(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks_.)
I am as a rule very strongly against the form of pedantry that hastens
to cry "imitation" whenever a new writer finds himself impelled to
a theme of the same character as that already associated with an
old-established practitioner. But in the case of _The Lost Horizon_
(METHUEN) I find myself overwhelmed. Consciously or unconsciously Mr.
G. COLBY BORLEY has produced a story that in matter and treatment is
so palpably a reflection of JOSEPH CONRAD that the likeness simply
refuses to be ignored. It is in its way a good story enough--an affair
of adventure in South America and on the high seas, with a generous
sufficiency of oaths and blood-letting; a tale moreover that gives
evidence (in spite of that distressing echo) of being written by
one who takes his craft with a becoming dignity of purpose. One
peculiarity of the Master has not only been borrowed by Mr. BORLEY,
but exaggerated to his own undoing: I mean the trick of introducing
a character or group of characters so clogged and obscured by the
adhesions of the uncommunicated past that not till this has been
gradually flaked from them do they emerge as figures in whom it is
possible to take an intelligent interest. In the present instance this
process is delayed for more than half the book. As for the intrigue,
that concerns a group of cut-throat Europeans, who, having been
ruinously involved in a South American revolution, are now further
plunged into the plots of a scoundrelly African magnate and his
conspiratorial gang. For myself, I parted from them all with a feeling
of regret that they had not explained themselves earlier as the
entertaining villains that they turned out to be.
_Manhood End_ (HURST AND BLACKETT) is the title, not very cheery, that
Mrs. HENRY DUDENEY has given to her latest novel, a simple and quite
human story of country vicarage life, told sympathetically, but in
too many words for so slight a theme. The publishers are at the
wholly superfluous pains of urging you as a preliminary to read the
"turn-over of cover." Don't! All you will find there is a synopsis
of the plot, just sufficient to destroy the slender thread of your
interest in its development. And I must record a protest against the
entirely unneeded Prologue, in which total strangers sit round at
a churchyard picnic on the graves of the real protagonists, and
speculate as to their history. The tale itself is placed in Sussex
(why this invidious partiality of our novelists?), the actors being
for the most part clerical. The main interest is centred in the
matrimonial trials of the _Rev. Frederick Rainbird_, whose bride,
having married him in haste, repented at leisure, eloped with the
promising brother of a neighbouring parson, repented more, returned
to domesticity, ran away again, and so on, _da capo_. Perhaps really
these simple but not short annals have a flavour that I have failed
to convey. Mrs. DUDENEY writes easily, but should avoid the snares
of originality. To say of her heroine's morning appearance at the
breakfast table, that she "stood in the tangle of a delicious coffee
smell," may convey an impression, but at a ruinous expense of style.
* * * * *
_Michael Winter_, hero of _The Black Knight_ (HUTCHINSON), by Mrs.
ALFRED SIDGWICK and CROSBIE GARSTIN, had led a nice easy life till
his father's nefarious schemes crashed, bringing down in a common ruin
half the small investors in the country. Left penniless, he changes
his disgraced name and goes out to Canada to make good. There, on the
prairies, he puts in some hard honest work. But, in his haste to be
rich, the _Black Knight_, as they do in chess, after moving straight,
moved obliquely. In order to make a coup out of a Wall Street cinch he
helped himself to the money of the bank of which he was cashier. Other
people who shall be nameless have done this sort of thing before,
and, after returning the "borrowed" cash, have enjoyed a stainless
prosperity. But _Michael_, through a motor-car accident, just failed
to put it back in time, and had to do two years. But he had made a
fortune, and on emerging from prison returned to Europe to enjoy
it. There he rescues an innocent English girl from a shady Parisian
environment and marries her. By chance she learns the secret of the
source of his wealth and leaves him. In order to appease her scruples
and recover her he signs away his goods for the benefit of his
father's creditors. What might have been a too sugary conclusion is
saved by a pleasant touch of corrective irony in the very last line,
where his wife expresses a very human satisfaction on finding that her
best necklace was not included in the noble sacrifice. I hope I shall
not be suspected of flattering Mr. Punch's "PATLANDER" if I admire
the excellence of the Canadian section, obviously contributed by Mr.
CROSBIE GARSTIN, who has knocked about most of the world marked red on
the maps. Here his humour and vitality are at their keenest. The rest
of a well-told tale I attribute to Mrs. ALFRED SIDGWICK, with the
exception of a pugilistic episode, for which I imagine that the male
fist was called in to supplement her proper inexperience.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "MY DEAR, I _FELT_ I OUGHT NEVER TO HAVE TAKEN THE
HOLIDAY. SCARCELY HAD I SET FOOT IN MY APARTMENTS WHEN I WAS HANDED A
TELEGRAM FROM SARAH:--'PARROT LAID AN EGG. WIRE INSTRUCTIONS.'"]
* * * * *
I do believe that I have caught a detective napping; a real private
detective, one of the great infallibles of fiction. Mr. J. S.
FLETCHER'S _Exterior to the Evidence_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) is one of
those thrills in which any of the characters might have committed the
murder and there is every reason, at times, to suspect that they have
all had a hand in it. Over the moorland there ran a path, and at
a spot known as Black Scar it came perilously near the edge of a
forty-foot drop, with rocks at the bottom. Over this precipice
went _Sir Cheville Stanbury_ at midnight, a very odd circumstance
considering his life-long familiarity with the path. _Weathershaw_,
the great detective called in to investigate the matter on behalf of
one of the suspects, took a line of his own and eventually hit upon
someone you and I would never have thought of. We have this excuse,
that we had no idea of his existence until he was hit upon; but no
more had _Weathershaw_. Now I am not going to give away the secret
of this enticing affair, but I must dispute the detective's
identification, on the last page but one, of the man responsible for
_Sir Cheville's_ death. If you compare the statement of fact on page
301, seven lines from the bottom, which corroborates that on page
279, also seven lines from the bottom, with _Weathershaw's_ dramatic
accusation, you will understand what I mean and you will be left
in considerable doubt (as I was) of what the author means. Does he
suggest that _Sir Cheville_ was never murdered at all? After so much
excitement that would be a sad pity.
* * * * *
The publishers of _The Amorous Cheat_ (CHATTO AND WINDUS) generously
label it "an enthralling story of domestic and stage life." To which
my comment must be, that the domesticity supplied by the hero's family
and their quite uninteresting hesitations between town and suburban
residence are entirely nebulous and illusive, that the stage as
background has no significance one way or other, but that the
impropriety upon which (I must say frankly) the appeal of the book
seems to depend is given without stint, in a measure that certainly
may, for some readers, justify the publishers' epithet. You will
understand therefore that I experience a little natural hesitation
about suggesting the intrigue. It is certainly of the simplest--a mere
question as to whether _Edward_ and _Vivian_, casual acquaintances
of a restaurant, shall or shall not spend a sequence of week-ends
together. The lady is described as on the stage, but she might as well
belong to a guild of art-needlework. _Edward_ is the only question of
importance, and the week-ends; if you ponder the significance of the
title you can probably guess the rest. To be honest I ought to add
that Mr. BASIL CREIGHTON wields an easy-flowing pen, and that at least
one chapter certainly is wickedly entertaining, in the style of what
we used to call "Continental" humour. To sum up, not a novel
for family reading or for the fastidious. The others may even be
enthralled.
* * * * *
_The Diary of a Sportsman Naturalist in India_ (LANE) contains an
excellent collection of sporting anecdotes, and dip where you may you
will find none of them trivial or tiresome. Mr. E. P. STEBBING states
that his purpose in selecting material from his note-books was "to
emphasize the necessity which exists of affording protection to
the game and other animals of India," and, shy as some of us are of
purposeful books, there is no reason to be scared by this one. In
the first place Mr. STEBBING's purpose is one which will generally
be commended, and in the second he achieves it in an absolutely
unobtrusive manner. To sportsmen, and especially to those who have
enjoyed the good fortune of shooting in India, this volume will be
extremely welcome. The only cumbrous thing about it is its title. Add
that Mr. STEBBING is as profuse in his illustrations as he is happy in
his choice of subjects.