(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerics._)
_Tents of a Night_ (Smith, Elder) is a quite ordinary story, about
entirely commonplace persons, which has however an original twist in it.
I never met a story that conveyed so vividly the nastiness of a summer
holiday that isn't nice. The holiday was in Brittany, just the common
round, Cherbourg, Coutances, Mont St. Michel, and the rest of it; and
the holiday-makers were _Mr._ and _Mrs. Hepburn_, their niece _Anne_,
and a rather pleasant flapper named _Barbara_ whom they had taken in
charge. _Anne_ is the heroine and central character of the holiday; and
certainly whatever discomforts it contained she seems to have done her
successful best to add to. "This is a beastly place!" was her written
comment upon St. Michel; and it was typical of her attitude throughout.
Of course the real trouble with _Anne_ was something deeper than drains
or crowded hotels or the smell of too many omelettes: she was in love.
Apparently she was more or less in love with two men, _Dragotin
Voinovich_ (whose name was a constant worry to _Anne's_ aunt, and I am
bound to say that I share her feelings about it) and _Jimmy Fordyce_, a
pleasant young Englishman who pulls the girls out of quicksands and
makes himself generally agreeable. In the end, however--but on second
thoughts the end, emotionally speaking, of _Anne_ is just what I shall
not tell you, as it is precisely the thing that redeems the book from
being commonplace. This you will enjoy; and also those remarkably real
descriptions of various plage-hotels in August, the noise, the crowds,
the long hot meals, the sunshine and constant wind, the sand on the
staircase, and the general atmosphere of wet bathing-gowns--all these
are a luxurious delight to read about in a comfortable English room.
Miss Mary Findlater evidently knows them.
* * * * *
Dippers who have given a new meaning to the classical motto, _Respice
finem_, are so common amongst novel readers that Patricia Wentworth will
only have herself to thank if many who are unfamiliar with her work fail
to do justice to a book nine-tenths of which is thoroughly interesting
and excellently well-written. As a boy, the hero of _Simon Heriot_
(Melrose) is misunderstood, and although _Mr. Martin_, his step-father,
is a somewhat stagey specimen of the heavy and vulgar papa, the child's
emotions (as, for instance, when he pretends that the storm of his
parent's wrath is the ordeal of the Inquisition or some far-away battle
of paladins in which he is contending) are finely conceived, and many of
the later passages in _Simon's_ life--his unhappy love affair with _Maud
Courtney_, his relations with his grandmother and with _William
Forster_, the schoolmaster--are quite engrossing and give occasion for
memorable sketches of character. It is when the natural end of the story
is reached, and _Simon_ has come into his own and has just been wedded
to his proper affinity, that the structure seems to me to fall with a
crash. I might perhaps, though not without reluctance, have pardoned an
impertinent railway accident which leaves the young man apparently
crippled for life, but the last chapters, in which he finds spiritual
comfort and (after the doctors have given up hope) complete anatomical
readjustment through the ministrations of faith healing, alienated me
entirely. From the outset the obvious scheme of the novel is to bring
the hero back happily to the home and, if you will, the rustic church of
his ancestors; and, though the science of Christian healing may do all
that its adherents claim for it, it has about as much to do with the
case of _Simon Heriot_ as the dancing dervishes or the rites of Voodoo.
Demetra Vaka has melted my literary heart. By way of homage to her I eat
the dust and recant all the hard and bitter things I said and thought in
my youth concerning Ancient Greece; especially I apologise, on behalf of
myself and my pedagogues, for after regarding its language as a dead
one. _A Child of the Orient_ (Lane) has taught me better, though the
last object the author appears to have in view is to educate. This
"Greek girl brought up in a Turkish household" writes to amuse,
entertain and charm, and her success is abundant. Whether it is
attributable to the romantic particulars of the Turkish household or to
the ingenuous personality of the Greek girl, I hesitate to say, since
both are so captivating; but this I know, that, considered as
descriptive sketches or personal episodes, each of the twenty-two
chapters is a separate delight. For the ready writer material is not
wanting in the Near East; a fine theme is provided in the national
ambition of the Greek, who cannot forget his glorious past and be
content with his less conspicuous present. As for the love interest, who
should supply this better than the Turk? In these days of
cosmopolitanism there are bound to be romantic complications in the
lives of a polygamous people situate in a monogamous continent. By way
of postscript the authoress travels abroad and deals with alien matters;
her impression, I gather, is that if her ancestors of classical times
could see our world of to-day and express an opinion upon it the best of
their praise would be reserved for the fact of the British Empire, and
the worst of their abuse be spent upon what is known as American humour.
I am so constituted that I cannot but be prejudiced in favour of a
writer gifted with so profound a judgment.
* * * * *
The creatrix of _Pam_ must look to her laurels. Slovenliness is the
aptest word to apply to the workmanship of _Maria_ (Hutchinson), the
latest heroine of the Baroness Von Hutten. _Maria_ has the air of having
been contracted for, while that fastidious overseer who lurks at the
elbow of every honest craftsman, condemning this or that phrase,
readjusting the other faulty piece of construction, has frankly
abandoned the contractor. _Maria_ was the daughter of an artist cadger
(name of _Drello_), friend of the great and seller of their autograph
letters, whereby he was astute enough to make a comfortable living.
_Maria_ had a dull brother named _Laertes_, who accidentally met a
highness, who fell very abruptly in love with _Maria_ and made her
strictly dishonourable proposals. _Maria_ drew herself up, compelled him
to apologise and go away, until the nineteenth chapter, when she made
similar proposals to the highness, now a duly and unhappily married
_King of Sarmania_. But she is saved by the chivalrous love-lorn dwarf,
_Tomsk_, who, with the irascible singing-master _Sulzer_, is responsible
for the chief elements of vitality in this rather suburban romance. And
I found myself never believing in _Maria's_ wondrous beauty and quite
sharing _Sulzer's_ poor opinion of her singing. But this of course was
mere prejudice.
* * * * *
In _Grizel Married_ (Mills and Boon) Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey
exhibits the highest-handed method of treating Romance that ever I met.
For consider the situation to be resolved. _Dane Peignton_ was engaged
to _Teresa_, but in love with _Lady Cassandra Raynor_, whose husband, I
regret to add, was still alive. _Dane_ and _Cassandra_ had never told
their love, and concealment might have continued to prey on their damask
cheeks, if Mrs. Vaizey had not (very naturally), wished to give us a big
emotional scene of avowal. It is the way in which this is done that
compels my homage. Off go the characters on a picnic, obviously big with
fate. _Teresa_ goes, and _Dane_ and _Cassandra_, the fourth being
_Grizel_, whom you may recall pleasantly from an earlier book; but,
though she fills the title _rôle_ in this one, she has little to do with
its development. Of course I saw that something tragic was going to
happen to somebody on that picnic--cliffs or tides or mad bulls or
something. But I don't suppose that in twenty guesses you could get at
the actual instrument of destiny. _Cassandra_ chokes over a fish-bone!
That's what I meant about Mrs. Vaizey's courage. And the reward of it is
that, after your first moment of incredulity, the fish-bone isn't in the
least bit absurd. Poor _Cassandra_ comes quite near to expiring of it;
and _Dane_, having thumped and battered her into safety, sobs out his
wild and whirling passion, while _Grizel_ and poor _Teresa_ have just to
sit about and listen. It really is rather a striking and original
climax; incidentally it is far the best scene in an otherwise not very
brilliant tale. But, having attended that picnic, I shall be astonished
if you don't, want to go on to the end and see how it all straightens
out.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Bargain Two-seater, with most of the accessories; only
done fifty miles; water-cooled-engine; owner giving up driving.]
* * * * *
"At 9.30 o'clock, as the fog lifted somewhat, the rescuing
steamer Lyonnesse had sighted the Gothland, fast on the rocks,
with a bad list to starboard, and apparently partly filled with
pater."
_Daily Chronicle._
"Our Special Correspondent's" father seems to be a big man.
* * * * *
"While the class watches, the teacher pronounces all the words.
Then the whole class pronounces them while the teacher points,
skipping around."--_Hawaii Educational Review._
A pretty scene, if the teacher is a man of graceful movements.