(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
There are few living writers of romance who can carry the sword and
doublet with the ease of Miss MARJORIE BOWEN. She has long
since proved herself a practised mistress of mediævalism, and _The
Carnival of Florence_ (METHUEN) finds her therefore on sure
ground. It is a pleasantly stimulating tale of love and adventure
in the days of SAVONAROLA. The heroine is one _Aprilis_, a
fair Florentine whose matrimonial affairs were complicated by the
fact that early in the story she had been abducted (strictly _pour
le bon motif_ in order to score off the gentleman to whom she was
then engaged) by the too notorious PIERO DEI MEDICI. The
unfortunate results were twofold, for though _Aprilis_ was returned
unharmed to her father's house her noble betrothed would have no more
of her, so she had to put up with another husband who took her for
charity, and to suffer in addition the pangs of unrequited love for the
Lord of Florence whom she was unable to forget. What happened--how the
MEDICI were turned from their heritage, and the part played in
all this by the grim Revivalist of San Marco--is the matter of a story
well worth reading. As is his way with tales in which he appears, the
figure of SAVONAROLA comes gradually to dominate the whole;
did he not even master GEORGE ELIOT? The present story is
dedicated "In Memory of Florence, Summer 1914." Presumably, therefore,
Miss BOWEN shares with me certain memories that have been very
vividly recalled by her pages--memories of a June evening when, as
in the days of which she writes, the Piazza della Signoria echoed to
the clash of swords and the tumult of an angry mob. That it has thus
reminded me of what would, but for greater happenings since, have been
one of my most thrilling chimney-corner reminiscences, is among the
pleasures that I owe to a stirring and successful novel.
* * * * *
Among my favourite gambits in fiction is the return to his impoverished
home of one who left it a supposed wastrel, and has now lots and lots
of money. Personally, if I have a preference, it is that my wanderer
should be at first unrecognised; but I am perhaps too fastidious.
Certainly I am not going to complain about _Big Tremaine_ (MILLS
AND BOON) just because when he came back to the Virginian township
that he had quitted as a bank thief his old coloured nurse saw through
him in once. There is, of course, Homeric precedent for the situation;
it is one that, deftly handled, can scarcely fail of its effect. And
the story of _Big Tremaine_ is very deftly handled almost all through.
MARIE VAN VORST evidently knows the gentle Southern life
thoroughly; her pictures of it have served to increase my conviction
that Virginia must be one of the pleasantest places on earth. Not less
true and delicate is her treatment of the relations between masterful
_Tremaine_ and the gently obstinate mother who turns so slowly from
distrust to adoration of her returned son. There are, in short, a great
many qualities in this story that I have found vastly agreeable. Also
what seems to me one big defect. But as this latter is so far essential
that without it there would be no story I am unable further to tell
you about it. Still, I am bound to say that its revelation was a nasty
shock to my admiration, which had been roused more than anything else
by the sincerity and unconventionality of the argument. This is a
matter on which you shall pass your own verdict. Mine would be "A Happy
Ending committed through unjustified fear of the libraries"; and in
view of the charm of her earlier chapters I should discharge the author
with a friendly caution.
* * * * *
Most of us might freely confess to some vagueness in our minds as to
"the social and economic state of things in the Prairie Provinces of
the Dominion," and not a few of us are ready to spend five shillings
and a leisure hour or two in finding out for certain, if only to be
prepared with a refuge in the event of England being Teutonised. Miss
E. B. MITCHELL, the author of _In Western Canada Before the
War_ (MURRAY), knows her subject at first hand and deals
with the right matter in the right manner for our purpose; that is to
say, she is discriminating in her selection of topics and is always
pleasant if never violently exciting or amusing in her treatment of
them. The book is short, as such books should be; it does not pretend
to be exhaustive, yet it leaves a very clear and precise impression
on the mind. But (and every intelligent reader will have been waiting
for this "but") why on earth should it be called _In Western Canada
Before the War_, seeing that it was clearly written without any thought
of the present European conditions and would have been published just
about this time even if we had been at peace with everybody everywhere?
The only reference in point which I can recall is a passing wonder
expressed in a few lines as to what, if any, effect Armageddon will
have in Canada; this is hardly enough, I fancy, to justify the topical
suggestion of the cover. I cannot help feeling that the object of the
last three words of that title was less literary than commercial.
[Illustration: _Voice on telephone (from Berlin)._ "WELL, HAVE YOU
DAMMED THE SUEZ CANAL YET?"
_Turk._ "YES--OFTEN!"]
_In the City of Under_ (ARNOLD) shows Miss EVELYNE
RYND to have quite a pretty talent in the not unattractive _genre_
of fantastic incoherence something after the pattern of _The Napoleon
of Notting Hill_, though in a less robustious mood. But I doubt if
talent (however pretty) is altogether sufficient to carry the reader
through three hundred pages with no possible clue as to what it is
really all about. All the same I do, in justice and most gladly, say
that the author keeps one piqued to the extent of wishing to find
out; one also loses all suspicion of its being an improving book,
and distinctly likes that uncharacteristic Cheltenham boy, _Augustus
Clickson_, who helps little _John Hazard_ to find a job. _John_ was
very small and ineffectual and engaging, and his V.C. father had left
the family wofully ill off, and _John_ felt it was up to him to do
something about it. He meets the _Hawker_, who has a comforting habit
of turning up at odd moments and assuring people that there's a way out
of every difficulty, whereas the old lady, _Mrs. Letitlie_, asserted
roundly and frequently that there was none. Then we have a nice wild
unpractical Professor and a perplexed archæologist who get tangled in
the skein; as also a spy, and, in fact, any old person and thing that
occurred to the writer. There's enough good stuff and good humour in
this queer patchwork to make me sure that any defect is one merely
of form, and I would wager that it was the Notting Hill hero, before
alluded to, that was responsible for setting our author on a dangerous
path.
* * * * *
_The Seventh Post Card_ (GREENING) was one of a series written
anonymously, as harbingers of sudden death, to motor-car drivers whose
bad luck or bad management had made them run over a fellow-creature
with capital consequences. Capital, also, for helping on the plot
of the story; for the sudden death really did come off in such a
considerable number of cases that we should have been quite justified
in feeling worried when the delightful _Joanna_, driving the car
belonging to her equally delightful _Jack_, was unfortunate enough to
knock down a tramp; even though the immediate consequences when _Jack_
found her awakening from unconsciousness by the roadside were--well,
delightful too, and such as could be expected. Indeed, the sadly-worn
word "delightful" seems somehow applicable to the entire string of
clues, deductions, inquests, murders and other horrid thrills, or, at
any rate, to Mr. FLOWERDEW'S telling of them. Is my capability
for melodramatic emotion declining, that I thread this maze of tragic
mystery in a mood no more intense than that of comfortable content?
Perhaps; or it may be only the soothing effect of the author's clean
English, coupled with the conviction that so long as he takes care to
keep _Sir Julian Daymont_--the famous novelist-detective--on their
side, no serious harm can come to the people we care about most. So,
although a really nasty charge of murdering his grandfather turns up
against the hero just when things (but for the number of pages left)
are beginning to look prosperous, I can defy you to get seriously
uneasy about his future; and, sure enough, _Sir Conan_--I mean _Sir
Julian_--solves the problem in convenient time to pack the lovers
safely off on their honeymoon. And, really, what more could you ask for?