A young lady typist was overheard remarking in a City teashop the other
day that she liked SILAS HOCKING better than JOSEPH, because the latter
was "rather deep." The remark was significant of the new atmosphere of
literary enthusiasm which the feminine invaders of business London have
brought with them into the luncheon-hour. We are instituting a causerie
for the special benefit of this large class of readers, i.e. those who
get out of their depth in the transition from SILAS to JOSEPH.
I want to introduce you to-day to a writer whose subtle genius defies
analysis but demands reverent appreciation. Ruby L. Binns came into my
own intellectual life at a rather critical stage in my reading. Like
most young men of the early nineteen-noughts, I had fallen under the
spell of Guy Beverley, whose _Only a Mill Hand_ and _Squire Darrell's
Heir_ appeared to us the consummation of the novelettist's art. In those
days every other young man you met was mouthing the great renunciation
scene from the _Mill Hand_. Small marvel too! As I recall it even now
something of the old glamour revives.
"Go!" cried Mary Ellen. "Though you are the Export Manager and I
but a poor humble mill-girl, I would sooner beg my bread from
door to door than seek it at _your_ hand." She eyed him with
pitiless scorn. Jasper Dare went out into the night.
Fine? Ay, and more than fine. But we young men of the nineteen-noughts
made one big mistake. We thought Guy Beverley had scaled the summit of
art; but art has no summit. We thought he had plumbed the depths of
psychology; but psychology defies the plumber. I date a new epoch in my
life from that day in 19-- when I picked up my _Daily Reflector_ and
read the opening chapter of a new serial, _Her Soldier Sweetheart_, by
Ruby L. Binns. That was on a Monday. By Wednesday of that week this
unknown writer had revealed to me a New Idea and a New Style. The idea
is familiar to most of you now, but in those days the daring conception
that a common soldier might turn out to be the missing heir of a baronet
rang like a challenge in the ears of the older romanticism. It is her
style, however, that is Ruby Binns's most enduring gift to English prose
literature. Lean, restrained, economical, it holds (for me) the very
spirit of the English race and tongue. Listen:--
She went to the door, thinking she heard something. There was
nobody there, so she went back to her work, thinking sadly of
her soldier boy. "Cheer up," said Clarice; "perhaps he'll come
back soon." "Perhaps," answered Yvonne wanly, "but it does not
seem very likely, does it, dear?" The next moment the door
opened and a tall soldierly figure entered the room.
English? It is like a May morning on Tooting Common. Beverley would have
handled that situation well, no doubt. But could he--could anyone--have
achieved the poignancy of that unaffected phrase, "It does not seem very
likely"? I said that the depths of Art were unplumbable. True, but Ruby
Binns has at least got lower than most.
Next week I want to speak of a new man and a new book, Stott Mackenzie
and his _Only a Trailer-Car Conductress_.
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