(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS._)
Mr. STEPHEN McKENNA, with the blushing honours of _Sonia_ still fresh
upon him, has now turned his pen to a tale of farcical adventure, the
result being _Ninety-Six Hours' Leave_ (METHUEN), and I could find
it in my heart to regret it. Because, to speak frankly, the present
volume will do little to add to the reputation so deservedly won by
the other. It is a tangle of complications, which, since they have
nothing solid to rest upon, begin by baffling, and end by boring, the
reader who strives to keep pace with them. A young officer, wishful
to dine at a smart hotel and having no appropriate clothes, is
struck with the idea of pretending to be a foreign royalty, and thus
incapable of sartorial indiscretion. And, as all sorts of assassins
and undesirable aliens happened to be waiting about to kill the man
whose style he borrowed, you can make a fair guess at the subsequent
action. There is much dialogue, most of it sparkling, though even here
I have to report criticism from a young friend to whom I introduced
the story. He said, "People don't talk like that really." Which
happens to be undeniably true. Thus, while giving Mr. McKENNA credit
for an active invention and some really writty turns of phrase, I
fear I must repeat my warning that as a _farceur_ he is below his
best form.
* * * * *
The clever lady who elects to call herself "RICHARD DEHAN" has already
secured a deserved reputation as a writer of short stories. Her new
book, _Under the Hermes_ (HEINEMANN), gives us a further selection of
tales of various lengths, from one that is not quite a novel to others
that are as brief as ten pages. The themes and settings are equally
varied; but all--or almost all--show the writer at her best in the
vigorous, swift and exciting development of some dramatic situation.
The exception, I may say at once, is the title-tale, to my mind a
stilted and--in a double sense--obviously "studio piece," quite
unworthy of its position at the opening of so attractive a volume,
where indeed it might easily discourage a questing reader. "Mr. DEHAN"
is far more fairly represented by such brilliant little miniatures
of historical romance as (to select three at random) "A Speaking
Likeness," "A Game of Faro" and "The Vengeance of the Cherry
Stone"--slight sketches ranging from France of the Revolution to
mediæval Bologna, but each most effective in its vivid colouring and
well-handled climax. Since one of these has lingered for many years in
my recollection from some else-forgotten magazine, I suspect that most
of the tales in the volume may be making a second appearance. If so,
it is in every way deserved.
* * * * *
_Trench Pictures from France_ (MELROSE) is by the late Major WILLIAM
REDMOND, M.P., and _The Ways of War_ (CONSTABLE) is by the late
Professor T.M. KETTLE, M.P. Both these books are memorials raised to
their authors by the pious zeal of relations and friends who thought
it shame that so much nobility of purpose and generous ardour should
go unrecorded in a tribute more permanent than the fleeting memories
of contemporary survivors. Both WILLIE REDMOND and TOM KETTLE were
Irishmen and members of the Nationalist Party and were to that extent
foes of the British Government; yet, when they were compelled to look
the Prussian menace in the face, neither the older man nor the younger
hesitated for a moment. Each, though there were many reasons that
might have pleaded against such a course, "joined up" in an Irish
regiment, each in due time went to France and each made the supreme
sacrifice, falling with his face to the foe. Neither doubted for a
moment that he was serving the cause of Ireland in fighting against
Prussianism and all that it implies. Their enthusiastic approval of
the justice of our cause should be to us a great assurance. I knew
them both and can say with the most complete sincerity that I never
knew two men better loved by all who had to do with them or more
worthy of this universal affection. It is in every way right that they
should be commemorated for future generations. WILLIE REDMOND'S book
consists of a series of sketches of the War contributed by him to _The
Daily Chronicle_. They are written with great charm and, even in the
gloomiest surroundings, reflect the sunny nature of the man. There is
a most appreciative biographical memoir by E.M. SMITH-DAMPIER, and in
an appendix will be found the memorable and splendid speech delivered
by WILLIE REDMOND in the House of Commons on March 7th of this year--a
true salutation in view of death. KETTLE'S book is in the main a
reprint of articles that reveal a brilliant and versatile mind. Mrs.
KETTLE contributes a very interesting and sympathetic account of her
gallant husband's life. It would have been impossible for such a man
not to have hated the German tyranny.
* * * * *
Mr. STACY AUMONIER takes for his theme the development of a clever
neurotic, _Arthur Gaffyn_, who stands, in relation to normal life
and normal feelings, _Just Outside_ (METHUEN)--a common modern type,
perhaps a commoner type in all ages than the obvious records show. The
author handles with real subtlety the phases of Arthur's marriage with
a woman much older than himself, a marriage in which the hunger of
the woman for love was a greater factor than the not deeply stirred
passion of the man. Then, with the appearance of the destined mate,
beauty and youth and desire carry the day against duty, but neither
callously nor flippantly. The insight and sympathy displayed in
the analysis of motive are remarkable. The author has a real gift
for portraiture. In particular he touches in his minor folk with
extraordinarily deft defining lines. Perhaps in general there is
a little hesitancy in craftsmanship, a slight quavering between
the fashionable modern realism and an older romanticism. But the
seriousness of his artistic intention, the solidity of his work (which
is by no means to say stodginess, quite the contrary) will commend Mr.
AUMONIER to all who care to listen to people who have the one thing
necessary, something to say; and the other thing desirable, a pleasant
way of saying it.
* * * * *
In its quiet unobtrusive way _When Michael Came to Town_ (HUTCHINSON)
is a most excellent specimen of Madame ALBANESI's art. No sound of
war is to be heard in it, and when I think how completely some of our
novelists have failed when trying to deal with contemporary events
I cannot be too thankful that this novel is laid in a period before
the Germans became an uncivilised nation. _Olive_, the heroine,
a delightful girl, is the supposititious child of _Sir James
Wenborough_, whose wife, in his absence and without his knowledge,
secured her as a substitute for their own child, who died at its
birth. The secret is disclosed by an unscrupulous minx, who uses the
knowledge she has obtained to push her way into the _Wenborough_
household. Men are not Madame ALBANESI'S strongest points, but in
_Roderick Guye_ and _Michael Wenborough_ we have well-contrasted
characters, and the worst that can be said of them is that they
belong to rather stock types. Altogether a book which many people
will describe as "perfectly sweet;" but, because of its sympathetic
qualities and sound workmanship, it deserves a more distinctive label.
* * * * *
When the lean brown hero with the hawk lip extends an arm of steel
from the six-cylinder Rolls-Royce in which he is lounging and snatches
the beautiful mannequin from between the very jaws of an omnibus, we
realise that we are in the presence of Romance in its purest form.
A spin in the Park and a cosy dinner in a Soho restaurant are quite
sufficient to convince hero and heroine that they are each other's
own. Some novelists would let it go at that, but not Mr. ARTHUR
APPLIN, who has only got to chapter II, and wishes to give us value
for our money. What's to come is, as SHAKSPEARE says, still unsure,
but apparently the heroine, who has gone to break the happy news to a
poor but respectable aunt in Devonshire, is met at the country station
by a chauffeur, who calls her "Lady Alice" and waves her towards a
large Limousine. She knows she isn't Lady Alice and has no car to
meet her, but she hops in nevertheless. She doesn't know where she is
going, but she is on her way. There is a smash, and when the heroine
comes to she is being called Lady Alice in an ancestral castle.
Everything has been obliterated from her memory, including her own
identity and that of the hero, and the author can now make a fresh
start. If you wish to know how it all ends you must get _The Woman
Who Was Not_ (WARD, LOCK), but there is no compelling reason why
you should.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "OH, YOU AWFUL BOY--YOU'VE LEFT THE TACKS IN THE ROAD,
AND NOW THE TANK'LL GET A PUNCTURE."]
* * * * *