The bibliophile’s afterlife

The air in Chelsea was thick with a scent of damp earth and fallen leaves as a small group gathered around an open grave. The year was 1705, and William Edward Chamberlayne’s funeral was not an ordinary affair.

He was well known in the academic and literary circles for his eccentricities. No one wept, nor did the minister’s solemn words hold their usual weight. Instead, the assembled mourners --antiquarians, scholars, and a few curious onlookers-- watched in bemusement as a procession of wax-sealed books was carefully lowered into the grave beside his coffin.

There were mutterings. Some called it folly, others called it a final act of defiance. But those who knew Chamberlayne best understood. He had spoken often, and at length, about his desire to take his beloved books with him into the afterlife. “The soul,” he had declared to many at a supper, “has no need for coin or comfort beyond knowledge. And so, why should I not carry my library into eternity?”

As the last book was placed into the grave, a 1654 edition in Latin of Roman historian Marcus Velleius Paterculus’ Historiae Romanae, the gravediggers set to work. The soil was replaced, the stone slab laid, and the gathered company dispersed, shaking their heads or smirking at the absurdity of it all.

That night, in the dim hours before dawn, something stirred beneath the damp earth. A faint rustling, as if pages were turning. A sigh, long and deep, exhaled through the cracks in the old stone. Then, silence.

*****

William Chamberlayne opened his eyes.

He was not in a coffin. Nor was he in Chelsea, not even in London! Around him stretched a grand library, vast beyond anyone’s imagination. The shelves soared impossibly high, vanishing into a hazy, golden light. Row upon row of books lined the walls, their spines untouched by time or decay. And there, at a desk of smooth marble, sat a man in a flowing robe, writing with his owl feather quill by the light of a candle.

Chamberlayne stepped forward, his boots making no sound on the polished floor. He cleared his throat. The man looked up, and Chamberlayne felt a thrill of recognition. He had seen that face before, etched in woodcuts, painted in oils. The well-known high forehead, the piercing gaze. Of course he knew the man! He was thrilled.

“Shakespeare, William Shakespeare” he whispered.

The Immortal Bard, as Isaac Asimov used to call him out of admiration, smiled faintly and gestured to an empty chair. “I hear that you were born in 1616, the year I died. That is an interesting coincidence. And I hear you have brought books,” he said.

Chamberlayne laughed. It was the sound of a man who had stepped into the very afterlife he had dreamed of. He took his seat, unsealed the first of his wax-covered books, and began to read.

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‘The bibliophile’s afterlife’ is a work of fiction that was inspired by the life of William Edward Chamberlayne (1616-1705). He was an antiquarian and author with an interest in history, especially Roman history.

When he died, it was discovered he had left a strange request in his will. He ordered that his heirs would not receive a penny if they failed to ensure that he was buried with all his favourite books, each volume carefully preserved in wax before the interment.

In his will Chamberlayne explained that he was looking forward to continuing to enjoy his books in another life.

There is a memorial stone in the churchyard of Chelsea old church in London whre he was buried. Despite some of the inscription has been weathered by the elements making it difficult to decipher part of it, there is enough that remains about his unusual will.

I became fascinated by this man’s wish to ensure he was buried with his most precious possessions: his favourite books.