(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
Looking about among the very best _cliches_ (my own and
others)--"supersubtle analysis," "intimate psychology," "masterly
handling," "incomparable artistry"--I found nothing that it didn't seem
a sort of impertinence to apply to JOSEPH CONRAD's _Chance_, which
METHUEN has just had the good luck to publish. For the whole thing is
much nearer wizardry than workmanship. I put the book down with a gasp,
so close had I been to realities as conjured up by one to whom realism
is a servant and not a master. I had come to know, in that piecemeal way
in which one actually gets to know one's fellows--waiting for later
experience to confirm or modify earlier impressions--the hapless, tragic
_Flora_; her father, _de Barral_, the pseudo-financier, fraudulent
through unimaginative stupidity rather than criminal intent; the
kindly-cruel pair of _Fynes_; that perfect, chivalrous knight of the
sea, _Captain Anthony_, _Flora's_ fiery-patient lover; his splendidly
staunch second officer, _Powell_, and the analytic _Marlow_, also a
sailor-man, who acts in the capacity of ultra-modern chorus to this
tragedy of chance. The central idea is the old wonder that such vast
issues can hang upon such trivial happenings, not merely in the outer
realm of fact but on the inner stage of character. And, this being his
theme, perhaps Mr. CONRAD ought to have been more scrupulously careful
to use no such strained coincidence as _Powell's_ detection of _de
Barral's_ attempt at revenge on his fancied enemy, _Anthony_. But this
is indeed a slight defect in a work of brilliantly sustained imagination
and superb craftsmanship. I wonder if the author's magic has so seduced
my judgment as to make me feel that the somewhat shadowy characters of
_Captain Anthony_ and _de Barral_ are deliberately suggested in fainter
outline just because _Marlow_ has in fact not known them personally, but
only through the reports of others. I am prepared to believe the author
of _Typhoon_ subtle enough for that, or for anything else, and I have
this only grudge against him, that he intrigued me to the point of
feverishly "skipping," out of sheer excitement to know if and how the
deplorable misunderstanding between _Flora_ and her quixotic _Captain
Anthony_ was to be cleared up, just like any ordinary decent
library-subscriber, instead of the case-hardened critical fellow I
naturally take myself to be.
* * * * *
There are two things for which I have a special affection. One is an old
friend who has often persuaded me that this world is rather a place for
smiles than for gloom; and the other is a new book of stories which have
life in them, which make their effect with a seemingly artless certainty
and leave the pleased reader with the impression that they are, if
anything, a shade or so too short. Both these things I have obtained in
_One Kind and Another_ (SECKER), by Mr. BARRY PAIN. "The Journal of Aura
Lovel," with which Mr. PAIN leads off, is a delightful performance. It
has freshness and charm and its sentiment seems to me to be exactly
right--the sentiment of an eager and attractive young girl relating the
feelings of her heart in the tenderest and prettiest style as far
removed from preciosity as it is from a silly simplicity. All the
stories have the essential merits of brightness and lightness, and most
of them have that peculiar kind of ingenuity which is one of Mr. PAIN's
strong points. Suddenly they land you at a point which is nowhere near
to that to which you thought you were travelling. The characters, even
when they are engaged in paradoxical and preposterous actions, are real
men and women, such as you could meet almost anywhere in a day's walk,
and they are set off with Mr. PAIN's fancy so as to become additionally
lifelike. Many things have struck me in the reading of this book. One is
that Mr. PAIN's new novel is overdue. Another is that he has an uncanny
familiarity with the ways of solicitors. "There is," he says, "no
historical instance of a solicitor after the age of forty having made
any change whatever in the manner of his clothing."
* * * * *
I will confess that it took a little time--say four chapters or so--for
the peculiar charm of _Simple Simon_ (LANE) to take hold upon me. It is
not, I quite honestly think, that I object to being laughed at. Goodness
knows we ordinary folk get enough of that nowadays at the hands of these
clever young satiricals; and most of us have enough common honesty to
appreciate our tormentors. It is that, just for a time, I was troubled
with a genuine doubt whether Mr. A. NEIL LYONS was not becoming too
satirical to be sincere, and allowing his gift for facetiousness to
betray him. The device of inventing a simple-minded young enthusiast,
and making him ask perpetual questions to the undoing of all those who
accept blindly the beliefs which Mr. LYONS is out to ridicule--well,
there was nothing specially enlivening in that. Briefly, young _Simon
Honeyball_ in his parents' home threatened to weary me. But later, when
he had migrated with his money and his extraordinary collection of
_proteges_ to Silverside, E., and there set up his preposterous
household, and become a Guardian (with what devastating municipal
results you may guess!) I found myself the grateful admirer of both
_Simon_ and his creator. Mr. LYONS' sympathetic drawing of certain odd
London characters is a thing that I have often admired; he has no better
portraits in his gallery than these of the quaint objects of _Simon's_
Silverside hospitality. Specially did I like _Margaret_, the wholly
ungrateful young woman whom he had befriended, and the trenchant speech
with which she expressed her resulting opinion of his sagacity. She and
others are also depicted in some very attractive drawings which
illustrate (for once the right word) a book that, while perhaps not for
every reader (parents please take note), will certainly delight those
who can appreciate it.
* * * * *
Lean, clean, brown Englishmen bear the stamp of the Public Schools upon
them and have made England what she is. Smug-faced missionaries grow fat
on the spoils they have collected from smug-faced
church-and-chapel-goers at home. Labour Members are in the pay of
Germany and frequent infamous flats in the West-End. Liberal Cabinet
Ministers--sometimes, more shame to them, of decent birth--wince
consciously when reminded of the taint of their association with
plebeian colleagues. These things, and many more of equal moment, I have
learnt from Mr. STANLEY PORTAL HYATT, who in _The Way of the Cardines_
(WERNER LAURIE) describes how _Sir Gerald_, of that famous family,
captured, with reckless profusion of local blood, the independent island
of Katu. Katu is in the Malay Archipelago. Of vital importance as a key
to the Eastern trade route it is eagerly sought after by Germany, and to
Germany's protection, after _Sir Gerald's_ exploit, a pusillanimous and
almost more than Liberal English Government basely ceded it. But what
could you expect when _Sir Joseph Darkin_, smug-faced hypocrite (I am
sorry, but almost everybody in this book except the _Cardines_ had a
smug face), was a member of our Cabinet? Were it not that Mr. HYATT
writes with a distinct sense of style and some power of narrative, I
should boldly label _The Way of the Cardines_ as one of the most
amazingly humorous books I have read for a long time. In the
circumstances my amusement was mingled with a certain amount of
respectful sorrow. _Sir Gerald Cardine_ took morphia tablets freely; on
the essence of what strange herb Mr. STANLEY PORTAL HYATT had been
browsing before he began to write _The Way of the Cardines_ I simply
dare not think. I should recommend readers to mitigate the crudity of
his opinions, as I did, by softening the C of _Sir Gerald's_ perpetually
reiterated surname all through. The story sounds even more beautiful so.
And I like to think that, when the hour of England's need comes, a Sir
Pilchard of the historic house, and reared in some famous school, will
not be found wanting.
* * * * *