by David Mason
Justin wanted these badly, one of them for his personal collection. But how to deal with the competition? He learned through a colleague that his biggest competitor was likely to be John Fleming, a prominent New York dealer who had worked for Rosenbach and wanted to buy them for the sentimental connection. Rosenbach had, in fact, bought them twice at auction over the years.
Justin very cleverly approached Fleming, who agreed to act for him—a brilliant ploy—thereby eliminating the competition at the mere cost of a 10% commission.
And then it got more bizarre.
It is said that a private offer was made before the sale of $250,000.00 for the two Carrolls but that the French auctioneers made an exchange mistake and the catalogue estimate was shown as 250,000 francs (then between 4 or 5 new francs to the dollar.) It was a long sale and the auctioneer must have been weary, wanting it over. He announced the last lot and started it at two hundred and twenty thousand francs. Fleming raised his hand and the auctioneer banged down his hammer instantly and departed. Justin got both books for well under one-third of what he had been prepared to bid.
But more important to a dealer is the lesson which can be learned from wrestling with such a dilemma, and I have factored the implications into many of my own business strategies since. “If you can’t beat’em, join them,” goes the old adage. For a bookseller, revise that to, “If you can’t beat’em, have them join you: hire them.”
While bidding for rare items at auctions generates its own special excitement, this excitement becomes both more intensive and hence more dangerous when personal interests play a part in the circumstances. Besides things a dealer may want for his personal collection, emotional ties to an important client or an institution which one cares deeply about magnify the emotional intensity.
I have known several librarians who acted as though the institutional library they managed was their own personal library. And I believe that during their tenure it is their library. Dealers often have similar emotional attachments with institutions that go far deeper than mere commerce would suggest. A dealer will often go to great extremes to be part of the enhancement of collections they care deeply about.
Such was the case in both of the following anecdotes, as they both concern institutional collections which I have long served.
It was simple enough when it started. A catalogue from Waddington’s, the auctioneers, which on perusal contained some books of interest, the most compelling being a copy of L.M. Montgomery’s rare book of poems, The Watchman. This is a very scarce book, although not nearly as scarce as Anne of Green Gables, which is not only the most desirable Montgomery title but the rarest of her books. But the copy of The Watchman to be auctioned was a presentation copy, inscribed by Montgomery to Frede MacFarlane, her cousin and her closest friend. The inscription read “To Frede, with the author’s love, Xmas 1916.” A further inscription to someone else, in a later year, was explained by Frede having died. The auctioneer suggested that Montgomery, having sorted the effects of her cousin when she died, had retrieved the book and inscribed it to other friends later on. That makes sense and helps to explain why many authors never have copies of their own books, especially the earlier ones done in smaller editions, because they are constantly giving them to friends or admirers (or maybe lending them, which to most people is the same thing as giving).
Anyway, the auctioneer’s estimated sale price was $1,600.00—$1,800.00. Fat chance, I thought, for I knew that it was worth thousands with a provenance like that. But I didn’t do more than make a mental note because while I had many names in my customer-want files for Montgomery, they were almost all young women, often red-haired young women, in fact, who had limited means, and while their passion for Anne was usually such that they would scrimp and save and while I have always had a policy of making good books available to the young on very extended terms, this was going to be too much for any young person, so I didn’t have anyone to phone.
But a couple of days later I had a call from Elizabeth DeBlois at the L.M. Montgomery Institute at the University of Prince Edward Island. They had received a notice from Waddington’s and wanted to know what I thought about the auctioneer’s $1,600.00 to $1,800.00 estimate. I told her what I thought it was worth, which was around $7,000.00, and told her that if she could find a donor to buy it for the Institute, I would act for them for a token commission, as I took an interest in the university and I wanted to help them if I could. But I really didn’t expect that they would find anyone who would see the historical importance of such a thing, much less the importance of returning it to its original home in PEI.
One of the greatest frustrations for people like me who devote their lives to books is the inability of most people to see their significance in the same way we booksellers do. So it never occurred to me that she would find an Islander who could not only see things in the right perspective, but would also dip into his own pocket to the extent needed to bring the book home. Imagine my astonishment when Elizabeth called me back a couple of days later. We have someone who wants to buy us the book, she told me. I was shocked. I knew it couldn’t be the university, as they didn’t have any money; neither do most Canadian institutions these days. Did you tell your donor what I said about the price? “Yes!” she replied. “He’s willing to pay ‘X amount’.” It was over double my estimate of value. Now I was truly surprised, and even stunned. That meant their donor was someone who could not only afford such a gesture but who, more importantly, understood a lot more about the way things work in auctions than I would have expected.
Immediately I knew a couple of things were probable. Besides the obvious fact that our man or woman had money, whomever it was understood that if you really want something it is usually smart to be ready to pay considerably more than an assessed value. There are few second chances in collecting, especially for unique items like that one. Not long ago Debbie, my partner, and I did a large appraisal in Pittsburgh for the University of Notre Dame. We submitted our formal appraisal and with it enclosed a private letter advising the librarian that in my opinion he should disregard the value I put on the collection, which was a lot of money, and pay whatever was necessary: it was too important to miss. I felt the same way about this copy of The Watchman.
As a dealer, one of my professional obligations is to tell clients what I believe something is ‘worth’, an arbitrary term at the best of times but especially so at an auction because at auctions a lot more factors, mostly human ones, come into play than can be fit into conventional expectations.
But if I am asked my opinion of what should be done after a value is estimated, even a speculative one, a whole different set of factors must be brought into play. Firstly, who else wants it? How badly do they want it? What can they afford? On the personal level I have to ask: Will my competition be a friend? A client? A colleague? Perhaps a colleague who doesn’t like me or one who bears malice for some previous sin of mine either real or imagined? And within these categories there are subcategories upon subcategories. It is the job of the dealer to take all of these considerations into account and juggle them with a hundred other factors, most of them so subtle that they are not even perceived by outsiders.
One of the great bargains I know of in all collecting is what clients get for the usual fee of ten percent when they hire a dealer to act for them. When I am finished here, I hope you will understand the equation a little better.
On the night of the auction, off I went with all the jaunty confidence of someone who bears a huge bid with which to whip his detested adversaries, pummelling them into submission and into a properly respectful attitude to their superiors, namely myself.
I had calculated all my competition among the trade: Who would have a client? Who would be smart enough to assess the book’s real potential value? What dealers might have formed a syndicate to share the book’s huge cost of ownership? And, most importantly, how would all of these people react when they kn
ew that I was their opponent? Anyone who doesn’t understand the extent to which such human emotions determine events at an auction should take heed.
By the time I got to the auction, paranoia had intervened, as it often does in uncertain situations. In that sense, auctions are like a poker game: you may think your hand too good to be beaten but most hands can be beaten, and once a suspicion enters the mind paranoia tends to follow. For instance, a dealer in Boston currently has in stock a first edition of Anne of Green Gables. Admittedly this is a truly rare book but this man is asking $65,000.00 (Cdn), far more than I or anyone I know thinks it could be worth. But the owner is a long-established dealer and he’s not a fool; gossip has it that he paid $40,000.00 (Cdn), and so obviously he believes it’s worth that. And who knows, he might get it. In fact, he probably will, sooner or later.
Either way, a price like that will affect the whole Anne market. So I found myself getting nervous. Maybe there was a syndicate of American dealers who, based on the Boston Anne price, would consider a Montgomery presentation copy worth much more than my bid. It didn’t take long for that to become a certainty in my mind and I found myself believing that my bid, not long ago a certain success, was ludicrously inadequate. Such is paranoia.
Now, I have my own favourite place where I like to sit at Waddington’s and I always go early to be sure I get my seat. Just over halfway towards the back of the auction room there is a pillar and I like to sit just in front of it on the aisle. This allows me to observe all my competition, mostly dealers who think it’s smart to sit up front so they can be seen, and at the same time it hides me and the fact that I am bidding from those behind me. It works pretty well. So much so that I have always considered that those dealers who like to display their assumed brilliance front and centre in the first row are really just displaying their vanity.
But as I approached my accustomed seat, all the while scanning the assembled crowd, checking the competition, I saw that it and the adjoining seat were occupied by two women, one young and the other older, both impeccably dressed, and both exhibiting the unmistakable signs of wealth.
Having been properly educated about how one discerns the signs of wealth in women, which is, I’m told, by their hair and their shoes, even I could see that these two women easily passed the test. They were both regal and I guessed that they were probably a mother and a daughter. Then came the blow. A young man, one of those running the auction, came up to them and handed them a bunch of Xerox copies from a magazine, saying, in a very deferential tone, “Here’s the article that I told you about. Good luck.”
Naturally, I peeked over their shoulders to see what the article was; after all, that’s part of my job. Its title read “Collecting L.M. Montgomery.” I knew the article and I knew the magazine it came from and that, combined with the extremely courteous demeanour of the auctioneer, told me that I was in trouble. Deep trouble.
I knew at once that they were my real competition. Now there are two distinct factors that a professional dealer fears most at an auction: unlimited money and ignorance of the way the marketplace works. Combine them both and you have the dealer’s worst terror. For unlimited wealth dismisses competition and ignorance fails to recognize danger and therefore can’t be intimidated. I went and sat behind them, all fear of other booksellers evaporating in the face of this unknown threat.
While I was sitting there trying to figure out what to do, a long-time colleague approached. “Are you going to be bidding on the Montgomery?” he inquired, as casually as he could. “I might,” I replied. “I don’t think it will go for more than $4,000.00, do you?” he said, thereby giving me free information. I presumed he had a bid of $4,000.00 and I was pretty sure I even knew the American dealer friends of his who would be the real bankrollers. Such a transparent slip would have been welcome under normal circumstances but my new discovery had already rendered his competition irrelevant. For now I had serious adversaries, ones with perfect hairdos.
As I sat behind my unknown adversaries I realized this problem would need some radical action. There was no use sitting behind them to see what they might do. I knew what they were going to do. They were going to steal my prize. There was only one thing to do, I thought: I must bluff them. I got up and moved right into the row in front of them. I sat right in front of the younger woman (maybe she wasn’t the daughter, maybe she was the special executive assistant, but I guessed that she would be doing the bidding). As I sat down, I casually glanced back. The older lady smiled at me in a friendly and courteous fashion. I looked through her blankly, feeling rather ashamed of my deliberate rudeness, and returned to staring straight ahead.
When the auction started, luckily there were a couple of items early on which I needed, so I bought them brusquely, looking neither left nor right, staring straight ahead as if I didn’t give a damn who was bidding against me or what I paid. I got them both but I was really only concerned whether my competition had noticed.
Then The Watchman came up. The auctioneer started at $400.00 to $500.00 and the room exploded with bids from everywhere, while I sat back watching to see where the competition was.
Sure enough, the younger woman started bidding. I was watching her with the eyes in the back of my head that I keep for such occasions and I waited until they got to around $3,000.00. Then I entered the fray. I raised and lowered my pencil in an imperious fashion, firmly and abruptly, looking only at the auctioneer. Waddington’s is not a country auction. There are no lengthy waits while they try to coax more bids; it goes very quickly and one must be alert. But the auctioneer knows me and he is a very good auctioneer, so I knew that once I started he would consider me bidding unless I indicated to him by gesture or eye movement that I was done.
At $4,200.00, one bid over what I had guessed was my dealer friend’s limit, he dropped out, thereby confirming his lack of cunning, and only the younger woman and I were left. Around $5,000.00 she got a bit nervous so I turned up the heat some, bidding instantly as soon as she had raised her hand, no hesitation, as though I had already won the prize and she should stop wasting everybody’s time. She began to falter, taking longer and longer to decide if she should try another bid. Each time she did I struck back ruthlessly, trying to emulate how I thought the Emperor Nero would look when he was condemning some wretch to be thrown to the lions. Finally, at $6,000.00 she yielded and the prize was mine. A murmur spread through the crowd, a fitting approval I thought of my cleverness and cunning. A few moments later the two women left, and as they did the younger one approached me and handed me a note. When I had a blank stretch in the auction I read it.
“Hi,” it said. “You successfully bid on L.M. Montgomery’s book. I am Melanie Campbell Gibson, a distant cousin [of L.M. Montgomery she meant]. I would be interested in knowing who you are or who you represent. Sorry to disturb you during the bidding. If you would call me, I would really appreciate it. Thank you.” It was signed Melanie and included her phone number.
The next morning back in my store I called Elizabeth DeBlois and recounted my tale of triumph and told her that the book was now theirs and with the buyer’s premium applied by the auctioneer and my token commission, at just about the price that I had originally estimated it to be worth. I was enormously pleased with myself. Then I phoned Melanie Campbell Gibson. She sounded friendly and charming and not at all miffed after I told her who I had bought the book for. She told me she was a Campbell from Park Corner and had wanted it for sentimental reasons. We traded Island gossip for a bit, establishing in the traditional manner how we both fit into the scheme of things down there. (My own connection to the island is too complicated to go into here:it is sufficient to say for now that I hold an honourary doctorate from the university, to whom I donated my substantial collection on the province.) I told her the book was already on its way to the Island, and she seemed relieved that at least it wasn’t going to Japan or somewhere faraway. Then she said, “You know, my
husband gave me hell. ‘How could you let that guy beat you out?’ he said. But the truth is you scared me,” she said. “You looked like you weren’t going to allow anyone to have that book, so I thought I had no chance.”
“Well,” I replied, “because you sound so nice, I’m going to tell you the story. You were supposed to be scared. Everything I did was calculated to intimidate you, that’s why I sat in front of you and that’s why I bid that way. It was all for your benefit. I knew you were my competition and I knew I needed to make you feel you had no chance. And while we’re at it, would you be kind enough to apologize to your mother for my rudeness. I did that on purpose too. It was part of the strategy.”
She roared with laughter. She was delighted. The book was not hers but at least it was going back to where it should be and I think she was not displeased to be part of such a nice story. “How did you know I was your competition?” she asked. I would have preferred for that to remain a mystery but I told her the truth about that as well, lest she think my friend in the auction house might somehow be in collusion with me. And I think she realized that if she ever ventures into such unknown territory again she should use her new knowledge to hire a professional as her guide.
Any auction, indeed any interplay between dealers in general, will contain elements of envy and spite over perceived advantages or old grudges.
No outsider can understand, even partially, most of these factors. Obscure reasons can be in play: the other bidder, another dealer, could be his sworn enemy and he may have decided that his despised opponent will not buy that book no matter the cost. Vanity and malice are emotions which will defeat common sense every time.
