For the first 30 years or so of the Tauchnitz Editions, the firm listed all of the titles in the series on the wrappers of each book. For the early volumes in 1843, the list fitted easily onto the back cover in a single column, but as the number of titles grew, it had to become a two column list, then three columns. The type became smaller and smaller, but by 1859 with the series having grown to over 450 volumes, the struggle became too much. The list was then extended over both inside wrappers as well as the back, going back to a two column list and a more readable type size.
An early issue (1857) with all titles listed on the back and a later one (1872) with the list extending over inner wrappers as well
That format kept them going for quite a while longer, but by 1872 the number of volumes had grown to over 1200 and this too was becoming impossible to manage. The decision was taken to start printing separate monthly catalogues of all the titles published so far. A copy would be tipped in at the end of each volume, or for books published in two or three volumes, at the end of the final volume only.
It was not an entirely new idea – the firm had earlier experimented with catalogues inside their books. Even as early as 1845 a single sheet had appeared in volume 76 listing the volumes issued to date and in 1854 a 4-sided catalogue was included in at least one volume.
Early one-off examples of catalogues from 1845 and 1854
But by 1872 catalogues began to appear in all volumes, with a new version being printed every month. To start with they had sixteen sides, which gave a lot more room than the three sides of wrappers previously available. The layout could be improved, and titles included from other series as well as from the main ‘Collection of British Authors’. The layout of the rear wrapper of the book could also be improved, now showing only a small number of recently published or forthcoming volumes, with the inside wrappers left blank.
How effective the catalogues were as advertising is difficult to tell. They were rarely bound into volumes taken to a bookbinder, but some copies may have been detached and kept for reference. Catalogues survive in many of the paperback copies, but often the pages are uncut, so presumably were not even looked at. They were printed on a single sheet and then folded into a sixteen page booklet, but as with the books themselves, cutting and separating the pages was a task left to the buyers.
Advertising can sometimes be effective though, even if only a small proportion of people take any notice of it and given that the catalogues continued for roughly the next 60 years, they must have been judged a success. The Todd & Bowden bibliography records copies dated for almost every month from May 1872 to the end of 1899. I can fill in several of the gaps as well from my own collection, so I think it’s likely that copies were updated every month over that period. After 1900 it became more complicated, although they did continue for more than another thirty years. I’ll come back to those later issues another time.
In most cases the catalogue date is the same as, or very close to, the date on the back wrapper of the book it’s tipped into. But not always. It’s not uncommon for the dates to differ by a few months and sometimes the difference can be several years, in either direction. The catalogue date may be earlier than the wrapper date or vice versa.
I’ve never quite understood how this worked. Were books in some cases prepared and bound into a wrapper, but then held in the warehouse, perhaps for several years? Then perhaps an up to date catalogue was added in when they were ordered by booksellers? That might explain catalogues later than the wrappers, but how to explain wrappers later than the catalogues?
This copy of volume 2828, first published in May 1892 has a catalogue for May 1892, but wrappers dated October 1895
Was there at some stage a change of practice so that copies were stored in the warehouse with pages and catalogue bound together, but no wrappers? If catalogues were being sewn in with the pages, rather than just tipped in with glue, that might make sense. I can’t easily tell the difference, but looking at copies I have, I think it’s possible that at some stage, catalogues started to be sewn in rather than glued in.
In practice the rule I use for my own collection is that for a paperback copy to be considered a first printing, it should have wrappers with the first printing date on, whatever the date of the catalogue. In practice though, many copies with later dated wrappers may also be first printings in terms of the pages, and a catalogue with the first printing date may be a good indication of this. On the other hand copies with the first printing wrappers, seem likely to be first printings even if they contain later catalogues. It’s hard to imagine earlier dated wrappers being added to a later printed book. Much easier to imagine later dated wrappers being added to an earlier printed book.
It’s a persuasive and persistent myth that in Victorian times it was difficult for women to get novels published. It doesn’t help that some of the best known women novelists of the period, notably George Eliot and the Brontë sisters, used pseudonyms that were male, or at least in the case of the Brontës, gender neutral. From there it’s a small jump to conclude that it was only by pretending to be male that they could get published.
Nothing could be further from the truth, at least in the mid-Victorian period. I use as evidence the Tauchnitz Collection of British Authors, which is as near as you can get to a representative coverage of English Literature at the time. For the 25 year period from roughly 1864 to 1889 the collection included more volumes by female authors than male authors. It’s true that in the early Victorian period, female authors were much less common (and undoubtedly subject to some prejudice as well), and after 1890 the balance also swung back some way towards the men. But overall the evidence is clear – there were large numbers of Victorian women novelists – and they did get published.
But there’s another myth that needs puncturing – the myth of Victorian Values. It’s easy to think that Victorian women novelists were a straight-laced bunch, upholding in their lives as well as their writing, a strict moral code, that certainly involved no sex outside marriage. In practice many women writers were writing ‘sensation novels’, in which it seemed almost every character had a guilty secret. The dramatic tension came from the contrast between the values that society seemed to expect and the rather messier lives led under the surface.
And the authors certainly had messy lives themselves. I’ve written before about the Countess of Blessington, the first female author to be published by Tauchnitz in 1843. She was in an abusive marriage, then lived as the mistress of the Earl of Blessington, before eventually marrying him. It was later strongly rumoured that she was in a relationship with the Count d’Orsay, who married her step-daughter.
Or take Caroline Norton, another of the early Tauchnitz authors (and the daughter of another women novelist). She had left her husband in 1836 and was involved in a close friendship with the Prime Minister, Lord Melbourne. After attempting unsuccessfully to blackmail Melbourne, Caroline’s husband sued the Prime Minister for ‘criminal conversation’ with his wife. This was rejected by the court, but the scandal nearly brought down the Government. Caroline is then said to have had a five year affair with a Conservative politician, Sidney Herbert. She was, perhaps pointedly, referred to on the title pages of her Tauchnitz novels, as The Honourable Caroline Norton.
Florence Marryat, one of the most prolific Victorian authors, also left her husband to live with another man. Her husband eventually sued for divorce, citing his wife’s adultery, and Florence re-married. Mary Elizabeth Braddon, even more prolific with over 100 volumes to her name in the Tauchnitz series, lived for many years with John Maxwell who was already married to someone else. And of course George Eliot famously lived with another married man (and another Tauchnitz author), George Henry Lewes.
One of the more prominent women authors towards the end of the Victorian era, Elizabeth von Arnim, writing as Countess Russell, was for several years the mistress of H.G. Wells. And it wasn’t just the British. Léonie d’Aunet, possibly the only French woman author whose work appeared in the Tauchnitz series (her work ‘Un mariage en province’ was translated / adapted by Lady Georgiana Fullerton), had a seven year affair with Victor Hugo, for which she was arrested and spent time in prison and in a convent.
There are no doubt many other examples. I don’t of course want to imply that the men were any better. Amongst others, Dickens left his wife for an 18 year old actress and the unmarried Wilkie Collins seems to have split his affections between two women simultaneously. My point is just that Victorian women writers were not only numerous, but racier than you might think. Victorian Values were just another myth.
The Tauchnitz ‘Collection of British Authors’ series eventually ran to 5370 volumes, published over a period of just about 100 years, but the very first book, volume No. 1, was ‘Pelham’ by Bulwer Lytton. Publication was announced in September 1841, but when did the book first appear?
Tauchnitz had the habit of showing the year of first publication on the title page of their books and leaving this unaltered even on reprints many years later. All known copies of ‘Pelham’ are dated 1842. However publication was announced in the trade press in September 1841, in the list of ‘new books … arrived in Leipzig between 19 September and 25 September’. There was a further announcement on 2 November 1841 for ‘books received 24-30 October’. As it’s known the book was quickly re-set, this might even refer to the second edition, well before the end of 1841. Which would leave it a bit of a mystery as to why the book should be dated 1842.
Karl Pressler, who made a particular study of the early editions of Tauchnitz Books, suggested that it might be because the early volumes were sent to booksellers on approval and only entered into the firm’s accounts for 1842, when firm orders were confirmed. He also points out that it was (and is) not unusual for books issued towards the end of year to carry the following year’s date.
But why would the accounting records dictate the year on the title page? Why would a book selling so quickly that it had to be reprinted within a couple of months, not be entered into the accounts for four months anyway? Why would Tauchnitz use the following year’s date on this one occasion, when it doesn’t seem to have been their practice in other years, even for books published in December, never mind September?
Could there actually be a first printing dated 1841, as yet undiscovered? It certainly seems possible that no copies of the very earliest printing have survived, given that the books were originally issued in paperback and the print run was probably quite limited. But for a copy to be dated 1841 would go against the otherwise consistent practice of retaining the date of first publication on the title page for subsequent reprints. It would be very odd indeed to keep the original date on all other books but to use a year after the original date for all reprints of volume 1.
So is the alternative conclusion that 1842 is in fact the true first publication date, and the earlier announcements were anticipating publication? Companies nowadays often announce the release of new products many months before they actually appear in the shops – known in the consumer electronics industry as ‘vapourware’. Was Tauchnitz an early adopter of this practice?
My best guess is that they were – and that the book was never actually issued until the start of 1842, or at least very late 1841. Certainly a second edition followed very quickly, as two versions with a different number of pages exist, each in the format used only in the early years of the series, where there is no reference to the edition being ‘sanctioned’ by the author or subject to copyright. The assumed first printing has 34 pages of preliminaries, followed by 477 pages of text. All other printings, right through to the 1890s have the preliminaries extended to 36 pages by the addition of another preface and the text restricted to 467 pages. I have a copy of the first setting and there is also a copy in the collection recently acquired by the National Library of Scotland, but almost all other copies in the collections in National libraries and University libraries are reprints, including an early paperback copy in the New York Public Library.
It’s likely that all copies of the first edition were sold as paperbacks, with the company only starting to offer hard bound editions later in 1842. It was common practice for buyers though to take paperbacks to a bookbinder and have them privately bound, and it’s the bound copies that are more more likely to survive. The New York copy dates from around August 1843 and is the earliest known surviving paperback copy of this book. I have a handful of earlier paperback copies of other books in the series, but they’re certainly not easy to find. Paperbacks don’t survive well over 170 years.
What about the book itself? I haven’t read it yet, and I’m not sure many people have. I don’t think anybody much reads Bulwer Lytton these days, although in his time he was an extremely popular writer. His books account for 12 of the first 25 books in the Tauchnitz series, and other German publishers were also issuing pirated copies of his novels, both in English and in translation. I’ll see if I can get round to reading it soon.
Bernhard Tauchnitz started young in the publishing industry, apprenticed to his uncle, Karl Tauchnitz, who specialised in publishing dictionaries, bibles and classical texts in Greek and Latin. Karl died in 1836, and although the firm was carried on by his son, Bernhard seems to have decided at this point to launch his own publishing company. He was just 20 years old when the company was created on 1st February 1837.
To launch a publishing company under your own name at the age of 20 needs a lot of chutzpah, but it must also need a lot of money. Presumably the young Tauchnitz came from a comfortable background himself, but he was also by then engaged to be married to a wealthy young lady, Henriette Morgenstern, which no doubt helped.
For the first few years he continued in the family tradition. Among the snappily titled works published in 1838 were ‘Bibliotheca Patrum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum Selecta’ and the ‘Zeitschrift fuer Rechtspflege und Verwaltung zunaechst fuer das Koenigreich Sachsen’, a legal journal. It was not until 1841 that he turned to the publication of novels in English, the idea that was to make his name and his fortune. There was no copyright law at the time and he was able to print copies of the latest novels published in England without any restriction, or any need to pay the authors. Others were already doing so, and he started off in the same way.
Whether this practice troubled his conscience, or whether he saw from the start that there could be commercial advantage in doing things differently, we can never know. But he quickly came to the conclusion that he should offer voluntary payment to the authors, in return for which he would be able to describe his editions as ‘sanctioned by the author’, and he set off for London to make this proposal to a number of leading novelists. The first to agree to it, in July 1843, were Bulwer Lytton, G.P.R. James and Lady Blessington. They were quickly followed by others, including Charles Dickens and Benjamin Disraeli.
By this time, the Tauchnitz ‘Collection of British Authors’ had already reached 50 volumes, all published with no authorisation or payment at all, including 15 volumes by Lytton and 7 by Dickens. It’s perhaps not surprising that both authors were quick to accept the proposal, even if no retrospective payments were on offer.
In practice the proposal Tauchnitz made was a masterstroke. Although he was anticipating the law by only about three years (Anglo-German treaties established copyright protection in Prussia and Saxony in 1846), by being the first mover he was able both to set the terms and to establish a reputation for fair dealing. Both advantages lasted a long time.
Having been offered voluntary payment, where none was legally required, authors were in no position to negotiate the terms, and most were simply grateful for the offer, so grateful indeed that they allowed Tauchnitz to continue to set the terms throughout their relationship. Charles Dickens was clear about this in much of their correspondence. For example in 1860, almost twenty years later, he wrote:
“I cannot consent to name the sum you shall pay for ‘Great Expectations’. I have too great a regard for you and too high a sense of your honourable dealing, to wish to depart from the custom we have always observed. Whatever price you put upon it will satisfy me. You have always proposed the terms yourself, on former occasions, and I entreat you to do so now.”
George Henry Lewes, the partner of George Eliot, as well as an author in his own right, similarly wrote “As to remuneration, from your having transmitted English authors an honorarium at the time when no law of copyright rendered such an action imperative, I have conceived such an idea of your liberality and probity as to leave it to you to send me whatever sum you consider the success of the work may justify.”
The advantage that a publisher might achieve from such a privileged position can only be surmised. Publishers today would be open-mouthed at the idea of being offered a new work such as ‘Great Expectations’ for whatever sum they wanted to pay. Presumably Tauchnitz had to be careful not to abuse his position, but it was certainly one of considerable power. It even extended to his son Christian, who eventually took on the business after the founder died in 1895, with Mark Twain writing “This father and this son have one prodigious distinction which I believe no other publishers have ever enjoyed – to whit, that they were never thieves”. Twain presumably was unaware that the first 50 volumes in the series had been unauthorised.
Later publications – Martin Chuzzlewit in 1843 ‘Edition sanctioned by the author’ and David Copperfield in 1849 ‘Copyright Edition’
There was another advantage too from the reputation and the relationships that Tauchnitz had established. He was able to obtain new novels as soon as they were completed, often working from early proofs produced by the UK publishers, or from the serialisation in monthly magazines, and in many cases even issuing them before UK publication, so that the Tauchnitz Editions are in practice often the true worldwide first editions. Through his direct relationships with authors, he could effectively bypass the UK publishers, who would have preferred a delay before allowing continental publications that would undercut their more expensive editions.
That initial proposal by Tauchnitz, even if motivated by guilt rather than hard business calculation, was undoubtedly a stroke of genius. I almost feel it should be written up as a case study by Harvard Business School. It’s a wonderful example of what the British economist John Kay, has called ‘obliquity’ – that the best results in one direction are often obtained by starting off in another, and the companies most focused on delivering ‘shareholder value’ are often the least successful in doing so.