To all those who have not yet read a single work by our author, I would
counsel them to begin with _The Squire's Daughter_, and then take
up--with particular care to preserve the correct sequence--_The Eldest
Son_, _The Honour of the Clintons_, _The Old Order Changeth_ [English
title, _Rank and Riches_]. These four stories deal with the family and
family affairs of the Clintons, and together with a separate book,
_The Greatest of These_ [English title, _Roding Rectory_], belong to
Mr. Marshall's best period, the years from 1909 to 1915. When I say
the best period, I mean the most fruitful up to the present moment in
1918. He is in the prime of life, and it is to be hoped that he may
yet surpass himself; but since 1915, perhaps owing to the obsession of
the war, he has not done so. _Watermeads_ (1916) is a charming story,
and in _Abington Abbey_ (1917), and its sequel, _The Graftons_ (1918),
he has introduced us to another interesting family; but neither of
these books reaches the level maintained by the Clinton tetralogy, nor
penetrates so deeply into the springs of life and conduct as his most
powerful work, _The Greatest of These_.
Mr. Marshall began _The Squire's Daughter_ as a long "short story,"
starting with what is now Chapter XII, _Food and Raiment_. He fell in
love with his characters, as many a novelist has done, and expanded
the narrative. Then he wrote _The Eldest Son_, which is the best of
the four books. Yet it was not a success in England, and at present
both _The Squire's Daughter_ and _The Eldest Son_ are out of print
in their home country; they are, however, having a daily-increasing
circulation in America, which is bound to resurrect them in Great
Britain. For that matter most of Mr. Marshall's novels are more widely
known and certainly more appreciated in the United States than in the
land of their nativity. In _The Honour of the Clintons_, the author's
intention was to "take up the old Squire, see what all his generations
of gentility and honour, and all his conviction that he is of superior
clay, amount to when he is touched with personal disgrace." He
discovered, as Dickens must have discovered in writing the _Pickwick
Papers_, that his hero turned out rather better than he thought he
would. This third book in the series was written under inspiration,
completed in six weeks, and at the time came almost as near satisfying
the author as it always has satisfied me. But a friend, with true
English candour, said to him, "All the ingredients of the cake are
there, but the cake hasn't risen." Anyhow, the Squire rose, whether the
cake did or not.
The final novel in the Clinton family, _The Old Order Changeth_, shows
the effect produced on both Rank and Riches by the Great War. Mr.
Marshall began this story with many misgivings, and it is still not one
of his favourites, chiefly because "there are so many beastly people in
it." But so long as I live it will hold a secure place in my heart, for
this is the first work of the author's that I saw. Indeed I had never
heard of him until I picked up _The Old Order Changeth_. I started
to read it with no conception of the keen delight in store; after
finishing it, I wrote to the publishers, "Who on earth is Archibald
Marshall? There is no one like him in the world. Send me everything he
has written." Since that moment of exaltation, I have read and reread
the Clinton books, and each time they seem better.
To read the Clinton stories is to be a welcome guest in a noble old
English country house, to meet and to associate on terms of happy
intimacy with delightful, well-bred, clear-minded men and women;
to share the outdoor life of healthful sport, and the pleasant
conversation around the open fire; to sharpen one's observation of
natural scenery in summer and in winter, and in this way to make a
permanent addition to one's mental resources; to learn the significance
of good manners, tact, modesty, kindly consideration, purity of
heart--not by wearisome precepts, but by their flower and fruit in
human action. To read these books is not to dodge life, it is to have
it more abundantly.
If, as Bacon said, a man dies as often as he loses his friends, then
he gains vitality by every additional friendship. To know the Clinton
family and their acquaintances is not merely to be let into the inner
circle of English country life, to discover for ourselves exactly what
sort of people English country folk are, to understand what family
tradition and ownership of the land mean to them--it is to enlarge
our own range of experience and to increase our own stock of genuine
happiness, by adding to our mental life true friends--and friends that
are always available. For often the friends of flesh and blood cannot
be reached when we need them most; perhaps they are asleep, or away on
a journey; but the staunch old friends introduced to us by novelists
never deny themselves. Is not this a fairly good reason why, among
all the novels we read, some at all events should be selected for the
immanent charm of their characters? I know how uncritical it is to
admire any work of art that possesses the element of cheerfulness; but
suppose our reading of novels were entirely confined to the works of
Maxim Gorki?
Why should we always select acquaintances in fiction that we always
avoid in real life? Is it the same instinct that makes so many persons
love to go slumming?
There is perhaps rather too strong a flavour of tea in these stories,
but that no doubt is a legitimate part of their realism. The sacred
rite of afternoon tea plays fully as big a part in English fiction
as it plays in English life. Tea--which would be an intolerable
interruption to business or to golf among normal Americans--is never
superfluous to the British. Among the hundreds of English novels that
you have read, can you recall a single instance where any character
_declined_ a cup of tea? And, in terrible crises or trivial vexations,
is not the following exclamation familiar--"I am dying for my tea!" I
sometimes think that if the house should be destroyed by fire at three
o'clock, half-past four would find the family taking tea on the lawn.
I remember, on a voyage to Alaska, a vigorous old English woman who
appeared on deck every day between four and five, and when she saw the
circulation of the china, a look of holy rapture dawned in her eyes,
and from her lips came an ecstatic cry, "Ah, is there tea going?" It
must be wonderful to love anything on earth so much as the English love
their tea.
Two months after writing the above paragraph, I received testimony
which delightfully supports the view expressed. An Englishman informs
me, that after the big sea-fight of Jutland, he had the privilege of
conversing with an English blue-jacket who was perched aloft during the
whole of that terrific experience. There he remained under orders, in
the thick of the battle, with the bolts of death flying all about him.
On being asked how he felt, the young man exclaimed with a tone of
regret, "Well, of course, I had to miss my tea."
Not since Fielding's Squire Western has there been a more vivid English
country squire than Mr. Marshall's Squire Clinton. The difference
between them is the difference between the eighteenth and the twentieth
centuries. He is the man of the house, the head of the family, and it
is not until we have read all four of the stories that we can obtain
a complete view of his character. He is a living, breathing man, and
we see the expression on his face, and hear the tones of his voice,
which his daughters imitate so irresistibly. With all his pride and
prejudice, with all his childish irritableness, he is the idol of the
household. His skull is as thick as English oak, but he has a heart
of gold. He is stupid, but never contemptible. And when the war with
Germany breaks out in 1914, he rises to a magnificent climax in the
altercation with Armitage Brown. We hear in his torrent of angry
eloquence not merely the voice of one man, but the combined voices of
all the generations that have developed him.
Yet while Mr. Marshall has made an outstanding and unforgettable figure
of the fox-hunting Squire, it is in the portrayal of the women of the
family that he shows his most delicate art. This is possibly because
his skill as an artist is reinforced by profound sympathy. The Squire
is so obtuse that it has never dawned upon his mind that his wife is a
thousand times cleverer than he, or that her daily repression has in
it anything savouring of tragedy. In the third book, _The Honour of
the Clintons_, intense and prolonged suffering begins to sharpen his
dull sight; and the scenes between the old pair are unspeakably tender
and beautiful. Mr. Marshall never preaches, never tries to adorn the
tale by pointing a moral. But the wild escapade of the daughter in the
first of these stories, and the insistence of the mother on a superior
education for the twins exhibit more clearly than any letter to the
_Times_ could do, what the author thinks about the difference between
the position women have held in English country homes and the position
they ought to have.
Of all his characters, perhaps those that the reader will remember
with the highest flood of happy recollection are the twins, Joan and
Nancy. In the first novel, this wonderful pair are aged thirteen; in
the second, they are fifteen; in the third, they are twenty-one. Mr.
Marshall is particularly skilful in the drawing of young girls; and
after one has read _Ann Veronica_, I can think of no better antidote
than these Clinton books. Whatever may be woman's place in the future,
whatever she may drink or smoke or wear or say or do, there is one
kind of girl that can never become unattractive; and the Clinton
twins illustrate that kind. They are healthy, modest, quick-witted,
affectionate, high-spirited; when they come in laughing and glowing
from a game of tennis, and take their places at the family tea-table,
they bring the breath of life into the room.
In _The Eldest Son_, which of the four delightful books dealing with
the Clinton family, I find most delightful, there is a suggestion of
the author's attitude toward humanity in the procession of candidates
for governess that passes before the penetrating eyes of Mrs. Clinton.
Her love for the old Starling--one of the most original of Mr.
Marshall's creations--has not blinded Mrs. Clinton to the latter's
incompetence for the task of training so alert a pair as the twins.
Of the women who present themselves for this difficult position, not
one is wholly desirable; and it is plain that Mrs. Clinton knows in
advance that this will be the case. She is not looking for an ideal
teacher, for such curiosities are not to be found on our planet;
the main requisite is brains, and she selects finally the candidate
whom many society women would immediately dismiss as impossible,
the uncompromising, hard-headed, sexless Miss Phipps, who has about
as much amenity as a steamroller. Miss Phipps bristles with faults;
but they are the faults that spring from excess of energy, from
a devotion to scholarship so exclusive that the minor graces and
minor pleasures of life have received in her daily scheme even less
than their due. But the twins already possess everything lacking in
the composition of their teacher; what they need is not a sweet,
sympathetic companion, what they need is what nearly every one needs,
mental discipline, mental training, and an increase in knowledge and
ideas. In this dress-parade of candidates we have a miniature parade
of humanity in the large; no one is faultless; but those who have an
honest mind and an honest character have something essential. And who
knows but what the shrewd and deep-hearted Mrs. Clinton did not also
see that in the association of this mirthless expert with two young
incarnations of vitality and vivacity, both parties to the contract
might learn something of value? Miss Phipps is about to discover that
the country-side in winter has resources entirely unguessed at by her
bookish soul; that there are many of her countrymen and country-women
who find in outdoor sport a secret of health and happiness.
Her bedroom was in the front of the house, and she had
heard, without much heeding them, the wheels and the
beat of horse-hoofs and the voices outside. Now she
began to be a little curious as to what was going on,
and rose and drew up her blind and looked out.
The scene was quite new to her, and in spite of herself
she exclaimed at it. Immediately beyond the wide gravel
sweep in front of the house was the grass of the park,
where the whole brave show of the South Meadshire Hunt
was collected. It is doubtful if she had ever seen a
pack of hounds in her life, and she watched them as if
fascinated. Presently, at some signal which she had
not discerned, the huntsman and the whips turned and
trotted off with them, and behind them streamed all the
horsemen and horsewomen, the carriages and carts, and
the people on foot, until the whole scene which had
been so full of life and colour was entirely empty of
all human occupation, and there was only the damp grass
of the park and the big bare trees under the pearly
grey of the winter sky. She saw the Squire ride off
on his powerful horse, and admired his sturdy erect
carriage, and she saw Dick and Virginia, side by side,
Humphrey, the pink of sartorial hunting perfection,
Mrs. Clinton in her carriage, with Miss Dexter by
her side and the twins opposite to her, and for a
moment wished she had accepted her invitation to make
one of the party, although she did not in the least
understand where they were going to, or what they were
going to do when they got there. All this concourse of
apparently well-to-do and completely leisured people
going seriously about a business so remote from any of
the interests in life that she had known struck her as
entirely strange and inexplicable. She might have been
in the midst of some odd rites in an unexplored land.
The very look of the country in its winter dress was
strange to her, for she was a lifelong Londoner and
the country to her only meant a place where one spent
summer holidays.