#Windmills: A Book of Fables#, by _Gilbert Cannan_ (B. W. Huebsch, Inc.).
This is the first American edition of a book published in London in
1915. Conceived as a new "Candide," it is a bitter satire on war and
international politics. While it ostensibly consists of four short
stories, they have a unity of action which is sketched rather than fully
set forth. In fact, the volume is really a notebook for a larger work.
Set beside the satire of Voltaire, Mr. Cannan's master, it is seen to
fail because of its lack of kindly irony. In fact, it is a little
overdone.
#The Eve of Pascua#, by "_Richard Dehan_" (George H. Doran Company). Two
years ago I had occasion to call attention to the quite unstressed
romanticism of Mrs. Graves' "Under the Hermes." The present volume is of
much less significance, and I only mention it because of the title
story, which is an adequately rendered picture of contemporary Spanish
life, much less overdrawn than the other stories.
#Poems and Prose#, of _Ernest Dowson_ (Boni and Liveright). Five of the
nine short stories by Ernest Dowson are included in this admirable
reprint, but it omits the better stories which appeared in The Savoy,
and in a later edition I suggest that the poems be printed in a volume
by themselves with Mr. Symons' memoir, and all the stories in another
volume which should include among others "The Dying of Francis Donne"
and "Countess Marie of The Angels."
#The Golden Bird and Other Sketches#, by _Dorothy Eastern_, with a
foreword by _John Galsworthy_ (Alfred A. Knopf). These forty short
sketches of Sussex and of France are rendered deftly with a faithful
objectivity of manner which has not barred out the essential poetry of
their substance. These pictures are lightly touched with a quiet
brooding significance, as if they had been seen at twilight moments in a
dream world in which human relationships had been partly forgotten. They
are frankly impressionistic, except for the group of French stories, in
which Miss Easton has sought more definitely to interpret character. The
danger of this form is a certain preciosity which the author has
skilfully evaded, and the influence of Mr. Galsworthy is nowhere too
clearly apparent. I recommend the volume as one of the best English
books which has come to us during the past year.
#My Neighbors: Stories of the Welsh People#, by _Caradoc Evans_ (Harcourt,
Brace and Howe). In his third collection of stories, Mr. Evans has for
the most part forsaken his study of the Cardigan Bay peasant for the
London Welsh, and although his style preserves the same stark biblical
notation as before, it seems less suited to record the ironies of an
industrial civilization. Allowing for this, and for Mr. Evans' bent
towards an unduly acid estimate of human nature, it must be confessed
that these stories have a certain permanent literary quality, most
successful in "Earthbred," "Joseph's House," and "A Widow Woman." These
three collections make it tolerably clear that Mr. Evans will find his
true medium in the novel, where an epic breadth of material is at hand
to fit his epic breadth of speech.
#Tatterdemalion#, by _John Galsworthy_ (Charles Scribner's Sons). This
volume contains the ripest product of Mr. Galsworthy's short story art
during the past seven years. Its range is very wide, and in these
twenty-three stories, we have the best of the mystical war legends from
"The Grey Angel" to "Cafard," the gentle irony of "The Recruit" and
"Defeat," and the gracious vision of "Spindleberries," "The Nightmare
Child," and "Buttercup-Night." Nowhere in the volume do we find the
slight touch of sentimentality which has marred the strength of Mr.
Galsworthy's later novels, but everywhere very quietly realised pictures
of a golden age which is still possible to his imagination, despite the
harsh conflict with material realities which his art has often
encountered. Perhaps the best story in the present collection is
"Cafard," where Mr. Galsworthy has almost miraculously succeeded in
extracting the last emotional content out of a situation in which a
single false touch of sentiment would have wrecked his story.
#Limbo#, by _Aldous Huxley_ (George H. Doran Company). This collection of
six fantasies in prose and one play has no special principle of unity
except its attempt to apply the art of Laforgue to much less adequate
material. Setting aside "Happy Families" as entirely negligible, and
"Happily Ever After" and "Eupompus Gave Splendour to Art by Numbers" as
qualified successes, the other four stories do achieve more or less what
they set out to do, although Mr. Huxley only achieves a personal
synthesis of style and substance in "The Death of Lully." The other
three stories are full of promise as yet unrealised because of Mr.
Huxley's inability or unwillingness to conceal the technique of his art.
#Deep Waters#, by _W. W. Jacobs_ (Charles Scribner's Sons). Mr. Jacobs'
formula is not yet outworn, but it is becoming perilously uncertain. His
talent has always been a narrow one, but in his early volumes his
realization of character was quite vivid, and his plot technique superb.
At least two of these stories are entirely mechanical, and the majority
do not rise above mediocrity. "Paying Off," "Sam's Ghost," and "Dirty
Work" faintly recall Mr. Jacobs' early manner.
#Lo, and Behold Ye!#, by _Seumas MacManus_ (Frederick A. Stokes Company).
Many of these chimney-corner stories are older than Homer, but Mr.
MacManus has retold them in the language of the roads, and this pageant
of tinkers and kings, fairies and scholars, lords and fishermen march by
to the sound of the pipes and the ribald comments of little boys along
the road. The quality of this volume is as fresh as that of those first
Donegal fairy stories which Mr. McClure discovered twenty-five years
ago. I think that the best of these stories are "The Mad Man, The Dead
Man, and the Devil," "Dark Patrick's Blood-horse," and "Donal
O'Donnell's Standing Army," but this is only a personal selection.
#The Clintons, and Others#, by _Archibald Marshall_ (Dodd, Mead and
Company). I believe that this is Mr. Marshall's first volume of short
stories, and they have a certain interest as a quiet chronicle of an old
social order which has gone never to return. The comparison of Mr.
Marshall's work with that of Anthony Trollope is as inevitable as it is
to the former's disadvantage. This volume shows honest, sincere
craftsmanship, and never rises nor falls below an average level of
mediocrity.
#The Man Who Understood Women#, and #While Paris Laughed#, by _Leonard
Merrick_ (E. P. Dutton and Company). These two volumes of the collected
edition of Mr. Merrick's novels and stories are of somewhat uneven
value. The best of them have a finish which is unsurpassed in its kind
by any of his English contemporaries, but there are many stories in the
first of these two volumes which are somewhat ephemeral. Mr. Locke in
his introduction to "The Man Who Understood Women" rather overstates Mr.
Merrick's case, but at his best these stories form an interesting
English parallel to the work of O. Henry. The second volume suffers the
fate of all sequels in endeavouring to revive after a lapse of years the
pranks and passions of the poet Tricotrin. The first five stories in the
volume, while they do not attain the excellence of "The Tragedy of a
Comic Song," are worthy stories in the same kind. The other seven
stories are frankly mawkish in content, although redeemed by Mr.
Merrick's excellent technique.
#Workhouse Characters#, by _Margaret Wynne Nevinson_ (The Macmillan
Company). This collection of newspaper sketches written during the past
fifteen years have no pretensions to art, and were written with a
frankly propagandist intention. The vividness of their portraiture and
the passion of their challenge to the existing social order warrant
their mention here, and I do not think they will be forgotten readily by
those who read them. This volume has attracted little comment in the
American press, and it would be a pity if it is permitted to go out of
print over here.
#The New Decameron#: Volume the First (Robert M. McBride & Co.). There is
more to be said for the idea which prompted these stories than for the
success with which the idea has been carried out. A group of tourists
seeking adventures on the Continent agree to beguile the tedium of the
journey by telling each other tales. Unfortunately the Nightingale does
not sing on, and the young Englishmen and women who have collaborated in
this volume have gone about their task in a frankly amateurish spirit.
The stories by W. F. Harvey and Sherard Vines attain a measured success,
and some mention may be made of M. Storm-Jameson's story, "Mother-love."
It is to be hoped that in future volumes of the series, the editor will
choose his contributors more carefully, and frankly abandon the
Decameron structure, which has been artificially imposed after the
stories were written.
#Wrack, and Other Stories#, by "_Dermot O'Byrne_" (Dublin: The Talbot
Press, Ltd.), #The Golden Barque, and the Weaver's Grave#, by _Seumas
O'Kelly_ (Dublin: The Talbot Press, Ltd.), and #Eight Short Stories#, by
_Lennox Robinson_ (Dublin: The Talbot Press, Ltd.). As these three
volumes are not published in America, I only mention them here in the
hope that this notice may reach a friendly publisher's eye. Up to a few
years ago poetry and drama were the only two creative forms of the Irish
Literary Revival. This tide has now ebbed, and is succeeded by an
equally significant tide of short story writers. The series of volumes
issued by the Talbot Press, of which those I have just named are the
most noteworthy, should be promptly introduced to the American public,
and I think that I can promise safely that they are the forerunners of a
most promising literature.
#The Old Card#, by _Roland Pertwee_ (Boni and Liveright, Inc.). This
series of twelve short stories depict the life of an English touring
actor with a quiet artistry of humor suggestive of Leonard Merrick's
best work. They are quite frankly studies in sentiment, but they
successfully avoid sentimentality for the most part, and in "Eliphalet
Cardomay" I feel that the author has created a definitely perceived
character.
#Old Junk#, by _H. M. Tomlinson_ (Alfred A. Knopf). It is not my function
here to point out that "Old Junk" is one of the best volumes of essays
published in recent years, but simply to direct attention to the fact
that it includes two short stories, "The Lascar's Walking-Stick" and
"The Extra Hand," which are fine studies in atmospheric values. I think
that the former should find a place in most future anthologies.
#By Violence#, by "_John Trevena_" (The Four Seas Company). Although John
Trevena's novels have found a small public in America, his short stories
are practically unknown. The present volume reprints three of them, of
which "By Violence" is the best. In fact, it is only surpassed by
"Matrimony" in its revelation of poetic grace and gentle vision. If the
feeling is veiled and somewhat aloof from the common ways of men, there
is none the less a fine human sympathy concealed in it. I like to think
that a new reading of earth may be deciphered from this text.
#Port Allington Stories#, by _R. E. Vernède_ (George H. Doran Company).
This volume of stories which is drawn from the late Lieutenant
Vernède's output during the past twelve years reveals a genuine talent
for the felicitous portrayal of social life in an English village, and
suggests that he might have gone rather far in stories of adventure.
"The Maze" is the best story in the volume, and makes it clear that a
brilliant short story writer was lost in France during the war.
#Holy Fire, and Other Stories#, by _Ida A. R. Wylie_ (John Lane Company).
I have called attention to many of these stories in previous years, but
now that they are reprinted as a group I must reaffirm my belief that
few among the younger English short story writers have such a command of
dramatic finality as Miss Wylie. It is true that these stories might
have been told with advantage in a more quiet tone. This would have made
the war stories more memorable, but perhaps the problem which the book
presents for solution is whether or no an instinctive dramatist is using
the wrong literary medium. Certainly in "Melia, No Good" her treatment
would have been less effective in a play than in a short story.