(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
I forget just how long it is since Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT united _Edwin
Clayhanger_ and _Hilda Lessways_ in the bonds of matrimony. Time goes so
fast these days that I met them again, and _Auntie Hamps_, and _Maggie_,
and _Clara_, and the rest of the Three Towns company, as after an
enormous interval. They themselves however have changed in nothing,
except perhaps that the habit of introspection and their phenomenal
capacity for self-astonishment have become more pronounced. "He thought,
'I am I; this wife is my wife; and if I put one foot before the other I
shall go inevitably forward.' And it seemed to him stupendous." I do not
say that this is a quotation, but it represents a habit of mind that is
in danger of growing, upon _Edwin_ especially. He seems never able to
share my own entire confidence in Mr. BENNETT'S efficiency as creator.
Of course nothing very much happens in the course of _These Twain_
(METHUEN). It is simply a study of conjugal existence in its effect upon
character; briefly, how to be happy though married. In the end _Edwin_
seems to hit upon a sort of solution with the discovery that injustice
is a natural condition to be accepted rather than resented. So one
leaves the two with some prospect, a little insecure, of happiness.
Needless to say the study of both _Edwin_ and _Hilda_ is marvellously
penetrating and minute, almost to the point of defeating its own end. I
had, not for the first time with Mr. BENNETT'S characters, a feeling
that I knew them too well to have complete belief in them. They become
not portraits but anatomical diagrams. But for all that the accuracy of
his observation is undeniable. One sees it in those minor personalities
of the tale whom he is content to record from without. _Auntie Hamps_,
for example, and Clara are two masterpieces of portraiture. You must
read _These Twain_; but if possible take time over it.
* * * * *
American improvements are the wonder of the world. America seems to have
the knack of taking hold of old stuff and turning it into something full
of pep and punch. You remember a play called _Hamlet_? No? Well, there
is a scene in it, rather an impressive scene, where a man chats with his
father's ghost. Mr. ROBERT W. CHAMBERS, America's brightest novelist,
has taken much the same idea and put a bit of zip in it. In his latest
work, _Athalie_ (APPLETON), the heroine, who is clairvoyant, sees the
ghost of the hero's mother, who prevented the hero from marrying her,
and cuts it. "A hot proud colour flared in her cheeks as she drew
quietly aside and stood with averted head to let her pass." In all my
researches in modern fiction I cannot recall a more dramatic and
satisfying situation. It is, I believe, the first instance on record of
a spectre being snubbed. SHAKSPEARE never thought of anything like that.
As regards the other aspects of _Athalie_, the book, I cannot see what
else a reviewer can say but that it is written by Mr. CHAMBERS. The
world is divided into those who read every line Mr. CHAMBERS writes,
irrespective of its merits, and those who would require to be handsomely
paid before reading a paragraph by him. A million eager shop-girls,
school-girls, chorus-girls, factory-girls and stenographers throughout
America are probably devouring _Athalie_ at this moment. My personal
opinion that the book is a potboiler, turned out on a definite formula,
like all of Mr. CHAMBERS' recent work, to meet a definite demand, cannot
deter a single one of them from sobbing over it. As for that section of
the public which remembers _The King in Yellow_ and _Cardigan_, it has
long ago become resigned to Mr. CHAMBERS' decision to take the cash and
let the credit go, and has ceased to hope for a return on his part to
the artistic work of his earlier period, when he wrote novels as opposed
to Best Sellers.
* * * * *
Let me heartily commend to you a book of stories by doughty penmen
turned swordsmen for the period of the War--A. E. W. MASON, of the
Manchester Regiment; A. A. M., of the Royal Warwicks; W. B. MAXWELL,
Royal Fusilier; IAN HAY, A. and S. HIGHLANDER; COMPTON MACKENZIE, R.N.;
"Q.," of the Duke of Cornwall's L.I.; OLIVER ONIONS, A.S.C.; BARRY PAIN,
R.N.A.S.; and just short of a dozen others. Published by Messrs. HODDER
AND STOUGHTON, under title, _The Red Cross Story Book_, to be sold for
the benefit of _The Times_ Fund. It's the sort of book about which even
the most conscientious reviewer feels he can honestly say nice things
without any too thorough examination of the contents. With that thought
I started turning over the pages casually, but found myself dipping
deeper and deeper, until, becoming entirely absorbed, I abandoned all
pretence of professional detachment and had a thoroughly good time. I
should like to be able to state that the quality of these stories of
humour, adventure and sentiment was uniform, if only for the sake of
this appropriate word. But I can say that the best are excellent, the
average is high, and the tenor so varied as to suit almost any age and
taste.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Severe mental collapse experienced by a journalist who
attempted to write an article on the rat plague in the trenches without
making any reference to "The Pied Piper of Hamelin."]
* * * * *
Mr. B. G. O'RORKE, Chaplain to the Forces, has written a short account
of his experiences in confinement--_In The Hands of the Enemy_
(LONGMANS). Seeing that he was allowed, as a minister of religion,
unique opportunities of meeting our officers (though not men of the
ranks) shut up in different fortresses, and particularly because he has
been thoughtful enough to mention many of them by name, his narrative is
one which nobody with near friends now in Germany can afford to miss.
The general reader, on the other hand, may have to confess to some
disappointment, since the foggy shadow of the Censor, German or English,
still looms over the pages here and there, blotting out the sensational
episodes which we felt we had reason, if not right, to expect; and if
their absence is really due to Mr. O'RORKE'S steady refusal to indulge
us by embellishing his almost too unvarnished recital the effect is just
the same. Or perhaps the suggestion of flatness is to be ascribed to the
enemy's failure on the whole to treat certain of his victims in any very
extraordinary manner, and if so we can accept it and be thankful. There
are lots of interesting passages all the same, such as the account of
the specially favourable treatment of officers from Irish regiments,
accorded in all Teutonic seriousness as preparatory to an invitation to
serve in the ranks of Prussia; or the pathetic incident of the
white-haired French priest sent to the cells for urging his congregation
to pray _pour nos âmes_. Nowhere outside the Fatherland, I should
imagine, would prisoners be forbidden to pray even _pour nos armes_, and
the stupidity of the misunderstanding is typical enough. The cheerful
dignity shown by prisoners under provocation makes a fine contrast to
such pitiful smallness, and of that this little book is a notable
record.
* * * * *
I suppose it would not be possible to travel in the Pacific without a
fountain-pen and a note-book. At all events this seems a privation from
which the staunchest of our literary adventurers have hitherto shrunk.
Do not however regard this as anything more than a casual observation,
certainly not as implying any complaint against so agreeable a volume as
_Voyaging in Wild Seas_ (MILLS AND BOON). There must be many among the
countless admirers of Mr. JACK LONDON who will be delighted to read this
intimate journal of his travellings in remote waters, written by the
wife who accompanied him, and who is herself, as she proves on many
pages, one of the most enthusiastic of those admirers. You may say there
is nothing very much in it all, but just some pleasant sea-prattle about
interesting ports and persons, and a number of photographs rather more
intimate than those that generally illustrate the published travel-book.
But the general impression is jolly. Stevensonians will be especially
curious over the visit to Samoa, concerning her first impressions of
which Mrs. LONDON writes: "As the _Snark_ slid along, we began to
exclaim at the magnificent condition of this German province--the
leagues of copra plantation, extending from the shore up into the
mountainous hinterland, thousands of close-crowded acres of heavy green
palms." This was in May, 1908. Vailima was at that time the residence of
the German Governor (a desecration since happily removed); but the
LONDONS were able to explore the gardens and peep in at the rooms whose
planning STEVENSON had so enjoyed. Later of course they climbed to the
lonely mountain grave of "the little great man"--a phrase oddly
reminiscent of one in an unpublished letter of RUPERT BROOKE (about the
same expedition) that I had just been reading. Mrs. LONDON deserves our
thanks for letting us share so interesting a holiday in these restricted
days.
* * * * *