Charles Maxwell-House on The Fine Art of Borrowing
Everyone’s favourite old codger continues his literary studies with a shock visit to the public library
During the long, hot summer months I always allow myself a few weeks of indolence and relaxation (though I can assure the Reader that my thoughts never stray far from literary matters). During this long vacation of the mind I spent many a pleasurable hour at the Club; dining, supping fine wines, and chatting with my fellows. On one particular evening, I was entertaining an enthralled crowd with news of my latest purchase: a beautiful, nay some might say exquisite, second edition of Dick Turnip’s sixteenth century Pigge Breeders Almanack. Just as I was going into the finer details of the cat-gut binding and so forth, I was interrupted by a loud outburst of unbridled scoffing. I looked up to see the Lord Chubb leering horribly at our earnest huddle. Swaying giddily and sweating freely, it was plain to see he was sozzled as a Goose.
‘Look here Ducky’ he quoth impertinently (employing that nickname he used on me at school when, as my prefect, he would beat me with a bat in the billiards room after each failure to make a single run at house cricket) ‘put a stopper in all this damned womanish fussing and preening! It’s only a book. When are you even going to read the bloody thing if it’s so rare? Once I’ve read a book, I just give it away!’ Then, looking around to gauge the effect of his next shocking words, he added ‘or sometimes … I simply throw it away!’ And, as if to illustrate this horrifying admission, he threw his flailing hands in the air, almost slipping on the highly waxed parquet in the process. There was general tittering. Doing my best to hang on to my characteristic calm, I politely enquired as to the last book he had read. Muttering something about the life story of Sir Harry Secombe he stumbled off, drunkenly guffawing. I flared my nostrils in a particularly disapproving way and returned to espousing the finer details of my glorious new tome.
But, as I looked around at the eager faces turned towards me (all excepting Major Chomondley-Chaser-Hound, the dear fellow, who had dozed off by the roaring fire beside which he was permanently stationed), I realised that my unbridled enthusiasm for the subject had momentarily deserted me. That night I wandered rather desolately home with the oaf’s words echoing in my ears, his voice like a verbal thwack on the arse from his willow bat all over again.
Without so much as a nod to the good Mrs B____ on my return, I locked myself in my crammed library and pondered the Maxwell-House obsession with books that has induced the family strain of extreme myopia. Indeed, who could forget the antics of Great-Grandfather M-H? So extreme was his obsession that in the end he fired all his staff and evicted his fifteen children and latest young wife so that he could fill every room and corner of Hound Hall with books. With only the world’s largest Globe-Wernickes for company he soon went a little mad. It is said he was discovered dead in the kitchen, tragically crushed by one of his largest and most precious tomes, which he had been so close to reaching on the top pantry shelf.
The faces of well-known bibliophiles I regularly encounter at auctions rushed toward me in a grisly parade of battered tweed jackets, suspicious beards and oversized spectacles. I shivered. Was I merely one of the hairy hordes? (Readjusting my reading spectacles and stroking my slightly unruly whiskers I made a stern mental note to book myself a facial set and trim as soon as possible.)
Thus I began to reason: should a book not be, first and foremost, a conduit for knowledge, a way of transmitting great ideas and inspiring narratives? In the end, what was their value merely as objects? Was there any need, in fact, to hoard them obsessively? Was one missing the point by tidying them away in darkened rooms with strict temperature controls and high-technology motion sensors? I, who had never dreamt of lending my books to anyone, let alone given any away, was truly shaken. It was as if I questioned my very soul.
Having spent the night in sleepless torment, under the once beloved gaze of my enormous book collection and its accompanying, handsomely bound catalogue I splashed my face with Badger’s Orris Root Tonic and strode out. I knew what I had to do.
Sweating in a manner not unlike old Chubby’s the night before I approached my local public library. It was a hideous concrete construct from the unfortunate mid-sixties period and its huge plate-glass windows ensured an absolute lack of privacy for the Reader. Indeed, the preview they afforded me almost caused me to run screaming from the spot. Through the looming windows I saw an unkempt man sitting babbling, apparently to himself, not even looking at his book; hoards of pregnant women blocking every visible aisle; and scampering children in the upper levels. Great heaven!
As soon as I entered, the noise of its mad occupants rose up to greet me and a kindly looking woman approached asking if I needed any help logging onto The Internet. Clutching my throat as if choking on unseen fumes I dived into the nearest aisle. By a stroke of wildest good fortune I at once found myself in the fiction section. My beating heart once stilled I took a closer look and was soon lost in rooting out a few choice volumes.
To cut a story short, dear Reader, I found myself back at home that afternoon with six new books all covered in a curious plastic protective coating. Over the summer months I returned several times and took out more and more books until I had accumulated quite a pile, of which, despite their rather poor quality, I was growing inordinately fond. The good Mrs B____ did suggest I might return some of them but I assured her that OAPs cannot incur any fines for overdue books. In a sense it’s like a permanent loan until death. Public Libraries are wonderful! It is the first (if indirect) good turn Chubbs has ever done me in the entire history of our acquaintance. (I note he has not been at the Club since his last disgraceful display.)
Newly infused with the good spirit of shared literature I return from this scorching break invigorated and raring to go. Onwards, dear Readers!
Yours,
Charles Maxwell-House
[We can only conclude Sir Charles had spent a little too long in the sun before penning this. Readers will be pleased to note that since this column was written, Mrs B____ has returned the books to the comparative safety of the public sector. Sir Charles, meanwhile, has had his borrowing card permanently blocked – Ed.]
