Vol. VI No. 1 - Modernist Magazines Project

THE STONE AND THE ANT
to such extremes of joy and sorrow, he would, using his common
gumption, adapt his system to meet this new event.
But, having been until now, above and away from human pettiness,
he is more than a mark for Cupid's arrows. He is undone; a he-man
no longer. His muscles, of which he was once so proud, become weak
and flaccid, his weight drops a stone or more. Instead of being a
he-man, he is a woman's man. Not the dashing, mashing, smirking
lady-killer of the dance-hall, but the humble, fetch-and-carry, wifehumiliated
wretch who, never mind his body, dare not call his soul
his own.
He has defeated his own object.
Perhaps you know the collector. His eyes are dim, he peers a
little, but that is due, not to fear or humility, but to the ravages of
dim light and small print upon his eyesight. Yes, he is weak, though
not human. He stoops, for his muscles follow his eyes.
When he was very young, about Christopher Robin's size, he read
Swiss Family Robinson. The stone dropped into his pool. Johann
Wyss could draw characters and paint scenes. He wanted to meet
those characters again and revisit those scenes. He still treasures the
old thumbed copy of the book. Before he became tired, however, in
his search for other books by the same author, he came upon the
story of David Copperfield. From thence it was not a far cry to the
Old Curiosity Shop, through Pickwick Papers and a host more, to
Edwin Drood. He was caught, but too much the collector to worry
over the secret of Edwin.
He swirled on to Scott; Ivanhoe, The Talisman and Kenilworth
held just long enough for him to dash through the other Waverleys,
until he crossed over to Borrow. Borrow did not please him; he did
not trouble to read beyond Lavengro. Nevertheless, he bought the
rest of Sorrow's books, and here the waters that had begun to ripple
when he first read Swiss Family Robinson, now disappeared abruptly
and he became—a collector first and a bookman after.
Books he bought, sometimes because they made up a set, sometimes
because they were of a size that fitted the odd corners of his bookshelves,
sometimes because they were pretentiously bound, but books
and again books. He collected them, regardless of any other consideration,
until he possessed one large room full. He was not satisfied until
he had procured a larger room for them. As this room was the largest
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