(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
_Reality_ (CASSELL) deserves to rank high amongst the novels of the
present season; it has, indeed, qualities that will cause it, if I am
not mistaken, to outlive most of them. The chief of these I can best
express by the word colour; by which I mean not only a picturesque
setting, but temperament and a fine sense of the romantic in life.
Perhaps I ought to have known the name of MISS OLIVE WADSLEY already. As
I did not, I can only be glad that _Reality_ has rectified the fault; I
shall certainly not again forget a writer who has given me so much
pleasure. The scene of the story is laid in Vienna, chiefly in musical
Vienna, and the protagonists are the young widow, _Irene van Cleve_, and
the violinist, _Jean Victoire_, whom she marries despite the
well-founded objections of her noble family. Some of the family, too,
are quite excellently drawn, notably a Cardinal, who, though he has
little to do in the tale, manages to appear much more human and less of
a draped waxwork than most Eminences of fiction. I have said that the
objections of _Irene's_ relations were justified, the fact being that
_Jean_ was not only a genius, but the most scatterbrained egoist and
vulgarian. Naturally, therefore, the alliance turned out a failure; and
the process is quite admirably portrayed. I liked least in the book the
end, with its sudden revelation of a superfluous secret. Had the secret
not been so superfluous it might have vexed me to have been so long kept
in ignorance of it. But this is a small matter. The chief point is that
_Reality_ has the pulse of life in it--in a word that it confirms its
title; which, indeed, is about the highest praise that a critic can
bestow.
* * * * *
I am not at all sure how Mr. FRANK NORRIS, were he still living, would
have regarded the resurrection of this early attempt at realism, as
taught us by M. ZOLA--_Vandover and the Brute_ (HEINEMANN). He would, I
fancy, have softened some of the crudities and allowed a touch of humour
to lighten the more solemn passages. There are pages here that remind
one that _Vandover's_ creator was also the author of those magnificent
novels _The Octopus_ and _The Pit_; but I cannot, in spite of them,
place much confidence in the truth of _Vandover's_ life history. We are
told that he enjoyed his bath, and usually spent two or three hours over
it. When the water was very warm he got into it with his novel on a rack
in front of him and a box of chocolates conveniently near. Here he
stayed for over an hour, eating and reading and occasionally smoking a
cigarette. Can you wonder after this that poor _Vandover_ went utterly
to the bad, and is to be found on the last page doing some horrible work
with a muck-rake whilst an innocent child points an obvious moral? So
certain was _Vandover's_ doom, once that box of chocolates had been
mentioned, that I grew impatient and a little weary. If this is an age
of realism in fiction I think that _Vandover and the Brute_ should make
plain to any reader why, very shortly, we are going to have an age of
something else.
* * * * *
Do not allow yourself to be put off by the title of _Captivating Mary
Carstairs_ (CONSTABLE)--now published for the first time in England. It
is not, as you might assume, a costume novel of eighteenth-century
tushery. This is what I expected; but as a matter of fact Mr. HENRY
SYDNOR HARRISON has written a tale about as unlike this as anything well
could be. It is a capital tale, too; American to the last epithet, and
crammed so full of the unexpected and adventurous that never (except
once) can you anticipate for a moment what is going to happen. The chief
adventure is abduction, the subject of it being _Mary Carstairs_, whose
father was separated from her mother, and, being a lonely old man with
a longing for a daughter's affection, took this melodramatic course to
secure it. In furtherance of his end he secured the services of
_Maginnis_, genial swashbuckler, and _Varney_, young, susceptible and
heroic, and despatched them on his yacht to apprehend one whom they
vaguely supposed to be "a little girl about twelve." This was the only
time in which I scored over Mr. HARRISON. I was as certain, when I read
thus far, that _Mary Carstairs_ was no child, but a grown-up beauty, as
I am now that I know the facts. Everywhere else the author had me beat.
His capacity for complications seems inexhaustible. I knew that _Varney_
was going to fall in love with _Mary_, but I did not know that he
himself had a double who would cause endless and thrilling confusions;
that _Maginnis_ would become involved in local politics to the extent of
endangering his life; and that even old _Carstairs_, _Mary's_ father,
would--but on second thoughts you had better share my unpreparedness
about him. I should sum up the book as a tale with a "punch" in every
chapter, some of them perhaps below the belt of probability, but all
leaving one, as is the way with punches, breathlessly concerned.
* * * * *
_Monsieur de Rochefort_ (HUTCHINSON) did not even take himself
seriously; why then should I? To subject this airy romance, of Paris in
1770, to a minute criticism would be unnecessarily spoiling a good
thing, and I shall not therefore ask myself whether prisons were so
easily got out of or great statesmen so easily cajoled as Mr. H. DE VERE
STACPOOLE for present purposes assumes. I shall not examine the
historical accuracy of the portraits of the _Duc de Choiseul_ or of the
_Comtesse Dubarry_, nor shall I question the human probability of
villains so inept as _Camus_ or martinets so infallible and ruthless as
_de Sartines_. The most exacting connoisseur of vintage ports will in
his expansive moments admit the merits of a light wine from the wood,
offered him as such in due season; even so the most fastidious
novel-reader may in a holiday mood allow himself to be merely
entertained and diverted by these lighthearted but breathless adventures
in the Court of Louis XV. It is the greatest fun throughout; events are
rapid and the dialogue is crisp; moreover there is from the beginning
the comfortable certainty that, threaten what may, the unhappy end is
impossible. If DE ROCHEFORT had failed to marry JAVOTTE, I think that
Mr. DE VERE STACPOOLE would have incurred the unanimous displeasure of
all his readers, including those who at any other time would have
strongly protested against the marriage of so great a gentleman with so
humble a lady's-maid in any circumstances, let alone upon so very brief
an acquaintance.
* * * * *
_Bridget Considine_ (BELL) is a pleasant story with something very
agreeable in its quality, which however I find hard to define. Miss MARY
CROSBIE has certainly a pretty gift for characterization, and this no
doubt accounts for a good deal of the charm; the rest is largely a
matter of atmosphere. The characters in the story whom you will most
remember are _Bridget_ herself and her father. The last especially is a
continuous joy--a man who in his journey through life had taken
instinctively the manner and aspect of a class to which he did not
belong; a decayed gentleman without ever having been gentle except in
mind; a needy adventurer without the spirit for adventure. Dragged up at
the slip-shod heels of such a parent, supporting herself with romantic
dreams when other nourishment failed, _Bridget_ grew to young womanhood
the very type, one would say, of the _Cinderella_ to be rescued from
poverty by a suitable _Prince Charming_. Thus when a combination of
accidents thrusts her, as secretary-companion, into the society of _Hugh
Delmege_, a budding politician, you will perhaps excusably plume
yourself upon seeing the rest of the tale beforehand. If so, you will,
as a matter of fact, be entirely wrong. _Hugh_ and _Bridget_ become
engaged, certainly, but----. There is much virtue in that "but," the
virtue of an unusual and convincing end to a story that has many charms,
not the least of them being its humour. Yes, I certainly liked _Bridget
Considine_ well enough to wish for more from the same pen. Its motto,
"Candidates for Humanity," is well chosen.
* * * * *
When Mr. WILLIAM SATCHELL, in a preface to _The Greenstone Door_
(SIDGWICK AND JACKSON), remarks that some Maori words are used so
frequently that he is "afraid the English reader will hardly be able to
avoid acquiring a knowledge of their meaning," his alarm is quite
unnecessary. Personally, at any rate, I am proud to know that _papa-tea_
means an untattooed person, and _waipiro_ an alcoholic beverage. But if
Mr. SATCHELL had feared that the young man who tells the story might be
found a little too self-complacent no protest would have been sounded by
me. For _Cedric Tregarthen_, the grandson of an earl, and also "The
Little Finger" of a Maori chief, was beyond my swallowing, though I
endured him obstinately until he reported _verbatim_ the opinion of his
beloved's governess. "'Good-bye, Mr. Tregarthen,' she responded. 'Or, if
you will allow me to say, "Good-bye, Cedric," it will better express my
feelings. I used to hate boys, my dear; but I shall love them all for
the sake of your gentleness and kindness. I am sure you will grow into a
very noble man.'" Now, I ask you, ought not dear _Cedric_ to have kept
this to himself? Give me for choice the Maori boy, _Rangiora_, and the
half-Maori girl, _Puhi-Huia_, humans fit to be loved and admired. The
pity of it is immense, because Mr. SATCHELL has a knowledge of his
subject that is beyond all praise, and the Maori part of his book is
worth reading again and again. But the trouble remains that Cedric lived
to tell the tale, while _Rangiora_ died and had to have his tale told
for him.
* * * * *
Illustration: _The Ancient Mariner._ "SEEN CHANGES? I SHOULD THINK I
'AVE, SIR. W'Y, WINKLETON USED TO BE THAT QUIET YOU COULD 'EAR A PIN
DROP! BUT LOOK AT IT NOW. WHAT WITH THE PICTURE PALACE AND THE PIERROTS
AND THEM SWING-BOATS AND THE PENNY BAZAAR, IT'S GOT TO BE A FAIR
PANHARMONIUM!"
* * * * *
How they view things in Oregon.
"SPORTS.