Fishermen, Book Collectors, and a Rare Musical Find By Thomas Wolf
Fly fishermen and rare book collectors have lots in common. Each tends to be passionate about a rather arcane pursuit. Each is engaged in stalking prey—fish in one case, rare books and manuscripts in the other. And the stories that accompany successful ventures of this kind tend to become exaggerated. A fly fisherman will boast of a magnificent trout caught in a remote body of water after the fish has been enticed with a perfectly selected and presented artificial fly. (The fish, with each description, tends to expand with the passage of time.) The book collector brags about locating an extremely rare artifact in pristine condition in an equally remote bookshop and managing to purchase it for next to nothing (the value goes up and the price goes down with each telling). Individuals representing both activities tend to be more than happy to share details of their superbly executed technique. In the case of the fisherman, that technique may involve pin-point accurate casting and the placement of the tiny home-tied fly “just so” in precisely the right bit of current. In the case of the book collector, technique involves careful searching through dusty shelves after having learned some obscure historical fact associated with a special edition. It also may involve avoiding payment of an ungodly sum by placing the rare but undiscovered (by others) item on a worthless pile of books and offering an unsuspecting bookseller a pittance for the lot.
Having been guilty of boasting and bragging both about fish and books, I know the pleasures of recounting these experiences and the enjoyment of listening to others tell their oft-embellished tales. In most cases, these stories are only fascinating to those who share these respective passions. But in the case of the particular story that follows, while it occurs on the Maine Coast—a place famous for its fish—and does relate to the acquisition of a rare printed artifact, it also has a musical association so it is included in this blog with the hope it will be entertaining to readers who have no interest in fishing or rare books.
Cellist Michael Reynolds, who is also an accomplished fly fisherman, together with the author—a professional flutist. Each of us brought our instruments and fishing rods to this particular lovely spot to fish for trout and rehearse when the fishing got slow (photo by Bob Durling).
Believe it or not, some of my favorite musician-colleagues are expert fly fishermen and enjoy the sport as much as I do. One of them, Michael Reynolds, long-time cellist of the Muir String Quartet, has even been the subject of admiring profiles in various fly-fishing magazines.[1] He has many tales to tell including of a 26-inch rainbow trout (or was it 28 inches or 29 – I never quite get the versions straight) that he caught in a stream that generally produces large fish of between 12 and 14 inches. Mike is a “catch-and-release” fisherman (he throws back the fish he catches) and he does not carry a camera, so verification has not been easy to establish. True I was there (across the river at some distance) when he caught the monster but it was dark and I never really saw the fish clearly. Nevertheless, I enjoy the story almost as much as Mike and when I retell it, I generally round up the measurement to 30 inches.
To be fair, far more musicians collect rare books and manuscripts than fish since so many of these artifacts relate to some aspect of music. My uncle, Boris Goldovsky, was one of those who over the years had assembled a remarkable musical library—in his case specializing in rare books and manuscripts about opera, his chosen profession. One newspaper claimed that his library consisted of at least 10,000 items which I believe was something of an exaggeration. But his was certainly an extensive collection with many unique items. For Boris, retiring to his library in order to undertake research, often for one of his Metropolitan Opera Saturday broadcast lectures or one of his books, was among the great pleasures of life. It was for that reason that on those occasions when envious collectors offered to purchase his library lock-stock-and-barrel often for a princely sum, he always demurred. “My professional life depends on my library,” he used to say. “And besides, my library gives me great enjoyment.”
But when the Director of the Music Library at Northwestern University came up with a novel proposal, Boris’ curiosity was piqued. “We understand and appreciate your need to retain your library during your life time,” the gentleman said. “There is no way you would part with it, nor should you. But I imagine you would be happy to see that the collection remains intact after you no longer need it. We would be happy to purchase the library this year, allowing you to retain it until your death at which time it would come to us.” Since Boris was relatively young at the time, the offer was almost too good to be true. But then in addition to suggesting what today would be a handsome six figure cash sum for the purchase, the library representative made this clinching addition: “And should you wish to add to your library during your lifetime, simply submit information about what you would like to purchase and if we approve, we will send a check to cover the cost so long as that item too comes to us with the rest of your library at the appropriate time.”
Uncle Boris Goldovsky in his opera library that one newspaper article claimed consisted of over 10,000 items.
Imagine what such an offer could mean to a scholar and a collector who is not especially wealthy. Sell your library for cash and enjoy the money immediately while retaining the library for life. Further, when you espy a must-have rarity—a book or a manuscript that you would love to have (even one that may not be affordable)—appeal to your wealthy patron (in this case a university library) and chances are the patron will purchase it for you. It was a great offer and Boris readily agreed to it. But the librarian knew that he too was getting a good deal. Not only was he locking up an important collection on behalf of his institution, but he was securing the free services of an expert in adding important items to the library. Indeed, over the next several decades, the University did not once refuse a purchase.
It was in this context that I went on scouting trips with my uncle. I too was collecting—not books on music but rather English private press imprints from the late 19th and early 20th centuries. The fact that we were not competing for the same material made the trips even more fun. Boris would look for books in his field, I would look for books in mine, and if we ever found items of interest to the other, we would quietly point them out, trying not to arouse the curiosity of the bookseller and ultimately the price of the items in question. Our trips took us far afield. Indeed, the more remote and ramshackle the shop, the more Boris liked it…all the better to find the unexpected treasure of a lifetime. Of course, with this approach, we encountered a lot of junk and wasted journeys. But we also knew that the less desirable the shop, the greater likelihood that another collector would pass it by. This increased our incentive.
On one occasion, Boris was visiting his sister Irene (my mother) in her summer home in Maine. I told him of a shack about 45 minutes away full of books and run by a lobsterman’s wife, who was a great reader and loved to buy and sell old volumes. “She seems to know a lot,” I explained, “but I doubt whether her interests extend to opera.”
“Perfect,” said Boris, “Let’s go.”
The Lobster Lane Book Shop in Spruce Head, Maine.
And so off we went to the Lobster Lane Book Shop in Spruce Head, Maine where I had found numerous wonderful books over the years—though nothing so valuable it was worth bragging about. Upon entering the store, Boris asked about things he was only mildly interested in. (“Never begin with your real interest,” he had counselled. “You don’t want to tip your hand.”) After about a half hour of such inquiries and a small pile of one- and two-dollar items, Boris asked off-handedly, “Any books about music?”
“Oh we just have a few,” said the owner pointing out a small shelf with a rather unpromising group of paperbacks about rock music and musicians. There was clearly nothing of interest there.
“You wouldn’t by any chance be interested in ‘thee-a-ter?’” the proprietress asked, pronouncing the word theatre with three syllables.
To be polite, Boris said, “Maybe, what do you have?”
“Oh, just a bunch of old programs.”
She handed Boris a folder with ancient looking playbills. Boris quietly looked through them and I could tell by his concentration and furrowed brow that he was excited. “Well,” he said, “how much are you charging for these?”
“Two dollars for a single program or fifty cents apiece if you take the lot. I don’t think anyone else will be interested.”
“Well, let’s see” said Boris casually. “There are nine playbills here. That’s $4.50. Here is a five-dollar bill. That should be more than enough to pay for these and take care of the tax! And here is another $10 for the other books in the pile over there.”
Boris handed her the money, I settled my bill, and off we went to the car. Boris’ hand was shaking slightly and I was suddenly worried. Was something wrong with him?
“Are you okay?”
“No, I am in shock. Do you know what I have here? Did you know that Henry Rowley Bishop adapted Mozart's Marriage of Figaro for Covent Garden in London in 1819 where he served as Music Director? He butchered Mozart’s opera, shortening it from four acts to three. He cut out half of Mozart’s score and inserted pieces from other operas by Mozart and Rossini. It was a travesty of course, but an historically important one and I have here in front of me a Covent Garden playbill from 1819 for Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro. This has to be the holy grail.”
A portion of the Covent Garden Playbill with the 1819 performance of Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro.
Boris then handed me the other eight Covent Garden playbills.
“Here, you can have these others. I will keep only the one that includes The Marriage of Figaro.”
As grateful as I was, I was not going to be bought off so cheaply. My uncle owed me more than a $4 purchase. Without me, he never would have found his treasure.
“Okay,” I said, “but I think I deserve something more than eight worthless playbills” (whether they were worthless or not, I didn’t have any idea, but saying so would bolster my claim). “Remember, I told you about this place and brought you here.”
He pondered for a bit and then said. “You are right. Fair is fair. I am not going to ask Northwestern University to reimburse me fifty cents for a playbill. I will keep it for myself. And when I am dead and gone, it is yours.”
It was thus that I came by the rare artifact which now hangs on a wall on the stairway of my house in Cambridge, Massachusetts along with the other eight playbills from Covent Garden that we collected that day. I have no idea of the monetary value of any of them. But I do know that the story itself is priceless, at least to me.