(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
"Anyhow, I can remember this Court and can tell a tale it plays a part
in, only not very quick." Thus Mr. WILLIAM DE MORGAN, introductory, on
the fourth page of his latest novel, When _Ghost meets Ghost_
(HEINEMANN). Before it ends there have been as near nine hundred pages
of it as makes no difference; and the things that the author remembers
in the course of the tale, and the not-very-quickness with which he
tells it, must be seen to be believed. The main outline of this more
than leisurely plot is concerned with the coming together of two aged
twin sisters, each of whom has been living for years in ignorance of the
other's existence, so that they meet at last almost as ghosts. Hence the
title. But you will not need to be told that there is ever so much more
in the nine hundred pages than this. There are the children _Dave and
Dolly_, for example; likewise _Uncle Mo'_, and any quantity of humble
London types; not to mention the group that includes _Lady Gwen_, and
_Adrian Torrens_, and a score of others, all drawn with that verbal
Pre-Raphaelitism in which the author takes such obvious delight. For
myself I must honestly confess that I have found it a little
overwhelming; but that, after all, is a question of individual taste. I
suppose there is one comparison that is inevitable. I had meant to say
never a word about CHARLES DICKENS in this notice, but, like the head of
another CHARLES, it would come; and when the chief house in the story
began to rumble and finally collapsed in a cloud of dust--well, could
anyone help being reminded of how the same incident was handled by the
master of such terrors? In brief, this latest De Morgan left me with a
profound and increased respect for the author; some little envy for the
reader whose time and taste enable him to enjoy it as it should be
enjoyed; and, for proof-readers and reviewers, a very pure sympathy.
* * * * *
The _Duchess of Wrexe_ (SECKER) is, I think, the longest as it is
certainly the most substantial novel that Mr. HUGH WALPOLE has yet given
us. It is the work of one who has already made himself a force in modern
fiction, and after this book will have more than ever to be reckoned
with. Whether the reckoning will be to all tastes is another matter; I
incline to think not. Four hundred closely printed pages, in which
hardly anything happens to the bodies of the characters, but a great
deal to their spirits--this perhaps is toughish meat for the ordinary
devourer of fiction. But for the others this study of the passing of an
epoch, the time of the Old Society, as symbolised by the figure of the
_Duchess_, will be a delight. You might suppose from this (if you were
unfamiliar with your author) that we had here a social comedy. Nothing
in fact could be further from Mr. WALPOLE'S design. For him, as for his
characters, there is almost too haunting a sense of the tragedy of
trivial things. No one in the book is happy. The _Duchess_ herself,
stern, aloof, terrible, broken but never bent by the oncoming of the New
Order; the various members of the family whom she terrified; _Rachel_,
the granddaughter, between whom and the old woman there exists the bond
of one of those hatreds in which Mr. WALPOLE so exults; the secretary,
_Lizzie Rand_--all of them are tremendously and miserably alive. I think
the matter is that they have too much sensibility, of the modern kind.
They see too many meanings. A primrose by a river's brim, or more
probably in a flower-seller's basket, is not for them a simple primrose,
but a portent of soul-shaking significance. To make up for this the
author has gifted them with his own exquisite sense of colour and words,
and especially a feeling for the beauty of London that at times almost
reconciles them to life. But I could wish them merrier.
* * * * *
Mr. HAROLD SPENDER'S new novel, _One Man Returns_ (MILLS AND BOON),
opens with a very powerful and dramatic situation. Nothing in its way
could be better than the description of the lonely _Trevena_ family, of
their vigil during the terrible storm, of the shipwreck and the sudden
arrival of the two strangers, father and son, who are its only
survivors. The father dies immediately without revealing his identity,
and the son, slowly nursed back to health by the devoted care of _Enid
Trevena_, resumes his life without any consciousness of the past, having
forgotten even his own name. As a matter of fact he is _Cyril Oswald_,
the lawful inheritor of Oswald Hall and great estates, which, of course,
pass into the possession of the nearest villain. This is _Major Harley_,
a gentleman of a lurid past and an infamous present, mitigated only by
the fact that he has a beautiful and amiable daughter, _Dorothy_, who,
having been educated at Roedean School, conceives herself to be
qualified to run after beagles. In the natural course of things she
sprains her ankle and is beloved by _Rupert Sandford_, the chief beagler
of the novel. She then quarrels with her disgraceful parent, is adopted
by _Mrs. Sandford_ (mother to _Rupert_), and becomes the affianced bride
of _Rupert_, though for a time she had been inclined to look with favour
on _Cyril_. This young gentleman eventually recovers his estates by
course of law and returns to Cornwall and _Enid_ just in time to cut out
that young lady from under the guns of _Merrifield_, a South African
millionaire who had complicated the situation by providing _Cyril_ with
money for his law-suit. What happened to _Major Harley_ is not stated,
but I presume he must have drunk off the phial of poison which such
desperate adventurers always carry concealed about their persons.
* * * * *
"The matrimonial career of suburban lovers," says Miss JESSIE POPE in a
prologue to _The Tracy Tubbses_ (MILLS AND BOON), "is seldom variegated
by so many curious happenings as fell to the lot of Mr. and Mrs. _Tracy
Tubbs_;" and to this statement I can give my unqualified assent. No
sooner were the _T. T.'s_ married than they were beset by such wonderful
and various misfortunes that I should like to try and "place" them. The
Lion, I think, won in a canter, _Aunt Julia_ was a bad second, and The
Chafing-dish was third, while among the "also ran" were several
Policemen, The Balloon, _Cross-eyed Cranstone_ and The Motor-Bicycle.
But whether the _T. T.'s_ were nearly devoured by wild beasts or merely
annoyed by aunts and chafing-dishes, they continued to embrace each
other with magnificent heartiness whenever they had a moment to spare.
In short, Miss POPE'S high spirits never flag; and, even if you fail to
be amused by all the incidents in the _T. T.'s_ career, you will be glad
to make the acquaintance--under a new aspect, for Miss POPE'S talent as
a maker of light verse is established--of a writer so unaffectedly
cheerful and exhilarating.
* * * * *
"I cannot marry you or any man; _I am not free_," said _Polly Adair_ to
_Hemingway_, and the italics were her own. For my part, having been
rather pointedly informed earlier in the story that the lady was
understood in Zanzibar to be a widow, I began at this stage to suspect
that there was something lacking in the lateness of _Mr. Adair_. This
was a great pity, because _Polly_ and _Hemingway_ were obviously meant
for each other, as she and he and I and Mr. RICHARD HARDING DAVIS were
unanimously agreed. But there the fatal obstacle was, whatever it might
be. "I am not free," she repeated, and again the italics were her very
own. After much to-do, it came out that what she meant was that she had
a brother who oughtn't to be free; ought, if justice were done, to be
picking oakum or whatever else they pick in their leisure hours way back
in U.S.A. And this was the whole and the sole fatal obstacle!
_Hemingway_ took it as it came; Mr. DAVIS seemed quite pleased about it;
but I felt that I had been wantonly deceived. Baffle me by all means,
said I, but do not lie to me. Maybe I was not in a good temper at the
time, for the three preceding stories were not calculated to stir the
gentlest reader's sympathies. Possibly I am not in a good temper now,
for the three later stories (though "_The God of Coincidence_" only just
missed fire) were not distracting enough to deaden my sense of injury. A
pity, for _The Lost Road_ (DUCKWORTH) has such a good cover and the name
of such a good author on the back of it.
* * * * *
[Illustration: As dress parades have become quite a feature of modern
life, surely the restaurant offers a rich field of advertisement for the
enterprising outfitter through the medium of waiters.]
* * * * *