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My Ege Was Rejected

by Joanie Rothstein

Otto F. Ege (1888-1951) described himself as a biblioclast: "one of those strange, eccentric book-tearers." In the early 1900's he ripped up 50 medieval manuscripts, placed them at random in folios, and sold them. Some say there are 50 folios; Ege claimed he sold hundreds.

In 2000 the University of Saskatchewan in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada was renovating its library and discovered a folio that the university had purchased in the 1930's for $750. The university held a symposium in 2005 called "Remaking the Book" and an exhibit, Scattered Leaves. Since then, every university with a folio has collaborated to digitize its Ege collection and to create an international on-line database.

The hunt for missing Ege folios is referred to as "the Ege puzzle," and the U.K. has adopted this as a national part-time hobby. Not many appear on the open market, which is ironic since they were scattered all over the world. No one really knows how many are still unaccounted for. Anyone can buy a magnificent medieval manuscript for the right price, but not an Ege. When one does appear, there is a howl from the ivory tower regarding its rights to first dibs.

A few showed up on eBay this year. Selling Eges on eBay isn't warmly regarded by anyone except eBay. One folio sold for $7500. A private seller didn't have much luck hawking two leaves for $1500 and has since returned to selling Noritake china and sterling silver flatware.

I recently found an old medieval Dutch manuscript leaf at a William A. Smith auction in Plainfield, New Hampshire, in a mixed lot of pictures for $50. I had no idea what it was, and I had at the time never heard of Otto Ege. Most things I find at auction have local provenance, and I assumed this did as well. It's a small page with no decorative elements, and it looked as if it had been framed in an old manila file folder.

I ripped the frame apart, and, sure enough, it was framed in an old manila file folder. This was written on the back: "Owned by----Carol Quimby, 6th Grade Park School/ From School Mate----Betty 'Jane' Ege/ Made by----Otto Ege/ Hathaway Brown School, now Jan. 4th 1938."

This did not seem promising. There are a lot of cows in Vermont, but making your own vellum? I took another look at the manuscript leaf, and it looked convincing. I bet Otto was a whiz with Ben Franklins. Why would Otto's daughter hand these around to her sixth-grade girlfriends, and did her daddy know about this? Something was afoot.

I Googled and found dozens of links to the collective databases on line. Not one mention of any Dutch or German manuscript on record. Things were looking up: I owned a mystery Ege!

I scribbled a note on my to do list: buy 1957 cherry red Chevy truck.

I called a special collections library and e-mailed photographs and measurements. The librarian called me back: "What a beautiful hand!" she murmured. I preened. Of course, I would wait until my mystery Ege was sent to Ege cognoscenti around the world. Not a peep out of me, I assured her. I didn't hear any peeps back, either.

I e-mailed the librarian: "I feel it is my duty to put this back up for auction and donate part of the proceeds to benefit the reconstruction of Ege's deconstructionist biblio-iconoclasm. Naturally, I will have a professional digital image made for the collaborative database. There is a dude who does that kind of thing for the Vatican right here, and you can be assured of high quality resolution."

My Ege was rejected. I received a long, humiliating e-mail with links, bullets, and footnotes from the librarian. Her grammar was impeccable. Magnificent, really. I don't think this woman dangled a participle since sixth grade. I dangle all the time.

"Your fragment is unrelated to anything else. Its primary value may be solely as a curiosity of Ege's family history."

My missing Ege was a sideshow freak. How do you say "Thumbelina" in 15th-century Dutch? I scratched '57 Chevy off my list.

"My unprofessional opinion is that it is an independent fragment that Ege acquired, which he allowed his daughter to give away because of its lesser value. It is possibly an ex-Otto Ege."

I scratched number two off my list: All Things Considered. Even Will Shortz wouldn't touch ex-Otto Ege.

"Perhaps you can contact an online business for a Dutch translator to help you identify the text? That might marginally increase its value."

There's a business in translating 15th-century Dutch manuscripts? I scribbled a note: Investigate market for 15th-century translators as possible fourth part-time job.

"But I wish you good luck with it! Perhaps your publicity will bring other fragments to light."

Terrific. More "possibly ex-Otto Eges of minimal value" flooding the market.

My 15th-century mystery Ege was rejected. It is of no use to the collaborative database since there aren't any other German or Dutch manuscripts in the existing folios.

I thought about this. I've been living in Vermont long enough to acquire some parsimonious habits. I won't throw out a square-head nail, and I don't know anyone in the antiques business who would be that foolish. Square-head nails were hand made in the 19th century, and they're hard to come by. Tiny little things, but they're invaluable when it comes to restoration.

These Ege experts could learn a thing or two about squirreling away little fragments. Why sneer at a document leaf that doesn't have a match in the known folios when no one knows what's in the missing folios? Who knows if a Dutch manuscript will turn up or if one won't?

That's just common sense. I started to doodle on my pad:

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the King's horses and all the King's men couldn't put Humpty together again.

Whoa. Is that medieval?

(If anyone knows of a good Dutch medieval translator, e-mail me at <e.chick.biz@gmail.com>.)