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- Herausgeber: DigiCat
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In "Mr. Jacobs: A Tale of the Drummer, the Reporter, and the Prestidigitateur," Arlo Bates weaves a richly layered narrative that explores the intricate web of human experience through the lives of its colorful characters. Set in a late 19th-century America brimming with theatricality and burgeoning modernity, Bates employs a vivid literary style characterized by detailed descriptions and keen psychological insight. The novel grapples with themes of identity, ambition, and the interplay between illusion and reality, reflecting the anxieties and aspirations of an era defined by rapid change and cultural transformation. Arlo Bates, an influential figure in American literature, was deeply influenced by his own experiences in journalism and the arts. His background as a writer and editor enabled him to deftly capture the nuances of society, while his fascination with the magic arts and performance lends a unique flair to the narrative. Bates's commitment to exploring the human condition through multifaceted characters stems from a desire to reveal the often contradictory nature of personal narratives and societal expectations. This compelling tale invites readers to immerse themselves in a world filled with mystery and spectacle, making it particularly captivating for fans of historical fiction and character-driven narratives. Bates's intricate storytelling and sharp social commentary render "Mr. Jacobs" a significant work that deserves a place on the shelf of anyone interested in the complexities of life and art in America.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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Mr. Jacobs: A Tale of the Drummer, the Reporter, and the Prestidigitateur
Table of Contents
In spite of Jean-Jacques and his school, men are not everywhere, especially in countries where excessive liberty or excessive tiffin favors the growth of that class of adventurers most usually designated as drummers, or by a still more potent servility, the ruthless predatory instinct of certain bold and unscrupulous persons may and almost certainly will; and in those more numerous and certainly more happy countries where the travelling show is discouraged, the unwearying flatterer, patient under abstemious high-feeding, will assuredly become a roving sleight-of-hand man.
Without doubt the Eastern portion of the world, when an hereditary, or, at least, a traditional, if not customary, or, perhaps, conservative, not to say legendary, or, more correctly speaking, historic, despotism has never ceased to ingrain the blood of Russia, Chinese, Ottoman, Persia, India, British, or Nantasket, in a perfect instance of a ruthless military tiffin, where neither blood nor stratagem have been spared.[1]
[1] The editor was here obliged to omit a score of pages, in which the only thing worth preserving was a carcanet of sulphur springs.
I was at tiffin. A man sat opposite whose servant brought him water in a large goblet cut from a single emerald. I observed him closely. A water-drinker is always a phenomenon to me; but a water-drinker who did the thing so artistically, and could swallow the fluid without wincing, was such a manifestation as I had never seen.
I contrasted him with our neighbors at the lunch-counter, who seemed to be vying, like the captives of Circe, to ascertain by trial who could swallow the most free lunch, and pay for the fewest "pegs,"—those vile concoctions of spirits, ice, and soda-water, which have destroyed so many splendid resolutions on the part of the Temperance Alliance—and an impression came over me that he must be the most innocent man on the road.
Before I go farther let me try and describe him. His peculiarity was that, instead of eyes, he had jewels composed of six precious stones. There was a depth of life and vital light in them that told of the pent-up force of a hundred, or, at least, of ninety-nine generations of Persian magi. They blazed with the splendor of a god-like nature, needing neither tiffin nor brandy and soda to feed their power.
My mind was made up. I addressed him in Gaelic. To my surprise, and somewhat to my confusion, he answered in two words of modern Hebrew. We fell into a polyglot but refined conversation.
"Come and smoke," he said, at length.
Slipping into the office of the hotel, and ascertaining that there was no danger, I followed to his room.
"I am known as Mr. Jacobs," he said. "My lawful name is Abdallah Hafiz-ben-butler-Jacobi."
The apartment, I soon saw, was small—for India at least—and every available space, nook, and cranny, were filled with innumerable show-cases of Attleboro' jewelry.
"Pretty showy?" he remarked familiarly. "I am a drummer."
"My name is Peter Briggs," I replied. "I am a correspondent of the Calcutta Jackal."
