_(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)_
Books dealing with life at the Front have naturally somewhat slackened
in volume of late. Perhaps this accounts for some part of my interest
in _Pushed and the Return Push_ (BLACKWOOD). But more must be put down
to the lure of the subject, and most of all to the admirable way in
which the writer, who chooses to be known as "QUEX," has dealt
with it. Briefly, the book is a record of the two great sensational
movements of 1918, and of the writer's experiences as an officer of
an Artillery Brigade in the retreat forced upon the Fifth Army by the
break through of the Germans on March 21st, and subsequently in the
return push which broke the Hindenburg Lino and ended the War.
The publishers say that this is the only account yet written by a
participator in these happenings; I hardly think that any will appear
more vivid and moving. The amazing sequence of the events with which
it deals gives to the book the thrill of arranged drama, in which
disaster is balanced by the triumphant ending. However unskilfully
told, such a history could hardly fail of its effect; by good fortune,
however, it finds in "QUEX" a chronicler able to do it justice. Simply
and without apparent effort he conveys the suspense of the days before
the attack (a couple of chapters here are as breathlessly exciting as
anything that I have yet read in the literature of the War), the
long trial of the retreat, and finally the retaliation and the
ever-quickening rush forward from victory to victory that makes last
autumn seem like an age of miracles. It is essentially a soldier's
story, at times technical, throughout filled with the unflurried
all-in-the-day's-work philosophy that upheld our armies in every
change of fortune. For many reasons a volume that should find its
place in any collection of the smaller histories of the Great War.
* * * * *
Until I had very nearly reached the end of _The Cormorant_ (MELROSE)
I could not, though I tried, make up my mind as to which of three
possible claimants was filling the title-role. When I did discover the
"Cormorant's" identity with a fourth person quite unsuspected, I found
myself just a little inclined to wonder whether perhaps the authoress
had not had the mystification of her readers as her real aim when she
chose her title, and merely introduced a pleasant American, who called
people names with a sincerity few of us would dare to imitate, in
order to justify her choice. But all the same I am not going to tell
her secret here, for I feel that much will be added to the interest of
a very pleasant book if readers will pause long enough at the end of
chapter sixteen to try to "spot" the "Cormorant" and--as I hope and
believe--guess wrong. Miss ANN (or ANNE, for her publishers seem to
be in two minds about it) WEAVER has compounded her tale from the
somewhat ordinary ingredients of a heroine, as aggressively red-haired
as only red-haired heroines can be; a philandering but finally
faithful hero; a worthless but charming married man, and a number of
less important people, many of whom are well drawn, though I think
that I have met that scheming and malicious French maid before. _The
Cormorant's_ lines are chiefly laid in country houses of the more
delightful sort and the story is well told. When Miss WEAVER invents a
more distinguished plot she should do something very good indeed.
* * * * *
Mr. HORACE BLEACKLEY'S _Anymoon_ (LANE) is a reasonably diverting
because superbly improbable account of England under the new Socialist
Commonwealth, with _Joseph Anymoon_, a highly popular Cockney
plebeian, as President. Follows an era of feminist control and a
Bolshevist revolution contrived by one _Cohen_ (with the authentic
properties, "Crimson Guards" and purple morality), and finally the
Restoration through the loyalist Navy, the complacent _Anymoon_
consoling himself with the reflection that if he was a failure as
CROMWELL he can at least be a success as General MONK. Perhaps the
wilder critics of the present order have no reason to complain
if their impatient generalisations are marshalled, however
disingenuously, against them. But the judicious folk of every school
who are now trying to take their bearings may wonder if much is to be
gained by putting up and knocking down such flimsy figures of straw.
Mr. HAROLD COX contributes a rather too solemn preface, which labels
this otherwise irresponsible novel as a serious tract. I rather think
that the engaging spectacle of the biographer of WILKES and the editor
of _The Edinburgh_ (the author of _The New Republic_ surely somewhere
in the offing) crouching among the headstones with a candle in a
hollow turnip will make a certain appeal to those with a sense of
humour and proportion ... The others may like it even better.
* * * * *
Nothing could be more attractive than the central idea of _The Love
Spinner_ (METHUEN), which is to tell the war-time adventures of a
little old lady--the good fairy of her circle--whose interest in
the heart-affairs of her friends wins her this pleasant if slightly
sentimental title. But, ungrateful as is the task of breaking so
innocent a butterfly upon the wheel of criticism, I'm afraid I must
add that I think Miss CLARA TURNBULL has hardly carried out her
purpose with sufficient discrimination. In plain fact she has allowed
her sympathies to run away with her. Such a character as _Miss
Jessie_, who goes about doing good, and producing incidentally the
most benevolent reactions in confirmed misanthropes, demands to be
handled with the nicest care if sentimentality is to be avoided. Let
me put it that Miss TURNBULL has not always been entirely successful
in this respect. Thus, despite some agreeable scenes, the book remains
one for the unsophisticated, or for those whose appetite for fictional
glucose is robust. There is not very much that can be called plot;
what there is concerns itself with the fortunes of _Miss Jessie's_
tenants, the chief objects of her ministrations. In the end an
air-raid, of which the details are surely unusual, provides _Miss
Jessie_ with the opportunity for a deed of heroism that I am still
trying to visualize (her nephew had thrown her down and was protecting
her body with his own; but the heroine, seeing this, changed places
with her defender "between the flash of the shell's impact and the
explosion") and finishes, with an appropriately tearful death-scene, a
tale that would have been improved by more restraint in the telling.
In _The Thunderbolt_ (UNWIN) _Georgina Bonham_, at home and amongst
her intimates, delighted in small-talk. It flowed in an unceasing
stream, particularly when _Dr. Rayke_, her chief adviser and
confidant, came to tea and ate his favourite currant-and-sultana cake.
Everything, in fact, prepares you for one of the tamest of all tame
novels, when suddenly the "Thunderbolt" of the title remembers its
attributes and bursts from a clear sky. Thenceforward Mr. GEORGE
COLMORE'S book is of a particularly painful character. For the horrors
which here accumulate on horror's head I find no adequate excuse, even
though the villain of the story is a German.
* * * * *
_Blanche Maddison_, the heroine of _The Obstinate Lady_ (HUTCHINSON),
might without any excess of rudeness be called pig-headed. With her
case in my mind let me advise women who have married disgusting men
to seek whatever shelter the law may give them rather than adopt her
persistently cold and aloof manner. I hardly wonder that her husband
found her a little exasperating. We all know Mr. W.E. NORRIS as a
novelist who can be trusted not only to tell an intriguing story,
but also to construct it irreproachably. But here, I think, he has
penalised himself with the materials he has chosen. However he sets
bravely to work to wipe off his handicap, and very nearly succeeds. If
I cannot credit him with complete success it is because the subsidiary
tale of love which he gives us is really too anaemic. Yet I can
conceive of people so fed up with the makers of blood-heat fiction
that Mr. NORRIS'S lukewarm method will afford them a pleasant change.
* * * * *
However cleverly Mr. WILLIAM CAINE may treat his theme, _The Wife
Who Came Alive_ (JENKINS) is only another version of the antiquated
mother-in-law business. _Doll Brackett_ was a beautiful American girl,
and if she had not been idiotically idolised by her mother and could
have realised the difference between pounds and pence she might
have made an excellent wife for _George March_, of Hampstead,
portrait-painter. _Mrs. Brackett_ was not actively hostile to this
marriage, but after losing her fortune she began to disapprove of
the economy which _March_ preached and tried in vain to practise.
Persuaded that her idol was no longer becomingly enshrined, she
proceeded to make trouble between husband and wife, and they
separated. Then followed a very lean time both for _Mrs. Brackett_
and her daughter, until at last the former made such an outrageous
proposal that _Doll_ came to her senses. You will easily believe that
this sort of subject offers no very favourable outlet for Mr. CAINE'S
particular gifts, but the confidential style in which he tells
the story is distinctly engaging, and as a warning to foolish
mothers-in-law it is something more than adequate.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Bus Conductor_. "ANYBODY WANT THE ALBERT 'ALL?"
_Weary Househunter (absent-mindedly)._ "IT'S RATHER LARGE, BUT PERHAPS
I MIGHT BE ALLOWED TO SUB-LET A PART."]