_(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)_
MR. JOHN GALSWORTHY is a most deceptive writer. He lures a reader on
by a display of gentleness and smoothness and moderation, and then
turns on him and makes it plain that he is really a most provocative
fellow and is engaged in matching his mind against yours. He tries
to commit you to some such statement as this: "The allegiance of the
workman in time of peace is not rendered to the State, but to himself
and his own class." Or this: "I think editors, journalists, old
gentlemen and women will be brutalised [by the War] in larger numbers
than our soldiers." Or this: "This is at once a spiritual link with
America and yet one of the great barriers to friendship between
the two peoples. We are not sure whether we are better men than
Americans." Or this: "My mind is open, and when one says that, one
generally means that it is shut." Disconcerting, very, and all to be
found in _Another Sheaf_ (HEINEMANN). Mr. GALSWORTHY'S chief object in
his little book is to arouse us to the disgrace and destruction of our
State and race if we continue to allow ourselves to be fed, not by our
own resources, but by alien corn and meat, which may so easily become
hostile corn and meat. Incidentally Mr. GALSWORTHY finds that we are
in the mass far too ugly. For instance, how few of us have chiselled
nostrils! We ought not to eat so much pure white flour.
* * * * *
On the second page of _The Secret City_ (MACMILLAN) Mr. HUGH WALPOLE
(or, to be meticulously correct, _Durward_, into whose mouth the story
is put) says that "there is no Russian alive for whom this book can
have any kind of value except as a happy example of the mistakes that
the Englishman can make about the Russian." Well, after finishing the
book, which is in some ways a sequel to _The Dark Forest_, I felt so
very disinclined to believe this statement that I consulted a Russian,
who is very much alive, and received the opinion that, if Mr. WALPOLE
has not succeeded in drawing the real average Russian, he has given us
a type whose faults and virtues sound the keynote of the situation as
it is to-day. Such an opinion is worth a thousand times more than any
judgment of mine, and I am glad of the opportunity to record it. From
a literary point of view it seems to me that Mr. WALPOLE, in allowing
_Durward_ to tell the tale, has created innumerable difficulties for
himself--difficulties which to a great extent have been cleverly
overcome, but which nevertheless make the story wobble dangerously
and once or twice threaten it with devastation. To me, however, the
interest never really flagged, for granted that one has a sympathy
with Russia one feels acutely what Mr. WALPOLE is aiming at and how
wonderfully he succeeds. It is not difficult to find faults: to
complain, for instance, that a strong man like _Semyonov_ would not
have taken such elaborate measures to get himself killed; but these
points are trivial in a book which is not to be read so much for its
story as for its idea. And the idea is great.
* * * * *
_Rollo Johnson_ was incautious enough to be born the natural son of a
peer. This fact caused just sufficient complications to keep MARY L.
PENDERED'S latest story, _The Silent Battlefield_ (CHAPMAN AND HALL),
from any threat of stagnation while she was developing the theme that
really intrigued her. This was the struggle between increasing wealth
and early-acquired Socialism as it arose in the mind of a hero working
his way up from poverty to millionairedom, a seat in the House and the
opportunity of hobnobbing with lords, suffragettes and other notables.
When I say that the two sides of the Socialist case are presented with
rather uncommon fairness you may think that is only because my own
particular creed is upheld; but really and truly I was frowning quite
as much as purring while the silent battle proceeded, and the end is
neutral enough to bring despair to all true believers. Lest you should
suppose the book all made up of election addresses I hasten to add
that, in the quiet and thoughtful way one expects of the author, the
story is a good one, the pictures of a small country town are true to
life, and the characters without exception real creatures of flesh
and blood. Remembering the puppets that so often have been made to
represent their country in a political novel, this is saying more than
a little, and if it is true that, among the ladies of the cast, one
still finds those the most attractive who have no pronounced opinions
to speak or vote about, no doubt this is just old prejudice, and,
anyway, the book is one that can be heartily commended.
* * * * *
The scene of _In Happy Valley_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) is laid
spiritually, if not strictly geographically, in that part of the
continent of America which everybody who has gone to a cinema, hoping
against hope, knows so well. I mean the country where people have
"shooting irons" and use them on the slightest provocation to insist
that other people shall carry their hands at an absurd and wearisome
elevation, and all the men wear fringy trousers, and all the women
shawls, save the heroine, who has to be suitably arrayed for the
performance of athletic feats. I admit that I didn't feel quite at
home _In Happy Valley_, because I missed the sheriff and his posse,
and nobody held up the stage-coach; still the young doctor and the
school teacher and the ladies at the mission did their best for me,
and I found it a great help to know the language, an attainment of
which I am justifiably a little vain, for not everyone could translate
at sight to "thud" the road or "shoot up" a Christmas party. Mr. JOHN
FOX, Junr., has not placed his largest strawberries--and some of them
are quite nice ones--at the top of the basket. His first story did not
attract me as much as others further on, such as, for instance, that
excellently humorous one, "The Angel from Viper," though here and in
other places a lady called _St. Hilda_, obviously not she of Whitby,
confused me a little. I fancy that we were supposed to have made her
acquaintance in some previous book. But my real quarrel with Mr. Fox
is that he has only given walking-on parts to the actors who do best
when such tales are told upon the screen--I mean the horses.
* * * * *
When it is granted that books on flying by fliers have at present a
peculiar fascination, the fact still remains that what I will call
The Library of Aviation has usually been remarkably fortunate in its
contributors. _Cavalry of the Air_ (SIMPKIN, MARSHALL) is the last
flying work which it has been my good fortune to read, and the
only conceivable reason for finding fault with it is that "FLIGHT
COMMANDER" occasionally becomes a little facetious. But when that
small complaint is made I have nothing left except praise. The
author was first of all an Observer--or, as he calls it, a "Shock
Absorber"--in France, and he describes his life so that we groundlings
may understand and sympathise with every phase of it. Especially I
like the way in which he pays tribute to the infantry. In the second
part of his book he tells us of his training as a pilot; and here he
gives information which deserves to be most thoroughly studied.
The illustrations by Mr. GEOFFREY WATSON add to the charm of this
attractive volume. Of another contribution to the literature of the
air which lies before me I cannot speak so well. Lieut.-Colonel
CURTIES has an inventive mind, and in _Blake of the R.F.C._
(SKEFFINGTON) he uses it unsparingly. But although I am ready to
believe almost anything in a book of this kind, I am bound to confess
that I found myself bewildered by this breathless romance. Indeed the
pace is so hot at the outset that even the author seems to have lost
control of it. If, however, you are craving for excitement you will
find it here. The scene is laid in Cairo, and we all know that funny
things happen in that city. Not the least funny thing that happened
to the characters in this story was the careless ease with which they
drank whisky-and-soda. But this--let me warn you--happened nearly two
years ago.
* * * * *