(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
Probably one of your first, and abiding, impressions of _The Third
Window_ (SECKER) will be that of almost extreme modernity. Certainly
ANNE DOUGLAS SEDGWICK (Mrs. BASIL DE SELINCOURT) has produced a
story that, both in its protagonists--a young war-widow and a maimed
ex-officer--and in its theme--spirit-communication and survival of
personality--is very much of the moment. It is a short book, not two
hundred pages all told, and with only three characters. You observe
that I have given you no particulars as to the third, though (or
because) she is of the first importance to the development. To say
more of this would be to ruin all, since suspense is essential to
its proper savouring; though I may indicate that it turns upon the
question whether the dead husband is still so far present as to forbid
the union of his widow and his friend. The thing is exceedingly
well done, despite a suggestion now and again that the situation is
becoming something too fine-drawn; I found myself also in violent
disagreement with the ending, though for what reasons I must deny
myself the pleasure of explaining. Perhaps the cleverest feature of
an unusual tale is the idea of Wyndwards, the modern "artistic" house
that is its setting--a house rather over deliberate and self-conscious
in its simplicity and beauty, lacking soul, but swept and garnished
for the reception of the seven devils of bogiedom. The atmosphere of
this is both new and conveyed with a very subtle skill.
* * * * *
It must be admitted that Mrs. BELLOC LOWNDES'S young ladies enjoy
singularly poor luck, as is shown notably by their habit when in
foreign parts of picking up the worst people and generally surrounding
themselves with a society that it would be flattery to call dubious.
The latest victim to this tendency is _Lily_, heroine of _The Lonely
House_ (HUTCHINSON). It was situate, as you might not expect from its
name, at Monte Carlo, and _Lily_ had come there as the paying guest of
a courtesy uncle and aunt of foreign extraction, about whom she really
knew far too little. They had tried to postpone her visit at least
for a couple of days, the awkward fact being that the evening of
her arrival was already earmarked for an engagement that Auntie
euphemistically called "seeing a friend off on a long journey." If you
know Mrs. BELLOC LOWNDES at her creepiest, you can imagine the spinal
chill produced by this discovery. Gradually it transpires (though how
I shall not say) that whenever the _Count_ and _Countess Polda_ were
in want of a little ready cash they were in the habit of "seeing off"
some unaccompanied tourist known to have well-filled pockets. So
you can suppose the rest. If I have a criticism for Mrs. LOWNDES'
otherwise admirable handling of the affair it is that she depends
too much on the involuntary eavesdropper; before long, indeed, I was
forced to conclude either that _Lily_ possessed a miraculous sense
of overhearing, or that the acoustic properties of the lonely house
rendered it conspicuously unsuited for the maturing of felonious
little plans. But this is a trifle compared with the delights of such
a feast of first quality thrills.
* * * * *
The extraordinary cleverness of _A Woman's Man_ (HEINEMANN) is the
thing which most impresses me about this life story of a French man of
letters, at the height of his fame somewhere in the eighteen-nineties.
He is made to tell his own story, and pitfalls for the author must
have abounded in such a scheme, but Miss MARJORIE PATTERSON seems
to have fallen into very few of them. _Armand de Vaucourt_ is a
self-deceiving sensualist who justifies his amours as necessary to
literary inspiration and neglects his wife only to find, too late,
that she has been his guardian angel, her love the source of all that
was worth while in his life and work. There have been such characters
as _Armand_ in fiction who yet made some appeal to the reader's
affection; it is the book's worst defect that _Armand_ makes none.
His recurring despairs and passions grow tedious; his final but rather
incomplete change of heart left me sceptical as to how long it would
have lasted had the book carried his history any further. _Armand_ as
a study of a certain type of egoist is supreme; my difficulty was
that I had no desire to study him. Even _Maria-Thérèse Colbert_, the
decadent wife of his publisher, a very monster among women, is more
interesting. Miss PATTERSON is on the side of the angels, but she
makes her way to them through some nasty mire, calling spades spades
with a vigour which seems to have prevented her from paying much
attention to some beautiful and hopeful things which also have
everyday names.
* * * * *
_Germany's High Sea Fleet in the World War_ (CASSELL), which is
Admiral SCHEER'S addition to the entertaining series, "How we really
won after all," by German Military and Naval commanders, gives you, on
the whole, the impression of an honest sailor-man telling the truth as
he sees it and only occasionally remembering that he must work in one
of the set pieces of official propaganda. To a mere layman this record
is of immense and continual interest; to the professional, keen to
know what his opposite number was doing at a given time, it must be
positively enthralling, especially the chapter on the U-boats, with
its discreet excerpts from selected logs. Incidentally one
can't withhold tribute of reluctant admiration for the technical
achievements of the submarines and the courage, skill and tenacity of
their commanders and crews. Most readers will find themselves turning
first to the account of the Jutland battle. The tale is told not too
boastfully, though the Admiral claims too much. Perhaps that may be
forgiven him, as he certainly took his long odds gamely and fought his
fleet with conspicuous dexterity. Also the German naval architects and
ordnance folk proved to have a good thing or two up their sleeves,
and the gunnery, for a time at any rate, was unexpectedly excellent.
Naturally perhaps Admiral SCHEER may be claimed as supporting the
Beattyites rather than the Jellicoists. But he is biassed and goes
further than the most extreme of the former school. For his real
grievance against the British Navy, constantly finding vent, is that
it did not ride bravely in, with bands playing, to the perfectly good
battleground prepared with good old German thoroughness under the guns
of Heligoland.
* * * * *
No pioneer work was ever more persistently attacked by the weapons of
ridicule and contempt than that of the Salvation Army, and I suggest
that all who sat in the hostile camp should read _William Booth,
Founder of the Salvation Army_ (MACMILLAN), and see for themselves
what ideas and ideals they were opposing. Mr. HAROLD BEGBIE has done
his work well, and the only fault to be found with him is that his
ardour has sometimes beguiled him into recording trivialities; and
this error strikes one the more as BOOTH, both in his strength and in
his weakness, was not trivial. When this, however, is said, nothing
but praise remains for a careful study both of the man and of his
methods. The instrument upon which BOOTH played was human nature, and
he played upon it with a sure hand because he understood how difficult
it is to touch the spirit when the body is suffering from physical
degradation. To this must be added a genuine spiritual exaltation and
love of his fellow-man and also an indomitable courage. Few men could
have emerged with hope and enthusiasm unquenched from such a childhood
as BOOTH'S; but we know how he lived to conquer all opposition and to
promote and organise what is perhaps the greatest movement of modern
times. In paying our tribute to him for his successful crusade against
misery and evil we are not to forget his wife, whose unfailing love
and devotion were his constant support.
* * * * *
Mr. JOHN GALSWORTHY'S short stories and studies in _Tatterdemalion_
(HEINEMANN) are divided into "of war-time" and "of peace-time." I
think the greater part of the author's faithful company of readers
will prefer the latter. Mr. GALSWORTHY has less than most men the kind
of mind that can put off the burden of the suffering of war or submit
easily to the difficult need for us all to think one way in a time of
national crisis. But "Cafard," study of a _poilu_ in the despairing
depression that comes of the fatigue and horror of long fighting, who
is lifted back to courage by a little frightened beaten mongrel whose
confidence he wins, so forgetting his own trouble, was written, one
can feel, because the author wanted to write it, not because he felt
it was expected of him. Of the peace-time sketches "Manna," with the
theme of a penniless and eccentric parson charged with stealing a loaf
of bread and acquitted against the evidence, is as admirable as it is
unexpected in flavour. For the rest there is good GALSWORTHY, if not
of the very best, and but little that one would not praise highly if
it came from an author of lower standards.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Dear Old Soul._ "THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR BRINGING ME
ACROSS. I _DO_ SO HOPE YOU'LL GET SAFE BACK AGAIN."]
* * * * *
Three members, quite immune to scowl or snub,
Disturbed the quiet of the selfsame club;
The first in resonance of snore surpassed,
The next in raucousness, in both the last.
Patience, exhausted, heaved a futile sigh;
No force can cure them and they will not die.