History Lesson 
Texana
Paper Trail
Why isn’t the Texas state archives trying harder to recover rare historical papers?
(Page 2 of 2)
In his book, Taylor details the circuitous methods the state has sometimes used to reclaim stolen documents. He describes, for example, a highly publicized auction of 102 historic Texas documents in 1967 at Parke-Bernet Galleries in New York. Library administrators had substantial proof that at least 42 of the documents originally came from the state archives, the Barker Texas History Center, and other collections throughout the state, yet they did not press their claim. At the time, they had no funds to pursue stolen documents. Instead, they arranged for agents contacted by the University of Texas to bid on the papers and quietly return them to the archives.
The Parke-Bernet sale was not the only time state officials took a surreptitious route to reacquire state property. In 1982 the private, nonprofit Texas State Historical Association announced a fundraising auction of donated documents that included a Travis letter that archivists could clearly trace back to the state. Archivist David Gracy wrote to the historical association, asking that the letter be returned, but the association wanted the proceeds from the sale. A compromise was negotiated by former governor Price Daniel, a member of the state library commission. Rather than create a public •Ââap, Daniel arranged for the letter to be purchased by a wealthy Houston oilman, who then donated it to the university. Later the letter was transferred back to the state archives.
Why did state officials feel they had to go through such contortions? Embarrassment was the main reason. “The archival community in general was reluctant to acknowledge the thefts because if you acknowledged them, you acknowledged your operations were faulty,” says David Gracy, the state archivist from 1977 to 1986. After all, the losses had been astounding. According to Taylor, in 1955 Streeter documented the existence in the archives of 54 broadsides printed in the state before 1837. Of those, Taylor says, 30 are now missing, half of which were the only known copies. Probably the most galling loss was Texas’ only broadside of Travis’ legendary “Victory or Death” letter. At one time the state archives had two copies, but in 1953 Streeter acquired one of them in a trade. No one even realized the other one was missing from the archives until a researcher happened to go looking for it in 1986. Another reason state officials took such a low-key approach was because, unfortunately, they didn’t take the archives as seriously as they should have. Not until 1967 was a professional archivist put in charge. All previous archivists were scholars who concentrated on publishing transcripts of the state’s collection, not the sorely needed inventory.
Taylor argues that the state should have announced its claims publicly and seized what it knew to be its own. But the truth is that such a strident stance may not always be in the archives’ best interest. The claims on a document that has changed hands many times over a period of many years can be complicated. Collectors who acquired their documents in good faith and paid dearly for them may resist handing them over. In the Parke-Bernet auction, it seems that the state unnecessarily spent money to retrieve its own documents when a public appeal might have won the papers back. But in the case of the Historical Association, a little behind-the-scenes maneuvering avoided a showdown between two well-meaning groups and retrieved the document at no expense to the taxpayer.
Attitudes at the state archives have changed for the better in recent years. In 1990, archivists identified 21 Texas Revolution—era documents that had once belonged to the state in the collection of late Waco attorney Tony Duty. But Duty’s widow challenged the state’s claim, and the case is now headed for trial in state court. In that instance, a lawsuit was probably the only way to get the documents. In other cases, gentle pressure and quiet negotiations might serve just as well. But as Grizzard’s experience shows, the archives does not always make the effort—even when the collector is willing to part with his treasures.
The bottom line is, as always, money. Over the years, state legislators have not given the archives the kind of cash it needs to fund a comprehensive inventory and track down lost documents. On the contrary, in the past five years the archives has lost two full-time positions to budget cuts. Last year when archives director Chris LaPlante failed to get a private grant for an inventory, Grizzard came forward with a $30,000 donation for a computer and a half-time employee—but that was just enough to get the job off the ground. A complete inventory is still many thousands of dollars and many years away.
I asked LaPlante to show me around the archives, which are located just across the lawn from the east wing of the Capitol. LaPlante led me through a small public reading room, behind the main desk, and up to a padlocked, chain link fence. It was dark and chilly. Beyond the fence were row after row of gray metal shelves crammed with thousands of boxes, each of which, LaPlante said, was stuffed with papers. Above and below us, LaPlante explained, were three more •Ââoors filled with metal shelves, boxes, and papers—25 thousand cubic feet of records in all—or some 30 to 40 million pieces of paper. The materials were grouped by broad subject matter, so that LaPlante and his staff had a vague sense of where things were. A particular document may not be where it should, but that does not mean it has been stolen—it might simply have been refiled years ago with another group.
A rudimentary card catalog system does exist. LaPlante walked over to a wooden file cabinet and slid open a narrow drawer marked “Army Affairs, Navy Affairs.” Inside were musty file cards, written in slanted, spidery handwriting. LaPlante pulled one out at random. The card referred to a letter written by J.W. Fannin, Jr., in San Antonio to Sam Houston in San Felipe, dated November 18, 1835—three months before the siege of the Alamo. A brief description of the letter was on the card: “F’s opinion as to falling back to Goliad and Gonzales—thinks this the safest plan.”
“This must be a valuable document,” LaPlante said reverently. “Hope we still have it.” He slipped the card back in the drawer. We had turned to walk out of the stacks when I had a thought. Would he mind checking to see if that document was, indeed, still in the state’s collection? “Not at all,” LaPlante replied. Back we went to the file cabinet. LaPlante opened the drawer and looked. And looked. And looked. For several awkward moments he •Ââipped through the file cards. But it was no use. The cards were in no apparent order, and LaPlante was unable to put his finger on the very card that we had been gazing at only moments before. If the Fannin letter is in the archives, it will have to wait for the long-delayed inventory in order to be discovered.
Pages: 1 2
My Library
