(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
Mr. Maurice Hewlett's latest volume, _Frey and His Wife_ (WARD, LOCK),
suffers from the defect of being in reality a long short story puffed
out to the dimensions of a short novel; and in consequence, even with
large type--most grateful to the reviewing eye; Heaven forbid I should
complain of that!--and a blank page between each chapter, it has
considerable difficulty in filling its volume. It is a tale of antique
Iceland and Norway. The first part, which is really padding and has
nothing whatever to do with _Frey_ or his matrimonial affairs, treats of
one _Ogmund_, who was called _Ogmund Dint_, for the very good reason
that he had been literally dinted as to the skull. It was done by a
gentleman named _Halward_. Everybody naturally expected _Ogmund_ to dint
back; but he was something of a conscientious objector in the matter of
face-to-face dinting, and being too proud for vulgar conflict he bided
his time till he could cut _Halward_'s throat with the minimum of
personal inconvenience. End of padding and appearance of _Frey_. There
is a picture of _Frey_ on the cover by Mr. MAURICE GREIFFENHAGEN. You
know already what the GREIFFENHAGEN vikings are like--high-coloured,
well developed and (if I dare say it) sometimes a trifle wooden. _Frey_
indeed looked so very wooden that in my foolish ignorance I was tempted
to protest. But the astonishing fact is that Frey was not only wooden in
appearance, but in actuality. How then could he have for wife a slip of
a sixteen-year-old maid that you may have met before in Mr HEWLETT's
romances? This however is the real story, which (pardon me) I do not
mean to tell. If it is no tremendous matter, it will at least please an
idle hour, which will be almost time enough for you to enjoy every word
of it.
_These Lynnekers_ (CASSELL) is yet another example of the "family" novel
whose increasing popularity I have lately noticed. It is a clever and
interesting story--the name of Mr. J. D. BERESFORD assured me in advance
that it would be--and, when it is finished, the characters go on living
and speaking in one's mind, which is, I suppose, a sound proof of their
vitality. Yet in a sense vitality was just what most of the _Lynneker_
tribe chiefly lacked. They were an ancient and honourable house,
country-born to the third and fourth generation, and all of them far too
conventional and apathetic and fuss-hating ever to follow any but the
line of least resistance. All of them, that is, except _Dickie_, who was
the youngest of his father's numerous progeny, and in more senses than
one a sport. How _Dickie_ released himself from the shackles of family
tradition, how he grew up and bustled things about, and generally made a
real instead of a conventional success--this is the matter of the tale.
All the characters are well-drawn, and about _Dickie_ himself there is a
compelling virility that rushes you along in his rather tempestuous
wake. I am not sure that I altogether believe in his attitude towards
the question of sex. He appeared to think generally too little, and on
occasions remarkably too much, about it. Also the painful detail with
which the author lingers over the death of old _Canon Lynneker_ (that
attractive and human figure of ecclesiastical gentility) roused me to
resentment. When will our novelists learn that, as regards the physical
side of mortality, reticence is by far the better part of realism? This
marred a little my pleasure in a story for whose quality and workmanship
I should else have nothing but praise.
* * * * *
In _To Ruhleben--and Back_ (CONSTABLE), Mr. GEOFFREY PYKE has such a
fine yarn to spin of his foolhardy proceeding in walking right into the
eagle's beak as correspondent for an English newspaper, at the end of
September, 1914, and (after some months' solitary confinement in Berlin
and his transfer to the civilian prisoners' miserable internment camp at
Ruhleben) walking right out of it again, that one can forgive him for
spreading his elbows for a piece of expansive writing when he was safe
home. To tell the truth he writes extraordinarily well; one's only
feeling is that the simplest idiom would be best for such an amazing
narrative, and Mr. PYKE is too young and too clever (both charmingly
venial faults) to write simply. When I tell you that this persistent
youngster, hardly out of his teens, patiently worked out a plan of
escape which depended for its efficacy on an optical illusion (the
precise secret of which he does not give away), and with his friend, Mr.
EDWARD FALK, a District Commissioner from Nigeria, part tramped, part
_bummel-zugged_ the two hundred and fifty miles or so from Ruhleben to
the Dutch frontier, disguised as tourists, with a kit openly bought at
WERTHEIM's, living, when marketing became too dangerous, on potatoes and
other roots burglariously digged from the fields at dark, you will
gather that this is some adventure. But I am afraid the publication will
not assist any other prisoners at Ruhleben to escape. It is pleasant to
note that the Commandant of the Camp, VON TAUBB, was a sportsman and
none too thickly tarred with the brush of Prussian efficiency; and that
the Governor, GRAF SCHWERIN, threatened resignation if a no-smoking
order, sent from headquarters, were insisted on. Indeed, the fact that
our young friend was not shot out of hand must stand as a small entry on
the credit side, not inconveniently crowded, of Prussia's account in the
recording angel's ledger.
* * * * *
In _A Frenchwoman's Notes on the War_ (CONSTABLE) Mademoiselle CLAIRE DE
PRATZ discourses pleasantly and patriotically of sundry effects of the
War on French life and character. She is excusably proud of the part
which her fellow-countrywomen have played. The women of France seem to
have accomplished to admiration what we in England are only beginning to
understand. Quietly, almost automatically, Frenchwomen have slipped into
the men's vacant places and carried on the work of the country. The
industry and resourcefulness of the average Frenchwoman are proverbial,
but the author ascribes the peculiar readiness they have displayed at
the present time largely to compulsory military service, as well as to
the Frenchman's habit of discussing his work with his wife and daughters
and awakening their interest in it. Thus, when the local paperhanger was
called to the colours his wife repapered the author's country cottage
"quite as efficiently"; and thrilling indeed is the account of the
gallantry of one intrepid woman who, when the German Staff entered an
important town (from which the Mayor and Municipal Council had fled),
resisted their demand for a large war ransom. Widow of a former Senator
of the Department, she "alone remained, the sole representative of
officialdom." "We want to see the Mayor," said the invaders. "_Le Maire?
C'est moi!_" was the reply. "Then kindly direct us to some members of
the Municipal Council." "_Le Conseil Municipal? C'est moi!_" We are told
that the Teutonic officials were amazed--and no wonder. But in the end
they were forced to go without the money, and the town and its defender
were left in peace. I commend _A Frenchwoman's Notes on the War_ as a
most inspiriting record of what women can do; though the author
magnanimously admits that, "for the callings of the coal-heaver and the
furniture-remover," men, even in France, are still indispensable.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A PEACE WEDDING.
UNIQUE SOCIAL FUNCTION WHICH TOOK PLACE AT LITTLE PUDDLETHORPE, HERTS,
LAST WEEK.]
* * * * *
For novels which require a guide to conduct me through them I confess
weariness, but in _That Woman from Java_ (HURST AND BLACKETT) I found
the glossary less fatiguing hero. Things were going badly for _Mrs.
Hamilton_ in the divorce case, "_Hamilton v. Hamilton_, co-respondent
_King_," when the judge broke down. That might have happened to any
judge, but, although I can follow the judicial _Bruce_ quite easily to
his sick bed, I cannot believe that he would, on his recovery, have
refrained from finding out how the case ended. Apparently being in love
with _Mrs. Hamilton_, he did not dare to enquire what happened; but a
more plausible explanation of his unenterprising conduct seems to be
that he had only to act like an ordinary man and the rather sandy
foundations on which E. HARDINGHAM QUINN's story are built would have
collapsed. Here in fact we have a tale in which the main complications
are caused by the characters behaving with a total lack of what the
Americans call horse-sense. But if you can get by this difficulty you
will admire, as I did, the reticence with which the troubles of the much
misunderstood heroine are told, and also admit that the colour of Java
has been vividly conveyed.
* * * * *
Save the Mark!