(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS_.)
HANSI, the Alsatian caricaturist and patriot, who escaped a few months
before the War, after being condemned by the German courts to fifteen
months' imprisonment for playing off an innocent little joke on four
German officers, and did his share of fighting with the French in the
early part of the War, is the darling of the Boulevards. They adore
his supreme skill in thrusting the irritating lancet of his humour
into bulging excrescences on the flank of that monstrous pachyderm
of Europe, the German. _Professor Knatschke_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON),
aptly translated by Professor R.L. CREWE, is a joyous rag. It purports
to be the correspondence of a Hun Professor, full of an egregious
self-sufficiency and humourlessness and greatly solicitous for the
unhappy Alsatian who is ignorant and misguided enough to prefer the
Welsch (i.e. foreign) "culture-swindle" to the glorious paternal
Kultur of the German occupation. And HANSI illustrates his witty text
with as witty and competent a pencil. HANSI has, in effect, the full
status of an Ally all by himself. He adds out of the abundance of his
heart a diary and novel by _Knatschke's_ daughter, _Elsa_, full of
the artless sentimentality of the German virgin. It is even better fun
than the Professor's part of the business. Naturally the full flavour
of both jokes must be missed by the outsider. HANSI is the more
effective in that he chuckles quietly, never guffaws and never rails.
Fun of the best.
* * * * *
There is not much left for me to say in praise of Mr. JACK LONDON'S
dog-stories; and anyhow, if his name on the cover of _Jerry of the
Islands_ (MILLS AND BOON) is not enough, no persuasion of mine
will induce you to read it. Those of us to whom dogs are merely
animals--just that--will find this history of an Irish terrier dull
enough; but others who have in their time given their "heart to a dog
to tear" will recognise and joyously welcome Mr. LONDON'S sympathetic
understanding of his hero. _Jerry's_ adventurous life as here told
was spent in the Solomon Islands, which is not, I gather, the most
civilized part of the globe. He had been brought up to dislike
niggers, and when he disliked anyone he did not hesitate to show his
feelings and his teeth. So it is possible that for some tastes he
left his marks a little too frequently; but in the end he thoroughly
justified his inclination to indulge in what looked like unprovoked
attacks upon bare legs. For unless he had kept his teeth in by
constant practice he might never have contrived to save his beloved
master and mistress from a very cowardly and crafty attack. Good dog,
_Jerry_!
* * * * *
I admit that the fact of its publishers having branded _The Road to
Understanding_ (CONSTABLE) as "A Pure Love Story" did not increase the
hopes with which I opened it. Let me however hasten also to admit that
half of it certainly bettered expectation. That was the first half,
in which _Burke Denby_, the heir to (dollar) millions, romantically
defied his father and married his aunt's nursery governess, and
immediately started to live the reverse of happy-ever after. All this,
the contrast between ideals in a mansion and love in a jerry-built
villa, and the thousand ways in which _Mrs. Denby_ got upon her
husband's nerves and generally blighted his existence, are told with
an excellently human and sympathetic understanding, upon which I make
my cordial congratulations to Miss ELEANOR H. PORTER. But because
the book, however human, belongs, after all, to the category of "Best
Sellers" it appears to have been found needful to furbish up this
excellent matter with an incredible ending. That _Mrs. Denby_ should
retire with her infant to Europe, in order to educate herself to her
husband's level, I did not mind. This thing has been done before now
even in real life. But that, on returning after the lapse of years,
she should introduce the now grown-up daughter, unrecognised, as
secretary to her father! "Somehow ... you remind me strangely.... Tell
me of your parents." "My daddy ... I never knew him." Or words to that
effect. It is all there, spoiling a tale that deserved better.
* * * * *
The voracious novel-reader is apt to hold detective stories in the
same regard that the Scotchman is supposed to entertain towards
whisky--some are better than others, but there are no really bad ones.
_The Pointing Man_ (HUTCHINSON) is better than most, in the first
place because it takes us "east of Suez"--a pleasant change from
the four-mile radius to which the popular sleuths of fiction mostly
confine their activities; and, secondly, because it combines a maximum
of sinister mystery with a minimum of actual bloodshed; and, lastly,
because our credulity is not strained unduly either by the superhuman
ingenuity of the hunter or an excess of diabolical cunning on the part
of the quarry. Otherwise the story possesses the usual features. There
is the clever young detective, in whose company we expectantly scour
the bazaars and alleys of Mangadone in search of a missing boy. There
are Chinamen and Burmese, opium dens and curio shops, temples and
go-downs. Miss MARJORIE DOUIE has more than a superficial knowledge
of her stage setting, and gets plenty of movement and colour into
it. And if she has elaborated the characters and inter-play of her
Anglo-Burmese colony to an extent that is not justified either by
their connection with the plot or the necessity of mystifying the
reader we must forgive her because she does it very well--so well
indeed that we may hope to see _The Pointing Man_, excellent as it is
in its way, succeeded by a contribution to Anglo-Oriental literature
that will do ampler justice to Miss DOUIE'S unquestionable gifts.
* * * * *
Our writers appear willing converts to my own favourite theory that
the public is, like a child, best pleased to hear the tales that it
already knows by heart. The latest exponent of this is the lady who
prefers to be called only "The Author of _An Odd Farmhouse_." Her new
little book, _Your Unprofitable Servant_ (WESTALL), is a record of
domestic happenings and impressions during the early phases of the
War. The thing is skilfully done, and in the result carries you with
interest from page to page; though (as I hint) the history of those
August days, when Barbarism came forth to battle and Civilisation
regretfully unpacked its holiday suit-cases, can hardly appeal now
with the freshness of revelation. Still, the writer brings undeniable
gifts to her more than twice-told tale. She has, for example,
perception and a turn of phrase very pleasant, as when she speaks
of the shops in darkened London conducting the last hour of business
under lowered awnings, "as if it were a liaison." There are many such
rewarding passages, some perhaps a little facile, but, taken together,
quite enough to make this unpretentious little volume a very agreeable
companion for the few moments of leisure which are all that most of us
can get in these strenuous days.
* * * * *
I enjoyed at a pleasant sitting the whole of Mr. FRANK SWINNERTON'S
_Nocturne_ (SECKER). I don't quite know (and I don't see how
the author can quite know) whether his portraits of pretty
self-willed _Jenny_ and plain love-hungry _Emmy_, the daughters
of the superannuated iron-moulder, are true to life, but they are
extraordinarily plausible. Not a word or a mood or a move in the
inter-play of five characters in four hours of a single night, the
two girls and "_Pa_," and _Alf_ and _Keith_, the sailor and almost
gentleman who was _Jenny's_ lover, seemed to me out of place. The
little scene in the cabin of the yacht between _Jenny_ and _Keith_
is a quite brilliant study in selective realism. Take the trouble to
look back on the finished chapters and see how much Mr. SWINNERTON has
told you in how few strokes, and you will realise the fine and precise
artistry of this attractive volume. I can see the lights, the silver
and the red glow of the wine; and I follow the flashes and pouts
and tearful pride of _Jenny_, and _Keith's_ patient, embarrassed,
masterful wooing as if I had been shamefully eavesdropping.
* * * * *
_Fool Divine_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) stands to some extent in
a position unique among novels in that its heroine is also its
villainess, or at least the wrecker of its hero. _Nevile del Varna_,
the lady in question, is indeed the only female character in the
tale, and has therefore naturally to work double tides. What happened
was that young _Christopher_, a superman and hero, dedicate, as a
volunteer, to the unending warfare of science against the evil goddess
of the Tropics, yellow fever, met this more human divinity when on
his journey to the scene of action, and, like a more celebrated
predecessor, "turned aside to her." Then, naturally enough, when
_Nevile_ has gotten him for her husband and when love of her has
caused him to abandon his project of self-sacrifice, she repays
him with scorn. And as the unhappy _Christopher_ already scorns
himself the rest of the book (till the final chapters) is a record
of deterioration more clever than exactly cheerful. The moral of it
all being, I suppose, that if you are wedded to an ideal you should
beware of taking to yourself a mortal wife, for that means bigamy.
Incidentally the book contains some wonderfully impressive pictures of
tropical life and of the general beastliness of existence on a rubber
plantation. At the end, as I have indicated, regeneration comes for
_Christopher_--though I will not reveal just how this happens. There
is also a subsidiary interest in the revolutionary affairs of Cuba,
which the much-employed _Nevile_ appears to manage, as a local Joan of
Arc, in her spare moments; and altogether the book can be recommended
as one that will at least take you well away from the discomforts of
here and now.
* * * * *
[Illustration: TALE OF A GREAT OFFENSIVE.
"'E SEZ TO ME, 'YOU'LL GET A THICK EAR!' I SEZ, 'WHO?' 'E SEZ, 'YOU!'
I SEZ, 'ME?' 'E SEZ 'YUS!' I SEZ 'HO!'"]