(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
MR. DORNFORD YATES, whose name I seem to recall as a contributor to the
magazines, has written a book of the most agreeable nonsense which he
has called _The Brother of Daphne_ (WARD, LOCK). For no specially
apparent reason, since _Daphne_ herself plays but a small part in the
argument, which is chiefly concerned with the brother and his love
affairs. This brother, addressed as _Boy_, was a bit of a dog, and an
uncommonly lucky dog at that. The adventures he had! He apparently could
not go out for the simplest walk without meeting some amiable young
woman, divinely fair and supernaturally witty, with whom he presently
exchanged airy badinage and, towards the end of the interview, kisses.
What distressed me a little at first, till I tumbled to the spirit of
the thing, was the discovery that the charmer was always a fresh one,
and in consequence that these osculations had, so to speak, no
matrimonial significance. Perhaps, however, _Boy_ recognised an
essential similarity in each of his partners. He may, for example, have
been deceived by the fact that they all talked exactly the same Dolly
dialogue--light, frothy and just a little more neatly turned than is the
common intercourse of mortals. You know the kind of speech I mean. It is
vastly pleasant and easy to read; but I must decline to believe that any
young man could have the amazing fortune to meet fifteen pretty girls
who all had the trick of it. Still, that by no means lessened my
enjoyment of an entertaining volume, notice of which would be incomplete
without a word of praise for the illustrations of Mr. C. W. WILMSHURST,
a favourite black-and-white artist of mine, whose name is unaccountably
omitted from the title-page.
* * * * *
If DOROTHEA CONYERS knew as much about English syntax as she does about
Irish, and were as certain in the handling of a story as she is in the
conduct of a horse, _Old Andy_ (METHUEN) might be taken at a single
refreshing gallop. As it is, I advise the reader to tackle it piecemeal,
a brisk run here and there, followed by a considerable breather. For the
novel is put together in a scrambling fashion, being full of repetitions
of almost identical scenes and making very little definite way in a
forward direction. There are the usual Irish peasantry and farmers who
worship the horse for pecuniary and sentimental reasons, as the
Israelites worshipped the golden calf; the usual hunting people, who
either ride straight and are grimly sarcastic or talk very big and go
for the gates; and the usual English visitors, who astound by their
guilelessness and simplicity when confronted by aboriginal horse-copers
and native bogs and stone-walls. If cubbing be included, I should be
afraid to say how many meets are described in this book, or how many
hunt-breakfasts and heavy teas in Irish interiors--interiors of
cottages, of course, I mean--resulting in how many tricky deals and
harmless tosses in the heather and the mud. But if you follow my lead
there is plenty of pure joy in _Old Andy_, and the most and the best of
it perhaps is to be found in the remarks of grooms, servant-girls and
casual country folk, who as often as not have no kind of connection with
the thread of the tale. "'If meself an' the Masther wasn't rowlin' rocks
all the day yestherday, he would be within long ago,' replied the
covert keeper." "If there is one rabbit with a skinned nose there's a
hundther, an' they runnin' by mistake to the door they're used to be
at." Such scattered flowers of speech abound in a book whose very want
of construction is perhaps symbolical and a reflection of the charming
incoherence of the Irish mind.
* * * * *
It is my painful experience that, when a novelist sets out to write a
tale of English country life, the better he is at the job the more
sombre is the finished product. Mr. GEORGE STEVENSON is very good indeed
at his job; he has sincerity and power, and a certain austere aloofness
that will take him far; and the result is that _Jenny Cartwright_ (LANE)
is about as gloomy a story as ever I read. Above everything else, what I
noticed about this book was its freedom from all straining after effect.
Whatever takes place, I fancy Mr. STEVENSON saying, do not let us be
sentimental about it. Half the characters in the book seem to come by
violent ends; of the two chief women, one commits suicide and the other
is hanged. Mr. STEVENSON, one can only suppose, speaks of life as he
finds it. There are really two stories, that of _Beatrice Barrington_,
the faithless wife of _Sir Philip_, and the dreary mockery of life up at
The Court, with its hatreds and subterfuges, its crippled master,
frightened children and spying servants. This is the county as the
author sees it. Linked with this is the life of the farm, where _Jenny_
is brought up by an uncle who hates her; where she tends his bedridden
wife; where her cousin _Beatrice_ goes wrong; where _Beatrice's_
betrayer is killed in an accident, and her baby falls into the fire; and
where finally the dour uncle himself, after shooting the young squire
who has offered dishonourable addresses to _Jenny_, allows her to pay
the penalty of his crime. There is undeniable strength about the book
and it holds the attention; but I dispute the right of anyone to call it
cheerful.
* * * * *
CYNTHIA STOCKLEY has the writing quality in her; she can both see and
feel; she can do man-talk with a plausibility beyond the reach of most
of her sex; and she works with a refreshing dash and freedom. With a
certain carelessness also sometimes; as thus: "The other, turning to
run, got a shot in his leg that put him out of business, but in spite of
which he managed to crawl away." And there are little kakophonies, such
as: "He was loved, openly and gladly, back." The work is good enough to
make worth while the cleansing of these defects. The author certainly
puts into a short story more thought and characterisation than is common
in these days of half-hours with even the best authors through the
medium of magazine pot-boilers. _Wild Honey_ (CONSTABLE) is the title of
the first (not quite the best) of an excellent bunch. It sums up the
bitter-sweet of South Africa, which is the setting of all these stories
of love, adventure, horror and the wild. They give a strong impression
of fidelity of draftsmanship, though here we know so little that is
intimate of the dark continent that we cannot judge how far actual
occurrences are based on fact or probability. But CYNTHIA STOCKLEY has
some of the mysterious qualities of a possible South African laureate.
Perhaps she will contrive to put away a little weakness for tall and
scornful aristocratic women; but, in any case, I can commend her book
confidently to all intelligent beach-haunters.
* * * * *
"The price of bread has just been fixed by the authorities at 32
centimes the kilometre."--_Globe._
So you can get a couple of yards of French roll for about
half-a-farthing. Not bad for war-time.