(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS._)
"In a few days," says the puff preliminary of _The Coming_ (CHATTO
AND WINDUS), "you and all your friends will be reading and discussing
this most strange and prophetic novel." Perhaps. But what we shall
be saying about it depends largely, I suppose, upon our definition
of the term prophetic; also a little upon our feeling with regard to
good taste and the permissible in fiction. My own contribution will
be a sincere regret that a writer as gifted as Mr. J.C. SNAITH should
have attempted the obviously impossible. His theme, symbolised by a
wrapper-design of three figures silhouetted against a golden sunrise,
is a second advent of the Messiah, embodied in the person of a village
carpenter named (with palpable significance) _John Smith_, whom local
prejudice sends, not inexcusably, to a madhouse, where he dies, after
converting the inmates and instituting a campaign of universal peace.
Frankly, the chief interest of such a wildly fantastic idea lies in
watching just how far Mr. SNAITH can carry it without too flagrant
offence. That his treatment is both sincere and careful hardly lessens
my feeling that the whole attempt is one to be deplored. Humour of the
intentional kind has, of course, no place in the author's scheme. How
remote is its banishment you may judge when I tell you that the Divine
message is represented as given to mankind in the form of a wonderful
play, which instantly achieves world-wide fame, being performed by no
fewer than fifty companies in America alone. The problem (to name but
one) of the resulting struggle between plenary inspiration and the
conditions of a fit-up tour is only another proof of my contention
that there are more things in heaven and earth than can be treated
in realistic fiction, and that Mr. SNAITH'S good intentions have
unfortunately betrayed him into selecting the least possible.
* * * * *
If _Humphrey Thorncot_ and his sister _Edith_ had not bored one
another and grown touchy--I judge by their reported conversations--in
a house with green shutters in Chelsea, they would never have gone
to St. Elizabeth, which is a Swiss resort, and would never have met
the East-Prussian family of the _von Ludwigs_ in the year before the
War. And _Humphrey_ would never have fallen (temporarily) in love
with _Hulda von Ludwig_, nor would _Karl von Ludwig_ have fallen
(permanently) in love with _Edith Thorncot_. The troubles and miseries
of this latter couple are related by Mr. HUGH SPENDER in _The Gulf_
(COLLINS). Papa _von Ludwig_ objects so violently to all this
love-making that he eventually succumbs to a regular East-Prussian
stroke of apoplexy which all but leads to a charge of parricide
against _Karl_ by his base brother, _Wilhelm_. _Karl_ is really too
good for this world. He objects to atrocities and refuses at the risk
of his own life to shoot innocent Belgian villagers. Being imprisoned,
he escapes by means of a secret sliding panel and an underground
passage which leads him, not immediately, but after many vicissitudes,
to America. There he is joined by his faithful _Edith_, who defies the
Gulf caused by the War, and marries him. Mr. SPENDER appears to have
been in some doubt as to whether he should write the story of two
souls or the history of the first few weeks of the War. Eventually
he elects to do both, and his novel consequently suffers somewhat in
grip. He certainly paints a very vivid picture of events in the first
period of active operations. May I hint a doubt, by the way, whether
in 1913 a French Professor would have mentioned HINDENBURG as one of
Germany's most important men? Whatever he may have been in Germany,
HINDENBURG was for the outside world a later discovery.
* * * * *
_Further Memories_ (HUTCHINSON) is justly called by its publishers
a "fascinating volume." The designation will not surprise those who
enjoyed the late Lord REDESDALE'S former book of recollections. The
present collection is a little haphazard (but none the worse for
that), its chapters ranging over such diverse subjects as Gardens
and Trees, QUEEN VICTORIA, BUDDHA, and the Commune. Certainly not
the least interesting is that devoted to the story of the Wallace
Collection, of which Lord REDESDALE was one of the trustees. His
account of the origin and devolution of the famous treasures will
invest them with a new interest in the happy days when they shall
again be visible. Mr. EDMUND GOSSE contributes a foreword to the
present volume, in which he draws a pathetic picture of the author,
still unconquerably young, despite his years, facing the future with
only one fear, that of the unemployment to which his increasing
deafness, and the break-up of the world as it was before the War,
seemed to be condemning him. _Further Memories_ was, we are told,
undertaken as some sort of a safeguard against this menace of
stagnation. It was a measure for which we may all be glad, as we can
share Mr. GOSSE'S thanksgiving that the writer's death, coming when
it did, saved him, as he had wished, "from all consciousness of
decrepitude."
* * * * *
When an unstable young wife, getting tired of a pedantic husband in
the way so familiar to students of novels, goes off with a companion
more to her taste, anyone can foresee trouble, or what would there be
to write about? When, further, her detestable lover, seeking change
and fearing the financial lash of his properly indignant parent,
terminates the arrangement, even an observer of real life can
guess that her return to her rightful lord and master must entail
disagreeables; but only a reader well brazened in modern fiction could
expect Don Juan promptly to make love to and marry the husband's
sister without a word of apology to anyone. This kind of rather
unsavoury dabbling in problems best left to themselves generally
concludes with the decease of most of the characters and a sort
of clearing up, and to this rule, after many years and pages of
discomfort, MARY E. MANN'S new story, _The Victim_ (HODDER AND
STOUGHTON), is no exception. Not a very attractive programme, but all
the same the volume has one or two redeeming features. For one thing,
the sister is clearly and attractively drawn, and so is the picture on
the wrapper, though it represents no particular incident to be traced
in the pages of the volume which it adorns. Writing more strongly than
is perhaps her wont, Mrs. MANN has taken some trouble to emphasise the
fact that in these cases of uncontrolled passion the major penalty
of guilt is borne not by the offenders themselves but by the first
generation succeeding. This does need saying occasionally, I suppose,
and to that extent _The Victim_ redeems itself from the charge of
trivial unpleasantness.
* * * * *
Mr. J. RATH has really discovered a new type of heroine, new at least
this side the Atlantic. His farm-bred _Sadie_, a Buffalo shirt-packer,
classifies men by the sizes of their shirts, has no use for any
swain with a chest measurement under forty, and eventually in a most
original way finds her hero in _Mister 44_ (METHUEN), an enormous
Canadian engineer and sportsman. She is no chicken herself and has
a passion to be free of the city and out in the great open. _Sadie_
is more than big; she is beautiful, burnished-copper-haired, sincere
and kind, and, though I think the author "gets this over" quite well
I liked her best before she found her man and her _Robinson Crusoe_
adventures among the islands of Ontario, and was giving back chat to
the little foreman in the factory. Here she is a pure delight; and
in these days, when a knowledge of the American language may come in
handy at any moment, this amiable romance may well be recommended as
an attractive manual of first-aid in the matter.
* * * * *
Without professing to be a student of Mrs. DIVER'S books I know enough
about them to be worried by the commonplaceness of _Unconquered_
(MURRAY). Like so many other authors she has succumbed to the lure
of the War-novel. There may be a public for tales of this kind, but
I have not yet read one that approaches artistic success. Here we
are spared nothing. _Sir Mark Forsyth_ goes to France in the early
days, is first of all reported "missing, believed killed," and then
officially reported "killed." Of course he turns up again, but such
a physical wreck that the minx whom he was to have married breaks
off the engagement. Naturally the sweet girl, friend of _Mark's_
childhood, undertakes to fill the gap. The minx, _Bel Alison_, is so
scathingly drawn that from sheer perversity I found myself hunting
for one good point in her character; but without a find. On the other
hand, _Lady Forsyth_, _Mark's_ mother, and a quiet, capable man called
_Macnair_, are admirably put before us. Yet at best there remains
the conviction that the War is terribly real that these attempts to
romance about it are almost bound to be as superficial as they are
superfluous.
* * * * *
[Illustration: DURING THE RAID. _Disappointed Player_. "HARD LINES! I
HAD AN EASY FIVE SHOT THAT WOULD HAVE RUN ME OUT."]
* * * * *
"Lost, between Ryde Pier and Southsea, Black Satin Bag, containing
keys and eyeglasses. Reward given."--_Portsmouth Paper_.
A chance for the local mine-sweepers.