Bücher haben ihr eigenes Schicksal.
Vor einiger Zeit stieß ich im Internet (bei der
Lectura Dantis, einer online-Zeitschrift) auf eine rührende Geschichte aus den Staaten, bei der die (einst?) für Romanisten maßgebliche Dante-Edition des verdienten Philologen Giuseppe Vandelli eine hervorragende, und lebensrettende, Rolle spielte.
Ich kenne das Buch, hier in einer Ausgabe aus dem Jahre Zehn
a fasciis restitutis (= 1931-32), aus der Bibliothek meines Vaters, der Romanist war, etwa seit meinem 14. Lebensjahr, und ich habe es ihm so oft aus dem Regal geklaut, bis er es mir, etliche Jahre später, zum Geschenk gab.
Hier das Kuriosum:
Our ancient Vandelli Dante (the SDI Hoepli one), from student days, is still the most precious piece of Danteana we have. Its text, gradually supplanted by Petrocchi, had become in our copy too, as if by a sympathetic process, semi-obliterated by handwritten notes and the grime of decades. The book's original toad-green binding had long gone; we had it rebound in half leather in the 60s, then in full cloth some ten years ago; that too is webby now on the spine. We take it along nowadays __ to class, lectures, transatlantic trips __ mainly for scaramanzia. It has had dozens of adventures (mostly in the lost & found department). May we tell you here its latest?
«Sorry, this is a holdup, sir: please give me your money». These were the soft-spoken words a young man addressed to us one night, around eleven o'clock, on 119th Street, halfway between Amsterdam Avenue and Morningside Drive. The occasion: returning from our late Inferno lecture, at our old alma mater, to Cockroach Hall (owned & operated by Alma herself). «You've gotta be kidding» we began, incredulous, although veteran New Yorkers had warned us that mugging in NYC is a rite of passage, like dousing on crossing the Equator; a kind of hazing the new kid on the block must almost joyously submit to.
«Please give me the money, sir» the Well-Bred Mugger repeated, without resentment or impatience, moving ever so lightly the small handgun he was holding close to his vest, so to speak. «Say, is that thing for real» we tried to set a jocular tone to the exchange. «The money, sir, the money» the Kind Criminal said, rather sadly and as though merely reminding absentminded us of the purpose of the interview. «All right, I'll give you some money» we agreed, with an educator's disapproving sigh, «if you insist». Pulling out our wallet, though, we realized that without the use of our left hand (encumbered by Vandelli) we could not lift out the banknotes __ not in a controlled way, that is. Notwithstanding his suave manners, we worried about the Polite Punk's grabbing the billfold and running. Loss of IDs, etc.: trouble no end.
«Could you hold this please» we asked somewhat embarrassed; and Vandelli crossed the ideal trajectory of a bullet as we held it out with our left hand. The man took it! Wordlessly, he took Vandelli with his left hand, pointing the gun at us (rather perfunctorily by now) with his right. We pinched out a sheaf of 10s and 20s __ but here another hindrance arose. Our Armed Robber had no free hand to take the bills. Seeing now his embarrassment and knowing his delicacy of feeling, «I'll hold that for you» we offered, reaching with our free left hand toward his opposite right (which, you recall, held his gun). «No» he said pensively, «hold this please»; and Vandelli recrossed the no-man's-land between us, the spectral track of a gunshot: from left (his) to left (mine).
We wish we could, reader, report to you the moving exchange of decorous formulae with which we illustrated our parting: the soft-spoken thankyou, the murmured ...mentionit. But «sempre a quel ver che ha faccia di menzogna...». We will tell you, though, that our brave Vandelli is going to get a new binding. Full saffian, this time.
Quelle:
https://www.brown.edu/Departments/Itali ... rs/09.html
Zu Vandelli:
https://www.treccani.it/enciclopedia/gi ... ntesca%29/