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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Liberry," Ian Hay offers a witty and satirical exploration of British social customs and idiosyncrasies through the lens of a fictional library setting. With Hay's signature humor and keen observational skills, the narrative unfolds as a delightful tapestry interwoven with clever dialogue, charming characters, and poignant reflections on the value of knowledge and community. The book, rich in its literary style, draws on traditions of social realism and comic literature, showcasing the author's ability to blend humor with serious commentary. The playful yet critical examination of society during the early 20th century makes it a valuable piece within the broader context of post-Victorian literature. Ian Hay, a Scottish author and playwright, was known for his ability to detect and portray the quirks of human nature and British life. His experiences during World War I as a soldier and subsequent transition to writing in the military provided him with a unique perspective on societal issues, enabling him to craft stories that were both entertaining and thought-provoking. Hay'Äôs background in theatre and journalism further informs his narrative style, enriching his characters with depth and relatability. Readers seeking a humorous yet insightful commentary on society will find "The Liberry" an essential addition to their literary collection. With its engaging narrative and intellectual undertones, this book is not only a delightful read but also a catalyst for reflection on the role of libraries and knowledge in shaping civilization. It invites readers to question their own perceptions while enjoying a masterful blend of satire and charm.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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"The Liberry"
Table of Contents
I
I first met Mr. Baxter at the fourpenny box outside Mr. Timpenny's second-hand bookshop in High Street, and was attracted at once by the loving care with which he handled its contents. Dirty and dog's-eared as most of them were, he never snatched one up or threw it down, after the common fashion of patrons of inexpensive literature, but would gently extract a more than usually disreputable volume from its heap, blow the dust off, straighten the warped cover, and smooth out the wrinkled pages before dipping into the subject-matter. In fact, the last operation struck me as interesting him least of all.
Becoming aware of my presence, he moved aside with a courtly little bow. He was a dusty old gentleman, in a very shabby frock-coat. He looked as if he lived in the fourpenny box himself.
"Am I preventing you from selecting a volume, sir?" he inquired.
I hastened to reassure him. I had no special designs on the fourpenny box, or indeed on any. I was merely idling.
"I am waiting for the druggist to make up a prescription," I said.
"Then you don't do your own dispensing, sir?"
"As a rule, yes. I have run out of this particular drug, though. But you know me?"
"Yes, sir; by sight. We do not take long in Broxborough to get to know every one by sight. You succeeded to Dr. Wiseman's practice, I think?"
"Yes."
"A good old man, sir, and a lover of books, like myself."
"You're right about yourself," I said. "You handle a book as I would a delicate patient."
"A very apt comparison, sir. To me, in a manner of speaking, a book is a human thing. A dilapidated book is a patient; I like to repair its broken back and gum in its loose pages. In fact, the late Archdeacon used to rally me upon the subject, sir. He insisted that I cared more for a book, as a book, than for what was inside it."
I ventured, with immediate success, to draw him out upon the subject of the late Archdeacon.
"Archdeacon Belford, sir. He died many years ago, and few remember him now. A great scholar and gentleman. I was associated with him almost continuously in my younger days. It was he who assisted me to found my library."
"Your library?"
"Yes, sir." The old gentleman's mild blue eyes suddenly glowed with pride. "Nothing very pretentious, of course; but I take my little pleasure in it. And it grows—it grows." He picked a small tattered volume out of the box—it looked like an ancient school prize—and turned down a few dog's-ears with a distressed expression.
"A sweet little edition," he said, examining the text, "but small print. I have left my glasses at home. Would you very kindly indicate to me the nature of its contents, sir?"
I read a few lines aloud to him—poetry.
"I don't know it," I confessed. "Poetry is not much in my line. Let me look at the title-page. Ah—Robert Southey."
"I rather thought it was Southey," said Mr. Baxter immediately.
"I fancy you are more widely read than I am," I remarked.
"I make a point of reading aloud a passage out of one of my books every day, sir. I acquired the habit under the late Archdeacon. We read together constantly. He had very definite views on the value of reading. 'A man with books about him,' he used to say, 'is a man surrounded by friends far more interesting and distinguished than any he is likely to meet when he dines with the Bishop. A man with a library of his own, however small, is at once a capitalist who can never go bankrupt and an aristocrat who moves in circles to which the common herd cannot penetrate. In other words, a man with a library is a man respected!' That was why I founded my own, sir. The Archdeacon himself contributed the first few volumes."
"Is it a large library?" I asked, glancing furtively at my wrist-watch.
"No, sir; of very modest dimensions. But it is sufficiently large to be utilized by nearly all my friends."
"You lend them books, then?"
"Oh, no, sir. I would not do that. My books are everything to me—and you know what book-borrowers are! My friends are welcome to tap my literary resources, but it must be through me as medium."
"I don't quite understand," I said, noting out of the corner of my eye that Mr. Pettigrew, the druggist next door, had emerged from behind the carved wooden screen which masks the mysteries of his dispensing department from the layman's eye, and was now visible through the shop window, busy with white paper and sealing-wax.
"When a seeker after knowledge calls upon me," explained the indefatigable Mr. Baxter, "I select from my library the appropriate volume and read, or recite, to him such passages as appear to me most applicable to his case. In this way I ensure the safety and cleanliness of my literary property—
"So here you are! I thought so. Have you been buying another of those dirty things?"
A small, alert, slightly shrewish girl of about fifteen had suddenly appeared from nowhere, and was now transfixing my flinching companion with the eye of the Ancient Mariner.
"Only fourpence, my dear," replied Mr. Baxter deferentially.
"That's right. Throw money about!" said the young lady. "Have you got fourpence?" she added, with a slight softening of manner.
"Well, to be exact, I rather think all I have at the moment is threepence."
The Ancient Mariner produced a penny.
"Here you are," she said, handing him the coin with a not altogether successful attempt at an indulgent smile. "You haven't bought anything for a fortnight. Go in and pay for it, and then come home to dinner, do!"
"Good-morning, Mr. Baxter! How's the library this morning?"
The druggist was standing in his doorway, with a facetious twinkle in his eye. Evidently Mr. Baxter's library was an accepted target for local humour.
Mr. Baxter took no notice, but disappeared into the bookshop. Mr. Pettigrew handed me my bottle.
"One of our characters, that old fellow," he said, with that little air of civic pride which marks the country-townsman booming local stock. "Quite a poor man, but possesses an extensive library—quite extensive. His learning is at the service of his fellow-citizens. He likes to be called The Oracle. Supposing you want to know something about Shakespeare, or Julius Cæsar, or Wireless Telegraphy, or Patagonia, you go to Baxter. You press the button and he does the rest! Lives a bit in the clouds, of course; and I wouldn't go so far as to say that his information is always infallible. In fact"—Mr. Pettigrew tapped his forehead significantly—"his upper storey—"
