_(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)_
The opening paragraph of Mr. JEFFERY FARNOL'S latest novel, _The
Definite Object_ (LOW, MARSTON), informs us that in the writing of
books two things are essential: to know "when and where to leave off
... and where to begin." Perhaps without churlishness I might add a
third, and suggest that it is equally important to know where to make
your market. Mr. FARNOL, very wisely, plumps for America; and the new
story is a thing of millionaires, crooks, graft and the like. But
don't go supposing for one moment that these regrettable surroundings
have in the smallest degree impaired the exquisite and waxen bloom of
our author's sympathetic characters. Far from it. Of the young and
oh-so-good-looking millionaire (weary of pleasures and palaces, too
weary even to dismiss his preposterous and farcical butler--lacking,
in effect, the definite object); of the heroine's young brother, crook
in embryo, but reclaimable by influence of hero; and of the peach-like
leading lady herself, I can only say that each is worthy of the rest,
and all of a creator who must surely (I like to think) have laughed
more than once behind his hand during the progress of their creation.
I expect by now that I have as good as told you the plot--young
brother caught burgling hero's flat; hero, intrigued by mention of
sister, doffing his society trappings, following his captive to
crook-land, bashing the wicked inhabitants with his heroic fists, and
finally, of course, wedding the sister. So there you are! No, I am
wrong. The wedding is not absolute finality, since the heroine (for
family pride, she said, because her brother had tried to shoot her
husband; but, as this reason is manifestly idiotic, I must suppose her
to be acting on a hint from Mr. FARNOL'S publishers) decreed their
union to be in name alone. Which provides for the extra chapters.
***
Have you ever imagined yourself plunged (bodily, not mentally) into
the midst of a story by some particular author? If, for example, you
could get inside the covers of a Mrs. ALFRED SIDGWICK novel, what
would you expect to find? Probably a large and pleasantly impecunious
family, with one special daughter who combines great practical sense
with rare personal charm. You would certainly not be startled to find
her brought into contact with persons of greater social importance
than her own; and you would be excusably disappointed if she did not
end by securing the most eligible young male in the cast. I feel bound
to add that a perusal of _Anne Lulworth_ (METHUEN) has left me with
these convictions more firmly established than ever. The _Lulworth_
household, from the twins to the practical mother, is Sidgwickian to
its core, though perhaps one can't but regret that the Great Unmasking
has for ever robbed them of the society of those fat and seemingly
kindly Teutons who used to provide such good contrast. The _Lulworths_
lived at Putney, and never had quite enough money for the varied calls
of clothes and education and sausages for breakfast. Then _Anne_
went on a visit to ever such a delightful big house in Cornwall, and
there met the only son ... But then came the War and he was reported
missing, so _Anne_ stayed on indefinitely with his widowed mother; and
the unpleasant next-of-kin (Mrs. SIDGWICK never can wholly resist the
temptation of burlesquing her villains) refused to believe that she
had ever been engaged to Victor, and indeed went on indulging their
low-comedy spleen till the great moment, so long and confidently
expected, when--But really I suppose I needn't say what happens then.
Sidgwickiana, in short, seasonable at all times, and sufficient for
any number of persons.
***
Mrs. A.M. DIXON began her work in October, 1915, as manager of one of
the _Cantines des Dames Anglaises_ established in France under the
ægis of the London Committee of the French Red Cross. She remained
until the beginning of July in the following year, and in _The
Canteeners_ (MURRAY) she gives an account of her experiences at
Troyes, Héricourt and Le Bourget, where she and her helpers ministered
to an almost unceasing stream of tired-out French soldiers. There is
something remarkably fresh and attractive about this story. It does
not aim at fine writing, but its very simplicity, which is that of
letters written to an intimate friend, carries a reader along through
a succession of incidents keenly observed and sympathetically noted
in the scanty leisure of a very busy life. That she succeeded as she
did is a high tribute to her kindness and tact as well as to her
organising capacity, I cannot forbear quoting from the letter of
a grateful _poilu_: "DEAR MISS,--I am arrived yesterday very much
fatiguated. After 36 o'clocks of train we have made 15 kms. You can
think then that has been very dur for us, because in the train we
don't sleep many ... We go to tranchées six o'clocks a day and all the
four days we go the night. I don't see other things to say you for the
moment. Don't make attention of my mistakes, please." The book is well
illustrated with photographs. I recommend it both on account of its
intrinsic merits and because the author's profits are to be given to
the London Committee of the French Red Cross.
***
When a penniless but oh, so ladylike "companion" goes to the Savoy
in answer to a "with a view to matrimony" advertisement, what more
natural than that the party of the first part should prove to be--not
a genteel widower in the haberdashery business, but a handsome
super-burglar of immense wealth and all the more refined virtues.
True, he burgles, but his manly willingness to reform in order to
please the lady shows that his heart was always in the right place,
wherever his fingers might be. Then again the actual pillage occurs
"off," as they say, and the gentlemanly burglar, while not "occupied
in burgling," walks the stage a perfect Sir George Alexander of
respectability. Do I hear you, gentle reader, exclaiming, like the
Scotsman when he first saw a hippopotamus, "Hoots! There's nae sic a
animal!" It is simply your ignorance. The joint authors of _This Woman
to this Man_ (METHUEN) have selected him as the hero of their latest
novel, so there he is. His combined annexation of the penniless
beauty's hand and her titled relatives' _objets d'art_, her discovery
that the splendid fellow she has idolised--it must be admitted,
without any indiscreet investigation of his past--is a thief, and
their final reconciliation in the rude but honest atmosphere of a New
Mexico cattle ranch, are all included in the modest half-crown's worth
that C.N. and A.M. WILLIAMSON put forward as their latest effort. And
nowadays you can't buy much of anything for half-a-crown.
***
With commendable idealism Mr. SIDNEY PATERNOSTER considers _The Great
Gift_ (LANE) to be Love, and brings a certain seriousness to bear upon
his theme. _Hugh Standish_, ex-newsboy, is at the age of twenty-five
partner of an important shipping firm, as well as large holder
in a book-selling business, which, in his leisure, he has so
successfully run that it is "floated with a capital of £100,000 and
over-subscribed" (incidentally rejoice, ye novelists!). At forty-six
he is the whole shipping firm and a Cabinet Minister to boot. I would
ask Mr. PATERNOSTER if such a man, who has, _ex hypothesi_, been
so busy that he needs the sight of an out-of-work being tended and
caressed by his faithful wife in a London Park to suggest to him that
there exists such a thing as Love, with a capital L; needs also a
later conversation with the same out-of-work to convince him that
there is really something the matter with the industrial system (and
wouldn't it be a good idea to do something about it now one is a
Cabinet Minister?)--I ask Mr. PATERNOSTER, I say, if this is the sort
of man to take it all so sweetly when the girl of his choice prefers
his cousin and secretary to him? I think not. Our author has woven
his story without any reference to the play of circumstance upon
his characters. I am afraid he has shirked the difficult labour of
artistic plausibility, and I leave it to moralists to decide whether
his excellent intentions and sentiments redeem this æsthetic offence.
***
_Weird o' the Pool_ (MURRAY) may be described as a subterranean book.
I mean that its characters are frequently to be found in secret
passages and caves and places unknown to law-abiding citizens. The
scenes of this story of incident are laid in Scotland at the beginning
of last century, and Mr. ALEXANDER STUART makes things move at such
a pace that for a hundred pages or so I could not keep up with him.
Then two kind ladies had a conversation, and the confusion which had
invaded my mind was suddenly and completely cleared away. The pace
after this dispersal is as brisk as ever, but it is quite easy to keep
up with it. All the same, I cannot help thinking that Mr. STUART has
overcrowded his canvas, and that his tale would be the better for the
removal of a few of his plotters and counter-plotters from it. I have
never yet said a good word for a synopsis, but I do not mind admitting
that I could put up with one here.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _"Auntie Madge" (who writes the weekly letter to the
darling kiddies in "Mummy's Own Magazine")._ "NOISY LITTLE BEASTS!
I SHALL NEVER DO ANY DECENT WORK IN _THIS_ ATMOSPHERE."]
* * * * *