(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
Those who appreciate the short story of quality will be pleasantly stirred
by the announcement of _Island Tales_ (MILLS AND BOON), a posthumous volume
containing what is probably the last writing of the late JACK LONDON. I can
say at once that these seven stories show his art in one aspect of its
best. Not here the LONDON, whom some of us might prefer, of the strenuous
adventure-tale, with whom there was no respite till, at the end of anything
up to a hundred sinew-cracking pages, we won through to the appointed end.
That South Sea atmosphere, so insidiously appealing to the literary
temperament (from STEVENSON to STACPOOLE you can see it at work) has
steeped these tales in the lotus-leisure of perpetual afternoon, so that
the action of them tends to become overlaid by slow reflective talk, old
memories and the sense of ancient things. Most notable is this in the
first, where the actual romance, quick, human and haunting, does not so
much as show its face till after forty pages of old-time local colour.
Perhaps of all the seven I myself would prefer the last--"The Kanaka Surf,"
a slight intrigue, but a perfect epic of such bathing as, I suppose, can be
understood nowhere but on these enchanted coasts. To read it is to realise
what a loss we suffer in one who could put such jewelled loveliness on to
the printed page--and what another loss in not seeing the original for
ourselves. I suppose no tribute to the power of genius could be more
eloquent.
* * * * *
After the German Revolution of 1918, KARL KAUTSKY, a prominent Socialist,
was appointed by the new Government to examine and edit the documents in
the Berlin Foreign Office relating to the outbreak of the War. His work was
completed in time for the Peace Conference and would, he believes, if
published at that time, have convinced the Allies that the new German
Government ought not to be made responsible for the sins of the old one.
But it would also have shown that the old Government was the main
instigator of the War, and that the German people, having danced to the
tune, even if they did not call for it, deserved to pay the piper. For that
reason, perhaps, the German Government withheld Herr KAUTSKY'S revelations.
Now he has published them on his own account, under the title, _The Guilt
of William Hohenzollern_ (SKEFFINGTON). A more damning indictment has never
been drawn. From the moment of the ARCHDUKE'S assassination the KAISER and
his advisers determined to make it the pretext for destroying Serbia, and
crushing Russia and France if they dared to interfere. BISMARCK once said
that "never are so many lies told as before a war, during an election and
after a shoot." His own manipulation of the Ems telegram was venial
compared to the manner in which the German diplomatists, egged on by their
ruler--whose _marginalia_ on the despatches furnish the most amusing
reading in the volume--used all the arts of chicanery to deceive Europe as
to their real intentions and to defeat the efforts of England--on whose
neutrality they confidently counted--to secure a peaceful settlement.
Though primarily addressed to the German proletariat, Herr KAUTSKY'S book
has its value for all of us--"lest we forget."
* * * * *
On page 103 of _The White Hen_ (MILLS AND BOON) we read that the _Duke_
laughed softly. "'It is just like a romance,' he sighed happily;" which was
precisely where, without intending it, the _Duke_ placed his ducal finger
upon the weak spot in the whole business. Because if ever a story was "like
a romance," and like nothing else on earth, and filled with characters each
and all pledged to preserve its unreality at all costs, here is that tale.
The plot, of which there is a generous allowance, turns chiefly upon the
problem, when is a white hen less a hen than a jewel casket? Answer, when
she has swallowed, and is erroneously thought to have retained, a famous
diamond, upon which an impoverished but noble (see above) French family had
depended for the _dot_ that should enable their daughter to wed a
plutocratic but otherwise detestable suitor. I take it you will hardly need
telling that this is the moment chosen by Romance, under the expert
guidance of Miss PHYLLIS CAMPBELL, to bring along an even more wealthy
young American, mistaken (of course) for his own chauffeur and working such
havoc upon the heart of the heroine that, when the latter accidentally
recovered the diamond from its feathered _cache_, she very sensibly decided
to say nothing about it. Whereupon, because the other characters,
especially an unpleasant Duchess, were unaware that, as the shop
announcements say, "Poultry was Down Again," much profitable confusion
resulted, though nothing to impugn the justice of the ducal verdict quoted
above. So that, if your taste jumps with that of his Grace, you also can
"sigh happily;" otherwise you will perhaps omit the adverb--and select a
story less exclusively romantic.
* * * * *
There is a spirit of Yorkshire and a spirit, I suppose, characteristic of
Suburbia, and on the outskirts of certain large manufacturing towns there
must exist a formidable blending of these two. To express the double
flavour of this essence requires, I should say, a subtler and more
elaborate method than Mr. W. RILEY has attempted to use in _A Yorkshire
Suburb_ (JENKINS). He has imagined for the purpose of these sketches an
architect, _Murgatroyd_, who in planning most of the houses in the locality
has attempted to express in brick and stone the characters of their several
occupants. This is a device which becomes rather monotonous as the book
proceeds, besides imposing a series of strains which neither architecture
nor credulity can easily bear. Since these are rather superior
suburbanites, dialect is for the most part absent, and it is hard to feel
that they are very different people from those who live about the borders
of Manchester or London; a character like _Mrs. Flitch_, for instance, who
is angelic to behold but a spiteful gossip at heart, is, alas! to be found
anywhere. And where the dialect does crop out it does not seem to be
dependent on suburban soil for its raciness. I don't doubt the accuracy of
Mr. RILEY'S Yorkshiremanship, but I do think he has under-estimated the
difficulty of localising the peculiar genius of villadom.
* * * * *
Though billed by her publisher as a merciless analyst, Mrs. MORDAUNT is
really (if you want to fling this kind of title about) an eclectic
synthetist or synthetic symbolist. Her wicked people are prodigiously
wicked, wickedness personified, in fact; her good folk are noble-hearted
without stint or measure. I don't personally think that anybody could be
quite so completely and gratuitously evil as good-looking _Charles Hoyland_
in _The Little Soul_ (HUTCHINSON); or, being so, could possibly be
recommended, still less engaged, as tutor to a sensitive youth; or, being
so engaged, tolerated for two days. He certainly could not hold down his
job long enough to corrupt his pupil, _Anthony Clayton_, by exchanging
souls with him under the nose of mad but perceptive _Mrs. Clayton_ and sane
sister _Diana_. This conspicuously chaste _Diana_ is an attractive person,
and so is the recklessly charitable _Dr. McCabe_, her appropriate mate, who
first had to fly the country through helping a chorus-girl out of a
difficulty and then (more or less) won the War by revolutionising
bacteriology or something like that. However, Mrs. MORDAUNT interests
because she is so palpably interested herself.
* * * * *
The scenes of _Lure of Contraband_ (JARROLDS) are laid in the Devonshire of
some hundred years ago. It is, as its title suggests, a tale of smuggling,
and it contains an account of a hand-to-hand fight between the hero and the
villain which I advise all members of the National Sporting Club to read.
They may be shocked by the tactics of the villain, but at the same time
they will see what a bout of fisticuffs meant in those days. Mr. J. WEARE
GIFFARD is a master of atmosphere, and I, at any rate, lived happily in his
Appledore, and imagined myself drinking prime (and cheap) French brandy in
the Beaver Inn; while _Lieutenant Perkins_, who commanded the "preventive
men," sat in his tall-backed chair by the fireplace and kept his eyes and
ears open to detect anything that was suspicious. But he was not foolish
enough to ask many questions about the French brandy. An excellent yarn,
simply and straight-forwardly told.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Customer._ "AND WHAT DO YOU THINK OF LLOYD GEORGE?"
_Barber._ "THINK OF 'IM, SIR? WITH A MOP OF 'AIR LIKE 'E'S GOT--A NICE
EXAMPLE TO THE NATION!"]
* * * * *
"A photograph of the Olympic games at Antwerp was transmitted yesterday
to Paris, a distance of 200 miles, over a telephone wire. It is in the
nature of an experiment, and if it succeeds Messrs. Cook hold out
promises of further day trips to the Continent."--_Daily Paper._
Intending trippers must, of course, be proficient in the tight-rope wire.