(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS._)
Finding _Midas and Son_ (METHUEN) described on the wrapper as a tale
of "the struggle of a young man and his immense riches," I said to
myself (rather like _Triplet_ in the play) that here was a struggle at
which it would greatly hearten me to assist. As a fact, however, the
conflict proved to be somewhat postponed; it took Mr. STEPHEN McKENNA
more than two hundred pages to get the seconds out of the ring and
leave his hero, _Deryk_, face to face with an income of something over
a million a year. Before this happened the youth had become engaged
to a girl, been thrown over by her, experienced the wiles of Circe and
gone in more or less vaguely for journalism. Then came the income and
the question what to do with it. Of course he didn't know how to use
it to the best advantage; it is universal experience that other people
never do. But _Deryk_ impressed me as more than commonly lacking
in resource. All he could think of was to finance and share in an
archæological venture (rather fun), and to purchase a Pall Mall
club-house--apparently the R.A.C.--and do it up as a London abode for
himself and his old furniture. Also for his wife, as fortune had now
flung him again into the arms of his early love. But it is just here
that the subtle and slightly cruel cleverness of Mr. McKENNA's scheme
becomes manifest. The million-a-year had been at work on _Deryk_; it
had slain his capacity for romance. In plain words, he found that he
cared more for his furniture than for his _fiancée_, whose adoration
soon bored him to shrieking point. So there you are. I shall not
betray the author's solution of his own problem. I don't think
he has proved his somewhat obvious point as to the peril of great
possessions. _Deryk_ was hardly a quite normal subject, and
_Idina_ (the girl) was a little fool who would have irritated a
crossing-sweeper. But what he certainly has done is to provide some
scenes of pre-war London not unworthy to be companion pictures to
those in _Sonia_; and this, I fancy, will be good enough for most
readers.
* * * * *
Its publishers call _The Pot Boils_ (CONSTABLE) a "provocative" book,
and certainly the title at least deserves this epithet. But I decline
to be drawn into the obvious retort. Besides, with all its faults, the
story exhibits an almost flaunting disregard of those qualities that
make the best seller. About the author I am prepared to wager, first,
that "STORM JAMESON" is a disguise; secondly, that the personality
behind it is feminine. I have hinted that the tale is hardly likely
to gain universal popularity; let me add that certain persons, notably
very young Socialists and experts in Labour journalism, may find it of
absorbing interest. It is a young book, almost exclusively about young
people, written (or I mistake) by a youthful hand. These striplings
and maidens are all poor, mostly vain, and without exception fulfilled
of a devastating verbosity. We meet them first at a "Northern
University," talking, reforming the earth, kissing, and again
talking--about the kisses. Thence they and the tale move to London,
and the same process is repeated. It is all rather depressingly narrow
in outlook; though within these limits there are interesting and
even amusing scenes. Also the author displays now and again a happy
dexterity of phrase (I remember one instance--about "web-footed
Socialists ... dividing and sub-dividing into committees, like worms
cut by a spade"), which encourages me to hope that she will do better
things with a scheme of wider appeal. But to the general, especially
the middle-aged general, the contents of her present _Pot_ will, I
fear, be only caviare.
* * * * *
Little _Sara Lee Kennedy_, betrothed to one of those alert grim-jawed
young Americans one sees in the advertising pages of _The Ladies' Home
Journal_, learns of the suffering in Belgium at the beginning of the
great War and finds she must do something about it. She can cook, so
she will go and make soup for KING ALBERT's men. She takes her young
man's photograph and his surly disapproval; also a few dollars hastily
collected from her obscure township in Pa.; and becomes the good
angel of a shattered sector of the Belgian line. And she finds in _The
Amazing Interlude_ (MURRAY) her prince--a real prince--in the Secret
Service, and, after the usual reluctances and brave play (made for the
sake of deferring the inevitable) with the photograph of the old
love, is at last gloriously on with the new. It is a very charming
love-story, and MARY ROBERTS RINEHART makes a much better thing of the
alarms and excursions of war than you would think. It was no good, I
found, being superior about it and muttering "Sentiment" when you had
to blink away the unbidden tear lest your fireside partner should find
you out. So let me commend to you this idealised vision of a corner
of the great War seen through the eyes of an American woman of vivid
sympathies.
* * * * *
_Rovers of the Night Sky_ (CASSELL) is for more reasons than one
a welcome addition to my rapidly bulging collection of books about
flying. "NIGHT HAWK, M.C.," was in the Infantry--what he calls
a "Gravel-Cruncher"--before he took to the air, and by no means
the least interesting part of his sketches is the way in which he
explains the co-operation which existed between the fliers and the men
fighting on the ground. And his delight when a bombing expedition was
successful in giving instant assistance to the Infantry is frequently
shown. After his training in England "NIGHT HAWK" was attached as an
observer to a night-flying squadron in France, and he tells us of
his adventures with no sense of self-importance but with an honest
appreciation of their value to the general scheme of operations. He
has also a keen eye for the humours of life, and can make his jest
with most admirable brevity. "Doubtless," he says in a foreword, "the
whole world will fly before many years have passed, but for the moment
most people have to be content to read about it." I am one of them,
and he has added to my contentment.
* * * * *
My studies of recent fiction induce the belief that modern Wales
may be divided into two parts, in one of which the inhabitants call
each other _Bach_ and follow a code of morals that I simply will not
stoop to characterise; while the other is at once more Saxon in idiom
and considerably more melodramatic in its happenings. It is to the
latter province that I must assign _A Little Welsh Girl_ (HODDER AND
STOUGHTON), the Romance, with a big R, of _Dylis Morgan_, who pushed
an unappreciated suitor over a precipice and came to London to make
her fortune in revue. Really the suitor didn't go all the way down
the precipice; but as, by the time he recovered, _Dylis_, disguised,
had fled for England, he was promptly arrested for her murder, and
as _Dylis_ thought she had murdered him there was presently so much
confusion (increased for me by the hopelessly unpronounceable names
of a large cast) that I found it increasingly hard to keep the affair
in hand. As for _Dylis's_ theatrical career--well, you know how
these things are managed in fiction; for my part I was left wondering
whether Mr. HOWEL EVANS' pictures of Wales were as romantically
conceived as his conception of a West-End theatre. Though of course
we all know that Welsh people do sometimes make even more sensational
triumphs in the Metropolis; just possible indeed that this fact may
have some bearing on the recent flood of Cambrian fiction. Certainly,
if _A Little Welsh Girl_ achieves success on the strength of Mr. LLOYD
GEORGE's triumph, she may thank her luck, for I have my doubts whether
she could manage it unassisted.
* * * * *
Of _Ladies Must Live_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) one may say, in the first
place, that it is fortunately unnecessary as well as unusual for
the bulk of them to live in the scalp and tomahawk atmosphere that
distinguishes the sexual and social rivalry of _Christine Fennimer_
and _Nancy Almar_, the two beautiful American Society dames whose duel
for the affections of the eligible hero form the plot, the whole plot
and nothing but the plot of Miss ALICE DUER MILLER's latest book.
Nature red in tooth and claw has not mothered them--they are too
well-bred for that; they simply bite with their tongues. _Mrs. Almar_,
who is married and purely piratical, comes off worst in the encounter,
and the more artful _Christine_, ultimately falling in love with the
object of her artifices, becomes human enough to marry him, despite
his lapse from financial eligibility. The plot is a thin one, but
smoothly and brightly unfolded. Unhappily Miss MILLER lacks the
gift of delicate satire and the sense of humour that the society
novel above all others seems to require. With a lighter and less
matter-of-fact treatment one would accept more easily the overdrawing
of her rather impossible felines.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Man in the Air_. "ANOTHER OF THESE BEASTLY PIVOTAL
MEN!"]
* * * * *
"Sir Charles Sykes, Director of Wood Production, has conferred
with representatives of each section of the tailoring trade,
with a view to simplifying the regulations and making possible
a larger output of Standard suits."--_Daily Paper_.
We look forward to the part that this new clothing will play in the
general scheme of afforestation.
* * * * *
"A lady visiting the town complained that she went to a
licensed house and asked to be served with tea. She alleged
that the licensee was very rude to her, and refused to grant
her request. He [the Superintendent of Police] desired
to point out to license holders that they were bound to
provide proper accommodation and refreshment for man and
beast."--_West-Country Paper_.
And we desire to point out to the Superintendent that that is not the
proper way to refer to a lady.