prompting one observer to remark that on the Left Bank livres anciens often cost half what they did ‘in the shops of the bigwigs on the Right Bank.’12 The bookstore’s location near the symbolic heart of the Paris of speculators

Bibliophilia at the Fin de Siècle 65

Image Not Available

Figure 2.1 Damascène Morgand, photograph, in Bulletin de la Librairie Damascène Morgand, vol. 8 (1898–9)

66 The New Bibliopolis

and capitalists, and often foreigners, designated this quartier as a newly important, prosperous hub of antiquarian book selling, separate from the multitude of Left Bank bookshops clustering near the Institut de France and the Sorbonne and frequented by students and lettrés. Morgand’s bookshop quickly became a meeting place for bibliophiles whose allegiance in the late 1870s tended towards the antiquarian. A zealous, imposing man from Normandy, Morgand in Beraldi’s recollection was a ‘libraire with a special allure and breadth of knowledge.’13 Like the ‘Tempting Serpent’ or the ‘Minotaur’ to which his nicknames alluded, he excelled in seducing a range of book-loving clients. Morgand’s skill with customers accompanied a keen business sense, at odds with some of his clients’ disdain for profit but a reminder that booksellers were indeed small business owners who subsisted on their earnings. This ‘man of enormous business deals’ was known for selling books, indeed entire libraries, at exorbitant prices, an effective strategy until inflation forced him to periodically offer some spectacular bargains. He also specialized in complex deals involving exchanges, sales, and other tactics. One such operation was set off by his creation of an artificial demand for first editions of works by Restif de la Bretonne, which had mysteriously disappeared from circulation. In fact, Morgand had hoarded large quantities of these books in his cellar, while awaiting publication by Bibliophile Jacob of a bibliography of Restif’s works that was ‘well thought-out, learned, anecdotal, and even racy.’14 Inserted in the bibliography was a price list of Restif’s works on sale at Morgand’s bookstore. The plan – using the bibliography as a form of publicity for the bookstore – had the desired effect, and ‘the reservoir was drained,’ to Morgand’s pleasure. Such strategies for creating and sustaining interest in rare books also included Morgand’s exploitation of an alternate network of book buying, as he eschewed the sales at Drouot. Like a second Norman conqueror or the ‘Napoleon of the book business,’ as some dubbed him, he conducted annual ‘raids’ on bookshops and sales in England, returning with spoils for his clients. These trips helped solidify his contacts and a reputation among book lovers in London – albeit not always a favourable one. Aubrey Beardsley, for one, wrote his publisher Leonard Smithers to inform him that Morgand had ‘swindled [him] abominably’ over a ‘faked version’ of Diderot’s Le Neveu de Rameau based on Goethe’s 1805 translation of the work, perhaps not an uncommon occurrence in this increasingly competitive environment.15

Bibliophilia at the Fin de Siècle 67

On Morgand’s death in 1898, he was succeeded by his assistant, Édouard Rahir, a dapper man with a blond goatee and handlebar mustache. Rahir, who at age sixteen had come to Paris from Épernay to work for Morgand, inherited his employer’s ability to amass invaluable collections and to ‘discover, form, excite, and maintain new and formidable clients’ (BB 68), J. Pierpont Morgan among them. Both Morgand and Rahir proved successful in accumulating a variety of functions, and thus power, in the field of rare-book selling. Institutional power belonged to Rahir as president of the Syndicat de la librairie ancienne et moderne. Both Morgand and Rahir collected the same types of rare books in which they traded, thus providing their clients with further evidence of their expertise. Indeed, fellow éditeur-libraire Léopold Carteret deemed Rahir’s personal library, which included a vast collection of richly bound books from the fifteenth through nineteenth centuries, most of royal provenance, ‘very remarkable, one of the most important in the annals of bibliophilia.’16 As a natural extension of their book-selling activities, both Morgand and Rahir served as experts at auctions, such as the much-publicized 1897 sale of the Goncourts’ library. Finally, both men on occasion became publishers. Rahir authored and published the bulletins, annotated catalogues, and bibliographies describing the firm’s stock, invaluable resources for collectors. And such Morgand publications as the Bibliophiles François’s 1890 edition of a seventeenthcentury culinary tract, Rôti-cochon, further legitimized retrospective bibliophilia and underscored the publisher’s role in both fashioning taste and determining value.

‘Scrawny, dry as a mummy, ill-dressed, wearing glasses’ Boldly brandishing the banner of modernity – ‘Everything to the moderns’ (figure 2.2), his pamphletlike publications proclaimed – Uzanne condemned the antiquarian orientation of the stuffy albeit erudite Bibliophiles François. Its ethos, in his stereotyped imaginings, was embodied by the figure of ‘a very old monsieur, scrawny, dry as a mummy, illdressed, wearing glasses, and living peevishly in his old-book den like a wolf in its lair.’17 Perhaps Uzanne had in mind Félicien Rops’s rendering of ‘Le Bibliophile d’autrefois,’ the frontispiece for La Nouvelle Bibliopolis; Rops’s drawing depicts a book lover hunched over a dusty tome in the dimly lit inner sanctum of his library, as he is watched over by a demoniclooking gargoyle (figure 2.3). These caricatures in fact are not far

68 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 2.2 ‘Everything to the moderns.’ Vignette featuring Octave Uzanne’s initials, in Le Livre Moderne

removed from a description of a real-life member of the Bibliophiles François, Joseph-Sosthène de la Roche-Lacarelle, a tall, icily polite man with a finely groomed mustache who had known Nodier and Pixérécourt. As remembered by Ernest Quentin-Bauchart, an official at the Conseil d’État and one of Morgand’s devoted clients, de la Roche-Lacarelle could be found occupying the same chair at the firm’s bookstore each day, ‘caressing with a feverish hand the morocco leather of the books submitted to him, chomping on a fat cigar without saying a word.’18 Uzanne’s diatribes against these ‘crazy old monomaniacal men, disagreeable to those close to them, meticulous, worried, veritable shrunken, stubborn old-book lovers,’ in part bore the traces of a generational quarrel.19 In Uzanne’s view the modern bibliophilia that he hoped to represent was a collective phenomenon with roots in France’s humiliating defeat by Prussia. Members of his generation were eager, he felt, to

Bibliophilia at the Fin de Siècle 69

Image Not Available

Figure 2.3 ‘Le Bibliophile d’autrefois,’ frontispiece by Félicien Rops for Octave Uzanne, La Nouvelle Bibliopolis (1897)

70 The New Bibliopolis

help restore French pride through encouraging a renaissance of its decorative arts. This would result in a bibliophilia that promised to be, in his words, ‘nineteenth-century style’ (NB 20), ‘ultra-contemporary,’ ‘exclusively modern and original,’ and ‘artistic’ as opposed to historical.20 The new bibliopolis would thus replace a backward-looking practice that ‘reduc[ed] everything to the past and remain[ed] outrageously closed to the curious modernity of art renewed,’ a rebirth that Uzanne associated especially with Symbolism and Art Nouveau.21 The nineteenth century, Uzanne insisted, would soon replace the seventeenth and eighteenth as literary and artistic reference points: ‘Let the renaissance of Bibliophilia … no longer bloat us,’ he declared, leaving behind the allegiances of his early career, ‘with editions of novels by Voltaire, with chefsd’œuvre of the eighteenth century, and above all with Manon Lescaut, Daphnis et Chloé, and Paul et Virginie … excessive reproductions have had their day.’22 Soon to be swept away, as well, were the outmoded material supports that visually echoed their antique contents: ‘The era of extravagant vignettes, of small, unfashionable binding irons, repetitive designs, and frames featuring inept ornamentation,’ he proclaimed, is ‘permanently over.’23 Replacing this upholding of tradition, an allegiance to technological innovation, however discreet, would come to characterize the new bibliophilic subfield Uzanne was working to establish. A focal point for the ire of Uzanne and his fellow ‘Biblios-contempos’ (as he nicknamed the members of the society he founded in 1889) was the work of a master of historical binding much admired by Nodier and his followers in the Bibliophiles François: Antoine Bauzonnet. To Edmond de Goncourt, the traditional morocco and gold thread-work Bauzonnet used, from the July Monarchy onwards, to create replicas of bindings from earlier periods connoted all that was staid and conservative in the decorative arts (figure 2.4). This slavish patronage of Bauzonnet in turn reflected, for Goncourt, the narrow-mindedness of the amateurs comprising Bauzonnet’s clientele. A visit from Bibliophile François member Roger de Portalis prompted Goncourt to rail against ‘the imbecility particular to book collectors’ exemplified by this ‘amateur who only owns books bound by Bauzonnet.’24 Goncourt repeated this criticism elsewhere, mocking the ‘slightly old-fashioned, slightly Restoration look’ of bindings belonging to these ‘Bauzonnet fanatics.’25 And following an 1894 visit to Goncourt from Beraldi and Bracquemond, during which the trio discussed Beraldi’s work on a multivolume study of nineteenthcentury binding, Goncourt expressed his wish that Beraldi would ‘raise

Bibliophilia at the Fin de Siècle 71

Image Not Available

Figure 2.4 Binding by Antoine Bauzonnet for Contes des Frères Grimm (1827), in Henri Beraldi, La Reliure du XIXe siècle, vol. 2 (1895)

72 The New Bibliopolis

the standard of revolt against the bindings of the old and scarcely imaginative Bauzonnet.’26 While a fervent devotee of the French eighteenth century, Goncourt nevertheless shunned the cult of sterile imitation he associated with Bauzonnet’s bindings, advocating instead an alliance between the heritage of France’s luxury craft producers and a more original, modern aesthetic. When appealing in a letter to Goncourt to join his Bibliophiles Contemporains, then, it was not surprising that Uzanne assured the man who was his aesthetic guide that ‘Bauzonnetism will not hold court among us, in any way.’27 And Uzanne added: ‘I hold him in horror, this “cold fish” whose mosaics lack boldness – thus, I will ensure that among the contemporaries there will be neither tanners nor tannery, more lettered men than leather-makers.’ Surely Goncourt understood Uzanne’s allusion to the passage from La Bruyère’s Caractères (1688), in which the pristine library of a pretentious collector, boasting unread books newly bound in odorous black leather and ‘gilded on the edges of their pages, ornamented with golden threads,’ is dismissed as no more than a ‘tannery.’28 For champions of a renaissance of the decorative arts, bindings by Bauzonnet had become synonymous with blind allegiance to tradition, and with a lack of novelty and artistry tantamount to poor taste. Bauzonnet’s conservative patrons, identified primarily with the Bibliophiles François, had brought Goncourt to the unfortunate conclusion that ‘bibliophiles are the most ignorant amateurs, the most closed off to all that is beautifully new in art.’29 In engaging in a polemic against the coterie of ‘bibeloteurs’ that for Goncourt epitomized the Bibliophiles François, then, he and Uzanne were rejecting what they perceived as a tired tradition, which nevertheless dominated the field of fine book production until the 1880s.30 Moreover, their harangue against such stuffy albeit erudite bibliomanes was belied by an anxious question about the fate of rare book collecting in the second half of the century: what was left to collect? The torrent of rare books flooding France following the Revolution’s confiscation of royal and clerical collections had been quickly bought, hoarded, or exported, inflating prices as their scarcity increased. Indeed, according to Ernest Quentin-Bauchart, rare book prices ‘followed an ever upward and highly impulsive course’ under the influence of formidable collectors such as Baron Pichon and the Goncourt brothers.31 With much foresight, the brothers had begun collecting eighteenth-century volumes and artwork in part because it proved initially affordable for them, as art of that century was discredited when they began collecting.

Bibliophilia at the Fin de Siècle 73

The scarcity and expense of livres anciens only intensified with the chaos and destruction of 1870–1, which ‘threw the bibliophile camp into disarray.’ While Paris was besieged, bombed, and then burned during the Commune, some book collectors immediately secreted their collections to safe havens in the provinces or abroad. Others, however, uncertain of the post-Imperial future, accelerated their rare book buying; ‘people bought without counting,’ noted Quentin-Bauchart. Surprisingly, in the aftermath of such upheaval and with the Empire in ruins, livres anciens attained an even greater value: ‘A strange thing that threw off many calculations, in the wake of these deadly days they acquired an even greater value.’ Beraldi also noted this paradox: the devastation of the Commune signalled the onset of a period of ‘bibliophilic debauchery,’ with prices of rare books rising ‘to the heavens, excelsior, always excelsior’ (BB 57, 64). Observing this inflated market from across the Channel, the British bibliophile Andrew Lang condemned the ‘extravagance of the new haute école of bibliomaniacs, the school of millionaires, royal dukes, and Rothschilds,’ among other ‘children of Israel’ he in part blamed for the rise in book prices.32 Like Lang, French bibliophiles also looked across the Channel, even across the ocean to America, to explain the paucity of livres anciens available for sale. They placed blame on both public libraries (‘tombs where books are destined for eternal rest,’ in the words of one book lover) and wealthy capitalists from this ‘fever-ridden country that scarcely reads’ for avidly absconding across the Atlantic with Old Europe’s treasures, further inflating prices of the remaining copies.33 During this era of intense speculation, Beraldi remarked pertinently, whereas the sale of Nodier’s entire library had generated a once astronomical 60,000 francs, by 1885 that same sum, remarkably, would only buy ‘the eighth of a library shelf, comprised of good books, of course.’34 At the same time as the prices of these scarce commodities were rising, the bibliophilic phenomenon had also undergone both expansion and codification. This was attested by the appearance of specialized bibliographies destined for bibliophiles, such as the Bulletin du Bibliophile et du Bibliothécaire and Jean-Charles Brunet’s Manuel du libraire et de l’amateur de livres. The ‘bibliophilic frenzy’ of the fin de siècle was coupled with an equally zealous production of sale catalogues, specialized bibliophile reviews, and bibliographies providing detailed, erudite descriptions for amateurs. This new genre of ‘bibliophilic bibliography’ played an important role in identifying certain books as collectible and, conversely, in rendering many other books virtually unsellable.35 As Beraldi observed, over the course of

74 The New Bibliopolis

the century ‘books have become such precious objects that one takes all possible precautions before proceeding to purchase.’36 As a result, frenetic competition for a small number of books ensued among collectors, eager to place their money on a ‘sure bet’ in this highly inflated market. Given the saturation of the bibliophilic sphere and its rigid codification, compounded by the prohibitive prices of certain livres anciens, many book collectors were forced to develop alternatives. They adapted to the changing market initially by compensating for the dearth of antiquarian volumes – the traditional fare of bibliophiles – with a turn towards illustrated books of the first half of the nineteenth century. Then, under the influence of Uzanne and his followers, they responded with an almost obsessive insistence on novelty and contemporaneousness, legitimizing as collectible the luxury edition designated in advance of its publication as rare, and privileging the work of late-nineteenth-century authors and illustrators. In rejecting the retrospective bibliophilia associated with the old guard, however, Uzanne was being somewhat disingenuous. He had begun his career as a bibliographer and critic under the sway of the ancien régime, and had frequented a coterie of book lovers at the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, all disciples of Nodier. His first publications were multivolume editions of the works of little-known chroniclers and poets of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. He praised the ‘wisdom and method’ (NB 4) and the ‘sincere erudite passion’ (NB 5) underlying the great libraries of retrospective bibliophiles such as Jean Grolier and Nodier. He admired a previous generation of fine book producers including Morgand, Poulet-Malassis, and Alphonse Lemerre, publisher of the Parnassian poets. And despite his attacks on the dogged conventionalism of the Bibliophiles François, the aesthetic he championed in his review, L’Art et l’Idée, rested on an equally rigid allegiance, this one to the convention of originality at all costs. While the new bibliopolis thus positioned itself as the antithesis of the antiquarian Bibliophiles François, it also retained the older group’s strict adherence to conventions, albeit different ones, as a means of validating taste. At the same time, Uzanne and his partisans promoted a return to a tradition of luxury craftsmanship worthy of the Valois monarchs, updated and adapted to the tastes of a new cadre of connoisseur patrons.

‘False Amateurs’: The Amis des Livres In his role as herald of the new bibliophilia, Uzanne decried the aristocratic, antiquarian tradition elaborated since the early nineteenth century

Bibliophilia at the Fin de Siècle 75

in the chateaux and salons of the Bibliophiles François. He condemned, too, another, newer type of bibliophilia, enabled from the mid-nineteenth century on by the proliferation, for the first time, of moderately priced editions of attractive illustrated books. Printed in runs of approximately five hundred copies and costing fifty to sixty francs (in contrast to the three-and-a-half-franc paperbacks sold by the prominent literary publisher Calmann-Lévy), these books were associated with a growing group of collectors identified by the publisher Édouard Pelletan as ‘educated, but of average wealth, of whom circumstances have made the buyers of what are deemed luxury books.’37 Signs of the social and economic success of this upwardly mobile bourgeoisie, such livres d’amateur, however, soon found their detractors. In 1891 the publisher Damase Jouaust retired in bitterness after selling his firm to Flammarion, bemoaning the crisis of the livre de luxe ‘as I have understood it, the true livre de luxe, of a solid and serious type of luxury.’38 This symbol of French artistic superiority in Jouaust’s view, perhaps represented for him by his own Librairie des Bibliophiles series, had been displaced by the ‘shoddy book,’ leaving true amateurs ‘overcome, upset by the enormous quantity of publications called “deluxe.”’ Jouaust’s hostile view of such pseudoluxury books was seconded by Uzanne, who noted that under this term were now lumped together both highly refined commissioned works, produced in very small quantities, and their ersatz versions, ‘whose high-quality paper … and images please the eye, [but which] constitute only a vulgar and commercial foray.’39 The elitist and anticommercial strains prevalent in Uzanne’s attacks on what he deemed such ‘volumes adorned with bourgeois bad taste or a showiness typical of suspiciously rich foreigners’ were only exacerbated by the precarious conditions in the field of book production at the fin de siècle.40 Commercialism and poor quality, which Uzanne associated with industrial book production, were indeed also the stigmata distinguishing faux luxury editions from their authentic counterparts. Uzanne derisively blamed those he labelled the ‘publicateurs’ of these pseudodeluxe books as ‘small publishers, slaves to trends, uncultivated and boorish types,’ for having produced such ‘pretentious trash.’41 ‘They’ve trafficked, they’ve raked in money,’ he added, on the subject of their merchandise. ‘Let them leave the scene.’42 The profit motive, he implied, had no place in the sector of fine book production, which shunned discussion of economic value, substituting for it the symbolic and aesthetic prestige of the books in question.

76 The New Bibliopolis

This unfortunate hybrid – the commercial luxury book – owed its appearance, then, to several agents. In Uzanne’s analysis, demand for such books was increasing among certain sectors of the conspicuously consuming bourgeoisie, ‘false amateurs,’ as he labelled them, ‘vague, vain … dilettantes … who have been accumulating old books in a frenzy just like lottery tickets are bought in Italy.’43 The equation of fine books and lottery tickets reflected, in Uzanne’s view, the general lack of couth and acculturation among these new collectors. He bemoaned the fact that in earlier eras, ‘the taste for books was incomparable and encouraging in terms of the great moral culture it required, being inaccessible to the uninitiated.’ The vulgarity and cupidity of collectors were mirrored, for Uzanne, in the vanity of new breeds of both bookstore owners, ‘who throw themselves in large numbers into the circulation of beaux livres,’ and publishers, comprised of ‘people from all walks of life who wish to be seen.’ The latter found it easy, Uzanne contended, to simply slap images onto texts, without concern for the complex interplay between them. In so doing, such publishers again revealed their attitude towards books as undifferentiated merchandise. As Uzanne noted acerbically, ‘one becomes Editor, Book merchant, ad-lib, just as one would declare oneself a bicycle salesman.’44 It was this sordid coupling between producers and consumers of books, then, by-product of a transforming social structure and new business practices, that had spawned the fin-de-siècle invention of the ‘genre’ of ‘livres pour bibliophiles.’ Until the 1860s, according to Uzanne, this genre had existed solely as a tacitly accepted category of books and not as a marketing tool. In a type of mimesis of previous generations of collectors, the taste for reeditions of livres anciens had replaced the patient search for first editions associated with the Bibliophiles François, the copy substituting itself on the original. But, as Uzanne admonished, ‘reeditions cannot be imposed on curious, independent-minded people, just as books from another era cannot be illustrated; artistic reconstitution always misses the point and betrays bricolage, no matter what one does.’45 Who and what precisely did Uzanne have in mind when attacking the ‘false amateurs’ and the ‘shoddy book?’ His polemic likely took in commercial literary publishers like Calmann-Lévy who in the late nineteenth century began to branch out into the sector of so-called livres de luxe. Yet Uzanne targeted, as well, a number of bibliophile societies, including one in particular that drew his wrath, and of which he was a member

Bibliophilia at the Fin de Siècle 77

until leaving to form the Bibliophiles Contemporains: the Société des Amis des Livres. The first Parisian bibliophile society founded since the Bibliophiles François over a half century earlier, the Amis des Livres was legally constituted in 1880. However, it had been unofficially founded in 1874 on the initiative of Truelle Saint-Evron; Philippe de Saint-Albin, who had been Empress Eugénie’s personal librarian after serving as librarian of the Senate, and Ernest Gallien. Director of the Gazette des Tribunaux and librarian at the Cour de Cassation, Gallien, a lawyer himself, typified the society’s membership in bridging the worlds of law and book collecting. His personal library, housed in the Palais de Justice, had been destroyed during the Commune. The society’s fifty Parisian and twenty-five corresponding members consisted of a notable number of judges and lawyers from the upper French courts, continuing a tradition of lettered magistrates extending back to Charles de Brosses and Montesquieu, both of whom combined their activities as writers and philosophes with the presidency of parlements under the ancien régime. Among the new ‘magistrats lettrés’ was Eugène Paillet (1829–1901, figure 2.5), a Parisian judge and, from 1880 until his death, president of the Amis des Livres. The male (and very rarely female) Amis des Livres considered book collecting a leisure activity, ‘a delicate form of intellectual relaxation, and not … taxing and tiring work,’ to be pursued ‘when their daily occupations leave them leisure time.’46 Unlike the stern antiquarians of the Bibliophiles François, these well-off members of the professions libérales viewed books, suggested Beraldi (who presided over the society from 1901 to 1931), primarily as bibelots as opposed to sources of erudition, and bibliophilia as one form of collecting among others, nevertheless supported by considerable knowledge, method, and good taste. Like other bibelots, rare books were considered unique ‘treasured objects of curiosity’ (BB 48) meant to be handled as gently and infrequently as fine china, and not to be read, perhaps not even opened: ‘When I read,’ asserted Beraldi, ‘I select volumes published by Charpentier or Hachette (2 fr 75)’ (BB 48). Given its conception of book collecting as bibelotage, the society’s shortlived initial model of a learned society, publishing antiquarian or unpublished works of historical, literary, or linguistic interest and not unlike the Bibliophiles François, soon ceded to the model of a social circle. Its goal, as the first article of its statutes made clear, was to ‘foster sustained relations among all bibliophiles through frequent meetings.’47 Rather than

78 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 2.5 Portrait of Eugène Paillet, artist unknown, in L’Œuvre et l’Image, vol. 1, no. 6 (April 1901)

Bibliophilia at the Fin de Siècle 79

the knowledge of savants, the Amis des Livres, like Uzanne’s Bibliophiles Contemporains, emphasized a sociability befitting upper-bourgeois professional men. This model of social interaction often entailed the creation, as one observer noted, of an ‘artificial, intense and visible life, outside the narrow confines of the family.’48 Such extrafamilial sociability took the form, for example, of organized dinners that the British bibliophile (and Amis des Livres member) Henry Spencer Ashbee found more typically French than English, inscribed in a long history of French convivial and Bacchic societies. Indeed, the fin de siècle was marked by a profusion of such dinners, rendezvous on any given night of architects, alpinists, lycéens, politicians, Bretons, painters, or members of hundreds of other groups, often joined by disgruntled husbands rebelling perhaps against the strictures of bourgeois marriage or the confines of Parisian apartments. The literary field boasted its own dinners, whether organized by publishers (Édouard Dentu, Alphonse Lemerre); reviews (Le Mercure de France, La Plume), literary movements (Le Parnasse); or authors (Goncourt’s legendary dinners at the restaurant Magny). A 1904 banquet for the British poet and critic Edmund Gosse, for example, found Uzanne enjoying dinner, speeches, and conversation at Durand’s restaurant on the place de la Madeleine with, among others, Maurice Barrès and Auguste Rodin.49 These occasions helped reinforce social and professional networks and collective identities within an expanding, competitive literary market. Overlapping in their attendees with literary and publishing dinners, bibliophile banquets conformed closely to this model of upper-class sociability. While meetings of English book-lovers, wrote Ashbee, ‘are of a business-like, utilitarian kind, [those of the French] are animated by sociability and enlivened by conviviality.’50 The British journal The Bookworm also contrasted the ‘cold collation and bottled beer’ – the lot of British bibliophile societies – with the ‘delightful little dinners’ of their French counterparts, often finished off with Curaçao and cigars.51 Such pleasures awaited the Amis des Livres in the grand ‘red salon’ of the restaurant Durand. Pierre Dauze’s Les XX and Uzanne’s Bibliophiles Contemporains held their annual business dinners at the equally chic Marguery, housed in the Gymnase Theatre and boasting a terrace on the boulevard Bonne Nouvelle. Marguery’s decor, depending on one’s point of view, was either sumptuous or garish. Attending a banquet in his honour in April 1889, Edmond de Goncourt disliked Marguery’s ‘room covered in hangings, seemingly plastered with blinding rhinestones and featuring medieval sculptures … an atrocious form of decoration, which might have cost

80 The New Bibliopolis

100,000 francs.’52 Yet many belle epoque theatres housed such opulent restaurants or cafes, heightening a sense of ‘theatricality’ characterizing the glittering nighttime life of the grands boulevards. Invitations to the 1895 opening of Henri Floury’s bookshop at 1, boulevard des Capucines (an event timed to fill the void in the fine book milieu left by the disappearance of Quantin and Jouaust) vaunted the store’s location between the Cafés Napolitain and Jullien and across from the Vaudeville Theatre. With its ‘entrancing display,’ one commentator noted, Floury’s shop was the ‘meeting-place of boulevardiers.’53 Its geography intersecting that of a foremost zone of Parisian pleasures, then, the new bibliopolis incorporated the festive ambiance of boulevard life while maintaining an aura of exclusivity. The sense of mise en scène on display during bibliophile dinners was conveyed by a distinctive object that served both to set the dinner’s tone and showcase the talents of the artist whose work adorned the book launched at these dinners: a menu. Beyond simply listing the sumptuous suite of dishes to be consumed (a necessity with the nineteenthcentury replacement of service à la française by the sequentially ordered service à la russe), such menus were souvenirs. Yet like the illustrated theatre programs, invitations, calling cards, and birth announcements proliferating in Paris during this ‘age of paper,’ and which featured the most up to date photomechanical and lithographic techniques, such mementos often became collector’s items, too, much like the mural posters that were in a way oversized versions of this hand-held ephemera. A whimsical illustration of a parade of Parisians engrossed in their books by Louis Morin, an artist cultivated by Uzanne, adorned an 1890 menu for the Bibliophiles Contemporains (figure 2.6), while the celebrated poster artist Jules Chéret produced engravings for a menu for Beraldi (Figure 2.7). These fanciful images, as well as those by Léon Rudnicki, Armand Rassenfosse, and other illustrators of bibliophile banquet menus, gave tangible form to the privileged relationship between amateurs and artists, and signalled visually the proximity of the milieus of graphic art and fine book production during this period.54 Also social occasions were the Amis des Livres’ meetings in Paillet’s rue de Berlin apartment. There, sporting a monocle and nattily dressed, as Beraldi remembered him, in a ‘little outfit for the library: black velvet smoking jacket enhanced by a spot of red at the button-hole, and a sealskin cap,’ stood the society’s president.55 The man Beraldi considered the archetype of bibliophilia in about 1875 would usher guests into his private library filled with armchairs for the occasion, in the centre of which a revolving table held the books to be examined by the amateurs.

Bibliophilia at the Fin de Siècle 81

Image Not Available

Figure 2.6 Louis Morin’s menu for the Bibliophiles Contemporains (‘Saturday dinner, 29 November 1890’), in Léon Maillard, Menus et programmes illustrés (1898)

82 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 2.7 Jules Chéret’s menu for Henri Beraldi, in Léon Maillard, Menus et programmes illustrés (1898)

Bibliophilia at the Fin de Siècle 83

Paillet’s tastefully appointed library, an important symbol of upperbourgeois status, was according to Beraldi ‘the best known and most heavily frequented in Paris’ (BB ix). In its eclecticism, the library’s contents typified the tastes of the Amis des Livres. Paillet’s collection featured bound fourteenth-century manuscripts, sixteenth-century incunabula, seventeenth-century Elzevirs, first editions of Voltaire and Rousseau, and many other eighteenth-century works, all of them in pristine condition to suit the tastes of this ‘ardent, methodical, difficult’ collector.56 Yet Paillet realized that an interest in modern books was necessary, too. His library contained illustrated nineteenth-century novels, as well as luxuriously bound first printings of the books he helped design for the society, complete with the original illustrations, autographs, and other documents. Such a widely ranging collection served a pedagogical function for the society’s members, often first-generation amateurs from the worlds of law and business just becoming adept at the practices associated with book collecting and design. Indeed, Paillet’s library, noted Beraldi, was ‘the best suited to please everyone and to initiate [amateurs] into the charms of the passion for books.’57 The society set as its task to publish beautifully illustrated, printed, and bound editions – ‘easy and pleasant to read’ – of classic works by eminent authors.58 In addition, it produced an Annuaire containing articles by its members. The society’s inaugural publication, directed by Paillet and printed by the well-known firm of Georges Chamerot, was a reedition of Mérimée’s 1830 historical novel set during the Wars of Religion, Chronique du règne de Charles IX, with etchings by Edmond Morin. This publication revealed an orientation far removed, in Beraldi’s view, from the ‘secretive and severe bibliophilia’ of the Bibliophiles François.59 What motivated Paillet to produce this edition was apparently, in his own words, a simple ‘desire to amuse myself by creating an illustrated book.’60 Nevertheless, the project favoured the tastefully executed reedition over the original contemporary texts identified by Uzanne as the only ones worthy of bibliophiles’ attention. Of the Amis des Livres’s 1892 publication, a reedition of a 1798 novel by Joseph Fiévée, La Dot de Suzette, with etchings by Valentin Foulquier, Uzanne declared: ‘It is difficult to find a book that is uglier and has less artistic value … [It’s] the copy of a condemnable genre, one henceforth condemned by amateurs with a true artistic sentiment.’61 Reissuing a book, in Uzanne’s view, meant rendering it banal and lowering its quality. Furthermore, a reedition could not be dissociated from the pretentious bourgeois amateurs who produced it, poseurs who wished to ‘appear learned and … shine in the eyes of their contemporaries.’62 The theatre critic and

84 The New Bibliopolis

journalist Francisque Sarcey echoed Uzanne’s disapproval of the mediocre quality of these publications. At the same time Sarcey criticized the dilettantism of the Amis des Livres as signalled by their attention to sybaritic practices, to the detriment of bibliophilic ones: ‘Do I need to mention that they hold their meetings at the dinner table and that it is only at dessert that they discuss the merits of the works proposed?’63 A similar abhorrence for imitation also informed Uzanne’s antipathy to one of the preferred binders of the Amis des Livres, Bauzonnet’s associate and successor, his son-in-law Georges Trautz. The German-born Trautz specialized in reproductions of famous historical bindings by Eve, Le Gascon, Padeloup, and others, produced in morocco leather featuring traditional gold fillet work and mosaic designs (figure 2.8). Hefty and tightly bound, books bound by Trautz were often difficult to open and thus, presumably, to read. His skill in creating individually crafted replicas of rare bindings from the past, echoing the vogue for imitation characteristic of the decorative arts under the Second Empire and implicitly rejecting the industrial bindings becoming popular during the same period, proved immensely successful among wealthy collectors with a preference for retrospective bibliophilia. The adulation directed toward him, dubbed ‘Trautzmania,’ was conveyed in a tiresome, banal chorus mocked by Beraldi: ‘Trautz! Trautz! Trautz! Trautz! What a Trautz! This Trautz! By Trautz! From Trautz! At Trautz’s!’64 ‘Trautzolatry’ also expressed itself through his clients’ almost fanatical intolerance of other binders. For example, the ‘adorers of Trautz’ were known to also patronize Lortic, a binder who rejected Trautz’s style in favour of lighter, more original creations, simply to indulge in the perverse pleasure of throwing the Lortic bindings out the window.65 In 1869 Trautz’s success earned him the Légion d’honneur (a first for a binder) and made the price of his bindings soar; in 1873 Trautz, for 150 francs, bound a rare copy of the Œuvres of Louise Labé for Ernest Quentin-Bauchart, who later sold the volume to Baron de Rothschild for 20,000 francs. Despite their market value, Uzanne deplored both the ‘dismal banality’ (NB 185) of Trautz’s historical bindings and the philistine amateurs who bought them. In the end, though, he viewed with some sympathy this ‘half-God, this poor papa Trautz, this well-meaning, banal worker, timorous, lacking imagination and good taste, astonished to find himself extolled to such an extent by these dinosaurs.’66 The Amis des Livres worked in tandem with its official éditeur-libraire, Léon Conquet. Conquet shared modest beginnings in the Auvergne with the two libraires for whom he worked on arriving in Paris: Pierre

Bibliophilia at the Fin de Siècle 85

Image Not Available

Figure 2.8 Binding by Georges Trautz (n.d.) for Vie du Chevalier Bayard (1524), in Henri Beraldi, La Reliure du XIXe siècle, vol. 2 (1895)

86 The New Bibliopolis

Rouquette and Garousse. Three years after volunteering for service in the Franco-Prussian War, in 1873 Conquet set up shop first in a fairly remote location on the boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle, yet across from the Gymnase Theatre – ‘well beyond the limits of the World known to bibliophiles,’ Beraldi asserted, ‘a World for which the Panoramas and Choiseul passages are the columns of Hercules.’67 In 1880 he moved to the rue Drouot, in the heart of the ‘World known to bibliophiles,’ steps away from the famed auction house and close by the rue Laffitte shops of two important modern print dealers, Dumont and Salvator. This continued migration of collector’s books and prints from Left to Right Bank, ‘from the neighbourhood of bouquinisme to that of curiosities and paintings,’ Beraldi noted, was ‘very significant’ (EL 251), as it indicated a shift in the geography of the Parisian book market. In his new location, Conquet was not far from Floury’s bookshop on the boulevard des Capucines and the legendary Librairie Nouvelle on the boulevard des Italiens, outpost for sales of the major literary publisher Calmann-Lévy. Although the Librairie Nouvelle did not cater specifically to bibliophiles, its salon-like atmosphere and high-profile clientele drawn from politics, the arts, and literature contributed to a culture of book buying as an urbane social activity, part of boulevard life. Conquet’s bookshop also faced off across the boulevards from Morgand’s boutique in the passage des Panoramas, neatly symbolizing the new book-selling and publishing strategies that had developed in reaction to those of the more established Morgand. The Bibliophiles François’s official libraire Morgand had ‘monopolized the entire rare book trade,’ as Eugène Paillet recollected, assuring the dominance of a retrospective bibliophilia that was ‘exultant, despotic, almost persecutorial, when prices became madly exacerbated.’68 In opposition to the ‘ponderous people’ of the Bibliophiles François, Conquet became an ‘anti-Morgand,’ ally of newer groups of amateurs. Whereas Morgand had been ‘aphrodisiac, heightening’ in his pricing, Conquet was ‘sedative, calming.’69 In so doing, he converted these ‘numerous … disciples, inexperienced and timid at first,’ to the notion of overturning ‘the idol of the old bouquin’ in favour of a more modern, and often more moderately priced luxury book.70 Conquet employed diverse strategies for educating his clients – his ex libris bore the motto ‘J’ouvre l’œil’ – thereby helping shape taste and create a market for new types of livres de luxe. As a libraire, he developed a feeling for his clients, their likings and budgets, and then guided their

Bibliophilia at the Fin de Siècle 87

purchases until he had established over them an ‘absolute empire, to the point where some of them never in their lives made a decision by themselves … without consulting Conquet.’71 He won his customers’ trust by collecting for his personal library the editions of the Romantics illustrated by Tony Johannot and Grandville that he suggested his clients purchase as well. Always ‘welcoming, good-humoured, with a jovial air’ (BB 117), Conquet cultivated cordial relationships with his clients, who often became friends. His clublike bookstore became a ‘meetingplace in great vogue,’ ‘école normale of the modern book,’ where from 5 o’clock to 7 o’clock the Amis des Livres and other like-minded book lovers could be found ‘chatting, discussing, leafing through volumes, examining etchings, feeling bindings. Conquet would make the rounds, delivering to each customer the mot juste.’72 Conquet’s activities as both bookseller and publisher catering to new groups of bibliophiles reinforced one another. He carefully oversaw every aspect of the production of his books, from typography to engraving. Enhanced by luxurious China, Japan, or vellum paper and set in classic Didot font, these were updated editions of the types of works that may have been gathering dust on grandmothers’ shelves – Stendhal’s La Chartreuse de Parme (1883), Champfleury’s Le Violon de faïence (1885), Nodier’s Le Bibliomane (1894), and, reaching farther back, Villon’s Œuvres (1897) and Marivaux’s Jeu de l’amour et du hasard (1894). Spurning photomechanical techniques – ‘he doesn’t want to hear about photogravure in regard to books for amateurs’ (BB 118) – Conquet favoured woodcuts and etchings by artists such as Albert Robida, Daniel Vierge, and Félicien Rops. The Belgian artist was under exclusive contract in the early 1880s with Conquet, who in turn created interest in Rops by publishing the catalogues raisonnés of his work.73 Conquet coupled publication of these limited editions with ancillary strategies: copublication of luxury versions of illustrated books produced by Calmann-Lévy; publication of works for specific clienteles, such as illustrated children’s books and holiday books; specialized catalogues and bibliographies, among them the weekly Bibliographie de France. These last publications were indispensable resources for both provincial and foreign book collectors who could not inspect potential purchases in person, and those lacking the proper aesthetic ‘education’ in this area. The recipient of several medals at international book exhibits, by the time of his death in 1897 Conquet was ‘universally known, famous, prosperous.’74 Due in part to his success in renewing interest in

88 The New Bibliopolis

illustrated books, Conquet left behind him ‘a large army of bibliophiles,’ disciples formed in his image. Some of them would bring to bear on the taste for finely made books the mark of their own distinctive personalities and aesthetic vision. Individually or through the bibliophile societies they founded, Octave Uzanne, Eugène Rodrigues, Pierre Dauze, Paul Gallimard, and others would make the new bibliopolis synonomous with all that was exclusive, unique, and contemporary.

3 Everything to the Moderns: Independent and Contemporary Bibliophiles

Always Forward Motto of the Bibliophiles Contemporains1

Academies of Beautiful Books: Uzanne in the 1890s By the early 1890s, according to Henri Beraldi, the Amis des Livres were debating the future direction of their society, seemingly tiring of their practice of producing ‘texts that have already been published, invariably illustrated with etchings’ (BB 118). Instead, the group was contemplating more modern types of publications, ‘more audacious, more innovative; our texts like our illustrations applying themselves to features of our era; varied modes of illustration, the grand solemn format abandoned.’2 Uzanne, however, was impatient with the society’s slowness in embracing new authors, artists, and techniques. Frustrated, as well, with the broadening of the term ‘bibliophile’ to include what he deemed ever less refined categories of collectors, in the 1890s he championed a conception of bibliophilia that was unabashedly elitist. It was thus for what he termed a ‘confederation of lovers of beauty’ that he destined the short-lived review he founded in 1890, Le Livre Moderne (figure 3.1), and not for the ‘old-school bibliophiles, retrograde, closed to visions of progress,’ that he punningly branded not as the ‘friends’ (amis) but the ‘ennemis du Livre.’3 Even the scope of his new review, Uzanne noted, would be modern in its preference for topical issues such as theories of illustration or the state of the book market over the ‘monotony’ and ‘fastidiousness’ of bibliographically oriented bibliophile publications. As its emblem, Le Livre Moderne bore a woodcut version of an ex libris

90 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 3.1 Cover illustration for Le Livre Moderne: Revue du Monde Littéraire et des Bibliophiles Contemporains (1890–1)

Independent and Contemporary Bibliophiles

91

designed for Uzanne by Félicien Rops (figure 3.2), partisan of newness at all costs like Uzanne, and believer in a ‘new formula, even if inferior to the ones of the past.’4 Two years later, under the signs of Symbolism and Art Nouveau, Uzanne inaugurated yet another review, L’Art et l’Idée. He described the new journal to the author and art critic Théophile Gautier fils as an ‘important publication … more largely devoted to literature and art while still remaining bibliographic and critical.’5 In the first issue of the review Uzanne went even further in identifying his readership as members of a phalanstery, ‘an elite family composed of initiates, of cultivated mandarins, and patricians of the spirit.’6 In the same issue of this publication devoted not only to livres de luxe but to decorative and fine arts as well, he appealed to ‘the finest esprits, the ultracivilized of literature and art … a small group of readers – oh how very small !’7 And he promised his select readership that the review would hold itself ‘carefully removed from all that can be judged, argued, delved into in the great trials orchestrated by the daily press or in the lavishly abundant pages of biweekly periodicals.’ The mass daily press, for Uzanne, was an organ of both the commercial interests he claimed to despise and of mass consumer society. This ‘throng of commonplace people,’ these ‘imbeciles … ignorants,’ Uzanne felt, were coming to exercise tyrannical control over taste.8 Just as the future of painting, as Uzanne remarked after viewing with disgust the mediocre work at the 1892 Salon du Champ de Mars, needed to be distilled to an exhibit of no more than five hundred canvases, so too would ‘works of truly good taste’ soon be printed ‘in a miniscule quantity, according to highly independent artistic formulae.’9 Very few publishers, asserted Uzanne, who presumably had in mind Quantin and Floury for example, were capable of producing such authentic, costly livres de luxe, at the rate of one or two a year.10 Envisioning book collecting as an ever more selective practice, in 1889 Uzanne brought together 160 people whom he deemed ‘cardinals of the Modern Bibliopolis’– overseen by their ‘grand priest,’ none other than Uzanne himself – when he founded the Société des Bibliophiles Contemporains, Académie des Beaux Livres.11 Many of these ‘initiates’ – comprising ‘the Plutocracy of private editions,’ as Uzanne noted to Edmond de Goncourt – also belonged to the Amis des Livres, a practice common among collectors avid to accumulate the exceptional volumes published by each bibliophile society.12 However, the ‘Biblios-contempos’ differed significantly from their predecessors in attracting a core group of individuals actually involved in the creative process of book production,

92 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 3.2 Daphné, ou Le Livre Moderne, etching by Félicien Rops (n.d.). The legend reads: ‘Love of a book always flourishes.’

Independent and Contemporary Bibliophiles

93

with the exception of publishers: artists (Paul Avril, Albert Robida), authors (Jules Claretie, Jean Richepin), critics (Francisque Sarcey, Paul Eudel), and bibliographers (Paul Lacombe, Jules Le Petit). Aside from Uzanne’s friend and collaborator Albert Quantin, however, no other publishers, nor any individuals who might ‘contaminate their souls with the turning of an honest penny by trading’ (as a British observer of Uzanne’s society wrote), could mingle with the amateurs comprising this exclusive ‘academy.’13 Also featured prominently among the Bibliophiles Contemporains were foreigners, especially Americans Uzanne encountered while in the United States for the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago. Although Uzanne abhorred the industrialization and mass production he associated with America, he viewed the country’s book lovers differently. Denizens of the new world, these ‘minds that are so lively and avid for all types of novelty,’ as Uzanne described them, might look favourably on the spirit of experimentation and modernity characterizing his society’s endeavours.14 And wealthy American collectors such as Henri Pène du Bois, George Beach de Forest, and Valentin Blacque, a New York banker and amateur artist, were learning to appreciate contemporary French book design, Uzanne noted, ‘with their admiration and their wallets’ – a trend surely pleasing to him in light of the great costliness of producing his society’s books. Indeed, as Uzanne reminded Blacque (after inquiring whether the banker’s ‘millions are reappearing’), hommes de lettres such as Uzanne were ‘more driven by fantasy than Dollars,’ and thus had great need of the funds that American capitalists could provide Parisian aesthetes.15 As the New York Times recorded following his visit, Uzanne found in the private libraries of Blacque and other American book collectors ‘the best works of the present time, in extraordinary states, and bindings conceived in accordance with the exact principles that I had once enunciated.’16 His stay in the United States convinced him that, far from being indifferent and unsophisticated as he had expected, American book lovers were in fact in many ways superior to their Parisian counterparts. A quintessential ‘Biblio-Contempo’ in his cultlike veneration of fine books and intimate connection to the networks of the new bibliophilia was the jeweller Henri Vever (figure 3.3). His bibliophile’s schedule during a typical year included the following, as he recorded in his diary: February 1st 1898 found him at the Église Saint-Vincent-de-Paul in Paris, attending the burial of the venerable libraire Damascène Morgand, ‘a connoisseur and a good man,’ in the company of ‘all the bibliophiles

94 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 3.3 Henri Vever, cabinet photograph by Léon Colson, c. 1895

Independent and Contemporary Bibliophiles

95

and bookstore owners.’17 Three weeks later Vever was at the Salle Sylvestre auction house, inspecting works on jewellery and gold-crafting included in the sale of Baron Pichon’s library, and marvelling that the baron, ‘who took such an interest in everything concerning the goldsmith’s trade, had not even paged through these books … the pages are not even cut!’ These books would be delivered to Vever’s home two days later, purchased through the intermediary of his personal libraire, Techener. Four sixteenth-century books of hours from the Pichon sale arrived chez Vever several weeks after that; the books’ incomplete state did not bother the jeweller as ‘for me they are only documents,’ perhaps meant to inspire designs for his jewellery. The next months found him, inter alia, noting with sadness the death at twenty-six of the English illustrator Aubrey Beardsley (‘I greatly appreciated his very original, very special talent and the English books he illustrated had a flavour quite particular to them’); stopping by the ateliers of Levasseur (‘my little binder’) and of Charles Meunier to have bound Vever’s copy of a book illustrated by Grasset; attending book arts exhibits – at Bing’s gallery, he viewed drawings by Daniel Vierge, a popular illustrator of livres de luxe, while at the gallery of the art publisher Étienne Boussod the work of Cobden-Sanderson and other English binders was on view; purchasing at Floury’s bookstore ‘a beautiful book illustrated by Dinet, Antar,’ and at Calmann-Lévy’s the latest book by the English illustrator Walter Crane; indulging a new passion for prints and posters by Grasset and Mucha at the shop of the fashionable dealer Edmond Sagot; and staying up past midnight to organize this bounty of books, posters, and prints: ‘It’s a considerable amount of work that never ends.’ Vever’s book-related activities – conducted at the same time as he was consumed with preparing his firm’s display for the 1900 World’s Fair – are typical of those of a new bibliophile. Such activities represented a form of upper-bourgeois sociability, and a particularly costly one, shared with other ‘bohemian gentlemen.’ They reveal Vever’s intimate involvement and interest in developments in a range of other graphic and decorative arts such as printmaking and binding, and also in contemporary aesthetic trends such as japonisme. Trained in painting and design at the École des Beaux-Arts, Vever claimed that ‘painting first, music next, these are my two greatest sources of happiness.’ Given his training as both a painter and a master craftsman, Vever was assuredly enthusiastic about the goal of Uzanne’s Bibliophiles Contemporains, according to its statutes: to encourage new ‘research, arrangements, discoveries, and artistic procedures the most apt to attain, in the

96 The New Bibliopolis

Art of the Livre de luxe, the highest possible degree of perfection.’18 The society privileged the work of contemporary authors – Jean Richepin, Guy de Maupassant – and artists, often brought together as part of a team of up to one hundred, if we are to believe Uzanne. Such a collaborative effort lay behind the society’s 1891–2 publication, Contes choisis by Maupassant, ten stories printed as individual leaflets, each featuring a different illustrator, engraver, colourist, printer, and technique, such as woodcut, heliography, lithography, or etching. The entire production – a kind of tour de force of book design, displaying the talents of a cadre of artists and those assisting them – was supervised by Uzanne, acting as an aesthetic overseer. Another publication illustrative of the society’s aesthetic of book design was L’Effort (1894) (figure 3.4) by Edmond Haraucourt, a poet associated with the Parnassian aftermath. The volume of four short stories (‘La Madone,’ ‘L’Antéchrist,’ ‘L’Immortalité,’ ‘La Fin du monde’) was one of the most innovative, extravagant, and expensive collaborations of 1890s French book making. Indeed, Uzanne hoped L’Effort would be ‘the dominant book of our Society, the one that will complete the work of consecrating its renown.’19 Like the Contes choisis by Maupassant created two years earlier, this publication featured the work of a host of wood engravers, printers, and technicians assembled by Uzanne to produce eighteen colour lithographs by Léon Rudnicki and Alexandre Lunois; thirty-eight colour-printed designs by Eugène Courboin and thirty-two by the Swiss artist Carlos Schwabe; and forty-six drawings by Alexandre Séon, the last two artists firmly within the orbit of Symbolism. While the elaborate floral and feminine motifs, sinuous lines, and asymmetrical composition of Rudnicki’s cover design all evoke the convergence of Symbolism, japonisme, and Art Nouveau, they also betray an obsessive hankering after novelty. This was in part the measure of Uzanne’s antipathy to historical or pseudohistorical styles, representative for him of the ossified conventions of the Bibliophiles François and the kitsch of the Amis des Livres. But his search for newness at all costs can also be understood as a strategy, resulting from his acknowledgment of the struggle for access to resources in the field of fine book production – in the form of publishers, printers, artists, critics, and commissions. In the competitive, closed world of fin-de-siècle bibliophilia, style became an important marker and a means for attracting clients. ‘Bibliophiles of the future will rather choose to go to extremes out of horror for what is unimaginative and commonplace,’ Uzanne thus proclaimed, calling for ever more esoteric effects in terms of illustration, typography,

Independent and Contemporary Bibliophiles

97

Image Not Available

Figure 3.4 Cover illustration by Léon Rudnicki for Edmond Haraucourt, L’Effort (1894), colour lithograph

98 The New Bibliopolis

binding, and paper, such as the special Arches paper watermarked ‘Edmond Haraucourt’ that Uzanne designed for L’Effort.20 The search for esotericism characteristic of Uzanne’s book design activities continued with the work of two societies founded in 1895 on the Bibliophiles Contemporains’s dissolution: Uzanne’s own Bibliophiles Indépendants, which was active until 1901, and the Cent Bibliophiles. Always equivocal about running a bibliophile society, as early as 1890 Uzanne divulged that despite feeling honoured by the presidency of the Bibliophiles Contemporains, at the same time he ‘bitterly’ regretted losing the ‘serene independence that has always been my favourite goddess.’21 He even claimed to have become the ‘slave’ of the society he had founded. Five years later he bid farewell to both ‘bibliophiles’ and ‘Uzannophiles,’ stating that he was ‘too busy and also too rarely Parisian’ to continue the society’s work.22 Besides his three-month trip in the spring of 1893 to ‘the land of dollars’ (America, in his view) and frequent visits to London, 1894 found him in Holland and then, as a letter informed the photographer Nadar, spending February 1895 near Cairo, ‘along the Nile, under a gentle sun.’23 This last escapade made Uzanne something of an authority ‘about Egypt as a winter home,’ as Aubrey Beardsley reported to his brother. The British artist had met Uzanne in Paris in the late 1890s and had planned to provide an illustration for Uzanne’s short story Thémidore – a project abandoned due to Beardsley’s ill health prior to his death in 1898.24 Nevertheless, shortly after dissolving his Bibliophiles Contemporains Uzanne reconstituted it as the Bibliophiles Indépendants. The society’s six publications again featured texts by contemporary authors – Anatole France, Jules Lemaître, Marcel Schwob, and Uzanne himself – and the work of artists such as Georges de Feure and Félix Vallotton. These publications marked the closest collaboration yet between Uzanne and the éditeur-libraire Henri Floury. In the mid-1890s Floury began to couple his activities as a publisher and bookseller with those of a review editor. With the backing of the Corporation française des graveurs sur bois, in 1896 he took on the direction of L’Image: Revue Artistique et Littéraire, devoted in large part to promoting the fin-de-siècle revival of the woodcut. The technique championed by Floury was featured in his reedition of Perrault’s La Belle au bois dormant et Le Petit Chaperon rouge: Deux Contes de ma Mère l’Oye (1899), with woodcuts by Lucien Pissarro, and, as discussed in chapter 1, in Uzanne’s 1896 Badauderies parisiennes. Les Rassemblements, with woodcuts by Vallotton. Floury also cultivated emerging artists such as ToulouseLautrec, who in his first work as a book illustrator provided images for

Independent and Contemporary Bibliophiles

99

Georges Clemenceau’s Au pied de Sinaï (1898) and, the next year, lithographs for Jules Renard’s Histoires naturelles. In bringing together artists and authors in the collaborative creation of a book, Floury distinguished himself as publisher of some of the first livres d’artiste.25

Uzanne’s Successors: Les Cent Bibliophiles and Les XX Also on the Bibliophiles Contemporains’s dissolution, one hundred of its members founded a successor group, Les Cent Bibliophiles. The amateur running the society until his death in 1928 was by profession a second-generation lawyer at the Paris Appeals Court, ‘tall, slender, darkhaired, with an elegant black beard, distinguished:’ Eugène Rodrigues (figure 3.5).26 Born Louis Marie Eugène Rodrigues-Henriques in 1853 in Paris, he was a descendant of an illustrious family of Sephardic Jews that in the seventeenth century had arrived in Bordeaux from Portugal. Its members had achieved outstanding success in the financial and liberal professions, as well as in literature and the arts. Rodrigues conformed closely to the type of the ‘upper-bourgeois bohemian’ drawn to the new bibliophilia. Indeed, he corroborated this description in his own somewhat self-deprecating portrait of himself as ‘a bourgeois – despite being a philosopher and scribbler!!’27 Rodrigues’s bohemianism, like Uzanne’s, was in part a matter of lifestyle, and encompassed a frenetic, at times unhealthy pursuit of Parisian pleasures. This worried Félicien Rops, as he confided to their mutual friend, and Rops’s student, the Belgian painter Armand Rassenfosse: ‘[Rodrigues] worries me and is becoming emaciated; tuberculosis is not far off. Paris has its price, its fevers, its allurements, its pretty pleasures … one lives less there than elsewhere, but one lives more.’28 At the same time, it was in a letter to Rodrigues that Rops recounted one of his own torrid exploits, this one featuring a potentially lewd train trip: Tête-à-tête with a chesty broad from the olden days – what my uncle called: ‘a hot brunette.’ We were in a second-class wagon, well-padded like the lady. Liberties inappropriate, but authorized! Had strong desires … Held back by the idea of the trial: ‘The Rops Affair: new details! Portrait of the accused,’ writes the Quotidien illustré.29

Fin-de-siècle Parisian dandy, the lawyer Rodrigues was at heart, however, a great publisher and fervent art-lover, whose twin daughters were sketched by Mary Cassatt (figure 3.6). He emerged as an early champion

100 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 3.5 Eugène Rodrigues, lithograph by P. Mathey (n.d.)

Independent and Contemporary Bibliophiles 101

Image Not Available

Figure 3.6 paper

The Rodrigues Sisters by Mary Cassatt, c. 1903, pastel and charcoal on

102 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 3.7 Illustration and etching by Louis Legrand for Erastène Ramiro [Eugène Rodrigues], La Faune parisienne (1901)

Independent and Contemporary Bibliophiles 103

of colour lithography, contributing frequently to the review L’Estampe et l’Affiche, founded in 1897. And relying on the enigmatic pseudonym Erastène Ramiro (a nod to his Portuguese lineage?), Rodrigues became a prolific author on contemporary artists. As a member of the Amis des Livres (Rodrigues was a nephew by marriage of Paillet), he oversaw that society’s production of Lorenzaccio (1895) and Quinze histoires d’Edgar Poë (1897). The latter work was illustrated by Louis Legrand, another student of Rops’s who like his teacher became known for scandalously erotic and macabre paintings and engravings. When Legrand’s drawings in Le Courrier Français brought him to trial for immorality, his judicial and artistic defender was none other than Rodrigues. The trial became something of a cause célèbre, with Edmond de Goncourt coming to the defence of the condemned (and ultimately imprisoned) artist at Rodrigues’s request. Goncourt later felt snubbed when it was not the artist, but rather his lawyer, who came to thank the author for helping procure Legrand’s release from prison, leaving Goncourt to remark: ‘They are astonishing, these artists!’30 After the trial Rodrigues, the lawyer-turned-publisher, helped produce with Floury the catalogue raisonné of Legrand’s work.31 Rodrigues and Legrand were further united in their work for the owner of another small press specializing in livres de luxe, Gustave Pellet. From a wealthy Parisian family, Pellet devoted himself to European travels, studying beaux arts, and book collecting until the crash forced him to transform his vast personal library into the stock of a bookstore he opened on the quai Voltaire. In 1902 he moved to a gallery in the rue Le Peletier on the Right Bank. There, he sold the work of painters, printmakers, and engravers who had become close friends. These included Legrand, Rops, Odilon Redon, Paul Signac, and ToulouseLautrec, who described Pellet, for whom he illustrated Elles (1896), as ‘the intrepid publisher.’32 Pellet published Legrand’s entire artistic œuvre, including two works authored by Rodrigues, Cours de danse fin de siècle (1892) and La Faune parisienne (1901), both naturalistic studies of Parisian women of pleasure among other creatures comprising the capital’s ‘fauna’ (figure 3.7). The refined upper-bourgeois lawyer Rodrigues formed part of an unlikely trio with both the shocking bohemian artist Legrand, whom Goncourt likened to ‘a boorish crank,’ and their mutual publisher Pellet, ‘who looks like a medieval torturer … always escorted by two large dogs.’33 Rodrigues, then, befriended Rops’s students Rassenfosse and Legrand, and also became an intimate of Rops himself, twenty years his elder. For Rops, Rodrigues (along with Uzanne) figured among the ‘friends of the

104 The New Bibliopolis

second era’ of Rops’s later years. Such younger confidants helped ‘fill up [for Rops] the holes left by the death’ in the 1880s of such Belgian friends as the painters Louis Dubois and Louis Artan.34 This new circle of friends frequently visited Rops at his property on the banks of the Seine, La Demi-Lune. A fervent convert to what he termed the ‘Ropsian religion,’ Rodrigues was also a convert from Judaism, whom Rops nevertheless ambiguously praised as the ‘refined and goodly Semite.’35 Rodrigues’s extensive critical work bearing homage to Rops boasted the imprimatur of such respected bibliophile publishers as Conquet, Floury, Pellet, and Deman in Brussels. Rodrigues’s œuvre included both catalogues raisonnés of the artist’s lithographs and engravings (for which Rops produced a frontispiece [figure 3.8]), and biographical studies.36 Rodrigues and Rops collaborated as well on the 1893 edition of Voltaire’s Zadig, ou la Destinée (1756) for the Société des Amis des Livres. A serious eye injury caused by potassium dichromate, however, allowed the painter to finish only four of the many promised watercolours for this publication, and to evaluate unfavourably the outcome to Rodrigues: ‘Watercolour finished, Horrible painting!!’37 The same year Rodrigues travelled with Rops to Liège, perhaps to meet Armand Rassenfosse; the young painter illustrated the supplement to Rodrigues’s catalogue of Rops’s engravings (1895) and provided 160 colour etchings for the Cent Bibliophiles’s edition of Charles Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du mal (1899). Such border crossings were not unusual for Rodrigues for he, like Uzanne, pursued fruitful collaborations with authors, artists, and publishers involved in the flourishing Belgian book arts movement. Rodrigues’s own catalogue of Rops’s engravings was published in 1893 by the noted Brussels libraire, and passionate bibliophile, Edmond Deman (1857–1918), whom Uzanne called, simply, ‘the good publisher Deman.’38 Deman’s publication of deluxe editions of the works of Mallarmé, Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, and Barbey d’Aurevilly, mirroring Rodrigues’s later publication in 1918 of the Belgian poet Émile Verhaeren’s Les Blés mouvants, further testified to the aesthetic cross-pollination occurring during this period between Brussels and Paris.39 Like Uzanne, Rodrigues exercised exclusive, almost dictatorial control over the works his society published annually: ‘He was the Bonaparte, the Mussolini, the Clemenceau of modern bibliophilia.’40 Furthering the development of taste for the contemporary illustrated book begun timidly by Paillet and hastened with the work of Uzanne’s societies, for the twenty volumes whose production he oversaw Rodrigues insisted on mainly (although not exclusively) contemporary texts by Huysmans, Paul

Independent and Contemporary Bibliophiles 105

Image Not Available

Figure 3.8 ‘Useless or Harmful Works,’ frontispiece by Félicien Rops, in Erastène Ramiro [Eugène Rodrigues], Catalogue descriptif et analytique de l’œuvre gravé de Félicien Rops (1887)

106 The New Bibliopolis

Adam, Zola, Maupassant, and others, with original illustrations. Rodrigues further required that the illustrator also engrave his work. He insisted on leaving the artist’s vision intact, unadulterated by intermediaries, no matter how talented: ‘If I were given a Raphaël engraved by Albert Dürer,’ Rodrigues reputedly asserted, ‘I wouldn’t want it.’41 Several other bibliophile societies, finally, completed the task of legitimizing the taste for contemporary illustrated books and steering them in a more avant-garde direction. Founded in 1897 by Pierre Dauze, Les XX counted among its twenty socially and politically eclectic members the Republican salonnière Juliette Adam, the prominent Republican politician Léon Bourgeois, Prince Roland Bonaparte, and Roger Marx, the art critic and principal Inspector of Museums. Among the very small number of non-Parisian members of Les XX was Léon Schuck (1857– 1930), a high-level fonctionnaire. Despite belonging to the resolutely traditional milieu of provincial bibliophiles (in this case from Provence) and during an era when ‘most great bibliophiles idolized only the past,’ Schuck, as the sale catalogue of his collection notes, set himself apart as one of ‘the audacious ones who turned toward contemporary authors.’ He owned an outstanding collection of works by Barbey d’Aurevilly and of engravings by Rops, ‘rendering them confident homage by offering them the foremost place’ in his library.42 The goal of Les XX, as stipulated in its statues, was to ‘print on special paper twenty copies not destined for sale, books, albums, publications, etc. … The books will be selected, to the extent possible, from among those of interest due to curiosity, novelty, originality, and intellectual value.’43 Unlike the other fin-de-siècle bibliophile societies that had turned to the publication of illustrated editions of both modern and contemporary texts, Les XX set out to distinguish themselves even further by publishing only the very most recent contemporary works, ‘newborn works, which seem to possess a literary value that will make them famous tomorrow, perhaps.’ Among the first of these literary ‘futures’ was La Canne de jaspe by Henri de Régnier, subsequently published by Mercure de France. Further singularizing the society was its complete divorce from commercial concerns. Its print runs were limited to the twenty copies destined for the society’s membership, which excluded individuals connected in any way to the book trades. Paradoxically, however, Les XX coupled its ultracontemporary orientation with a return to an interest in livres anciens, now a ‘novelty’ by virtue of their having been abandoned by fin-de-siècle bibliophiles. As Dauze announced in the first issue of his Revue Biblio-Iconographique, a

Independent and Contemporary Bibliophiles 107

publication closely linked to his society, ‘the antiquarian book, for a long time the object of a cult that was excessive because it was exclusive, is overly abandoned today. We wish to help restore it to its rightful place, and, in making it known, we will make it loved.’44 Articles on the maligned antiquarian book, authored mainly by d’Eylac (the pseudonym and anagram of Baron Claye, known for his royalist sympathies), would be a distinctive feature of the review, taking their place alongside the many pieces on Symbolist authors and illustrators and the activities of ‘creative’ bibliophile societies. The society’s ideal, it asserted, was really none other than Grolier’s: to produce and collect fine books of its own era, in contemporary bindings. In an effort to distinguish itself and recuperate members of the older societies, Les XX had come full circle.

Parapublishers: Bibliophile Societies and Avant-Garde Petites Revues Beginning in the early 1890s small-scale fine book publishing was the work not just of bibliophile societies but also of another milieu in the sector of restricted production: that of avant-garde literary and artistic reviews.45 These included La Revue Blanche; La Plume, which in 1890 as part of its Bibliothèque artistique et littéraire series launched its first volume, Dédicaces de Verlaine; and Le Mercure de France, which published Les Litanies de la rose and Le Latin mystique (1892), both by the author and Symbolist critic, Remy de Gourmont (1858–1915), one of the review’s founders. The emergence of the petites revues as book publishers testifies, moreover, to a broader dispersion of the sites of fine book publishing at the fin de siècle. This pursuit now attracted not only specialized publishers like Édouard Pelletan, for whom production of such books remained the primary activity, but also a binder such as Charles Meunier or an art dealer such as Gustave Pellet, whose interactions with fine book collectors and producers led them naturally to engage in publishing.46 The sometimes hostile, sometimes cordial relationship between the bibliophile societies and petites revues as ‘parapublishers’ is revelatory of the workings of the milieu of fine book production during this period. Both bibliophile societies and avant-garde reviews pursued common activities and goals in their publishing ventures. Both despised the profitmaking ethos and mass-marketing techniques of large-scale commercial publishers. Financial profit was of little concern to a group comprised, as Alfred Vallette asserted in presenting the first issue of the journal he helped found, Le Mercure de France, of ‘speculators much too lamentable

108 The New Bibliopolis

to allow us to hope for the metamorphosis of our writings into gold.’47 Instead of commercial success and the approbation of ‘ce vulgaire profane’ – the average reader, in the derisive view of the young Symbolist author Pierre Louÿs – those in the sector of restricted production preferred to receive validation from an elite group of peers, either fellow bibliophiles or avant-garde authors and artists committed to a common aesthetic. 48 As Louÿs would soon learn, however, lack of commercial success, despite its romantic appeal, could have dire consequences for impecunious authors like himself: ‘Literature is the most unconstrained and delightful craft for those who do not rely on it as their sole resource,’ he wrote his brother Georges. ‘For the others … it is incertitude and perpetual worry.’49 It was precisely, as Louÿs correctly noted, the substantial personal wealth of rentiers such as Uzanne and Paul Gallimard that allowed them to pursue the ‘delightful’ work of producing fine books without the accompanying financial insecurity. This goal proved out of reach for Louÿs and other members of the literary avant-garde, who could only fantasize about it: ‘To devote oneself to the little projects that truly interest you – and to continue to receive royalties that fall from the sky heaven knows why – That would be charming.’50 Indifferent on principle to publication costs, both groups of publishers, those associated with bibliophile societies and those with petites revues, lavished attention on such material signs of distinction as the luxurious paper, illustrations, and typography of volumes typically printed in single runs of twenty to three hundred copies. These volumes, in turn, were distributed either by the groups themselves (at their banquets, for example) or by several ‘house’ éditeurs-libraires. These included the Right Bank boutique of Conquet near the grands boulevards in the case of the bibliophile societies and, conversely, the Left Bank bookshop of Léon Vanier, close to the centre of Latin Quarter youth culture, for the Symbolists. The search for refinement and esotericism further manifested itself in not only the physical form of these books but also their content. This encompassed both literary style, whether expressed by the precious language, neologisms, and archaisms common to certain works by the Symbolists and Uzanne’s Dictionnaire bibliophilosophique, and also to the unconventional genres (free verse, poetic essays, fantastic short stories) with which the Symbolists experimented. Esotericism was expressed, finally, in a ‘syncretic’ approach to texts and book design. For the bibliophile societies syncretism was usually limited to the interaction between art and literature, as reflected in both the illustrated books the societies produced and the reviews overseen by

Independent and Contemporary Bibliophiles 109

Uzanne and Meunier. The avant-garde publishers pushed this interest in syncretism further, to incorporate music and theatre. Such unconventional, and thus financially risky, styles, genres, and aesthetics would have represented impediments to most commercial publishers, who often chose to rely on such widely read genres as the realist novel or boulevard theatre. The physical and linguistic rarefaction of these volumes, finally, related to other avatars of ‘individualism’ familiar to those in the orbits of both the bibliophile societies and petites revues. These included such social expressions of ‘le culte du moi’ (a term formulated by the novelist and theorist of nationalism, Maurice Barrès) as snobbism and dandysm. And ‘individualism’ had aesthetic manifestations as well, evoked perhaps most explicitly by Gourmont’s definition of Symbolism as ‘individualism in literature, liberty in art, abandonment of accepted rules, inclination toward the new, the strange, and even the bizarre.’51 It was precisely the young Symbolists of Le Mercure and La Plume, declared Uzanne in citing Louÿs, Francis Vielé-Griffin, Gustave Kahn, and the critics Jean Moréas and Charles Morice, who ‘will soon make the New Bibliopolis glow with a bright radiance.’52 Liberty, novelty, strangeness, even oddity were thus the social and aesthetic values around which both new bibliophiles and Symbolists could gather. Bibliophile societies and little reviews, then, both pursued the mutual enterprise of establishing marginal, autonomous systems of publishing and distributing livres de luxe, divorced from the commercial sector. Despite this common goal, however, much separated these groups. The literary and artistic avant-garde of the 1890s contained a large cadre of men a generation younger than bohemian bibliophiles like Uzanne and Gallimard. Moreover, the avant-garde was far less secure financially than the lawyers and rentiers who collected and produced fine books through their societies. In fact, upper-bourgeois bibliophiles like Uzanne and Rodrigues, however nonconformist their profile by virtue of their aesthetic tastes, represented a comfortable, moneyed elite whose members the struggling avant-garde disdained. Exception might be made, however, for wealthy collectors who at the same time were authors or artists admired by many in the avant-garde, such as Robert de Montesquiou. Younger and less financially stable than their bohemian bourgeois counterparts, avant-garde bohemians were also more marginal by virtue of their having been rejected by the commercial sector.53 They were the by-products of an increasingly competitive literary market overcrowded with fledgling authors and dominated by specific schools and genres

110 The New Bibliopolis

such as boulevard theatre. In this ruthless environment, the avant-garde chose to showily break with the commercial world and create its own networks, brandishing its outlaw status and the freedom that accompanied it like a badge of honour, and developing an esprit de corps that led many of its members to militant political support of the underdog cause of Captain Alfred Dreyfus. The new bibliophiles, by contrast, were not angry castoffs from the competitive world of commercial publishing, had never wished to belong to it, and possessed the financial means to ensure only minimal contact with it. They belonged to a long tradition of elite patronage of deluxe book production that had little to do with the commercial sector. As members, in most cases, of the new professional elites of the Third Republic, it was above all social recognition that these aristocrates de l’esprit desired from one another, not the literary consecration among peers that avant-garde authors craved. This desire for literary legitimacy often led avant-garde authors to take control of their entire publication process, even financing their works themselves when costs were not covered by subscription or dues, as was the case with the bibliophile societies. Finally, whereas it was most often the author that catalyzed publication of books by the presses of the petites revues, in the case of the bibliophile societies the amateur assumed this function, overseeing the book’s entire publication in consultation with the illustrator and, less frequently, the author. The publishing worlds of bibliophile societies and little reviews, then, were self-contained milieus undertaking largely separate but parallel publishing activities in the non-commercial sector. Occasionally, however, the pursuits of these two worlds overlapped. The luxurious illustrated editions of contemporary texts published by La Plume and Le Mercure quickly became collector’s items coveted by bibliophiles. Léon Schuck, for example, owned the 1898 Mercure edition, on vellum, of Pierre Louÿs’s Symbolist prose poems, Chansons de Bilitis, as well as La Femme et le pantin, one of twenty copies of a special edition printed in 1898 for Les XX on its distinctive watermarked paper. Jules Claretie owned La Plume’s sumptuously illustrated 1897 edition, printed on China and Japan paper, of the work of Alphonse Mucha. In 1899 the Mercure acted as a French distributor for Jules Laforgue’s Moralités légendaires, produced by Lucien Pissarro’s Eragny Press and illustrated by the woodcut artist. It was far less common, conversely, for avant-garde authors to own editions published by bibliophile societies, either because of their limited print runs or due to the avant-garde’s general

Independent and Contemporary Bibliophiles 111

distrust of these elite social clubs. A final conduit between the presses of the bibliophile societies and the little reviews was provided by several authors and illustrators employed by both circuits, the Belgian poet Émile Verhaeren and his compatriot Félicien Rops among them. The broad appeal, at the turn of the century, of Verhaeren, Rops, and others indicated a common predilection on the part of all these publishers, and their clients, for Symbolism. While not officially belonging to bibliophile societies – undoubtedly too bourgeois a practice – certain avant-garde authors turned their publishing activities with the little reviews into personal exercises in bibliophilia; their book love thus found expression outside the clubby institutional channels of the societies. Remy de Gourmont, for example, had a particularly keen interest in fine paper among all other features of bibliophilia. Under his direction, those who purchased the Mercure edition of his Latin mystique could choose among copies printed on several types of Japan or Holland paper, including one made from a violet-hued bishop’s robe.54 Unusual paper from Korea also caught Gourmont’s attention, and writing to Pierre Dauze in June 1899 he wondered how the pair might procure it: ‘There are French traders in Seoul. We could write to them. What do you think?’55 Indeed, a real collaboration existed between Gourmont and Dauze, linking Dauze’s Les XX and its journal, La Revue Biblio-Iconographique, with the Mercure’s editorial and publishing activities. Gourmont and Dauze regularly reviewed one another’s work in their respective publications, and pursued several copublishing ventures. In November 1898, Gourmont proposed to Dauze a bibliography the critic was compiling of 130 Symbolist reviews and their precursors (among them Uzanne’s L’Art et l’Idée) that he hoped would interest Dauze’s ‘dear bibliophiles.’ After prepublication in 1899 in La Revue Biblio-Iconographique, Gourmont’s Les Petites Revues: Essai de bibliographie was published by Mercure de France. Dauze and Gourmont collaborated on the essay’s format, margin width, cover, paper, price, and distribution by both Floury and the Mercure. Dating his inscription of Dauze’s personal copy of the work ‘Paris, the 25th of January of Year XII of the Symbolist Era,’ Gourmont deemed the publication, in the end, ‘a very beautiful brochure, my dear colleague, which will bring honour to both of us.’56 Gourmont also suggested that his novel, Le Songe d’une femme (1899), which the Mercure was publishing, would make an attractive offering for the bibliophiles of Les XX. The fluidity between the bibliophile societies and the avant-garde reviews was illustrated, finally, by the following, telling appellations: Gourmont often signed his pieces, in a

112 The New Bibliopolis

reference to the famous fourteenth-century English bibliophile, with the pseudonym R. de Bury. At the same time, Gourmont paid Dauze the high compliment of hailing him as a ‘bibliophile of the avant-garde,’ signalling his membership in both these milieus.57 Like Gourmont, Pierre Louÿs, a devotee of Mallarmé whose own small review, La Conque (1891–2), provided a forum for young unpublished Symbolist poets, was so passionate about collecting and reading livres anciens that his prodigious expenses in that area compounded his already serious financial (and marital) problems. For four months he had made do with one pair of socks, he announced to his brother on New Year’s Day, 1902, due in part to his book-buying habits.58 While not a member of bibliophile societies, his philosophy of book design and publishing, as a young man of twenty in 1890, closely paralleled that of a consummate new bibliophile, Paul Gallimard, at around the same time. Louÿs’s first publication, as he fantasized about it in his private journal, would be distinguished by a hundred-copy run printed in large slanted Elzevir type on papier de luxe, with a frontispiece by the Symbolist painter Albert Besnard.59 The volume would be self-published, Louÿs continued, free from the ‘odious advertising’ of a commercial publisher who would sully the title page with his name. Next, the volume would be distributed not to the philistine public but only to a small circle of intimes: ‘I wish to be loved by twenty people,’ he declared, ‘and even that is a lot.’ Such a vision found form in the limited Mercure editions of Louÿs’s Aphrodite (1896), Les Chansons de Bilitis (1898), and La Femme et le pantin (1898); Ronsard’s Les Amours de Marie (1897); and Gourmont’s Esthétique de la langue française (1899), the latter two prefaced by Louÿs. Volumes such as these, he predicted several years before their publication, would provide a material translation of his aesthetic ideal, which he summarized in this way: ‘To separate from life all that does not strain desperately toward the ideal, and to oneself become the living personification of this aspiration toward the Beautiful.’ Moreover, his goal as a writer – ‘To write for oneself alone! There’s wisdom’ – seems very close to that of Gallimard’s as ‘publisher’ of highly limited editions: engender the livre unique as a means of either literary or social consecration. Fin-de-siècle bibliophile societies and the presses of the petites revues thus represented two autonomous circuits of book publishing sharing a non-commercial ethos and a dedication to producing luxurious editions for a small group of readers and collectors. The configuration of these circuits differed slightly, accentuating the role of either the amateur or the author as creative motor of the publication process. In both circuits,

Independent and Contemporary Bibliophiles 113

however, the multiplication of intermediaries characteristic of the commercial sector was replaced by a consolidation of editorial and creative functions in the hands of one or several individuals. Sometimes these two types of presses worked collaboratively, as in the case of Gourmont and a bibliophile particularly open to Symbolism, Pierre Dauze; at other times they worked independently of one another. In the end, however, they were never really competitors, as their clienteles, although relatively small, were guaranteed through their memberships in either the societies or the petites revues. A final contrast between the presses of bibliophile societies and those of the petites revues: while the former, it has been suggested, produced livres de luxe primarily to enhance the prestige, vanity, and pleasure of the collector, the latter did so above all to legitimate avant-garde authors. Indeed, asserts one critic, while books published by the little reviews were highly original, harmonious objects that expressed the individuality and talents of their authors, books published by bibliophile societies might be considered relative failures, whose ‘various add-ons only represent forms of one-upmanship for attracting the rich client, offered by a knowledgeable merchant who knows his tastes.’60 Such a fetishism of the fine book was clearly what Louÿs wished to avoid when he resigned himself to the fact that the first edition of his Chansons de Bilitis, published by Charpentier, would not be endowed with all possible refinements. Referring to Uzanne as the high priest of such a gratuitously over-the-top aesthetic of book production, Louÿs wrote his brother in February 1895: ‘And then … and then … above all one must not be Octave Uzanne; cheap candle paper has its good side.’61 Such scrap paper, in any event, was preferable to the type of ridiculous flourishes represented for Louÿs by Uzanne. In the end, an appreciation of the style of books produced by fin-desiècle bibliophile societies may remain a matter of individual taste. For Raymond Hesse, an historian of bibliophile societies, the era incarnated by the 1900 Paris World’s Fair was characterized by its ‘bad taste … in the realm of the book as in that of the decorative arts’; another critic asserts categorically that ‘[t]he most ridiculous and ugly books were produced in France between 1870 and 1890.’ More recently, however, others have argued for a rediscovery of this previously maligned period in the history of book arts, deeming it ‘one of the supreme periods of French book illustration.’62 What is clear, however, is that taste, as defined by Uzanne, Rodrigues, Dauze, and other champions of the new bibliopolis at the turn of the twentieth century, was not merely an aesthetic phenomenon

114 The New Bibliopolis

drawing liberally on the repertoire of Symbolism and Art Nouveau. Taste was a social phenomenon as well, with stylistic rarefaction echoing visually and textually a perceived social imperative to cultivate distinction. As encapsulated in their motto – ‘Always Forward’ – the new bibliophiles of Uzanne’s societies, Rodrigues’s Cent Bibliophiles, and Dauze’s Les XX brandished a rhetoric of newness meant to set them apart from their elders. However, in doing so Uzanne, some asserted, was only drawing inspiration from older societies like Paillet’s Amis des Livres. Two decades earlier, the Amis des Livres had also claimed to set itself apart from the durable Bibliophiles François in its taste for illustrated works of the early and mid-nineteenth century. ‘Newness’ thus served as a means for successive groups to carve out a space in the compact milieu of fine book production, and to attract the patrons on which such production depended. To a certain extent, moreover, this struggle to legitimize and interpret ‘newness’ both at the expense of the old guard and within the emerging sphere of collectors may have served to mask divisions within the pole of bibliophiles revolving around Uzanne. Indeed, these amateurs were themselves quickly subdivided into cliques, separated, for example, by allegiances to particular techniques of illustration (woodcut, lithography, etching), divided over the question of whether image should be subordinate to text (Pelletan) or the contrary (Vollard).63 Further, the older of the post-1870 societies, considered in the vanguard of fine book production at their inception, were quickly stigmatized by their successors as outdated. Yet newness, in the case of the bibliophile societies of the 1890s, also alluded to style, and thus translated into a type of aesthetic manifesto. What Uzanne above all others promised were illustrations, typography, paper, and bindings such as had never been seen before, produced with the most modern techniques. Once again, however, this insistence on innovation at all costs may have stemmed only partly from an allegiance to newness as creative and psychic stimulus, characteristic of Symbolism and other fin-de-siècle movements. For the cult of the new was also a marketing strategy, whose goal was to dazzle and attract clients in this world of producer-consumers comprised of what Pierre Bourdieu describes as ‘tiny “mutual admiration” societ[ies] … closed in upon [their] own esotericism.’64 Such a strategy, however, suggests Bourdieu, may eventually lead to a stylistic impasse, for ‘[t]his search for esthetic “distinction” … [is] continually liable to degenerate into an anomic quest for difference at any price.’ Hence the admonitions of Louÿs to

Independent and Contemporary Bibliophiles 115

‘not be Octave Uzanne,’ who for the younger author represented the worst of this trend. Indeed, at the fin de siècle this ‘quest for difference at any price’ was viewed by some as symptomatic of a pathology of taste. Max Nordau observed disparagingly and ironically that ‘the book that would be fashionable must, above all, be obscure. The intelligible is cheap goods for the millions only.’65 The livre unique vaunted by Mallarmé in Quant au livre (1897), the near-sacred object extolled by Uzanne and coveted by his circle, then, was viewed by others as the worst form of degenerate art, product of a decadent elite. Comprising this elite of taste – the one championed by Uzanne and denigrated by Nordau – were individual amateurs, who played an essential role in developing the new livres de luxe of the end of the nineteenth century. Their cultivation of close personal and professional relationships with artists made of the amateur-artist couple one of the motors of fine book production, such as would be, in the following decades, the author-artist couple in regard to the livre de peintre. Spurning commercial concerns, amateurs and their societies allowed artists the type of licence, time, and freedom not always possible when working with a traditional publisher, more bound by costs. The dynamics of this amateur-illustrator pairing are attested, as will be discussed in the following chapter, by the relationships between, on the one hand, Gallimard, Rodrigues, Dauze, and Uzanne and, on the other, such artists as Auguste Rodin, Lucien Pissarro, Georges de Feure, and Félix Vallotton.

4 Artist and Amateur in the Creation of Fin-de-Siècle Illustrated Books

Grands Seigneurs of Publishing In 1889 Paul Gallimard (figure 4.1) commissioned a three-copy edition of Edmond and Jules de Goncourt’s novel, Germinie Lacerteux, with original etchings by Jean-François Raffaëlli. On receiving one of the three copies of this sumptuous edition, Goncourt promptly declared Gallimard ‘a revolutionary … who will spend 3000 francs in order to give himself, in the manner of a fermier général … a deluxe edition of a modern book.’1 As this quote reveals, three features of Gallimard’s unorthodox publishing practice astonished Goncourt. The first was Gallimard’s designation of a modern book, as opposed to an antiquarian one, as worthy of bibliophilic attention. This new privileging by book collectors of modern authors and illustrators helped identify Gallimard as a champion of ‘creative’ bibliophilia, as outlined by Beraldi. Creative bibliophilia stood in opposition to the dominant, ‘retrospective’ or antiquarian variety of book collecting – to ‘this world of servants to old printed matter,’ as Goncourt derisively described Les Bibliophiles François.2 No slave to old print, in 1888 Gallimard had singularized his first edition of Les Fleurs du mal with twenty-two watercolours he commissioned from Rodin, who had also illustrated a volume of Verlaine’s poetry for his patron (figure 4.2). A second feature of the 1889 Germinie Lacerteux that shocked Goncourt, besides the modernity of its text, was the astounding cost of producing this work – ‘That must cost a pretty penny!’ commented the painter Camille Pissarro about the volume in a letter to his son, Lucien.3 Publication was financed entirely by Gallimard, the vastly wealthy director of the Théâtre des Variétés, who owned a Parisian residence in the rue

The Creation of Fin-de-Siècle Illustrated Books

Image Not Available

Figure 4.1 Paul Gallimard by Eugène Carrière, c. 1887–8, oil on canvas

117

118 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 4.2 Illustration by Auguste Rodin for Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du mal (1857). From a 1940 facsimile edition of Paul Gallimard’s personal copy of this book

The Creation of Fin-de-Siècle Illustrated Books

119

Saint-Lazare and a manor house outside Deauville. The Gallimard family fortune had been assured by Paul’s grandfather, a coppersmith who helped inaugurate lighting in Paris under the July Monarchy. After attending the prestigious Lycée Condorcet in Paris, Paul Gallimard had studied painting at the École des Beaux-Arts. This early patron of the Impressionists amassed an astonishing collection of over two hundred of their works, perhaps modelling his activities on his father Gustave’s prior patronage of painters of the Barbizon school. Pierre-Auguste Renoir was a particular favourite; Gallimard, who in 1892 paid for a month’s holiday for the pair in Madrid, owned sixteen of his works. Among these was Renoir’s portrait of Gallimard’s wife, Lucie, whom Goncourt described as ‘a brunette with soft black eyes, sometimes questioning eyes like those of female sphinxes’ (figure 4.3).4 Paul’s son Gaston, the future editor of Marcel Proust, would remember his father as ‘an unbridled egotist, complete, absolute, who loved nothing, neither his wife, nor his children, nor his friends, nor his mistresses.’5 The art critic Frantz Jourdain was slightly more indulgent, describing Gallimard to Rodin, simply, as ‘an extremely intelligent and artistic fellow who doesn’t do anything.’6 Yet to Stéphane Mallarmé, Paul was the ‘refined collector’ whose ‘natty youthfulness’ surprised the poet.7 The final feature of Gallimard’s edition of Germinie Lacerteux that impressed Goncourt was its exquisite quality. An impassioned book lover himself, Goncourt further ennobled his own copy of this gift with twelve original drawings by Raffaëlli, several series of etchings, and, on the cover, an oil portrait on vellum of Goncourt by Eugène Carrière, commissioned by the author.8 Goncourt deemed the volume ‘one of the most successfully executed typographical monuments of this era’ and paid homage to Gallimard as a ‘grand seigneur of publishing who has revived in this century the taste for the sumptuous book.’9 In so doing, Goncourt observed, Gallimard was prolonging the tradition begun in the eighteenth century by the fermiers généraux. Representing the uppermost echelons of the professional bourgeoisie of the ancien régime, these newly wealthy artistic and literary patrons, among the most successful men in the kingdom, had used their substantial revenues to commission unparalleled editions of La Fontaine’s works, illustrated by painterengravers such as Hubert Gravelot, then finely printed and luxuriously bound. By the end of the nineteenth century, the fermiers généraux edition of La Fontaine had also become a holy grail of collectors, a kind of forerunner in its rarity of the Gallimard edition of Germinie Lacerteux. Beraldi, for one, remembered having to traverse ‘all the stations of the

120 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 4.3 Madame Paul Gallimard by Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1892)

The Creation of Fin-de-Siècle Illustrated Books

121

bibliophile’s Calvary’ (EL 79) to obtain at great expense, through the intermediary of the libraire Morgand, the highly prized fermiers généraux edition of La Fontaine’s Contes (the Goncourt’s library also boasted a copy). This ‘book whose possession was reserved for me by the Providence of Bibliophiles,’ Beraldi informed his readers, had belonged to Louis XV’s mistress, the marquise de Pompadour.10 In alluding to this rara avis of bibliophilia, then, Goncourt designated uniqueness, cachet, and incomparable refinement as the notable signs of the new livres de luxe produced by modern-day fermiers généraux, upper-bourgeois rentiers or professionals such as the iconoclastic patron, Gallimard, whom his friend Renoir deemed ‘a true Frenchman of the eighteenth century.’11 Given the charge of this historical allusion, it is perhaps not surprising that Uzanne, when trying unsuccessfully in 1889 to recruit Edmond de Goncourt to his newly formed Bibliophiles Contemporains, boasted that the society’s volumes would be endowed with a ‘splendour worthy of the fermiers généraux.’12 Hoping to dazzle the influential author and trailblazing collector Goncourt, Uzanne promised an updated version of just such unprecedented grandeur and originality, fit for discerning patrons such as Goncourt and other ‘very wealthy bibliophiles’ who crafted such éditions uniques. Moreover, Uzanne proposed as a model ‘contemporary bibliophile’ none other than the ‘revolutionary’ aesthete Gallimard: ‘I’m dreaming,’ Uzanne informed Goncourt, ‘of a gathering of young and ingenious bibliophiles, more well-read in the elegant sense rather than scholarly (like Gallimard, to tell all).’ This refined if not bookish assembly, Uzanne assured Goncourt, ‘will not be fossilized, shrivelled up, or displeasing in any way.’13 Goncourt declined Uzanne’s invitation. In fact, the thrill Uzanne felt at being selected to attend in Goncourt’s company the exclusive dîners des Spartiates, rendezvous of diplomats and men of letters, was never reciprocated by Goncourt, who somewhat disparagingly described Uzanne’s demeanour at one such dinner as ‘more diplomatic and reticent with his eyes and the corners of his mouth than ever was this bibliophile.’14 Regardless of their feelings toward each other, Uzanne’s attempt to seek the consecrating power of Goncourt’s membership in his society by mentioning Gallimard, a modern Maecenas, indicates that this free-spending patron typified the ‘youth, reason, spirit of adventure, and initiative’ (NB 10) – not to mention monetary clout – identified by Uzanne as characterizing the new bibliophiles.15 What Goncourt seemed to acknowledge above all, however, in his paean to Gallimard’s editorial venture, was a new phenomenon coming to characterize fine book production at the fin de siècle. Beraldi

122 The New Bibliopolis

described this development as the ‘victorious entry of the “amateur” into the making of the illustrated book.’16 Certainly, bibliophile patrons of the past, such as the fermiers généraux, had been known to finance book production for their own enjoyment or that of friends. However, the amateurs of the fin de siècle were among the first to engage themselves directly in the artistic process, often through the bibliophile societies they founded for this purpose. As Félix Bracquemond put it, these bibliophiles had a new vocation: ‘to take part … in this delicate function: the direction of the arts. That is, the productive activation of the art and crafts that contribute to the fabrication of books, and this because of [financial] disinterestedness.’17 Bracquemond’s assertion was borne out, for example, by Beraldi in his commissioning and overseeing the publication of a series devoted to the Paris he knew, illustrated with woodcuts.18 And it was Gallimard, in Beraldi’s view, who had achieved success in constituting a type of autonomous bibliophile society, subsuming all its administrative, financial, editorial, and aesthetic functions. In so doing, Gallimard represented for Beraldi one of the ultimate degrees of creative bibliophilia, which he described in this way: ‘To be a bibliophile and create a book, text and illustrations, for oneself. To form, in essence, a bibliophile society for oneself alone: to be at the same time its president … secretary, assessor, member, treasurer.’19 Gallimard and other amateurs thus exercised a preponderant influence on the creation, publication, and collection of highly original, luxurious volumes during this period of effervescence in the history of the illustrated book. These wealthy purveyors of symbolic goods possessed both the artistic temperament and the financial means and leisure time to pursue such activities. In part a sociological phenomenon related to the development of a conspicuously consuming upper bourgeoisie, the emergence of the amateur as privileged interlocutor of the illustrator also relates to changes in the field of book production at the fin de siècle, most notably the emergence of fine book production as an autonomous and ‘reversed economic world,’ opposed in many ways to the burgeoning field of ‘for profit’ commercial book production. Faced with a commercial sector that valorized the largest market and the greatest profits, these rich patrons championed the smallest market possible, and economic indifference. Finally, the rapprochement during this era of both the fine book and art markets – many bibliophiles were also print collectors – transformed amateurs into what Uzanne in the title of La Nouvelle Bibliopolis termed ‘néo-icono-bibliomanes,’ worshippers of both word and image eager to labour for their fruitful pairing.20

The Creation of Fin-de-Siècle Illustrated Books

123

Individual amateurs were at the heart of the increasingly numerous bibliophile societies comprising the milieu of fine book production. Aesthetic guides and consciousness-raisers, they worked closely within a network of institutions – bookstores, galleries, reviews, societies, and salons – to ‘ensure the production of competent consumers’ previously untutored in a liking for lavishly produced, contemporary illustrated books.21 In addition, they wrote exhaustively on nineteenth-century engraving, binding, and other topics. In this way, Gallimard, Uzanne, and other grands seigneurs of publishing proved greatly influential in creating and sustaining interest in previously undervalued texts and, as the following examples illustrate, in cultivating taste.

Lucien Pissarro and His Bibliophile Patrons Amateurs oversaw the production of illustrated livres de luxe in varied ways. At times, they simply provided crucial material and financial means to support the artists (and engravers, printers, typographers, and other book makers) whose aesthetic sensibilities they shared. It was often their interest in the authors and artists of their era that led to their involvement in publishing as the actual designers or ‘architects’ of these volumes. Thus Camille Pissarro was eager to act as an intermediary between his son Lucien and Paul Gallimard, who owned Camille’s painting, Serpentine avec brouillard. Lucien, a painter and engraver hoping to establish himself autonomously, had left France in 1890 to participate in the flourishing English Arts and Crafts movement as it pertained to the book; the small presses of William Morris (Kelmscott), Charles Ricketts (Vale), T.J. CobdenSanderson and Emery Walker (Doves), and C.R. Ashbee (Essex House) were all founded there between 1890 and 1900. With his wife Esther, Lucien established the Eragny Press near London, named after the Normandy village where the Pissarro family owned a home.22 Breaking with the medieval revival in vogue in the English decorative arts, Lucien aimed to produce unusual, small-format books with both colour and black and white wood engravings, characterized by striking composition and innovative typeface. He discussed these features of book design in his own work, De la typographie et de l’harmonie de la page imprimée (1898), for which Floury was the Parisian distributor. More like his French counterparts than his English ones who were producers of fine books, Pissarro preferred to select contemporary works as vehicles for illustration, such as Jules Laforgue’s Symbolist tales, Les

124 The New Bibliopolis

Moralités légendaires (1897–8). The publisher’s eclectic selection of texts also included sheet music, children’s books, and fairy tales. Yet he was often hindered by the cost of purchasing the copyright to contemporary works among many other financial problems due, in part, to his poor business sense in a venture that he had hoped would prove commercially viable for him. A daring patron like Gallimard with a taste for modern authors and artists, then – ‘the only man in Paris who will publish for himself an illustrated novel by Goncourt, three rare copies on [fine] paper,’ as Camille reminded his son – might prove valuable.23 Such a patron might help both resolve the financial problems preventing Lucien from undertaking ambitious projects, and promote his work in the milieu of Parisian amateurs and book dealers he had left with some regret. ‘A rare book, that’s your dream,’ Camille again reminded the struggling fine book publisher when urging him to prepare twelve of his finest woodcuts to have Pissarro père show Gallimard. ‘Nothing prevents us from trying.’24 Gallimard was apparently pleased on being shown by Camille proofs of woodcuts such as Lucien’s Cueille des pommes – which Gallimard, according to Camille, found ‘very beautiful, very personal … he has never seen any as good as yours, which have a cachet of naivety that is charming.’25 Yet despite Gallimard’s enthusiasm, and despite Lucien’s ever more ambitious plans of preparing for Gallimard ‘a manuscript on parchment accompanied by Modern gouaches and adornments’ set in Charles Ricketts’s distinctive Vale typeface and boasting a unique binding (‘splendid things,’ according to Lucien), nothing came of this three-way negotiation. 26 Lucien fretted that his prices may have been ‘exorbitant.’27 Meanwhile, Camille approached Gustave Geoffroy, the critic from whom Goncourt had commissioned a preface to the Gallimard edition of Germinie Lacerteux, as a potential liaison. After six months, however, father and son had concluded that ‘we can’t count on [Gallimard] anymore – what are we to do??’28 It is possible that Lucien Pissarro’s bid, at the inception of his career as a fine book publisher, to engage Gallimard as a patron failed due to Pissarro fils’ marginal position in the world of French book production. He was a Frenchman living and working in England, and an infrequent visitor to Paris. His occasional publication of English-language books likely did not appeal to French bibliophiles. Although his father was his main promoter in France, tirelessly placing prospectuses with book and print dealers and seeking intermediaries such as Félix Fénéon at the Revue Blanche, Camille enjoyed prestige primarily in the world of paint-

The Creation of Fin-de-Siècle Illustrated Books

125

ing, less so among the bibliophile societies and their crucial partners, éditeurs-libraires like Floury. Thus Camille was of little help to his son when four hundred francs owed by Floury for sales in his bookshop of Lucien’s De la typographie were not forthcoming for nine months, leaving Lucien to complain: ‘I am done with working for Frenchmen! From the start I’ve never had anything but disappointments with them.’29 In addition to the difficulties marketing Lucien’s books in France, his desire for complete control over text, design, format, and all other elements of Eragny’s book production, which he deemed crucial for the artist he considered himself to be, may well have clashed with the practice of French amateurs such as Gallimard. Whether acting independently or through bibliophile societies and their affiliated small presses and bookshops, Gallimard, Uzanne, and others viewed themselves as arbiters of taste, accustomed to the type of editorial authority that in the English book arts movement more typically belonged to publishers or printers. ‘Éditeur grand seigneur,’ Gallimard may not have wished to share this privilege with the artists he employed, even when the artist was himself a publisher, too. Given the friction between the ‘seigneurial’ Gallimard and Lucien Pissarro, it is surprising that in 1907 a successful collaboration developed between Lucien and the ‘Bonaparte’ of bibliophilia, Eugène Rodrigues. In the intervening decade and a half since founding the Eragny Press, Lucien’s work had become better known in French bibliophile circles. Inclusion of his woodcuts in two 1896 exhibits, one organized by Ambroise Vollard to promote the first Album des peintresgraveurs, the other the important Exposition du livre moderne at Siegfried Bing’s Art Nouveau gallery, further legitimized Lucien’s prominence in the fin-de-siècle revival of book illustration. As L’Art Nouveau Bing had become a central site for ideas about design reform, Lucien planned to travel to Paris for the opening of the exhibit, which he felt would be ‘one of the most important ever to take place.’30 His father, typically more concerned with the critical and commercial implications, for his son, of this exhibit, also urged Lucien to be present in order to ‘defend his interests … and you must expect difficulties stirred up by the defenders of the so-called modern, beautiful book.’31 Framed illustrations from The Book of Ruth and Les Moralités légendaires (figure 4.4), exhibited by Lucien in Bing’s gallery, were praised in the Brussels art review L’Art Moderne for their ‘original character’ and their ‘clear and immediately readable style of drawing,’ reinforcing the general conclusion that book design in England (Morris and Ricketts were represented as well) surpassed its French counterpart.32

126 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 4.4 ‘Salomé,’ woodcut illustration by Lucien Pissarro for Jules Laforgue, Les Moralités légendaires (1897–8)

Taking advantage of Lucien’s critical (although not commercial) success resulting from the Bing exhibit, Camille tentatively approached Rodrigues the following year about Lucien. However, it was not until a decade later, through the intermediary of Roger Marx, the art critic and administrator who tirelessly advocated reinvigorating the French arts and crafts movement in the 1890s, that the director of the Eragny Press finally met the president of the Cent Bibliophiles. A common disdain for photomechanical reproduction and an appreciation of finely and often laboriously made books united the two in the production of Nerval’s Histoire de la reine du matin et de Soliman, prince des génies (1909), abundantly illustrated in both black and white and colour. During the nearly two years Lucien worked on the book, artist and amateur wrangled over format (Rodrigues desired a large book, which Lucien felt would present

The Creation of Fin-de-Siècle Illustrated Books

127

problems for the printing of colour woodcuts, especially the gold leafenhanced ones with which he was experimenting), paper, binding, and the mounting costs of producing such an extravagant volume.33 The amateur’s desire both to intervene directly in the creative process, and to trump the work of other amateurs while doing so, is illustrated, finally, by the commission Lucien produced for Le Livre Contemporain, the society founded in 1903 by Pierre Dauze and Paul Gallimard. In granting this commission, Dauze aimed in part to outdo the rival Cent Bibliophiles by producing an even finer book than the Histoire de la reine du matin Lucien had just completed when in 1909 he began discussions with Dauze. The pair’s protracted negotiations would ultimately lead to the Livre Contemporain’s publication of La Charrue d’érable (1912), with a text by Prix Goncourt winner Émile Moselly inspired by Camille Pissarro’s bucolic drawings, engraved by his son, Lucien. Once again, clashes between Dauze and Pissarro fils over thickness of paper, word spacing, use of colour, and of course cost again revealed the great extent to which fin-de-siècle amateurs engaged as partners with the artists they selected in the creative process of book making.34

Talent Scouts: Uzanne’s Dealings with de Feure and Vallotton Financial backers and creative directors, amateurs were also discoverers of new artistic talent, ‘pounding the pavements of Paris,’ claimed Beraldi, ‘to make legions of admirable illustrators spring forth.’35 Such a promotional role was exercised, for example, by Octave Uzanne in regard to Georges de Feure, a French-born artist of Dutch and Belgian descent. De Feure had already been enjoying success as a painter and printmaker for about seven years before he met Uzanne. Under the patronage of Siegfried Bing, de Feure would in the 1890s orient much of his work toward craft production, designing a striking variety of furniture, fabrics, vases, statuettes, stained glass, and other objects for Bing’s atelier and his pavilion at the 1900 World’s Fair, as well as for de Feure’s own clients. It was Uzanne, however, who was the foremost publicist for de Feure the illustrator. At the same time, through his extensive writings in both the mass press and the specialized bibliophile reviews that served as important moulders of aesthetic sensibilities at the fin de siècle, Uzanne helped convert his generation of book collectors to a taste for modern illustrated books. In Beraldi’s view, Uzanne was ‘one of the most active fermenting agents, helping the new stratum of bibliophiles to rise.’

128 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 4.5 New Year’s card by Georges de Feure for Octave Uzanne (1896), color lithograph (signed)

The Creation of Fin-de-Siècle Illustrated Books

129

Uzanne’s role as publicist for de Feure first took the form of an 1897 New Year’s card, whose distribution among the members of Uzanne’s extremely broad professional circle served to further legitimize the collaboration between amateur and artist (figure 4.5). Uzanne also took advantage of his own importance as an art critic with an international reputation to further promote de Feure. In the first illustrated article ever published on de Feure’s work, and the only one destined for a British public, Uzanne designated the artist ‘one of the leaders in the field of contemporary decoration … whose celebrity will be assured in the near future.’36 Further praise of de Feure by Uzanne was found in the pages of the popular French daily newspaper, L’Écho de Paris. In 1898 Uzanne trumpeted the publication by his own society, Les Bibliophiles Indépendents, of what he described as ‘a pure work of art’ (and certainly one of the most sumptuous creations of 1890s book making): La Porte des rêves.37 The 220 copies of this anthology of fifteen contes by the Symbolist author Marcel Schwob – all selected by Uzanne – could be bought by lucky subscribers and admired by all others at the bookshop of Henri Floury, éditeur-libraire of the Bibliophiles Indépendants and also publisher of Uzanne’s praiseful criticism of Georges de Feure. Uzanne served not only as publicist for La Porte des rêves, but as its creative director and coordinator as well, in conjunction with Floury. Indeed, it was Uzanne who chose de Feure as the book’s illustrator. Uzanne also acted as intermediary between the illustrator and the author, submitting de Feure’s illustrations to Schwob for his inspection, rather than having author and illustrator consult directly with one another.38 In advertisements Uzanne presumably wrote for the book, he justified his choice of de Feure as an artist capable of expressing things beyond dreams, suffering, anguish, mystery, with a great confidence of line à la Van Eyck. Georges de Feure, the lithographer of La Princesse Maleine, the painter of La Course à l’abîme, the ingenious decorator of many periodicals and suggestive posters, seemed to us the only one able to interpret the uncommon prose of Marcel Schwob.39

De Feure had already designed the cover for Féminies (1896) (figure 4.6), another publication orchestrated by Uzanne with contributions from a team he assembled of both authors (Gyp, Henri Lavedan, Abel Hermant, Schwob) and artists (Rops, Léon Rudnicki). For this cover, de Feure’s depiction of a femme fatale, a dominant motif in his work, converged with the antifeminist themes running through all of Féminies. For

130 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 4.6 Cover illustration by Georges de Feure for Féminies, huit chapitres inédits dévoués à la femme, à l’amour, à la beauté (1896). Lithograph hand-coloured by pochoir

The Creation of Fin-de-Siècle Illustrated Books

131

his second collaboration with Uzanne, on La Porte des rêves, de Feure would now devote his talents to elaborating evocative ‘decors’ for Schwob’s morbid tales, described by Uzanne as ‘these chapters of exceptional imagination, conceived outside of reality and all conveying such a delightfully chimerical vision.’40 It was also Uzanne – if we are to believe his publicity – who conceptualized and commissioned from de Feure the unusual, Flemish-inspired triptychlike cover that encased the volume (figures 4.7, 4.8).41 It featured de Feure’s characteristic feminine and floral motifs, which formed a visual pendant to the fantastic, decadent stories it enclosed, the artist serving as decorator and collaborator of the author, Schwob. The door of both the title and the cover may also have been an allusion to Schwob’s near-death experience during an 1895 operation performed by the prominent Parisian surgeon and society figure, Dr Samuel Pozzi, to whom Schwob dedicated his book in this way: The Ancients believed that two doors opened on the dark kingdom of Erebus; one, light, allows to escape among us winged thoughts; the other, massive, imprisoning forever those who have crossed over. I had descended to the threshold of the inexorable door. You had seized me with your hand ‘which cures everything it touches,’ and you led me back towards the sun. Thanks to you I have been able to dream these dreams.42

Like ‘the gates to primitive mysticism,’ according to Uzanne, the book’s closed doors beckoned the curious reader into a world of the imaginary, of dreams and sometimes nightmares, inviting him on a Baudelairean voyage ‘[t]o fathom the Unknown, and find the new!’43 The elaborate, hand-coloured triptych-cover was supplemented by sixteen woodengraved plates, thirty-two colour borders, and fifteen tailpieces. Twelve additional original drawings by de Feure were added to five of the two hundred copies printed on Japan paper. In the end, Uzanne’s selection of de Feure as illustrator reflected not merely an attempt to promote a specific artist but also a campaign on behalf of Symbolism and Art Nouveau, both movements Uzanne considered at the forefront of efforts to reinvigorate luxury book production. The multiple roles of the amateur as publicist, creative director, and financier, as with La Porte des rêves, are exemplified in another of Uzanne’s productions: Badauderies parisiennes. Les Rassemblements, discussed in chapter 1 in its relation to Uzanne’s ambivalent attitude toward technology and modernity. As boasted on the book’s inside

132 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 4.7 Frontispiece (closed) by Georges de Feure for Marcel Schwob, La Porte des rêves (1898). Two-tone copper-plate engraving hand-coloured with watercolour

Image Not Available

Figure 4.8 Frontispiece (open) by Georges de Feure for Marcel Schwob, La Porte des rêves (1898). Two-tone copper-plate engraving hand-coloured with watercolour

134 The New Bibliopolis

cover, the work, comprising a collection of vignettes of modern urban life, was ‘conceived of and executed entirely under the direction of Octave Uzanne.’44 Along with the critic Julius Meier-Graefe, Uzanne had been one of the earliest champions of Félix Vallotton, the wood-engraver who supplied the cover and thirty woodcuts for the two hundred copies of this publication. In 1892 Uzanne had hailed the young artist with anarchist leanings as a ‘neo-xylographer,’ whose awkward style formed a welcome palliative to the increasing precision yet dullness of illustrations produced photomechanically;45 Uzanne’s later description of the ‘Art-Craftsman’ [sic] William Morris as a ‘neo-Primitive’ closely resembles the critic’s appreciation of Vallotton.46 In a manifesto-like prologue to Les Rassemblements, entitled ‘La Bibliophilie et la jeunesse littéraire contemporaine,’ Uzanne offered further vindication of Vallotton’s synthetic, Japanese-influenced style in his woodblock prints. Despite the revival of the woodblock print in the 1890s, such an innovative style, Uzanne acknowleged, ‘will not please all lovers of modern prints.’ Accordingly, in a further effort not to offend more traditional bibliophiles, Uzanne chose to balance Vallotton’s unorthodox wood engravings with dozens of additional illustrations by an artist with a far more conventional technique, François Courboin. A widely published illustrator of books and periodicals, including Uzanne’s own Les Modes de Paris (1898), Courboin, in Uzanne’s somewhat muted description of him, belonged to a tradition that was ‘delightful, unconstrained, slick’ (figure 4.9). Uzanne’s strategy for promoting what he deemed this ‘transitional work,’ then, was dual. It involved defending Vallotton and indeed the entire young generation of ‘aesthetic anarchists’ associated with the Revue Blanche as a means of legitimating these artists and writers for potential patrons. Yet at the same time Uzanne’s strategy also entailed educating and cultivating the taste of these same patrons in a gradual manner, by retaining traditional artists such as Courboin. Publicist and aesthetic arbiter, Uzanne was also the publisher of this work, responsible for both the financial and creative responsibilities this profession encompassed by the end of the nineteenth century. While publication costs were financed largely through purchase of the volume by the members of Uzanne’s society or through sale at specialized bookshops, it was Uzanne who negotiated payment of the team of authors and illustrators of the texts. A letter to Uzanne from Thadée Natanson, director of the Revue Blanche, reveals that the collaborators were eagerly awaiting their payment by Uzanne of between twenty and sixty francs for their

The Creation of Fin-de-Siècle Illustrated Books

135

Image Not Available

Figure 4.9 Illustration by François Courboin for Octave Uzanne, Les Modes de Paris (1898)

136 The New Bibliopolis

work. Another letter to Uzanne, from Courboin, indicates disagreements over the number and price of the artist’s illustrations.47 A financial intermediary, Uzanne was clearly the creative director and architect of this publication as well. The ‘author’ of this work, in his own estimation (Uzanne’s name is indeed featured prominently on the title page), he was also (again in his own words) its ‘literary editor,’ responsible for making decisions regarding margin width, paper, typography, page layout, and all other features of the book’s fabrication. Moreover, it was Uzanne who distributed Vallotton’s woodcuts to selected members of ‘the brilliant and dashing editorial staff of the Revue Blanche,’ asking each to write a short piece inspired by the illustration he received.48 Uzanne’s tacit subordination of word to image in this case reversed the standard hierarchy of this period and pointed the way toward such proponents of the livre de peintre as Vollard. Finally, Uzanne was also, as he set forth in his preface, the ‘Bibliophile publisher,’ not only the ‘author’ and publisher of this book but also, implicitly, its collector. Such a subsuming by one person, himself a book collector, of most of the creative, financial, and administrative functions involved in fine book production, then, was characteristic of the new bibliophilia of the fin de siècle. For Beraldi it represented a penultimate form of bibliophilia, surpassed only by limiting the number of copies produced to one.49 Exemplifying this last practice, shortly before the First World War Beraldi commissioned for himself a one-copy édition de luxe of a book he titled Le Monument du costume, 1900–1910: La Vie mondaine à Paris.50 The work featured seventy original watercolours by a popular illustrator of belle époque high society, Pierre Vidal. In Vidal’s illustrations, fashionable Parisians stroll in the Bois de Boulogne, take tea at the Ritz, play lawn tennis (figure 4.10). Beraldi perhaps modelled his publication on a work he had in fact written about: the late-eighteenth-century commission by the Strasbourg banker Jean-Henri Eberts of the Monument du costume, illustrated with prints by Moreau le Jeune (figure 4.11).51 Both Beraldi’s and Eberts’s commissions of these single-copy editions were indeed monuments to antebellum periods soon to be gone with the wind – Beraldi’s ‘monument,’ in fact, was never published due to the outbreak of the war – and with them too the amateur’s role as privileged architect of the illustrated book. Following the First World War, the important publishing functions amateurs had exercised at the fin de siècle appeared to be taken up primarily by art dealers such as Vollard and Daniel-Henri Kahnweiler in their creation of livres de peintre. Was this transfer of editorial duties from

The Creation of Fin-de-Siècle Illustrated Books

137

Image Not Available

Figure 4.10 Rue de la Paix by Pierre Vidal. Illustration for Le Monument du costume, 1900–1910: La Vie mondaine à Paris (for Henri Beraldi, 1913)

138 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 4.11 Engraved drawing by Moreau le Jeune for Restif de la Bretonne, Monument du costume physique et moral de la fin du XVIII e siècle, ou, Tableaux de la vie (1789)

The Creation of Fin-de-Siècle Illustrated Books

139

bibliophiles to marchands de tableaux a measure of the relative failure of books produced by Uzanne and others, whose increasing lavishness may simply have been a lure to wealthy clients? Indeed, the always sceptical Edmond de Goncourt downplayed, even dismissed, Beraldi and Bracquemond’s exalted view of the importance of these amateurs. For Goncourt, Uzanne and others were merely the dupes of savvy yet duplicitous publishers and booksellers such as Floury and Conquet. Eager for wealthy clients, Goncourt continued, such éditeurs-libraires succeeded in flattering the vanity of these bibliophiles, convincing them that they were ‘somewhat the collaborators in terms of illustration, showing them the first states, noting with admiration their observations, thanking them, and promising them that the engraver would certainly take all this into account.’52 Goncourt was doubtful of not only the amateur’s significance in the creative process but also the benefits that artists drew from their relationships with wealthy patrons. To be sure, artists such as Rodin, for one, gained artistic freedom from the financial largesse and penchant for modern art of his patron Paul Gallimard, who reputedly paid Rodin 2,000 francs for illustrating Gallimard’s copy of Les Fleurs du mal. At the same time, however, the lack of exposure to a broader public left Rodin feeling oddly uninspired and pressed for time for his other projects. As Goncourt recounted: ‘For this book, which will receive no publicity and which will remain shut up in the amateur’s library, [Rodin] doesn’t feel the motivation, the passion he felt for an illustration commissioned by a publisher.’53 Moreover, perhaps because of the ‘cult value’ attached to this type of private publication, in addition to the exclusive control of the patron, the quality of the illustration may have suffered.54 This was the opinion of Camille Pissarro, who confided to his son Lucien that Gallimard’s ‘very uncommon, very typographically elaborate books lack, for the most part, modern originality, lack grand style. They are unusual and well made, that’s evident, but the layout of the letters? Of the page?’55 The painter regretted that his son – ‘you who are competent when it comes to books’ – had not been able to expose Gallimard to ‘a new horizon,’ the artist tutoring the patron and not the other way around. Finally, as Beraldi himself suggested, the ‘creative’ bibliophilia of the late nineteenth century was perhaps simply an extreme form of the long-standing practice of singularizing one’s treasures through the addition of a costly binding, coat of arms, or original illustrations. In their efforts to render their volumes unique, bibliophiles had always been creators, Beraldi asserted. It was only at the end of the nineteenth century, though, that they became truly creative.56

140 The New Bibliopolis

Yet it is also possible to dismiss the dim view of the role of amateurs put forth by Goncourt and others – ‘above all, one must not be Octave Uzanne,’ Pierre Louÿs had admonished – and at the same time rehabilitate the illustrated book of the fin de siècle against its often more celebrated interwar counterpart. To this end, one might second Beraldi’s assertion that at the turn of the century bibliophilia, once the passive accumulation of books, became a truly creative act. And book lovers, formerly ‘venerators’ of fine books, had now become their ‘procreators.’ Through their role as mediators among printers, engravers, book and print dealers, review directors, and of course authors and artists, collectors such as Uzanne and his fellow denizens of the new bibliopolis became important agents of cultural change. So the fin de siècle may well represent a privileged moment when a group of forward-looking amateurs heeded the credo and injunction expressed by Beraldi: ‘If you want books, make them yourself.’57 But what precisely did these books mean to the men who helped craft them? Of what did their ‘cult value’ consist? The private library of the remarkable collector and aesthete, Robert de Montesquiou, proves revealing of the attitudes and practices of one such ‘venerator’ of livres de luxe.

5 Unpacking His Library: Robert de Montesquiou and the Aesthetics of the Book

O bliss of the collector, bliss of the man of leisure! Walter Benjamin, ‘Unpacking My Library: A Talk about Book Collecting’ (1931) [W]hat were these volumes By myself clothed in fabric and placed in a case? Robert de Montesquiou, ‘Prière du Relieur,’ Prières de tous (1902)1

In the image of its legendary owner, the poet, aesthete, and dandy extraordinaire Robert de Montesquiou (figure 5.1), the posthumous sale of his library in April 1923 and April 1924 at the Hôtel Drouot became a notorious literary and society happening. As attested by its three-volume sale catalogue, prefaced by Maurice Barrès and embellished with engravings of Montesquiou’s distinctive bat emblem, the collection of 3,727 volumes, manuscripts, and bindings belonging to this distinguished bibliophile featured many gems. These included, for example, a five-volume, 1678 edition of La Fontaine’s Fables, which fetched one of the sale’s highest prices.2 What created an even greater stir, however, was the insertion of letters and dedications to Montesquiou in hundreds of the volumes by contemporary authors, and their subsequent sale. Some of these items revealed highly personal, often embarrassing details of authors’ lives, as with the ninety-five letters and other documents describing the final years of Verlaine. Others exposed the attitudes of exaggerated obsequiousness and delirious admiration often bestowed on the count by those in the rarefied salons and cénacles he frequented. A notable bibliophilic, literary, and society event, then, the sale also occasioned public reflection on the possible deeper significance of this

142 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 5.1 Robert de Montesquiou, woodcut portrait by Félix Vallotton in Remy de Gourmont, Le Livre des masques (1896)

library. What, as Pierre Lièvre mused in the columns of La Revue Hebdomadaire, did Montesquiou’s library show? One set of answers to this question, in fact the one most frequently developed by Montesquiou’s contemporaries, leads into the domain of literary relations and literary history. In this view, the many volumes in the library by Marcel Schwob, Remy de Gourmont, Georges Rodenbach, Pierre Louÿs, Stéphane Mallarmé, and others in their circle, all bearing laudatory inscriptions from the authors, are revealing indicators of Montesquiou’s importance as a poet and aesthetic guide for the Symbolists. A related set of answers to the question of the library’s documentary significance opens onto literary biography.

Robert de Montesquiou and the Aesthetics of the Book 143

Focusing exclusively on the numerous dédicaces to Montesquiou, this approach attempts to tease out, as one critic suggested, their layers of ‘courtesy … etiquette … interest … all sorts of conventions and obligations,’ as well as their ‘secret mockery’ and their ‘veiled irony,’ in order to probe the complex poses that Montesquiou and many of those in his literary, artistic, and society orbits adopted toward one another.3 The analysis of a private library may thus hold great value for literary historians and biographers seeking to study an author’s position within a literary network or clarify the nature of his or her relations with other writers. However, it is also possible to propose a less traditional ‘reading’ of an author’s library, in this case Montesquiou’s, from the combined perspectives of both the history of the book and of aesthetics. For book historians, especially those interested in one of its crucial components, the history of reading, the catalogue of a personal library can be a privileged document. It can serve, as Robert Darnton suggests, as a ‘profile of a reader,’ allowing us to ‘inspect the furnishings’ of a reader’s mind – even if readers rarely read all the books in their libraries, as the many volumes with uncut pages in the Montesquiou catalogue suggest.4 Personal libraries such as Montesquiou’s, in conjunction with other documents, may also help clarify not only what, where, and when individuals read, but also how they were affected by their readings.5 In Montesquiou’s case, these questions of social practices and mentalités cannot easily be separated from a consideration of his aesthetics. Both his library and his attitudes toward the printed word and its material manifestations and accessories – not only binding, paper, illustration, and typography, but also the furniture and accoutrements of reading – conveyed his conception of beauty. Like his passion for Gallé vases, Lalique perfume bottles, and Japanese floral arrangements, his personal variety of bibliophilia reveals his fascination with the suggestive powers of interiors and their furnishings, his taste for original and unique objects, and his promotion of the decorative arts and luxury craftsmanship as they pertained to the book. A study of his bibliophilia, an area of his aesthetic pursuits that has received surprisingly scant attention from critics, lends further support to the recent reappraisal of his role as a foremost aesthetic guide and educator of his contemporaries.6 No longer simply an icon of fin-de-siècle decadence, derided for his bad poetry and ridiculous vanity – ‘rather a freak,’ in the words of Alice Comyns Carr, a noted figure in bohemian circles of 1890s London – Montesquiou has now emerged as ‘an extraordinary “animator” of the artistic life of his era,’ even as a ‘prodigious innovator of modern civilization.’7 In the end,

144 The New Bibliopolis

unpacking Montesquiou’s library (to borrow a formulation from Walter Benjamin) – and also taking a look at related correspondence, memoirs, accounts by contemporaries, iconography, and other documents – can reveal much about this notable reader, designer, recipient, giver, and of course writer of books. For Montesquiou, books were polysemic objects whose value changed according to their status, alone or in combination, as gifts, heirlooms, emblems of social distinction, sources of information, or objets d’art. And his book-related practices – whether commissioning a unique binding, reclining in a reading chair of his own design, decorating, organizing, or describing his library – in turn provide a nuanced appreciation of his aesthetics.

Books As detailed in its sale catalogue, the contents of Montesquiou’s library, while remarkably diverse, are nevertheless dominated by works of prose and poetry by his contemporaries. Also represented, however, are ‘auteurs anciens,’ foreign literature, history and memoirs, literary criticism, fine arts and illustrated books, and ‘sciences diverses.’ But an expanded, annotated version of the catalogue exists in the ninety-six of 369 volumes of Montesquiou’s private papers and related documents devoted exclusively to his library (and titled, collectively, ‘Sa Bibliothèque’), most likely constituted after his death by his secretary, Henri Pinard. Into what closely resemble scrapbooks, each notice from the printed sale catalogue has been cut and pasted sequentially. Following each notice are documents belonging to Montesquiou – iconography, letters, notes, his own writings – which appear to illuminate the significance specific books held for him. A reading of the sale catalogue and its documentary intertexts, contained in the scrapbooks, helps identify several often overlapping criteria influencing a book’s worth for Montesquiou: its authorship, its usefulness as a tool for his own writing, its provenance, and its uniqueness as a material object. Montesquiou often valued – or disparaged – a book because of his relationship to its author. Thus, for example, catalogue descriptions of first editions of works by Octave Mirbeau, whom Montesquiou admired, alternate in the scrapbook with photographs of Mirbeau, correspondence between Mirbeau and Montesquiou, the count’s notes on Mirbeau, and the text of Montesquiou’s flattering poem about the author of Le Jardin des supplices.8 Yet while these addenda sometimes echo the cordial tone of an author’s dedication of a book to Montesquiou, as in the case

Robert de Montesquiou and the Aesthetics of the Book 145

of Mirbeau, at other times they sharply undercut a flattering dedication. A particularly stinging example of this discordance is the notice concerning Saphyr, an 1897 novel by the Catholic novelist and dramatist Charles Buet dedicated to Montesquiou ‘as an expression of my sincere and profound literary sympathy.’ Following Buet’s deferential dedication, included in the sale catalogue, is this elliptical, damning verse by Montesquiou, included in the scrapbook: ‘Buet / Reeked.’9 Some books thus connoted for Montesquiou the friendship, complicity, professional admiration – or disdain – he felt toward their living authors. They embody a private pendant to the type of public, verbal fawning or trashing for which Montesquiou was notorious. Other books clearly earned a place in his library because of his veneration for their deceased authors. Notices for two dozen volumes by Victor Hugo, for instance, are followed in the scrapbooks by portraits of Hugo and his daughter Adèle, letters from Judith Gautier to Montesquiou praising Hugo, and copies of Gabriel Fauré’s musical settings of Hugo’s poems.10 Montesquiou’s attachment to many volumes in his library thus derived from his affection for their authors, a feeling often enhanced when these books were gifts, as were at least seven hundred volumes in his collection. His relationship to other works was primarily utilitarian. Known for amassing documentation before undertaking a writing project, he appears to have used these works as sources for his own writings, much as the Goncourt brothers relied on their vast collection of works on the eighteenth century in part to document L’Art du XVIIIe siècle, La Femme au XVIIIe siècle, and other related writings. Thus the title ‘Le Laboratoire du poète’ aptly designates the twenty-seven scrapbooks devoted to works in Montesquiou’s library on Japanese art, on fashion, music, painting, theatre, fêtes, arts de la table, and other of the many passions he wrote about.11 At least seventeen volumes on Versailles in Montesquiou’s library, for example, including seventeenth- and eighteenth-century works on the chateau, its gardens, fountains, kitchens, and architecture, buttressed in the scrapbooks by several hundred photographs and engravings of the chateau from Montesquiou’s collection, helped the poet craft his ninety-three ‘historical sonnets’ about Versailles, published in 1899 as Les Perles rouges.12 Similarly, works on olfactory pleasures, such as Des odeurs des parfums et des cosmétiques (1877), likely provided background reading for the report he delivered on the perfume exhibit at the 1900 Paris Exposition universelle, later entitled Pays des aromates.13 A dozen works on gemstones, among them Nicolas Boscheron’s 1788 Dictionnaire des diamants, rubis,

146 The New Bibliopolis

perles, provided sustenance for Montesquiou’s dithyrambic writings on the master jewellers René Lalique and Henri Vever, whose own threevolume work, La Bijouterie française au XIXe siècle (1900), one of fifty of an édition de luxe, belonged to Montesquiou’s library.14 And guides to cultivating roses and orchids likely served as documentation for Montesquiou’s writings on one of his foremost protégés (and sometimes collaborator), the glassmaker and ébéniste Émile Gallé, whose 1894 work on floriculture the count possessed as well.15 Indeed, the extraordinary diversity and eclecticism of Montesquiou’s book collection bear the marks of an aesthetic omnivore. If these volumes on royal chateaux, rare perfumes, Sèvres porcelain, Ming dynasty vases, diamonds, rubies, and the like were useful to Montesquiou the writer, perhaps too, like his own writings, they served as substitute objects for the real ones, coveted yet inaccessible. Possessing these books for his own pleasure, a pleasure then multiplied through the inclusion in his library of his own works on these topics, allowed him to constitute an imaginary museum as both stimulus and recompense. In addition, his evident materialism marked him as an idiosyncratic champion of Symbolism, which generally upheld writing, and all art, as a replacement for the material world. A third determinant of a book’s value for Montesquiou was its provenance. A standard parameter for nineteenth-century bibliophiles, the notion of distinguished provenance and its historical, sentimental, and aesthetic connotations had special resonance for the Comte de MontesquiouFezensac. Enraptured by the mystique of his own lineage, this descendant of Merovingian warlords devoted both the first volume of his memoirs, Les Pas effacés, and the first twenty-five volumes of his papers, to the seigneurs de Montesquiou. The symbolic charge of the family name also resided, for Montesquiou, in its books: in the Bible inherited from his grandfather Anatole; in the first edition of Voyages de Gulliver, with vignettes by Grandville, leagued by his father Thierry and bearing his seal; and in about a dozen volumes in Montesquiou’s library that had belonged to Gontran, Emery, and others in his clan.16 In his memoirs Montesquiou describes the pleasure he experienced as a young lycée student when aristocratic and bibliophilic pedigree merged in his grandfather’s decision to bestow on him ‘a very valuable little book from the eighteenth century’ just discovered in Anatole’s library, and which his grandson admired ‘religiously.’ The rarity and singularity of this ‘bibelot’ – ‘adorned with engravings … by Moreau le Jeune, bound in citron-coloured morocco leather, with endpapers in pink watered silk’ – and bestowed on him by this strange yet majestic ancestor, a poet

Robert de Montesquiou and the Aesthetics of the Book 147

himself, made him feel ‘[an] exceptional pleasure to see myself awarded, with such a miraculous facility that renders the act even more beautiful, something that I admired with a restrained ecstasy.’17 Remnants of the material culture of bygone eras, books helped channel an illustrious past, recalling Edmond de Goncourt’s observation that an era ‘from which we lack a swatch of a dress and a dinner menu, history does not see it come to life again.’18 As this anecdote tellingly reveals, the impeccable aristocratic pedigree of the volumes from the Montesquiou family library provoked in their subsequent owner a frisson. So too did the impeccable aesthetic credentials of the thirty-seven volumes in Montesquiou’s collection previously owned by the Goncourt brothers, and most likely purchased at the 1897 sale of their vast library. This marked another notable date for fin-desiècle bibliophiles by virtue of the Goncourts’ position as models of bon goût, in book collecting and design as in all other pursuits of beauty, from their fabric-covered ceilings to their taste in waistcoats and socks.19 For Montesquiou, status and identity were conferred on these volumes from the Goncourts’ library by virtue of the consecrating power of their previous owners, whom he fervently admired and upheld as aesthetic guides. And this status was enhanced by several additional criteria, including rarity (as in the case of a 1725 work on dance by Rameau) and the combined distinction of both author and owner of a text; a two-volume Shakespeare was additionally valuable, as the inscription indicates, as a livre de prix ‘awarded to the student named de Goncourt for his excellent conduct and constant application during the first and second semesters of the classical and academic years 1836–7, 1837–8.’20 Finally, marks and traces of the Goncourts’ possession, such as their ex libris, signature, and handwritten dedications, increased their worth for Montesquiou. Indeed, the Goncourt brothers felt – and Montesquiou would soon espouse the same idea – that the value of books, and the furniture that contained them, was enhanced when their owners had a personal connection to the past of these objects. Exemplifying this belief, the ‘case par excellence for beautiful books, for beautiful bindings’ belonging to the Goncourt brothers was a brass-encrusted ebony armoire that had once been a receptacle for their grandmother’s shawls before later serving their mother in her boarding school.21 In the Goncourts’ possession, this heirloom encased a 1734 quarto edition of Molière’s works among other treasures. The sentimental value of this piece of furniture, heightened by the striking aesthetic effect of leather and gilding on brass and ebony – ‘the cheerful and sleek colours of the skins against the dark

148 The New Bibliopolis

panels, where a bare trace of the gilding on the spines of these volumes recurs and comes alive’ – explained why this book container held pride of place in the cabinet de travail of the Goncourts’ Auteuil townhouse. A cluster of values both bibliophilic and aesthetic, then – the importance of distinguished filiation, rarity, uniqueness, the power of suggestion – made the criterion of provenance especially important for Montesquiou. In addition, he may have appreciated the evocative nature of a single volume or volumes detached from an illustrious library. The lone book he had acquired from the royal library of Marie Leczinska, queen of France as the wife of Louis XV, took its place alongside other notable ‘fragments’ in his possession – locks of hair from Napoleon and Byron, a sketch of Jeanne Duval’s eyes by Baudelaire and of the Comtesse Greffulhe’s chin by Antonio de la Gandara, a mould of the feet of the Comtesse de Castiglione, and a piece of lead from her coffin.22 Together, they constituted a reliquary, in which fragments conveyed the beauty and power of the whole, inspiring a type of reverie evoked by Montesquiou in his ‘Prière des objets’: A broken ewer does not die entirely, Crumbled marbles are not all defunct: Perhaps a feeble spirit deserts matter When one breaks a vase where perfumes used to burn. 23

Decor Tokens of relationships or tools of the trade, books were perhaps above all, for Montesquiou, emblems of what Goncourt described as ‘that passion for bibelots that has made me miserable and happy all my life.’24 The worth of these coveted objects, furthermore, was enhanced by their inclusion in highly suggestive, stimulating interior spaces. Montesquiou summarized the goal of his aesthetic experiments concerning things in this way: ‘The grouping of objects, in an association, almost in an ingenious and sometimes striking conversation, which arouses the appetite of the eyes, and spreads to the soul, that is what I instinctively started to search for.’25 His interest in the psychological and allegorical powers of decor, capable of eliciting the feeling of ‘drunkenness, always renewed, of a hashish eater,’ owed much to his readings of Poe’s ‘The Philosophy of Furniture’ (1840) and Baudelaire’s preface to it, both of which explored the role of furniture as sensual and creative stimulus. But it was above all Edmond de Goncourt’s 1881

Robert de Montesquiou and the Aesthetics of the Book 149

La Maison d’un artiste that became Montesquiou’s breviary, ‘leafed through a hundred times’ by the poet and a predominant influence on his own aesthetic of interior design.26 Goncourt’s incantatory love song to the contents of his hôtel in the boulevard Montmorency was permeated with his tenderness toward things. In La Maison d’un artiste he catalogued and described in astoundingly profuse detail the cornucopia of objects he collected, including 10,000 books, representing his dual passion for the eighteenth century and East Asian culture. Part museum catalogue, part aesthetic manifesto – ‘I am writing the history of industrial art of the Occident and Orient and … I am assuming the direction of one of the great movements of taste for today and tomorrow,’ he proclaimed in 1880 – La Maison d’un artiste championed the interior as a solitary, masculine space, a haven from the ‘combative life’ and its attendant feelings of ennui that Goncourt found inherent in modern urban existence.27 Such feelings, in fact, had led him to fantasize about becoming ‘an inventor of interiors for rich people.’ Whether as stimulants or sedatives, interior spaces offered Goncourt what his disciple Montesquiou himself deemed ‘therapeutic value.’28 Harmonious arrangements of the types of eye-catching objects both old and new that appealed to Montesquiou were on view not only chez Goncourt but also in the homes of other contemporary collectors, of Asian art especially. Beautiful bibelots, for example, were displayed at the hôtel of a man described by Goncourt, a precursor in these matters, as a ‘passionate japonisant,’ the ‘skilful printer’ Charles Gillot.29 Posing for a photograph in an elaborately carved chair and sporting a monocle, Gillot is impeccably dressed in well-polished shoes, a loose-fitting three-piece suit, and billowing cravat (figure 5.2). Gillot, whose aesthetic sense developed in part in his father’s own printing shop, was inventor of the groundbreaking photomechanical illustration technique featured in the bibliophiles’ treasure, the Histoire des quatre fils Aymon. He was also, according to Gaston Migeon, curator of Asian art at the Louvre, ‘truly possessed’ in matters of Japanese art.30 The strikingly tasteful layout of Gillot’s immense Japanese art collection, which encompassed pottery, bronzes, masks, saber ornaments, kimonos, and lacquered objects, merited the following description in the diary of his friend, Henri Vever: The afternoon at Gillot’s … We are in ecstasy at each step in front of the admirable pieces in this magnificent collection. It’s certainly if not the

150 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 5.2 Charles Gillot, photograph, in Collection Charles Gillot: Objets d’art et peintures d’extrême-orient, vol. 1 (1904)

Robert de Montesquiou and the Aesthetics of the Book 151 most extensive, then the most beautiful that one can see … And all is arranged with exquisite taste … It seems that when Gillot places an object in a display case, he acts like a painter applying a stroke to his canvas. The harmony is complete and the refinement exquisite … it’s beautiful to the point of exasperation.31

Like Gillot (and often in his company), Vever himself was another wildly enthusiastic collector of Japanese bibelots. He was, in fact, ‘the most passionate of all,’ according to Goncourt, who surely must have had in mind others infatuated with Japanese art, such as Charles Ephrussi, director of the Gazette des Beaux-Arts, and the banker and art collector Isaac de Camondo.32 Vever’s own display cases, as Montesquiou wrote in a poem about the jeweller, ‘overflow with sacred playthings.’33 The delightful anticipation surrounding the purchase of a Chinese snuff-box left Vever sleep-deprived: ‘[T]hat prospect gives me so much pleasure that I slept poorly, having thought about it all night.’34 His manic purchasing habits, documented in his account ledgers, eventually prompted him to make a resolution: ‘I wish to tone down my purchases.’ Gillot and Vever regularly met at dinners of the Amis de l’art japonais, frequented as well by the gallery owner and Asian art dealer, Siegfried Bing, Gaston Migeon, and, occasionally, James McNeill Whistler. Like Goncourt and Montesquiou, then, both Gillot and Vever delighted in ‘exasperatingly’ beautiful arrangements of carefully collected objects, as an alternative to the dull clutter and accumulated brica-brac often associated at the time with bourgeois interiors.35 And it was concern for craftsmanship, design, and the aesthetic pleasure underlying décors that would lead all these men, as well, to the collection and creation of fine books. Montesquiou’s own aesthetic of interior design, elaborated most fully in an essay entitled ‘Le Mobilier libre,’ was indicative as well of the finde-siècle craze for interior decoration. The flourishing of the so-called arts de vivre had several roots, including the development of elite notions of comfort and conspicuous consumption, and the revival of the decorative arts in both European and American cities; Edith Wharton’s wellreceived first book, The Decoration of Houses, was published in 1897, the same year as Montesquiou’s essay. Yet reacting violently against the cult of excess and the copy characteristic of some bourgeois interiors, Montesquiou, following Goncourt, proposed something new: a tasteful arrangement of carefully selected, unique objects driven by an aesthetic

152 The New Bibliopolis

ideal. ‘The art of furnishing,’ asserted Montesquiou, resided in novelty, in the mingling of old and new, and in the ‘subtle and eloquent grouping’ of the stunning array of objects he collected.36 Furniture would innovate, he continued, in its attention to ‘colour, gently measured out,’ and above all in its evocation of ‘something symbolic and pensive, through the decor that serves as a gloss on a text, an idea.’37 Expressions of an aesthetic ideal, such decor also clearly bore the cachet of the dandy Montesquiou’s unique personality, as did all his other creations – gardens, poems, bindings – making of his life a type of Gesamtkunstwerk or total work of art. Goncourt had commented on just such an attempt to singularize every facet of his own life, which motivated all his aesthetic endeavours: There is a tyrannical tendency in me: the continuous, perpetual fathering of a conception bearing the cachet of my personality. If … it’s not a book that I’m bouncing around in my head, my thoughts entertain themselves day and night with the planting of a garden in a particular corner of verdure and foliage. Absent the creation of a garden, my brain will be engrossed with the creation of a room, the arrangement and furnishing of a bedroom, executed according to the demands of an artistic ideal … And such has it been throughout my life: I would recover from the composition of a book with the original composition of a collection, a piece of furniture, a binding.38

Contemporary philosophers of decadence such as Max Nordau, however, saw something quite different in the baroque interiors that rendered Montesquiou, Goncourt, Vever, and Gillot so ecstatic as unique expressions of their style as collectors: ‘Everything in these houses aims at exciting the nerves and dazzling the senses,’ Nordau complained in 1892. ‘The disconnected and antithetical effects in all arrangements, the constant contradiction between form and purpose, the outlandishness of most objects, is intended to be bewildering … All is discrepant, indiscriminate jumble.’39 Similarly, the anarchic mingling of bibelots uprooted from their ‘natural’ settings, a trademark of the Goncourt brothers in the estimation of the conservative novelist and critic Paul Bourget, clearly signalled to him the ‘weariness due to boredom and the maladies of nervous sensibility’ characterizing the fin de siècle. Like ‘disgusted gourmand[s],’ blasé aesthetes such as Goncourt and Montesquiou, Bourget felt, needed a constant diet of the new and the strange to satisfy their hyperacute senses.40

Robert de Montesquiou and the Aesthetics of the Book 153

A final source of Montesquiou’s thinking about the notion of decor may have been Symbolist and avant-garde writings on mise en scène in the context of the theatre.41 Montesquiou was a frequent theatre-goer who knew many actors, most notably Sarah Bernhardt. He wrote a play adapted from a novella by Tolstoy, L’Or pur or Mikhaïl, performed in 1909. Just as the gauzy curtains favoured by the Théâtre d’Art and the Théâtre de l’Œuvre were part of a decor of ‘purely ornamental fiction’ that led the spectator into the dream world of the theatre, according to the critic Pierre Quillard, so too, Montesquiou felt, should a book’s cover be the portal into a world of illusion.42 Montesquiou’s self-described ‘craze for decorative arrangements, ornate apartments, magnificent installations,’ on which he lavished ‘several small fortunes’ – necessitating the sale by his father of valuable heirloom jewellery, part of Robert’s inheritance – is detailed in one of the principal sections of his memoirs, entitled ‘Mes Demeures.’43 The importance, in Les Pas effacés, of Montesquiou’s demeures seems equivalent to that accorded, in his personal papers, to his books. How, then, did Montesquiou conceive of the highly charged symbolic spaces where habitations and books met, and whose very functions suggest creativity, imagination, evasion, and solitude: the library? Montesquiou’s first library belonged to his private suite on the top floor of the family’s hôtel on the quai d’Orsay, his home until 1889. This ‘legendary apartment,’ ‘mirror of my soul,’ as he deemed it, was also an aesthetic laboratory, with each room harmonizing colours, bibelots, satins and silks, honeysuckles, and his trademark blue hydrangeas in a type of synesthésie. The influence of medieval and Pre-Raphaelite motifs was on display – Montesquiou had met William Morris, Edward BurneJones, and Whistler during his first trip to England, in the mid-1880s – as was that of japonisme and craftsmanship, encountered at the 1878 World’s Fair. Throughout these ‘extraordinary rooms’ – ‘like a vague dream of the Arabian nights translated into Japanese,’ according to the London painter and illustrator W. Graham Robertson – traditional and modern objects, themes and techniques commingled.44 The library was reminiscent of, perhaps even modelled on, Whistler’s Peacock Room, designed in 1876–7 for the London shipping tycoon Frederick Leyland (figure 5.3). Montesquiou was eager to visit the room, featuring the extravagant, vain birds painted in deep blues and brilliant gold. In Montesquiou’s own library – his ‘oratory,’ as he called it – ‘the walls were covered with green and gold leather, embossed with peacock feathers undoubtedly meant to represent the hundred eyes of knowledge.’

154 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 5.3 Harmony in Blue and Gold: The Peacock Room by James McNeill Whistler (1876–7), oil paint and gold leaf on canvas, leather, and wood

In planning a harmonious decor for his books, Montesquiou may also have had in mind the grenier Edmond de Goncourt remodelled after his brother’s death in 1870 and which on Sundays became the meeting place for Goncourt’s literary and artistic circle. Initially a dusty storage space, ‘where every bibelot hunter accumulates and piles up rickety and mutilated objects, bought on those days of misjudgment,’ in Goncourt’s words, the attic housed ‘half-open armoires that reveal interminable rows of modern books.’45 From the three rooms comprising the attic Goncourt made a two-room ‘microcosm of tasteful things, cherished objects, pretty curiosities most rare.’46 In this remodelled space, Persian carpets, Sèvres and Saxe porcelain, gouaches by Fragonard, lacquered boxes from Japan, and swaths of Chinese fabric embroidered with iris and chrysanthemum patterns were interspersed with low book cases showcasing, primarily, the work of nineteenth-century authors, artists, and binders. There, the œuvres complètes of both Balzac and Gavarni were

Robert de Montesquiou and the Aesthetics of the Book 155

on display. The inferior material quality of Goncourt’s editions of Balzac – ‘these beautiful, hideous reading room books, with their scarcely soiled covers, their text so readable, and their wide margins that are not truly white and hardly satiny’ – was compensated by the veneration Goncourt felt for the novelist, whom he considered, along with Gavarni, the ‘two great geniuses of the century.’47 Also on view was the attic’s most notable curiosity: the series of the Goncourts’ favourite books by habitués of the grenier. Each of the twenty-nine books in this series was printed on exceptional paper and further distinguished by the author’s portrait on the cover, commissioned by Goncourt for the occasion.48 Although the practice of singularizing books through the addition of autographs, extra illustrations, and other materials was not new, the Goncourts’ systematic practice of such inclusions made of each book not only part of their larger book collection but also a miniature collection in itself, consisting of related items collected, assembled, and encased in a binding.49 In Montesquiou’s quai d’Orsay library, Japanese masks and a portrait of the poet adorned the walls. The room also boasted a marble column supporting a sculpted head, two armchairs, Oriental rugs, a lectern, a writing table, and a green leather-covered box (a gift from the Comtesse Greffulhe) for Montesquiou’s yet-unpublished manuscripts. An elaborate canapé for reading commissioned by Montesquiou in England was covered in gilded leather decorated with a Japanese-influenced dragonfly, butterfly, and chrysanthemum motif and fitted with a writing desk (figure 5.4). The books themselves were contained in cases along the walls. With its glistening, lacquered leather walls and peacock-eye motif, this library was meant to stimulate the intellectual work and inspiration associated with writing and reading. Montesquiou was fascinated by the illusory effects of treated leather when used in interior decoration. In one room in his first apartment, for example, gold filigree on red leather walls created ‘spider webs.’ In another, gilded leather walls ‘made the partitions glisten and thus rendered the proportions of the room slightly deceptive.’50 And in yet another, silver-toned leather made one wall shimmer like the moon. Similarly, to encourage his own creative process Goncourt felt a need to retreat to his Oriental boudoir, where the dazzling sight of patinas, lacquers, bronzes, coloured glass, and Persian carpets greeted him. The author’s actual writing process, however, took place in ‘a room with nothing on the walls, and which I would like completely bare and whitewashed.’51 Montesquiou’s library was intended not only to foster these intellectual activities, but also to serve as their emblem. ‘Bound’ in leather, this room

156 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 5.4 Reading canapé belonging to Robert de Montesquiou (c. 1880). Wood, calfskin, leather, and steel. In Art Nouveau – Arts Décoratifs – Vente (1995)

was to be ‘read.’ In this sense the room functioned much like the books it contained, like the mottos Montesquiou had inscribed on lintels in his apartment, and even like the socks and ties he displayed in his dressing room; in an allusion to works produced by the celebrated family of Dutch printers, these garments were ‘folded and lined up like Elzevirs, in de luxe libraries.’52 His leather-bound room recalls the hermetically sealed space of Duc Floressas des Esseintes (Montesquiou’s literary double, according to some), who in Joris-Karl Huysmans’s À Rebours had resolved ‘to have his walls bound like books, in morocco leather.’53 Acknowledging the textual nature of his decor, Montesquiou wrote, ‘I hold such mural and

Robert de Montesquiou and the Aesthetics of the Book 157

furnishing fantasies to be writings.’54 In a similar vein, Goncourt too noted that the rooms in his house were arranged ‘like the chapters of a book.’55 Conversely, if a room or house, for Montesquiou and Goncourt, could be read like a book, a book could be inhabited like a room, as suggested by the division of the poems constituting Montesquiou’s Les Hortensias bleus into a series of ‘rooms’ (chambres). Montesquiou’s subsequent libraries did not match the grandeur of his first one on the quai d’Orsay. From 1889 to 1893 his apartment in Passy was a mecca of haut japonisme, complete with Japanese gardens. Touring these during a July 1891 visit, Edmond de Goncourt found a structure that was ‘a sort of greenhouse-library containing books preferred by Montesquiou, at the same time as a little museum of portraits of their authors,’ including the brothers themselves.56 And in the neoclassical Pavillon des Muses in Neuilly, site of many of Montesquiou’s most spectacular fetes between 1899 and 1909, the library became a repository for a variety of Montesquiou’s notable collector’s items. Visiting the pavilion with its owner, the journalist Lucien Corpechot recalled having contemplated there ‘the cage in which Michelet observed living the bird he was describing. I respectfully touched Marceline DesbordesValmore’s guitar; and in a sort of sanctuary I felt moved before the mould of the feet of la Castiglione.’57 For his final residence at the Palais Rose in Le Vésinet, Montesquiou built a separate building to house his books, which he named L’Hermitage.

Bibelots The most noteworthy bibelots amidst the bric-a-brac of Montesquiou’s library were, of course, the books themselves. Their rarity, luxuriousness, and beauty constituted a final criterion of value for their owner. Fascinated by all stages of book production, as the scrapbooks in his collection devoted to bindings, illustration, and book arts attest, Montesquiou was especially sensitive to what Goncourt described in the following way as the ‘seduction’ exercised by a book’s finery (parure), its binding: How I pity men of letters who are not sensitive to the seduction of a binding, whose eye is not amused by the bejewelled effect of gilt on leather, and who do not feel … a certain physical delight in touching with their fingers, in palpating, in plying one of these skins from the Levant, so luxuriously softened.58

158 The New Bibliopolis

Montesquiou’s library contained at least ten extremely rare bindings as well as a substantial category of books on the topic, including a dedicated copy of L’Ornementation des livres modernes (1889) by the renowned binder Marius Michel.59 Another standard marker for nineteenthcentury bibliophiles, luxury bindings served both to preserve and singularize individual copies of books (at the same time rendering homage to their authors), while often doubling or tripling them in cost. Edmond de Goncourt claimed to love only books ‘whose bindings cost a great amount,’ while Louis Dérôme remarked that at the fin de siècle it was just as expensive ‘to dress a book as to dress a gentleman.’60 Such often exaggerated efforts to imbue a book’s cover with the singular personality and eccentricities of its owner, moreover, were also an expression of ‘bibliopegic dandyism,’ the cultivation of the individualism, eccentricity, even abnormality associated with dandyism as manifested through taste in book coverings, among other potentially distinctive features of livres de luxe.61 To encase the ‘new and unseen images’ surging from Mallarmé’s L’Après-midi d’un faune, for example, the quintessential dandy protagonist of À Rebours (1884), des Esseintes, conceived of a cover ‘made of Japanese felt as white as curdled milk … fastened with two silk cords, one China pink, the other black.’62 For other volumes des Esseintes commissioned ‘irreproachable bindings of old silk, of embossed ox-hide, of Cape goat-skin – all full bindings, patterned and inlaid, lined with tabby or watered silk, adorned in ecclesiastical fashion with metal clasps and corners.’ À Rebours, in turn, closely resembles the book that obsessed another literary dandy, Dorian Gray, who in Oscar Wilde’s novel ‘procured from Paris no less than nine large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in different colours, so that they might suit his various moods.’63 Finally, for statusseeking members of the social elite, the intricate leather inlays and goldtooling of the bindings of Marius Michel and others took their place alongside flasks by Gallé, jewels by Lalique and perfumes by Klotz as examples of haut de gamme craftsmanship.64 But Montesquiou was neither an ordinary bibliophile nor merely a conspicuously consuming aristocrat. Instead, he served as patron, albeit an often self-serving one, to a new generation of binders. In so doing, he both responded to and galvanized the turn-of-the-century revival of the arts of the book. The renewed importance of binding was proclaimed by Octave Uzanne in La Nouvelle Bibliopolis, who derided the cheerless banality of earlier book coverings. Uzanne called on exterior decorators of books

Robert de Montesquiou and the Aesthetics of the Book 159 to innovate … to break up lines, to imagine large mosaics freely drawn, to borrow original combinations from Japanese perspectives, to derive inspiration from the spirit of the illustrators’ drawing, to ask for the collaboration of decorators outside of this craft, and to seek marriages of diverse golds, of silver and platinum in order to surround the multiple tonalities of their interesting decorations.65

This art nouveau of binding should adorn not old classics but new literature, specifically that of the Symbolists, whose suggestive content would harmonize with the emblematic nature of its container. To these writers, Uzanne urged, ‘let us open wide our libraries’ (NB xix–xx). Defence and illustration of Uzanne’s precepts, Montesquiou’s library contained numerous works by nineteenth-century authors, which he had bound by the master artisan much admired by many new bibliophiles, Charles Meunier. Montesquiou often led carefully chosen groups of friends to Meunier’s atelier in the rue de la Bienfaisance to observe the craftsman at work.66 Some of them became his clients; Alexandre Bibesco, for one, sent anticipatory compliments to the ‘great artist Meunier’ for what he knew would be ‘chefs-d’œuvre,’ and informed the binder that ‘I’m licking my fingers in advance.’67 Edmond de Goncourt, who commissioned thousands of bindings from over twenty Parisian studios, commented favourably on unusual bindings Meunier had created for him with ‘endpapers made of antique silks that I picked up here and there. It’s really a very charming way of ornamenting books.’68 Through his review, small press, and bibliophile society, Meunier served as a liaison between bibliophiles and artist-illustrators such as Albert Robida, Luc-Olivier Merson, Carlos Schwabe, and Auguste Lepère. For each of the limited luxury editions Meunier produced of works by latenineteenth-century authors, he created bindings that harmonized with the work’s themes, drawing on a vast repertory of motifs and symbols from botany, zoology, architecture, theology, and mythology. Montesquiou’s writings on Meunier, their correspondence, and the bindings themselves offer clues about why Montesquiou elevated this ‘artisan-artist’ above all other binders. Extolling Meunier’s talents in verse in Les Paroles diaprées (1910), Montesquiou exhorted Meunier to do no less than endow books with life by giving them material form: ‘When you dress our Book / If it is mortal, make it live / Under the embossing of leather.’69 Six years later, in a laudatory essay entitled ‘Le Moulin du livre’ (‘The Book-Mill’), Montesquiou returned to the theme of the binder as creator and ‘miller’ – meunier, in French – of dreams.

160 The New Bibliopolis

Much like the work of a decorator of interiors, who conveyed and encased an idea through the use of suggestive material objects, the task of the binder, for Montesquiou, was also to ‘dress our dreams.’70 Indeed, he asserted, ‘this miller so skilful in refining the flour of genius,’ had succeeded in creating ‘sacks ingeniously embroidered with all imaginable decorations.’ These highly ornate bindings, with their proliferation of symbolic floral and animal motifs and their multiple polychrome panels, are really emblematic décors. They serve as decorative schemes as well as – much like libraries – suggestive settings for the ideas contained within. Finally, their striking colours and aesthetic of adornment echoed Montesquiou’s taste for ornamentation in many areas of his life, including his clothing, mannerisms, handwriting, and fetes, as well as his desire to cultivate analogies among these areas. Meunier clearly considered Montesquiou a trailblazer too (as well as a patron), someone who could give book arts, in Meunier’s words, ‘a new boost’ by using his ‘great literary and artistic influence’ to draw to this field ‘a new element recruited from among rich, artistically inclined people.’71 Meunier’s Maison du Livre published several of Montesquiou’s works, all in limited editions. The first of these was Prières de tous: Huit dizaines d’un chapelet rythmique (1902) with illustrations by Madeleine Lemaire.72 Five years later Meunier published Le Chancelier de fleurs: Douze stations d’amitié; Montesquiou thanked the publisher for being ‘the architect, with me, of this mausoleum’ to his recently deceased ‘admirable companion,’ Gabriel de Yturri. Indeed, encased in a sumptuous binding strewn with raised, multicoloured floral arrangements, this volume both resembled and read as a memorial. A compendium of all of Montesquiou’s dedications to Yturri, it contained as well transcriptions of condolence letters the count had received upon Yturri’s death, along with his responses to these letters. One of them, to Meunier himself, announced the genesis of this very book, ‘which will be printed in a small number of copies and given, by me, to those able to appreciate it. And the sensitive nature of this work makes me wish to see it executed by your trusted house.’73 Finally, the fifty copies Meunier printed of Montesquiou’s Saints d’Israël (1910), a slim thirty-two-page volume, offered a post-Dreyfus era vindication of Baron and Baroness Alphonse de Rothschild, affectionately rendered by Montesquiou not as the embodiment of an uncouth moneyed aristocracy but as ‘patricians of wealth.’74 The most notable example of the collaboration between Montesquiou and Meunier, however, is not a text but rather the binding for the poet’s first published work, the one which in his view ‘undoubtedly … contains the most of myself:’ Les Chauves-Souris (1892).75 Its cover (figure 5.5) is

Robert de Montesquiou and the Aesthetics of the Book 161

Image Not Available

Figure 5.5 Mosaic binding (n.d.) by Charles Meunier for Robert de Montesquiou, Les Chauves-Souris (1892) in Catalogue de livres modernes ornés de reliures artistiques exécutées par Charles Meunier et provenant de sa bibliothèque particulière (1908)

162 The New Bibliopolis

one of several striking bat-themed objects and events Montesquiou inspired or helped design, including a lamp and flask by Gallé, musical settings of the poems by the pianist Léon Delafosse (presented at Madeleine Lemaire’s salon), and recitals of the poems by Sarah Bernhardt and Julia Bartet of the Comédie-Française.76 For the Belgian poet Georges Rodenbach, the use of bats as a leitmotif in Montesquiou’s home as well as in his writings and other artistic activities again underscored the count’s efforts to meld life and art, text and decor, through a common aesthetic: ‘Thus his dwelling is, so to speak,’ Rodenbach wrote in Le Figaro, ‘the image and reflection of his work … it is the vision of the poet exteriorized, materialized.’77 For this, his first publication, Montesquiou explained, ‘nothing was spared for the presentation … for the typographical and other refinements.’78 A preface by Leconte de Lisle evoking the ‘elite of uncommon esprits’ for which the volume of poetry (itself an ‘elite’ genre) was destined was solicited by the author, ‘with the goal of procuring for [the book] a prestige of a higher order.’ Meunier’s cover of gray and bloodred morocco leather, with shimmering silver and gold tones and platinum stars bedecking the back cover, was reserved for a private quarto edition of one hundred copies, printed on luxurious Van Gelder paper with a watermarked bat motif, and presented in a special case to the count’s inner circle.79 Aside from this private edition, a first illustrated edition of three hundred copies featured a cover drawing of bats in flight by La Gandara; additional bat drawings by Whistler and Yamamoto; and covers of silver-gray and yellow silk with motifs of bats, stars, and crescent moons. To receive this objet rarissime, André Hallays reported in the Journal des Débats, ‘one had to be nominated by the author himself.’80 On having a copy of the volume bestowed on him in April 1892, Whistler wrote to Montesquiou, whose memorable portrait he had just completed: ‘The beautiful volume has reached us! – and seems to us more marvellous than ever.’81 The pale blue silk of the cover of Les Chauves-Souris indeed recalled the colour of one of Whistler’s Nocturnes, according to Rodenbach, who in Le Figaro gushed over ‘this magnificent edition’ of the poems written by Montesquiou, this ‘gentleman of letters,’ devotee of beautification in all areas of life.82 Edmond de Goncourt, too, received from the count what he described as ‘his enormous and luxurious quarto edition, his block of poetry.’83 Goncourt further singularized his copy by having La Gandara, a painter favoured by Parisian high society, create an original portrait of Montesquiou on a special

Robert de Montesquiou and the Aesthetics of the Book 163

white vellum covering for the book, an honour reserved for a very small group of authors and artists singled out for this privilege by the brothers. Octave Mirbeau, equally thrilled to have received this ‘exceptional and sumptuous volume,’ offered his readers in Le Figaro the following description of the book’s ‘furnishing’: On each page of the book, a bat appears as a watermark in the paper, whose texture is soft to the fingers that turn its pages, like a woman’s skin! No floral decoration, no vignettes, no tailpieces, no ornament to betray, so ponderously, the ordinary incompetence, in the publishing business, of publishers. The taste that presided over the furnishing of this book was exquisite.84

A copy, of course, belonged to Montesquiou’s library as well, as did lavishly bound copies of all his works, for as Walter Benjamin notes, ‘[o]f all the ways of acquiring books, writing them oneself is regarded as the most praiseworthy method.’85 Montesquiou’s elevation of Les Chauves-Souris and other works in his collection to the status of exquisite art objects – part of his broader quest to imbue his personal material world with beauty – leads back to questions of reading practices evoked at the beginning of this chapter. To what extent did these magnificent bindings rival, even trump, the texts contained within? To what extent might they have inhibited, rather than enhanced, the experience of reading this work? Were these objects, for Montesquiou, primarily bibelots or texts? The invasion of text by decoration – ‘the bibelot-like, frilly quality’ of Montesquiou’s work, in the view of Elisabeth de Clermont-Tonnerre – initially bothered at least one reader to such an extent that he questioned the integrity and quality of both the poet and his work: ‘At the first flight of his Chauves-Souris in purple velvet,’ mused Remy de Gourmont, ‘the question was very seriously posed as to whether M. de Montesquiou was a poet or a poetry amateur and whether society life could be compatible with the cult of the Nine Sisters.’86 Writing on the front page of Le Gaulois the critic Louis Ganderax echoed Gourmont’s concern, worrying that the ‘enormity of the bibelot, along with its perfection, might bear proof of a maniac rather than a poet.’87 This delegitimizing of the text by virtue of its precious, decorative nature was compounded by the poet’s suspect status as an aristocratic rentier and salonnard in an era of both the professionalization of the author and the progressive lowering of his social origins. Had the count been a ‘bohemian’ or a ‘brasserie

164 The New Bibliopolis

regular,’ mused Goncourt, ‘people might find him an extraordinary poet. But he is well born, he is rich, he is from the upper-crust: people will only find him baroque!’88 Questions of Montesquiou’s talents aside, the collapsing of boundaries between art, decor, and life that characterized his aesthetic found expression in the books he created, where binding and text harmonized, and where text and image merged in watermarked paper covered with poems and bats. As Montesquiou surely understood, bats are hybrid beings too, both bird and beast, mysterious creatures located on the murky border between night and day, ‘famished for light,’ wrote Montesquiou in his poem ‘Essence,’ and ‘relegated to caverns.’89 This aesthetic of permeability forced new ways of appropriating texts. While the questions of why and how people have read historically are notoriously difficult to answer, one might conclude that Montesquiou read, wrote, and coveted books to satisfy his craving for beautiful objects, and that the cognitive, material, and aesthetic dimensions of reading seemed, for him, inseparable. What mattered to him, above all, was that ‘a line of poetry be an artistic bauble.’90

6 The Enemies of Books? Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination

Let us confess that there is no love without fetishism and let us render justice to lovers of old blackened paper, for they are as mad as other lovers. Anatole France, ‘Bibliophilie’ (1890)1 She purses her lips with a proud disdain And, sizing up my value, she exclaims to herself: ‘ – The fool! He loves his books more than a wife!’ François Fertiault, ‘En omnibus’ (1877)2

‘Women bibliophiles!’ fumed Octave Uzanne in an 1889 chat on the topic. ‘I know not of two words that clash more when finding themselves together in our social circles.’3 In decrying the ‘absolute irreverence of woman for the book’ (Z 33–4), Uzanne was not alone. In 1877 Paul Eudel, a library inspector from Nantes turned art and book critic for Le Figaro, declared women the ‘sworn enemies’ of books, while three years later Bibliophile Jacob castigated the female sex as ‘the bibliophiles’ hell.’4 Bernard-Henri Gausseron, a member of Uzanne’s Bibliophiles Contemporains and frequent contributor to his review, L’Art et l’Idée, deemed women ‘implacable enemies’ of book collecting.5 Writing in 1904, Léon-Félix de Labessade, a novelist and critic who authored several works on the eighteenth century, asserted that in the court society of the ancien régime, ‘the Book encountered a dangerous enemy: woman,’ who had used her seductive powers to challenge the hegemony of the book by inciting a vast production of libellous pamphlets. But, asked Labessade, ‘isn’t that not only the vivacious & curious woman of the last century, but the woman of all centuries?’6 For Uzanne, the

166 The New Bibliopolis

ingrained hostility of women toward books, throughout history, earned them the designation of ‘Bibliophobe’; ‘Woman, often jealous of the book, is a Bibliophobe by instinct’ (62), he informed the readers of the didactic yet light-hearted Dictionnaire bibliophilosophique he produced as a parting gift for his fellow Bibliophiles Contemporains. The pernicious influence of female bibliophobes on male bibliophiles was even the subject of one of Paul Verlaine’s thirteen ‘biblio-sonnets,’ commissioned by Pierre Dauze.7 Yet Uzanne’s and Verlaine’s were merely two of the loudest voices in a shrill chorus intent on proclaiming the natural enmity between women and books. Such misogynistic diatribes have a long history, tracing their origin back to Richard de Bury’s Philobiblion, a fourteenth-century treatise on book love, first translated into French in 1856. Speaking in the voice of books themselves, de Bury, the bishop of Durham, raged against Woman as ‘that biped beast … from which we have always taught our nurslings to flee more than from the asp and cockatrice,’ and accused her of being always jealous of the love of us [books], and never to be appeased, at length seeing us in some corner protected only by the web of some dead spider. [W]ith a frown [she] abuses and reviles us with bitter words, declaring us alone of all the furniture in the house to be unnecessary, and complaining that we are useless for any household purpose, and advises that we should speedily be converted into rich caps, sendel [sic] and silk and twicedyed purple, robes and furs, wool and linen.8

First articulated so damningly by de Bury, the theme of women as bibliophobes, motivated by jealousy and utilitarianism, and hopelessly philistine, was to become a familiar trope. But it proved particularly pervasive among both European and American book collectors during the last decades of the nineteenth century. Such invective was conveyed by what came to constitute a minor literary category of works disparaging female book lovers and warning against any contact between women and all but the most banal, poor quality books. This eclectic literary category encompassed varied genres, including Uzanne’s whimsical ‘caprices’ and ‘zigzags,’ as well as treatises, short stories, newspaper articles, poems, dictionary entries, short pieces in collector’s publications, and visual images. The exclusionary discourse elaborated by this brotherhood of bookmen coexisted with another one that, paradoxically, designated the

Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination 167

material book not as inimical to women but in fact as women themselves, to the extent that both were perceived as objects of physical desire and possession, even as fetishes. And these intertwined themes of book collecting – woman versus book, woman as book – were reinforced by the obsessive intertexuality practised by the authors of these works, amplified by their frequent translation between French and English. In this way, each text became in essence a compendium of arguments advanced by an international bibliophile fraternity. In the end, however, this double discourse tended inevitably toward a truism advanced by all these writings: bibliophilia was an exclusively masculine pursuit. The English writer and critic Holbrook Jackson, whose exhaustively welldocumented studies of book love constitute his desired ‘anatomy’ of the subject, went so far as to declare ‘book love’ ‘as masculine (although not as common) as growing a beard.’9 Jackson’s explicit linkage of book love with male sexual traits underscores the gendered nature of the language of bibliophilia during this period.10 One of its primary functions was to create bonds of solidarity among the male – and ideally unmarried – members of Bibliopolis and to legitimize book collecting as a masculine social practice, characterized by the adoration of a specific material object. Henri Beraldi wondered, in fact, whether the language of book love, with its erotic and misogynistic overtones, was essentially titillating talk produced by men for men, comprised of ‘little anecdotes recounted in bookstores roundabout five o’clock.’11 In fact, the pleasure to be derived from talking and writing about books for (male) book lovers seemed to match, even surpass, the one derived from the (female) books themselves. Indeed, this seemingly innocent bibliophilic banter rests on triangulated structures, in which book collectors (both authors and readers of these tales, as well as their male publishers) are either united in bonds of fellowship over the ‘female’ book or opposed in the equally intense and potent rivalry of book collectors.12 While the rhetorical underpinnings of the finde-siècle language of book love, then, often stressed rivalry between men, they ultimately served as vehicles for the formation of ‘homosocial’ bonds designed to safeguard both relations between members of the same sex and the sociocultural prestige and traditions associated with their book-collecting pursuits. How was such rhetoric aimed against women bibliophiles developed and disseminated, and what were its effects? Was it an import from England – where by the late nineteenth century the term ‘bookman’ no longer meant ‘scholar’ or ‘student’ but had come to designate a

168 The New Bibliopolis

male book collector or man involved in the book trade, and where in 1891 the periodical The Bookman was founded – or did it have a particularly French inflection during this period?13 What does it reveal about the attitudes of specific communities of readers – male and upper-class in this case – toward the book and its legitimate uses? Was it simply one variant of the broader theme of collecting, commonly depicted as a predominantly masculine activity? To what extent was the virulent argument against women bibliophiles, which belonged to an abundant antifeminist literature of the period, inscribed in the range of other attacks on la femme nouvelle – in this case a New Woman spawned by the cluster of important socioeconomic, legal, and educational advances for women associated with the early Third Republic? The anger characterizing these writings may have been based in part on a perception that these New Women were infiltrating the field of book production itself, not only as authors, as has been well documented, but also as printers, binders, library and bookstore workers, illustrators, and of course readers. From this perspective, women represented another breed of femmes fatales, encroaching dangerously on the traditionally male domains of the private library and book club, and from there to the entire territory of book production. Finally, if women were beginning to read more than men during this era, why were so few women collecting books? Were they internalizing this exclusionary discourse or, as in society, were separate spheres evolving for male and female collectors and readers?

The Torturers of Books By the end of the nineteenth century, de Bury’s scornful depiction of women as advocates of the destruction of books and their conversion into ‘rich caps, sendel [sic] and silk and twice-dyed purple, robes and furs, wool and linen’ had been generalized into a common stereotype of women as ‘torturers of books.’14 Evidence of women’s ‘torture’ of books, it was said, could be found in their destructively utilitarian attitudes and behaviour, augmented by jealousy. ‘Women’ often warranted a separate section in the wealth of books cataloguing the numerous ‘enemies’ – dust, sunlight, humidity, insects, rats, fire, tobacco, kleptomania, and so on – threatening a book’s conservation, one of the standard parameters of nineteenth-century bibliophilia. The destruction of books – whether voluntary or not, whether committed by authors or publishers (often as a response to censorship), and sometimes achieved

Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination 169

by such unusual means as eating books, or bibliophagia – also interested bibliophiles as a means of rarefaction, another important criterion for book lovers.15 With more and more frequency, though, women came to personify these myriad dangers to books. Étienne Mulsant, author of an 1879 work entitled Les Ennemis des livres, claimed to have come upon his wife, who had entered his study by chance, tearing into strips the pages of a volume to make curling papers for her hair.16 Others accused women of using books as stops for wobbly tables, employing thick handkerchiefs as bookmarks, thereby damaging the spine, and converting bookshelves into pantry space to store fruit.17 Women reputedly ruined book pages by turning down their corners – ‘they dog-ear all books without pity as if they were husbands’ – and (as suggested by the pun on the verb ‘corner’) in the process cuckolded their spouses.18 Women received criticism for separating book pages not with an ebony or ivory knife but with cards, pins, moist fingers, or, even worse, their index finger, ‘that assistant worthy of a savage.’19 In 1887 Andrew Lang, a British ‘bookman’ who wrote frequently on his French counterparts as well as on ‘lady book-lovers,’ reported having spied a woman holding a book over the fire, ‘[making] the velum covers curl wide open like the shells of an afflicted oyster.’20 A similar piece of gossip turned up the following year in the pages of Uzanne’s Zigzags d’un curieux: ‘Seated on her low chair, she brings close to the fire the most beautiful bindings, until cardboard and leather warp.’21 Visual images, too, conveyed women’s potential as a particularly dangerous breed of biblioclasts, or book destroyers. To illustrate a chapter from Uzanne’s Nouvelle Bibliopolis on the ‘physiology of the reader,’ an image titled ‘Les Ennemis des livres’ (figure 6.1) depicts frenetic, bloomer-clad female cyclists, designated by their modern sporting costume as archetypal New Women. As a track, these sportswomen use a book, ruining its pages with the tread of their tires and sweat of their brow. Despite directives from imploring husbands, women appeared as skilful in handling a book, Uzanne declared flatly, as was ‘a wellmeaning monkey’ (‘un gentil singe,’ Z 33) in approaching an objet d’art. In essence, then, what these domestic ‘pets’ were accused of was not handling books like men, of making use of them rather than focusing on possession, provenance, and conservation (echoing de Bury’s charge that women rejected books because they were ‘useless for any household purpose’). The presumed gender distinction in the handling of books prompted this disparaging remark from Andrew Lang: ‘A studious girl or matron says, “This is a book,” and reads it, if read she does,

170 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 6.1 ‘Physiology of the Reader: The Enemies of Books.’ Colour lithograph by H.P. Dillon in Octave Uzanne, La Nouvelle Bibliopolis (1897)

Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination 171

without caring about the date, or the state, or the publisher’s name, or even very often about the author’s.’22 Such examples moved Lang to suggest that ‘[whether] or not a lady can love books is a question that may not be so readily settled.’ René Vallery-Radot, a son-in-law of Louis Pasteur and his biographer, put it just as acerbically: ‘A book, in their eyes, is nothing more than a newspaper: they fold it, crumple it, turn it over.’23 Women, then, it was charged, evinced a practical, lackadaisical attitude toward books, and failed to distinguish between the devalued printed product represented by the newspaper and its culturally esteemed pendant, the book. It is easy to view this doleful chorus of writers condescendingly, and to dismiss them as retrograde misogynists. However, their diatribes against women readers may contain a recognition of the new female reading practices that had developed by the end of the century. Instead of stressing possession, competition, and hierarchy, as well as a taxonomic, ‘positivist’ approach to collecting, the female aesthetic emphasized the connection between texts, domestic work, and daily life.24 It acknowledged that, like de Bury’s caps and sandals, wool and linen, books were ephemeral, not eternal products.25 Such an attitude was indeed utilitarian. It sought to make use of books through reading and rereading but also through ‘lending, sharing and returning … seeking instruction, enlightenment, solace, or escape.’26 A culture of women’s reading and specifically female reading practices developed in tandem with the immense growth of a female reading public in nineteenth-century France. This growth was itself in part a product of both educational reforms – the first lycées for girls were founded in 1880 and the first normal school for women the following year – and technological advances responsible for an influx of inexpensive printed materials.27 But such practices are also inscribed in the bourgeois culture of domesticity, and in the ideology of separate spheres for men and women. The value placed on female domesticity in the nineteenth century encouraged female literacy both for utilitarian ends (in order to read cookbooks, etiquette manuals, almanacs, or advertisements, for example) and for the purposes of leisure, amusement, and evasion. These last purposes were amply filled by the romanfeuilleton, published in the flourishing feminine and familial press, and more generally by the novel.28 In contrast to the image of the solitary male reader, indulging his passion for books in guilty privacy, female readership was often, although hardly always, shared and collective – feuilletons circulated among groups of women or were read aloud while

172 The New Bibliopolis

certain domestic activities took place.29 So while the exaggerated images of women using books to fix a faulty table leg and perform other domestic functions seem caricatured, they may contain important clues about the gendered nature of reading practices at that time. Opposed to the uncouth treatment they observed books receiving, however, fin-de-siècle male bibliophiles proposed what they considered more appropriate sentiments: veneration, tenderness, love, even lust.

Books as Lovers While female humans were excommunicated from the fellowship of bibliophiles by virtue of their ‘manhandling’ of books, they reappeared in a more convenient object form, as books themselves. The anthropomorphization of books has a long history, whether hailed as ‘friends’ or apostrophized by Uzanne as ‘robust old men’ (C 46). Yet in Uzanne’s lexicon books and book parts and forms – binding, typography, genres – frequently adopted female attributes. Uzanne compared the austere, unornamented bindings known as jansénistes to ‘provincial prudes’ (DB 253); viewed graceful italic type as a female pendant to Roman type (‘solid, male, stocky, and well-established’), and made the inédit, or unpublished work, into a euphemism for a woman’s virginity. 30 In a similar vein, he unfavourably contrasted a freshly bound luxe volume – ‘dry, tough, hostile, phony, peevish, prudish; it exhibits the irritating expressions of an overly well-dressed woman, who allows her lover no liberty on the prextext that her outfit will get rumpled’ – to an old bouquin, ‘always available; like the prostitute of ancient days, it offers itself to all.’31 Uzanne’s interest in ‘dismembering’ the book in these descriptions bears some analogy to the contemporary fascination with dissecting, often violently, female anatomy evidenced, for example, in the brutal 1888 rampage of Jack the Ripper and the pioneering of ovariotomies and other sexual surgeries to redress a range of presumed female physical and psychological maladies. In the amphitheatre of the Santé hospital, Uzanne himself witnessed a series of procedures performed by Dr Jules-Émile Péan, one of the inventors of modern gynecological surgery. Among Péan’s victims during these highly theatrical public spectacles was a three-year-old girl into whose throat the doctor plunged what Uzanne graphically described as two fingers ‘thick as Frankfurters’ to retrieve coins she had choked on.32 The objectification of women encompassing both Péan’s public operations and the vogue for ‘Anatomical Venuses’ may have served to channel the same types of male

Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination 173

fantasies of control and sexual mastery enacted by Uzanne in his ‘clinical’ descriptions of the ‘female’ anatomy of the book. For at the fin de siècle ever more frequently authors represented books not merely as women but as predominantly sexual beings too, in fact as lovers. Although for centuries amorous language has been applied to books, such language turned increasingly graphic, as the charge produced by books as both commodities and sexual stimulants intensified. The pleasure of the bibliophile, asserted Le Temps’s drama critic, Adolphe Brisson, consisted in lavishing attention on one’s library ‘like a jealous lover on his beauty.’33 Uzanne deemed books ‘the anthology of my passion,’ whom he greeted ‘with more joy than a lover who clasps his long-awaited partner’ and in whose midst he drifted into delicious slumber after ‘caressing them with his eyes’ (C 4).34 The visual fondling of books described by Uzanne conveys the power of the male gaze over the object of its desire. Books were indeed, as Bibliophile Jacob asserted, ‘pleasures for the eyes’ that looked lasciviously at their tooling, binding, clasps, and other accoutrements, and also read them. Jacob vividly described the sexualized gaze of the male book collector in this way: As with sensual passions, [the passion for books] comes above all through the eyes: rare work, fine edition, beautiful specimen, rich binding, these are the many material qualities sought after by the lover of old books, for whom happiness lies in contemplation and possession. He resembles the veritable lover who details the charms of his mistress with a sort of proud pleasure, in the form of a catalogue of his library: ‘a twenty-year-old brunette, from a good family, with rare wit, a beautiful figure, elegantly dressed.’ 35

Ogling books was sometimes described as a prelude to – and occasionally a substitute for – touching them. For Jacob, the personal library of the most avid type of bibliomane was ‘a seraglio, where even eunuchs do not enter … he does not allow a friend to gaze on one of his mistresses … whom he strokes with his eyes and hand with delight … he takes his pleasure in solitude.’ Like a pasha, the book collector takes pleasure in accumulating through purchase and exchange the commodities comprising his harem, just as fictional ‘pashas’ such as Aristide Saccard, the financier-protagonist of Émile Zola’s novel L’Argent (1891), purchases a night with Madame de Jeumont for 200,000 francs and with it the right to display his ‘purchase’ at a ball. As Beraldi remarked, the

174 The New Bibliopolis

physical effort involved in amassing and providing for the upkeep of this harem of books – fighting to procure them at auction, then maintaining them in style – required considerable physical stamina: ‘To be a book lover today, one must be tough.’36 Sometimes, however, the lover’s passion for his possessions ‘tires, cools, peters out,’ and disgust then sets in. When this occurred, the ‘Grand Seigneur’ remade his harem in search of ‘caprice and novelty’ (reversing the slave–master dynamic, though, occasionally the harem owner was depicted, as by Anatole France, as the ‘slave of his collections’).37 Then, he became as cruel and fickle a lover as he was a possessive one, even a ruthlessly ‘imperialist’ one, as the following exoticized description of books by Bibliophile Jacob suggests: the ‘Spanish women follow the Circassians, negresses of the Congo follow white English women; the Grand Seigneur sells his women at public auction.’38 Images of conquest recur frequently in descriptions of book hunters avid for the thrill of the chase (and possessing both the wealth and leisure to pursue it). Uzanne, for one, observed the ‘book-hunting breed’ setting off to the bookstalls of the quais each day, ‘light-footed, the heart beating with a holy emotion, uneasy about whether the mistress they will conquer will be blond or brunette.’39 Similarly, noted Uzanne, in the ‘infernal seraglio’ of Paris real women were pursued daily by the ‘hordes of hunters’ who ‘scramble for the spoils of virginity and innocence.’40 Paris was indeed the fetishist’s utopia, ‘paradise of madmen and bibliomaniacs.’41 Obsessed by possession, especially of what others possessed, noted Bibliophile Jacob, this hunter-gatherer ‘lives only … for conquest,’ causing him to employ seduction, intrigue, and all other means to obtain the coveted object of his desire. For fin-de-siècle French bibliophiles, possession of the book/mistress implied not only ownership but an actual physical ‘taking’ of the book, requiring considerable skill and prowess on the part of the lover: ‘It is an art unto itself,’ Beraldi asserted, ‘to know how to hold a rare book both firmly and softly, to open it, to handle it.’42 ‘Carnally bibliophilic,’ in Beraldi’s view, the book lover typically ‘caresses the volume … to speak of it he uses a whole courtly and quasi-lascivious language; – and it’s a body that isn’t flaccid – and it’s the elegant contour of the shapes – and the delicacy of the extremities, and the perfection of the casing, and the firmness of the back, and the softness of the skin, and its polish, and the adornment, and the lace, and the virginal freshness.’43 Jules Claretie, Académie Française member and director of the Théâtre Français, confessed to enjoying stroking his bindings ‘like a lover.’44

Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination 175

Uzanne described the tactile pleasures of bouquineurs who ‘plunge … their hands, black with dust, into a book stall that is an entire world’ and delight in leafing through ‘a long-coveted book, handling a fortuitous find, caressing a binding, dusting off the edges.’45 Edmond de Goncourt also admitted to succumbing to the ‘seduction’ of a soft binding and to ‘a certain physical delectation in touching, palpating, plying one of these skins from the Levant that is so richly supple.’46 Meditating on the sensual nature of book love in his essay, ‘Bibliophilie,’ Anatole France pronounced: ‘Books only make one happy if one loves to caress them.’ Son of a bibliophile bookstore owner who passed on a love of beaux livres, France had often enjoyed the ‘charms of running trembling fingers over the delightful grain of the leather.’47 The act of touching books often partook of not only the sensual but also the sacred, recalling the practices of touching and kissing holy books. In À Rebours, Joris-Karl Huysmans figures his book-worshipping protagonist, the reclusive dandy des Esseintes, ‘fondl[ing] … reverently’ his copies of works by Baudelaire, which he had printed in an ‘admirable’ Episcopal typeface, ‘in a large format similar to that of a massbook.’ Moreover, des Esseintes ‘reverently handled’ his ‘superb’ 1585 edition of Petronius’s Satyricon, excited equally by the ‘divine’ material form of the book and its obscene descriptions of ‘a brothel where men circle round naked women.’48 While a refined sense of touch, noted Edmond de Goncourt, was the sine qua non of any amateur – ‘the man who holds an object with indifferent fingers, with stupid fingers, with fingers that lack the ability to lovingly envelop, that man is not a devotee of art’ – Uzanne and others endowed such activities as feeling the grain of the leather, testing the flatness and weight of a book, and assessing its resistance when opening it, with a sexual charge previously not noted.49 Desire to physically penetrate and possess the virgin book might even find an outlet, finally, in the act of affixing to it one’s ex libris after opening it up for the first time, in an expression of what Uzanne termed, in English, ‘Book-plate’s love’ (NB 223). Perhaps not coincidentally, the vogue for bookplates burgeoned at the fin de siècle, Uzanne observed, ‘with an intensity that is hard to measure, but which seems excessive to us’ (NB 225), as evidenced by the flourishing of publications and societies devoted to these marks of ownership. For Uzanne, the delights of touch were matched by the olfactory pleasure of sniffing ‘with delight, the odour of dried old calfskin,’ while Adolphe Brisson found joy in the ‘particular odour exuded by old bindings exposed to rain and sun.’50 A sensual approach to books, then, engaging the entire body, was deemed

176 The New Bibliopolis

the proper means of appropriating these volumes, and perhaps also the knowledge within. Brisson’s descriptions of the ‘voluptuous shudder, this quasi-sensual joy,’ even, ultimately, the ‘climax’ (jouissance) obtained from books were matched by Uzanne’s promises of the ‘intense physical pleasures’ and, finally, the ‘ecstasy’ they offered. 51 Surpassing the joy obtained by the bibliophile from inhaling a book’s musky odour or fingering its supple leather covering was the one procured from opening a ‘virgin’ book with an ebony or ivory knife, a useful instrument the book lover was advised to always keep handy.52 Uzanne asserted that this ‘delicate and fastidious feeling of the long paper-cutter that also cuts the folds’ was alien to women.53 In the preface to his 1833 satire of Romantic bohemians, Les Jeunes-France, Théophile Gautier described more bluntly the pleasure obtained from cutting open the book. Coyly adopting a reputedly feminine attitude in claiming to ‘hate with all my heart anything resembling a book,’ because of its apparent uselessness, Gautier then abruptly asserted that ‘the only pleasure that a book still procures for me is the shudder of an ivory knife in its uncut pages; it’s a virginity like any other, and that is always pleasant to take.’54 Often this physical ‘taking’ extended to a metaphorical ‘rape’ of the book. Gautier criticized overzealous male book lovers who refused to accord to the book’s ‘virginity’ ‘a quarter-hour grace period. You touch it, you handle it, you drag it from your table to your bed, you tear off its innocent dress, you rip its pages: poor book!’ And Uzanne offered this depiction of a ‘book beggar’who took pleasure in stealing coveted books from the collections of others: ‘He violates what he loves, without waiting for it to give itself to him.’55 Sometimes reading the book’s preface was likened to foreplay, a type of necessary preliminary exercise essential to every (book) lover’s repertoire of seduction. Ernest Quentin-Bauchart described the preface to his study of women bibliophiles as ‘the antechamber of a pretty woman [where] one must not … linger too long.’56 And Gautier described his own preface as the ‘book’s reserve’ where the reader must patiently tarry, gaining glimpses of the book before ‘entering’ its body: ‘Her blushing, the half-confessions, muffled sighs, coquettish annoyances, that’s the whole charm; it’s the young girl who spends a long time undoing her belt and unlacing her corset before getting into the bed where her lover waits. What man is so stupid, so lacking in voluptuousness to tell her: Hurry up!’57 The fetishization of the book as female body took a macabre turn with the shadowy practice of binding volumes in human, specifically

Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination 177

female, skin. While legends abounded concerning the curious punishments of tanning aristocrats’ skin during the French Revolution to bind copies of Rousseau’s Du Contrat social, and that of criminals to bind law books, female skin bindings seemed to exercise a peculiar fascination over nineteenth-century bibliophiles. Rumour held that Uzanne’s early mentor, the Satanic author Barbey d’Aurevilly, had a woman’s skin tanned to bind his books.58 In Nantes in 1906 an edition of Renan’s La Vie de Jésus was reputedly bound with skin from a woman’s armpit, while it was the skin of a woman’s breasts that was used to bind a first edition of the Marquis de Sade’s Justine, with these reconstructed body parts forming unforgettable ‘crests’ on the book’s exterior.59 The silky shoulders of a countess so enticed the astronomer Camille Flammarion that in a morbidly romantic gesture she promised to have them tanned and sent to the scientist on her death, to bind his book, Les Terres du ciel; the book bore the inscription, ‘Pious fulfilment of an anonymous vow. Binding in human skin (female), 1882.’60 Perhaps all these men followed the notorious example of Frederick Hankey, a wealthy London rentier, bibliophile, and erotica collector known in some circles as a sadist and flagellist. Despite his own taste for crafting singular bindings, Edmond de Goncourt nevertheless fled Hankey’s Parisian residence in April 1862 ‘as if in a nightmare, broken, with stomach turned, like after drinking, the head empty,’ upon hearing the collector’s shocking account of his bookbinding tastes: ‘I’m awaiting a hide, the skin of a young girl that one of my friends claims to have for me. It’s being tanned … If you wish to see my hide … He proposed having it skinned in front of me … Six months to tan it … But we need two women … it’s between the thighs … and thus, you understand, we need two … But it’s unpleasant … the skin should be removed from a young girl, alive.’ 61

With its overtones of sadism and necrophilia, misogyny and eroticism, the gory practice of binding works in female skin represented an extreme form of fetishism in which the female body and the book literally fused. In a similar fashion, the allure of a binding Goncourt designed for his copy of Flaubert’s Salammbô – ‘a real Carthaginian binding, made from brownish Japanese leather, which looks like a human hide fresh from the Meudon tannery, and endpapers of barbarian silk, representing owls woven in gold on a blood-red background’ – melded the erotic charge of human skin with the exotic appeal of the Orient in ways befitting a

178 The New Bibliopolis

dandy.62 It was perhaps not surprising, then, in 1895 to find a human skin binding encasing a copy of Thomas à Kempis’s The Imitation of Christ in the London shop of Leonard Smithers, purveyor of high end erotica and publisher of the British Decadents, most importantly Oscar Wilde and Aubrey Beardsley.63 Or to read in the diary of Wilde’s contemporary, the British novelist George Gissing, that in 1893 his own publisher, H.W. Lawrence, showed him an edition of Hans Holbein’s Dance of Death that Lawrence ‘had just had bound in human skin – silly fellow.’64 It was precisely the dandy’s interest in the livre unique, as well as the ‘obsession with limited editions typical of contemporary bibliophilia,’ in Uzanne’s words, that Albert Robida satirized in his novel about a wedding agency for bachelors, La Clef des coeurs.65 To ensure the success of a book he has just written, one of the novel’s characters, a poet, pays for one thousand numbered copies of it, breaking with his tradition of printing six copies of his works for his ‘chosen, cream of the crop public, a small group of the elect.’66 While half of these copies are printed on China paper, ten are impressed on the skin of guillotined prisoners and another ten on that of ‘gallant’ eighteenth-century noblewomen; four on the skin of heartbroken female suicide victims; and one on the skin of a Venetian Renaissance courtesan. The poet reserves the final copy, tattooed directly onto a woman’s skin, for his own pleasure. Like locks of hair of departed loved ones, these casings of female skin seemed to function in one sense as lugubrious keepsakes or memento mori. At the same time, however, they appear to be a perverse form of punishment for women’s sexual sins, as well as for suicide. Such titillating gothic tales, finally, perhaps embellished in successive retellings, may well have heightened a sense of kinship among those engaged in the ‘men only’ activity of book collecting. The almost perverse, childlike pleasure male bibliophiles found in ogling, sniffing, and fondling their books was echoed in the substantial category of erotica that formed part of many bibliophiles’ libraries. This section was often passed off under the guise of ‘eclecticism,’ considered by some bibliophiles as a valuable attribute of a personal library. The presence of erotic works in these libraries often justified their placement, again haremlike, behind curtains or a triple lock, in a ‘cursed corner,’ noted Uzanne, or in a ‘special display case, the shelves for the poisons, the stimulants, the obscenities.’67 It was precisely such pornographic books that had been ‘separated out, into the so-called Hell’ that Henri Vever came across while tidying his library one evening. A model of bourgeois propriety as a Parisian luxury goldsmith catering to an elite

Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination 179

clientele, Vever resolved: ‘I’m making up a package of them and will throw them into the Seine from the pont de la Concorde.’68 The catalogue of Jules Claretie’s library reveals a section of ‘Ouvrages sur l’amour, les femmes, le mariage,’ whose innocent title masked selections on what Uzanne deemed ‘non-conformist physical love’ (DB 183), including the Kama Soutra, a book on the droit du seigneur, and an 1879 translation from Latin entitled Utilité de la flagellation dans les plaisirs de l’amour et du mariage, published like many clandestine works in Brussels. The illustrated Le Bijou de Société ou l’Amusement des Grâces (1784) that belonged to both Edmond de Goncourt and Eugène Paillet prompted Beraldi to remark of these ‘slightly salacious stories’: ‘No one can say that our nineteenth century has the monopoly on pornography.’69 Indeed, Bijou typified the illustrated works from the eighteenth century, considered the century of libertinage by many fin-de-siècle book collectors, which every bibliophile’s library boasted. When in 1894 part of Uzanne’s personal library was sold at auction, it included three works by the author he named ‘this madman of erotomania’ (Q 140), the Marquis de Sade. Indeed, noted Goncourt, all Sade’s writings, as well as ‘the rarest filth, all the playful or horrible literature discharged by the 18th century … breviaries of flagellation, sodomy, the bawdy works of l’Arétin, the Fathers of Phallus,’ belonged to Frederick Hankey’s library.70 Goncourt, however, remained fairly circumspect in his journal entries about his own collection of important European and Japanese erotic works included in the major portion of his library devoted to the eighteenth century. In À Rebours, des Esseintes’s library boasts a copy of a contemporary work whose ‘demonic erotomania’ and ‘sensual monstrosities,’ in the protagonist’s view, owed much to Sade: Barbey d’Aurevilly’s Les Diaboliques. To underscore the inversion of fervent Catholicism that permeated Barbey’s Satanic novel, des Esseintes had his treasured copy of this ‘extraordinary book’ printed ‘in bishop’s purple-ink, within a border of cardinal red, on a genuine parchment blessed by the Auditors of Rota … [with] those lettres de civilité whose peculiar hooks and flourishes, curling up or down, assume a satanic appearance.’71 The presence or absence in personal libraries of eighteenth-century erotica also formed the basis of a stereotype tossed between France and England regarding the ‘cultural’ proclivity of each country’s bibliophiles for lewd works. The Scottish historical writer John Hill Burton noted that such obscenities were ‘fortunately less prevalent among us than … among the French.’72 Perhaps Burton overlooked the notable

180 The New Bibliopolis

collection of erotica belonging to, and in some cases authored by, the bibliographer and businessman H.S. Ashbee, an English member of several French bibliophile societies. Conversely, Goncourt found Hankey’s sadistic brand of libertinism ‘a frightening side of a blasé, moneyed artistocracy, the English aristocracy.’73 The circulation of such stereotypes both within Paris and London and back and forth across the Channel contributed to a playful rivalry that in the end served to secure the foundations of this international male book fellowship. The purported taste of bibliophiles for erotica belonged as well to another group of stereotypes designating book lovers not only as eccentric, obsessive types, subject to grandiose passions – ‘a madman, a monster,’ Goncourt wrote of Hankey – but also perverts.74 Indeed, early-twentieth-century sexologists examined works by Sade, Rétif de la Bretonne, and Rousseau as catalogues of ‘perversions’ ranging from masochism to foot fetishism.75 An unforgettable portrait of such a ‘bibliophalliphile’ (DB 105) – Uzanne’s neologism – was elaborated by him for the delectation of his presumably male readers in ‘Le Cabinet d’un éroto-bibliomane,’ one of the tales comprising his 1878 Caprices d’un bibliophile. The story clearly belongs to the category of ‘cabinet fiction,’ works detailing forms of forbidden or transgressive collecting taking place within ‘off-limits’ private spaces – boudoir, harem, brothel, peep show, library – which brim with a fantastic display of accumulated, fetishized objects.76 Uzanne’s story seems also to both parody, and rely on as a metaphor for collecting, the burgeoning medical and scientific literature on erotomania, viewed by Jean-Martin Charcot and others as an extreme form of fetishism resulting from a failure to control sexual urges. Uzanne’s tale describes the narrator’s dizzying passage through the boulevard Haussmann apartment of Chevalier Kerhany – a near anagram of Hankey – a notorious, ‘bizarre Bibliomaniac, musky, enveloped in mystery.’77 Like Pluto in the underworld, the decadent chevalier leads his guest through rooms crammed with lewd figurines; seventeenth- and eighteenth-century paintings displaying ‘a debauchery of languid and inebriated postures,’ and bronzes ‘of such frightful lechery,’ before arriving at the ‘ne plus ultra of depravity,’ the library. In this inner sanctum of decadence, books are arranged by degree of obscenity, with the ‘incurables’ to be found on the extreme left. Despite the hoarding practices of this crazed eroticist, he lives in a state of perpetual dissatisfaction, perhaps the frustration of the collector whose collection is forever incomplete and whose main pleasure thus becomes a

Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination 181

source of torment. The story’s end finds the voyeuristic Kerhany trading his copy of Restif de la Bretonne’s L’Anti-Justine for a lesbianthemed painting by Fragonard belonging to his guest.78

Books versus Wives Except in the extreme cases imagined in Uzanne’s tale, books appeared, in the writings of fin-de-siècle bibliophiles, ideal female partners for the male book lover. They satisfied both his range of affective needs for consolation, intellectual stimulation, humour, or gravity, and his carnal needs, too. Marginal annotation even allowed book lovers to ‘converse’ with their books. Human wives, by contrast, were stingy and jealous, viewing the ‘frightful bouquin’ as a ‘powerful rival’ (Z 30). Such rivalry between books and wives, it was said, contributed to the breakup of many marriages. Frequently abetting these domestic disputes, legend held, were bookstore owners who, as the publisher Henri Floury suggested in a lecture, acted as pimps, procuring attractive books for young bibliophiles.79 Only occasionally did wives display indifference and even more rarely love toward the book-mistress, in this case creating a harmonious ménage à trois in the household.80 At times books were depicted as wives, and men exhorted to be ‘wedded to books.’81 This metaphor, however, seemed less frequently used in France than in England. Indeed, Uzanne concluded, French booklovers’ wives would do well to look across the Channel, where ‘women hold so small a place,’ for models of submissiveness to their book-loving husbands. Writing in the yearbook of the Société des Amis des Livres, which counted H.S. Ashbee and several other British bookmen as members, Uzanne praised the mater familias of England for not taking offence at ‘these witty nocturnal fetes in the marital library … these frequent little escapades, simply happy at the idea of the bookish joys of her husband and master.’82 A reader of Uzanne, Holbrook Jackson noted that ‘[i]f all be true that I have read, the tyranny of the woman bibliophobe is more common in France than in England,’ thus perpetuating a cultural game in which each country’s women were accused of surpassing all the others in their hatred of books.83 The potential for such wrath from his wife (or potentially another male bibliophile) forced the married male book lover into a life of subterfuge, repression, and secrecy, enabling him to hide his domestic ‘affair’ with books from ‘the tribunal of the Wife’ (Z 33). Uzanne described a typical ruse in this way:

182 The New Bibliopolis He condenses his library into a corner; he represses his passion, he muzzles his ardour; he becomes reserved, silent, defiant toward his wife; he hides his purchases like a vice, he dissimulates his desires, and it is in secret, like a contrabandist, that he brings up the service staircase the new ones, which he furtively ushers into his quarters.84

New purchases were lied about, shoved into secret interior coat pockets, or hidden in garbage cans until they could be furtively recovered.85 ‘Stalked’ (traqué) in his own home, ‘it is rare,’ noted Uzanne, ‘that he can take pleasure in full independence, tranquility, and voluptuousness, from his sweet and innocent caprice.’86 Like Uzanne, Firmin Maillard, author of a tract entitled La Légende de la femme émancipée, described the married book lover as ‘trembling with pleasure at the idea of finding himself alone with his new conquests … [T]he traitor escapes and runs to his study, not without having quietly opened the door and taken the books that he ushers surreptitiously into his library.’87 Clearly, the types of devotion, energy, and passion demanded by both books and marriage were incompatible: ‘With rare exceptions,’ warned Quentin-Bauchart, ‘marriage is thus an obstacle that every good bibliophile must avoid, if he wishes to conserve his books and his liberty.’88 Besides the physical and emotional constraints imposed by marriage, the financial responsibilities of providing for a family often entailed reducing the book budget, and in the most straitened circumstances selling one’s library. Conversely, however, and acknowledging the preoccupying bourgeois concern of inheritance, Beraldi argued that as heirs children resolved the problem of a library’s dispersal on the owner’s death (BB 120). Firmin Maillard similarly urged women to rejoice in their husbands’ burgeoning book collections, for ‘it is the fortune of your children that is increasing.’89 Despite the financial and material advantages bibliophilia might offer a family, though, Uzanne concluded that the only state compatible with the all-consuming ardour required by the love of books – demanded by it, in fact – was the one he hailed as ‘la Vie Célibe.’ If bibliophiles could not avoid marriage, Uzanne urged them to become ‘bachelors when crossing the threshold of their library.’90 It was indeed bachelorhood that Uzanne exalted in Le Paroissien du célibataire, an 1890 treatise he devoted to the topic. Another of his breezy ‘physio-psychological’ (iii) studies, this one was curiously addressed by the first person narrator to a silent, and silenced, female interlocutor – ‘mon amie.’ Its intended readership, however, was clearly masculine and presumably in part unmarried. Bachelorhood, in fin-de-siècle literature,

Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination 183

often signified the individualism and desired marginality of a long line of fictional ‘eccentrics,’ including Huysmans’s protagonists Folantin and des Esseintes.91 Late nineenth-century bachelor bibliophiles included Auguste Rondel, a Marseilles banker who amassed a vast collection of 200,000 items on theatre arts, the Goncourt brothers, and of course Uzanne himself.92 As noted by Remy de Gourmont, who prefaced yet another treatise Uzanne authored on this topic, Le Célibat et l’amour: Traité de vie passionnelle et de dilection féminine (1912), Uzanne ‘lacks a conjugal soul entirely’ and had thus ‘wisely’ (sagement) led the single life. For all these unmarried men, books and other collectibles constituted a type of surrogate family. In his ‘prayer-book’ (paroissien), Uzanne put a new twist on the time-worn image of bachelorhood (‘saintly Celibacy,’63) as a type of ministry or calling grouping ‘an elite of delicate beings’ (iv) in urban parishes. His use of religious vocabulary to depict bibliophiles as a subgroup of these holy men, while tongue-in-cheek, nevertheless alludes to religious veneration as a form of fetishism, a topic then attracting much attention from the medical and developing psychological community in France.93 Whether communing with their missals or breviaries, or adoring Woman – a ‘coveted, worshipped, idolized divinity’ – Uzanne’s priests revelled in blissful, narcissistic isolation in residences described alternately as ‘chapels,’ ‘sanctuaries,’ or ‘mystical ivory tower[s] open to the sky and closed off to the world, where passion will grow in secret.’94 A temple of high bric-o-bracomania (in the image of Uzanne’s own quai Voltaire apartment) overflowing with books, vignettes, drawings, prints, fabrics, flowers, and statuettes, the bachelor’s space defied conventional expectations of domesticity. And his repository for a trove of erotic engravings, alongside ‘the famous literary depravities, the intellectual outrages, the visions of sensual obscenities, the pathological curiosities,’ this private ‘enfer’ was meant to both seduce and repel women. Retreat into the inner sanctum of the home, as Edmond de Goncourt had observed in his celebration of the cloistered life of the aesthete, La Maison d’un artiste, was a welcome palliative to the distracting influence of women. ‘Taking leave of the charming being,’ Goncourt asserted, men would soon fixate on new objects worthier of their desire, ‘pretty inanimate objects the passion for which assumes a bit of the nature and character of love.’95 As Uzanne asserted in Le Paroissien du célibataire, it was in their garçonnières that men could shake off the loveless marital yoke, that ‘consecration in the eyes of imbeciles only’ (43) and even, for Uzanne, a form of ‘suicide in disguise’ (260) for men. There, these rebels were free from

184 The New Bibliopolis

public opinion, free in fact from all social convention, including pursuit of a traditional career. Uzanne’s solitary faithful were snobs, fearful of ‘vulgar contacts and the scum of the earth,’ and also idealists in search of ‘the paradises of Thought’ so antithetical to the ‘gluey fixative’ of marriage.96 Their celibacy represented an exalted state close to genius – ‘an imitation of the life of Angels’ (5), according to the lofty description by the seventeenth-century theologian and prelate, Bossuet. And it was wives – fickle, jealous, illogical, and vain, in Uzanne’s ceaselessly essentialized view of these femmes fatales – who had made their Angels commit apostasy. Did the ‘Vie Célibe’ required of book-loving bachelors imply actual chastity, as suggested by the ambiguity of the French word dscribing both the non-married state and sexual abstention (le célibat)? For some bibliophiles, it did indeed. Expounding on Uzanne’s theme of a bibliophilic priesthood, Beraldi noted that certain book lovers maintained a ‘mystical marriage’ (BB 120) with books, as if to compensate for the enforced chastity their position required. Perpetually unfulfilled book lust, QuentinBauchart claimed, led to neurosis (and, oddly, baldness): ‘Striving only for possession, pure platonic contemplation was unknown to him. His ardour was impatient, sometimes brutal, and his desire, ceaselessly renewed, always unsatiated, condemned him to perpetual erethism. From this resulted neurosis or baldness that ordinarily distinguished the noted amateur.’97 Both Beraldi and Quentin-Bauchart, then, underscored the sublimation of human sexual desire inherent in object-love, perhaps signifying the perpetual ‘hunger’ of the collector. This displacement of desire emerges in a striking way from the diary of Henri Vever. Frustrated by an apparently sexually unfulfilling marriage – ‘once again, for several days I have been abominably tormented by the flesh! – I am lost, it’s an exasperating struggle, and I do not wish to succumb!’ – the passionate collector resolved on a solution: ‘To divert myself, I decide to go take a look at bibelots.’ Having combed over and bought ‘a sufficiently large crop to calm my nerves a bit,’ Vever concluded: ‘Needless to say, this costs me more than a first-class courtesan, but at least I remain pure.’98

Women Bibliophiles? Given women’s ‘natural’ capriciousness and carelessness, could they be bibliophiles? As ‘possessions’ could they also possess? These questions assuredly drew on the popular notion that women were not predisposed to collecting of any type: ‘Women are not collectors,’ Holbrook Jackson

Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination 185

declared, ‘nor are they lovers of aught save love and what pertains to it.’99 The debate intensified with the 1886 publication of QuentinBauchart’s Les Femmes Bibliophiles de France, a two-volume, richly illustrated history of women book collectors from the sixteenth through the eighteenth centuries. Bibliographical in orientation, erudite in tone, conservative in appearance – the book was published by the venerable Damascène Morgand and dedicated to Baron Pichon, president of the Société des Bibliophiles François – the study was nevertheless presented in the many written critiques of it as daring in its serious consideration of a tradition of female bibliophilia. Quentin-Bauchart concluded that an elite of ‘true’ women bibliophiles including Diane de Poitiers, Catherine de Medici, and Madame de Pompadour did love books for some of the same reasons as did their male counterparts: content, rarity, and physical condition. Timidly seconding this view, Beraldi suggested that one might think of many examples of women ‘who promote the development of collections, who care about them, who are not averse to paging through an illustrated book or to appreciating a mosaic binding, and all this with even more good taste in that the obsessiveness of collectors is foreign to these women.’100 Among Goncourt’s projected collections was one of eighteenth-century books bearing the arms of Frenchwomen who were ‘somewhat bibliophilic’ but his plan was frustrated when these volumes started becoming the desiderata of wealthy bankers.101 Even Uzanne conceded that the queens and princesses, matrons and ‘honnestes dames’ of France discussed in what he dubbed this ‘excellent Gynebio-bibliological publication’ (Q 123) had left ‘grand and sumptuous traces in the history of bibliophilia’ (Z 35). Yet the same critics agreed that these exceptions did not prove the rule. Such owners of celebrated libraries as Anne d’Autriche may have amassed their collections simply as an extension of their role as art patrons. As Uzanne noted, a noblewoman’s books were the marks ‘of her good works and her fine intelligence.’102 Moreover, the book-collecting practices of these grandes dames surely reflected their class background rather than their gender. As Andrew Lang reminded his readers: ‘During the Revolution, to like well-bound books was as much as to proclaim one an aristocrat.’103 For this reason, Uzanne asserted that a real tradition of women bibliophiles died in 1789 along with the ancien régime (Z 50). Royal women who in the past collected livres de luxe – 18,000 of them in the case of Anne de Rohan – and then had them bound with their arms and stored in majestic cases, did so not out of interest in their content but because book collecting was a respectable and expected upper-class

186 The New Bibliopolis

social practice aimed at displaying the signs of royal rank. As QuentinBauchart told his readers: ‘Many grandes dames owned books in centuries past, but almost all of them were ignorant of the content, and the title of “bibliophile” scarcely applies to them. Once the book was acquired, bound, and shelved more or less methodically in a luxurious armoire, the effect was achieved and the women stuck to that.’104 Andrew Lang again concurred, asserting that while such women did own exquisitely printed and bound books and manuscripts, it nevertheless ‘remains uncertain whether the owners, as a rule, were bibliophiles; whether their hearts were with their treasures.’105 What motivated these women bibliophiles, Uzanne suggested, was not only a sense of noblesse oblige but also personal vanity and concern for future reputation. Moreover, the assembling, binding, and conservation of such magnificent collections was surely the work not of these women but of their librarians, ‘mysterious bibliophiles, left in the shadows’ (Z 37), éminences grises. And although refined, the practices of these female book lovers would always differ from those of men. A range of dubious arguments in this pseudodebate, then, allowed Uzanne and fellow bookmen to remain sceptical that the women of Blois, Fontainebleau, or Versailles could read, fondle, or admire books as did Grolier, de Thou, and La Vallière, among other legendary male collectors. As Uzanne and his fellow bookmen suggested, it was fashion, as well as rank, that dictated that the femmes de France would collect books. ‘Fashion decided that the great must possess books,’ remarked Andrew Lang, just as it decided they should smoke or gamble.106 Yet like women, as Uzanne noted, throughout the centuries books had also been prey to fashion. Fashion dictated margin width and determined the vogue for bound or unbound books, cut or uncut pages, specific editions, formats, and fonts. The publication of a notable bibliography, discovery of an exceptional edition, or emergence of a wealthy new buyer might all produce new book-buying trends. Fashion – a female deity Uzanne contemplated with ambivalence – had indeed imposed itself on the ‘taste and love for Books, exerting over Bibliopolis a powerful action.’107 And never had fashion proved more fickle, he asserted, than in his own day, when the public’s taste for newness seemed ever more demanding and capricious. Perhaps the most telling symptom, for Uzanne, of the powerful vanity of ‘tyrannical fashion,’ ‘this queen of women and imperious dominatrix of the passions of the crowd’ (NB 3), was the proliferation of accessories and external ‘adornments’ of both women and books. To these accoutrements Uzanne devoted two parallel series of works, one

Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination 187

on ‘the ornaments of women’ (parasols, gloves, muffs, fans), the other on the ‘adornment’ of books.108 The detailed descriptions of a cornucopia of objects, accompanied by eye-catching illustrations, designate these works as written forms of the collector’s cabinet de curiosités. They share with Uzanne’s ‘physiological’ works a reliance on a poetics of collection and display. Of books, Uzanne wrote: ‘one must dream of [their] toilette … with all the proud vanity, all the knowledge of harmony that one brings to the toilette of a woman.’109 Like beautiful women, beautiful books were adorned with clasps, satin ribbons, gauzy crêpe du Japon, even jewels; they could also, like women again, boast a pedigree or provenance (although sometimes a dubious one, as in the case of demimondaines). The alluring physiques of books signalled to men that both these categories of luxury items – women and fine books – were meant to be appropriated, either in the privacy of the harem-like boudoir or library or publicly, during purposeful walks through Paris. One critic in fact envisioned Uzanne strolling from the booksellers’ stalls along the quais of the Left Bank to the department stores along the Right, passing ‘from women to books and from books to women.’110 In the end, then, the vast majority of the female book collectors studied by Quentin-Bauchart deserved the title of bibliophile only ‘very imperfectly.’111 Such was the judgment of Albert Cim, journalist, librarian (of the Société des Gens de Lettres), bibliophile, and novelist. In moralizing, traditionalist works of fiction such as Bas-bleus (1892) and Demoiselles à marier (1894), the radical misogynist Cim railed against both bachelières and women authors as violators of women’s ‘natural,’ married, and maternal state.112 Cim’s dismissal of the entire history of upper-class female bibliophilia, in a piece called ‘Les Femmes et les livres,’ was echoed by Adolphe Brisson, who brazenly claimed that no more than ‘seven or eight women bibliophiles’ had existed ‘since the invention of the printing press.’113 These arguments became a de facto justification for marginalizing even the handful of women – ‘one or two noble women,’ according to Uzanne (Z 51) – accepted into the solidly male bastions of fin-de-siècle French bibliophile societies. Who were these women? To a certain extent, like their royal predecessors they often belonged to elite social and literary circles.114 The ‘grace, esprit, and beauty’ of the dramatist, salonnière, and Nouvelle Revue founder, Juliette Adam, were welcome sights ‘in the midst of the black tailcoats’ of the Amis des Livres, whose statutes indicated that ‘women are permitted to belong to the Society.’115 Also a member of both the Amis des Livres and Uzanne’s Bibliophiles Contemporains, whose statutes admitted up

188 The New Bibliopolis

to a 10 per cent quota of women, was Blanche Butterworth Haggin.116 A prominent San Francisco arts patron, collector, and socialite, she was the wife of the lawyer-businessman Louis Terah Haggin, whose immense family fortune was made during the gold rush. Well-travelled, multilingual (she produced for friends a volume of the poems of Hafiz translated from Persian into French), with residences on Nob Hill, Fifth Avenue, and the Champs-Élysées, Blanche Haggin typified a prosperous, cultivated international elite that provided select members for fin-de-siècle Parisian bibliophile societies.117 The presence of Blanche Haggin, the salonnière Léontine Arman de Caillavet, the celebrated Comédie-Française actress Julia Bartet, Baronne James de Rothschild, and other women, however, did not seem to dilute the heady masculine ethos of what the historian Brian Harrison, writing about the movement opposing women’s suffrage in pre–First World War England, has called ‘Clubland.’118 This network of European and American men’s social clubs, many of them founded in the last decades of the nineteenth century, helped reinforce sexual and social divides and served as powerful constructors and validators of masculinity. Outfitted with fumoirs, billiard and dining rooms, portrait galleries, and deep leather armchairs, clubs such as the ones Uzanne visited in New York in the company of ‘gentlemen quick to order champagne and to down it in large glasses’ provided alternate, edenic domestic spaces where men could live like bachelors, far from women’s distracting presence, and in which misogynistic gossip could circulate freely.119 Even when the possibility of female book collecting was admitted, then, it was considered a separate and unequal social practice, focused on procuring visual and social rather than spiritual satisfaction, and devoid of the passion, erudition, and innate savoir-faire distinguishing the mere collector from the true bibliophile. Further, Uzanne asserted, this gender disparity held true for all cultures. Regarding ‘these illustrious book ladies’ (emphasis in original) (Z 52) of the United States, Uzanne defended himself against the label of ‘cynic Frenchman’ (Z 52) hurled at him in the New York Tribune for his suggestion that these women did not merit true bibliophile status. True, he acknowledged, American capitalism enabled these ‘Banknote ladies’ to form ‘a serious library by virtue of fashion and vanity’ (Z 53) and tempered jealousy of their ‘book hunter’ husbands with a liberal attitude toward expenditure. Uzanne’s flip tone and neologism-laden language here may mask some resentment over the ‘raids’ on European auctions by Americans abroad that often preceded the burgeoning of American book collections.

Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination 189

However, the youth and inexperience of American culture argued against a tradition of serious bibliophilia, regardless of gender: ‘The aimiable Yankees have a tradition that is too recent for them to be sensitive to the charms of Gothic style and incunabula.’120 Buttressed, then, by a range of questionable cultural, economic, and sexual arguments, Uzanne concluded that in the end he would remain ‘long uncertain of the real, profound, innate, and enlightened taste of woman for the book, regardless of nationality.’ The considerable effort expended by Uzanne and others in proving beyond a reasonable doubt that women could not be bibliophiles may convey an attempt not only to solidify the masculine bases of ‘Clubland’ but at the same time prevent a socially taboo lesbian gaze on the ‘female’ book.121 Considered one of the many variants of the female tendency toward ‘perversion’ during this period, lesbianism was presumed to have a masculinizing effect.122 Female lovers of ‘female’ books were thus suspect of abandoning their ‘natural’ femininity to ape male behaviour, thus blurring the border separating the genders and setting up a presumed rivalry between them. Uzanne bemoaned the fact that New York book ladies had lost ‘much of the charm, grace, and exquisite levity that in my eyes comprise the most beautiful feminine prerogative.’123 And he sternly warned women to unclench that privileged male instrument of (book) possession, the coupe-papier. His castigation of women book lovers as unfeminine amazones echoed the attacks he reserved for another group of women intimately involved with the printed word: writers.124 While female authors probably did not surpass 2 per cent of all writers at the fin de siècle (excluding women who fulfilled less dignified but no less important tasks as ghostwriters), women nevertheless came to be prevalent in specific genres, such as children’s and pedagogical literature, and the flourishing feminine press. At the same time, the notoriety cultivated by female authors such as Gyp, Rachilde, Séverine, and others assured that la femme auteur (sometimes masquerading behind a male pseudonym and literary persona) would occupy a deeply troubling position in the male bibliophile imagination.125 In his ambivalent paean to Parisian women, La Femme à Paris, Uzanne accused bas-bleus – or in his description this ‘swarm of hermaphrodite writers’126– of ‘masculinizing themselves in grotesque proportions’ (164). Among them, he singled out for particularly stinging scorn both men-hating ‘frightful androgynes’ (171) and ‘the short-haired aesthete, Pre-Raphaelite and Sapphic’ (172). The master intertext for Uzanne’s vituperations against such hommesses was his mentor Barbey d’Aurevilly’s

190 The New Bibliopolis

1878 pamphlet, Les Bas-Bleus, which branded women writers as ‘failed … men.’ 127 The copy of this work Uzanne received from its author tellingly bore the following inscription: ‘To you, Monsieur Octave Uzanne, who prefers their calves naked, these frightful bluestockings, dyed in ink of paltry virtue!’128 Yet Barbey blamed not only masculinized women for the era’s lamentable sexual anarchy, a sad by-product of mass democracy in his view, but feminized men, too: ‘Women … got the idea of equating themselves with men, and … men, who had become as womanly as women, were base enough to endure this.’ The confusing androgyny associated with women’s writing and owning books seemed symptomatic of what Barbey condemned as this ‘world that has lost its virility,’ a weakened world in which women encroached on male social and professional terrain – and owned property, too. Whereas the Napoleonic Code had sanctioned a routine dispossession of female property in light of women’s juridical status as minors, reforms in civil law under the Third Republic enabled married women to open savings accounts (1891); claim at least a quarter of their husbands’ property on their death (1891); and dispose of their own salary (1907). Anxiety over such a shift in women’s status from being viewed as property to becoming property owners themselves may well have informed the nearconstant admonitions by bibliophiles to keep women far distant from such potentially valuable assets as rare and fine books.

Men and Women in the Field of Book Production Women, then, were condemned as ‘the enemies of books’ by virtue of two contradictory arguments. The first of these held that women were insensitive to the physical charms of the book, preferring the texts contained within. The British author Sara P. Paton asserted that due to their ‘sentimental’ nature women loved to find the ‘adorable soul’ of the author and the ‘face of a dear friend’ when reading a text.129 Indeed, women had a ‘fine contempt,’ charged Andrew Lang, for anything but the text. Women might enjoy reading and do so skilfully, although for suspect reasons such as a desire to kill time in their husbands’ absence or for show. Moreover, what women read – their preferred genre was purportedly the novel – was disparaged by their male counterparts as unworthy of bibliophilic interest due to its commercial success, mass industrial production, and relative newness as a literary form. Adolphe Brisson asserted that ‘novelistic literature exerts an irresistible prestige on the

Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination 191

female brain.’130 And exaggerating a theme Flaubert had evoked in Madame Bovary, Uzanne linked the female taste for the novel to women’s essentialized, dreamy nature: ‘Woman lives cerebrally in a constant state of unreality and in an improbable life that she likes to create for herself; the novel is her natural domain.’131 These arguments, resting on an implied association between women and a mass culture viewed as inferior, suggest that, above all, male bibliophiles esteemed the refined forms of the material book rather than the texts such books contained.132 While some bibliophiles accused women of privileging the text over its physical support, though, others charged precisely the opposite. ‘[I]t is difficult,’ asserted Charles and Mary Elton in Great Book-Collectors (1893), ‘to find one [woman] who preferred the inside to the outside of the book.’133 Excluded from the world of ‘true,’ high culture, women, it was claimed, loved books primarily as bibelots, like silks, lace, sconces, fans, or porcelain. ‘Women adore bibelots and … they are uninterested in books,’ Adolphe Brisson reminded his readers. ‘The bibelot is decorative, one puts it in the salon, hangs it on the wall. Everyone notices it and is enraptured.’134 This ‘bibelotization’ of the book and its subsequent association with women perhaps derived from an aristocratic tradition of showy possession dating from the ancien régime: ‘Indulgence in books,’ remarked Labessade, ‘was the pendant of other types of indulgences; one displayed one’s books as one did one’s paintings, dogs, carriages.’135 No longer the prerogative of rank, such desire for consideration had spread to the conspicuously consuming upper-class elites. And among the upper classes, women in particular were accused of privileging the aesthetics of book collecting, and devoting themselves to harmonizing these bibelots with the decor of the home over pursuing the knowledge books invited. However, many male bibliophiles at the fin de siècle also seemed interested in precisely this reputedly ‘feminine’ approach to book collecting, construing books as one appetizing type of ‘eye candy’ among many other collectibles. Uzanne’s bachelor lives happily in a type of dreamworld created by his bibelots, ‘these comfortable servants’ (P 119) that include, pell-mell, ‘books, vignettes, drawings, prints … fabrics, silks, statuettes, faïence, and flowers: all of this curious, singular, strange, amusing, unique, displaying artistic flair and the taste for discovery.’136 Moreover, for Uzanne (echoing themes found in the writings of both Montesquiou and Goncourt), a harmonious decor enhanced the aesthetic value of these bibelots:

192 The New Bibliopolis The surroundings render books more expressive; art in all its manifestations lends them a je ne sais quoi that makes them seem more inviting, joyful, intimate; the old fabrics, the Gobelins tapestries, tawny bronzed leather from Italy and Spain, Genoa velvet, [and] wood carvings enhance their value and take away their austerity, that straightness of lines, that coldness that one sees in the libraries of so many bibliophiles.137

In the image of his hyperbolic approach to collecting, the stylized, precious language Uzanne uses to write about this practice, overflowing with neologisms, anglicisms, and flowery descriptions, reinforces a sense of ‘frilly’ femininity. Further underscoring what appears as a type of ‘male femininity’ in his writings is Uzanne’s frequent shift from a male to female speaking position; in many of his works, a male narrator directly addresses women in the voice of a female, or sexually ambiguous double of himself.138 Yet while Uzanne, Montesquiou, and others were enraptured with the aesthetic, sensual pleasure derived from accumulating these collectibles, other male collectors condemned precisely those bookmen who evinced such a ‘feminine’ approach. Quentin-Bauchart, for one, criticized the many male bibliophiles who viewed books primarily as ‘an object of fashion and luxury’ and he deplored the fact that ‘almost [all of them] ignored the content.’139 ‘The great libraries have disappeared,’ he concluded sadly in his homage to the ‘old guard’ bibliophiles of 1875. ‘ … Only shelves remain.’ Even Uzanne, strangely, condemned an extreme form of his own well-documented passion for bric-a-brac as ‘one of the most raging symptoms of decadence that I know.’140 The efforts by Uzanne and others to revel in an approach to collecting deemed feminine by some while at the same time vigorously condemning this approach may contain an awareness of the contemporary attempts in medical and scientific literature to pathologize book love and other manifestations of collectionnomanie. Jean-Martin Charcot and Valentin Magnan’s seminal 1882 article on ‘genital inversion,’ for example, followed closely by the writings of Richard von Krafft-Ebing in Germany and Havelock Ellis in Britain, suggested that fetishists were nearly always male and latent homosexuals, a verdict with which in 1923 Wilhem Stekel would concur, noting that a key component of such fetishism was misogyny.141 This dim view of collectors (and also, by virtue of their non-married state, of bachelors) as ‘deviants’ was compounded by similar stereotypes of connoisseurs and aesthetes as homosexual, a word that entered the French language in 1891 and

Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination 193

gained further notoriety with Oscar Wilde’s well-publicized 1895 trial. A great admirer of Wilde’s ‘life full of luxury and pomp,’ Uzanne, for one, also viewed him sympathetically as ‘a man who expiated essentially private errors, which harm no one.’142 In casting books as female lovers and themselves as the ‘he-men’ who pursued and conquered them, then, the clubby discourse of these bookmen may have served to help distance them from a ‘feminine’ collecting style deemed socially and sexually problematic for men because of its association with homosexuality, and thus abnormality. At the same time, however, such a discourse reinforced the homosocial bonds that allowed book collecting to remain a prestigious ‘men only’ territory. In this respect, much of the exaggeratedly masculine language of book love resembles other attempts to invigorate masculinity during this period of changing gender definitions, from the emphasis on duelling to the promotion of such ‘masculine’ sports as competitive bicycle racing to the cultivation of military might and virility in the years leading to the First World War. However, the ‘combat’ represented by collecting imitates that of duelling only in a minor and often parodic mode. As emblems of conspicuous consumption valued by France’s moneyed elites, rare and deluxe books belonged to what the American sociologist Thorstein Veblen, writing in 1899, considered symbolic badges of prowess, pale substitutes for the authentic arms of war associated with France’s feudal aristocracy.143 And the struggle not only between the sexes but within each one that this discourse conveyed – a struggle between ‘masculine’ collecting and ‘feminine’ accumulation, between the ‘masculine’ objet d’art and the ‘feminine’ bibelot, for example – is one manifestation of what Elaine Showalter has labelled the ‘sexual anarchy’ of this period, characterized by both a shifting of gender roles due to wide-ranging reforms affecting women’s legal, professional, and educational status and, at the same time, increasing attempts to codify and contain these roles.144 The increasing mutability between and within genders that the language of book collecting seemed to signal was accompanied by a destabilization of the physical zones associated with each. By claiming the personal library as their privileged space, male bookworms had in fact retreated deep into the private sphere associated with women, while banishing them from it, as the title of a gouache hanging in Goncourt’s book-filled study – ‘L’Épouse indiscrète’ (The Indiscreet Wife) – made clear. The rentier status of Uzanne, Montesquiou, Gallimard, and others indeed enabled these domestic spaces to become their primary spheres of activ-

194 The New Bibliopolis

ity. Conversely, and despite concerted efforts by both the government and arts administrators to domesticate women by promoting them as ‘queens’ of an interior design associated with Art Nouveau, women were increasingly ‘going public.’ The first lycées and normal schools for females opened in the early 1880s, and women began entering the medical, legal, and secondary and university teaching professions. Public spaces in Paris were peopled by women too, including those zones associated with books. Now that women had ‘invaded society’ (Quais 161), scoffed Uzanne, female students and teachers figured among the clientele of the bouquinistes. Like the ‘frightful bas-bleus’ they resembled, female lycée teachers ‘flip through very thoroughly and quickly all the books on display, monopolizing the case where they ensconce themselves, even taking notes on their reading, then negligently tossing the book aside and moving on without purchasing anything.’145 For Uzanne, women in general were the scourge of the bouquinistes, who warily observed them ‘fingering the volume with one hand, opening them awkwardly, never putting them back in the right spot, browsing through them for too long without buying, and if, by chance, they do want one, haggling over it as if it were a crayfish or a chicken.’146 Women readers, too, were moving out of the home and into the public sphere, where they ceased to be marked as domestic ‘possessions.’ The cover of Uzanne and Albert Robida’s Contes pour les bibliophiles, for example, shows stylishly Art Nouveau women reading en plein air (figure 1.8). In this image and many others from the period, if reading is linked for women to the act of ‘going public,’ for bibliophiles it often entailed ‘going private’ in the home library or men’s club, further fuzzying the demarcation between male and female spheres. And this encroachment on the largely public turf of the book cycle – of publishing, in fact, among other activities – may well have been perceived as threatening to the men who dominated it. Indeed, the sense of a destabilized equilibrium between public and private spheres that women’s reading seemed to herald may have reflected a broader anxiety generated by a perception of women’s increased entry into the field of the printed word. While in fact women were making only modest inroads into the many intermediary positions in the book cycle, in some cases these incursions were dramatic and highly visible. Such was the case of Marguerite Durand’s self-consciously feminist newspaper, La Fronde, founded in 1897, the first produced exclusively for women and whose entire editorial and production staff was female. Equally striking was the unique feminization of the profession of bookstore agents employed by Hachette’s network of Biblio-

Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination 195

thèques des chemins de fer. The employment of these women, many of them spouses and widows of railway employees, was construed primarily as a type of welfare system and did not result from an explicitly feminist vocation on the part of either Hachette or the railway companies. Nevertheless, the presence of these female entrepreneurs in the maledominated field of book and newspaper production was striking, and surely noticed by many travellers in the busy public space of France’s train stations.147 Women’s managerial presence may have been equally noticeable in Parisian cabinets de lecture. According to an 1883 article in Le Livre, thirty-four of 118 such reading rooms were run by women.148 Aside from these notable examples, few other women exercised entrepreneurial functions in the field of book production. Book publishing was exclusively masculine. A handful of women ran binderies, but they were exceptional. On winning a bronze medal at the 1894 international Paris book exhibit, Madame Veuve Lanscelin was congratulated by the jury, which noted that ‘it is difficult for a woman alone to maintain the reputation of a firm whose (male) head has passed away.’149 Women were pushed to the fringes of the almost exclusively male world of printers, binders, and others in the book trades. They comprised about 7 per cent of type-setters in 1906, and were otherwise limited to the traditionally feminized, unskilled work of folding paper to make book pages, sewing bindings, and embroidering covers.150 A pewter plaque produced in 1900 by Charles Meunier shows a female bindery worker in a characteristic pose, at her sewing frame (figure 6.2). Unlike the situation in England, few French women designed bindings before the First World War. Yet women performed unskilled tasks and oversaw them, too.151 In 1896 Uzanne noted that ‘[m]any bosses in Parisian binderies are women’ (DB 80) (Figure 6.3). According to Bibliophile Jacob, elderly women figured among other desolate types comprising the étalagistes, an underclass of urban booksellers who peddled their wares on bridges, quais, and street corners: ‘Sometimes it’s an old woman, like the witches of Macbeth, a contemporary of the books she sells; the experience of reading novels in her youth has perhaps led her to sell them.’152 A small number of women distinguished themselves as librarians, beginning a trend leading to the characterization of such professionals as ‘bookish.’ Marie Pellechet, for example, a specialist of early printing, bibliographer, and honorary librarian at the Bibliothèque nationale, produced an erudite, three-volume Catalogue général des incunables des bibliothèques de France. Yet most women involved in the book cycle were exceptional. While over the course of the nineteenth century more women became bookbinders and

196 The New Bibliopolis

sellers, authors, and especially readers, women continued to occupy an inherently dominated position in the field of book production. However, while the reality was much more nuanced, women at the fin de siècle may nevertheless have been perceived to be encroaching on the entire arena of book production. And this perceived infiltration helped fuel a diffuse hostility and backlash against women in regard to books. As the historian Leslie Howsam has argued, the book has always been not only a historical agent and sociomaterial object but also a ‘gendered object’ and in fact a ‘predominantly masculine institution for much of its history.’153 It has been so, in fact, for as long as both the learned knowledge books convey and the act of acquiring associated with collecting have been considered the sole provinces of men. The misogynistic discourse of fin-de-siècle bookmen provides a compelling example of how, in Howsam’s words, ‘the book has been implicated in those structures of masculine power and authority known … as patriarchy.’ At the fin de siècle, however, male authority was beginning to face the double challenge of the femme nouvelle, whose educational level and leisure time were augmenting, and the ensuing masculinity crisis. In this context, both the demonization and sexualizing of women in relation to books began to serve a new purpose, and ‘book love’ became more than merely an apt metaphor for describing the ardour of the collector toward his possessions. The banter circulating within and among bookshops, private libraries, and publications from Paris to London to New York – whether playful, pun-filled and titillating, or mock-serious as in the debate over women bibliophiles generated by Quentin-Bauchart’s book – served to both socialize and unite an international brotherhood of collectors in the security of the single-sex nature of their prestigious practice. Who among them could disagree with Bibliophile Jacob’s 1880 quip that the happiest person is a bibliophile – ‘as long as it’s a man’?154 Such punch lines, however, belie serious attempts to forge increasingly narrow definitions of ‘bibliophile’ in order to forbid women from being collectors. One purpose this rhetorical sleight of hand served was to help clarify gender roles in an era when they were becoming significantly more mutable. Describing collectors as lovers, hunters, sultans, rapists, and other he-men helped designate book love as a male – yet not homosexual – activity just as it eliminated any possibility of female (person) on female (book) contact. In the same way, as Elaine Showalter has noted, ‘[f]in-de-siècle Clubland existed on the fragile borderline that separated male bonding from homosexuality and that distinguished manly misog-

Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination 197

Image Not Available

Figure 6.2 ‘The Bookbinder’ (‘La Relieuse’). Pewter plaquette by Maurice Favre (1900) produced for Charles Meunier on the occasion of an exhibit of his bindings at the Maison du Livre.

198 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 6.3 ‘The Women Binders.’ Illustration for Octave Uzanne, Dictionnaire bibliophilosophique (1896), artist unknown

Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination 199

yny from disgusting homoeroticism.’155 Barring women from the spaces associated with all but the most denigrated literary genres or material forms of the book (and from high culture more generally) represented part of a broader attempt to minimize the perceived disruptive influence of the femme fatale. At the same time as this exclusionary discourse brought the gender demarcation into sharper focus, however, it also made it fuzzier. For in describing books as beautiful ‘female’ objects destined to be bought and adorned, and in turn to beautify the home themselves, Uzanne, Montesquiou, and others were revealing themselves as partisans of an aestheticizing approach to collecting often associated with women and thus stigmatized as unmanly. This sexual confusion regarding bibliophilia spilled over into the discourse about other gender-related dichotomies: texts vs books; private vs public; ‘passive’ reading vs ‘active’ book hunting. The fin-de-siècle discourse on books, men, and bookmen, then, whose goal was to exclude women from the high culture of bibliophilia, actually spoke volumes about two important interrelated debates. One of these debates concerned the shifting relationships between and within the sexes, and the other, the legitimate uses of, and attitudes toward, books and texts. This latter question – how should books be used and conceived of? – leads back to a consideration of the impact of technology on fine book production with which this study began, and which it is instructive to revisit in conclusion.

7 Conclusion: The End of Books?

We’re rid of pictures, rid of books, Editions large and small; For now the Phono-clich-o-thèque ‘By Dibdin!’ does it all. No cutting leaves, no lending books And having more to buy; In 1900 Edison Knocked printing into pi. Henry Hanby Hay, ‘A Dream of the Twentieth Century,’ The Booklover’s Almanac for the Year 1894

In the waning years of the nineteenth century, Octave Uzanne shared with his fellow bibliophiles both enthusiasm and anxiety about how mutations in the technologies of book production were precipitating profound, widely ranging changes in the material form of the book, reading practices, and cultural attitudes toward print. For example, the photomechanical printing technique of gillotage, as Uzanne had demonstrated, was an invaluable support in crafting the unique volumes desired by bibliophiles. But at the same time the introduction of such industrial and commercial techniques appeared to jeopardize the status of these books as unique objets d’art and to mark them with the stigmata of mass consumer goods. What types of practices might develop to help connoisseurs cordon off collector’s editions from their commercially produced pendants? And to perpetuate the association of the culture of the book with France’s social and cultural elites, masculine ones at that?

Conclusion: The End of Books? 201

The dramatic mutations in the field of book production that prompted these questions characterized not only Uzanne’s turn of the century but also, of course, our own.1 In the early twenty-first century, the cultural influence of the digital technologies that have given rise to e-texts and the e-book are proving to be ‘no less revolutionary, perhaps more so,’ claims Jason Epstein, the former long-time editorial director of Random House and keen observer of the book business, than the introduction of movable type.2 Just as the consequences of Gutenberg’s invention of the printing press in the mid-fifteenth century could not be predicted at the time, nor could the effects of industrial book production that Uzanne and his friends observed in the 1890s – and nor can those of the twenty-first century’s digital and electronic technologies. Has the discourse about these transformations, alternating between idealistic enthusiasm for new forms of print and nostalgia for bygone ones, changed in a century? How do new technologies affect the form of the book, and with what results? It was this last question in particular that preoccupied Uzanne, and it is thus appropriate to return to it at the conclusion of this book. For while the material form of the book changed less during his era than did the means by which it was produced – the book remained an object to be paged through rather than unrolled – its visual appearance was nevertheless modified considerably due to new techniques for illustration, binding, and typography. Uzanne’s ambivalence about the effects of technology on book production, described in previous chapters, runs throughout his work. It is encapsulated, however, in his remarkably prescient, futuristic short story published in 1895 (having appeared in translation as ‘The End of Books’ in Scribner’s Magazine a year earlier), entitled ‘La Fin des livres.’3 This story belongs to the Contes pour les bibliophiles, a volume destined for book lovers judging by the creamy vellum paper on which it is printed. Uzanne’s coauthor and illustrator of the volume – his ‘dear companion of brush and pencil’ and the ‘master image-maker’ to whom he dedicated these Contes – was Albert Robida (1848–1926) (figure 7.1), a former collaborator of Uzanne’s on his review, Le Livre Moderne.4 Uzanne hailed Robida, another of the many artists he undertook to promote, as one of the most original artists of his century, a successor of Gustave Doré ‘by virtue of his Imagination, Craftsmanship, Erudition, and by the variety of his techniques.’5 An extraordinarily prolific author, lithographer, and engraver with a taste for caricature, Robida had a fantastical imagination inclined toward both the past and the future. He authored and illustrated a

202 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 7.1 ‘Dear companion[s] of brush and pencil’: Octave Uzanne and Albert Robida. Drawing by Albert Robida, in Uzanne and Robida, Contes pour les bibliophiles (1895)

series devoted to ‘old cities’ of Europe, animating their ‘picturesque places,’ Uzanne wrote, with lithographs that he found charming ‘in this era of gray and boring photography.’6 Robida also designed for the 1900 Paris World’s Fair the famous exhibit on Le Vieux Paris, an architectural pastiche of medieval and Renaissance styles built along the Seine for the occasion, complete with towers, dungeons, and moats. Clearly enraptured by these same periods, in 1902 Robida provided illustrations of smiling monks, châteaux forts, Renaissance musical instruments, and more for a luxurious three-volume edition of Poèmes et ballades du temps passé, produced by Charles Meunier’s Maison du Livre.7 In another drawing, Robida captured Meunier at his workbench by a thick leadglass window in what clearly resembles a pre-industrial, artisanal atelier (figure 7.2). Robida’s kinship with the fifteenth-century balladeer François Villon, however, was matched by his affinity for one of his contemporaries, the early science-fiction writer Jules Verne. Robida lacked Verne’s knowledge of science but compensated for it with the prodigious, fanciful imaginings evident in the futuristic trilogy Robida wrote and illustrated: Le Vingtième Siècle (1883), La Guerre au vingtième siècle (1887), and La Vie électrique (1890). In the technological utopia he envisioned, new techniques

Conclusion: The End of Books? 203

Image Not Available

Figure 7.2 ‘The Leather-Gilder,’ by Albert Robida, in Catalogue de livres modernes ornés de reliures artistiques exécutées par Charles Meunier (1908)

204 The New Bibliopolis

transformed industry, communications, even leisure activities, and these in turn transformed society. Clearly borrowing from Robida, and relying on him as an illustrator, Uzanne’s own utopian musings on the future of transportation, published in Le Monde Moderne in 1895, foresaw not only a revolution in communications and diplomatic relations but also the fostering of a harmonious global village.8 Far less optimistically, however, in L’Écho de Paris Uzanne fumed that the advent of electric trams, ‘shameful to see, hear, smell,’ heralded an odd assortment of ills, among them nitrogen-laden food, ‘self-loving women,’ and ‘automatic mail service.’ And he asked his readers: ‘Does all that gladden you, my friends?’9 Among the sublime inventions Robida anticipated for the twentieth century, alongside X-rays and flying machines, was the téléphonoscope, a device that likely provided a starting point for Uzanne’s own musings on the future of the book. Based on Graham Bell’s miraculous telephone of 1876, which first became available in Paris in 1881, Robida’s contraption consisted of a small crystal plaque attached to a flexible auditory tube. The word ‘telephonoscope’ had first appeared in 1878 in the British magazine Punch in the title of a drawing by Georges du Maurier depicting a bourgeois couple ensconced at home using the new invention to chat with their daughter while simultaneously watching her on a tennis court. Robida’s embellished version of this invention would allow thousands of interlocutors worldwide to both see and hear, in the comfort of their homes, theatrical performances direct from the Parisian (or Viennese, or London) stage. It was precisely to this new ubiquity of art afforded by mechanical reproduction that Paul Valéry would later refer: ‘Just as water, gas, and electricity are brought into our houses from afar to satisfy our needs in response to a minimal effort, so we shall be supplied with visual or auditory images, which will appear and disappear at a simple movement of the hand, hardly more than a sign.’10 Robida’s own models for the téléphonoscope may have been works published in the French popular scientific press on the télectroscope, a machine also attributed to Graham Bell that was capable of transmitting images at a distance. Moreover, Robida was certainly aware of the théâtrophone invented by Clément Ader, one of the founders of the French Société générale des téléphones. This lightweight, transportable machine, equipped with two reception devices, had excited curious visitors observing the latest technological marvels at both the 1881 Paris Exposition internationale de l’électricité and the 1889 Paris World’s Fair. Much like Robida’s imaginary téléphonoscope but lacking its visual dimension, this spectacular machine transmitted, for a fee that bought

Conclusion: The End of Books? 205

ten minutes of listening time, live performances from Parisian theatres. Located in hotels, cafes, men’s clubs, newsrooms, and the theatre vestibules themselves, the théâtrophone increased leisure opportunities for those who could afford it.11 The invention of both Ader’s théâtrophone and Robida’s imaginary téléphonoscope, then, enlivened a broader discussion about what material forms new technologies, both real and imagined, would inspire. Would the telephone be used only for conversations between two interlocutors, or would it find other uses? Who would have access to new technologies, and at what cost? What social and cultural practices would they engender? Did they signify progress, or rather regression? What level of technical quality would the public deem acceptable? Clearly Uzanne and Robida had these questions in mind, as they related to books, when composing their tale about ‘the end of Books and their complete transformation.’12 In what Uzanne describes as his ‘personal recollection narrated in the “egotic” mode,’ he recreates a conversation among a group of bibliophiles and érudits who have just attended, in London, a lecture delivered by an English physicist, William Thompson. The scientist’s convincing mathematical demonstration that in ten million years the human race would be extinct leads the group of historians, journalists, philologists, and mondains into a champagne-fuelled discussion about ‘the future destinies of humanity.’ One guest, echoing a diffuse anxiety of the period, asserts that older continents will soon cede to the domination of younger ones such as America. Another guest – a vegetarian and naturalist – predicts that artificial nutrients will replace natural ones, allowing the earth to return to its edenic state. Closer to Uzanne’s own views, another character, a painter and critic, bemoans the fact that mechanical procedures such as photography and photogravure have allowed poor quality, banal art to proliferate. Soon such products, indeed, would no longer be considered art but rather ‘a new branch of commerce’ (‘Fin des livres’ 132). Moreover, such works, disparaged as examples of ‘peinturographie’ (132) – another of Uzanne’s neologisms – would be destined not for a cultural elite but for ‘popular satisfaction’ (131). Before long ‘real’ art would be produced by ‘only a few saintly men, veritable fakirs of the idea of the beautiful who, confronted with the silence and incomprehension of the masses, will produce masterpieces worthy of this name.’13 With new technologies blurring the boundary between art and commerce, then, the only solution in Uzanne’s view was a retreat into the rarefied world of l’art pour l’art.

206 The New Bibliopolis

Did the same destiny – commercialization and lowering of quality of an elite cultural product – also await the book? his companions ask Uzanne’s fictitious bibliophile. But what is a book? the latter asks in response, when queried by his companions. He wonders aloud whether ‘[if] by saying “books” you intend to discuss our innumerable notebooks made up of printed paper, folded, stitched, bound under a cover announcing the title of the work.’14 This Gutenbergian book, in the bibliophile’s view, would soon go the way of painted stones and carved bones, stone tablets, papyrus and parchment scrolls, and the codex, becoming obsolete as a vehicle for intellectual production. ‘Threatened with death’ (132), the book would soon cede to a portable soundrecording device, dubbed storyographe by the neologism-loving bibliophile. Such a device clearly shared characteristics of the telephone, télectroscope, théâtrophone, and the fictional téléphonoscope of Uzanne’s day, while it anticipates the audio-book of our own era. In an ironic return from printed to oral culture, suggested Uzanne, the ‘malevolent work’ of the sorcerer ‘Edisonas’ (‘burned at the stake’ for revealing boundless new possibilities for the spread of information) would triumph over Gutenberg’s printing press (figure 7.3). Just as ‘the elevator has killed elevation in homes,’ Uzanne’s spokesman claims, the phonograph would soon replace the printing press for reasons technical, cultural, and even physiological.15 For example, while printing techniques, he argues, had attained their ‘apogee of perfection’ (‘Fin des livres’ 133), phonographic techniques, still in their infancy, were continually improving. Many of those in Uzanne’s real-life bibliophile circle indeed shared a giddy fascination with the new phonographic technologies. An after-dinner phonographic ‘session’ in April 1898, for example, provided captivating entertainment for Henri Vever and his dinner companions. The poor quality of the sound did not seem to hinder the group, but was passed off as amusing, as the jeweller recorded in his diary: After having made the audience listen to Père la Victoire, the toasts by Félix Faure and the Tsar … and assorted different bits, those present are invited to come, by turn, to record a cylinder and speak a few words or verses. M. [one of the guests], as a preparatory experience, recites ‘The Wolf and the Lamb,’ and the instrument repeats it very well. But when it comes to the cylinder on which each of us has practised, we hear only a frightful moaning, a sound of intensified static, which is the height of our merriment. As an experiment it’s a complete failure. But we really had fun.16

Conclusion: The End of Books? 207

Image Not Available

Figure 7.3 ‘The malevolent work called phonograf by the sorcerer Edisonas justly burned at the stake on ___.’ Illustration by Albert Robida, for Uzanne and Robida, ‘La Fin des livres,’ Contes pour les bibliophiles (1895)

208 The New Bibliopolis

Phonographic and photographic techniques thus appeared to Vever and others in his milieu to offer limitless new possibilities for instruction and leisure, a departure from the long and, for the most part, monotone history of printing practices. The revolutionary potential of technology was made clear to Uzanne when during an 1893 trip to the United States as a correspondent for Le Figaro he had the opportunity to visit Thomas Edison in his Orange Park factory. A brief first meeting of the pair had occurred four years earlier in Paris, during Edison’s triumphant attendance of the 1889 World’s Fair, which featured a pavilion devoted to telephones. In Orange Park Uzanne observed ‘the ingenious inventor of the phonograph’ – whom he described not as the evil sorcerer of his fictional tale but as an eccentric, baby-faced, unpretentious charmer – surrounded by a staggering number of new or updated inventions.17 These included counting machines, light bulbs, telephones, and the equivalent for sight of the phonograph: the kinetograph, a primitive movie camera capable of recording and reproducing movement through the use of thousands of successive photographic shots. An entire room devoted to phonographs, featuring sapphire-tipped needles for recording sound on cylinders, was but one of the hidden treasures that dazzled Uzanne in his visit to this modern Aladdin, ‘creator of phenomena.’ The promise of enhanced transmission of the phonographic ‘texts’ that books would soon become, which Uzanne had seen in evidence during his visit to Edison’s laboratory, would in turn bring pleasure to the ‘man of leisure’ (‘Fin des livres’ 134) for whom this product was destined. While the act of reading, Uzanne’s fictional bibliophile insists in ‘La Fin des livres,’ provoked ‘a great weariness,’ consuming cerebral phosphates and forcing bodies to bend themselves uncomfortably, the act of listening encouraged nothing but ‘bliss and restfulness.’18 In addition to affording greater leisure, the bibliophile argues, the compact storyographe offered a technological solution to the problem of overproduction and thus storage of print matter that marked his era, and which was itself in part a result of advances in technology: ‘Books must either disappear or engulf us.’ Technical progress, leisure culture, and overproduction of print would thus combine, in Uzanne’s vision, to make the book obsolete; his story reveals a double fear of excess and disappearance. Yet had Uzanne’s bibliophile time travelled to the era of the e-book a century later, he would have witnessed the return of the Gutenbergian ‘book’ in the form of an object imitating the appearance and format of a book – down to its pliable polymer ‘pages,’ replica of its printed cover, and even electronic ink – but which as a digital machine is in fact a simulacrum of the codex.

Conclusion: The End of Books? 209

Image Not Available

Figure 7.4 ‘Patent’s Office. Guarantee against Counterfeit.’ Illustration by Albert Robida, for Uzanne and Robida, ‘La Fin des livres,’ Contes pour les bibliophiles (1895)

Uzanne thus foresaw technological change transforming the material form of the book. He also envisioned such change leading to a redistribution and consolidation of functions in the cycle of book production, a phenomenon familiar to him from his activities in the bibliophile milieu. Such consolidation, he predicted, would in turn lead to a redefinition of conventional notions of ‘author’ and ‘authorship.’ To discourage pirated editions of their works, authors – or rather narrateurs, as Uzanne’s bibliophile deems them – registered their voices at a Patent Office by vocalizing their high and low notes, and then recorded their work (figure 7.4). After simultaneously ‘authoring,’ ‘publishing,’ and ‘printing’ their work in this way, they would next sell the patented cylinders directly to auditeurs, sometimes going door to door like the troubadours and colporteurs of the past (‘Fin des livres’ 135–6). Uzanne’s vision of authors and their agents assuming both the intellectual and entrepreneurial functions of publishers during a period of crisis

210 The New Bibliopolis

has in fact materialized in the early twenty-first century, according to some observers. As American and European publishing (and to a certain extent, book selling) has evolved into a large-scale business, with more and more firms owned by conglomerates, traditional publishers have become progressively estranged from their authors. As a result, publishers’ functions are increasingly being taken over by authors’ agents and their staffs, and other independent contractors. Like celebrities forming their own production companies, many authors themselves have in effect become their own publishers. At a moment when book publishing is transmuting from a vocation into a business venture, new technologies such as the e-book, according to Jason Epstein, may appear as dei ex machina, ‘providential[ly] … miraculous[ly]’ hastening this redistribution of the functions of author, publisher, and bookseller in a publishing industry already ‘fallen into terminal collapse.’19 Robert Darnton in fact views electronic publishing as a panacea for scholars at the start of their careers, who hope to find outlets for their work in the currently fragile field of academic publishing, in which financial pressures on university presses caused by rising production costs and the sharp increase in subscription rates for scientific journals have conspired to make scholarly monographs often appear as an ‘endangered species.’20 Given the marked change in the form of the book – whether storyographe or e-book – what becomes of libraries? Uzanne foresaw no fundamental change in the nature of the library as a room or building containing printed matter for study or reference. His libraries would simply be rebaptized phonographothèques or clichéothèques (‘Fin des livres’ 136), with neatly labelled cylinders classified and displayed in cases for the public. The book, in Uzanne’s vision, would still belong to the traditionally organized collection. The advent of the e-book, of course, has reversed this order. With a memory capable of storing scores of books, as well as newspapers and documents, today’s ‘book’ has become a veritable library, thus conflating the solitary object and the collection. And Uzanne clearly did not foresee how the digitizing and linking of library collections would lead to the creation of a library without walls. What the new technologies provided above all, in Uzanne’s future vision, was remarkably greater access to texts, indeed spawning what a century later has been hailed as a digital democracy. Soon, Uzanne claimed, ‘the people will be able to get drunk on literature as if it were fresh water’ (figure 7.5).21 In his view, access was enabled primarily through an increase in sales points, thanks to ‘literary distributors’ (‘Fin des livres’ 139) located at urban intersections. These ‘small edifices’

Conclusion: The End of Books? 211

Image Not Available

Figure 7.5 ‘The people will be able to get drunk on literature as if it were fresh water.’ Illustration by Albert Robida, for Uzanne and Robida, ‘La Fin des livres,’ Contes pour les bibliophiles (1895)

212 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 7.6 Illustration by Albert Robida, for Uzanne and Robida, ‘La Fin des livres,’ Contes pour les bibliophiles (1895)

resembled the listening stations that exist today in many music stores. Alongside these free literature kiosks, Uzanne foresaw the installation of ‘automatic libraries,’ where a modest penny token could dislodge a cylinder of Dickens, Dumas père, or Longfellow ready to take home, just as today a credit card and a phone line will provide a chunk of Stephen King or Patrick Cauvin. After two generations, Uzanne contended, le phonographisme would provide an astounding number of access points: restaurant tables, waiting rooms, steamship cabins, hotel suites and hallways, parlour cars on trains, and the omnibus (figure 7.6). Similarly today, machines for printing and binding downloaded texts may soon become fixtures in libraries, schools, post offices, photocopy shops, and bookstores. These ‘machines in thousands of locations with access to potentially limitless virtual inventories, catalogued, annotated, and searchable electronically,’ Jason Epstein contends, will give ‘[r]eaders in Ulan Bator, Samoa, Accra, and Nome,’ the same access to books as readers in Paris and Montpellier.22 Access to texts depends not only on multiplying the number of sales points but also on lowering costs, enhancing the convenience of appropriation, and helping to revive publishers’ backlists. Uzanne’s fictitious bibliophile understands perfectly the principle that earned Stephen

Conclusion: The End of Books? 213

King a staggering sum for selling over 500,000 electronic copies at $2.50 each of his novella, ‘Riding the Bullet.’23 Uzanne’s ‘man of letters (crowned by the Academy)’ comes equipped with a type of portable organ outfitted with flexible auditory tubes. For four or five cents an hour, he grinds out texts to numerous residents of the same building (figure 7.7). In this way, ‘modest budgets … will not be ruined and the vagabond author will collect relatively high royalties by virtue of the numerous “hearings” furnished by each house in the same neighbourhood.’24 For the indigent author Uzanne describes, such a system makes good business sense, while nevertheless inserting him into the economic world he might normally disdain as a bohemian intellectual. But what would lower costs accomplish, objects one of the bibliophile’s comrades, without a material support that was ‘rather portable, light and resistant’ (‘Fin des livres’ 135)? What types of miraculous cylinders and batteries would activate the phonographic book? Just as the bibliophile promises cylinders ‘light as celluloid pen-holders,’ the Cybook, first presented by the French start-up company Cytale at the 2000 Salon du Livre, boasted a relatively portable weight of one kilogram.25 Each of Uzanne’s imaginary cylinders contains 500 words, each Cybook 15,000 pages. Activated by individual sources of electricity channeled through a tube, each cylinder fits conveniently in one’s pocket, as do e-book readers. Both the e-book and its futuristic prototype are designed to ease eye strain. ‘Our eyes are made to see and reflect the beauties of nature and not to be worn down by reading texts,’ exclaims the bibliophile. As relatively infrequently exerted organs, Uzanne suggests, ears needed to compensate for eyes in the new physical economy. Moreover, the new audio-books would produce ‘a special vibrancy of the cells … that excites our own thoughts.’ Uzanne could not foresee that reading from a book might arguably present a model of comfort when compared with reading off a computer screen. Nevertheless, with their multiple font sizes and high-resolution screens, e-books find a prime readership among the visually impaired. Clearly, then, Uzanne foresaw weight, durability, storage capacity, size, and comfort as representing the ‘perfection of devices’ leading to the demise of the printing press, and thus of the traditional book itself. While Uzanne describes enthusiastically the universal library engendered in this technological utopia, he also hints, or hopes (unsurprisingly), that in this new ‘democracy’ an aristocracy of taste will quickly emerge. He was perhaps aware of the strong opposition elicited by the telephonic transmission from the Musée Grévin, in 1883, of popular songs performed in the Café Eldorado. Such devalued cultural forms

214 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 7.7 ‘Apartments for rent – to let – water, electricity, beer, théâtrophone, and music on every floor.’ Illustration by Albert Robida, for Uzanne and Robida, ‘La Fin des livres,’ Contes pour les bibliophiles (1895)

Conclusion: The End of Books? 215

were deemed unworthy of mass circulation, and soon only performances from the Paris Opera graced the telephone lines. Imposing their discriminating tastes on the mass of new materials made available phonographically, bibliophiles – or rather phonographophiles, in Uzanne’s lexicon – would search out high quality ‘editions’ recorded by various ‘first-rate speakers.’26 They would dispute the merits of ‘Sarah Bernhardt’s Hugo’or ‘Mounet-Sully’s Balzac,’ just as Uzanne and his fellow bibliophiles debated the codes dictating the aesthetic value of various papers, bindings, and fonts. Otherwise commonplace cylinders would be ‘rarefied,’ Uzanne predicted, by being ‘bound’ in gilded morocco leather carrying cases bearing the embossed title of the work contained within. The most sumptuous of these cases were destined to contain single editions spoken by an exalted performer or accompanied by ‘unpublished’ variants of a renowned work (137). Technology’s levelling effects, Uzanne implied, could and should not thwart the elitist desire to singularize and endow the undistinguished with distinction. Paradoxically, technological change might engender more, and not less, inequality. Echoing these themes in a piece on libraries of the future, Uzanne foresaw mass production reinforcing the elitist, exclusive tendencies of bibliophiles. By the end of the twentieth century, Uzanne predicted, bibliophiles would be devoted to searching for the rare examples of fine books printed on rotary presses just as their counterparts of a century earlier – Uzanne’s day – quested after the rare incunabulum. Indeed, the livres de luxe produced by bibliophile societies might be the only ones to survive in the future, Uzanne mused (with the question of conservation clearly on his mind), due to the poor quality of commercially produced books. The late-twentieth-century aristocracy of taste, Uzanne asserted, would belong to clubs, ‘marvellous silent salons’ where its members could read in peace.27 This group’s reading materials of choice would include bibliographies, specialized dictionaries, and other reference works that, like search engines, would help bibliophiles select and discriminate among the mass of books produced. Eventually, Uzanne foretold pessimistically, Paris and London would be overtaken as the two poles of Bibliopolis. Worse, in the end, French would become a dead language ‘that will be read with pleasure by several Celtic experts, resisting the ruthless and logical works of the Anglo-Saxons.’ While e-book ‘collectors’ have yet to emerge as a sociocultural type of the early twenty-first century, the question of regulating the torrent of new texts enabled by current technologies continues to provoke discussion. In Darnton’s view, at least in a first phase of ‘utopian enthusiasms,’

216 The New Bibliopolis

it is the Iron Hand of the market itself, combined with new technologies, rather than the elite of cultural connoisseurs described by Uzanne, that will allow a field flooded with new materials to reorganize.28 Reputable search engines will drive out poor quality texts. Some websites will essentially become vanity presses, while others will earn reputations as venues for proven talent. The enormous, tentacular World Wide Web will regulate itself. What about readers? What uses did Uzanne envision them making of these new techniques? Aside from its fanciful transformation from a visual to an auditory activity, Uzanne still presented reading as an essentially solitary, silent, and passive practice, and forecast no dramatic change in the mode of reading – an indication that changes in cultural practices often lag far behind the technological revolutions that engender them. His respect for the authority of authorship was such that he forecast no ‘death of the author’ to the profit of the reader.29 Even when ‘reading’ collectively by being hooked up to the same distributor, each reader would be free to retreat into his own world through the head set that he or she was wearing. Evoking ‘the laziness and egotism of man,’ Uzanne viewed reading as a leisure activity rather than a means of acculturation or instruction, and thus foresaw no epistemological shift as a result of the new means of transmitting ‘texts.’30 He pictured well-rested, ‘nonchalant’ readers, ‘sprawled out on sofas or cradled in rocking-chairs,’ enjoying the ‘benefits of a contemplative life’ (‘Fin des livres’ 138) (figure 7.8). In anticipation of the legions of joggers and stationary bikers of today, however, Uzanne imagined other readers combining ‘hygiene and instruction’ while toting their ‘pocket phono-opéragraphes’ through excursions in the Alps or the ‘canyons of Colorado’ (figure 7.9). He certainly did not foresee the participation of the reader in the writing process itself, or the types of highly individualized, non-linear forms of reading, of sampling and searching, enabled by the hyperlinked electronic text or expanded book. Instead, Uzanne insisted on the integrity of the ‘text,’ even in its auditory form, thereby glossing over the complicated questions of copyright posed by today’s new electronic media. Is Uzanne’s story, and its parallel in contemporary discussions of the digital book, merely one of plus ça change? Are prognostications about ‘the end of books’ simply nostalgic yearnings befitting any fin de siècle? As Robert Darnton reminds us: ‘By now, the conventional book has been pronounced dead so often that we shouldn’t be surprised to find that it seems in excellent health.’31 Perhaps, as Darnton suggests, such a rhetoric of ends may typify periods in which enthusiasm about new

Conclusion: The End of Books? 217

Image Not Available

Figure 7.8 ‘Sprawled out on sofas or cradled in rocking-chairs.’ Illustration by Albert Robida, for Uzanne and Robida, ‘La Fin des livres,’ Contes pour les bibliophiles (1895)

technologies may have ceded to disappointment, before yielding to a new pragmatism. In this third phase, those proclaiming the end of books may imagine their coexistence with other forms of texts. Even Uzanne admitted this possibility. While affirming categorically that ‘the book will be abandoned by all the inhabitants of the globe and … printing will completely cease to exist,’ he nevertheless conceded that the latter might continue to serve commercial and certain private relations.32 More recently, Roger Chartier has also suggested that the development of new material supports for print often leads to a redistribution of types of texts among the available forms. Today, for example, short documents and primary source material are well-served by digital technology whereas longer texts such as novels may continue to exist primarily in their familiar, printed, ‘book’ form.33

218 The New Bibliopolis

Image Not Available

Figure 7.9 ‘Hygiene and instruction.’ Illustration by Albert Robida, for Uzanne and Robida, ‘La Fin des livres,’ Contes pour les bibliophiles (1895)

Uzanne’s suggestive tale, although addressed to the denizens of his new bibliopolis, invites all readers, of all eras, to think about the relationship between texts and their materiality; the status of the cultural practice of reading; and the feasibility of truly democratizing the word. Quite tellingly, his narrator affirms at the end of the story: ‘If books have their own destiny, this destiny, now more than ever, is on the eve of being fulfilled.’34

Notes

Introduction: The New Bibliopolis 1 ‘On a beaucoup écrit sur le goût des livres, mais on a beaucoup mal écrit.’ All translations are my own unless otherwise indicated. For the benefit of readers of French, I have included the original French in the notes to the extent possible, while the English translation appears in the text. In some instances – for example, when the English translation follows closely from the French or when, in respect to either style or content, it seemed less crucial than in other instances to retain the original French – only the English appears. In all cases, bibliographic references have been provided, enabling readers to locate the original French-language sources. 2 ‘ce rêve de Bibliophile.’ Félicien Rops to Léon Dommartin, n.d. (1972A.847), Fondation Custodia, Paris. 3 Beraldi, Preface to Hesse, Histoire des sociétés de bibliophiles 1:x. For overviews of the history of bibliophilia and fine book production in late-nineteenthand early-twentieth-century France, see Antoine Coron, ‘Livres de luxe,’ Chartier and Martin, Histoire de l’édition française 4:425–63; Desormeaux, La Figure du bibliomane 83–97; Jean Viardot, ‘Les Nouvelles Bibliophilies,’ Chartier and Martin, Histoire de l’édition française 3:383–402. 4 See, for example, Carteret, Le Trésor du bibliophile 4 vols, and Hesse, Histoire des sociétés de bibliophiles vol. 1. The following Parisian bibliophile societies were founded between 1870 and 1914: La Société des Amis des Livres (1873), La Société des Bibliophiles Contemporains (1889), La Société des Cent Bibliophiles (1895), La Société des Bibliophiles Indépendents (1896), Les XX (1897), Les Amis du Livre Contemporain (1903), La Société du Livre d’Art (1904), Les Amis du Livre Moderne (1908). While not necessarily bibliophile

220

5

6 7 8

9 10

11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

21 22

Notes to pages 5–14

societies, the Société de Propagation des Livres d’Art (1888) and the Société Artistique du Livre Illustré (1890) also concerned themselves with the illustrated book. See Carteret, Le Trésor du bibliophile 2:185–256; Fontaine, ‘Les Bonheurs historiques et existentiels des sociétés françaises de bibliophiles’; Hesse, Histoire des sociétés de bibliophiles vol. 1. See, for example, Foulon, L’Illustration du livre en France; Garvey, Artist and the Book; Garvey et al., Turn of a Century; Ray, Art of the French Illustrated Book, vol. 2; Söderberg, French Book Illustration. Darnton, ‘What is the History of Books?’ Kiss of Lamourette 110. Bourdieu, ‘Market of Symbolic Goods,’ trans. R. Swyer, Bourdieu, Field of Cultural Production 112–41. See Bourdieu, ‘Le Champ littéraire’ 6–7, for a discussion of what he perceives to be the opposition between the two sectors of the field of cultural production, one devoted to mass production (grande production), the other to ‘restricted’ production (production restreinte). On the same relationship, see also Bourdieu, ‘Market of Symbolic Goods’ 125–31. ‘toute idée de lucre bannie.’ Dauze, ‘À nos amis,’ Revue Biblio-Iconographique 1 (1897): 5. This phrase is attributed to Marc Bloch in reference to Julien Cain, ed., La Civilisation écrite, vol. 18 of L’Encyclopédie française (Paris: Larousse, 1939). I am grateful to Jean-Yves Mollier for this reference. Benjamin, ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’ 223. ‘Si l’on fait un livre rare … c’est un objet d’art au même titre qu’un tableau.’ Camille Pissarro to Lucien Pissarro, 4 May 1891, Lettres à son fils Lucien 2510. ‘cette chose à la fois si concrète et si complexe: un livre.’ Bracquemond, Étude sur la gravure sur bois 2. McKenzie, ‘The Book as an Expressive Form,’ Bibliography and the Sociology of Texts 17, and for the following quotation, 13. On this dichotomy, see Tanselle, ‘The History of Books as a Field of Study.’ HV 3, 25 Oct. 1899. Bourdieu, ‘Market of Symbolic Goods’ 125. ‘gentilhommes bohèmes.’ Uzanne, Le Paroissien du célibataire 44. Nordau, Degeneration 29. ‘travaille pour la gloire d’avoir marqué [le livre] de l’empreinte de son goût raffiné.’ Bracquemond, Étude sur la gravure sur bois 2. On Beraldi, see Barazetti, ‘Un bibliophile: Henri Beraldi,’ and ‘Henri Beraldi,’ Revue de l’Art Ancien et Moderne. Uzanne, ‘Félicien Rops: Par la plume et le crayon’ 482. HV 2, 24 May 1898.

Notes to pages 14–17

221

23 ‘éditeur grand seigneur.’ Goncourt, inscription in Paul Gallimard’s personal copy of the book. See Exposition Goncourt, organisée par La Gazette des BeauxArts 42. 24 Despite his prolific activity in a great variety of bibliophilic, literary, artistic, and journalistic circles at the fin de siècle, as evidenced by abundant references to him in correspondence, memoirs, and the press of the period, there is scant published biographical material on Uzanne. The most complete source of information on his life, but which covers only the first half of it, is Glamallah, ‘Octave Uzanne.’ Also useful is an article by Uzanne’s grandnephew: Christ, ‘Octave Uzanne, bibliophile “évolutionnaire” de 1900.’ See also the entries on Uzanne in Curinier, Dictionnaire national des contemporains; Grente, Dictionnaire des lettres françaises 467–8; and the obituary by Dufay in Mercure de France. Uzanne intersperses autobiographical material throughout many of his own writings, such as the auction catalogue of part of his own library (Quelques-uns des livres contemporains) or accounts of his travels such as Instantanés d’Angleterre. Uzanne’s collected articles in L’Écho de Paris, penned under the pseudonym ‘La Cagoule,’ were published as Visions de notre heure. Uzanne also contributed to Art et Décoration, Connoisseur, La Contemporaine: Revue Illustrée, La Dépêche de Toulouse, The Dial, Le Figaro, La Grande Dame, La Jeune France, Magazine of Art, L’Œuvre et l’Image, La Plume, La Revue Bleue, Scribner’s Magazine, and The Studio. 25 Quoted in Antoine Coron, ‘Livres de luxe,’ Chartier and Martin, Histoire de l’édition française 4:433. 26 ‘l’apanage du véritable ami des livres, de l’esprit cultivé, ayant le respect, la religion des lettres’; ‘le sage ami des livres dépris de toute ostentation et vanité’(DB 60). 27 Félicien Rops to Octave Uzanne, 28 Apr. 1893, in Zeno, Les Muses sataniques 206. 28 ‘le joli monsieur avec une barbe.’ Félicien Rops, qtd. in Kunel, ‘Lettres de Félicien Rops à Octave Uzanne’ 298; ‘l’élégant conteur.’ Anatole France to Octave Uzanne, n.d., N.a.f. 15428, f. 498, BnF; Barrie, My Log 23. 29 ‘deux porcs.’ Mugnier, Journal de l’abbé Mugnier, 27 Feb. 1897, 102–3. 30 ‘rêve de suaves amours que son Cœur encore intact conserverait pieusement’; ‘envie l’eau pure d’une fontaine’; ‘s’abreuve aux immondices du ruisseau.’ Octave Uzanne to Émile Rochard, 29 Jan. [1870–5], Carlton Lake Collection of French Manuscripts (286.21), Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center. 31 ‘cet homme qui a une goutte de sperme extravasée dans l’œil.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 20 Sept. 1887, 65.

222

Notes to pages 17–22

32 ‘un disciple un peu cochon des Goncourt’; ‘savants et galants.’ Salmon, Souvenirs sans fin 26. 33 On Uzanne’s United States tour, see his Vingt Jours dans le nouveau monde. 34 Figures contemporaines tirées de l’album Mariani vol. 1, n. pag. 35 Goncourt, Maison 1: 9. Italics in original. Marx’s concept of ‘commodity fetishism’ is developed in Capital (1867), vol. 1, chapter 1, section 4: ‘The Fetishism of the Commodity and its Secret.’ 36 See Veblen, Theory of the Leisure Class 151–68. 37 ‘Vu l’honneur dans lequel est tenue la bibliophilie, on proclame bien haut ses prouesses en ce genre; et, vu les efforts d’argent qu’il faut faire pour arriver à la possession du livre, on s’en glorifie: le bibliophile crie ses prix d’achat, comme l’athlète montre ses biceps’ (EL 134). 38 Carteret, Le Trésor du bibliophile 1:12. 39 Gay, Pleasure Wars 141. For more on the functions and significance of collecting in fin-de-siècle France, see Pety, Les Goncourt et la collection; Przybos, Zoom sur les décadents 81–5; La Collection (Romantisme: Revue du Dix-Neuvième Siècle). 40 ‘un être doux et studieux, dont la journée se passe en chasses laborieuses dans les casiers des bouquinistes, et la soirée en lectures assidues, sous la lampe familiale, près du foyer’; ‘il a fait éclore une industrie nouvelle.’ Louis Morin, ‘Bibliographie: Physiologie du bibliophile de ce temps,’ L’Œuvre et l’Image [Mar.] 1901, 51–3. 41 ‘Grasset campant les fils Aymon sur leur cheval’; ‘Uzanne/Chevauchant la chimère en vol vers l’idéal.’ 1 Books Worthy of Our Era? Octave Uzanne, Technology, and the Luxury Book 1 ‘Non comme pour étinceler / aux immortels dos de basane / tard avec mon laisser-aller / Je vous salue, Octave Uzanne.’ 2 ‘[i]l y a là des machines bien intéressantes pour nous! – Nous ferons deux beaux livres en couleur pour l’an prochain.’ Félicien Rops to Octave Uzanne, [1882], Kunel ‘Lettres de Félicien Rops à Octave Uzanne’ 309. 3 ‘[la] réforme totale du livre à images’; ‘ne sera pas bien d’abord – pas d’illusions! – il faut créer le graveur, l’ouvrier, l’imprimeur, rien de tout cela n’existe.’ Félicien Rops to Léon Dommartin, n.d. (1972–A.847), Fondation Custodia, Paris. Emphasis in original. 4 ‘Tant pis pour les archéologiciens [sic] du livre … nous allons flanquer des coups de bottes dans tout cela.’ Ibid. Rops and Uzanne collaborated on Uzanne’s Son Altesse la femme (Paris: Quantin, 1885), which featured three colour rotogravures by Rops (La Femme au pantin, L’Évocation or L’Incantation,

Notes to pages 22–7

5 6

7

8 9

10

11

12

13

223

and Le Bout de sillon) displaying the artist’s characteristic erotic and Satanic themes. Uzanne’s La Femme et la mode and La Nouvelle Bibliopolis also featured frontispieces by Rops. Finally, Rops designed two ex libris for Uzanne: Daphné ou Le Livre Moderne and Le Terme, bearing Uzanne’s initials. For more on their relationship and collaboration, see Rops, Mémoires pour nuire à l’histoire artistique de mon temps 167–70; Félicien Rops-Joséphin Péladan: Correspondance; Kunel, ‘Lettres de Félicien Rops à Octave Uzanne’ 297–332; Zeno, Les Muses sataniques. See La Librairie à l’Exposition Universelle de 1900 76. Poésies de Benserade (1875), La Guirlande de Julie (1875), Poésies de François Sarasin (1877), Poésies de M. de Montreuil (1878). Each book in this series was accompanied by unpublished documents, a bio-bibliographical preface, and notes by Uzanne. Petits Conteurs du XVIIIe siècle (1878–83), Petits Poètes du XVIIIe siècle (1879–85), Les Mœurs secrètes du XVIIIe siècle (1879–83). Quantin also published a separate, twelve-volume series, entitled Eaux-fortes pour illustrer les petits conteurs du XVIIIe siècle. Le Livre 10 Dec. 1881, 700. Octave Uzanne to Edmond de Goncourt, 30 Apr. 1875, N.a.f. 22477, f. 180, BnF. On the Goncourts’ role in the Rococo revival, see Silverman, Art Nouveau 17–39. On the new printing processes developed by Firmin and Charles Gillot, see Daniel Renoult, ‘Les Nouvelles Possibilités techniques: Le Triomphe de la mécanique,’ Chartier and Martin, Histoire de l’édition française 4:36, and Cate et al., ‘Prints Abound: Paris in the 1890s,’ Cate et al., Prints Abound 16–17. The phrase ‘the age of paper’ refers to the title of a woodcut illustration by Félix Vallotton that appeared in Le Cri de Paris on 23 Jan. 1898, shortly after the publication of Émile Zola’s ‘J’Accuse …!’ in the daily newspaper L’Aurore. On the ‘photomechanical revolution’ and the industrialization of illustration techniques during this period, see Bertho-Lavenir and BretonGravereau, Le Livre-Monde 120–9; Mercier, Les Trois Révolutions du livre 381– 404; Twyman, The British Library Guide to Printing 46–75; Wakeman, Victorian Book Illustration 119–45. Uzanne, ‘Prélude iconographique,’ Figures contemporaines tirées de l’album Mariani 1:iii–vii. The quotes from this source in the following paragraphs are taken from these pages and appear in the original French as ‘une foule de quémandeurs surgit, véritable cohue poussée par le bruit du premier volume’; ‘établir une digue’; ‘selon les bons principes des boulangers humanitaires, ce sera le prix de la brioche qui dégrèvera celui du pain courant. C’est faire de la bonne politique sociale que de demander aux plus riches et aux

224

14 15

16

17 18

19

Notes to pages 27–30

plus délicats de satisfaire à la possiblité de favoriser la masse’; ‘la réclame s’américanise avec brutalité, où les millionaires de l’industrie cherchent dans la vulgarité de l’annonce, dans la pitrerie de l’affiche, les moyens d’attirer l’attention.’ On both the ‘vin’ and the ‘album’ associated with Mariani, see Andrews and Solomon, The Coca Leaf and Cocaine Papers 243–6. ‘l’aspect navrant, morne et plat’; ‘interdit tout papillonnage à notre imagination si désireuse d’au-delà.’ Uzanne, ‘Sensations d’art et expression d’idées: Notes successives sur le caractère de cette publication,’ L’Art et l’Idée 1 (Jan.June 1892) 7. Describing his first collaboration with Rouveyre, on Caprices d’un bibliophile, Uzanne wrote: ‘In 1878, it was the belle époque of the livre d’amateur: É. Rouveyre was starting out as a publisher in a narrow little shop on the rue des Saints-Pères and, very intelligent, very active, full of confidence in his strengths, he published some excellent works of bibliography and bibliophilia … The Bibliophile [Uzanne] was scarcely known, Rouveyre hardly more than that. Nevertheless, he courageously made himself the publisher of this little book with the help of his new author and friend’ (En 1878, c’était la belle époque du livre d’amateur: É. Rouveyre débutait comme éditeur dans une petite boutique étroite de la rue des Saints-Pères, et, très intelligent, très actif, plein de confiance en ses forces, il publiait d’excellents manuels de bibliographie et de bibliophilie … Le Bibliophile [Uzanne] n’était point connu, Rouveyre ne l’était guère davantage. Il se fit toutefois bravement l’éditeur de ce petit livre avec l’aide de son nouvel auteur et ami) (Q 155–6). Uzanne’s dedication to Rouveyre of Caprices d’un bibliophile reads: ‘To the young Bibliographe a hand was extended by a young Publisher brimming with faith in his own ventures’ (Au jeune Bibliographe est venu tendre la main un jeune Éditeur plein de foi dans ses entreprises’). Uzanne and Rouveyre would collaborate on three other works of Uzanne’s, including La Reliure moderne artistique et fantaisiste. ‘deux téméraires’ (Q 156). ‘Très intransigeant sur la décoration de ses livres’; ‘déjà [j’]entendai[s] diriger les moindres détails et mettre la main à l’œuvre pour les dessins, les eaux-fortes, les vignettes, la mise en pages et le reste’ (Q 156). ‘M. Uzanne est autant l’éditeur que l’auteur de ses livres’; ‘inspirateur et directeur moral.’ Qtd. in Glamallah, ‘Octave Uzanne’ 31. The substitution, on the cover of the works Uzanne published in Damase Jouaust’s Librairie des Bibliophiles series, of Uzanne’s initials and motto for the emblem of the printer-publisher Jouaust also visually alludes to Uzanne’s preemption of certain of his publisher’s functions; Félicien Rops to Léon Dommartin, n.d. (1972-A.847), Fondation Custodia, Paris.

Notes to pages 30–2

225

20 ‘Élève de Malassis d’ailleurs, en tous points … Il ressemble énormément à Malassis – moralement.’ Ibid. 21 Bracquemond, Étude sur la gravure sur bois 74. 22 ‘éclata comme une grenade dans le monde des lettres de 1880 et y fut quelques instants célèbres.’ Uzanne, ‘Jules Barbey d’Aurevilly rue Rousselet’ 2. The following quotation is from the same source: ‘cet impénitent et flamboyant romantique ruisselant d’inouïsme.’ 23 ‘L’auteur infortuné et surtout incompris.’ Barbey d’Aurevilly, Preface to Uzanne, Le Bric-à-brac de l’amour vi. 24 ‘Je ne suis certain que d’une chose, c’est que Vous êtes charmant … Vous [êtes] … un érudit à faire trembler mon ignorance … Vous êtes par-dessus ou par-dessous tout … un Écrivain, c’est à dire ce qu’il y a de plus rare parmi ceux qui écrivent et qui croient écrire!’ Ibid. vi–vii. On the relationship between Uzanne and Barbey, see Uzanne, Barbey d’Aurevilly, and his articles about the author: ‘Barbey d’Aurevilly, son portrait’; ‘Un dandy stoïcien.’ See also Bonnefon, Les Dédicaces à la main de M. J. Barbey d’Aurevilly, for the revealing dedications to Uzanne of certain of Barbey’s works, and Petit, Barbey d’Aurevilly critique 598–600, 658–62. On bibliomania as a theme in Barbey’s works and life, see Desormeaux, La Figure du bibliomane 171–89. 25 ‘Je laisse ces sales juifs en paix et ne leur demande que la réciproque.’ Octave Uzanne to [?], 12 Mar. 1884, Carlton Lake Collection, Harry Ransom Humanities Center. 26 ‘créateur d’un des plus grands mouvements des esprits en France.’ Uzanne, ‘Édouard Drumont à Linas,’ Visions de notre heure 201. On Uzanne’s interactions with Drumont, see Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3:572–3, and Parinet, La Librairie Flammarion 252–5. 27 Following the abolition of brevets and the accompanying competency examination for booksellers in September 1870, the official title of libraire could be conferred by a simple declaration to the Minister of the Interior, which the minister occasionally refused for political reasons. 28 ‘l’instruction donnée à tous et partout … sans distinction de classe ni fortune’; ‘depuis la laitière qui vend son lait le matin … jusqu’à la duchesse sur sa chaise longue’ (C 89). 29 ‘race naguère restreinte et qui aujourd’hui porte un défi aux statistiques les mieux organisées’ (DB 160). 30 ‘tout le monde sans exception écrit, bien ou mal, mal surtout.’ Uzanne, ‘Le Malaise actuel dans l’édition et de la librairie: Notes et observations à propos d’une lettre sur cette question,’ L’Art et l’Idée 2 (July–Dec. 1892) 72. Competitive price-slashing became so endemic to the publishing world that when both the Syndicat national des éditeurs and the Syndicat des libraires détaillants were founded in 1892, one of their first initiatives was to fix book

226

31

32 33

34 35 36 37 38

39

40

41 42

Notes to pages 32–5

prices. Publishers selling below a minimum price would be penalized. See Uzanne, ‘Les Livres de luxe et les nouvelles littéraires,’ L’Art et l’Idée 2 (July– Dec. 1892) 375–7. Sainte-Beuve, ‘De la littérature industrielle’ 675; ‘cette nourriture intellectuelle des peuples corrompus et décadents, [qui] nous arrive[e] de toutes parts comme une ultime plaie d’Égypte’ (Z 4–5). ‘ces dupeurs d’imagination et ces inutiles gaspilleurs de temps.’ Uzanne, ‘Nos Livres devant la postérité: Les Bibliothèques de l’avenir’ 68. On the so-called krach de la librairie and other changes in the literary field in fin-de-siècle France, see Christophe Charle, ‘Le Champ de la production littéraire,’ Chartier and Martin, Histoire de l’édition française 3:137–75; Néret, Histoire illustrée de la librairie et du livre français 267–71; Prochasson, Les Années électriques 55–66. On the growth of readership during this period, see Allen, In the Public Eye; Maurice Crubellier, ‘L’Élargissement du public,’ and Jean Hébrard, ‘Les Nouveaux Lecteurs,’ Chartier and Martin, Histoire de l’édition française, 3:315–41 and 526–67; Lyons, Readers and Society in Nineteenth-Century France, Martin Lyons, ‘Les Nouveaux Lecteurs au XIXe siècle: Femmes, enfants, ouvriers,’ Cavallo and Chartier, Histoire de la lecture dans le monde occidental, 393–430. ‘Ça va mal, très mal!’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 2, 13 Oct. 1885, 1191. Uzanne, ‘Malaise’ 76. ‘la débâcle fatale, logique, prévue, arriva, la production dépassant de beaucoup la consommation’ (NB 18). ‘sordidité de[s] lésineries’; ‘ignorance absolue de l’illustration d’un livre’; ‘maison de juiverie.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 8 Dec. 1888, 189. ‘des commerçants qui ont fait leur fortune dans des industries ou des négoces inférieurs.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 26 May 1889, 273. On the maison Quantin, see Mollier, L’Argent et les lettres 155–68. ‘ces pitoyables volumes imprimés au rabais, sur papier à chandelle, émaillés de coquilles, inondés d’incorrections, n’ayant aucune justification paginale régulière.’ Albert Cim, Le Radical (n. d., n. pag.), in Jouaust, Aux bibliophiles 17. Uzanne, ‘Couvertures illustrées de publications étrangères’ 34. The following quotation is from the same source and page: ‘l’œil navré du passant [avec] ces exhibitions malencontreuses de petits paralléllipipèdes jaunes, d’une telle vulgarité qu’ils évoquaient plutôt le souvenir comestible de ces paquets de chocolat à réclame, qu’on vend dans les épiceries.’ Uzanne, qtd. in Parinet, La Librairie Flammarion 359. ‘les livres dignes de ce temps qui voit se transformer toutes les idées reçues … [et qui] commence à … révolutionner logiquement et intelligemment les règles niaises que l’accoutumance seule avait fait jusqu’ici

Notes to pages 35–9

43 44 45 46 47 48 49

50

51

52

53

54 55 56 57 58

227

respecter.’ Uzanne, ‘Block-notes d’un bibliographe,’ Le Livre Moderne 5 (10 May 1890) 356, and for the following quotation, 355. See Le Cercle de la Librairie, 1847–1997. Lequatre, ‘L’Exposition internationale du livre et des industries du papier’ 35 and 37. Burty, ‘La Reliure française’ n. pag. Pelletan, Deuxième Lettre 1. ‘livrer le bon combat.’ ‘Exposition internationale du livre et des arts graphiques’ (Leipzig, 1914) 192. See La Librairie à l’Exposition Universelle de 1900 24. In 1914, Germany published 30,000 works a year plus 15,000 ‘œuvres musicales,’ while France published 13,000 and England 10,000. ‘Projet de loi relative à la participation de la France à l’Exposition internationale du livre et des arts graphiques de Leipzig en 1914,’ F12 7570, AN. Cousturier, ‘Exposition internationale du livre moderne à l’Art Nouveau’ 42–3. The following quotations appear in the original French as: ‘ce frêle étalage du meilleur que nous ayons fait’; ‘la librairie française n’a produit un réel beau livre.’ For more on the Exposition internationale du livre moderne at Bing’s gallery, see Denney, ‘English Book Designers’; ‘Notes d’art parisiennes (Le “Livre moderne”)’; Plan, ‘L’Art du livre’; Weisberg, Art Nouveau Bing 114 and 119–25. ‘Bing, ce sale et bas Juif … s’accroche à moi, me force à lui donner la main, sollicite mon concours pour une exposition internationale du livre moderne, me comble des ses mamours et me retend à la porte une main que je ne prends pas.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 20 Apr. 1896, 1269. According to Debora Silverman, it was ‘the luxury sector [in France] which successfully assimilated modern forms of technology to the craft process.’ Art Nouveau 60. Qtd. in Jeener, Rapport de la Section I: Reliure et brochage 8. Way, ‘The Book Exhibit at the Chicago Fair’ n. pag. ‘le plus beau fleuron de la librairie française et la partie où nous sommes certainement les plus forts.’ Documents parlementaires – Chambre [1913?] 1237. Jouaust publicity from the catalogue of the Cercle de la Librairie for the 1890 Antwerp Exposition du Livre, 116. As Debora Silverman has shown, this development is quite similar to the Third Republic’s appropriation and exploitation of Art Nouveau as ‘official’ art resting on a tradition of Rococo-inspired luxury craftsmanship. Because of this development, French Art Nouveau was never an avant-garde movement as it was in such countries as Austria, for example. Art Nouveau 1–13.

228

Notes to pages 39–44

59 Rosengarten, The Paris Book Exhibition of 1894 2. 60 ‘tous les genres d’ouvrages, aussi bien l’ouvrage de luxe d’un prix élevé, pour les bibliothèques d’amateurs, que le livre le plus modeste destiné aux écoles populaires.’ Catalogue of the Cercle de la Librairie for the 1894 Paris Exposition du Livre, n. pag. 61 Rosengarten, The Paris Book Exhibition of 1894 3. 62 ‘enluminures anciennes.’ Bouchot, ‘Exposition universelle de 1889: La Décoration du livre’ 159. 63 Revue Biblio-Iconographique 2 (1898) 423. 64 ‘Soyons contemporains!’ (NB 20). 65 Uzanne, ‘Eugene Grasset and Decorative Art’ 39. 66 ‘estrangement éclairé d’archaïsme.’ Uzanne, ‘À mes collègues de l’Académie des Beaux Livres: Salut présidentiel,’ Annales littéraires des Bibliophiles contemporains (Paris, 1890) xi. See the article on Grasset by Uzanne in his own review, ‘Les Artistes originaux: Eugène Grasset, illustrateur, architecte et décorateur’; his piece in The Studio (‘Eugene Grasset and Decorative Art’); and the article he published to coincide with the first major Grasset retrospective, ‘L’Exposition récapitulative d’Eugène Grasset aux Artistes Décorateurs.’ For more on Les Quatre Fils Aymon, see the 15 May 1894 issue of La Plume devoted to Grasset’s work; Carteret, Le Trésor du bibliophile 3:34; Cate and Hitchings, Color Revolution 5; Murray-Robertson, Grasset: Pionnier de l’Art Nouveau; Garvey et al., Turn of a Century 46. 67 Uzanne, ‘Les Artistes originaux’ 195. 68 ‘le désir de purifier sans cesse davantage le goût général’; ‘sans avilir la personnalité de l’artiste, arriver, grâce aux moyens que la science nous donne, à mettre, pour des prix très modiques, de véritables œuvres à la portée d’une foule de plus en plus considérable’; ‘de nombreux représentants de la classe moyenne qui consacrent des loisirs, une portion de leur intelligence et de leur argent à fureter, s’intéresser, acheter.’ For the English translation, André Mellerio, La Lithographie originale en couleurs, Cate and Hitchings, Color Revolution 95–6; for the original French, Mellerio, La Lithographie originale en couleurs 36–7. 69 On the proliferation and reception of colour printing in fin-de-siècle France, see especially Cate and Hitchings, Color Revolution, and Melot, Impressionist Print 231–5. 70 Uzanne, ‘Eugene Grasset and Decorative Art’ 39. 71 ‘recherches de coloration, de teintes, encrages … premières épreuves d’héliographie, tirages sur papiers d’inégale force’ (Q 161). Uzanne deemed a later collaboration with Avril on Le Miroir du monde: Notes et sensations de la vie pittoresque (Paris: Quantin, 1888) as ‘incontestably the most successful

Notes to pages 44–51

72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79

80

81 82 83

229

from the standpoint of the execution of the drawings using diverse procedures, heliogravure, Gillot facsimiles, chromogravure … An essentially new type of book … that provides evidence, for those in this craft, of a thousand difficulties vanquished and of decorative daring happily crowned with success. The Bibliophile, as artistic editor, feels some vanity in having failed nothing in the very complex production of this book’ (incontestablement le mieux réussi au point de vue du rendu des dessins par procédés divers, héliogravure en creux et en relief, fac-similés Gillot, chromogravure … Livre essentiellement nouveau que celui-ci … qui témoigne, aux yeux des gens du métier, de mille difficultés vaincues et d’audaces décoratives heureusement couronnées de succès. Le Bibliophile, en tant qu’éditeur artistique, a quelque vanité de n’avoir rien raté dans la mise en œuvre si complexe de ce livre) (Q 170). On the pair’s collaboration on L’Éventail and L’Ombrelle, see Cate, ‘The 1880s: The Prelude,’ Cate and Hitchings, Color Revolution 5. ‘le côté matériel du livre a mangé gloutonnement tout mon temps.’ Octave Uzanne to Germain Bapst, 18 [Sept.?] 1881, N.a.f. 24540, f. 209, BnF. ‘étant éprise de couleur, d’oppositions de tons, d’enluminures’ (Q 161). Le Livre 3, 10 Dec. 1881, 734. On the development of industrial binding in nineteenth-century France, see Malavieille, Reliures et cartonnages d’éditeur en France au XIXe siècle. On poster bindings, see Devauchelle, La Reliure en France 105–6 and, on Carayon’s cartonnages, 108–12. ‘jeune[s], frais, aimable[s]’ (DB 92); ‘véritable cartonnier d’art’ (Rm 256). ‘confits dans la tradition, momifiés dans le trantran du métier’ (Rm 181). Of the binder-gilder Amand, Uzanne wrote: ‘For over fifteen years [he] has fought for the triumph of his ideas,’ despite being ‘followed by only a small number of faithful and curiosity-seekers, interested in innovative fantasy.’ He attributed Amand’s lack of success in the form of prizes to ‘bourgeois narrow-mindedness’ (étroitesse bourgeoise) and the traditionalism of juries (Rm 182–7). On the binders of the École de Nancy, see Mathias, René Wiener, and Debize, Émile Gallé et l’École de Nancy 86–7. For more on Uzanne’s assessment of contemporary artistic binders, including Martin, Prouvé, and Wiener, see his chapter on ‘La Reliure d’art et les maîtres relieurs contemporains’ (Ad 157–260). ‘[c]hef-d’œuvre de reliure; l’un des plus beaux cuirs incisés de ce temps’ (Q 82). Beraldi, Preface to Hesse, Histoire des sociétés de bibliophiles 1:106. On Meunier, see Beraldi, La Reliure du XIXe siècle 4:103–6; ‘Bindings by Charles Meunier’; Crauzat, La Reliure française de 1900 à 1925 35–44;

230

84

85

86

87 88

89

90

91

Notes to pages 51–4

Devauchelle, La Reliure en France 3:98–104; Hesse, Histoire des sociétés de bibliophiles 1:93–102; Rees, ‘Biographica and Bibliographica’; Thévenin, ‘Opinion sur la reliure moderne’; Zinn, ‘Charles Meunier and the French Bookbinders.’ Some of Meunier’s bindings from his own collection were sold at auction in 1908. See Catalogue de livres modernes ornés de reliures artistiques exécutées par Charles Meunier et provenant de sa bibliothèque particulière. Duncan and De Bartha, Art Nouveau and Art Deco Bookbinding 137. While considering Meunier a ‘virtuoso of incised leather,’ Raymond Hesse felt that an overabundance of floral and other ornamentation sometimes flawed his work (Histoire des sociétés de bibliophiles 1:93). Crauzat contended that Meunier’s obsession with symbols ‘often verged on the grotesque; on occasion he even descended into bad taste’ (a souvent heurté le grotesque: il lui est même arrivé de choir dans le mauvais goût). (La Reliure française de 1900 à 1925 36). ‘Ne tolérons plus seulement le bien fait. Le vrai talent est toujours un peu excessif, fringant, novateur, inégal.’ Uzanne, ‘Block-notes d’un bibliographe’ 356. On the application, by Auriol, Grasset, and others, of new technologies to typography at the fin de siècle, see Thiébaut, La Lettre art nouveau en France 41–51. On the development of typography in France in the late nineteenth century, see Gérard Blanchard, ‘La Typographie française de 1830 à 1885,’ Chartier and Martin, Histoire de l’édition française 3:365–8, and René Ponot, ‘La Création typographique des Français,’ Chartier and Martin, Histoire de l’édition française 4:367–3. Peterson, Kelmscott Press 82. On Morris’s use of photography in typeface design, see Peterson, Kelmscott Press 81–95. ‘fétichisme … de l’enfantillage archéologique.’ Eugène Grasset in André Marty, L’Imprimerie et les procédés de gravure au vingtième siècle (Paris: Marty, 1906), qtd. in Thiébaut, La Lettre art nouveau en France 42–3. ‘beaucoup parmi nous ont œuvré en typographie plus salutairement que William Morris.’ Uzanne, ‘William Morris et l’art du livre en Angleterre,’ Revue Biblio-Iconographique 1 (1897) 295. ‘morne exactitude.’ Uzanne, ‘La Renaissance de la gravure sur bois – Un néo-xylographe: M. Félix Vallotton,’ L’Art et l’Idée 1 (Jan.-June 1892) 117. On the revival of the woodcut at the fin de siècle, see Coron, ‘Livres de luxe,’ Chartier and Martin, Histoire de l’édition française 4:445–7; Söderberg, French Book Illustration 85–95; and Wakeman, Victorian Book Illustration 69–81. ‘[l]a cause de la gravure sur bois … est définitivement gagnée.’ Pelletan, Deuxième Lettre 4.

Notes to pages 54–63

231

92 Uzanne, ‘La Renaissance de la gravure sur bois’ 115–17, and for the following quotations from this source, 115–19: ‘la gaucherie voulue’; ‘les factures primitives’; ‘les grises manières de [ses] aînés’; ‘le gros public’; ‘les livres d’art … les œuvres destinées à une élite’; ‘volontairement réactionnaire et barbare.’ 93 ‘des funestes procédés découlant de la photographie’; ‘le bibliophile qui les admet trahit le nom qu’il porte.’ Bracquemond, Étude sur la gravure sur bois 1. 94 Abélès, ‘Tradition et modernité’ 317. For Vallotton’s own brief comments on his work for Les Rassemblements, see Vallotton, Documents 133–4. 95 Meier-Graefe’s assertion is corroborated by the fact that Vallotton’s images do not appear in the catalogue raisonné of his engravings and lithographs. See Abélès, ‘Tradition et modernité’ 317, 323. Both Richard S. Field and Phillip Dennis Cate support Meier-Graefe’s contention that Vallotton’s work for Uzanne’s Rassemblements consisted of photomechanically reproduced images. See Cate, Prints Abound, 46, n. 44. 96 See Weber, France fin de siècle 235. 97 ‘les révolutions soudaines n’ont jamais servi fructueusement les intérêts des sincères réformateurs’ (Ad 2). 98 ‘Qui pourrait nous dire, en effet, ce que sera l’état de la Bibliophilie en l’an 2000? L’art de l’impression typographique existera-t-il encore à cette date, et le phonographe … ne remplacer[a-t-il] pas définitivement le papier imprimé et l’illustration avec quelque avantage?’ (NB 41). 2 Ancients against Moderns: Bibliophilia at the Fin de Siècle 1 J’ouvre l’œil. 2 ‘le crétinisme de [son] antiquaillerie.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 2, 19 June 1881, 898. 3 ‘Je devenais plus avide à mesure que ma bibliothèque devenait plus riche.’ Pichon, qtd. in Vicaire, Le Baron Jérôme Pichon 7. 4 ‘[T]out ce qui pouvait éveiller en lui quelque souvenir historique a excité ses désirs.’ Qtd. in Vicaire, Le Baron Jérôme Pichon 10. 5 ‘profondément épris des choses du passé.’ Vicaire, Le Baron Jérôme Pichon 12 and 15. 6 ‘travaillait … à la défense de l’esprit français et à l’illustration de la langue française.’ Hesse, Histoire des sociétés de bibliophiles 1:12. 7 ‘l’assurance un peu prétentieuse que donne le club et le ton supérieur que les hommes de club prennent dans leur parlage superficiel de tout.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 13 Aug. 1890, 459.

232

Notes to pages 63–70

8 ‘des ouvrages inédits ou rares, mais surtout pouvant intéresser l’histoire, la littérature ou la langue françoise’; ‘les traditions de l’ancienne imprimerie françoise.’ ‘Statuts de la Société des Bibliophiles François,’ Almanach du bibliophile pour l’année 1900 207. 9 For more on Lahure and other printers employed by the Bibliophiles François, see Carteret, Le Trésor du bibliophile 3:119–20. 10 For more on the Bibliophiles François, see Catalogue de la bibliothèque de feu M. le Baron Jérôme Pichon 437–42; Carteret, Le Trésor du bibliophile 2:187–9; Desormeaux, La Figure du bibliomane 88–90; Hesse, Histoire des sociétés de bibliophiles 1:3–12; Vicaire, ‘La Société des Bibliophiles François,’ Almanach du bibliophile pour l’année 1900 176–234. 11 On bookselling in nineteenth-century France, see Frédéric Barbier, ‘Libraires et colporteurs,’ Chartier and Martin, Histoire de l’édition française 3:256–302, and Mollier, Le Commerce de la librairie en France. 12 ‘chez les gros bonnets de la rive droite.’ Dérôme, Le Luxe des livres 6. 13 ‘libraire d’allure spéciale et de grande envergure’ (BB 68) and for the following quotation (‘homme des énormes affaires’), ibid. 14 ‘raisonnée, savante, anecdotique, et même croustillante’ (BB 71) and for the following quotation (‘le réservoir se vida’), ibid. 15 Aubrey Beardsley to Leonard Smithers, c. 24 Mar. 1896, in Letters of Aubrey Beardsley 119. For more on Morgand, see d’Eylac, ‘Damascène Morgand,’ Revue Biblio-Iconographique 2 (1898) 75–7. 16 ‘très remarquable, l’une des plus importantes dans les annales de la bibliophilie,’ Carteret, Le Trésor du bibliophile 2:102 (italics in original). For more on Rahir, see Édouard Rahir. 17 ‘un très vieux monsieur, maigre, sec comme une momie, mal vêtu, portant des lunettes et vivant hargneux dans sa Bouquinerie comme un loup dans sa tanière’ (NB 47). 18 ‘caressant d’une main fiévreuse le maroquin des livres qui lui étaient soumis, mâchonnant de gros cigares sans dire un mot.’ Quentin-Bauchart, À travers les livres 4. 19 ‘vieux toqué[s] monomane[s], désagréable[s] aux siens, méticuleux, inquiet[s], véritable[s] bouquineur[s] racorni[s], borné[s]’ (NB 48). 20 Uzanne, ‘Les Arts et les lettres: Nouvelles et échos du jour,’ L’Art et l’Idée 1 (Jan.-June 1892) 293. 21 ‘ramen[ait] tout au passé et demeur[ait] outrageusement fermé à la curieuse modernité de l’art renouvelé’ (NB 48). 22 ‘[Q]ue la Bibliophilie renaissante … [ne] nous indigestionne plus … [l]es réimpressions à outrance ont vécu.’ Uzanne, ‘Les Arts et les lettres: Nouvelles et échos du jour,’ 293.

Notes to pages 70–3

233

23 ‘l’ère des vignettes falotes, des petits fers démodés, des décors ressassés et des cadres d’inepte ornamentation’ (Ad 1). 24 ‘L’imbécillité particulière aux amateurs de livres’; ‘l’amateur qui n’a que des livres reliés par Bauzonnet.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 2, 8 Dec. 1875, 668–9. 25 ‘aspect un peu vieillot, un peu Restauration’; ‘fanatiques du nom de Bauzonnet.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 1044, n. 2. 26 ‘lever l’étendard de la révolte contre les reliures du vieux et peu imaginatif Bauzonnet[.]’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 12 Dec. 1894, 1044. 27 ‘le Bauzonnetisme ne tiendra chez nous ni ses grandes ni ses petites assises.’ Octave Uzanne to Edmond de Goncourt, n.d., N.a.f. 22477, f. 188, BnF. And for the following quotation (‘je l’ai en horreur ce “piss-froid” de mosaïques sans hardiesse – puis, je ferai en sorte qu’il n’y ait parmi les contemporains ni tanneurs ni tannerie, plus de lettrés que de maroquiniers’), ibid. 28 ‘dorés sur tranches, ornés de filets d’or.’ La Bruyère, ‘De la mode,’ Les Caractères (1688), ed. Elisabeth Hausser (Paris: Gallimard et Librairie Générale Française, 1965) 357. 29 ‘les bibliophiles sont les plus ignares amateurs, les plus fermés à tout ce qui est bellement nouveau dans l’art.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 12 Dec. 1894, 1044. On the Goncourts’ bibliophilia, see Galantaris, ‘Les Goncourt bibliophiles,’ and Pety, Les Goncourt et la collection 157–224. 30 Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 2, 19 June 1881, 898. 31 ‘suiv[aient] une marche toujours ascendante et tellement impulsive’; Quentin-Bauchart, À travers les livres 7, and for the following quotations (‘jeta le désarroi dans le camp des bibliophiles’; ‘on acheta sans compter’; ‘[c]hose étrange et qui dérouta bien des calculs, ils acquirent, au lendemain de ces jours funestes, une valeur beaucoup plus grande’), 13–14. 32 Lang, ‘Bibliomania in France,’ Books and Bookmen 106 and 108. 33 Dérôme, Le Luxe des livres 108. 34 ‘le demi-quart d’un rayon de bibliothèque, en bons livres s’entend’ (BB 7). 35 Bibliographies for bibliophiles also included the following: Bibliographie des éditions originales d’auteurs composant la bibliothèque de feu M.A. Rochebilière (1882); Jules Brivois, Guide de l’amateur: Bibliographie des ouvrages illustrés du XIXe siècle, principalement des livres à gravures sur bois (1883); Jules Le Petit, Bibliographie des principales éditions originales d’écrivains français du XVe au XVIIIe siècle (1888); Georges Vicaire, Bibliographie gastronomique (1890) and Manuel de l’amateur de livres du XIXe siècle (1894). For more on the explosion of such reference works between 1880 and 1930, see Raymond Josué Seckel, ‘Repère: L’Activité bibliographique,’ Chartier and Martin, Histoire de l’édition française 4:595–606 and esp. 600–2.

234

Notes to pages 74–9

36 ‘les livres sont devenus des objets si précieux qu’on s’entoure de toutes les précautions avant de passer outre à un achat’ (BB 140). 37 ‘instruit[s], mais de fortune moyenne, que les circonstances font les acheteurs de ces livres qualifiés de luxe.’ Pelletan, Première Lettre 1–2. 38 ‘tel que je l’ai compris, le vrai livre de luxe, de luxe solide et sérieux.’ Damase Jouaust, qtd. in Francisque Sarcey, Le XIXe Siècle (n. d., n. pag.), in Jouaust, Aux bibliophiles 4; for the following quotations from this source (‘livre de pacotille’; ‘accablé[s], agacé[s], par l’énorme quantité de publications dites de luxe’) 7. 39 ‘dont le papier de choix … et les images flattent l’œil, [mais qui] ne constituent qu’une tentative vulgaire et commerciale.’ Uzanne, ‘Le Malaise actuel dans l’édition et de la librairie: Notes et observations à propos d’une lettre sur cette question,’ L’Art et l’Idée 2 (July-Dec. 1892) 73. 40 ‘volumes adornés avec un mauvais goût bourgeois ou un faste rasta’ (DB 288). 41 ‘petits éditeurs, dernier style, d’incultes et rustres personnages.’ Uzanne, ‘Bibliophiles et biblioscopes: Zig-Zags Franco-Américains,’ Booklover’s Almanac for the Year 1894 n. pag. 42 ‘Ils ont fait du négoce; ils ont récolté de l’argent. [Q]u’ils quittent la place.’ Uzanne, ‘Sur quelques livres de luxe: Nouvelles et notules diverses,’ L’Art et l’Idée 2 (July–Dec. 1892) 246. 43 ‘vagues dilettantes … vaniteux … qui accumulaient avec rage des bouquins comme on achète en Italie des billets de loterie.’ Uzanne, ‘Malaise’ 77–8 and for the following quotations (‘le goût des livres avait cela d’incomparable et d’encourageant qu’il exigeait une grande culture morale et était fermé au profane ignorant’; ‘des gens de toutes conditions désireux de se mettre en vue’), ibid. 44 ‘on s’improvise Éditeur, marchand de Livres, comme on se déclarerait vendeur de bicyclettes’ (DB 164–5). 45 ‘[o]n n’impose pas des [rééditions] aux curieux indépendants et on n’illustre pas des ouvrages d’un autre temps; la reconstitution artistique est toujours à côté et sent, quoi qu’on fasse, le rafistolage.’ Uzanne, ‘Malaise’ 79. 46 ‘un délassement intellectuel et délicat, et non … comme un travail pénible et fatigant’; ‘lorsque leurs occupations quotidiennes leur laissent des loisirs.’ ‘La Société des Amis des Livres, sa création et ses publications,’ in Société des Amis des Livres, Annuaire (1880) 12. 47 ‘créer entre tous les bibliophiles, des rappports suivis au moyen de fréquentes réunions.’ Société des Amis des Livres, statutes, article 1, in Société des Amis des Livres, Annuaire (1881) 165. 48 ‘vie artificielle, intense, et visible, en dehors du cercle étroit de la famille.’ Maillard, Menus et programmes illustrés 191.

Notes to pages 79–84 49 50 51 52

53 54

55 56 57

58 59 60 61

62 63

64 65 66

235

See Boylesve, Feuilles tombées 122–3. Ashbee, ‘A Dinner of French Bibliophiles’ 169–71. Roberts, ‘French Booklovers’ Societies’ 253. ‘salle recouverte d’une tenture, comme enduite d’un strass aveuglant et aux sculptures moyenâgeuses … une décoration atroce et qui aurait coûté 100.000 francs.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 16 Apr. 1889, 258–9. ‘étalage passionnant.’ Armory, 50 Ans de vie parisienne 116. On illustrated menus of bibliophile societies during this period, see Maillard, Menus et programmes illustrés; Barbara K. Wheaton, ‘Le Menu dans le Paris du XIXe siècle,’ Girveau, À table au XIXe siècle 90–101. ‘petite tenue de bibliothèque: veston de velours noir, rehaussé d’un point rouge à la boutonnière, et toque de loutre’ (BB ix). X, ‘Eugène Paillet,’ L’Œuvre et l’Image Apr. 1901, 1. ‘la mieux faite pour plaire universellement et pour initier aux charmes de la passion des livres’ (BB ix). On Paillet’s library, see Beraldi, La Bibliothèque d’un bibliophile; and Catalogue des livres de la bibliothèque de M. Eugène Paillet. ‘La Société des Amis des Livres, sa création et ses publications,’ in Société des Amis des Livres, Annuaire (1880) 13. ‘bibliophilie cachottière et sévère.’ Beraldi, qtd. in Preface to Hesse, Histoire des sociétés de bibliophiles 1:x. ‘envie de m’amuser à faire un livre illustré.’ Qtd. in Antoine Coron, ‘Livres de luxe,’ Chartier and Martin, Histoire de l’édition française 4:430. ‘Il est difficile de voir un livre plus laid et ayant moins de valeur artistique … [C’est] la copie d’un genre condemnable et désormais condamné par les amateurs ayant un véritable sentiment d’art.’ Uzanne, ‘Nouvelles et échos: Notes sur les arts et les livres,’ L’Art et l’Idée 2 (July–Dec. 1892) 61. Of the Annuaire of the Amis des Livres, Uzanne wrote: ‘How poorly printed! It’s pitiful to see! Lorenzaccio is written Lau!!!’ (combien mal imprimé! C’est lamentable à voir! Lorenzaccio est écrit Lau!!!) ‘Les Arts et les idées du moment: Échos et nouvelles,’ L’Art et l’Idée 1 (Jan.–June 1892) 219. ‘paraître doctes et … briller aux yeux de leurs contemporains’ (NB 7). ‘[a]i-je besoin de dire qu’ils se réunissent à table et que c’est au dessert qu’ils discutent les mérites des ouvrages proposés?’ Sarcey, ‘Les Amis des Livres.’ For more on the Société des Amis des Livres, see L’Un des Cinquante, ‘Les Amis des Livres,’ Le Livre (1881) 114–20; Hesse, Histoire des sociétés de bibliophiles 1:15–30; Carteret, Le Trésor du bibliophile 2:189–94. Beraldi, ‘La Bibliophilie créatrice’ 116. Quentin-Bauchart, À travers les livres 27. ‘demi-Dieu ce pauvre papa Trautz, brave ouvrier poncif, timoré, sans imagination et sans goût, étonné de se voir ainsi prôné par ces pétrifiés’ (DB 208).

236

67 68

69

70

71

72

73

74

Notes to pages 86–9

On Trautz, see Beraldi, La Bibliothèque d’un bibliophile 104–5; Duncan and De Bartha, Art Nouveau and Art Deco Bookbinding 10; and Michon, La Reliure française, 124–5. ‘bien au-delà des limites du Monde connu des bibliophiles, Monde dont les passages des Panoramas et Choiseul sont les colonnes d’Hercule’ (BB 117). ‘accaparé tout le commerce des livres précieux’; ‘exultante, despotique, presque persécutrice, quand les prix s’exaspéraient en folie.’ Eugène Paillet, obituary of Conquet, Bulletin du Bibliophile et du Bibliothécaire 15 Feb. 1898; and d’Eylac, obituary of Conquet, Moniteur Universel 12 Jan. 1898, in Léon Conquet 7 and 15. ‘gens pondérés.’ Adolphe Brisson, obituary of Conquet, Annales Politiques et Littéraires 16 Jan. 1898, in Léon Conquet 28; ‘aphrodisiaque, haussier’; ‘sédatif, baissier.’ Beraldi, ‘La Bibliophilie créatrice’ 120. ‘disciples … nombreux, inexpérimentés et timides d’abord’; ‘l’idole du vieux bouquin.’ D’Eylac and Paillet, obituaries of Conquet, in Léon Conquet 15 and 9. ‘empire absolu, au point que certains, de leur vie, n’ont jamais pris une décision pour eux-mêmes … sans consulter Conquet.’ D’Eylac, obituary of Conquet, in Léon Conquet 15. ‘causant, discutant, feuilletant des volumes, examinant des eaux-fortes, palpant des reliures. Conquet allait de l’un à l’autre, disant à chacun son mot qui était le mot juste.’ D’Eylac, obituary of Conquet, in Léon Conquet 13. On 27 Jan. 1883 Rops wrote to the Belgian painter and poet Théo Hannon: ‘I’m sold for two years and a respectable sum to a Monsieur [Conquet] who forbids me any drawing that does not pass through his hands’ ([J]e suis vendu pour deux ans et pour une somme respectable à un Monsieur [Conquet] qui m’interdit tout dessin qui ne passe pas par ses mains). Félicien Rops-Joséphin Péladan: Correspondance 109. D’Eylac, obituary of Conquet, in Léon Conquet 15–16. On Conquet’s death Léopold Carteret took over the firm.

3 Everything to the Moderns: Independent and Contemporary Bibliophiles 1 Toujours de l’avant. 2 ‘plus audacieux, plus novateurs; nos textes comme nos illustrations s’appliquant aux choses de notre temps; les modes d’illustrations variés, le grand format solonnel abandonné’ (BB 118). 3 ‘bibliophiles vieux jeu, rétrogrades, fermés aux visions du progrès.’ Uzanne, ‘Nos Variations futures sur l’art du livre et le livre d’art moderne,’ Le Livre Moderne 1 (Jan. 1890) 5.

Notes to pages 91–3

237

4 ‘une formule nouvelle, même inférieure aux anciennes.’ Félicien Rops, qtd. in Uzanne, ‘Félicien Rops’ 484. Italics in original. 5 Uzanne to Théophile Gautier fils, 20 Jan. 1892, MS Thiers 680, Bibliothèque Thiers, Institut de France, Paris. 6 ‘une famille d’élite composée d’initiés, de mandarins lettrés et de patriciens d’esprit.’ Uzanne, ‘En Frontispice,’ L’Art et l’Idée 1 (Jan.–June 1892) 2. 7 ‘les esprits de qualité, les ultra civilisés de la littérature et de l’art … un petit groupe de lecteurs – ô combien petit!’ Uzanne, ‘Sensations d’art et expression d’idées: Notes successives sur le caractère de cette publication,’ L’Art et l’Idée 1 (Jan.–June 1892) 5 (italics in original), and for the following quotation, ibid.: ‘soigneusement éloigné[e] de tout ce qui peut être jugé, discuté, approfondi dans les grandes assises de la presse quotidienne ou dans les pages copieusement fournies des périodiques de la quinzaine.’ 8 ‘foule de banaux.’ Uzanne, ‘Nouvelles et échos: Notes sur les arts et les livres,’ L’Art et l’Idée 2 (July–Dec. 1892) 54; Uzanne, ‘Sur quelques livres de luxe: Nouvelles et notules diverses,’ L’Art et l’Idée 2 (July–Dec. 1892) 246. 9 ‘à nombre miniscule, selon des formules d’art très indépendantes.’ Uzanne, ‘Block-notes d’un bibliographe,’ Le Livre Moderne 5 (10 May 1890) 355 (italics in original). Founded in 1890 and known officially as the Salon de la Société Nationale des Beaux-Arts, this salon, unlike the Salon des Artistes Français, had no jury or medals, and was open to young artists. 10 Uzanne, ‘Le Malaise actuel dans l’édition et de la librairie: Notes et observations à propos d’une lettre sur cette question,’ L’Art et l’Idée 2 (July–Dec. 1892) 73. 11 Uzanne, ‘Quelques mots en guise de rapport,’ Annales … des Bibliophiles Contemporains … pour 1893 xi. 12 ‘la Ploutocratie des éditions privées.’ Uzanne to Edmond de Goncourt, 11 Dec. 1889, N.a.f. 22477, ff. 189–90, BnF. 13 Roberts, ‘French Booklovers’ Societies’ 256. 14 ‘esprits si vivants et si ambitieux de toutes les nouveautés.’ Qtd. in Alfred Piat, ‘Rapport du secrétaire,’ Annales … des Bibliophiles Contemporains … pour 1893 xvii. 15 ‘de leur admiration et de leur bourse’; ‘[vos] millions se montrent-ils de nouveau?’; ‘[plutôt] fantaisistes [que] Dollareux.’ Uzanne to Valentin Blacque, Mar. 1894, Valentin A. Blacque collection, New York Public Library, MS 68–1063. On Uzanne’s relationship with American bibliophiles, see also his preface to Henri Pène du Bois, Four Private Libraries of New York. 16 ‘Book Lovers of New York,’ 23. So keen was Uzanne on America’s ‘modernity,’ that he adversely criticized the architecture of the Chicago Fair because it was classical and he had expected to find it distinctively ‘American.’ Ibid.

238

Notes to pages 95–9

17 HV 1, 1 Feb. 1898, and for the following references from this source: 19 Feb. 1898 (‘[le baron], qui s’occupait beaucoup de ce qui avait trait à l’orfèvrerie, ne les a même pas feuilletés … les pages ne sont pas coupées!’) (ellipses in original); 3 Mar. 1898; 26 Mar. 1898 (‘[j’] appréciais beaucoup son talent très original, très spécial et les livres anglais qu’il a illustrés avaient une saveur très particulière’); 5 Nov. 1898; 29 Mar. 1898; 5 Apr. 1898; 13 June 1898; 23 June 1898; 2 Jan. 1899 (HV 3); 24–7 Oct. 1898; 18 Nov. 1898 (‘C’est un travail considérable qui ne se termine jamais’); 15 Mar. 1898 (‘[l]a peinture en première ligne, la musique ensuite, voilà mes plus grands bonheurs’). 18 ‘recherches, combinaisons, découvertes et procédés artistiques nouveaux les plus propres à produire dans l’Art du Livre de luxe le plus haut degré possible de perfection.’ See Annales … des Bibliophiles Contemporains … pour 1891 xxxiii. 19 ‘le livre dominant de notre Société, celui qui achèvera de consacrer sa renommée.’ Uzanne, ‘Quelques mots en guise de rapport,’ Annales … des Bibliophiles Contemporains … pour 1893 ix. 20 ‘Les bibliophiles futurs iront plutôt aux extrêmes par horreur du banal et du poncif.’ Uzanne, ‘Malaise’ 79–80. On the making of L’Effort, see Carteret, Le Trésor du bibliophile 4:198; and Garvey et al., Turn of a Century 54–6. 21 ‘la sereine indépendance qui fut toujours ma déesse favorite.’ Uzanne, ‘À mes collègues de l’Académie des Beaux Livres: Salut Présidentiel,’ Annales … des Bibliophiles Contemporains … pour 1890 xiv. 22 ‘trop occupé et aussi trop rarement parisien.’ Uzanne, ‘Après dissolution,’ Annales … des Bibliophiles Contemporains … pour 1893 ix. 23 ‘le pays des dollars’ (Q 178); ‘sur le Nil, sous un doux soleil.’ Uzanne to Nadar, 12 Feb. 1895, N.a.f. 24286, f. 620, BnF. 24 The letter continues: ‘Luxor near Cairo seems to be capital in every way and quite cheap. One can live there very well on ten shillings a day. Uzanne will give me some addresses.’ Aubrey Beardsley to André Raffalovich, [7 May 1897], in Letters of Aubrey Beardsley 315. A month after proposing an illustration for Uzanne’s Thémidore, Beardsley wrote the author: ‘I am so sorry that after all I am not to illustrate Thémidore, and it is with much regret that I return to you the charming conte. It might have made a pretty volume’ (15 June [1897]). Letters of Aubrey Beardsley 337. 25 On Floury, see Carteret, Le Trésor du bibliophile 3:196–8. 26 ‘grand, mince, brun, avec une fine barbe noire, distingué.’ Hesse, Histoire des sociétés de bibliophiles 1:38. 27 ‘un bourgeois – fût-il même philosophe et écrivassier!!’ Eugène Rodrigues to [?], 9 Sept. 1893, Carlton Lake Collection of French Manuscripts (258.1), Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center.

Notes to pages 99–104

239

28 ‘[Rodrigues] m’inquiète et s’émacie, la phtisie le guette. On paie Paris, ses fièvres, ses entraînements, ses jolis plaisirs … on vit moins qu’autre part, mais on vit plus.’ Félicien Rops to Armand Rassenfosse, 15 Mar. 1894, Zeno, Les Muses sataniques 214. 29 ‘en tête à tête avec une tétonnière du vieux temps – ce que mon oncle appelait: “une brune piquante.” Nous étions en 2e capitonnée, comme la dame. Privautés déplacées, mais autorisées! Ai eu fortes envies … Retenu par l’idée du procès: “Affaire Rops: nouveaux détails! Portrait de l’accusé,” dit le Quotidien illustré.’ Félicien Rops to Eugène Rodrigues, n.d., Rops, ‘Lettres inédites de Félicien Rops,’ 31. 30 ‘Ils sont étonnants, ces artistes!’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 21 Feb. 1894, 921. Goncourt’s journal entry continues: ‘I wrote a letter that held much weight, it seems, for the rehabilitation of the illustrator Louis Legrand, of the COURRIER FRANÇAIS, condemned by the criminal police court, rehabilitation solicited by his lawyer Rodriguès [sic], author of CATALOGUE DE ROPS and LA DANSE FIN DE SIÈCLE. Who comes to thank me today for my letter? You think it’s the illustrator, right? No, it’s the lawyer!’ (J’ai écrit une lettre qui a été, à ce qu’il paraît, d’un grand poids pour la réhabilitation du dessinateur Louis Legrand, du COURRIER FRANÇAIS, condamné en police correctionnelle, réhabilitation sollicitée par son avocat Rodriguès [sic], auteur du CATALOGUE DE ROPS et de LA DANSE FIN DE SIÈCLE. Qui vient me remercier aujourd’hui de ma lettre? Vous croyez que c’est le dessinateur, n’est-ce pas? Non, c’est l’avocat!). 31 Erastène Ramiro, Louis Legrand peintre-graveur. 32 Qtd. in Pellet and Exsteens, Archives de la maison Gustave Pellet 7. 33 ‘un hurluberlu sauvage’; ‘à l’aspect d’un tortionnaire moyenâgeux … toujours escorté de deux grands chiens.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 9 Oct. 1895, 1180. 34 Félicien Rops to Eugène Demolder, 20 Nov. 1892, Rops, Injures bohèmes 132. 35 Eugène Rodrigues to [?], 26 Jan. [1892], Carlton Lake Collection of French Manuscripts (258.1), Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center; ‘[le] fin et bon sémite.’ Félicien Rops to Armand Rassenfosse, 15 Mar. 1894, Zeno, Les Muses sataniques 214. 36 Erastène Ramiro, L’Œuvre lithographié de Félicien Rops (Paris: Conquet, 1891); Supplément au catalogue de l’œuvre gravé de Félicien Rops; Études sur quelques artistes originaux: Félicien Rops (Paris: Pellet/Floury, 1905). Ramiro also published Louis Legrand peintre-graveur. Catalogue des œuvres gravé et lithographié. (Paris: Floury, 1896), and Louis-Auguste Lepère, peintre graveur (Paris: Charles Meunier, 1901). In a letter to his friend Edmond Picard, a Brussels lawyer and founder with Rops of the review L’Art Moderne, Rops described the frontispiece for

240

37

38 39 40 41 42

Notes to pages 104–6

Ramiro’s Catalogue descriptif et analytique de l’œuvre gravé de Félicien Rops (Paris: Conquet, 1887; Brussels: Deman, 1893), entitled L’Eau-Forte, as a ‘rather curious drawing … more of an immense sketch’ (dessin assez curieux … plutôt un vaste croquis qu’un dessin). Félicien Rops to Edmond Picard, 1 Mar. 1887, Zeno, Les Muses sataniques 158. Rops hoped to exhibit the drawing at the Salon de L’Art Indépendant in Antwerp. ‘Aquarelle finie, Horrible peinture!!’ Rops continued: ‘I am haunted. As soon as I touch a pencil, a lousy artist who is in my skin substitutes himself for me, works in my space and place, and forces me to create “works” the most opposed to my “self” that ever existed’ (Je suis hanté. Dès que je touche un crayon, un sale artiste qui est dans ma peau se substitute à moi-même, travaille en mon lieu et place, et me force à faire des ‘œuvres’ les plus opposés à mon ‘moi’ qui soient au monde). Félicien Rops to Eugène Rodrigues, 1892, Zeno, Les Muses sataniques 241. Rops had been working on the illustrations as early as 1890, when he reported to Rodrigues: ‘Yes, I will finish my drawings for Zadig. Moreover, I gave you my word, and in such a way that for nothing in the world would I renege on that promise, I assure you’ (Oui, je vais finir mes dessins de Zadig. Je t’y ai engagé ma parole, d’ailleurs, et de telle façon que, pour rien au monde, je n’y manquerais, je t’assure). At the same time, however, he complained to Rodrigues that he was being underpaid for his work (he had received three hundred francs, whereas his monthly expenses were at least one thousand francs). Additionally, he was discouraged by the work of the engraver of his drawings, ‘this good Basque man who would have been better off tending a flock of goats while playing the Jew’s harp than trying to engrave my drawings’ (ce brave Basque qui aurait mieux fait de conduire un troupeau de chèvres en jouant de la guimbarde que d’essayer de me graver). Félicien Rops to Eugène Rodrigues, 16 Jan. 1892, ‘Lettres inédites de Félicien Rops,’ 31–2. Nearly a year and a half later, Rops reported to the painter Armand Rassenfosse that he was still working on ‘this insufferable Zadig’ (cet insupportable Zadig). 10 Mar. 1892, Zeno, Les Muses sataniques 196. ‘le bon éditeur Deman.’ Uzanne, ‘Couvertures illustrées de publications étrangères’ 42. For more on the relationship between the milieus of French and Belgian fine book production, see Paris-Bruxelles, Bruxelles-Paris. Hesse, Histoire des sociétés de bibliophiles 1:35. ‘On me donnerait un Raphaël gravé par Albert Dürer, que je n’en voudrais pas.’ Ibid. 38. See Catalogue de la bibliothèque de feu M. Léon Schuck and Carteret, Le Trésor du bibliophile 2:105.

Notes to pages 106–11

241

43 ‘faire tirer sur grand papier spécial 20 exemplaires non mis dans le commerce, des livres, albums, publications, etc. … Les livres seront choisis, autant que possible, parmi ceux offrant un intérêt de curiosité, de nouveauté, d’originalité et de valeur intellectuelle.’ Les XX, statutes, in ‘Les XX,’ Revue Biblio-Iconographique 1 (1897) 366, and for the following quotation (‘les livres à peine éclos, paraissant posséder une valeur littéraire qui les rendra célèbres demain, peut-être’) 367. 44 ‘le vieux livre, après avoir été longtemps l’objet d’un culte qui était excessif parce qu’il était exclusif, est trop abandonné aujourd’hui. Nous désirons contribuer à lui rendre la place qui lui appartient, et, en le faisant connaître, nous le ferons aimer.’ Pierre Dauze, ‘À nos amis,’ Revue Biblio-Iconographique 1 (1897) 4. On Les XX, see Maurel, ‘Les XX.’ 45 On the book publishing activities of the little reviews, see Lesage, ‘Des avantgardes en travail.’ For an informative history of these reviews, but which does not discuss their book publishing activities, see Genova, Symbolist Journals. 46 For a typology of producers of livres de luxe at the fin de siècle, see Antoine Coron, ‘Livres de luxe,’ Chartier and Martin, Histoire de l’édition française 4:435–9. 47 ‘[de] trop déplorables spéculateurs pour espérer la métamorphose de nos écrits en or.’ Alfred Vallette, ‘Le Mercure de France,’ Le Mercure de France 1 (Jan. 1890) 4, qtd. in Genova, Symbolist Journals 123. 48 Louÿs, Journal intime 276. 49 ‘La littérature est le plus libre et le plus délicieux des métiers pour ceux qui ne l’ont pas pour unique ressource. Pour les autres … c’est l’incertitude et les tracas perpétuels.’ Pierre Louÿs to Georges Louis, 4 Nov. 1903, Mille Lettres inédites 453. 50 ‘S’occuper aux petits travaux de curiosité qui vous intéressent – et continuer de recevoir des droits d’auteur qui vous tombent du ciel on ne sait pas pourquoi – Ce serait charmant.’ Pierre Louÿs to Georges Louis, 19 Jan. 1904, Mille Lettres inédites 462. 51 ‘individualisme en littérature, liberté de l’art, abandon des formules enseignées, tendances vers ce qui est nouveau, étrange et même bizarre.’ Le Livre des masques (1896), qtd. in Genova, Symbolist Journals 12–13. 52 ‘feront bientôt briller d’un vif éclat la Nouvelle Bibliopolis’ (NB xviii). 53 On the sociology and mentality of the literary avant-garde during this period, see Datta, Birth of a National Icon 17–64. 54 See Lesage, ‘Des avant-gardes en travail’ 96, n. 27. 55 ‘Il y a des négociants français à Seoul. On pourrait leur écrire. Qu’en pensezvous?’ Remy de Gourmont to Pierre Dauze, 24 June 1899, Lilly Library, Manuscripts Department.

242

Notes to pages 111–15

56 ‘Paris, le 25 janvier de l’an xii de l’ère symboliste.’ Inscription by Gourmont to Dauze of Gourmont’s Les Petites Revues (Paris: Mercure de France, 1900). The Lilly Library owns this copy; ‘une très belle brochure, mon cher confrère, qui nous fera l’honneur à tous les deux.’ Remy de Gourmont to Pierre Dauze, 12 Nov. 1898 and 9 Dec. 1899, Lilly Library, Manuscripts Department. Despite his appreciation of the publication, Gourmont became alarmed at the ‘grave oversight’ (oubli grave) (9 Dec. 1899) represented to him by the copies of this limited edition not having been numbered. 57 Inscription by Gourmont to Dauze of Gourmont’s Les Petites Revues, Lilly Library, Manuscripts Department. 58 Pierre Louÿs to Georges Louis, 1 Jan. [1902], Mille Lettres inédites 391–2. On Louÿs’s bibliophilia, see also Jean-Paul Goujon’s introduction to Mille Lettres inédites 27, and Livres anciens et modernes: Lettres et manuscrits de Pierre Louÿs (Paris: C. Coulet and A. Faure, 1974) 138. 59 Louÿs, 15 Apr. 1890, Journal intime 275–6, and for the following quotations (‘l’odieuse réclame’; ‘je veux être aimé de vingt personnes, et encore est-ce beaucoup’; ‘Écarter de la vie tout ce qui ne tend pas éperdument vers l’idéal, et devenir soi-même la personnification vivante de cette aspiration au Beau’; ‘Écrire pour soi seul! Voilà la sagesse’) 277–8. 60 ‘[les] divers apports ne sont que des surenchères pour attirer le client riche, de la part d’un commerçant avisé qui connaît ses goûts.’ Lesage, ‘Des avantgardes en travail’103. 61 ‘Et puis … et puis … surtout il ne faut pas être Octave Uzanne; le papier à chandelle a son bon côté.’ Pierre Louÿs to Georges Louis, 25 [Feb. 1895], Mille Lettres inédites 150. 62 Hesse, Le Livre d’art 10. See also Hector Talvart, L’Amateur des livres, qtd. in Hesse, Le Livre d’art 216; Ray, Art of the French Illustrated Book 2:372. 63 In discussing the first three volumes published by his firm, Les Éditions d’Art, Pelletan stated: ‘It went without saying … that the nature of the written work brought about that of its visual interpretation’ (Il allait de soi … que le caractère de l’œuvre écrite entraînait celui de l’interprétation graphique). Première Lettre 8. In the Deuxième Lettre aux bibliophiles, he reiterated this point, asserting that ‘a book cannot be beautiful if the text is not good’ (il n’y a point de beau livre si le texte n’est pas bon) (4) or, simply, ‘THE BOOK IS A TEXT’ (LE LIVRE EST UN TEXTE) (8). By contrast, when the print dealer Ambroise Vollard began publishing illustrated books in 1900, ‘[his] interest first and foremost was in the artist and his chosen images. The author’s work was … always secondary.’ Johnson, Ambroise Vollard 23. 64 Bourdieu, ‘The Market of Symbolic Goods,’ Bourdieu, Field of Cultural Production 117, and for the following quotation from this source, 116. 65 Nordau, Degeneration 13.

Notes to pages 116–19

243

4 Artist and Amateur in the Creation of Fin-de-Siècle Illustrated Books 1 ‘un révolutionnaire … qui va dépenser 3000 francs pour se donner, à l’instar d’un fermier-général … une édition de luxe d’un livre moderne.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 21 June 1889, 284. Gallimard discussed plans for this edition at a dinner on 1 Dec. 1888 (ibid., 186). Aside from Gallimard, the third recipient of this edition was the critic Gustave Geoffroy. 2 ‘ce monde de domestiques du vieil imprimé.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 21 June 1889, 284. 3 ‘Cela doit coûter bon!’ Camille Pissarro to Lucien Pissarro, 24 May 1891, C. Pissarro, Lettres à son fils Lucien 250. 4 ‘une brune avec de doux yeux noirs, des yeux parfois interrogateurs à la façon des yeux de femmes-sphinx.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 21 June 1889, 284. The next year Goncourt described Madame Gallimard far less flatteringly as ‘this woman who is so hysterical that a carriage ride with her forces practical people to scream: “Stop, coachman, I need to get out!” – and out of the clasp of this bourgeoise’ (cette femme si hystérique, qu’une course en voiture avec elle force les gens pratiques à crier: ‘Arrêtez, cocher, j’ai besoin de descendre!’ – et des bras enlaceurs de cette bourgeoise). Ibid., 27 Apr. 1890, 418. For more on Paul Gallimard as an art patron, see Bailey, Renoir’s Portraits 217–18 and 322–3. 5 ‘un égoïste sans borne, complet, absolu, qui n’aimait rien, ni sa femme, ni ses enfants, ni ses amis, ni ses maîtresses.’ Léautaud, Journal littéraire 11, 13 June 1936, 214–15. 6 Frantz Jourdain to Auguste Rodin, 22 Feb. 1887, qtd. and translated in Grunfeld, Rodin 276–7. According to Edmond de Goncourt, Jourdain felt that by 1894 Gallimard had become ‘this man who lived only for books, then for paintings, and who now spends each evening at the Variétés, a flower in his lapel, in the midst of the courtesans who live in his building, at last having become entirely a reveler’ (cet homme qui ne vivait que pour les livres, puis pour les tableaux, et qui maintenant passe toutes ses soirées aux Variétés, la boutonnière fleurie, au milieu des hétaïres de son immeuble, enfin devenu tout à fait un fêtard). Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 11 Mar. 1894, 929 (italics in original). 7 ‘précieux collectionneur’; ‘la jeunesse pimpante.’ Stéphane Mallarmé to Robert de Montesquiou, 3 May 1896, Mallarmé, Correspondance 8:118; Stéphane Mallarmé to [?], [11 May 1898], ibid. 9:183. 8 Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 14 Dec. 1894, 1056. 9 ‘un des monuments typographiques les plus réussis de ce temps’; ‘éditeur grand seigneur [qui] a fait revivre en ce siècle le goût du livre fastueux.’

244

10

11 12

13

14

15 16 17

18

19

20 21 22

Notes to pages 121–3

Edmond de Goncourt, inscription in Paul Gallimard’s personal copy of the book. See Exposition Goncourt, organisée par La Gazette des Beaux-Arts 42. ‘ce livre dont la possession m’était réservée par la providence des Bibliophiles’ (EL 112). The edition Beraldi owned had perhaps been commissioned in 1780 by Fermier Général Pierre-Jacques-Onésyme Bergeret de Grancourt. It featured fifty-seven original drawings by Fragonard, who had accompanied his patron Bergeret to Italy. On the publishing ventures of the fermiers généraux, see Galantaris, Manuel de bibliophilie 1:211–13. Renoir, Pierre-Auguste Renoir 363. ‘splendeur des fermiers-généraux.’ Octave Uzanne to Edmond de Goncourt, 11 Dec. 1889, N.a.f. 22477, ff. 189–90, BnF, and for the following quotation (‘bibliophiles très fortunés’), ibid. ‘Je rêve d’une réunion de bibliophiles jeunes et ingénieux, plus lettrés dans le sens élégant du mot que savants (dans la nuance Gallimard, pour tout dire)’; ‘n’aura rien de momifié, de desséché, ni de désagréable.’ Octave Uzanne to Edmond de Goncourt, [18?] Feb. 1899, N.a.f. 22477, ff. 186–7, BnF. ‘plus diplomate et plus réticent de l’œil et des coins de la bouche qu’oncques fut jamais ce bibliophile.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 13 Apr. 1888, 114. ‘la jeunesse, la raison, l’esprit d’aventure et d’initiative’ (NB 10). ‘l’entrée victorieuse de “l’amateur” dans la confection du livre illustré.’ Beraldi, Préface to Hesse, Histoire des sociétés de bibliophiles 1: xvi. ‘de prendre parti … dans cette délicate fonction: la direction des arts. C’està-dire la mise en action productive de l’art et des métiers qui concourent à la fabrication des livres, et cela par désintéressement.’ Bracquemond, Étude sur la gravure sur bois 70–1. Émile Goudeau, Paris qui consomme (1893), illustrations by Pierre Vidal; Georges Montorgeuil, Paris au hasard (1895), illustrations by Auguste Lepère; Émile Goudeau, Poèmes parisiens (1897), illustrations by Charles Jouas. ‘[Ê]tre bibliophile et créer un livre, texte et planches, pour soi-même. Former pour ainsi dire une société de bibliophiles à soi tout seul: en être à la fois le président … le secrétaire, l’assesseur, le membre, le trésorier’ (EL 259). Beraldi’s print collection alone boasted 12,000 portraits from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and over 4,000 nineteenth-century prints. Bourdieu, ‘The Market of Symbolic Goods,’ trans. R. Swyer, in Bourdieu, Field of Cultural Production 120. On the Eragny Press, see Beckwith, Illustrating the Good Life and Genz, A History of the Eragny Press.

Notes to pages 124–9

245

23 ‘l’homme unique à Paris qui va éditer pour son compte personnel un roman de Goncourt illustré, à trois exemplaires rares sur papier.’ Camille Pissarro to Lucien Pissarro, L. Pissarro, Letters of Lucien to Camille Pissarro 222. 24 ‘Un livre rare, c’est ton rêve. Rien ne nous empêche d’essayer la chose.’ Camille Pissarro to Lucien Pissarro, 14 May 1891, C. Pissarro, Lettres à son fils Lucien 248. 25 ‘très belles, très personnelles … il n’a rien vu d’aussi bien que les tiennes qui ont un cachet de naïveté qui charme.’ Camille Pissarro to Lucien Pissarro, 24 May 1891, ibid. 250. 26 ‘un manuscrit sur parchemin accompagné de gouaches et ornements Moderne’; ‘des choses épatantes.’ Lucien Pissarro to Camille Pissarro, [May 1891] and 25 May 1891, L. Pissarro, Letters of Lucien to Camille Pissarro 222 and 236. 27 Lucien Pissarro to Camille Pissarro, [May 1891], ibid. 238. 28 ‘il ne faut plus compter sur [Gallimard] – comment allons nous faire??’ Lucien Pissarro to Camille Pissarro, [Nov. 1891], ibid. 261. 29 ‘Je suis guéri de travailler pour des Français! depuis le commencement je n’ai jamais eu que des désappointements avec eux.’ Lucien Pissarro to Camille Pissarro, [June 1900], ibid. 649. 30 ‘une des plus importantes qui ait jamais eu lieu.’ Lucien Pissarro to Camille Pissarro, [Apr. 1896], ibid. 469. 31 ‘défendre ses intérêts … et il faut s’attendre à des difficultés que vont déchaîner les défenseurs du livre soi-disant moderne et de beau style.’ Camille Pissarro to Esther Pissarro, 21 May 1896, ibid. 478. 32 ‘caractère inédit’; ‘dessin clair et immédiatement lisible.’ ‘Notes d’art parisiennes (Le “Livre moderne”),’ L’Art Moderne 28 June 1896: 203–4. 33 See Genz, A History of the Eragny Press 218–24. 34 Ibid. 109–11. 35 ‘il suffit de frapper du pied le sol de Paris pour en faire jaillir des légions d’illustrateurs admirables.’ Beraldi, ‘La Bibliophilie créatrice’ 239, and for the following quotation (‘un des ferments les plus actifs pour faire lever la nouvelle couche de bibliophiles’), 242. 36 Uzanne, ‘On the Drawings of M. Georges de Feure’ 102, and for the following quotation, 99. This article appeared in its French version as Uzanne, ‘Les Maîtres de l’estampe et de l’affiche: M. Georges de Feure.’ See also Uzanne, ‘Georges de Feure.’ 37 An article by Uzanne, ‘La Porte des Rêves,’ appeared in L’Écho de Paris on 27 Nov. 1898. For more on the collaboration between Uzanne and de Feure on La Porte des rêves, see Millman, Georges de Feure 118–32; Ray, Art of the French Illustrated Book 2:478; Garvey et al., Turn of a Century 60–1.

246

Notes to pages 129–36

38 In [Sept.] 1897, Schwob reported to his mother: ‘Uzanne is to show me Friday seven completed illustrations by de Feure for my book. That is about half of his work’ (Uzanne doit me montrer vendredi sept illustrations de de Feure pour mon livre qui sont terminées. C’est à peu près la moitié de son travail). Schwob, Correspondance inédite 90. 39 ‘susceptible d’exprimer les choses au-delà du rêve, de la douleur, de l’angoisse, du mystère avec une grande sûreté de ligne à la Van Eyck. Georges de Feure, le lithographe de La Princesse Maleine, le peintre de La Course à l’abîme, l’ingénieux décorateur de maintes publications périodiques et d’affiches suggestives, nous parut seul apte à interpréter les rares proses de Marcel Schwob.’ Qtd. in Millman, Georges de Feure 120. 40 ‘ces chapitres d’imagination exceptionnelle, conçus en dehors des réalités et tous d’une vision délicieusement chimérique.’ Ibid. 41 ‘[W]e are requesting from him a triptychlike frontispiece, opening up at the beginning of this book’ ([N]ous lui demandâmes un tripti-frontispice ouvrant au début de ce livre). Uzanne, qtd. in Millman, Georges de Feure 120. 42 ‘Les Anciens croyaient que deux portes s’ouvraient sur le royaume noir de l’Érèbe; l’une, légère, laisse s’envoler parmi nous les songes ailés; l’autre, massive, se referme sur ceux qui l’ont franchie, pour toujours. J’étais descendu jusqu’au seuil de la porte inexorable. Vous m’avez saisi de votre main “qui guérit tout ce qu’elle touche” et vous m’avez ramené vers le soleil. Grâce à vous, j’ai pu encore rêver ces rêves.’ Qtd. and translated in Garvey et al., Turn of a Century 61. For the original French, see Vanderpooten, Samuel Pozzi 251. 43 ‘les volets des mystiques primitives.’ Qtd. in Uzanne, ‘La Porte des Rêves’ 253. ‘Au fond de l’Inconnu pour trouver du Nouveau!’ Charles Baudelaire, ‘Voyaging,’ The Flowers of Evil, trans. James McGowan (New York: Oxford UP, 1993) 293. 44 Badauderies parisiennes: Les Rassemblements: Physiologies de la rue (Pour les Bibliophiles Indépendants, Henri Floury, 1896) n.pag. 45 Uzanne, ‘Prologue: Félix Vallotton et l’origine de ce Livre des Rassemblements’ iv, and for the following quotations from this source (‘ne saura[it] plaire à tous les amateurs d’estampes modernes’; ‘légère, dégagée, habile’), i and viii. 46 Uzanne, ‘William Morris et l’art du livre en Angleterre,’ Revue BiblioIconographique 1 (1897): 288–95. 47 Thadée Natanson to Octave Uzanne, 13 Feb. 1896 and François Courboin to Uzanne, 4 Mar. 1896, included in Badauderies parisiennes, n.pag., CM 392. An advertising prospectus for the book lists two prices for it, forty and sixty francs.

Notes to pages 136–41

247

48 ‘la brillante et fringante rédaction de La Revue Blanche.’ Uzanne, ‘Prologue: Félix Vallotton et l’origine de ce Livre des Rassemblements’ vi. For the following quotation (‘éditeur Bibliophile’), ibid. 49 In Beraldi’s words, this ‘fifth degree’ of bibliophilia consisted in the following: ‘to print only one copy of a book for oneself alone, as has been done from time to time by Mr Gallimard’ (ne faire imprimer un livre qu’à un exemplaire pour soi tout seul, comme l’a fait quelquefois M. Gallimard) (EL 259). 50 On Beraldi’s ‘monument,’ see Fenton, ‘Edwardian Paris.’ 51 Henri Draibel (Beraldi), L’Œuvre de Moreau le Jeune. On Le Monument du costume, see Heller-Greenman, ‘Moreau le Jeune and the Monument du costume.’ 52 ‘un peu des collaborateurs de l’illustration, leur montrant des premiers états, enregistrant avec admiration leurs observations, les en remerciant et leur promettant bien que le graveur en tiendra compte.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 25 Apr. 1895, 1123. 53 ‘pour ce livre qui n’aura pas de publicité et qui doit rester enfermé dans le cabinet de l’amateur, il [Rodin] ne se sent pas l’entrain, le feu d’une illustration commandée par un éditeur.’ Ibid., 29 Dec. 1887, 84. 54 Benjamin, ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’ 226. Benjamin contrasts private, ‘cult value’ with the public ‘exhibition value’ that is the characteristic of the mechanically reproduced artwork. 55 ‘[des] livres, très rares, très soignés typographiquement, [qui] manquent, la plupart, d’originalité moderne, manquent de grand style. Ils sont rares et bien faits, c’est évident, mais la disposition des lettres? La mise en page?’ Camille Pissarro to Lucien Pissarro, 24 May 1891, C. Pissarro, Lettres à son fils Lucien 250, and for the following quotation (‘toi qui es compétent dans le livre’), ibid. 56 Beraldi, ‘La Bibliophilie créatrice’ 117–18. 57 ‘Désormais, si tu veux des livres, fais-les-toi toi-même.’ Beraldi, ‘La Bibliophilie créatrice’ 168 (italics in original). 5 Unpacking His Library: Robert de Montesquiou and the Aesthetics of the Book 1 [Q]ue furent les volumes / Par moi vêtus d’étoffe et mis en un écrin? 2 31, first sale; N.a.f. 15229. The first number in this and subsequent references refers to the item number in the sale catalogue, the second to the call number given by the Bibliothèque nationale de France to the scrapbook in which the book or document in question is described, often through the addition of supplementary material from Montesquiou’s collection.

248

Notes to pages 143–7

3 ‘courtoisie … bienséance … intérêt … toutes sortes de convenances et d’obligations.’ Lièvre, ‘Variétés’ 370. 4 Darnton, ‘First Steps,’ Kiss of Lamourette 162. 5 Darnton, ‘What Is the History of Books?’ Kiss of Lamourette 134. 6 See, for example, Thiébaut, Robert de Montesquiou. While Antoine Bertrand offers a statistical breakdown of the composition of Montesquiou’s library in an appendix, he provides no sustained analysis of its contents. See Les Curiosités esthétiques 2:801–6. 7 Carr, Mrs. J. Comyns Carr’s Reminiscences 191; Bertrand, Les Curiosités esthétiques 2:774–5. 8 492–3, first sale; N.a.f. 15250. 9 ‘en témoignage de sincère et vive sympathie littéraire’; ‘Buet/Puait.’ 884, second sale; N.a.f. 15295. 10 1495–1508, second sale; N.a.f. 15306. 11 N.a.f. 15265–92. 12 652–9, first sale; N.a.f. 15267. 13 644–51, first sale; N.a.f. 15266. 14 660, first sale; N.a.f. 15268. 15 645, first sale; N.a.f. 15266. 16 68, first sale; N.a.f. 15231; 80, first sale; N.a.f. 15231; Bertrand, Les Curiosités esthétiques 2:806. 17 ‘orné de gravures … par Moreau le Jeune, relié en maroquin citron, avec gardes en tabis rose’; ‘[une] exceptionnelle jouissance de se voir attribuer, avec une miraculeuse facilité qui la rend plus belle, une chose que j’admirais avec une exstase refrénée.’ Montesquiou, Les Pas 1:173–4. 18 ‘dont on n’a pas un échantillon de robe et un menu de dîner, l’histoire ne la voit pas revivre.’ Goncourt, L’Art du dix-huitième siècle, qtd. in Pol Neveux, ‘Postface: Les Goncourt collectionneurs,’ Goncourt, Maison 2:322. 19 Montesquiou’s library contained ninety-eight volumes from other collections, about a quarter of which had belonged (until his death in 1905) to his lover, Gabriel de Yturri. On the brothers’ roles as taste-makers, Edmond de Goncourt wrote: ‘the men and women around us, I saw them modelling themselves on us, adopting all our tastes, our tastes for printing on extraordinary paper, for fabric-covered ceilings, our tastes for eighteenth-century or Japanese interior decoration, our tastes for grub, and even imitating our vests and socks!’ (les hommes et les femmes autour de nous, je les ais vus se modeler sur nous, prendre tous nos goûts, nos goûts du tirage sur papier extraordinaire, de chambres aux plafonds habillés d’étoffe, nos goûts d’ameublement XVIIIe siècle ou japonais, nos goûts de mangeaille, enfin même plagier nos gilets et nos chaussettes!). Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 14 Mar. 1892, 678.

Notes to pages 147–51

249

20 ‘accordé à l’élève de Goncourt pour son excellente conduite et sa constante application pendant le 1er et 2e semestre de l’année classique et scolaire 1836–7, 1837–8.’ 661, first sale; N.a.f. 15268; 1715, second sale; N.a.f. 15317. 21 ‘[la] boîte par excellence des beaux livres, des belles reliures.’ Goncourt, Maison 1:300, and for the following quotation (‘les riantes et lisses couleurs des peaux avec le foncé de ses panneaux, où se répète et revit un rien de la dorure du dos des volumes’), ibid. 22 Bertrand, Les Curiosités esthétiques 1:89. 23 ‘Une buire en morceaux ne meurt pas tout entière,/Les marbres effrités ne sont pas tous défunts:/Peut-être un faible esprit déserte la matière/Lorsque l’on brise un vase où brûlaient des parfums.’ Montesquiou, Prières de tous XLIV, n.pag. 24 ‘cette passion du bibelot qui m’a fait misérable et heureux toute ma vie.’ Goncourt, Maison 1:308. 25 ‘[L]e groupement des objets, dans une association, presque dans une conversation ingénieuse, et parfois saisissante, qui réveille l’appétit des yeux, et se communique à l’âme, voilà ce que je me mis à rechercher d’instinct.’ Montesquiou, Les Pas 2:94, and for the following quotations (‘l’ivresse, toujours renouvelée, d’un mangeur de haschich’; ‘cent fois feuillet[é]’), 94 and 102. 26 Goncourt’s aesthetic of interior decoration influenced many of his contemporaries. According to Lucien Corpechot: ‘We were still living under the influence of the Maison d’un artiste and a good deal of literature shaped our predilection for certain arrangements and our aesthetic of furniture’ (Nous vivions encore sous l’impression de la Maison d’un Artiste et il entrait bien de la littérature dans notre prédilection pour certains arrangements et dans notre esthétique du mobilier). Souvenirs 3:37. 27 ‘[j’]écris l’histoire de l’art industriel de l’Occident et de l’Orient et … je prends la direction d’un des grands mouvements du goût d’aujourd’hui et de demain.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 2, 3 Apr. 1880, 861; Goncourt, Maison 1:7 and for the following quotation (‘un inventeur d’intérieurs pour gens riches’), 26. 28 Montesquiou, Les Pas 2:123. 29 Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 12 Jan. 1890, 215. 30 ‘[un] véritable possédé.’ Migeon, ‘Charles Gillot’ vii. The sale of Gillot’s Asian art collection, which took place 8–13 Feb. 1904 at the Durand-Ruel Gallery, was overseen by Siegfried Bing. 31 ‘L’après-midi chez Gillot … Nous nous extasions à chaque pas devant les admirables pièces de cette magnifique collection. C’est certainement sinon la plus nombreuse, mais la plus belle qu’on puisse voir … Et tout cela est arrangé avec un goût exquis … Il semble que lorsque Gillot place un objet

250

32 33

34

35 36

37

38

39 40 41 42

Notes to pages 151–3

nouveau dans une vitrine, il agisse comme un peintre qui poserait une touche sur sa toile. C’est d’une harmonie complète et d’un raffinement exquis … c’est beau jusqu’à l’exaspération.’ HV 1, 23 Jan. 1898. Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 18 Feb. 1893, 799. ‘[r]egorgent de joujoux sacrés.’ Montesquiou’s poem begins: ‘You have bronzes, lacquers, / Enamels, kakemonos, / Foukousas abounding in macaques, / And albums full of sparrows’ (Vous avez les bronzes, les laques, / Les émaux, les kakémonos, / Les foukousas pleins de macaques, / Et les albums pleins de moineaux’). Paroles diaprées 211. ‘cela me fait tellement plaisir que j’en ai mal dormi, y ayant pensé toute la nuit.’ HV 1, 6 June 1898, and for the following quotation (‘je veux calmer mes achats’), ibid., 28 June 1898. On the role of bibelots in fin-de-siècle interiors, see Carassus, Le Snobisme 45–60. ‘[le] groupement subtil et disert.’ Montesquiou, ‘Mobilier’ 164 (italics in original). However, Montesquiou later wondered whether this aesthetic of brica-brac was not in fact ‘a heresy in its assemblage of anachronisms, and whether it would not be better to prefer those of a same style, which I saw appreciated by my timorous neighbours’ (une hérésie que ces assemblages d’anachronismes, et s’il n’y avait pas lieu de leur préférer ceux d’un même style, que je voyais apprécier par mes timorés cohabitants). Les Pas 2:112. ‘la couleur, doucement dosée’ (italics in original); ‘quelque chose de symbolique et de pensif, de par le décor variant et commentant un texte, une idée.’ Montesquiou, ‘Mobilier’ 165–6. ‘Il y a chez moi une faculté tyrannique: l’enfantement continu, perpétuel d’une conception qui porte le cachet de ma personnalité. Si … ce n’est pas un livre que je roule dans ma tête, ma pensée s’amuse jour et nuit de la plantation d’un jardin, de la création d’un coin de verdure et de feuillée particulier. À défaut de la création d’un jardin, ma cervelle s’occupera de la création d’une pièce, de l’arrangement et de l’ameublement d’une chambre, réalisés dans les conditions d’un idéal artistique … Et il en a été toujours ainsi toute ma vie: je me reposais de la composition d’un bouquin par la composition originale d’une collection, d’un meuble, d’une reliure.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 2, 30 Mar. 1871, 402. Nordau, Degeneration 11. ‘[les] lassitudes de l’ennui et les maladies de la sensibilité nerveuse.’ Paul Bourget, ‘MM. Edmond et Jules de Goncourt,’ Nouveaux Essais 139–57. On Montesquiou and the theatre, see Bertrand, Les Curiosités esthétiques 2:657–71, and Lesage, ‘Des avant-gardes en travail’ 104. Pierre Quillard, ‘De l’inutilité absolue de la mise en scène exacte,’ Revue d’Art Dramatique 22 (1 May 1891): 180–3.

Notes to pages 153–7

251

43 ‘[la] fureur des arrangements décoratifs, des appartements ornés, des installations magnifiques.’ Montesquiou, Les Pas 2:88, and for the following quotations from this source (‘appartement légendaire’; ‘miroir de mon âme’; ‘les murs étaient revêtus d’un cuir vert et or, frappé de plumes de paon sans doute chargées de représenter les cent yeux du savoir’), 97 and 111. 44 Robertson, Life Was Worth Living 100. 45 ‘où tout bibeloteur emmagasine et entasse les choses boiteuses et estropiées, les choses achetées les jours d’erreur’; ‘des armoires entre-bâillées laiss[a]nt voir des rangées interminables de livres modernes.’ Goncourt, Maison 2:296. 46 ‘ce microcosme de choses de goût, d’objets d’élection, de jolités rarissimes’ (italics in original). Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 14 Dec. 1894, 1046. 47 ‘ces beaux vilains livres de cabinet de lecture, sous leurs couvertures à peine défraîchies, avec leur texte si lisible, et leurs grandes marges pas bien blanches et peu satinées.’ Goncourt, Maison 2:300–1. 48 For the description of the decor and contents of the Goncourts’ grenier, see Journal 3, 14 Dec. 1894, 1046–56, and Maison 2:295–6. 49 On the Goncourts’ library in the rue d’Auteuil, and for a discussion of the relationship between their book collecting and writing practices, see Pety, Les Goncourt et la collection 209–24. 50 ‘faisaient chatoyer ces parois et trompaient ainsi un peu sur les proportions de la pièce.’ Montesquiou, Les Pas 2:111–17. 51 ‘une pièce qui n’ait rien aux murs, et que j’aimerais toute nue et blanchie à la chaux.’ Goncourt, Maison 2:287. 52 ‘pliées et rangées comme des elzévirs, dans des bibliothèques de luxe.’ Montesquiou, Les Pas 2:122. 53 ‘à faire relier ses murs comme des livres, avec du maroquin.’ Huysmans, À Rebours 74. 54 ‘Je tiens de telles fantaisies murales et mobilières, pour des écritures.’ Montesquiou, Les Pas 2:112 (italics in original). 55 Goncourt, qtd. in Pol Neveux, ‘Postface,’ in Goncourt, Maison 2:331. 56 ‘une sorte de serre bibliothèque des livres préférés par Montesquiou, en même temps qu’un petit musée des portraits de leurs auteurs.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 7 July 1891, 606. 57 ‘la cage où Michelet regardait vivre l’oiseau qu’il décrivait. Je touchai respectueusement la guitare de Marceline Desbordes-Valmore; et dans une sorte de sanctuaire je m’émus devant le moulage des pieds de la Castiglione.’ Corpechot, Souvenirs 3:39. 58 ‘Que je plains les lettrés qui ne sont pas sensibles à la séduction d’une reliure, dont l’œil n’est pas amusé par la bijouterie d’une dorure sur un maroquin, et qui n’éprouvent pas … une certaine délectation physique à toucher de leurs

252

59 60

61 62

63 64

65

66 67 68

69 70

71

Notes to pages 158–60

doigts, à palper, à manier une de ces peaux du Levant si moelleusement assouplies!’ Goncourt, Maison 1:302. 797, first sale; N.a.f. 15292. ‘dont la reliure coûte très cher.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 2, 9 Feb. 1872, 493; ‘d’habiller un livre qu’un gentilhomme.’ Dérôme, Le Luxe des livres 84. Jackson, Anatomy 505–8. ‘images nouvelles et invues’; ‘en feutre du Japon, aussi blanche qu’un lait caillé … fermée par deux cordons de soie, l’un rose de Chine, et l’autre noir.’ Huysmans, À Rebours 221, and for the following quotation (‘d’irréprochables reliures en soie antique, en peau de bœuf estampée, en peau de bouc du Cap, des reliures pleines, à compartiments et à mosaïques, doubles de tabis ou de moiré, ecclésiastiquement ornées de fermoirs et de coins’), 176. For the translations: Huysmans, Against Nature 197 and 145. Wilde, Picture of Dorian Gray 141. In Montesquiou’s view, ‘the only beautiful objects are those made, as we say, “by hand,” above all when they struggle against a difficult execution that renders them more precious and rare’ (il n’y a de beaux objets que les objets faits, comme on dit, ‘à la main,’ surtout quand ils luttent contre une difficulté d’exécution qui les rend plus précieux et plus rares). Les Pas 2:114. See also Clermont-Tonnerre, Robert de Montesquiou 56–7 on the artisans employed by Montesquiou. ‘D’innover … de rompre les lignes, d’imaginer de larges mosaïques d’un libre dessin, d’emprunter aux perspectives japonaises des combinaisons inédites, de s’inspirer de l’esprit du dessin des illustrateurs du texte, de demander le concours d’ornemantistes en dehors du métier et de chercher des mariages d’ors divers, d’argent et de platine pour cerner les multiples tonalités de leurs intéressantes décorations’ (NB 191–2). Clermont-Tonnerre, Robert de Montesquiou 76–7. Alexandre Bibesco to Charles Meunier, 14 Sept. 1901, CM 388. ‘aux gardes faites avec des soieries anciennes ramassées par moi à droite et à gauche. C’est vraiment une ornementation de livres très charmante.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 4 Oct. 1894, 1015. ‘Quand vous habillez notre Livre/S’il est mortel, faites-le vivre/Sous la ciselure du cuir.’ Montesquiou, Paroles diaprées 173. ‘vêtir nos rêves.’ Montesquiou, ‘Le Moulin du livre’ 272, and for the following quotations (‘ce minotier si habile à bluter des farines de génie’; ‘des sacs ingénieusement brodés de tous les décors imaginables’), ibid. ‘un nouvel essor’; ‘un élément nouveau recruté parmi les gens riches à tendance artistique.’ Charles Meunier to Robert de Montesquiou, 2 June 1903, N.a.f. 15292, ff. 78–9, BnF.

Notes to pages 160–3

253

72 On the negotiations and collaboration between Meunier and Montesquiou leading to the publication of this volume, see the correspondence in CM 328. 73 ‘qui sera imprimé à petit nombre et donné, par moi, à ceux qui l’apprécieraient. Et le caractère sensible de cette œuvre me fait souhaiter de la réaliser dans votre maison amie.’ See the copy of Montesquiou’s Le Chancelier de fleurs in CM 212; see also 824, second sale; N.a.f. 15293. 74 Montesquiou, Saints 19. 75 ‘sans doute … renferme le plus de moi-même.’ Montesquiou, Les Pas 2:100. 76 For Montesquiou’s sketches of bats and preliminary designs for the binding and watermarked paper for Les Chauves-Souris, see N.a.f. 15110. 77 ‘Ainsi sa demeure est pour ainsi dire à l’image et à la ressemblance de son œuvre … c’est sa vision de poète extériorisée, matérialisée.’ Rodenbach, ‘Un gentilhomme de lettres.’ 78 ‘[r]ien ne fut épargné pour cette présentation … les raffinements typographiques et autres.’ Montesquiou, Les Pas 2:210 and for the following quotations, ibid. 79 In Montesquiou’s words: ‘I had [my “Chauves-Souris”] printed in a small quantity, on beautiful Van Gelder paper, which I ordered from this famous Dutch firm, with a large bat as the watermark and a sort of two-tone binding with the same decoration’ (j’avais fait imprimer [mes ‘Chauves-Souris’] à petit nombre, sur un beau papier Van Gelder, commandé par moi dans cette célèbre maison hollandaise, avec une noctule comme filigrane, et une sorte de brochage en deux tons, au même décor) (Les Pas 2:196). 80 ‘il fallait … avoir été élu par un décret nominatif de l’auteur lui-même.’ Hallays, ‘Au jour le jour’ 1. 81 ‘Le beau volume nous est revenu! – et nous paraît plus merveilleux que jamais.’ Qtd. in Montesquiou and Whistler, La Chauve-Souris 184. 82 Rodenbach, ‘Un gentilhomme de lettres.’ 83 ‘son énorme et luxueux in-quarto, son bloc de poésie.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 12 July 1892, 730. 84 ‘À chaque feuillet du livre, une chauve-souris se filigrane dans le papier, dont le grain est doux aux doigts qui le retournent, comme de la peau de femme! Nul fleuron, nulle vignette, nul cul-de-lampe, nul ornement par où s’avère, si lourdement, l’ordinaire incompétence, en éditerie, des éditeurs. Le goût qui présida à l’ameublement de ce livre fut exquis.’ Mirbeau, ‘Les Chauves-Souris’ 1. 85 Benjamin, ‘Unpacking My Library’ 61. 86 ‘le côté bibelot, fanfreluche.’ Clermont-Tonnerre, Robert de Montesquiou 38; ‘Au premier envol de ses Chauves-Souris en velours violet, la question fut très sérieusement posée de savoir si M. de Montesquiou était un poète ou un amateur de poésie et si la vie mondaine se pouvait concilier avec le culte des Neuf Sœurs.’ Gourmont, ‘Robert de Montesquiou,’ Le Livre des masques 133.

254

Notes to pages 163–9

87 ‘l’énormité du bibelot, jointe à sa perfection, prouverait un maniaque plutôt qu’un poète.’ Ganderax, ‘Un poète.’ 88 ‘on le trouverait peut-être un poète extraordinaire. Mais il est bien né, il est riche, il est du grand monde: on ne le trouvera que baroque!’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 3, 12 July 1892, 731. 89 ‘affamés de clarté’ ‘et voués aux cavernes.’ Montesquiou, ‘Essence,’ Les Chauves-Souris n.pag. 90 ‘un vers fût un bibelot d’art.’ Qtd. in Gourmont, Le Livre des masques 135. 6 The Enemies of Books? Women and the Bibliophilic Imagination 1 Confessons qu’il n’y a pas d’amour sans fétichisme et rendons cette justice aux amoureux du vieux papier noirci, qu’ils sont aussi fous que les autres amoureux. 2 Elle plisse la lèvre avec un fier dédain/Et, toisant ma valeur, en elle s’exclame:/ ‘– Le sot! Il aime mieux des livres qu’une femme!’ 3 ‘Je ne sache point deux mots qui hurlent plus de se trouver ensemble dans notre milieu social’ (Z 30). 4 Eudel, Le Truquage 267; Jacob, Les Amateurs de vieux livres 2. 5 Gausseron, Bouquiniana 36. 6 ‘[n’]est-ce pas là non seulement la femme vivace & curieuse du siècle dernier, mais la femme de tous les siècles?’ Labessade, L’Amour du livre 37, 39. 7 Paul Verlaine, ‘Bibliophobes,’ Biblio-Sonnets 49. 8 Bury, Philobiblion 43. 9 Jackson, Fear of Books 148. 10 For a perceptive analysis of the gendered and erotic overtones of the language of book collecting during this period, but which focuses primarily on the Anglo-American context, see Taylor, ‘Anatomy of Bibliography.’ 11 ‘[des] petites histoires qu’on en raconte dans les librairies sur le coup de cinq heures’ (BB 120). 12 As Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick has pointed out, ‘in any erotic rivalry, the bond that links the two rivals is as intense and potent as the bond that links either of the rivals to the beloved.’ Between Men 21. 13 See, for example, Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost 4.2.35: ‘You two are book-men: can you tell me by your wit / What was a month old at Cain’s birth, that’s not five weeks old as yet?’ 14 ‘bourreaux des livres.’ Alphonse Alkan aîné, Les Livres et leurs ennemis 15. 15 On the destruction of books, see, for example, Blades, Les Livres et leurs ennemis; Drujon, Essai bibliographique sur la destruction volontaire des livres; and Jackson, Anatomy of Bibliomania 728–34.

Notes to pages 169–72

255

16 Un Bibliophile, Les Ennemis des livres 33. 17 See Cim, Les Femmes et les livres 22; Beraldi, La Bibliothèque d’un bibliophile 86; ‘Les Ennemis des livres,’ Magasin Pittoresque 262; Uzanne, Zigzags 34. 18 ‘elles cornent tous les livres sans pitié comme s’il s’agissait de maris’ (DB 317). 19 ‘cet auxiliaire digne d’un sauvage.’ ‘Les Ennemis des livres,’ Magasin Pittoresque 262. 20 Andrew Lang, ‘Lady Book-Lovers,’Books and Bookmen 136. The same volume contains Lang’s essay, ‘Bibliomania in France’ 90–108. 21 ‘Assise sur sa chauffeuse, elle approche du feu les plus belles reliures, jusqu’à faire gondoler carton et maroquin’ (Z 33–4). 22 Lang, ‘Lady Book-Lovers’ 136, and for the following quotation, 135. 23 ‘Un livre, à leurs yeux, n’est pas plus qu’un journal: elles le plient, elles le froissent, elles le retournent.’ René Vallery-Radot, preface to Charles Nodier, Le Bibliomane (Paris: Conquet, 1894), qtd. in Cim, Les Femmes et les livres 5. 24 See Bjarne Rogan, ‘Collectionner: Mode masculine et mode féminine,’ Ribault, Mécènes et collectionneurs 341–51. On the gendered nature of collecting, see also Russell W. Belk and Melanie Wallendorf, ‘Of Mice and Men: Gender Identity in Collecting,’ Pearce, Interpreting Objects and Collections 240–53. 25 See Marcus, Art and Anger 222–3. 26 Howsam, ‘In My View.’ 27 On the growth of a female reading public and the development of female reading practices in nineteenth-century France, see Lyons, Readers and Society in Nineteenth-Century France 5–7 and 81–128; Anne Sauvy, ‘Une littérature pour femmes,’ Chartier and Martin, Histoire de l’édition française 3:496–508. 28 Jean Hébrard writes of a ‘strictly feminine model, not far removed from the lascivious readings of the boudoir, on the one hand, and from the naive readings of feuilletons on the other’ (542). According to Hébrard, such a model, geared toward amusement and not instruction or edification, influenced the reading practices of other social classes, spreading and becoming the dominant model for popular reading in general. ‘Les Nouveaux Lecteurs,’ Chartier and Martin, Histoire de l’édition francaise 3:527–67. 29 See Allen, In the Public Eye 217–19. 30 ‘solide, mâle, râblé et bien assis’ (DB 51). 31 ‘sec, dur, hostile, poseur, revêche, bégueule; il montre les mines énervantes d’une femme trop bien habillée qui ne laisse prendre à son amant aucune privauté sous prétexte que sa toilette en serait froissée’; ‘toujours dispos; comme la prostituée antique, il se livre de tous côtés’ (DB 73). 32 See Showalter, Sexual Anarchy 127–43. For Uzanne’s account of Péan’s public surgery session, see ‘Le docteur Péan à son amphithéâtre,’ Visions de notre heure 56–64.

256

Notes to pages 173–4

33 ‘comme un amant jaloux sur sa belle.’ Brisson, ‘Un amateur de vieux livres’ 23. 34 ‘avec plus de joie qu’un amant qui étreint son amante longtemps attendue’ (C 17). 35 ‘De même que les passions sensuelles, celle-ci jouit surtout par les yeux: ouvrage rare, bonne édition, bel exemplaire, riche reliure, ce sont autant de qualités matérielles que recherche l’amant des vieux livres, pour qui le bonheur est dans la contemplation et la possession. On dirait le véritable amant qui détaille les charmes de sa maîtresse avec une sorte d’orgueilleuse complaisance, en manière de catalogue de bibliothèque: “une brune de vingt ans, de bonne famille, d’un esprit rare, d’une belle figure, de mise élégante.”’ Jacob, Les Amateurs de vieux livres 8–9, and for the following quotations from this source (‘un sérail où les eunuques même n’entrent pas … il ne permet pas à un ami la vue d’une des maîtresses … qu’il parcourt des yeux et de la main avec délices … il jouit solitairement’; ‘se lasse, se refroidit, s’éteint’), 44, 48. 36 ‘[P]our aimer le livre aujourd’hui, il faut avoir les reins solides’ (EL 177). 37 Anatole France, ‘Bibliophilie’ 73. The psychoanalyst Wilhelm Stekel remarks that for the fetishist ‘[e]very single fetish loses its enchanting qualities as a fetish and the devotee quickly and hungrily finds himself another sample.’ Sexual Aberrations: The Phenomena of Fetishism in Relation to Sex, vol. 1, trans. Samuel Parker (New York: Liveright, 1971) 21, qtd. in Apter, Feminizing the Fetish 116. 38 ‘aux Circassiennes succèderont les Espagnoles, aux blanches Anglaises les négresses du Congo; le Grand-Seigneur vend ses femmes à l’encan.’ Jacob, Les Amateurs de vieux livres 48. 39 ‘race bouquinante’; ‘le pied léger, le cœur battant d’une sainte émotion, inquiets de savoir si la maîtresse qu’ils conquerront sera blonde ou brune’ (C 21–2). 40 ‘se rue[nt] à la curée de la virginité et l’innocence’ (F 12). 41 Jacob, Les Amateurs de vieux livres 48, and for the following quotations, 46–8. 42 ‘c’est tout un art de savoir tenir un livre précieux à la fois fermement et moelleusement, de l’ouvrir, de le manier’ (BB 86). 43 ‘caresse le volume … il emploie pour en parler toute une phraséologie galante et quasi-lascive; – et c’est un corps qui n’est pas mou – et c’est le contour élégant des formes, – et c’est la finesse des extrémités, et la perfection de la gouttière, et la fermeté du dos, et la douceur de la peau, et son poli, et la parure, et la dentelle, et la fraîcheur virginale’ (EL 177). 44 Catalogue de la bibliothèque de feu M. Jules Claretie vii.

Notes to pages 175–6

257

45 ‘plongent … leurs mains noires de pousssière dans un casier qui est tout un monde’ C 21; ‘un livre longtemps convoité, manier une trouvaille imprévue, caresser une reliure, épousseter des tranches’ (Quais 131–2). 46 ‘une certaine délectation physique à toucher … à palper, à manier une de ces peaux de Levant si moelleusement assouplies.’ Goncourt, Maison 1:302. 47 ‘On n’est heureux par les livres que si l’on aime à les caresser’; ‘délices de promener des doigts tremblants sur les grains délicieux du maroquin.’ France, ‘Bibliophilie’ 65–6. 48 ‘palp[ant] dévotement’; ‘dans un large format rappelant celui des missels’; ‘mani[e] avec des mains dévotes’; ‘des lupanars où des gens rôdent autour de femmes nues.’ Huysmans, À Rebours 176–7 and 86–8. For the translations, Huysmans, Against Nature 146 and 43. 49 ‘[l’]’homme qui prend un objet avec des doigts indifférents, avec des doigts bêtes, avec des doigts qui n’ont pas l’enveloppement amoureux, cet homme n’est pas un passionné d’art.’ Goncourt, Maison 1:205. 50 ‘avec délices l’odeur du vieux veau racorni’ (C 21); ‘[l’]odeur particulière qui s’exhale des reliures anciennes exposées à la pluie et au soleil.’ Brisson, ‘Un amateur de vieux livres’ 23. 51 ‘frisson voluptueux, cette joie quasi-sensuelle.’ Brisson, ‘Le Livre et la femme’; ‘voluptés physiques’ (Quais 131–2). 52 ‘Les Ennemis des livres,’ Magasin Pittoresque 262. 53 ‘sensation délicate et minutieuse du long coupe-papier qui tranche également les pliures’ (Z 34). 54 ‘haïr de tout mon cœur ce qui ressemble de près ou de loin à un livre’; ‘[l]e seul plaisir qu’un livre me procure encore, c’est le frisson du couteau d’ivoire dans ses pages non coupées, c’est une virginité comme une autre, et cela est toujours agréable à prendre.’ Gautier, Les Jeunes-France 26–7, and for the following quotation (‘le quart d’heure de grâce, vous le touchez, vous le maniez, vous le traînez de votre table à votre lit, vous rompez sa robe d’innocence, vous déchirez ses pages: pauvre livre!’), 24. 55 ‘quémandeur de livres’; ‘Il viole ce qu’il aime, sans attendre que ce qu’il aime se donne à lui’ (C 40). 56 ‘l’antichambre d’une jolie femme [où] il ne fallait pas … rester longtemps.’ Quentin-Bauchart, Les Femmes Bibliophiles de France 1. 57 ‘pudeur du livre’; ‘C’est sa rougeur, ce sont les demi-aveux, les soupirs étouffés, les coquettes agaceries, c’est tout le charme; c’est la jeune fille qui reste long-temps à dénouer sa ceinture et à délacer son corset avant d’entrer au lit où son amoureux l’attend. Quel est le stupide, quel est l’homme assez peu voluptueux pour lui dire: Dépêche-toi!’ Gautier, Les Jeunes-France 25.

258

Notes to pages 177–9

58 See Joséphin Péladan, La Victoire du mari (Paris: Dentu, 1889) xxxiii. 59 Cim, Le Livre 297. See also Edmond de Goncourt’s April 1886 journal entry: ‘I’ve been told that the interns were sent from Clamart [an ampitheatre where dissections were performed] to deliver the skin from women’s breasts to a binder in the faubourg Saint-Germain, in order to bind obscene books’ (On me racontait que des internes avaient été renvoyés de Clamart pour livrer de la peau de seins de femmes à un relieur du faubourg Saint-Germain, pour en faire des reliures de livres obscènes). Journal 2:20. 60 For more on anthropodermic bindings, see Jackson, Anatomy of Bibliomania 508–13; Cim, ‘Peau humaine tannée (reliure)’; Lawrence S. Thompson, Bibliologia Comica or Humorous Aspects of the Caparisoning and Conservation of Books ([Hamden, CT]: Archon Books, 1968) 119–60, and Legends of Human Skin (Lexington: U of Kentucky P, n.d.). 61 ‘comme dans un cauchemar, brisé, l’estomac en bas, comme après avoir bu, la tête vide’; ‘J’attends une peau, une peau de jeune fille qu’un de mes amis dit m’avoir. On la tanne … Si vous voulez voir ma peau … Il m’a proposé de la voir enlever devant moi … Six mois pour la tanner … Mais il faut deux femmes … c’est entre les cuisses … et alors, vous comprenez, il en faut deux … Mais c’est désagréable … il faudrait enlever la peau sur une jeune fille vivante.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 1, 7 Apr. 1862, 800. 62 ‘vraie reliure carthaginoise, faite d’un cuir japonais brunâtre, qui a l’air d’une peau humaine sortie de la tannerie de Meudon, et de gardes fabriquées d’une soie barbare, représentant des chouettes tissées d’or sur un fond de sang.’ Goncourt, Maison 1:298. 63 Nelson, Publisher to the Decadents 52. 64 Coustillas, London and the Life of Literature 323. 65 ‘manie des tirages restreints de la bibliophilie contemporaine’ (DB 351). 66 ‘public choisi, écrémé, un petit groupe d’élus.’ Robida, La Grande Mascarade parisienne 270. 67 ‘vitrine spéciale, le rayonnage où sont les poisons, les excitants, les priapées’ (DB 175). 68 ‘mis à part, dans ce qu’on appelle l’Enfer’; ‘J’en fais un paquet et vais les jeter à la Seine au milieu du pont de la Concorde.’ HV 2, 10 Oct. 1898. 69 ‘contes un peu graveleux’; ‘Il ne sera pas dit que notre XIXe siècle aura eu le monopole des pornographes’ (BB 77). Edmond de Goncourt’s library also contained a section of books on ‘Women, Love, Marriage’ in the eighteenth century, featuring works on prostitution, illegitimate children, and adultery. Maison 2:15. 70 ‘les saletés rarissimes, toute la littérature badine ou horrible déchargée par le XVIIIe siècle … les bréviaires de la flagellation, de la sodomie, les

Notes to pages 179–82

71

72 73 74 75 76

77

78

79 80 81 82

83 84

259

goguettes de l’Arétin, les Pères de Phallus.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 1, 7 Apr. 1863, 799. On erotica in the Goncourts’ library, see Galantaris, ‘Les Goncourt Bibliophiles’ 15–17. ‘érotomanie démoniaque’; ‘monstruosités sensuelles’; ‘livre excessif’; ‘en violet d’évêque, dans un encadrement de pourpre cardinalice, sur un authentique parchemin que les auditeurs de Rote avaient béni … avec des caractères de civilité dont les croches biscornues, dont les paraphes en queues retroussées et en griffes, affectent une forme satanique.’ Huysmans, À Rebours 192. For the translations, Huysmans, Against Nature, 163–4. John Hill Burton, Book-Hunter (1882), qtd. in Jackson, Fear of Books 126. ‘un côté effrayant d’une aristocratie d’argent blasée, l’aristocratie anglaise.’ Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 1, 7 Apr. 1863, 797. ‘un fou, un monstre.’ Ibid. See also Maillard, Les Passionnés du livre 99. See Apter, Feminizing the Fetish 18. For a discussion of ‘cabinet fiction,’ see Apter, Feminizing the Fetish 39–64 and esp. 59–60 for a brief consideration of Uzanne’s ‘Cabinet d’un érotobibliomane.’ ‘Bibliomane bizarre, musqué, enveloppé de mystère’ (C 127); ‘une débauche de postures alanguies et enivrantes’ (138); ‘d’une si effrayante lubricité’ (141). Uzanne’s story, although published nine years before the first volume of Goncourt’s Journal, parallels closely Goncourt’s description in the Journal of his vertiginous visit to the apartment of Frederick Hankey. Goncourt describes passing through a dining room, red salon and red bedroom, site of Henkey’s infamous erotic library. See Goncourt and Goncourt, Journal 1, 7 Apr. 1863, 799. Henry Floury, lecture titled ‘La Clientèle,’ supplement to Bibliographie de France, vol. 3, July 1908, qtd. in Cim, Les Femmes et les livres 16. Fertiault, Les Amoureux du livre 157. Leigh Hunt, qtd. in Jackson, Anatomy of Bibliomania 795. ‘ces fêtes spirituelles et nocturnes dans la bibliothèque maritale … ces fréquentes petites équipées, heureuse simplement à l’idée des joies bouquinières de son époux et maître.’ Octave Uzanne, ‘Une lettre de Londres sur les bibliophiles anglais,’ Société des Amis des Livres, Annuaire (1881), 27–8. Jackson, Fear of Books 147. ‘Il condense sa bibliothèque en un coin; il ratatine pour ainsi dire sa passion, il musèle ses ardeurs; il devient réservé, silencieux, défiant vis-à-vis de sa compagne; il cache ses achats comme un vice, il dissimule ses désirs, et c’est en fraude, comme un contrebandier, qu’il fait monter par l’escalier de service les nouveaux venus qu’il introduit furtivement à la dérobée chez lui’ (Z 33).

260

Notes to pages 182–4

85 See Un Bibliophile, Les Ennemis des livres 32, and Cim, Les Femmes et les livres 16. 86 ‘[i]l est rare qu’il puisse jouir en toute indépendance, quiétude et volupté, de sa douce et innocente toquade’ (Z 32). 87 ‘frémissant de plaisir à l’idée de se trouver seule avec ses nouvelles conquêtes … [L]e traître s’échappe et court à son cabinet non sans avoir doucement ouvert la porte et pris les livres qu’il introduit subrepticement dans sa bibliothèque.’ Maillard, Les Passionnés du livre 10. 88 ‘Le mariage, à de rares exceptions près, est donc un écueil que tout bon bibliophile doit éviter, s’il a quelque souci de conserver ses livres et sa liberté.’ Quentin-Bauchart, À travers les livres 2. 89 Maillard, Les Passionnés du livre 11. 90 ‘célibataires en franchissant le seuil de leur bibliothèque’ (Z 34). 91 See Schulman, Sunday of Fiction 77–8. On bachelors in/and French literature, see also Bertrand et al., Le Roman célibataire d’À Rebours à Paludes, and Borie, Le Célibataire français. 92 On Rondel, see Philippe Marcerou, ‘Auguste Rondel, banquier, bibliophile et passionné de théâtre,’ Gaborit, Mécènes et collectionneurs 225–33. 93 Alfred Binet’s essay, ‘Le Fétichisme de l’amour,’ for example, had appeared in France three years before Uzanne’s Paroissien. A thorough survey of finde-siècle medical and scientific writings on fetishism and perversion is found in Apter, Feminizing the Fetish 15–38. 94 ‘divinité convoitée, priée, idolâtrée’ (F 19); ‘tour[s] d’ivoire mystique[s] ouverte[s] sur le ciel et murée[s] au monde, où la passion grandira en secret’ (P 121), and for the following quotation (‘les célèbres dépravations littéraires, les outrances intellectuelles, les visions de sensuelles priapées, les curiosités pathologiques’), ibid. 105–6. 95 ‘S’en allant de l’être charmant’; ‘les jolis objets inanimés dont la passion revêt un peu de la nature et du caractère de l’amour.’ Goncourt, Maison 1:8. 96 ‘des contacts vulgaires et des poussières d’humanité’ (P 93); ‘les paradis de la Pensée’ (ibid. 10); ‘ce fixatif engluant’ (ibid. xxv). 97 ‘Ne visant qu’à la possession, le platonisme, la contemplation pure lui étaient inconnus. Son ardeur était impatiente, quelquesfois brutale, et son désir, sans cesse renouvelé, toujours inassouvi, le condamnait à un perpétuel éréthisme. De là la névrose ou la calvitie qui distinguait ordinairement l’amateur de marque.’ Quentin-Bauchart, À travers les livres 2. 98 ‘Voilà que depuis quelques jours, je suis encore abominablement tourmenté par la chair! … je ne sais plus où j’en suis, c’est une lutte exaspérante, et je ne veux pas succomber!’; ‘Je prends le parti, pour faire diversion, d’aller voir des bibelots’; ‘une moisson suffisante pour me calmer un peu les nerfs’; ‘Ça me coûte évidemment plus cher qu’une hétaïre de 1ère classe, mais au moins je reste pur.’ HV 3, 22 June 1899.

Notes to pages 185–8

261

99 Jackson, Fear of Books 137. 100 ‘qui favorisent le développement des collections, qui s’y intéressent, qui ne dédaignent pas de feuilleter un livre à figures ou d’apprécier une reliure en mosaïque, et ce, avec d’autant plus de goût qu’elles sont étrangerès aux maniaqueries de collectionneur’ (BB 120). 101 ‘un tant soit peu, bibliophiles.’ Goncourt, Maison 1:301. 102 ‘de ses bonnes œuvres et de sa belle intelligence’ (Z 36). 103 Lang, ‘Bibliomania,’ Books and Bookmen 103. 104 ‘Beaucoup de grandes dames ont eu des livres aux siècles passés, mais presque toutes en ignoraient le contenu et le titre de bibliophile ne leur est guère applicable. Le livre acquis, relié et rangé avec plus ou moins de méthode dans une armoire luxueuse, l’effet produit et elles s’en tenaient là.’ Quentin-Bauchart, Les Femmes Bibliophiles de France 3. 105 Lang, ‘Lady Book-Lovers,’ Books and Bookmen 135. 106 Ibid. 107 ‘[le] goût et l’amour des Livres, exerçant sur Bibliopolis une action puissante’ (NB 4). 108 See, for example, L’Éventail (1882); L’Ombrelle – le gant – le manchon (1883); La Reliure moderne artistique et fantaisiste (1887). 109 ‘rêver à sa toilette avec toute l’orgueilleuse vanité, toute la science d’harmonie que l’on apporte à la toilette d’une femme’ (C 112). 110 Ernest-Charles, ‘Un homme de lettres d’aujourd’hui’ 90. On the ‘adornment’ of books, see Jackson, Anatomy of Bibliomania 812–16. 111 Cim, Les Femmes et les livres 57. 112 See Perrot, ‘The New Eve and the Old Adam.’ Perrot considers Cim, along with Maurice Barrès and others, ‘partisans at least verbally of a heavyhanded treatment that included beating women and even killing the more liberated ones’ (59). On Cim, see Pierssens, ‘Bas-bleus anonymes.’ 113 Brisson, ‘Le Livre et la femme.’ 114 The first exclusively female bibliophile societies in France, Les Cent-Une (whose name alluded to the predominantly masculine Cent Bibliophiles) and Les Cent Femmes Amies des Livres, would not be founded until the mid-1920s. In the United States, the Hroswitha Club brought together an exclusive group of American female book collectors. See Fulacher, ‘Société bibliophile de femmes.’ On Sororis and the Women’s Press Club, ‘two provinces of the Bas-Bleu,’ see B.-H. Gausseron, ‘Un centre littéraire aux EU (New York)’ L’Art et l’Idée 2 (July-Dec. 1892): n.p. 115 L’Un des Cinquante, ‘Les Amis des Livres,’ Le Livre (1881): 116. 116 In this respect French bibliophile clubs proved more open than American counterparts such as New York’s Grolier Club (founded in 1884) and Chicago’s Caxton Club (1895), neither of which admitted women until 1976.

262

Notes to pages 188–9

117 For more on Blanche and Louis Terah Haggin, see Patricia Sanders, The Haggin Collection (Stockton, CA: Haggin Museum, 1991) 13–20. 118 See Harrison, Separate Spheres 91–107. On Clubland, see Showalter, Sexual Anarchy 11–14. 119 ‘gentlemen prompts à commander le champagne et à le sabler en de larges verres.’ Uzanne, Vingt Jours 35. With few exceptions, he found New York’s men’s clubs of all types (for bibliophiles, actors, sportsmen, and diplomats, in addition to general social clubs such as the Century Club) superior to those of Paris, which he derided as ‘shabby dives that subsist only on the profits from the jackpot’ ([de] mesquins tripots qui ne soutiennent que par les bénéfices de la cagnotte) 41. 120 ‘Les aimables Yankees ont une tradition trop peu lointaine pour être sensible aux charmes du gothique et de l’incunable’ (Z 53) and for the following quotation (‘longtemps incertain du goût réel, profond, inné et éclairé de la femme pour le livre, à quelque nation qu’elle appartienne’), Z 54. 121 This point is suggested, but not developed, by Taylor in ‘Anatomy of Bibliography’ 476, n. 16. 122 See Dijkstra, Idols of Perversity 147–59. 123 ‘beaucoup de charmes, de grâces et de la légèreté exquise qui à mes yeux constituent le plus bel apanage féminin’ (Z 52). 124 On French women authors and the literary market during this period, see, for example, Alison Finch, Women’s Writing in Nineteenth-Century France (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2000); Christine Planté, La Petite Soeur de Balzac: Essai sur la femme auteur (Paris: Seuil, 1989); Béatrice Slama, ‘Femmes écrivains,’ Jean-Paul Aron, ed., Misérable ou glorieuse: La Femme du dix-neuvième siècle (Brussels: Éditions Complexe, 1984) 213–43; Thiesse, Le Roman du quotidien 173–238. 125 According to a study of 616 writers active between 1865 and 1905, only 2 per cent were women, and most of them specialized in children’s literature or autobiography. It is possible, however, that many writers presumed men were actually women writing under male pseudonyms. See Rémy Ponton, ‘Le Champ littéraire en France de 1865 à 1905,’ PhD diss., École de Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales, Paris, 1977. Writing in 1892 in Uzanne’s review, L’Art et l’Idée, B.-H. Gausseron asserted, without citing sources, that about 2,133 ‘blue-tinted women’ (‘femmes teintées de bleu’) lived in France, of whom 1,211 wrote novels or children’s books, 217 pedagogical works, twenty-eight poetry, and the others a combination of these genres. According to his figures, 1,219 of these women belonged to the Société des Gens de Lettres, thirty-two to the Société des Auteurs Dramatiques, 237

Notes to pages 189–92

126 127

128

129 130 131 132 133 134

135 136

137

263

wrote for the press (and mainly the fashion press), leaving ‘at most, seven or eight real colleagues’ (confrères). ‘Littérature d’automne: Revue de quelques livres du moment,’ L’Art et l’Idée 2 (July–Dec. 1892): 379. ‘nuées d’écrivains bisexués.’ Octave Uzanne, ‘Nos livres devant la postérité: Les Bibliothèques de l’avenir,’ Revue Biblio-Iconographique 1 (1897): 67. ‘des hommes … manqués.’ Barbey d’Aurevilly, Les Bas-Bleus xi, and for the following quotation from this source (‘des femmes … eussent l’idée de se mettre en équation avec l’homme, et … les hommes, devenus aussi femmes qu’elles, eussent la bassesse de le souffrir’), 341. ‘À vous, Monsieur Octave Uzanne, qui préfère leurs mollets nus, ces affreux bas-bleus, teints en encre de petite vertu!’ See Bonnefon, Les Dédicaces à la main de M. J. Barbey d’Aurevilly 72. Sara P. Paton, Fern Leaves, qtd. in Jackson, Fear of Books 137. For the following quotation by Lang, ibid. 140. ‘la littérature Romanesque exerce un irrésistible prestige sur les cerveaux féminins.’ Brisson, ‘Le Livre et la femme.’ ‘La femme vit cérébralement dans un constant irréel et dans une vie qu’elle se plaît à créer invraisemblable; le roman est son domaine naturel’ (NB 71). On this association as a theme in the nineteenth century, see ‘Mass Culture as Woman: Modernism’s Other,’ in Huyssen, After the Great Divide 44–62. Qtd. in Jackson, Fear of Books 140. ‘[L]es femmes adorent les bibelots et … elles ne s’intéressent pas aux livres’; ‘Le bibelot est décoratif, on le met dans son salon, on l’accroche au mur. Tout le monde le remarque et s’extasie.’ Brisson, ‘Un amateur de vieux livres’ 24. On the ‘bibelotization’ of art in the nineteenth century, and the association of this process with women, see Saisselin, The Bourgeois and the Bibelot 53–74. ‘le luxe des livres était le pendant des autres luxes; on montrait ses livres comme ses tableaux, ses chiens, ses voitures.’ Labessade, L’Amour du livre 73. ‘[d]es livres, des vignettes, des dessins, des estampes … des étoffes, des soieries, des statuettes, des faïences et des fleurs; le tout curieux, singulier, étrange, amusant, unique, marquant le flair d’artiste et le goût de la trouvaille’ (P 105–6). ‘L’entourage donne aux livres plus d’expression; l’art dans toutes ses manifestations leur prête un je ne sais quoi de plus accueillant, de plus réjoui, de plus intime; les vieilles étoffes, les gobelins, les cuirs fauves et mordorés d’Italie et d’Espagne, les velours de Gênes, les bois sculptés les mettent en valeur et leur ôtent cette austérité, cette rectitude de lignes, cette froideur qu’on voit aux bibliothèques de tant de bibliophiles’ (Z 202).

264

Notes to pages 192–9

138 See Apter, Feminizing the Fetish 83. 139 Quentin-Bauchart, Les Femmes Bibliophiles de France 2 and for the following quotation (‘Les grandes bibliothèques ont disparu … Il n’y a plus que les étagères’), À travers les livres 41 (italics in original). 140 ‘un des plus furieux symptômes de décadence que je connaisse’ (Z 251). 141 See Apter, Feminizing the Fetish 17, 105. 142 ‘vie toute de luxe et d’apparat’; ‘un homme qui expia des fautes essentiellement privées et qui ne portent nuisance à personne.’ Uzanne, Visions de notre heure 14. 143 See Veblen, Theory of the Leisure Class 151–68. 144 Showalter, Sexual Anarchy esp. 1–18. 145 ‘parcourent très bien et très vite tout un livre à l’étalage, accaparant la boîte où elles se sont installées, prenant même des notes sur leur lecture, puis jetant le livre négligemment et s’éloignant toujours sans rien acheter’ (Quais 161). 146 ‘manier les volumes d’une seule main, de les ouvrir mal, de ne jamais les remettre en place, de les feuilleter longtemps sans se décider à aucun achat, et si, par hasard, elles en désirent un, de le marchander comme elles feraient d’une langouste ou d’un poulet’ (Quais 159). 147 See Eileen S. DeMarco, Reading and Riding: Hachette’s Railroad Bookstore Network in Nineteenth-Century France (Bethlehem, PA: Lehigh UP, 2006). 148 See Danielle Constantin, ‘“… Nous autres pauvres femmes …:” L’inscription des lectrices dans Séverine de Camille Bodin et dans Pauline de George Sand,’ Falconer, Autour d’un cabinet de lecture 103. 149 Catalogue of the Exposition internationale, industrielle, scientifique, littéraire, artistique, rétrospective et moderne du livre et des industries du papier (Paris, 1894) 55. 150 See the advertisement by Firmin-Didot & Cie in the catalogue published by the Cercle de la Librairie for the 1894 Paris Exposition internationale du livre. 151 On female workers in the book production industries, see Madeleine Rebérioux, ‘Les Ouvriers du livre,’ Chartier and Martin, Histoire de l’édition française 3:103, and Sophie Malavieille, ‘La Mécanisation de la reliure,’ ibid. 65–6. On women binders, see Tidcombe, Women Bookbinders. 152 ‘Tantôt c’est une vieille femme, pareille aux sorcières de Macbeth, contemporaine de ses bouquins; la lecture des romans dans sa jeunesse l’a peutêtre conduite à en vendre.’ Jacob, Les Amateurs de vieux livres 35. 153 Howsam, ‘In My View.’ 154 ‘en admettant que ce soit un homme.’ Jacob, Les Amateurs de vieux livres 60. 155 Showalter, Sexual Anarchy 113.

Notes to pages 200–6

265

Conclusion: The End of Books? 1 See, for example, Jean Clément, ‘Le e-book est-il le futur du livre?’ Les Savoirs déroutés: Experts, documents, supports, règles, valeurs et réseaux numériques (Villeurbanne: Presses de l’Enssib, 2000) 129–41. 2 Epstein, ‘Rattle of Pebbles’ 58. 3 Uzanne, ‘La Fin des livres,’ Contes pour les bibliophiles i. 4 ‘cher compagnon de plume et de crayon’; ‘maistre imagier.’ Uzanne, dedication to Robida of Contes pour les bibliophiles. 5 ‘par l’Imagination, l’Esprit de facture, l’Érudition … et aussi par la variété des procédés.’Uzanne, ‘Un artiste écrivain’ 1. On Robida, see Brun, Albert Robida. 6 ‘coins pittoresques’; ‘à cette époque de grise et ennuyeuse photographie’ (Q 132). 7 See CM 265. 8 Uzanne, ‘Perspectives d’avenir.’ 9 ‘ignoble[s] à voir, à entendre, à sentir’; ‘Tout cela vous réjouit-il, mes amis?’ (Uzanne, Visions de notre heure 132). 10 Paul Valéry, ‘The Conquest of Ubiquity’ (1928), qtd. in Benjamin, ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’ 219. 11 On the théâtrophone see Perron, ‘Le Théâtrophone de Clément Ader’; BerthoLavenir, ‘Innovation technique et société du spectacle.’ 12 ‘la fin des Livres et de leur complète transformation’ (‘Fin des livres’ 125). And for the following quotations from this source: ‘souveni[r] personne[l] narr[é] sur le mode égotique’ (iii); ‘des destinées futures de l’humanité’ (127). 13 ‘seulement quelques saints hommes, véritables fakirs de l’idée du beau qui, dans le silence et l’incompréhension des masses, produiront des chefsd’œuvres dignes de ce nom’ (‘Fin des livres’ 132). 14 ‘[si] par livres vous entendez parler de nos innombrables cahiers de papier imprimé, ployé, cousu, broché sous une couverture annonçant le titre de l’ouvrage’ (‘Fin des livres’ 132). 15 ‘l’ascenseur a tué les ascensions dans les maisons’ (‘Fin des livres’ 135). 16 ‘Après avoir fait entendre à l’assistance le Père la Victoire, les Toast de Félix Faure et du Tsar … et différents morceaux variés, on invite les personnes présentes à venir, à leur tour, impressionner un rouleau et à dire quelques mots ou quelques vers. M., comme expérience préparatoire, récite le loup et l’agneau, et l’instrument le répète fort bien. Mais lorsqu’il s’agit du rouleau sur lequel chacun de nous s’est exercé, ce n’est qu’un affreux râlement, un bruit de friture exaspérée, qui met le comble à notre gaieté. Comme expérience c’est parfaitement raté. Mais on s’est bien amusé.’ HV 1, 23 Apr. 1898.

266

Notes to pages 208–18

17 Uzanne, ‘Chez Thomas Edison,’ Vingt Jours 59 and for the following quotation (‘créateur de phénomènes’), 67. 18 ‘une grande lassitude’ (‘Fin des livres’ 134); ‘béatitude et repos’ (134); ‘il faut que les livres disparaissent ou qu’ils nous engloutissent’ (145). 19 See Epstein, ‘Rattle of Pebbles’ 57–8. 20 Darnton, ‘A Historian of Books, Lost and Found in Cyberspace’ B4-B5, and Darnton, ‘The New Age of the Book.’ 21 ‘[le] peuple … pourra se griser de littérature comme d’eau claire’ (‘Fin des livres’ 139). 22 Epstein, ‘Rattle of Pebbles’ 58. 23 King’s book received 400,000 hits the first day, an immense increase over his habitual sales figures. Whereas The New Yorker offered King $10,000 for his sixty-page novella, in e-book form King was expected to earn fifty times more than this. The low cost of the e-book also attracted readers. See Yves Janssens, ‘E-book, le livre sans papier,’ L’Écho 23 Mar. 2000: 17. 24 ‘les petites bourses … ne seront pas ruinées et l’auteur vagabond encaissera des droits relativement importants par la multiplicité des auditions fournies à chaque maison d’un même quartier’ (‘Fin des livres’ 140). 25 ‘légers comme des porte-plumes en celluloïd’ (‘Fin des livres’ 135);’ ‘Nos yeux sont faits pour voir et refléter les beautés de la nature et non pas pour s’user à la lecture des textes’ (135); ‘une vibrance spéciale des cellules qui … excite nos propres pensées’ (135); ‘perfection des appareils’ (135). 26 ‘diseurs de choix’ (‘Fin des livres’ 137). 27 Uzanne, ‘Nos Livres devant la postérité,’ 68, and for the following quotation (‘que liront avec agrément quelques experts celtiques résistant à l’œuvre impitoyable et logique des Anglo-Saxons’), 71. 28 Darnton, ‘New Age of the Book.’ 29 This phrase refers to Roland Barthes, ‘La Mort de l’auteur,’ in Roland Barthes, Le Bruissement de la langue: Essais critiques 4 (Paris: Seuil, 1984) 61–7. 30 ‘la paresse et l’égoïsme de l’homme’ (‘Fin des livres’ 135); ‘étendus sur des sophas ou bercés sur des rocking-chairs’ (138, italics in original); ‘Cañons de Colorado’ (138). 31 Darnton, ‘New Age of the Book’ 5. 32 ‘le livre sera abandonné par tous les habitants du globe et … l’imprimerie cessera absolument d’avoir cours’ (‘Fin des livres’ 140). 33 Chartier, ‘Lecteurs et lectures à l’âge de la textualité électronique,’ ‘Colloque virtuel: Écrans et réseaux, vers une transformation du rapport à l’écrit’ (http://www.text-e.org). 34 ‘Si les livres ont leur destinée, cette destinée, plus que jamais, est à la veille de s’accomplir’ (‘Fin des livres’ 144).

Select Bibliography

1 Primary Sources Archives and Libraries Archives nationales, Paris (AN) F12 7570 (Ministère du Commerce: Exposition du Livre, Leipzig, 1914) Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, Paris MS 7893 (Montaiglon) MS 9293 (letters from Octave Uzanne to Loredan Larchey) MS 13772 (Lettres ou cartes de visite/Autographes d’écrivains) MS 14208 (Ferdinand Bac) Bibliothèque municipale de Bordeaux MS 1883/XVI, 7 (letter from Octave Uzanne to Tristan Derème) Bibliothèque municipale de Nantes MS 2976 (letters from Pierre-Georges Jeanniot to Octave Uzanne) MS 3066 (letters from Octave Uzanne to Alphonse Séché) MS 3385 (letters from Octave Uzanne to Marcel Schwob) Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (BnF) Private archives Germain Bapst: N.a.f. 24540 Anatole France: N.a.f. 15421, 15428 Goncourt brothers: N.a.f. 22477 Yvonne Guilbert: N.a.f. 17597 Pierre-Jules Hetzel: N.a.f. 17063 Robert de Montesquiou: N.a.f. 15110, 15124, 15229–325 Eugène Muntz: N.a.f. 11313

268 Select Bibliography Nadar: N.a.f. 24286, 25003 Jean Rictus: N.a.f. 24575 Rothschild (Lettres Autographes – XIXe siècle): A XIX Bibliothèque publique et universitaire, Geneva Collection Charles Meunier (CM) MS Moroy 20 (letters from Octave Uzanne to Élie Moroy) Bibliothèque Thiers, Institut de France, Paris MS Thiers 680 (letters from Octave Uzanne to Théophile Gautier fils) British Library Octave Uzanne, letters to H.S. Ashbee (1885–90), Add. 38808 C Chester Beatty Library, Dublin Letters from Octave Uzanne to Charles Meunier Fondation Custodia, Paris Letters from Octave Uzanne to Jacques Doucet (1994-A.56); Emmanuel Gonzalès (1998-A.150–1); Félix Buhot (1998-A.446); Henrietta Buhot née Johnston (1999-A.460–1); Paul Gallimard (2001-A.101/104a); Letters to Octave Uzanne from Jean-François Raffaëlli (7747b); Félicien Rops (1978-A.2694/2701); Théodore Duret (1986-A.234); Philippe Burty (1987-A.644/645, 647); Daniel Vierge (2000-A.237/238); Beraldi/Fantin-Latour (1997-A.868); Fantin-Latour/Charles Meunier (1997-A.894 and 1997-A.524-534a); Félicien Rops to Léon Dommartin (1972-A.847) Freer Gallery of Art and Arthur M. Sackler Gallery Archives, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C. Henri Vever Papers (Gift of François Mautin, 1988) (Diaries, HV 1–4, 1898– 1901) The Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles Manuscript of Octave Uzanne, ‘Des formes et proportions pratiques nécessaires à tous objets d’art à notre usage’ (André Marty, Letters and manuscripts received, ca. 1886–1911/870525) Glasgow University Library, Special Collections Department MS Whistler U37-40 (letters from James McNeill Whistler to Uzanne) Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center, University of Texas at Austin Letters from Eugène Rodrigues [Erastène Ramiro] to [?] (1892–3) (Carlton Lake Collection of French Manuscripts, 258.1); letters from Octave Uzanne, letters to and from various correspondents (Carlton Lake Collection of French Manuscripts, 26.12 [Félix Buhot], 239.9 [Willy], 286.21 [Émile Rochard])

Select Bibliography 269 IMEC (Institut Mémoires de l’Édition Contemporaine), Paris Scrapbooks, Maison Quantin publishing house Institut de France, Paris Private archives: Armand Baschet (MS 2488); Maurice Clouard (F987 sexies, Fonds Lovenjoul); Fouque (MS 7330); Henri de Régnier (MS 5711) Lilly Library, Manuscripts Department, Indiana University Gourmont MSS. (letters to Pierre Dauze and other writings, 1898–1905) Musée Départemental Maurice Denis, Le Prieuré Letters from Octave Uzanne to Maurice Denis (MS 11006–14) New York Public Library Valentin A. Blacque Collection (MS 68–1063) The Pennsylvania State University Libraries, Rare Books and Manuscripts, Special Collections Library Letters to Octave Uzanne from Jules Le Petit, Eugène Rodrigues, and Bernard-Henri Gausseron contained in Uzanne’s copy of the 1893 Annales of the Bibliophiles Contemporains Pierpont Morgan Library, New York Octave Uzanne, letters to various correspondents (MA 4175) Sophia Smith Collection, William Allan Neilson Library, Smith College Cobden-Sanderson Papers (MS 69–482) (letters from Charles Meunier to T.J. Cobden-Sanderson and his wife) Reviews L’Art et l’Idée: Revue Contemporaine du Dilettantisme Littéraire et de la Curiosité. 2 vols. Paris: Ancienne Maison Quantin, 1892–3. Le Livre: Bibliographie Moderne. Paris: Quantin, 1880–9. Le Livre Moderne: Revue du Monde Littéraire et des Bibliophiles Contemporains. Paris: Quantin, 1890–1. L’Œuvre et l’Image, vol. 1 (Nov. 1900–Apr. 1901). La Plume 122 (15 May 1894). Special issue on Eugène Grasset. Revue Biblio-Iconographique, vols 1–2 (1897–8). Other Primary Sources Albalat, Antoine. Les Ennemis de l’art d’écrire. Paris: Librairie Universelle, 1905. Alexandre, Arsène. ‘George Auriol.’ Art et Décoration June 1899: 161–80. Alkan aîné, Alphonse. Les Livres et leurs ennemis. Paris: Techener, 1883 [excerpt from Bulletin du Bibliophile, May 1883]. Almanach du bibliophile pour l’année 1900. Paris: Éditions d’Art chez Édouard Pelletan, 1900.

270 Select Bibliography Annales littéraires des Bibliophiles Contemporains: Recueil de l’Académie des Beaux Livres pour 1890. Paris: Imprimé pour les Sociétaires de l’Académie des Beaux Livres, 1890. Annales littéraires, publication collective des Bibliophiles Contemporains suivies des annales administratives. Paris: Imprimé pour les Sociétaires de l’Académie des Beaux Livres, 1891–4. Les Archives biographiques contemporaines. First series. Paris, 1906: 71–2 (‘Paul Gallimard’). Armory. 50 Ans de vie parisienne: Figures et souvenirs. Paris: Éditions Jean-Renard, 1943. Art nouveau – Arts décoratifs – Tableaux modernes – Canapé de lecture de Robert de Montesquiou. Vente aux enchères publiques, Hôtel des Ventes, Neuilly, 16 mai 1995. Neuilly-sur-Seine: Hôtel des Ventes, 1995. Ashbee, H.S. ‘Les Amis des Livres.’ The Bibliographer 6 (June–Nov. 1884): 30–2. – ‘A Dinner of French Bibliophiles.’ The Bibliographer (May 1882): 169–71. Badauderies parisiennes. Les Rassemblements. Physiologies de la rue. Paris: Pour les Bibliophiles Indépendants, Henri Floury, 1896. Barbey d’Aurevilly, Jules. Les Bas-Bleus. 1878. Geneva: Slatkine Reprints, 1968. Barrie, Robert. My Log. Philadelphia: Franklin Press, 1917. Baudelaire, Charles. Les Fleurs du mal. 1857. Facsimile. Paris: Imprimé pour les membres de The Limited Editions Club, 1940. Beardsley, Aubrey. The Letters of Aubrey Beardsley. Ed. Henry Maas, J.L. Duncan, and W.G. Good. Rutherford, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson UP, 1970. Beraldi, Henri. ‘La Bibliophilie créatrice.’ Revue Biblio-Iconographique 1 (1897): 115–20, 167–73, 235–42, and 296–303. – La Bibliothèque d’un bibliophile, 1865–1885. Lille: L. Danel, 1885. – Estampes et livres, 1872–1892. Paris: Conquet, 1892. – La Reliure du XIXe siècle. 4 vols. Paris: Conquet, 1895–7. ‘Bindings by Charles Meunier.’ The Bookman Jan. 1907: 532. Blades, William. Les Livres et leurs ennemis. Paris: Claudin, 1883. Bonnefon, Jean de. Les Dédicaces à la main de M. J. Barbey d’Aurevilly. Paris: Blaizot, 1908. The Booklover’s Almanac for the Year 1894. New York: Duprat & Cie., 1894. ‘Book Lovers of New York: Superior to those of Paris in the Opinion of a Parisian Expert.’ New York Times 26 Nov. 1893: 23. Bosquet, Émile. ‘La Reliure française à l’exposition.’ Art et Décoration 8 (1900): 46–55. Bouchot, Henri. ‘Exposition universelle de 1889: La Décoration du livre.’ Revue des Arts Décoratifs 10 (1889–90): 155–60 and 185–91. Bourget, Paul. Nouveaux Essais de psychologie contemporaine. Paris: Lemerre, 1886. Boylesve, René. Feuilles tombées. Paris: Éditions de la Pléaide, 1927.

Select Bibliography 271 Bracquemond, Félix. Étude sur la gravure sur bois et la lithographie. Paris: Imprimé pour Henri Beraldi, 1897. Brisson, Adolphe. ‘Un amateur de vieux livres.’ Portraits intimes. Vol. 1. Paris: Armand Colin, 1894: 21–9. – ‘Le Livre et la femme.’ République Française 3 Oct. 1899: 1. Bruckberger, Raymond-Léopold. Tu finiras sur l’échafaud: Mémoires. Paris: Flammarion, 1978. Burty, Philippe. ‘L’Exposition du Cercle de la Librairie.’ République Française 26 July 1881: 3. – ‘La Reliure française.’ République Française 25 Feb. 1881: n. pag. – ‘Les Quatre fils Aymon.’ République Française 13 Jan. 1885: 3. Bury, Richard de. Philobiblion (c. 1345). Ed. Michael Maclagan. Trans. E.C. Thomas. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1960. Carr, Alice Vansittart Strettell. Mrs. J. Comyns Carr’s Reminiscences. Ed. Eve Adam. London: Hutchinson & Co., 1926. Carteret, Léopold. Le Trésor du bibliophile: Livres illustrés modernes 1875 à 1945 et souvenirs d’un demi-siècle de bibliophilie de 1887 à 1945. Vols 1–4. Paris: L. Carteret, 1946–8. Catalogue de la bibliothèque de feu M. le Baron Jérôme Pichon. Vol. 1. Paris: Techener, 1897. Catalogue de la bibliothèque de feu M. Jules Claretie. Paris: H. Leclerc/Ém. Paul, 1918. Catalogue de la bibliothèque de feu M. Léon Schuck. Paris: L. Carteret, 1931. Catalogue de livres modernes ornés de reliures artistiques exécutées par Charles Meunier et provenant de sa bibliothèque particulière. Paris: H. Leclerc, 1908. Catalogue des livres de la bibliothèque de M. Eugène Paillet. Paris: Damascène Morgand, 1887. Cercle de la Librairie. Première Exposition. Paris: 117 Boulevard Saint-Germain, June 1880. Cim, Albert. Les Femmes et les livres. Paris: E. de Boccard, 1919. – Le Livre: Historique, fabrication, achat, classement, usage et entretien. Vol. 3. Paris: Flammarion, 1906. – ‘Peau humaine tannée (reliure).’ Intermédiaire des Chercheurs et Curieux 62 (20 Aug. 1910): 269–71. Clermont-Tonnerre, Elisabeth de. Robert de Montesquiou et Marcel Proust. Paris: Flammarion, 1925. Collection Charles Gillot: Objets d’art et peintures d’Extrême-Orient. Paris, 1904. Collectivité du Cercle de la Librairie de Paris. Exposition internationale du livre et des industries du papier. Paris, 1894. Combaz, Gilbert. ‘Eugène Grasset.’ L’Art Moderne 18 Feb. 1894: 49–50.

272 Select Bibliography Corpechot, Lucien. Souvenirs d’un journaliste. 4 vols. Paris: Plon, 1936–42. Correspondance de Jean Lorrain avec Edmond de Goncourt, suivie d’un choix d’articles de Jean Lorrain consacrés à Edmond de Goncourt. Ed. Éric Walbecq. Tusson, Charente: Du Lérot, 2003. Correspondance de Renoir et Durand-Ruel, 1881–1906. Ed. Caroline Durand-Ruel Godfroy. Lausanne: Bibliothèque des Arts, 1995. Coustillas, Pierre, ed. London and the Life of Literature in Late Victorian England: The Diary of George Gissing, Novelist. Lewisburg, PA: Bucknell UP, 1978. Cousturier, Edmond. ‘Exposition internationale du livre moderne à l’Art Nouveau.’ Revue Blanche 11 (1896): 42–4. Curinier, C.-E., ed. Dictionnaire national des contemporains. Vol. 4. Paris: Office Général d’Édition, 1899–1905: 66–7 (‘Octave Uzanne’). Delthil, Camille. Les Tentations. Paris: Lemerre, 1890. Demolder, Eugène. Trois Contemporains: Henri de Brakeleer, Constantin Meunier, Félicien Rops. Brussels: Deman, 1901. Dérôme, Louis. Le Luxe des livres. Paris: Vanier, 1879. Documents parlementaires – Chambre. [1913?]. Draibel, Henri [Henri Beraldi]. L’ Œuvre de Moreau le Jeune, notice et catalogue. Paris: Rouquette, 1874. Drujon, Fernand. Essai bibliographique sur la destruction volontaire des livres ou bibliolytie. Paris: Quantin, 1889. Dufay, Pierre. ‘Mort d’Octave Uzanne.’ Mercure de France 15 Nov. 1931: 247–50. Édouard Rahir: Discours et articles publiés à l’occasion de son décès. Paris: Syndicat de la Librairie Ancienne et Moderne, 1925. ‘Les Ennemis des livres.’ Magasin Pittoresque 42 (1874): 102–3 and 262–3. Ernest-Charles, Jean. ‘Un homme de lettres d’aujourd’hui: Octave Uzanne.’ Revue Bleue 17 Jan. 1903: 87–90. Eudel, Paul. Le Truquage: Altérations, fraudes, et contrefaçons dévoilées. Paris: Rouveyre, [1877]. Exposition Goncourt, organisée par La Gazette des Beaux-Arts. Paris, 1933. Exposition internationale du livre et des arts graphiques. Leipzig, 1914. d’Eylac. ‘L’Exposition du livre.’ Bulletin du Bibliophile et du Bibliothécaire 1894: 607–32. Félicien Rops – Joséphin Péladan: Correspondance. Ed. Hélène Védrine. Paris: Séguier, 1997. Féminies, huit chapitres inédits dévoués à la femme, à l’amour, à la beauté. Paris: Imprimé pour les Bibliophiles Contemporains, Académie des Beaux Livres, 1896. Fertiault, François. Les Amoureux du livre: Sonnets d’un bibliophile, fantaisies, commandements du bibliophile, bibliophiliana, notes et anecdotes. Paris: Claudin, 1877. Figures contemporaines tirées de l’album Mariani. Vol. 1. Paris: Flammarion, 1894.

Select Bibliography 273 France, Anatole. ‘Bibliophilie.’ La Vie littéraire. Second series. Paris: CalmannLévy: 1890: 65–74. – Le Lys rouge. Vol. 1. 1894. Paris: Librairie de la Collection des Dix, 1903. Ganderax, Louis. ‘Un poète.’ Le Gaulois 17 Aug. 1892: 1 Gausseron, Bernard-Henri. Bouquiniana: Notes et notules d’un bibliologue. Paris: H. Daragon, 1901. Gautier, Théophile. Les Jeunes-France: Romans goguenards. 1833. Ed. René Jasinski. Paris: Flammarion, 1974. Goncourt, Edmond de. La Maison d’un artiste. 1881. 2 vols. Paris: Flammarion, 1931. Goncourt, Edmond de, and Jules de Goncourt. Journal: Mémoires de la vie littéraire. Vols 1 (1851–1865), 2 (1866–1886), and 3 (1887–1896). Ed. Robert Ricatte. Paris: Laffont, 1989. Les Goncourt et leur temps. Ed. Edmée Guérin. Paris: Flammarion, 1946. Gourmont, Remy de. Le Livre des masques. 1896. Paris: Mercure de France, 1923. Gruel, Léon. Catalogue des reliures de style et objets artistiques en cuir ciselé exposés par Léon Gruel, relieur. Paris, 1893. Guilloux, Louis. Carnets (1944–1974). Paris: Gallimard, 1982. Hallays, André. ‘Au jour le jour: L’Édition populaire des Chauves-souris.’ Journal des Débats 13 Apr. 1893: 1. Haraucourt, Edmond. L’Effort. Paris: Publié pour les Sociétaires de l’Académie des Beaux Livres, Bibliophiles Contemporains, 1894. ‘Henri Beraldi.’ Revue de l’Art Ancien et Moderne 59 (May 1931): 200–1. Hesse, Raymond. Histoire des sociétés de bibliophiles en France de 1820 à 1950. Vol. 1, Les Sociétés parisiennes d’avant-guerre. Vol. 2, Les Sociétés d’après-guerre. Paris: L. Giraud-Badin, 1929–31. – Le Livre d’art du XIXe siècle à nos jours. Paris: La Renaissance du Livre, 1927. Hiatt, Charles T.J. ‘The Collecting of Posters: A New Field for Connoisseurs.’ The Studio 1 (May 1893): 61–4. Huysmans, Joris-Karl. À Rebours. 1884. Ed. Pierre Waldner. Paris: GarnierFlammarion, 1978. – Against Nature. Trans. Robert Baldick. Baltimore: Penguin Books, 1959. J.P. ‘La Bibliothèque de Montesquiou: Autographes et propriété littéraire.’ Chronique des Lettres Françaises 3 (May-June 1923): 340–1. Jacob, P.-L. (Bibliophile). Les Amateurs de vieux livres. Paris: Rouveyre, 1880. – Le Commerce des livres anciens. 1880. Paris: Éditions des Cendres, 1994. Jeener, M.G. Rapport de la section I: Reliure et brochage. Paris, 1895. Jouaust, Damase. Aux bibliophiles: Ultima, notes et chroniques. Paris: Damase Jouaust, 1891.

274 Select Bibliography Kent, Henry W. ‘The Spencer Collection.’ Bulletin of the New York Public Library 18.6 (June 1914): 533–8. Kies, Albert. ‘Qu’est-ce qu’un bibliophile? La Réponse de Fernand Vandérem (1864–1939).’ Le Livre et l’Estampe 134: 186–95. Kunel, Maurice, ed. ‘Lettres de Félicien Rops à Octave Uzanne, écrivain et bibliophile (1832–1931).’ Bulletin du Bibliophile et du Bibliothécaire 4 (Paris: Giraud-Badin, 1961): 297–332. – ‘Sous la plume de Félicien Rops.’ La Nervie: Revue Illustrée d’Arts et de Lettres 5–6 (1929): 3–10. Labessade, Léon-Félix de. L’Amour du livre. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1904. Lacretelle, Pierre de. ‘Au jour le jour: La Bibliothèque de Robert de Montesquiou.’ Le Journal des Débats 4 Apr. 1923: 1. Laforgue, Jules. Les Moralités légendaires. London: Eragny Press, Hacon & Ricketts; Paris: Société du Mercure de France, 1897–8. Lang, Andrew. Books and Bookmen. London: Longmans, Green and Co., 1887. Léautaud, Paul. Journal littéraire. 19 vols. Paris: Mercure de France, 1954–66. Léon Conquet, éditeur, libraire de la Société des Amis des Livres, 1848–1897. N.p.: Mar. 1898. Lequatre, Georges. ‘L’Exposition internationale du livre et des industries du papier.’ Revue des Arts Décoratifs 15 (1894–5): 34–40. La Librairie à l’Exposition Universelle de 1900. Paris: Cercle de la Librairie, 1900. Lièvre, Pierre. ‘Variétés: Ce que montre la bibliothèque du comte Robert de Montesquiou.’ Revue Hebdomadaire 16 (21 Apr. 1923): 369–72. Livres modernes: Ouvrages avec le portrait des auteurs peint sur la reliure. Romantiques. Auteurs contemporains. Œuvres des Goncourt. Manuscrits et imprimés. Ouvrages divers anciens et modernes composant la bibliothèque des Goncourt. Paris: Motteroz, 1897. Louÿs, Pierre. Journal intime, 1882–1891. Paris: Éditions Montaigne, 1929. – Mille Lettres inédites à Georges Louis (1890–1917). Ed. Jean-Paul Goujon. Paris: Fayard, 2002. Maillard, Firmin. Les Passionnés du livre. Paris: Émile Rondeau, 1896. Maillard, Léon. Menus et programmes illustrés – invitations – billets de faire part – cartes d’adresse – petites estampes du XVIIIe siècle jusqu’à nos jours. Paris: G. Boudet, 1898. Mallarmé, Stéphane. Correspondance. Ed. Henri Mondor and Lloyd James Austin. 11 vols. Paris: Gallimard, 1959–85. – Vers de circonstance. 1898. Paris: Nouvelle Revue Française, 1920. Marx, Karl. Capital: A Critique of Political Economy. 1867. Trans. Ben Fowkes. London: Penguin Classics, 1992. Matthews, Brander. ‘Books in Paper Covers: Notes of a Book Lover.’ Century Magazine May 1895: 354–61.

Select Bibliography 275 Maurel, André. ‘Les XX.’ Le Figaro 27 Aug. 1897: n. pag. Meier-Graefe, Julius. ‘Some Recent Continental Bookbindings.’ The Studio 9 (Oct. 1896 –Jan. 1897): 37–50. Mellerio, André. La Lithographie originale en couleurs (Paris: L’Estampe et l’Affiche, 1898), trans. Margaret Needham as ‘Original Color Lithography,’ in Phillip Dennis Cate and Sinclair H. Hitchings, The Color Revolution: Color Lithography in France, 1890–1900. Santa Barbara: Peregrine Smith, 1978. 77–99. Migeon, Gaston. ‘Charles Gillot.’ Collection Charles Gillot: Objets d’art et peinture d’Extrême-Orient. Paris, 1904: vii–ix. Mirbeau, Octave. ‘À qui de droit!’ Le Journal 29 Apr. 1900, in Octave Mirbeau, Des artistes. Ed. Hubert Juin. Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions, 1986. 334–41. – ‘Les Chauves-Souris.’ Le Figaro 16 Oct. 1892: 1. Montesquiou, Robert de. Bibliothèque de Robert de Montesquiou. Paris: Maison du Bibliophile, 1923. – Les Chauves-Souris: Clairs obscurs. Paris: Richard, 1892. – ‘Japonais d’Europe.’ Roseaux pensants. Paris: Fasquelle, 1897. 203–21. – ‘Le Mobilier libre.’ Roseaux pensants. Paris: Fasquelle, 1897. 157–66. – ‘Le Moulin du livre.’ Têtes couronnées: Études et essais. Paris: Sansot, 1916. 271–8. – ‘Orfèvre et verrier (Gallé et Lalique).’ Roseaux pensants. Paris: Fasquelle, 1897. 169–80. – Les Paroles diaprées. Paris: Richard, 1910. – Les Pas effacés: Mémoires. 3 vols. Paris: Émile-Paul frères, 1923. – Prières de tous: Huit dizaines d’un chapelet rythmique. Paris: Maison du Livre, 1902. – Saints d’Israël. Paris: Maison du Livre, 1910. Montesquiou, Robert de, and James McNeill Whistler. La Chauve-Souris et le papillon: Correspondance Montesquiou-Whistler. Ed. Joy Newton. Glasgow: University of Glasgow French and German Publications, 1990. Le Monument du costume, 1900–1910: La Vie mondaine à Paris. Illust. Pierre Vidal. N.p.: For Henri Beraldi, 1913. Mugnier, l’abbé. Journal de l’abbé Mugnier (1879–1939). Ed. Marcel Billot. Paris: Mercure de France, 1985. Nodier, Charles. ‘Le Bibliomane.’ 1831. Œuvres complètes. Vol. 11. Geneva: Slatkine Reprints, 1968. 25–49. Nordau, Max. Degeneration. 1892. Trans. from the second German edition. Lincoln: U of Nebraska P, 1993. ‘Notes d’art parisiennes (Le “Livre moderne”).’ L’Art Moderne 28 June 1896: 203–4. Pellet, Gustave, and Maurice Exsteens. Archives de la maison Gustave Pellet. Berne: Kornfeld und Klipstein, 1962. Pelletan, Édouard. Première Lettre aux Bibliophiles. Paris: Éditions d’Art, 1896.

276 Select Bibliography – Deuxième Lettre aux Bibliophiles. Paris: Éditions d’Art, 1896. Pène du Bois, Henri. Four Private Librairies of New York: A Contribution to the History of Bibliophilism in America. New York: Duprat and Co., 1892. Perron. ‘Le Théâtrophone de Clément Ader.’ Magasin Pittoresque 10 (1892): 1801. Pissarro, Camille. Lettres à son fils Lucien. Ed. John Rewald. Paris: Albin Michel, 1950. Pissarro, Lucien. The Letters of Lucien to Camille Pissarro, 1883–1903. Ed. Anne Thorold. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1993. Plan, P.-P. ‘L’Art du livre.’ Le Figaro 9 June 1896, n. pag. Prideaux, S.T. ‘French Binders of Today.’ Scribner’s Magazine 19.3 (Mar. 1896): 361–70. Proust, Marcel. Correspondance. 21 vols. Ed. Philip Kolb. Paris: Plon, 1970–93. Quentin-Bauchart, Ernest. À travers les livres: Souvenirs d’outre-tombe. Paris: ÉmilePaul, 1895. – Les Femmes Bibliophiles de France (XVIe, XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles). Paris: Damascène Morgand, 1886. – Mes Livres, 1864–1874. Paris: Morgand et Fatout, 1877. Ramiro, Erastène. Catalogue descriptif et analytique de l’œuvre gravé de Félicien Rops. Paris: Conquet, 1887; Brussels: Deman, 1893. – Études sur quelques originaux: Félicien Rops. Paris: Pellet / Floury, 1905. – La Faune parisienne. Paris: Pellet, 1901. – Louis-Auguste Lepère, peintre-graveur. Paris: Charles Meunier, 1901. – Louis Legrand peintre-graveur. Catalogue des œuvres gravé et lithographié. Paris: Floury, 1896. – L’Œuvre lithographié de Félicien Rops. Paris: Conquet, 1891. – Supplément au catalogue de l’œuvre gravé de Félicien Rops. Paris: Floury, 1895. Renard, Jules. Journal, 1887–1910. Ed. Léon Guichard and Gilbert Sigaux. Paris: Gallimard, 1965. Restif de la Bretonne, Nicolas. Monument du costume physique et moral de la fin du XVIIe siècle, ou, Tableaux de la vie. 1789. Geneva: Slatkine Reprints, 1988 (facsimile of the 1876 edition published in Paris by Léon Willem). Reuillard, Gabriel. ‘La Vente de la bibliothèque de Robert de Montesquiou.’ Les Nouvelles Littéraires 14 Apr. 1923: 1. Roberts, W. ‘French Booklovers’ Societies.’ The Bookworm 2 (1889): 253–6. Robertson, W. Graham. Life Was Worth Living: The Reminiscences of W. Graham Robertson. New York and London: Harper and Brothers, 1931. Robida, Albert. La Grande Mascarade parisienne: La Clef des cœurs. Paris: Librairie Illustrée, n.d. Rodenbach, Georges. ‘Un gentilhomme de lettres.’ Le Figaro 6 July 1892: n. pag.

Select Bibliography 277 Rops, Félicien. Injures bohèmes: Les Plus Belles Lettres illustrées de Félicien Rops. Ed. Véronique Leblanc and Hélène Védrine. Naumur and Paris: Somogy/Éditions d’Art, 2001. – ‘Lettres inédites de Félicien Rops.’ La Nervie: Revue Illustrée d’Arts et de Lettres 5– 6 (1929) 23–46. – Mémoires pour nuire à l’histoire artistique de mon temps & autres feuilles volantes. Ed. Hélène Védrine. [Brussels]: Éditions Labor, 1998. Rosengarten, Joseph G. The Paris Book Exhibition of 1894. Philadelphia: MacMalla and Co., 1895. Sainte-Beuve, Charles-Augustin. ‘De la littérature industrielle.’ La Revue des Deux Mondes 1 Sept. 1839. Salmon, André. Souvenirs sans fin: Première époque (1903–1908). Paris: Gallimard, 1955. Sarcey, Francisque. ‘Les Amis des Livres.’ Le XIXe Siècle 8 Mar. 1882: 1. Schwob, Marcel. Correspondance inédite, précédée de quelques textes inédits. Ed. John Alden Green. Geneva: Droz, 1985. – La Porte des rêves. Paris: Pour les Bibliophiles Indépendents chez Henri Floury, 1898. Société des Amis des Livres. Annuaire. Paris: Imprimé pour les Amis des Livres, 1880–95. Société des Bibliophiles Lyonnais. Liste des sociétaires. Statuts. Publications. Lyon, 1886. Sparklet. ‘Le Trottoir roulant.’ L’Écho de Paris 4 Mar. 1907: 1. Thévenin, Léon. ‘Opinion sur la reliure moderne: Étude sur Charles Meunier.’ Mercure de France 1 Apr. 1914: 514–24. Tissandier, Gaston. ‘L’Exposition du livre au Palais de l’Industrie, à Paris.’ La Nature 1894: 314–15. Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri de. Correspondance. Ed. Herbert D. Schimmel. Paris: Gallimard, 1992. – Unpublished Correspondence of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec: 273 Letters by and about Lautrec Written to his Family and Friends in the Collection of Herbert Schimmel. Ed. Lucien Goldschmidt and Theodore Reff. London: Phaidon, 1969. Un Bibliophile [Martial Étienne Mulsant]. Les Ennemis des livres. Lyon: H. Georg, 1879. Union Centrale des Arts Décoratifs. Le Papier: IIIe groupe de l’exposition technologique de 1882 (librairie – impressions – photographie – gravure – reliure – papiers peints). Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1883. Vallotton, Félix. Documents pour une biographie et pour l’histoire d’une œuvre. Vol. 1 (1884–1899). Ed. Gilbert Guisan and Doris Jakubec. Lausanne and Paris: La Bibliothèque des Arts, 1973.

278 Select Bibliography Vandérem, Fernand. ‘Chronique: La Collection Montesquiou.’ Bulletin du Bibliophile et du Bibliothécaire 1 June 1923: 261–4. Veblen, Thorstein. The Theory of the Leisure Class. 1899. Ed. Candace Ward. New York: Dover, 1994. ‘La Vente de la bibliothèque de M. Octave Uzanne.’ Le Temps 4 Mar. 1894: 3A. ‘Les Ventes aux enchères publiques.’ Le Temps 5 July 1888: 3. Venturi, Lionello. Les Archives de l’Impressionnisme: Lettres de Renoir, Monet, Pissarro, Sisley et autres. Mémoires de Paul Durand-Ruel. Documents. 2 vols. Paris and New York: Durand-Ruel, 1939. Verlaine, Paul. Biblio-Sonnets, poèmes inédits. Paris: Floury, 1913. Vicaire, Georges. Le Baron Jérôme Pichon, président honoraire de la Société des Bibliophiles françois, 1812–1896. Paris: Techener, 1897. Voltaire. Zadig, ou, La Destinée. 1747. Paris: Imprimé pour Les Amis des Livres par Chamerot et Renouard, 1893. Way, W. Irving. ‘The Book Exhibit at the Chicago Fair.’ The Book-Lover’s Almanac for the Year 1894. New York, 1894: n. pag. Wilde, Oscar. The Picture of Dorian Gray. 1890. New York: Modern Library, 1926. Zeno, Thierry, ed. Les Muses sataniques: Félicien Rops, œuvre graphique et lettres choisies. Brussels: Jacques Antoine, 1985. 2 Works by Octave Uzanne Books L’Art dans la décoration extérieure des livres en France et à l’étranger: Les Couvertures illustrées, les cartonnages d’éditeurs, la reliure d’art. Paris: Société Française d’Éditions d’Art, L. Henry May, 1898. Barbey d’Aurevilly. Paris: La Cité des Livres, 1927. Bouquinistes et bouquineurs: Physiologies des quais de Paris du Pont Royal au Pont Sully. Paris: Ancienne Maison Quantin, 1893. Le Bric-à-brac de l’amour. Paris: Rouveyre, 1879. Caprices d’un bibliophile. Paris: Rouveyre, 1878. Contes pour les bibliophiles. With Albert Robida. Paris: Quantin, 1895. Dictionnaire bibliophilosophique, typologique, iconophilesque, bibliopégique et bibliotechnique à l’usage des bibliognostes, des bibliomanes et des bibliophilistins. Paris: Imprimé pour les Sociétaires de l’Académie des Beaux Livres, Bibliophiles Contemporains, En l’An de Grâce Bibliomaniaque, 1896. L’Éventail. With Paul Avril. Paris: Quantin, 1882. La Femme à Paris: Nos Contemporaines: Notes successives sur les Parisiennes de ce temps dans leurs divers milieux, états et conditions. Paris: Ancienne Maison Quantin, 1894.

Select Bibliography 279 La Femme à la mode. Paris: Quantin, 1892. Instantanés d’Angleterre. Paris: Payot, 1914. Jean Lorrain, l’artiste, l’ami: Souvenirs intimes, lettres inédites. Abbeville: F. Paillart, 1913. Les Modes de Paris: Variations du goût et de l’esthétique de la femme, 1797–1897. Paris: Société Française d’Éditions d’Art, L. Henry May, 1898. La Nouvelle Bibliopolis: Voyage d’un novateur au pays des néo-icono-bibliomanes. Paris: Floury, 1897. L’Ombrelle – le gant – le manchon. With Paul Avril. Paris: Quantin, 1883. Le Paroissien du célibataire: Observations physiologiques et morales sur l’état du célibat. Paris: Ancienne Maison Quantin, 1890. Les Quais de Paris: Études physiologiques sur les bouquinistes et bouquineurs. Paris: Librairies-Imprimeries Réunies, 1896. Quelques-uns des livres contemporains en exemplaires choisis, curieux ou uniques revêtus de reliures d’art et de fantaisie tirés de la bibliothèque d’un écrivain et bibliophile parisien dont le nom n’est pas un mystère. Paris: A. Durel, 1894. La Reliure moderne artistique et fantaisiste. Paris: Rouveyre, 1887. Son Altesse la femme. Paris: Quantin, 1885. Vingt Jours dans le nouveau monde: De Paris à Chicago. Paris: May & Motteroz, 1893. Visions de notre heure: Choses et gens qui passent: Notations d’art, de littérature et de vie pittoresque, 1897–1898. Paris: Floury, 1899. Les Zigzags d’un curieux: Causeries sur l’art des livres et la littérature d’art. Paris: Quantin, 1888. Articles and Other Texts ‘L’Amour aux champs.’ La Bourgogne vue par les écrivains et les artistes. Ed. Adolphe van Bever. Paris: V. Rasmussen, n.d. 152–62. ‘Les Artistes originaux: Eugène Grasset, illustrateur, architecte et décorateur.’ L’Art et l’Idée, vol. 2 (1892): 193–220. ‘The Arts Relating to Women and their Exhibition in Paris.’ Scribner’s Magazine 13.5 (May 1893): 503–19. ‘Barbey d’Aurevilly, son portrait.’ Annales 28 Nov. 1909: n. pag. ‘Bibliophiles et biblioscopes: Zig-Zags Franco-Américains.’ The Booklover’s Almanac for the Year 1894. New York: Duprat & Cie., 1894: n. pag. ‘Les Costumes que porteront les femmes vers 1915 ou 1920.’ La Contemporaine: Revue Illustrée 10 Oct. 1901: 1–19. ‘Couvertures illustrées de publications étrangères.’ Art et Décoration 5 (1899): 33–42. ‘The End of Books.’ Scribner’s Magazine 16 (July–Dec. 1894): 221–31. ‘Eugene Grasset and Decorative Art in France.’ The Studio 4.20 (Nov. 1894): 37–47.

280 Select Bibliography ‘L’Exposition récapitulative d’Eugène Grasset aux Artistes Décorateurs.’ Art et Décoration 20 (1906): 173–86. ‘Félicien Rops: Par la plume et le crayon.’ La Plume 172 (15 June 1896): 480–7. ‘La Fin des livres.’ Contes pour les bibliophiles. With Albert Robida. Paris: Quantin, 1895. 125–45. ‘Georges de Feure.’ Art et Décoration 9 (Feb. 1901): 77–88. ‘Jules Barbey d’Aurevilly rue Rousselet.’ Le Figaro 13 Oct. 1923: 1–2. ‘Lending Books.’ Tr. Halket Lord. The Bookworm: An Illustrated Treasury of OldTime Literature. Vol. 2. London: E. Stock, 1888. 237–40. ‘Les Maîtres de l’estampe et de l’affiche: M. Georges de Feure.’ Le Monde Moderne et la Femme d’Aujourd’hui Feb. 1898: 263–72. ‘Modern Colour Engraving, with Notes on Some Work by Marie Jacounchikoff.’ The Studio 6 (Oct. 1895–Jan. 1896): 148–52. ‘Nos Livres devant la postérité: Les Bibliothèques de l’avenir.’ Revue BiblioIconographique 1 (1897): 12–17 and 66–71. ‘On the Drawings of M. Georges de Feure.’ The Studio 12 (1898): 95–102. ‘Paul Kersten’s Decorative Leather Work.’ The Studio 24 (Oct. 1901–Jan. 1902): 112–17. ‘Perspectives d’avenir: La Locomotion future.’ Le Monde Moderne et la Femme d’Aujourd’hui 1895: 103–14. Preface. Henri Pène du Bois, Four Private Libraries of New York: A Contribution to the History of Bibliophilism in America. New York: Duprat & Co., 1892. ‘Prélude iconographique.’ Figures contemporaines tirées de l’album Mariani. Vol. 1. Paris: Flammarion, 1894. i-viii. ‘Prologue: Félix Vallotton et l’origine de ce Livre des Rassemblements; La Bibliophilie et la jeunesse littéraire contemporaine.’ Badauderies parisiennes: Les Rassemblements: Physiologies de la rue. Paris: Pour les Bibliophiles Indépendants, Henri Floury, 1896. ‘Un artiste écrivain, illustrateur, peintre-graveur, lithographe, architecte et voyageur: Albert Robida.’ L’Œuvre et l’Image Feb. 1901: 1–28. ‘Un dandy stoïcien.’ La Dépêche de Toulouse 17 Feb. 1922: 1. Selected Reviews of Uzanne’s Works Rev. of The Book-Hunter in Paris: Studies among the Bookstalls and Quays. Athenaeum 6 Jan. 1894: 9. ‘Book Hunting on the Quays.’ Rev. of Bouquineurs et bouquinistes: Physiologies des Quais de Paris. New York Times 23 Apr. 1893: 19. ‘En bouquinant.’ Rev. of The Book-Hunter in Paris. The Bookman Dec. 1893: 84–5. France, Anatole. Rev. of Les Zigzags d’un curieux. Le Temps 19 Jan. 1890: 2.

Select Bibliography 281 Rev. of Fashion in Paris. Athenaeum 19 Nov. 1898: 721. Rev. of La Femme à Paris: Nos Contemporaines. New York Times 28 Jan. 1894: 23. Le Reboullet, A. Rev. of La Chronique scandaleuse. Le Figaro 1 Nov. 1879: 3. Urban, Sylvanus. Rev. of Le Paroissien du célibataire. The Gentleman’s Magazine 270 (Jan.–June 1891): 324. Way, W. Irving. Rev. of The Book-Hunter in Paris. The Dial 16 June 1894: 362–3. 3 Secondary Sources Abélès, Luce. ‘Tradition et modernité: Les Rassemblements, un livre de transition.’ L’Illustration: Essais d’iconographie. Ed. Maria Teresa Caracciolo and Ségolène Le Men. Paris: Klincksieck, 1999. 311–31. Allen, James Smith. In the Public Eye: A History of Reading in Modern France, 1800– 1940. Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 1991. Andrews, George, and David Solomon, eds. The Coca Leaf and Cocaine Papers. New York and London: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1975. Apter, Emily. Feminizing the Fetish: Psychoanalysis and Narrative Obsession in Turn-ofthe-Century France. Ithaca, NY: Cornell UP, 1991. Arbour, Roméo. Dictionnaire des femmes libraires en France (1470–1870). Geneva: Droz, 2003. Art Nouveau – Arts Décoratifs – Vente. Neuilly-sur-Seine: Hôtel des Ventes, 1995. Assouline, Pierre. Gaston Gallimard: Un demi-siècle d’édition française. Paris: Balland, 1984. Bailey, Colin B. Renoir’s Portraits: Impressions of an Age. New Haven: Yale UP, 1997. Barazetti, S. ‘Un bibliophile: Henri Beraldi.’ Beaux-Arts: Chronique des Arts et de la Curiosité 7 Oct. 1938: 4 Barbier, Frédéric. Histoire du livre. Paris: Armand Colin, 2001. Baronian, Jean-Baptiste. ‘U comme Uzanne.’ Magazine Littéraire 327 (Dec. 1994): 8. Bazantay, Pierre. ‘Montesquiou, lecteur sans procédé.’ Europe 714 (Oct. 1988): 70–9. Beckwith, Alice H.R.H. Illustrating the Good Life: The Pissarros’ Eragny Press, 1894– 1914. New York: Grolier Club, 2007. Belk, Russell W. Collecting in a Consumer Society. London and New York: Routledge, 1995. Benjamin, Walter. ‘Unpacking My Library: A Talk about Book Collecting’ (1931). Illuminations. Trans. Harry Zohn. Ed. Hannah Arendt. Suffolk, UK: Fontana, 1982. 59–67. – ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’ (1936). Illuminations. Trans. Harry Zohn. Ed. Hannah Arendt. Suffolk, UK: Fontana, 1982. 219–53.

282 Select Bibliography Bertho-Lavenir, Catherine. ‘Innovation technique et société du spectacle: Le Théâtrophone à l’Exposition de 1889.’ Le Mouvement Social 149 (Oct. –Dec. 1989): 59–69. Bertho-Lavenir, Catherine, and Simone Breton-Gravereau, eds. Le Livre-Monde. Paris: Flammarion, 1992. Bertrand, Antoine. Les Curiosités esthétiques de Robert de Montesquiou. 2 vols. Geneva: Droz, 1996. Bertrand, Jean-Pierre, Michel Biron, Jacques Dubois, and Jeannine Paque. Le Roman célibataire d’À Rebours à Paludes. Paris: José Corti, 1996. Borie, Jean. Le Célibataire français. Paris: Grasset, 2002. Bourdieu, Pierre. ‘Le Champ littéraire.’ Actes de la Recherche en Sciences Sociales 89 (spring 1991): 3–46. – The Field of Cultural Production. Ed. Randal Johnson. New York: Columbia UP, 1993. Brun, Philippe. Albert Robida (1848–1926): Sa vie, son œuvre, suivi d’une bibliographie complète de ses écrits et dessins. Paris: Promodis, 1984. Candaux, Jean-Daniel. ‘Les Manuscrits et dossiers littéraires chez le relieur bibliophile: Coup d’œil sur la collection Charles Meunier.’ Travaux de littérature 11. Paris: Klincksieck, 1998. 373–84. Carassus, Émilien. Le Snobisme et les lettres françaises de Paul Bourget à Marcel Proust, 1884–1914. Paris: Armand Colin, 1966. Carlos Schwabe, 1866–1926: Catalogue des peintures, dessins et livres illustrés appartenant au Musée d’art et d’histoire de Genève. Ed. Marla H. Hand, Jean-David JumeauLafond, and Catherine Kulling. Geneva: Musée d’art et d’histoire, 1987. Cate, Phillip Dennis, and Sinclair Hamilton Hitchings. The Color Revolution: Color Lithography in France, 1890–1900. Santa Barbara, CA, and Salt Lake City, UT: Peregrine Smith, 1978. – Cate, Phillip Dennis, Gale B. Murray, and Richard Thomson, eds. Prints Abound: Paris in the 1890s; From the Collections of Virginia and Ira Jackson and the National Gallery of Art. Washington, DC: National Gallery of Art; London: Lund Humphries, 2000. Cavallo, Guglielmo, and Roger Chartier, eds. Histoire de la lecture dans le monde occidental. Paris: Seuil, 2001. Le Cercle de la Librairie, 1847–1997: 150 ans d’actions pour le livre et ses métiers. Paris: Électre-Éditions du Cercle de la Librairie, 1997. Chartier, Roger, and Henri-Jean Martin, eds. Le Livre concurrencé: 1900–1950. Paris: Fayard / Cercle de la Librairie, 1991. Vol. 4 of Histoire de l’édition française. – Le Livre en révolutions: Entretiens avec Jean Lebrun. Paris: Textuel, 1997. – Le Temps des éditeurs: Du Romantisme à la Belle Époque. Paris: Fayard / Cercle de la Librairie, 1990. Vol. 3 of Histoire de l’édition française.

Select Bibliography 283 Chevrefils Desbiolles, Yves. Les Revues d’art à Paris, 1905–1940. Paris: Ent’revues, 1993. Christ, Yvan. ‘La Belle Époque et l’art du livre.’ L’Estampille 65 (May 1975): 29–36. – ‘Octave Uzanne, bibliophile “évolutionnaire” de 1900.’ Médecine de France Dec. 1973: 24–40. La Collection (Romantisme: Revue du Dix-Neuvième Siècle) 112 (2001–2). Crauzat, E. de. La Reliure française de 1900 à 1925. Vol. 1. Paris: R. Kieffer, 1932. Darnton, Robert. ‘A Historian of Books, Lost and Found in Cyberspace.’ Chronicle of Higher Education 12 Mar. 1999: B4–B5. – The Kiss of Lamourette: Reflections in Cultural History. New York: Norton, 1990. – ‘The New Age of the Book.’ New York Review of Books 18 Mar. 1999: 5–7. Datta, Venita. Birth of a National Icon: The Literary Avant-Garde and the Origins of the Intellectual in France. Albany: State U of New York P, 1999. Debize, Christian. Émile Gallé et l’École de Nancy. Metz: Éditions Serpenoise, 1998. Denney, Colleen. ‘English Book Designers and the Role of the Modern Book at L’Art Nouveau.’ Part II: ‘Relations between England and the Continent.’ Arts Magazine 61.10 (summer 1987): 49–57. Desormeaux, Daniel. La Figure du bibliomane: Histoire du livre et stratégie littéraire au XIXe siècle. Saint-Genouph: Nizet, 2001. Devauchelle, Roger. La Reliure en France de ses origines à nos jours. Vol. 3. Depuis 1850. Paris: J. Rousseau-Girard, 1961. Devaux, Yves. L’Univers de la bibliophilie. Paris: Pygmalion/Gérard Watelet, 1988. Dijkstra, Bram. Idols of Perversity: Fantasies of Feminine Evil in Fin-de-Siècle Culture. New York: Oxford UP, 1986. Duncan, Alistair, and Georges De Bartha. Art Nouveau and Art Deco Bookbinding: French Masterpieces, 1880–1940. New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1989. Epstein, Jason. ‘The Rattle of Pebbles.’ New York Review of Books 27 Apr. 2000: 55–9. Falconer, Graham, ed. Autour d’un cabinet de lecture. Toronto: Centre d’Études du XIXe siècle Joseph Sablé, 2001. Fenton, Edward. ‘Edwardian Paris.’ Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin 9 (Mar. 1951): 190–6. Fields, Armond. George Auriol: Catalogue raisonné by Marie Leroy-Crèvecœur. Layton, UT: Peregrine Smith, 1985. Flety, Julien. Dictionnaire des relieurs français ayant exercé de 1800 à nos jours. Paris: Technorama, 1988. Fontaine, Jean-Paul. ‘Les Bonheurs historiques et existentiels des sociétés françaises de bibliophiles.’ Le Livre & l’Estampe 45 (1999): 107–12. Foulon, Pierre-Jean. L’Illustration du livre en France de 1870 à 1918. Morlanwelz, Belgium: Musée Royal de Mariemont, 1999.

284 Select Bibliography Fulacher, Pascal. ‘Société bibliophile de femmes: Les Cent-Une.’ Arts et Métiers du Livre Sept.–Oct. 1990: 26–8. Gaborit, Jean-René, ed. Mécènes et collectionneurs: Lyon et le Midi de la France. Paris: Éditions du CTHS, 1999. Galantaris, Christian. ‘Les Goncourt bibliophiles.’ Le Livre & l’Estampe 142 (1994): 7–63. – Manuel de bibliophilie. 2 vols. Paris: Éditions des Cendres, 1998. Garvey, Eleanor M., ed. The Artist and the Book, 1860–1960, in Western Europe and the United States. Boston: Museum of Fine Arts and Harvard College Library, 1961. Garvey, Eleanor M., Anne B. Smith, and Peter A. Wick, eds. The Turn of a Century, 1885–1910: Art Nouveau-Jugendstil Books. Cambridge, MA: Department of Printing and Graphic Arts, Houghton Library, Harvard University, 1970. Garvey, Eleanor M., and Peter A. Wick. The Arts of the French Book, 1900–1965: Illustrated Books of the School of Paris. Dallas: Southern Methodist UP, 1967. Gaume, Luce. ‘Paul Lacroix.’ Arts et Métiers du Livre 206 (1997): 27–8. Gay, Peter. Pleasure Wars. Vol. 5 of The Bourgeois Experience from Victoria to Freud. New York and London: Norton, 1998. Genova, Pamela A. Symbolist Journals: A Culture of Correspondence. Aldershot, UK, and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2002. Genz, Marcella D. A History of the Eragny Press, 1894–1914. New Castle, DE: Oak Knoll Press; London: The British Library, 2004. Girveau, Bruno, ed. À table au XIXe siècle. Paris: Flammarion/Réunion des musées nationaux, 2001. Glamallah, Ahmed Fathi. ‘Octave Uzanne, homme de lettres, bibliophile et revuiste (1851–1892).’ Diss. Université Paul Valéry – Montpellier III, 1992. Grente, Cardinal Georges, ed. Dictionnaire des lettres françaises: Le Dix-neuvième siècle (L-Z). Vol. 2. Paris: Arthème Fayard, 1972. Grunfeld, Frederic V. Rodin: A Biography. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1987. Harrison, Brian. Separate Spheres: The Opposition to Women’s Suffrage in Britain. New York: Holmes & Meier, 1978. Heller-Greenman, Bernadine. ‘Moreau le Jeune and the Monument du costume.’ Athanor 20 (n.d.): 67–75. Howsam, Leslie. ‘In My View: Women and Book History.’ Sharp News (fall 1998): 1–2. Huyssen, Andreas. After the Great Divide: Modernism, Mass Culture, Postmodernism. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana UP, 1986. Jackson, Holbrook. The Anatomy of Bibliomania. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1932. – The Fear of Books. 1932. Urbana and Chicago: U of Illinois P, 2001.

Select Bibliography 285 Jeandidier, Laurence. ‘René Wiener relieur d’art: Ébauche d’un portrait.’ Pays Lorrain 78 (1997): 179–90. Johnson, Una E. Ambroise Vollard, Éditeur: Prints, Books, Bronzes. New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1977. Jourdain, Francis. Sans remords ni rancune: Souvenirs épars d’un vieil homme ‘né en 76.’ Paris: Corréa, 1953. Jullian, Philippe. Robert de Montesquiou: Un prince 1900. Paris: Perrin, 1987. Korey, Marie E., and Ruth Mortimer. ‘Fifteen Women Book Collectors.’ Gazette of the Grolier Club 42 (1990): 49–87. Léjard, André, ed. The Art of the French Book from Early Manuscripts to the Present Time. Paris: Éditions du Chêne, 1947. Lesage, Claire. ‘Des avant-gardes en travail.’ Revue des Sciences Humaines 219 (July-Sept. 1990): 85–105. Le Livre objet d’art: Collection Calouste Gulbenkian, France, XIXe–XXe siècles. Lisbon: Musée Calouste Gulbenkian, 1997. Livres du dix-neuvième siècle: Éditions originales, livres illustrés, albums et suites de gravures, livres avec dessins originaux, reliures mosaïquées et décorées, manuscrits autographes, livres d’enfants, histoire naturelle, littérature, histoire, voyages, costumes. Paris: Pierre Berès, 1975. Lyons, Martyn. Readers and Society in Nineteenth-Century France: Workers, Women, Peasants. Hampshire, UK and New York: Palgrave, 2001. MacGarry, Pascale. ‘Le Bijou et la chauve-souris: Une enveloppe de Robert de Montesquiou.’ Littérature 72 (Dec. 1988): 114–27. Malavieille, Sophie. Reliures et cartonnages d’éditeur en France au XIXe siècle (1815– 1865). Paris: Promodis, 1985. Marcus, Jean. Art and Anger: Reading Like a Woman. Columbus: Ohio State UP, 1988. Mathias, Martine, ed. René Wiener, relieur et animateur de la vie artistique au temps de l’École de Nancy. Nancy: Musée Lorrain, 1999. Maugue, Annelise. L’Identité masculine en crise au tournant du siècle, 1871–1914. Paris: Rivages, 1987. McKenzie, Donald F. Bibliography and the Sociology of Texts (The Panizzi Lectures, 1985). London: British Library, 1986. Melot, Michel. The Impressionist Print. Trans. Caroline Beamish. New Haven and London: Yale UP, 1996. Mercier, Alain, ed. Les Trois Révolutions du livre. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale Éditions, 2002. Michon, Louis-Marie. La Reliure française. Paris: Larousse, 1951. Millman, Ian. Georges de Feure, maître du Symbolisme et de l’Art Nouveau. Paris: ACR Édition, 1992.

286 Select Bibliography Mollier, Jean-Yves. L’Argent et les lettres: Histoire du capitalisme d’édition, 1880–1920. Paris: Fayard, 1988. – ‘Un changement de climat: Les Nouveaux Libraires et les débuts de l’industrialisation.’ L’Europe et le livre: Réseaux et pratiques du négoce de librairie, XVIe –XIXe siècles. Ed. Frédéric Barbier, Sabine Juratic, and Dominique Varry. Paris: Klincksieck, 1996. 571–86. – ed. Le Commerce de la librairie en France au XIXe siècle, 1789–1914. Paris: IMEC Éditions / Éditions de la Maison des Sciences de l’Homme, 1997. Monneret, Sophie. L’Impressionnisme et son époque. Vol. 1. Paris: Denoël, 1978. Murray-Robertson, Anne. Eugène Grasset: Une certaine image de la femme. Milan: Skira, 1998. – Grasset: Pionnier de l’Art Nouveau. Lausanne: Éditions 24 Heures, 1981. Nelson, James G. Publisher to the Decadents: Leonard Smithers in the Careers of Beardsley, Wilde and Dowson. University Park: Pennsylvania State UP, 2000. Néret, Jean-Alexis. Histoire illustrée de la librairie et du livre français des origines à nos jours. Paris: Lamarre, 1953. Parinet, Elisabeth. La Librairie Flammarion, 1875–1914. Paris: IMEC Éditions, 1992. Paris-Bruxelles, Bruxelles-Paris: Réalisme, Impressionnisme, Symbolisme, Art Nouveau; Les Relations artistiques entre la France et la Belgique, 1848–1914. Ed. Anne Pingeot. Brussels: Fonds Mercator, 1997. Pearce, Susan M., ed. Interpreting Objects and Collections. London and New York: Routledge, 1994. Perrot, Michelle. ‘The New Eve and the Old Adam: Changes in French Women’s Condition at the Turn of the Century.’ Behind the Lines: Gender and the Two World Wars. Ed. Margaret Higonnet, Jane Jenson, Sonya Michel, and Margaret Collins Weitz. New Haven: Yale UP, 1987. 51–60. Peterson, William S. The Kelmscott Press: A History of William Morris’s Typographical Adventure. Berkeley: U of California P, 1991. Petit, Jacques. Barbey d’Aurevilly critique. Paris: Belles Lettres, 1963. Pety, Dominique. Les Goncourt et la collection: De l’objet d’art à l’art d’écrire. Geneva: Droz, 2003. Pierssens, Michel. ‘Bas-bleus anonymes: Le Combat perdu d’Albert Cim.’ Les Romans à Clefs. Tusson, Charente: Éditions du Lérot, [2000]. 97–103. Poisson, Georges. La Curieuse Histoire du Vésinet. Ville du Vésinet, 1975. Possémé, Évelyne. ‘Vever.’ The Master Jewelers. Ed. A. Kenneth Snowman. New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1990. 142–56. Prochasson, Christophe. Les Années électriques, 1880–1910. Paris: La Découverte, 1991. Przybos, Julia. Zoom sur les décadents. Paris: José Corti, 2002.

Select Bibliography 287 Ray, Gordon N. The Art of the French Illustrated Book, 1700 to 1914. 2 vols. New York: The Pierpont Morgan Library; Ithaca, NY: Cornell UP, 1982. Rees, Eiluned. ‘Biographica et Bibliographica: Bookbindings in the National Library of Wales: 19. Charles Meunier, 20. Pétrus Ruban.’ National Library of Wales Journal (Cylchgrawn Llyfrgell Genedlaethol Cymru) 26.2 (winter 1989): 223–6. Renoir, Jean. Pierre-Auguste Renoir, mon père. Paris: Gallimard, 1981. Ribault, Jean-Yves, ed. Mécènes et collectionneurs: Actes du 121e congrès national des sociétés historiques et scientifiques, section moderne et contemporaine, Nice 1996. Vol. 1. Paris: Éditions du CTHS, 1999. Saisselin, Rémy G. The Bourgeois and the Bibelot. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers UP, 1984. Sangsue, Daniel. ‘Démesures du livre.’ Romantisme 69 (1990–3): 43–59. Schulman, Peter. The Sunday of Fiction: The Modern French Eccentric. West Lafayette, IN: Purdue UP, 2003. Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire. New York: Columbia UP, 1985. Showalter, Elaine. Sexual Anarchy: Gender and Culture at the Fin de Siècle. New York: Viking, 1990. Silverman, Debora L. Art Nouveau in Fin-de-Siècle France: Politics, Psychology, and Style. Berkeley: U of California P, 1989. Söderberg, Rolf. French Book Illustration, 1880–1905. Acta Universitatis Stockholmiensis/Stockholm Studies in History of Art. Vol. 28. Stockholm: Almquist and Wiksell International, 1977. Strachan, Walter John. The Artist and the Book in France: The 20th Century Livre d’Artiste. London: Peter Owen, 1969. – ‘French Bibliophile Society Banquet Menus.’ The Private Library Autumn 1991: 85–99. Tanselle, G. Thomas. ‘The History of Books as a Field of Study.’ Literature and Artifacts. Charlottesville: Bibliographical Society of Virginia, 1998. 41–55. Taylor, Marvin J. ‘The Anatomy of Bibliography: Book Collecting, Bibliography and Male Homosocial Discourse.’ Textual Practice 14.3 (2000): 457–77. Thiébaut, Philippe, ed. La Lettre art nouveau en France. Vol. 55 of Les Dossiers du Musée d’Orsay. Paris: Éditions de la Réunion de musées nationaux, 1995. – Robert de Montesquiou ou l’art de paraître. Paris: Éditions de la Réunion des musées nationaux, 1999. Thiesse, Anne-Marie. Le Roman du quotidien: Lecteurs et lectures populaires à la Belle Époque. Paris: Chemin Vert, 1984. Thompson, Lawrence S. Bibliologia Comica or Humorous Aspects of the Caparisoning and Conservation of Books. [Hamden, CT]: Archon Books, 1968. Tidcombe, Marianne. Women Bookbinders, 1880–1920. New Castle, DE: Oak Knoll Press; London: British Library, 1996.

288 Select Bibliography Très Beaux Livres illustrés modernes, somptueuses reliures dorées et mosaïquées. Vente du 12 juin 1939. Paris: Auguste Blaizot et Fils, [1939]. Twyman, Michael. The British Library Guide to Printing: History and Techniques. Toronto: U of Toronto P, 1998. Vanderpooten, Claude. Samuel Pozzi chirurgien et ami des femmes. [OzoirLa Ferrière]: In Fine; [Neuilly]: V&O Éditions, 1992. Wakeman, Geoffrey. Victorian Book Illustration: The Technical Revolution. Detroit: Gale Research Company, 1973. Watson, Rowan. ‘Bing, Art Nouveau and the Book in the Late Nineteenth Century.’ Apollo 459 (May 2000): 32–40. Weber, Eugen. France fin de siècle. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1986. Weisberg, Gabriel P. Art Nouveau Bing: Paris Style 1900. New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1986. Zinn, Nancy. ‘Charles Meunier and the French Bookbinders.’ Fine Print Jan. 1976: 5–6.

Illustration Credits

Bibliothèque publique et universitaire, Geneva 0.5 Avril illustration (Collection Charles Meunier)

Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center, The University of Texas at Austin 1.7 Meunier mosaic binding; 1.11 Vallotton illustration; 3.4 Rudnicki illustration; 4.6 de Feure cover illustration

Jacques-Henry Marotte Archives 3.5 lithography by P. Mathey

The Metropolitan Museum of Art 4.10 Marie Louis Pierre Vidal, 1849–1929, ‘Rue de la Paix,’ French. Watercolor. Overall: 16 x 12 3/8 in. (40.6 x 31.4 cm), The Elisha Whittelsey Collection, The Elisha Whittelsey Fund, 1950 (50.606.3), Image ©

The Metropolitan Museum of Art Musée de l’École de Nancy 1.5 Martin mosaic binding (photograph by Claude Philippot)

The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations 0.4 Bracquemond etching (S. P. Avery Collection, Miriam and Ira D. Wallach Division of Arts, Prints and Photographs); 1.6 Michel mosaic binding (Spencer Collection)

290 Illustration Credits

Pennsylvania State University Libraries, Rare Books and Manuscripts, Special Collections Library 0.2 Grasset cover illustration; 2.3 Rops frontispiece; 2.6 Morin menu; 2.7 Chéret menu; 3.1 cover illustration, Le Livre Moderne; 3.2 Rops illustration; 4.4 Pissarro woodcut; 4.9 Courboin illustration; 6.1 Dillon lithograph; 6.2 Favre pewter plaquette

Princeton University Library, Rare Books Division, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections 1.4 Ruban binding

Private Collection 4.1 Carrière, Paul Gallimard (c. 1887–8), oil on canvas, 0.41 x 0.32 cm

Private Collection, courtesy Ian Millman Archives 4.5 de Feure New Year’s card, color lithograph, 22 x 15 cm signed; 4.7 de Feure frontispiece (closed); 4.8 de Feure frontispiece (open)

The Robert B. Mayer Family Collection, Chicago 4.3 Renoir, Madame Paul Gallimard (1832), 80 x 63.5 cm

The Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C. 3.3 Vever photograph (Henri Vever Papers. Freer Gallery of Art and Arthur M. Sackler Gallery Archives. Gift of François Mautin, 1988); 5.3 James McNeill Whistler, [American, 1834–1903], Harmony in Blue and Gold: The Peacock Room (1876–77), oil paint and gold leaf on canvas, leather, and wood 421.6Hx613.4Wx1026.2D cm (166x241 1/2x404 in) (Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C., Gift of Charles Lang Freer, F1904.61, NE Corner)

Index

Note: Illustrations are indicated by page numbers in italics. Abot, Eugène, 15 Adam, Juliette, 106, 187 Adam, Paul, 104–6 Ader, Clément, 204–5 aesthetics of the book, 3, 113–14; Beraldi on creative bibliophilia, 5–6, 18, 73–4, 116, 123, 136, 139– 40; modernist leanings, 24, 40, 53; in Montesquiou’s private library, 143–4; as portrayed in international exhibits, 38; traditional approaches to, 70–2; Uzanne’s elitism, 22–3, 27–9, 31, 59–60, 75–7, 91; Uzanne’s focus on originality, 74, 96–8, 114–15 Album des peintres-graveurs, 125 Album Mariani yearbook, 27, 28 Amand (binder-gilder), 45, 229n79 amateurs, 5–6, 12–19, 115–40; collaborations with artist-illustrators, 115– 19, 122–40; decline, 136–40; democratization in book production, 22; ‘false’ amateurs, 74–7; Gallimard’s creative bibliophilia, 116–23; Goncourt’s view of, 139–40; institutional

networks, 123; Lucien Pissarro’s collaborations with, 123–7; materialism of, 17–18, 222n35; as ‘néo-icono-bibliomanes,’ 122; new bibliophile societies, 107–14; Uzanne as, 127–40; writing of, 123. See also bibliophile societies American book collectors, 93, 237n16 Americanization, 29, 31 Les Amis de l’art japonais, 151 Les Amis des Livres. See La Société des Amis des Livres Les Amis du Livre Moderne, 6, 14, 51, 219–20n4 Les Amours de Marie (Ronsard), 112 analysis of a private library, 141–4 ancients versus moderns debates, 61– 88, 116; role of commercial luxury books, 75–88; role of éditeurs-libraires, 63–7; role of Les XX, 106–7; role of the Société des Amis des Livres, 75–88; role of the Société des Bibliophiles François, 61–7; Uzanne’s modern vision, 67–76, 68, 69, 89– 99, 90, 114–15

292 Index Anne d’Autriche, 185 Anne de Rohan, 185–6 Antar (tr. Dinet), 40, 95 anthropomorphization of books, 11, 167, 172–81 L’Anti-Justine (Restif de la Bretonne), 181 antiquarian book collecting, 5, 12, 16 anti-Semitism, 31, 34, 37, 73 Aphrodite (Louÿs), 112 L’Après-midi d’un faune (Mallarmé), 158 aquatint grain colour relief process, 44 À Rebours (Huysmans), 156, 158, 175, 179, 183 L’Argent (Zola), 173 Artan, Louis, 104 L’Art dans la décoration extérieure des livres (Uzanne), 45, 46 L’Art du XVIIIe siècle (Goncourt and Goncourt), 145 L’Art et l’Idée review, 14–16, 29, 55, 74, 91 artistic salons, 7 L’Art Japonais, vol. 2 (Gonse), 48 L’Art Moderne review, 125 Art Nouveau, 24, 42; in Bing’s Exposition du livre moderne, 125; French official appropriation of, 227n58; Gillot’s collections of, 42, 249n30; impact on bindings of, 45, 158–9; impact on typography of, 51–3, 52; Uzanne’s support of, 70 Ashbee, C.R., 123 Ashbee, Henry Spencer, 79, 180, 181 Aumale, Duc d’, 62–3 Au pied de Sinaï (Clemenceau), 99 Auriol, George, 51, 52

authors: collaborations with illustrators of, 115–19, 122–40; role of agents for, 210; self-publishing by, 110–12, 210; in Uzanne’s vision of the future, 209, 209–10, 216; women authors, 189 the avant-garde. See parapublishing of livres de luxe; Symbolist movement Avril, Paul, 19, 19–20, 43–4, 93, 228– 9n71 bachelor bibliophiles, 181–4, 260n93 Badauderies parisiennes. Les Rassemblements. Physiologies de la rue, 54–7, 56, 58, 98, 131–6, 231n95, 246n47 Balzac, Honoré de, 154–5 Barbey d’Aurevilly, Jules-Amédée, 30– 1, 104, 106, 177, 179, 189–90 Le Baron Jérôme Pichon (Vicaire), 4 Barrès, Maurice, 79, 108, 141, 261n112 Barrie, George, 16 Bartet, Julia, 162, 188 Barthes, Roland, 266n29 Les Bas-Bleus (Barbey d’Aurevilly), 189–90 Bas-Bleus (Cim), 187 Baudelaire, Charles: Les Fleurs du mal, 50, 104, 116, 118, 139; preface to Poe’s ‘The Philosophy of Furniture,’ 148; sketch of Jeanne Duval by, 148 Bauzonnet, Antoine, 70–2, 71 Beach de Forest, George, 93 Beardsley, Aubrey, 66, 95, 98, 178, 238n24 Belgian book production, 37, 104 Bell, Alexander Graham, 204 La Belle au bois dormant et Le Petit Chaperon rouge (Perrault), 98–9

Index 293 Benjamin, Walter, 11, 144, 163, 247n54 Beraldi, Henri, 5, 12–14; on amateurs, 122, 127; on Les Amis des Livres, 77, 89; on bachelorhood and celibacy, 182, 184; on bibelotage, 10; on books as love objects, 173–4; Chéret’s menu for, 82; on collecting by the multitudes, 33; on consolidation of publishing functions, 6–7; on creative bibliophilia, 5–6, 18, 73– 4, 116, 119–21, 123, 136, 139–40, 244n10; on erotica, 179; on the ‘fifth degree’ of bibliophilia, 136, 247n49; on Gallimard, 122, 136, 247n49; on gendered language of bibliophilia, 167; on Meunier’s binding work, 48; Le Monument du costume, 1900–1910, 137; on Morgand, 66; on Paillet, 80; portrait of, 13; La Reliure du XIXe siècle series, 71, 85; on Uzanne, 127, 136; on women bibliophiles, 185 Bergeret de Grancourt, PierreJacques-Onésyme, 244n10 Bernhardt, Sarah, 153, 162 Besnard, Albert, 112 bibelotage, 10–11, 17–18, 77, 191 Bibesco, Alexandre, 159 Bibliographie de France, 87 bibliographies, 73–4, 233n35 Le Bibliomane (Nodier), 87 bibliophagia, 169 ‘Le Bibliophile d’autrefois’ frontispiece (Rops), 67–8, 69 Bibliophile Jacob, 23, 61; bibliography of Restif by, 66; on books as love objects, 173, 174; use of colour by, 42; on women bibliophiles, 165, 195, 196

Bibliophiles Contemporains. See La Société des Bibliophiles Contemporains Bibliophiles François. See La Société des Bibliophiles François bibliophile societies, 5, 16, 219–20n4; all-female societies, 187, 261n114; collaborations with petites revues, 111–12; competition among, 127; membership, 62–3, 67–8, 76–9, 91– 6, 106, 187–8; publishing by, 47, 63–4, 83–8, 103, 104, 106–14, 122– 3; publishing, 96–8, 97; social focus, 77–80; women membership, 187–9, 261n116. See also amateurs; ancients versus moderns debates; names of specific organizations, e.g., La Société des Cent Bibliophiles Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, Paris, 23, 62, 74 Bibliothèques des chemins de fer, 194–5 Le Bijou de Société ou l’Amusement des Grâces, 179 La Bijouterie française au XIXe siècle (Vever), 146 binding/s, 16; Art Nouveau design in, 45, 158–9; Bauzonnet’s traditional approach to, 70–2, 71; of Les Chauves-Souris (Montesquiou), 10, 160–4, 161, 253n79; École de Nancy work in, 45, 47, 48; Edmond de Goncourt on, 158, 177–8; of human female skin, 176–8, 258n59; of industrial cloth, 44–5; international exhibitions, 39; Meunier’s work, 48–51, 50, 159–62, 161, 230n84; Montesquiou’s interest in, 10, 157–64, 161; mosaic bindings,

294 Index 45, 48, 49, 50; poster-bindings, 45, 46; pyrography in, 45, 51; Trautz’s reproductions, 84, 85; Uzanne’s views on, 44–5, 72, 158–9, 229nn79, 80; Vever’s collection, 18; women’s bookbinding work, 195–6, 197, 198 Binet, Alfred, 260n93 Bing, Siegfried: book exhibitions, 10, 36–7, 95, 125; interest in Asian art, 151, 249n30; Jewish origins, 37; patronage of de Feure by, 127 Blacque, Valentin, 93 Les Blés mouvants (Verhaeren), 104 Bloch, Marc, 220n10 Bonaparte, Prince Roland, 106 ‘The Bookbinder’ (Favre), 195, 197 The Bookman review, 168 The Book of Ruth, 125 booksellers (libraires), 6, 64, 194–6. See also éditeurs-libraires The Bookworm, 79 Boscheron, Nicolas, 145–6 Bossuet, Jacques-Bénigne, 184 Boucher, François, 23 Bourdieu, Pierre: theory of cultural production of, 7–8, 114–15, 220n8; on upper-bourgeois bohemians, 12 Bourgeois, Léon, 106 the bourgeois realist novel, 32–3 Bourget, Paul, 152 Boussod, Étienne, 95 Bracquemond, Félix, 11, 30; on amateurs, 122; on Beraldi, 14; on Lepère’s woodcuts, 54; on photomechanical technology, 56; portrait of Beraldi by, 13 Brauer (wood engraver), 28 Le Bric-à-brac de l’amour (Uzanne), 24– 5, 26, 29–31

Brisson, Adolphe, 173, 175–6, 187, 190–1 Brosses, Charles de, 77 Brunet, Jean-Charles, 73–4 Buet, Charles, 145 Bulletin de la Librairie Damascène Morgand, 65 Bulletin du Bibliophile et du Bibliothécaire, 64, 73–4 Burne-Jones, Edward, 153 Burton, John Hill, 179–80 Burty, Philippe, 37 Bury, Richard de (Aungerville), 166, 168–9, 171 Byron, George Gordon (Lord), 148 ’Le Cabinet d’un éroto-bibliomane’ (Uzanne), 180–1 cabinets de lecture, 195 Caesar’s Guerres Galliques, 63 Café Eldorado, 213–15 Caillavet, Léontine Arman de, 188 Calmann-Lévy, Michel, 31, 76, 86, 87, 95 Camondo, Isaac de, 151 La Canne de jaspe (Régnier), 106 Capital (Marx), 222n35 Caprices d’un bibliophile (Uzanne), 180–1, 224n16, 259n78 Les Caractères (La Bruyère), 72 Carayon, Émile, 45 Carr, Alice Comyns, 143 Carrière, Eugène, 117, 119 Carteret, Léopold, 18, 67 cartonnages, 45 Catalogue de livres modernes ornés de reliures artistiques exécutées par Charles Meunier, 203 Catalogue descriptif et analytique de l’œuvre gravé de Félicien Rops (Ramiro), 105

Index 295 Catalogue général des incunables des bibliothèques de France (Pellechet), 195 Catherine de Medici, 185 Caxton Club, Chicago, 261n116 Le Célibat et l’amour: Traité de vie passionnelle et de dilection féminine (Uzanne), 183 Les Cent Bibliophiles. See La Société des Cent Bibliophiles Les Cent Femmes Amies des Livres, 261n114 Les Cent-Une, 261n114 Cercle de la Librairie, 35, 36, 38 Cercle de l’Union Artistique, 62–3 Chamerot, Georges, 83 Champfleury, 87 Le Chancelier de fleurs: Douze stations d’amitié (Montesquiou), 160 Les Chansons de Bilitis (Louÿs), 110, 112, 113 Charcot, Jean-Martin, 180, 192–3 Charpentier, Georges, 33, 113 La Charrue d’érable (Moselly), 127 Chartier, Roger, 217 La Chartreuse de Parme (Stendhal), 87 Les Chauves-Souris (Montesquiou), 10, 160–4, 161, 253n79 Chéret, Jules, 43, 80, 82 Chicago World’s Columbian Exposition, 17, 38, 93, 237n16 chromotypogravures, 42 Chronique du règne de Charles IX (Mérimée), 83 Cim, Albert, 34, 187, 261n112 Claretie, Jules, 93, 110, 174–5, 179 Claye, Jules, 24, 107 La Clef des cœurs (Robida), 178 Clemenceau, Georges, 99 Clermont-Tonnerre, Elisabeth, 163 Cleveland, Grover, 17

Cobden-Sanderson (binder), 95, 123 collecting, 5–6; by Americans, 93, 237n16; in the ancien régime, 18; of antiquarian volumes, 5, 12, 72–4; bibliophilic bibliographies, 73–4, 233n35; books as symbols or as bibelots, 10–11, 17–18, 77, 157–64, 191– 2; female nature of, 191–3, 199; by fin-de-siècle Parisians, 33, 72–4; Freudian views of, 18; motivations for, 17–18, 192–3, 222n35; of rare contemporary editions, 5; in the rue Drouot neighbourhood, 3, 86; sexual aspects of, 11, 18, 167–8, 172–84, 191–3, 199; by women, 184–90, 196–9. See also ancients versus moderns debates; livres de luxe Collection Charles Gillot: Objets d’art et peintures d’extrême-orient, 150 collectionomanie, 192–3 colour techniques, 3, 40–4; heliography, 40; lithography, 42, 103. See also photomechanical technology Colson, Léon, 94 commercial book industry, 31–5, 58– 9, 122, 227n49; booksellers in, 64; the bourgeois realist novel, 32–3; cloth bindings, 44–5; connections with bibliophiles, 8–10; emergence of publishing profession, 63–4; legalization of trade unions, 7, 63; overproduction and the krach, 7, 32–4, 225n27, 225–6n30; reduced quality, 34; technological advances, 200–1, 205–16 commercial luxury books, 75–6 Commune, the, 73 La Conque review, 112 Conquet, Léon, 6, 8, 64, 84–8, 108, 236n73

296 Index Conseiller du Bibliophile, 24 Conte d’Archer, 40 Contes choisis (Maupassant), 96 Contes des Frères Grimm binding, 71 Contes of La Fontaine: Beraldi’s fermiers généraux edition, 121, 244n10; Montesquiou’s 1678 edition, 141 Contes pour les bibliophiles (Uzanne and Robida), 51, 52, 194, 205–18 Corpechot, Lucien, 157, 249n26 Corporation française des graveurs sur bois, 98–9 Courboin, Eugène, 96 Courboin, François, 134–6, 135, 246n47 Le Courrier Français, 103 Cours de danse fin de siècle (Rodrigues), 103 Cousturier, Edmond, 36–7 cover illustrations, 9, 10; of Badauderies parisiennes, 56; of Contes pour les bibliophiles, 52; of Féminies, 130; gillotage in, 25; of L’Effort, 97; of Le Livre Moderne, 90; using photomechanical processes, 52; using woodcuts, 56. See also binding/s Crane, Walter, 41, 95 creative bibliophilia, 5–6, 18, 73–4, 116, 123, 136, 139–40 Cueille des pommes woodcut (L. Pissarro), 124 ‘le culte du moi,’ 108 Cybook, 213 Daguerre, Jacques, 25 Dance of Death (Holbein), 178 dandyism, 31, 158, 175, 178 Daphné, ou Le Livre Moderne ex libris (Rops), 92, 222n4

Darnton, Robert, 6–7, 143, 210, 215– 17 Dauze, Pierre: collaboration with Gourmont, 111–13, 242n56; collaboration with Lucien Pissarro, 127; Judaism, 14; on profit and mass production, 7; La Société du Livre Contemporain, 127; Verlaine’s biblio-sonnets, 166; Les XX, 14, 79, 106–7 ‘Dear companion[s] of brush and pencil’ (Robida), 202 The Decoration of Houses (Wharton), 151 decorative arts, 70, 91, 148–57; of Charles Gillot, 149–51, 249n30; of Edmond de Goncourt, 148, 149, 151, 152, 154–5, 157, 249n26; japonisme in, 149–51, 155, 157; Nordau on, 152; of Robert de Montesquiou, 148–57, 250n36; role of women in, 194 Dédicaces de Verlaine, 107 Degeneration (Nordau), 12 Delafosse, Léon, 162 De la typographie et de l’harmonie de la page imprimée (L. Pissarro), 123, 125 Deman, Edmond, 104 democratization in book production, 59; with colour printing, 43; role of amateurs in, 22; in Uzanne’s vision of the future, 210–18, 211, 212, 214; women’s role in book production, 193–6 Demoiselles à marier (Cim), 187 Dentu, Édouard, 79 Dérôme, Louis, 158 design, 12, 45, 96–8, 97; Asiatic sources of, 95–8, 97, 149–51, 153, 155, 157; English Arts and Crafts

Index 297 movement, 123; French arts and crafts movement, 126, 127; of Henri Vever, 151; Rococo sources, 12, 17, 24; use of traditional forms, 70–2. See also Art Nouveau; Symbolist movement Des odeurs des parfums et des cosmétiques, 145 Les Diaboliques (Barbey d’Aurevilly), 30, 179 Diane de Poitiers, 185 Dictionnaire bibliophilosophique (Uzanne), 12, 108, 165–6, 198 Dictionnaire des diamants, rubis, perles (Boscheron), 145–6 digital and electronic technology, 201, 208, 210, 212, 215–17, 266n23 Dinet, Étienne, 40, 95 dinners for bibliophiles, 79–80, 81, 82, 121 XVIIIe Siècle: Institutions, usages et costumes, France 1700–1789 (Bibliophile Jacob), 23 Doré, Gustave, 201 La Dot de Suzette (Fiévée), 83 Doves Press, 123 Dreyfus, Alfred, 110 Drumont, Édouard, 31 Dubois, Louis, 104 Du Contrat social (Rousseau), 177 Durand, Marguerite, 194 Dürer, Albrecht, 54 Duval, Jeanne, 148 Eberts, Jean-Henri, 136 e-books, 201, 208, 210, 212, 215–17, 266n23 École de Nancy bindings, 45 economic aspects of bibliophilia: cost of beautiful books, 72–4, 108, 134–

6, 158, 246n47; Marx on commodity fetishism, 17, 222n35; reversed economy of, 7, 10, 122 Edison, Thomas, 17, 206, 207 éditeurs-libraires, 6; Damascène Morgand, 64–8, 74; Goncourt on, 139; Léon Conquet, 84–8; role in retrospective bibliophilia, 63–7; Uzanne on, 64 Éditions d’Art of Pelletan, 38–9 education, 32, 171–2, 194, 196 L’Effort (Haraucourt), 96–8, 97 eighteenth-century revival, 23–5 electrotyping, 54 elitist aesthetics of Uzanne, 22–3, 27– 9, 31, 59–60, 75–7, 91 Elles (pub. Pellet), 103 Ellis, Havelock, 192 Elton, Charles and Mary, 191 ‘The End of Books’ (Uzanne and Robida). See ‘La Fin des livres’ (Uzanne and Robida) ‘The Enemies of Books’ (Dillon), 169–71, 170 Engelmann, Godefroy, 42 English Arts and Crafts movement: book design in, 123, 125; innovations in typography, 53; woodcuts, 54, 57 English book production, 36, 123, 227n49 Les Ennemis des livres (Mulsant), 169 Ephrussi, Charles, 151 ‘L’Épouse indiscrète,’ 193 Epstein, Jason, 201, 210, 212 Eragny Press, 6, 110, 123, 125 erotica and perversion, 178–81, 258nn59, 69, 259n78 ‘Essence’ (Montesquiou), 164 Essex House Press, 123

298 Index L’Estampe et l’Affiche review, 103 L’Estampe Originale review, 42 Esthétique de la langue française (Gourmont), 112 étalagistes, 195 Eudel, Paul, 93, 165 L’Éventail, 43–5 ‘Everything to the moderns’ vignette of Uzanne, 67, 68 Exposition des Arts Industriels, 21 Exposition du livre moderne, 125 D’Eylac, 107 Fables of La Fontaine. See Contes of La Fontaine ‘false’ amateurs. See La Société des Amis des Livres Fatout, Charles, 64 La Faune parisienne (Rodrigues), 102, 103 Fauré, Gabriel, 145 Favre, Maurice, 197 female nature: of book collecting, 191–3, 199; of books, 11, 167, 173; books as love objects, 172–81, 193– 4; incompatibility of books and wives, 181–4 Féminies, huit chapitres inédits dévoués à la femme, à l’amour, à la beauté, 129, 130 La Femme à Paris (Uzanne), 189–90 La Femme au XVIIIe siècle (Goncourt and Goncourt), 145 La Femme et la mode (Uzanne), 222n4 La Femme et le pantin (Louÿs), 110, 112 la femme nouvelle, 168, 169, 170, 196 Les Femmes Bibliophiles de France (Quentin-Bauchart), 185–7, 196 ‘Les Femmes et les livres’ (Cim), 187 Fénéon, Félix, 124

fermiers généraux, 14, 119–22, 244n10 fetishism and books, 17, 40, 113, 222n35; addictive nature, 174, 256n37; books as love objects, 172– 81, 193–4; erotica and perversion, 178–81, 258nn59, 69, 259n78; female nature of books, 11, 167, 173; human female skin bindings, 176–8, 258n59; incompatibility of books and wives, 181–4, 260n93; as indicator of homosexuality, 192–3, 199, 260n93 Feure, Georges de, 10, 98, 127–31, 128, 130, 132–3 Fiévée, Joseph, 83 Le Figaro Illustré, 59 ‘La Fin des livres’ (Uzanne and Robida), 205–18, 207, 209, 211, 212, 214, 217, 218 Firmin-Didot publishing, 39 Flammarion, Camille, 34, 75, 177 Flaubert, Gustave, 177, 191 Les Fleurs du mal (Baudelaire): Cent Bibliophiles edition, 104; Gallimard’s edition, 116, 118, 139; Meunier’s binding for, 50 Floressas des Esseintes, Duc, 156 Floury, Henri, 6, 8, 54–6, 64; bookshop, 80, 86, 95; on bookstore owners as pimps, 181; catalogue raisonné of Legrand’s work by, 103; collaborations with Uzanne, 98–9, 129; publication of De la typographie by, 123, 125 Fontaine, Auguste, 64 fonts. See typography Fort, Paul, 53–4 Foulquier, Valentin, 83 Fragonard, Jean-Honoré, 244n10 France, Anatole, 16, 49, 98, 174–5

Index 299 La France juive (Drumont), 31 Franco-Prussian War, 12, 68–70, 73 French arts and crafts movement, 126, 127 La Fronde newspaper, 194 Gallé, Émile, 146, 158, 162 Gallien, Ernest, 77 Gallimard, Gaston, 119 Gallimard, Lucie, 119, 120, 243n4 Gallimard, Paul, 14, 112, 126–7, 221n23; Beraldi on, 122, 136, 247n49; collaborations with Lucien Pissarro, 123–5, 127, 139; collections of, 119; edition of Les Fleurs du mal, 116, 118; edition of Germinie Lacerteux, 115–22, 124; international exhibits, 36; patronage of Rodin by, 116, 118, 139; portrait, 117; publishing practices, 116–23, 243n6; La Société du Livre Contemporain, 126–7; wealth of, 108, 117–19, 193–4 Gandara, Antonio de la, 148 Ganderax, Louis, 163 Gausseron, Bernard-Henri, 165, 262n125 Gautier, Judith, 145 Gautier, Théophile, 91, 176 Gavarni, Paul, 54, 154–5 gendered aspects of bibliophilia, 11, 77, 167, 196–9; bachelorhood in bibliophilia, 181–4, 260n93; books as love objects, 172–81, 193–4; female nature of books, 11, 167; femininity of collecting, 191–3, 199; male homosocial bonds, 167– 8, 183–4, 193, 196–9, 262n119; male language in, 167, 193–4, 254n12. See also women

Geoffroy, Gustave, 124, 243n1 German book industry, 36, 38, 64, 227n49 Germinie Lacerteux (pub. Gallimard), 115–22, 124 Gillot, Charles, 14, 25; Art Nouveau and Japanese collections, 42, 249n30; decorative arts, 149–51; photograph, 149, 150; plates for Le Japon Artistique by, 37; printing of Histoire des Quatre Fils Aymon by, 41–2, 149 Gillot, Firmin, 25 gillotage, 25, 39–42, 149 Giraldon, A., 15 Girard, A., 19, 19–20 Gissing, George, 178 Goncourt, Edmond de, 12, 24; on amateurs, 116–22, 139–40; antiSemitism, 34, 37; bachelorhood, 183; bibelots and decorative arts, 148, 149, 151, 152, 154–5, 157, 249n26; on bindings, 70–2, 158, 159, 177–8; on books as love objects, 175; collections, 72, 121, 149, 154–5, 185, 193; dinners, 79, 121; on éditeurs-libraires, 139; on erotica, 179, 180, 258n69, 259n78; on Gallimard’s Germinie Lacerteux, 115–22, 124; grenier (attic), 154–5; on the krach, 33; on Legrand, 103, 239n30; on Lucie Gallimard, 243n4; on materialism, 17, 147; on Montesquiou’s Les Chauves-Souris, 162–4; on Paul Gallimard, 14, 115–22, 124, 221n23; portrait, 119; on restaurant Marguery, 79–80; sale of library, 147–8, 248n19; on La Société des Bibliophiles François, 61, 63, 116; on Uzanne, 16–17, 121; works, 145

300 Index Goncourt, Jules de, 24, 115, 183; book collection, 72; sale of library, 147–8, 248n19; works, 145 Gonse, Louis, 48 Gosse, Edmund, 79 Gourmont, Remy de: bachelorhood, 183; collaboration with Dauze, 111–13, 242n56; interest in paper, 111; library, 142; on Montesquiou’s Les Chauves-Souris, 163–4; pseudonym, 112; publishing, 53–4, 111– 12, 142; reviews, 53–4, 107–8; use of woodcuts by, 53–4, 142 Grand-Carteret, Jean, 39 Grandville, 87, 146 Grasset, Eugène, 3, 10; furniture design, 42; Histoire des Quatre Fils Aymon, 9, 41–2; posters, 41, 95; typography innovation, 51, 53; work with Vever, 14 Gravelot, Hubert, 119 Great Book-Collectors (Elton and Elton), 191 Grolier, Jean, 74, 107, 186 Grolier Club, New York, 261n116 Gruel, Léon, 39 La Guerre au vingtième siècle (Robida), 202–4 Guerres Galliques, 63 Guingot, Louis, 46 Gyp (Sibylle Riqueti de Mirabeau), 189 Hachette, Louis, 33, 194–5 Haggin, Blanche Butterworth, 188 Haggin, Louis Terah, 188 Hallays, André, 162 Hankey, Frederick, 177, 179, 180, 259n78 Haraucourt, Edmond, 96–8, 97

Harmony in Blue and Gold: The Peacock Room (Whistler), 153, 154 Harrison, Brian, 188 Hébrard, Jean, 255n28 Hesse, Raymond, 113, 230n84 Hetzel, Jules, 24 Histoire de la reine du matin et de Soliman, prince des génies (Nerval), 126–7 Histoire de la société française pendant la Révolution (Goncourt), 34 Histoire des quatre fils Aymon, très nobles et très vaillans chevaliers (1883 Launette edition), 5, 39–42; cover illustration, 9; four-colour watercolour reproduction in, 3, 40, 41–2, 149; Grasset’s design and illustration, 41–2; international exhibits, 8; Meunier’s bindings, 48–51; Uzanne’s view of, 40–1 Histoires naturelles (Renard), 99 historical overview of bibliophilia, 6–11; analysis of a private library, 141–4; in the ancien régime, 18; books as symbols or as bibelots, 10– 11, 191–2; Bourdieu’s theory of cultural production in, 7–8, 114– 15, 220n8; feminine nature of books, 11; international trends in book arts, 10; the krach of the 1880s, 7–8, 32–4, 225n27, 225– 6n30; livres anciens, 61–74; Paris World’s Fairs, 8–10; profit motives in, 10; social and cultural basis, 11; transformative role of technology in, 8, 200–18 Holbein, Hans (the Younger), 54, 178 homosexuality: lesbianism, 189–90; of male bibliophiles, 167–8, 183–4, 192–3, 199, 256n37, 260n93

Index 301 homosocial bonds of bibliophilia, 167–8, 183–4, 192–3, 196–9, 262n119 Les Hortensias bleus (Montesquiou), 157 Hôtel Drouot, 3, 66, 141 Howsam, Leslie, 196 Hroswitha Club, 261n114 Hugo, Adèle, 145 Hugo, Victor, 24, 59, 145 Huysmans, Joris-Karl, 16, 104, 156, 175, 179, 183 illustration, 6, 8, 16, 38, 108, 115–40; author-illustrator collaborations, 115–19, 122–40; colour techniques, 3, 40–4; Japanese colour woodblock prints, 42, 56, 134; by Lucien Pissarro, 123–7; menus for bibliophile dinners, 80, 81, 82; Pelletan’s views on, 114, 242n63; poster art, 42–3; woodcuts, 23, 53–7, 55, 56, 58. See also cover illustrations; photomechanical technology; technology in book production L’Illustration newspaper, 42 L’Image review, 54, 98–9 The Imitation of Christ (Thomas à Kempis), 178 individualism, 109–10, 158 industrialization of book production. See commercial book industry international exhibitions, 8–10, 35– 40, 113; of Ader’s théâtrophone exhibit, 204–5; book-making technology exhibits, 22, 35–8, 40; books as art in, 38; Chicago World’s Columbian Exposition, 17, 38, 93, 237n16; competitive nationalism in, 19, 36–7, 38–9, 227n49;

democratizing role, 10; Edison’s exhibit, 208; Montesquiou’s report, 145; Paris Exposition internationale de l’électricité (1881), 204–5; Paris Exposition internationale du livre moderne (1894), 35–6, 38, 195; Robida’s Le Vieux Paris exhibit (1900), 202; symbolic capital of books in, 37–9, 227n53, 227–8n58. See also Paris World’s Fairs (Expositions Universelles) internet technology. See digital and electronic technology Jackson, Holbrook, 167, 181, 184–5 Jack the Ripper, 172 Japanese colour woodblock prints, 42, 56, 134. See also Badauderies parisiennes. Les Rassemblements. Physiologies de la rue Le Japon Artistique (Bing), 37 japonisme, 95, 96, 149–51, 153, 155, 157 Le Jardin des supplices (Mirbeau), 144– 5 Jarry, Alfred, 53–4 Jeu de l’amour et du hasard (Marivaux), 87 Les Jeunes-France (Gautier), 176 Jewish bibliophiles, 14 Johannot, Tony, 87 Jouaust, Damase, 23–4, 30, 38, 75, 224n19 Jourdain, Frantz, 119, 243n6 Justine (Sade), 177, 258n59 Kahn, Gustave, 109 Kahnweiler, Daniel-Henri, 136 Kama Soutra, 179 Kelmscott Press, 53, 54, 59, 123

302 Index King, Stephen, 212–13, 266n23 Klotz perfumes, 158 the krach (overproduction), 7, 32–4, 225n27, 225–6n30 Krafft-Ebing, Richard von, 192 Labé, Louise, 84 Labessade, Léon-Félix de, 165, 191 ‘Le Laboratoire du poète’ of Montesquiou, 145 La Bruyère, Jean de, 72 Lacombe, Paul, 93 Lacroix, Paul, 23 La Fontaine, Jean de, 14, 119–21, 141, 244n10 Laforgue, Jules, 110, 123–4, 126 La Gandara, Antonio de, 162–3 Lahure, Alexis, 63 Lalauze, Adolphe, 26 Lalique, René, 146, 158 Lang, Andrew, 73, 169–71, 185–6, 190 Lanscelin, Madame Veuve, 195 Lanston, Tolbert, 22 Larchey, Loredan, 23 Le Latin mystique (Gourmont), 107 Launette publishing, 59 Lawrence, H.W., 178 ‘The Leather-Gilder’ (Robida), 203 Leconte de Lisle, Charles, 162 La Légende de la femme émancipée (Maillard), 182 Legrand, Louis, 102; catalogue raisonné, 103, 239n36; illustrations for Quinze histoires d’Edgar Poë, 103; immorality trial, 103, 239n30 Leipzig Exposition of 1914, 36, 38–9 Lemaire, Madeleine, 160, 162 Lemaître, Jules, 98 Lemerre, Alphonse, 74, 79 Lemonnier publishing, 59

Lepère, Auguste, 54, 159, 239–40n36 Le Petit, Jules, 93 lesbianism, 189–90 Lettre d’un candidat ou l’entrée à bibliopolis, 19, 19–20 Levasseur (binder), 95 Leyland, Frederick, 153, 154 La Librairie Conquet, 86–8, 108 La Librairie Damascène Morgand, 64–8, 86, 121 Librairie des Bibliophiles series of Jouaust, 23–4, 38, 224n19 La Librairie Nouvelle, 86 library technology, 210 La Libre Parole newspaper, 31 Lièvre, Pierre, 142 Les Litanies de la rose, 107 literary and artistic reviews. See petites revues lithography, 25, 42, 103 Le Livre: Bibliographie Moderne review, 14, 24 Le Livre d’Art review, 53–4 Le Livre des masques (Gourmont), 142 Le Livre Moderne review, 14, 15, 89–91, 92, 201; cover illustration, 90; ‘Everything to the moderns’ vignette, 67, 68 livres anciens, 72–3; booksellers of, 64– 8; as novelties, 106–7; published by La Société des Bibliophiles François, 61–7; scarcity and price, 72–4 livres de luxe, 6–10, 16, 74, 220n10; amateur publishers, 5–6, 12–17, 110, 115–40; author-illustrator collaborations in, 115–19, 122–40; avantgarde parapublishers, 107–14; decorative arts renaissance, 70; distributors, 108–9; modern bibliophilia

Index 303 goals, 68–72, 74, 106–7; new bibliophile publishers, 110–15; as reaction to commercial book production, 7–8; reuse of images from popular press in, 57; role of éditeurslibraires in, 6, 63–7. See also technology in book production livres de peintre, 115, 136–9 le livre unique, 115 Lorenzaccio (Musset), 103 Lorrain, Jean, 16 Lortic (binder), 84 Louÿs, Pierre, 108–10, 112, 115, 140, 142 Lunois, Alexandre, 96 Lyautey, Louis, 62 Le Lys rouge (France), 49 Madame Bovary (Flaubert), 191 Madame Paul Gallimard (Renoir), 120 ‘Madeleine Bastille’ (Robida), 212 Magnin, Lucien, 45 Magnin, Valentin, 192–3 Maillard, Firmin, 182 Maillard, Léon, 81, 82 La Maison du Livre of Meunier, 6, 39, 48–51, 160, 197, 202 La Maison d’un artiste (E. de Goncourt), 149, 183, 249n26 ‘The malevolent work called phonograf ...’ (Robida), 206, 207 Mallarmé, Stéphane, 104, 115, 119, 142, 158 Manuel du libraire et de l’amateur de livres, 73–4 Mariani, Angelo, 27–9 Marie Leczinska, queen of France, 148 Marius Michel, 39, 48, 49, 158 Marivaux, Pierre de, 87

Martin, Camille, 45, 48 Marty, André, 42 Marx, Karl, 17, 222n35 Marx, Roger, 54, 106, 126 materialism, 17–18 Mathey, P., 100 Maupassant, Guy de, 96, 106 Maurier, Georges du, 204 May, Henry, 34 McKenzie, D.F., 11 mechanization of book production. See commercial book industry Meier-Graefe, Julius, 57, 134, 231n95 Mellerio, André, 43 Menus et programmes illustrés (Maillard), 81, 82 menus for bibliophile dinners, 80, 81, 82 Le Mercure de France review, 7, 107–12 Mergenthaler, Ottmar, 22 Mérimée, Prosper, 62, 83 Merson, Luc-Olivier, 159 ‘Mes Demeures’ (Montesquiou), 153 Metternich, Prince Richard von, 62 Meunier, Charles, 6–7, 95, 159; Les Amis du Livre Moderne, 6, 14, 51, 219–20n4; binding work, 48–51, 50, 159–62, 161, 230n84; ‘The Bookbinder’ plaque, 195, 197; catalogue of works of, 203; collaborations with Montesquiou, 159–62, 161; in ‘The Leather Gilder’ (Robida), 202, 203; La Maison du Livre press, 6, 39, 48–51, 160, 197, 202; publishing work, 107; reviews, 6, 48, 108–9 Migeon, Gaston, 149, 151 Mirbeau, Octave, 144–5, 163 Le Miroir du monde: Notes et sensations de la vie pittoresque (Uzanne), 228–9n71

304 Index Les Miscellanées Bibliographiques review, 29 ‘Le Mobilier libre’ (Montesquiou), 151–2 Les Modes de Paris (Uzanne), 134–6, 135 Mœurs, usages et costumes (Bibliophile Jacob), 42 Molière, 147 Le Monde Moderne (Uzanne), 204 Monselet, Charles, 23 Montesquieu, Baron de, 77 Montesquiou, Anatole de, 146–7 Montesquiou, Robert de, 12, 109, 141–64; aesthetics, 143–4, 157–8, 252n64; bat leitmotif, 162–3, 164; books and related documents, 144– 8, 247n2, 248n6; cane collection, 18; Les Chauves-Souris, 10, 160–4, 161, 253n79; collaborations with Meunier, 159–62, 161; decorative arts, 143, 250n36; importance of provenance and the past to, 146–8; interest in bindings, 10, 157–64, 161; interest in theatre, 153; letters and dedications to, 141–3, 144–5; libraries, 141–8, 153–7, 247n2; polysemic nature of books for, 144, 163–4; portrait, 142; reading canapé, 155, 156; relationship with Yturri, 160, 248n19; sale of library, 141–4, 247n2; as Symbolist, 142, 146, 153; utilitarian role of books, 145–6; value of Goncourts’ possessions to, 147–8, 248n19; wealth, 193–4 Montesquiou, Thierry de, 146, 153 Le Monument du costume, 1900–1910: La Vie mondaine à Paris (pub. Beraldi), 136, 137

Monument du costume physique et moral de la fin du XVIIIe siècle (Restif de la Bretonne), 136, 138 Les Moralités légendaires (Laforgue), 110, 123–4, 125, 126 Moréas, Jean, 109 Moreau le Jeune (Jean-Michel), 138, 146 Morgan, J. Pierpont, 67 Morgand, Damascène, 64–8, 65, 74, 93 Morice, Charles, 109 Morin, Louis, 18, 80, 81, 83 Morris, William, 59, 123, 125, 153; typography work, 53; Uzanne on, 134; woodblock work, 54 ‘Le Moulin du livre’ (Montesquiou), 159–60 Mucha, Alphonse, 10, 95, 110 Mugnier, Abbé Arthur, 16 Mulsant, Étienne, 169 Musée Grévin, 213–15 Musset, Alfred de, 62 misogyny. See women the Nabi group, 54, 56, 57 Napoleon, 148 Natanson, Thadée, 134–6 ‘néo-icono-bibliomanes,’ 122 Nerval, Gérard de, 126–7 New Year’s card (Feure), 128, 129 Niepce de Saint-Victor, Abel, 25 Nodier, Charles, 23, 61, 64, 73, 74, 87 Nordau, Max, 12, 115, 152 La Nouvelle Bibliopolis (Uzanne), 5, 122, 222n4; ‘Le Bibliophile d’autrefois’ frontispiece by Rops, 67–8, 69; ‘Physiology of the Reader: The Enemies of Books’ (Dillon), 169– 71, 170

Index 305 La Nouvelle Revue, 187 the novel, 32–3, 171, 190 Occupation de l’âme pendant le saint sacrifice de la messe, 3 L’Œuvre et l’Image review, 6, 48 Œuvres (Labé), 84 Œuvres (Villon), 87 L’Ombrelle – le gant – le manchon, 43–4 Orléans, Anne Marie Louise d’, Duchesse de Montpensier, 3 L’Ornementation des livres modernes (Michel), 158 L’Or pur (Montesquiou), 153 Oubliés et dédaignés: Figures de la fin du XVIIIe siècle (Monselet), 23 Paillet, Eugène, 77, 78, 80, 86; erotica, 179; library, 83 Le Pape (Hugo), 59 paper for livres de luxe, 108; Goncourt’s interest in, 111; for printing of illustrations, 41; wood pulpbased versus cloth-based, 22 parapublishing of livres de luxe, 107– 14; by authors, 110–12; collaborations with artist-illustrators in, 115; noncommercial goals, 107–8; the Symbolist avant-garde, 108–10, 112; syncretic individualism, 108–10 Paris Exposition internationale de l’électricité (1881), 204–5 Paris Exposition internationale du livre moderne (1894), 35–6, 38, 195 Paris World’s Fairs (Expositions Universelles), 8–10, 113, 153; Ader’s théâtrophone exhibit, 204–5; Bing’s presence at, 127; book-making technology displayed, 22, 40;

democratizing role, 10; Edison’s exhibit, 208; Montesquiou’s lecture at, 145; Robida’s Le Vieux Paris exhibit, 202 Le Paroissien du célibataire (Uzanne), 182–4 Les Paroles diaprées (Montesquiou), 159 Les Pas effacés (Montesquiou), 146, 153 ‘Patent’s Office. Guarantee against Counterfeit’ (Robida), 209 Paton, Sara P., 190 Pavillon des Muses, Neuilly, 157 Pays des aromates (Montesquiou), 145 The Peacock Room (Whistler), 153, 154 Péan, Jules-Émile, 172–3 Péguy, Charles, 60 Peignot, Georges, 51 Péladan, Joséphin ‘Sâr,’ 30 Pellechet, Marie, 195 Pellet, Gustave, 103, 104, 107 Pelletan, Édouard, 8, 36, 38–9; on collectors of commercial books, 75; on primacy of illustrations, 114, 242n63; publishing, 107; typography innovation, 51; on woodcuts, 54 Pène du Bois, Henri, 93 ‘The people will be able to get drunk on literature ...’ (Robida), 211 Les Perles rouges (Montesquiou), 145 Les Petites Revues: Essai de bibliographie (Gourmont), 111, 242n56 petites revues, 7, 14–16; avant-garde publishing, 107–14; collaborations with bibliophile societies, 111–12. See also names of specific reviews, e.g., La Revue Blanche Philobiblion (Richard de Bury), 166

306 Index ‘The Philosophy of Furniture’ (Poe), 148 phonographic technology, 206–8, 207 photomechanical technology, 3, 8, 40–57, 52; aquatint grain colour relief process, 44; chromotypogravures, 42; colour heliography, 40; colour lithography, 42, 103; in commercial publishing, 205; Conquet’s dislike of, 87; critical crusade against, 53–4; gillotage, 25, 27, 39–42, 149; hybrid procedures in, 29; photogravure, 25–7; Uzanne’s experimentation with, 25, 27, 29, 43–5 ‘Physiology of the Reader: The Enemies of Books’ (Dillon), 169–71, 170 Piazza, Henry, 40 Picard, Edmond, 239–40n36 Pichius, Albertus, 63 Pichon, Jérôme-Frédéric, Baron: antiquarian collection, 5, 12, 72; collecting goals, 61–2; portrait, 4; residence on Île Saint-Louis, 62; sale of library, 3, 95 The Picture of Dorian Gray (Wilde), 158 Pinard, Henri, 144 Pissarro, Camille, 11, 116, 123–7, 139 Pissarro, Lucien, 6; collaborations with patrons, 98, 123–7, 139; De la typographie, 123, 125; Eragny Press, 6, 110, 123, 125; home in England, 10; woodcuts, 98, 110, 123–4, 126 Pixérécourt, Guilbert de, 62 La Plume review, 107, 109, 110 Poe, Edgar Allen, 148 Poèmes et ballades du temps passé, 202 Poètes de ruelles au XVIIe siècle series (Uzanne), 23–4, 223n6

Pompadour, Madame de (JeanneAntoinette Poisson), 121, 185 Portalis, Roger de, 70 La Porte des rêves (Schwob), 129–31, 132–3, 246n38 poster art, 42–3, 80 poster-bindings, 46 Poulet-Malassis, Auguste, 30, 74 Pozzi, Samuel, 131 ‘Prière d’objets’ (Montesquiou), 148 Prières de tous: Huit dizaines d’un chapelet rythmique (Montesquiou), 160 printers’ trade unions, 7, 63 printing presses, 22, 201 private library, analysis of, 141–4 production. See binding/s; commercial book industry; illustration; paper for livres de luxe; technology in book production; typography prospective bibliophilia, 5–6 Proust, Marcel, 119 Prouvé, Victor, 45 publishers (éditeurs), 6, 30 publishing of livres de luxe: authorillustrator collaborations, 115–19, 122–40; by authors, 110–12; by the fermiers généraux, 14, 119–22, 244n10; by literary and artistic reviews, 107–14; by new bibliophile amateurs, 107–15; the Symbolist avant-garde, 108– 10. See also commercial book industry pyrography, 45, 51 Quant au livre (Mallarmé), 115 Quantin, Albert, 8; Hugo editions, 59; impact of the krach on, 33–4; membership in the Bibliophiles Contemporains, 93; publishing of

Index 307 classical texts, 24, 223n7; reputation, 24; on Uzanne, 30 Les Quatre Fils Aymon. See Histoire des quatre fils Aymon, très nobles et très vaillans chevaliers Quentin-Bauchart, Ernest, 84; on bachelorhood and celibacy, 184; on book collecting and collectors, 68, 72–3, 192; the preface to his study of women bibliophiles, 176; on women bibliophiles, 185–7, 196 Quillard, Pierre, 153 Quinze histoires d’Edgar Poë, 103 Rachilde (Marguerite ValletteEymery), 189 Raffaëlli, Jean-François, 14, 115, 119 Rahir, Édouard, 67 Rameau, Jean-Philippe, 147 Ramiro, Erastène. See Rodrigues, Eugène (Ramiro) Les Rassemblements. See Badauderies parisiennes. Les Rassemblements. Physiologies de la rue Rassenfosse, Armand, 80, 99, 103, 104 the realist novel, 32–3 Redon, Odilon, 103 Régnier, Henri de, 106 ‘La Relieuse’ (Favre), 197 La Reliure du XIXe siècle series, 71, 85 Renan, Joseph, 177 Renard, Jules, 99 Renoir, Pierre-Auguste, 119, 120, 121 restaurant Marguery, 79–80 Restif de la Bretonne, 66, 138, 180–1 retrospective bibliophilia. See ancients versus moderns debates reviews. See petites revues La Revue Biblio-Iconographique, 7, 106– 7, 111

La Revue Blanche, 7, 54, 57, 107, 134–6 Richepin, Jean, 93, 96 Ricketts, Charles, 123, 124, 125 ‘Riding the Bullet’ (King), 212–13, 266n23 Robertson, W. Graham, 153 Robida, Albert, 93; collaborations with Conquet, 87; collaborations with Meunier, 159, 202; collaborations with Uzanne, 51, 52, 194, 201–18; on ‘The End of Books,’ 201–18, 207, 209, 211, 212, 214, 217, 218; futurist writings and inventions, 202–5; ‘The LeatherGilder’ (Robida), 202, 203; picture, 202; satire on bachelors by, 178 Rochard, Émile, 16 Roche-Lacarelle, Joseph-Sosthène de la, 68 Rococo design, 12, 17, 24 Rodenbach, Georges, 142, 162 Rodin, Auguste, 14, 79, 116, 118, 139 Rodrigues, Eugène (Ramiro), 14, 99– 106, 239–40n36; catalogues raisonnés of Rops’s work by, 104; collaborations with Legrand, 102, 103, 239n36; collaborations with Lucien Pissarro, 125–7; collaborations with Rops, 103–4, 105, 239–40nn36–7; conversion from Judaism, 104; immorality trial of Legrand, 103, 239n30; interest in colour lithography, 103; lithograph of, 100; pseudonym, 103 The Rodrigues Sisters (Cassatt), 99, 100 romans-feuilletons, 171–2, 255n28 Rondel, Auguste, 183 Ronsard, Pierre de, 112 Rops, Félicien, 5, 10, 111; ‘Le Bibliophile d’autrefois’ frontispiece, 67–8,

308 Index 69; catalogues raisonnés, 14, 104, 239– 40n36; collaborations with Rodrigues, 103–4, 105, 239–40nn36–7; collaborations with Uzanne, 92, 222n4; contract with Conquet, 87, 236n73; La Demi-Lune home, 104; interest in technology, 21–2, 222n4; owners of his works, 106; on Rodrigues, 99; sales by Pellet of hisworks, 103; as Symbolist, 30, 103, 222n4; on Uzanne, 16, 30 rotary press, 22 Rothschild, Baron Alphonse de, 160 Rothschild, Baron de, 84 Rothschild, Baronne James de, 188 Rôti-cochon (1890 edition), 67 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 177, 180 Rouveyre, Édouard, 8, 29–30, 224n16 Ruban, Pétrus, 45, 47 Rudnicki, Léon, 80, 96, 97 Rue de la Paix (Vidal), 137 Sade, Marquis de, 177, 179, 180, 258n59 Sagot, Edmond, 42, 95 Saint-Albin, Philippe de, 77 Sainte-Beuve, Charles Augustin, 32 Saint-Evron, Truelle, 77 Saints d’Israël (Montesquiou), 160 Salammbô (Flaubert), 177 Salle Sylvestre auction house, 95 ‘Salomé’ woodcut (L. Pissarro), 126 Salon du Champ de Mars (1892), 91, 237n9 Salon du Livre (2000), 213 Saphyr (Buet), 145 Sarcey, Francisque, 84, 93 Schuck, Léon, 106, 110 Schwabe, Carlos, 51, 96, 159

Schwob, Marcel, 98, 129–31, 132, 133, 142, 246n38 Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky, 254n12 Sénéchal, Georges, 38 Séon, Alexandre, 96 Séverine, Caroline Rémy, 189 sexual aspects of bibliophilia: bachelorhood and celibacy, 181–4, 260n93; books as love objects, 172– 81, 193–4; erotica and perversion, 178–81, 258nn59, 69, 259n78; female nature of books, 11, 167, 173; femininity of collecting, 191– 3, 199; fetishism and homosexuality, 167–8, 183–4, 192–3, 199, 256n37, 260n93; Freudian views of, 18; male homosocial bonds, 167–8, 183–4, 193, 196–9, 262n119 Shakespeare, William, 147 Showalter, Elaine, 193, 196–9 Signac, Paul, 103 Silverman, Debora, 227n53, 227–8n58 Smithers, Leonard, 66, 178 La Société de Propagation des Livres d’Art, 219–20n4 La Société des Amis des Livres, 75– 89, 114, 181; bibelotage, 77; commercial luxury books, 75–7; Conquet’s role in, 84–8, 236n73; libraries, 83; meetings, 80; members, 76–9, 181, 187–8; publications, 47, 103, 104; publishing goals, 83–8; reeditions, 83–4; Rodrigues’s work for, 103; social focus, 77–80; Trautz’s bindings for, 84; Uzanne’s disdain for, 83–4, 89 La Société des Auteurs Dramatiques, 262n125 La Société des Bibliophiles Contemporains, 16, 72, 91–8, 114, 121,

Index 309 219–20n4; collections, 93; dinners, 79, 81; members, 91–6, 187–8; publications, 96–8, 97 La Société des Bibliophiles François, 3, 5, 60–7, 114; admiration of Bauzonnet by, 70–2; disinterest in illustration, 63; éditeurs-libraires, 63–7, 86; Goncourt on, 61, 63, 116; meetings, 62–3; membership, 62–3, 67–8; production methods, 63; publishing goal, 63–4; Uzanne’s protests against, 67–74 La Société des Bibliophiles Indépendants, 16, 54–6, 98–9, 114, 129, 219–20n4 La Société des Cent Bibliophiles, 14, 98, 99–106, 114, 127, 219–20n4. See also Rodrigues, Eugène (Ramiro) La Société des Gens de Lettres, 262n125 La Société du Livre Contemporain, 126–7, 219–20n4 La Société du Livre d’Art, 219–20n4 La Société du Livre Illustré, 219–20n4 societies. See names of bibliophile societies sociocultural aspects of bibliophilia, 17–18; amateurs, 12–17, 115–40; desire for social prestige, 110, 113; exclusivity, 18–20, 19 ; la femme nouvelle, 160, 168, 170; on fermiers généraux, 14, 119–22, 244n10; homosocial bonds of bibliophilia, 167–8, 183–4, 193, 196–9, 262n119; Jewish bibliophiles, 14; literary dinners, 79–80, 81, 82, 121; membership in Les Amis des Livres, 76–9; membership in Bibliophiles François, 62–3, 67–8; membership in Bibliophiles Contemporains,

91–6, 187–8; membership in Les XX, 106; Uzanne’s elitist aesthetic, 22–3, 27–9, 31, 32–5, 59–60, 75–6, 91. See also names of bibliophile societies; women Son Altesse la femme (Uzanne), 222n4 Le Songe d’une femme (Gourmont), 111 Stekel, Wilhelm, 192, 256n37 Stendhal (Marie-Henri Beyle), 87 The Studio, 10 Suite des œuvres poétiques de Vatel, 63 surgical dissection, 172 symbolism of books: of artistic and technical superiority, 37–9, 75, 227n53, 227–8n58; books as bibelots, 10–11, 17–18, 77, 157–64, 191–2; books as fetishist commodities, 17, 40, 113, 222n35; books as love objects, 172–81, 193–4; polysemic nature of books for Montesquiou, 144, 163–4 Symbolist movement, 57; La Conque review, 112; in illustration and design of livres de luxe, 96–8, 97, 107–15; the Latin Quarter, 108; in Meunier’s works, 39, 51, 109, 159– 62, 161; Montesquiou’s role, 142, 146, 153; syncretic individualism, 108–10; Uzanne’s participation, 30–1, 70, 109 syncretic individualism of parapublishers, 108–10 Syndicat de la librairie ancienne et moderne, 67 Talbot, William Henry Fox, 25 Techener, Jean-Jacques, 64, 95 technology in book production, 5–10, 16, 18–25, 40–57, 200–18; the ‘age of paper,’ 25, 223n11; colour

310 Index techniques, 40–4; digital and electronic technology, 201, 208, 210, 212, 215–17, 266n23; exhibits, 8–10, 21–2, 35–40, 227nn53, 58; impact on libraries, 210; printing presses, 22, 201; Rops’s experimentation with, 21–2; traditional methods, 42, 53–7; Uzanne’s vision of the future, 204–18, 207, 209, 211, 212, 214, 217, 218. See also binding/s; illustration; paper for livres de luxe; photomechanical technology; typography; Uzanne and technology télectroscope of Bell, 204 téléphonoscope of Robida, 204–5 Le Terme, ex libris, 222–3n4 Les Terres du ciel (Flammarion), 177 Théâtre des Variétés, 117 théâtrophone, 204–5, 213–15 Thémidore (Uzanne), 98, 238n24 Third Republic: anti-Semitism, 31, 34, 37, 73; appropriation of Art Nouveau, 227n58; autonomy of publishing, 7, 32, 59, 225n27; consumerism, 5–6; educational reforms, 32, 171–2, 194, 196; la femme nouvelle, 168, 169, 170, 196; legalization of posters, 42; nationalism and xenophobia, 36–7; progressive agenda, 19; reforms in women’s property rights, 190; social clubs, 188; social elites, 12 Thomas à Kempis, 178 Thompson, William, 205 Thou, Jacques-Auguste de, 186 Tolstoy, Leo, 153 Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri de, 59, 98– 9, 103 trade unions, 7, 63

traditional methods of production, 42, 70–2 translations, 219n1 Trautz, Georges, 84, 85 typography, 16; Auriol’s innovation, 51, 52; of livres de luxe, 108; Morris’s innovations, 53; Uzanne’s views on, 51–3; Vale typeface of Charles Ricketts, 124 U.S. book production, 36 ‘Useless or Harmful Works’ frontispiece (Rops), 105 Utilité de la flagellation dans les plaisirs de l’amour et du mariage, 179 Uzanne, Octave, 3, 5, 14–17, 21–60, 221n24; anti-Semitism of, 31; on bachelorhood, 181–4; education, 23; New Year’s card, 128, 129; personal qualities, 17, 31, 183; pictures and portraits, 15, 28, 55, 202; wealth, 108, 193–4 Uzanne and technology, 8, 16, 21–3, 34–40, 228–9n71; ambivalence toward, 201, 204, 205–18; on binding innovations, 44–5, 51, 72, 158– 9, 229nn79–80; on the end of books, 205–18, 207, 209, 211, 212, 214, 217, 218; experimentation with, 25, 27, 29, 43–5; rejection of technical perfection, 51, 53; on typographic innovation, 51–3, 52 Uzanne as bibliophilosophe, 3, 16, 191– 3; aesthetics of originality, 74, 96–8, 97, 114–15; Album Mariani yearbook, 27, 28; allegiance to both past and future, 40, 53, 57, 60; on amateurs, 12, 224n16; American experiences, 93, 188–9, 208, 237n16, 262n119; on books as love

Index 311 objects, 172–3, 174, 175–6; Le Bricà-brac de l’amour frontispiece, 26; on éditeurs-libraires, 64; editorial style, 29–30, 224n19; elitist aesthetics, 22–3, 27–9, 32–5, 59–60, 75–7, 91; on erotica and perversion, 178–9, 180–1, 183, 259n78; ex libris, 92, 222–3n4; on false amateurs, 83–4; Goncourt’s relationship with, 14– 15, 121; impact of Barbey, 30–1, 177, 189–90; interest in woodcuts, 23, 53–7; l’art pour l’art perspective, 205–6; mentors, 23–4; modern goals, 67–76, 68, 69, 89–99, 114–15; on poster art, 43; promotion of Grasset, 41–2; reputation for excess, 113–15, 134; revival of classical texts, 23–5, 74, 223nn6, 7; on Rodrigues, 14; societies, reviews, and exhibits, 10, 36, 89–99, 90, 109, 114–15; travel, 93, 98, 237n16, 238n24; on women bibliophiles, 165–6, 169–71, 170, 185–90, 194, 198. See also names of specific works, e.g., La Nouvelle Bibliopolis Uzanne’s collaborations: with artistillustrators, 127–40; with Avril, 43– 4, 228–9n71; with Courboin, 134– 6, 246n47; with de Feure, 127–31, 128, 130, 132, 133, 246n38; with Floury, 98–9, 129; with Robida, 51, 52, 194, 201–18; with Rops, 92, 222n4; with Rouveyre, 29–30, 224nn16, 19; with Valloton, 54–7, 131–4, 136 Vale Press, 123 Valéry, Paul, 204 Vallery-Radot, René, 171 Vallette, Alfred, 107–8

Vallette-Eymery, Marguerite, 189 La Vallière (Louis César de la Baume Le Blanc), 186 Vallotton, Félix, 10; ‘The Age of Paper’ woodcut,’ 223n11; Badauderies parisiennes woodcuts, 56, 57, 58, 98, 131–4, 231n95; collaborations with Uzanne, 54–7, 131–4; woodcut of Montesquiou, 142; woodcut of Uzanne, 55; work for the Bibliophiles Indépendants, 98 Vanier, Léon, 108 Veblen, Thorstein, 17, 193 Verhaeren, Émile, 104, 111 Verlaine, Paul, 141, 166 Verne, Jules, 202 Vever, Henri, 10, 12, 14, 93–6, 146; on book-lust, 184; on Charles Gillot’s collection, 149–51; collaboration with Grasset, 14; collection of bindings, 18; decorative arts, 151; erotica, 178–9; phonograph, 206; photograph, 94 Vicaire, Georges, 4, 62 Vidal, Pierre, 136, 137 La Vie de Jésus (Renan), 177 Vie du Chevalier Bayard, 85 La Vie électrique (Robida), 202–4 Vielé-Griffin, Francis, 109 Vierge, Daniel, 87, 95 Vigny, Alfred de, 62 Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, Auguste de, 104 Villon, François, 87, 202 Le Vingtième Siècle (Robida), 202–4 Les XX, 14, 106–7, 114, 219–20n4; annual dinners, 79; goals, 106–7; interest in livres anciens, 106–7; members, 106; publishing, 110, 111

312 Index Le Violon de faïence (Champfleury), 87 Vollard, Ambroise, 42, 114, 125, 136, 242n63 Voltaire, 47, 104 Les Voyages de Gulliver (Swift), 146 Walckenaer, Charles-Athanase de, 62 Walker, Emery, 123 Wharton, Edith, 151 ‘What Is the History of Books?’ (Darnton), 6–7 Whistler, James McNeill, 17, 151, 153, 154, 162 Wiener, René, 45 Wilde, Oscar, 158, 178, 193 women: authors, 189, 262n125; as bibliophiles, 184–90, 194, 196–9, 261n112; bibliophile society membership, 187–8, 261nn114, 116; in book production, 193–6, 197, 198; in decorative arts, 194; education reforms for, 171–2, 194, 196; female nature of books, 11, 167, 173; La Fronde newspaper, 194; human female skin bindings, 176– 8, 258n59; incompatibility of books and wives, 181–4, 260n93; la femme nouvelle, 168, 169, 170, 196; lesbianism, 189–90; and objectification of books, 172–6; as objects of erotica and perversion, 178–81, 258nn59,

69, 259n78; portrayals as enemies of the book, 165–72, 170; public roles, 194–6; reading practices, 171–2, 190–1, 255n28; surgeries and dismemberments, 172–3; utilitarian tendencies, 171; Uzanne on, 165–6, 169–71, 170, 194 ‘The Women Binders,’ 198 woodcuts, 23, 53–7; of the English Arts and Crafts movement, 54, 57; of Lucien Pissarro, 98, 110, 123–4, 126; of Vallotton, 55, 56, 57, 58, 98, 131–4, 142, 223n11, 231n95 wood engravings, 39 World’s Columbian Exposition, Chicago (1893), 17, 38, 93, 237n16 World’s Fairs. See international exhibitions; Paris World’s Fairs (Expositions Universelles) World Wide Web. See digital and electronic technology Yamamoto (artist), 162 L’Ymagier review, 53–4 Yturri, Gabriel de, 160, 248n19 Zadig, ou, La Destinée (Voltaire), 47, 104, 240n37 Zigzags d’un curieux (Uzanne), 169 Zola, Émile, 173

STUDIES IN BOOK AND PRINT CULTURE General editor: Leslie Howsam

Hazel Bell, Indexers and Indexes in Fact and Fiction Heather Murray, Come, bright Improvement! The Literary Societies of NineteenthCentury Ontario Joseph A. Dane, The Myth of Print Culture: Essays on Evidence, Textuality, and Bibliographical Method Christopher J. Knight, Uncommon Readers: Denis Donoghue, Frank Kermode, George Steiner, and the Tradition of the Common Reader Eva Hemmungs Wirtén, No Trespassing: Authorship, Intellectual Property Rights, and the Boundaries of Globalization William A. Johnson, Bookrolls and Scribes in Oxyrhynchus Siân Echard and Stephen Partridge, eds, The Book Unbound: Editing and Reading Medieval Manuscripts and Texts Bronwen Wilson, The World in Venice: Print, the City, and Early Modern Identity Peter Stoicheff and Andrew Taylor, eds, The Future of the Page Jennifer Phegley and Janet Badia, eds, Reading Women: Literary Figures and Cultural Icons from the Victorian Age to the Present Elizabeth Sauer, ‘Paper-contestations’ and Textual Communities in England, 1640–1675 Nick Mount, When Canadian Literature Moved to New York Jonathan Earl Carlyon, Andrés González de Barcia and the Creation of the Colonial Spanish American Library Leslie Howsam, Old Books and New Histories: An Orientation to Studies in Book and Print Culture Deborah McGrady, Controlling Readers: Guillaume de Machaut and His Late Medieval Audience David Finkelstein, ed., Print Culture and the Blackwood Tradition Bart Beaty, Unpopular Culture: Transforming the European Comic Book in the 1990s

Elizabeth Driver, Culinary Landmarks: A Bibliography of Canadian Cookbooks, 1825– 1949 Benjamin C. Withers, The Illustrated Old English Hexateuch, Cotton Ms. Claudius B.iv: The Frontier of Seeing and Reading in Anglo-Saxon England Mary Ann Gillies, The Professional Literary Agent in Britain, 1880–1920 Willa Z. Silverman, The New Bibliopolis: French Book Collectors and the Culture of Print, 1880–1914 Lisa Surwillo, The Stages of Property: Copyrighting Theatre in Spain Dean Irvine, Editing Modernity: Women and Little Magazine Cultures in Canada, 1916–1956 Janet Friskney, New Canadian Library: The Ross-McClelland Years, 1952–1978 Janice Cavell, Arctic Exploration in British Print Culture Elspeth Jajdelska, Silent Reading and the Birth of the Narrator Martyn Lyons, Reading Culture and Writing Practices in Nineteenth-Century France