AARL

From the other side of the counter; experiences of a librarian turned researcher

Ivan Page

Abstract: The writer evokes his background in rare books librarianship in Canberra before relating his experiences as a reader undertaking research in various institutions in Toulouse and Paris. He appreciates the cooperation of other scholars.

When the National Library moved into its present building in 1968, I was appointed its first Keeper of Rare Books. In that capacity I worked on several bibliographical publications, the most important of which was my French Plays, 1701-1840 in the National Library of Australia; A Bibliography, published in 1973 as a contribution to the Third David Nichol Smith Seminar in Eighteenth-Century Studies. While handling those plays I was struck by the number of them which had been printed in Toulouse, a city I had visited briefly, and which had captivated me by its charm. In the introduction to my bibliography, I regretted our distance from those European archives where there must be more information about 18th century printers. Later, I left the NLA and began studying for the priesthood with the Society of Missionaries of Africa. I could have studied theology in London or Toulouse: I chose Toulouse! During my three years there I was required to write a long paper in Church History. While casting about for a suitable subject I remembered those 18th century printers and decided to see if I could discover more about them. The material I found did not relate to the printers of plays, but to a family of printers, who, for over a century, held the title of 'Printer to the Archbishop and clergy of Toulouse'; the most prominent of them was Claude-Gilles Lecamus.

It was at the Archives départementales de la Haute-Garonne that I found a bundle of papers which I felt had been waiting 200 years just for me to come and study them. The bundle, call number 1 G 404, contained the itemized accounts presented by this firm to the diocese each year from 1683 to 1783. Let me say at once that the firm published very few books, for the diocese or for anyone else; it made its fortune from jobbing printing. For the clergy it printed things like pastoral letters, forms, announcements about public prayers - for the success of the king's arms, or in thanksgiving for a royal birth, programs for the annual series of clergy conferences - what we would call ongoing formation, and so on. The accounts indicate the date the work was done, the number of copies printed, and the price. Over such a long period, they serve as a window on to the life of a moderately important diocese.

I determined to transcribe the bills, and then to see how many of the pieces I could track down, and to write the whole story up as a contribution to the history of the diocese. This led me to spend many hours in libraries and archives all over Toulouse. At the Archives départementales, most of the staff were courteous and helpful. One man who was occasionally on duty in the reading room was disagreeable and aggressive. I suspect the supervisors knew his character, and normally kept him occupied elsewhere. Occasionally I struck young people, possibly archivists in training, who seemed to be getting some work experience. One or two of them had a lot to learn about dealing with the public. For instance I wanted to identify one of the legitimate royal babies whose birth was being celebrated; I decided to ask one of these apprentices to recommend a work on the royal genealogy. I could see her thinking 'Here's another stupid foreigner trying to identify the Man in the Iron Mask' as she waved me vaguely towards the reference books.

My quest for the actual papers coming out of Lecamus' shop led me often to the Bibliothèque municipale de Toulouse. It is a large library in a late 19th century building, much frequented by high school and university students. Several of the desk staff, presumably not professional librarians, left a lot to be desired in their attitude to readers. In research, one publication can lead to another: a footnote in one article sends you scurrying towards its source. One afternoon I had gone to the desk several times to hand in call-slips for things I had just seen cited. The man at the desk complained 'You're asking for too many things!' The firm I was studying had, from 1673, a contract to reprint the Gazette, one of the first French newspapers. Obviously, this is a serial, and, as in so many other libraries, was shelved separately from the monographs, and could be read in a separate reading room - which had its own regulations - which were not prominently displayed or advertised. One Saturday afternoon I turned up to go through a few volumes of the Gazette. The man on duty said 'If you want to read newspapers on Saturday, you've got to request them during the week.' Patiently, politely, I said that I was not aware of this; unlike himself I was not in the library every day, but only when I was free of lectures and other commitments. He relented and fetched a few volumes for me.

In time I had the good fortune to meet two of the senior staff, Madame Coulouma, and M Christian Peligry. The latter has published extensively on the history of the book in Spain. When they realised that I was making a bibliographical study, they gave me every facility. I was able later to do them a good turn. In 1771, the learned Abbé Benoît d'Héliot offered to give his library of 8000 volumes, with some money to keep it going, to the diocese, as the start of a public library for the use of the clergy. Archbishop Loménie de Brienne actively supported the foundation. The library was, of course, confiscated at the Revolution; but that collection became the kernel of the Bibliothèque municipale. I came across the regulations of the clergy library in the Archives départementales, transcribed them, and made a copy for the kind conservators, who were delighted to have it.

My research took me to other institutions, for instance the Archives municipales, a place which draws fewer researchers than the departmental archives, but which holds the pre-revolutionary parish registers which I needed to use to find out more about Lecamus and his family. It's the sort of place where the arrival of an occasional reader brightens up the day. Since the diocesan archives for the Ancien Régime had also been confiscated at the Revolution, I found little material of use to my research in the archives of the modern diocese. Nonetheless I went there at times to consult the kind and courteous archivist, the Abbé Maurice Manière, who presented me with a copy of his book Ecclesia Tolosana; Le Clergé du Diocese de Toulouse aux XIXème et XXème Siècles, (Toulouse, Eché, 1984). One of my lecturers allowed me to go to the library of the regional seminary whenever I wished. The collection contained many of the brochures I was seeking; it even had a long run of the clandestine Jansenist publication Nouvelles Ecclésiastiques. On one occasion, a seminarian who did not know me had seen me take the key and let myself into the library. Instead of challenging me himself, he went and found the man in charge of the library: my history lecturer. I was photographing a cul-de-lampe in an 18th century volume, looking, I suppose, rather like a spy, when the two of them burst into the library; my teacher simply said 'Oh, it's you, Ivan!', and told me to carry on.

Although it was not integral to my original project, I decided to try to find portraits of the archbishops who had governed the see of Toulouse during the century I was studying. The archbishops were, briefly, and in order: Montpezat de Carbon, Colbert, Beauvau, de Nesmond, Crillon, La Roche-Aymon, Crussol, Dillon, and Loménie de Brienne. While I was about it, I was on the lookout for portraits of other people who figured in the story. Naturally I hoped to find a picture of Claude-Gilles Lecamus, but I never did. The chase was to become as exciting as Symons' Quest for Corvo.

Now there is in Toulouse a Musée Paul-Dupuy, which I had visited in 1976; it is devoted to applied arts and crafts, and I knew it had an important collection of prints and drawings relating to the history of Toulouse. When I returned to the city as a student in 1981, the museum was closed - indefinitely - for works. No attempt was made to provide service elsewhere. It finally reopened in December 1985. I wrote to the director enquiring if they had any of the portraits I was after. In the reply I was advised to make an appointment with the Keeper of Prints, and did so. She explained that although the museum was once again open, not everything was back from store. I took to phoning her every couple of weeks until, finally, the prints I wanted to see returned. As the museum did not offer a photographic service, I was allowed to take my own photos of engravings of: Colbert, La Roche-Aymon, Montpezat's older brother (who was a bishop somewhere else), and the constitutional bishop Serment, who was really outside the scope of my study.

Meanwhile I had visited the museum at Albi, whence Mgr de Nesmond had been translated to Toulouse. It was a Friday afternoon and I had not thought it necessary to announce my coming: a mistake. No picture of the bishop was on display, and the attendants knew nothing of what might be in their stores. They suggested I write to the curator, who did not come in every day. I did so. He was disgusted that his staff had not put me in touch with the museum secretariat, where my questions would have been answered. He did indeed have a portrait of de Nesmond, and explained how I should go about purchasing a photograph.

Four of my archbishops had been promoted to the see of Narbonne which, in the 18th century was more important (which probably means wealthier) but was suppressed at the Revolution. Letters to the museum at Narbonne, accompanied by cheques, produced reproductions of portraits, of varying quality, of Beauvau, Crillon, La Roche-Aymon (again, I thought the painting might be more interesting than the engraving; it wasn't) and Dillon.

I had learned that, just before the opening of the clergy library in the 1770s, the diocese had commissioned portraits of the Abbé d'Héliot and Loménie de Brienne. The lady at the Musée Dupuy had mentioned that they were out of sight in the 'Réserve' at the Bibliothèque municipale. When I asked the helpful professional librarians if I might see them, they agreed at once. The portraits are of the highest quality. But there is no photographic service. I could of course arrange for a professional photographer to come and take some pictures - charging professional fees. Next time I was there I asked if they'd mind if I photographed them myself, using flash. No problem: I did it straight away before they changed their minds!

These days we talk of 'networking'; in earlier centuries if one referred to the 'Republic of Letters' people understood that world of scholarship where information was exchanged, and leads given. It still functions. By now I was chasing just two portraits: Montpezat and Crussol. Before becoming Archbishop of Toulouse, Montpezat had been Bishop of Saint-Papoul, a small diocese suppressed at the Revolution, which is today just a country parish. I wrote to the parish priest of Saint-Papoul, who came of an old noble family, and is an amateur historian. He knew of no portraits of the bishops of that place, but referred me to a Père Perraud in the Vendée. A year or two later I was to meet Père Perraud, C.S.Sp. at his home, and have lunch with him. He had founded a very useful yearbook, L'Eglise Catholique en Afrique Occidentale et Equatoriale. Over lunch he related how, from his schooldays, he had collected the arms and portraits of the bishops of France. Little by little his collection had extended to the French colonies, and ultimately to the rest of the world. It was his intention to leave the whole collection to the archives of the French Bishops' Conference, and I believe he did so. In answer to my first letter, Perraud said that even he had no portrait of Joseph de Montpezat, and he hadn't dared write to the father of the Prince Consort of Denmark. What was this all about, I wondered? I went to see the diocesan archivist again. 'A-a-ah,' he said, 'is it that family?' I was still in the dark, until he explained that the Queen of Denmark had married a nobleman of Languedoc, who had turned Lutheran for the circumstance, raising many a Catholic eye-brow. The nobleman was a Montpezat. There was a nun in the family. Prompted, I remembered meeting her. So I rang her up to see if she knew of any portraits; she undertook to ask her father, and call me back if she learned anything. She never did so I assume the family had none.

The other portrait still missing from my series was that of Archbishop Crussol, or, to give him his full name, Mgr François de Crussol d'Uzès d'Amboise. He too came from a local family, but had served for 18 years as Bishop of Blois before being promoted to Toulouse. I had already written to the museum at Blois, which had nothing. Somebody was urging me to write to the present head of the family, the Marquise d'Uzès, at her Paris address but I hesitated to do so. It was then that Père Perraud asked who else I was still looking for. When I named Crussol, he said 'Not a problem' and straightway sent me a reproduction of the portrait he'd got from the diocese of Blois.

Before the Revolution, the citizens of many towns in France formed confraternities of penitents who occasionally came together for spiritual exercises, and would take part in processions wearing their habit and a hood. Toulouse had four such companies, identified by the colour of their habits; top people belonged to the Blue Penitents; up-and-coming people might join the Black Penitents; the also-rans wore white or grey. Lecamus had belonged to the Black Penitents. Their chapel had disappeared, but Mesuret's Evocation du vieux Toulouse reproduced a painting of it, made in 1743, and said to be in the church of the Minims. I knew the curate of that parish, and went along to see the picture. It's no longer there. But I had met on another occasion the diocesan expert on fine arts. Did he know where the picture was? No, but he thought he could find out - and overnight he did. Later still, I got to see and photograph the painting. His informant had been a M Prin, curator of the Church of the Jacobins. That church is one of the most remarkable pieces of architecture in Toulouse, celebrated for its immensely tall columns like palm trees. It is still at times used for services, but is above all monument historique. Having been told that M Prin would like to meet me and talk about my research, I lost no time in going to see him. He is immensely knowledgeable about everything to do with the history of Toulouse. Nonetheless I was able to tell him something he did not know when I mentioned that Lecamus had been a Black Penitent.

Another plate in Mesuret's book reproduced a painting in a private collection showing festivities in the Place du Capitole in 1775. In the background was the chapel of St Quentin, since demolished, which had been the chapel of the printers' and booksellers' guild of Toulouse. Where was the picture now? Not even M Prin knew that, but he could tell me who took the photograph: one of Toulouse's best-known photographers, M Jean Dieuzaide, who has a large and well-organized archive from which I eventually obtained a print.

Although I was resigned to finding no portrait of Lecamus, I still hoped to find a topographical view of that part of town which included his shop. I knew it had stood opposite the city's splendid Town Hall, the 'Capitole', and that it had been demolished in the 1850s when the square was enlarged; in fact I am fairly sure it stood where today there is an entrance to an underground car park. Many artists had drawn or painted the Capitole itself on the eastern side of the square; I wanted a picture of the unfashionable west side. I asked M Prin, who let the question cruise around his mind for a while, then said 'Got it! Mazzoli.' He was referring to a book which I did not know at all, Le Vieux Toulouse Disparu, which reproduces specially commissioned drawings made early in the 19th century. It was easy enough to find the book, but where were the originals? Back to the Musée Dupuy, where the Keeper of Prints did not know - but her colleague in charge of drawings said 'They're with me.' Back I went with my camera and got my picture. To be absolutely truthful, it doesn't show much of the shop, as the foreground is dominated by an animated market scene.

In 1987, after injuring my arm in a motor cycle accident in Africa, I was back in Europe for over a year, undergoing physiotherapy. This gave me an opportunity to pursue research in various institutions in Paris. In the first place I knocked my study of Lecamus into shape and submitted it to the Revue Française d'Histoire du Livre, which published it in 1992, without portraits, but accompanied by photographs of some of Lecamus' accounts. Other historical questions interested me. In particular I wanted to understand better how bishops came to be selected by the crown and recommended by the king for appointment by the Pope under the terms of the Ancien Régime concordat. I applied for, and was granted, permission to consult the Historical Archives of the French Foreign Ministry at the Quai d'Orsay. As I recall, the reading room is on the second floor of the very building in which decisions on affairs of state are taken. Obviously you can't have outsiders wandering all over the building. So, once an hour, somebody from the Archives comes to the entrance, and escorts the waiting researchers to the reading room. Similarly, those departing must be escorted. In the best of all worlds, the reading room would be relocated near the entrance, but for the moment, that's the way it is. During the time I read there, the catalogue was computerized; I fancy also that a microfilm program was proceeding and that the intention was to have readers, as a rule, use film rather than the original documents which are bound up in thick folio registers. I always found the staff courteous, discreet, and helpful.

I will close with mention of just two Parisian libraries. For Church History in general, and for other aspects of theology, it was a pleasure to use the Bibliothèque du Saulchoir, which belongs to the French Province of the Dominicans. The collection is huge, the atmosphere studious - the whole place is conducive to serious work. Finally, far more recently, I have discovered the Bibliothèque Administrative de la Ville de Paris. It is located in the attic of the Hôtel de Ville, is open to the public, is well-stocked - and free. In fact it is not well known, so it is usually not very busy. As a result the staff have time to put all their knowledge at the service of the readers. The collection is rich in political history, and in works on the colonies, which is what I needed to consult. They have published some extremely useful bibliographies.

In so far as a conclusion can be drawn from the foregoing, I suppose it must be this: the staff of any institution give of their best when not under too much pressure, not rushed off their feet. It ought to be more widely known among those who pare budgets as they babble of cost-effectiveness.

Disclaimer

This is not an academic paper. At the prompting of the editor, the author has set down his own experience as a user of libraries and archives in France. This experience came after 15 years on the staff of the National Library of Australia.

Ivan Page, MAfr, archivisist of the Missionaries of Africa, Rome. E-mail ivan.page@mafroma.org.nospam (please remove '.nospam' from address).