Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 152, June 20, 1917 by Mr. Various (top business books of all time .txt) 📖

Teddy_ and consolation to the middle-aged reader.

I need give you only a slight indication of the plot, which is

simplicity itself. Into the self-contained little community of a

provincial society, where to have once been young is to retain a

courtesy title to perpetual youth, there arrives suddenly the genuine

article, a boy and girl still in the springtime of life, by contrast

with whom the preserved immaturity of _Mr. Teddy_ and his partner,

_Miss Daisy_, is shown for an artificial substitute. Baldly stated,

the thesis sounds cynical and a little cruel; actually, however,

you will here find Mr. BENSON in a kindlier mood than he sometimes

consents to indulge. He displays, indeed, more than a little fondness

for his disillusioned hero; the fine spirit with which _Mr. Teddy_

faces at last the inevitable is a sure proof of the author's sympathy.

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

You will hardly have traversed the passages of our underground railway

system without being hurriedly aware in passing of a picture in reds

and browns, representing a faun-like figure piping to an audience of

three rather self-conscious rabbits. This pleasing group does not

portray an actual scene from _Autumn_ (LANE), but is rather to be

taken as symbolic of the atmosphere of Miss MURIEL HINE'S latest book.

The faun, I imagine, stands for _Rollo_, the middle-aged lover of the

country, into whose happy life other, more human, loves break with

such devastation. What the rabbits mean is a more difficult problem. I

jest; but as a matter of fact I should be the first to admit that Miss

HINE has written a story that, despite a certain crudity of colouring,

is both unconventional and alive. The attitude of the characters

towards their parents, for example, is at least original. _Deirdre_,

the heroine, frankly despised her mother, to whom she owed a marriage

with the man whom she hated. The gift of a country cottage enabled

her to escape from him to rabbits (figurative) and the simpler life.

There, however, she fell in with _Rollo_, who loved her at sight,

and whose daughter, _Hyacinth_, adored her father, but quite blandly

deceived him about her own amorous adventures. A pretty tangle, you

observe, and I am not sure that I can wholly acquit the author of

some cowardice in her manner of cutting it. But undoubtedly _Autumn_

remains a story to read, and remember.

 

       *       *      *       *       *

 

Since Mr. H. PERRY ROBINSON'S name must be familiar to most of us

by now as that of one of the very select company of journalists who

monopolise seats at the Front, one naturally turns with interest from

his daily despatches to a sustained narrative. His account of last

year's battle of the Somme, which he names _The Turning Point_

(HEINEMANN), is as lively and vigorous a recital as can well be

imagined of events hardly the less thrilling because already

well-known. Although he disclaims expert knowledge of strategies, he

is at least uncommonly well qualified to appraise the things he saw.

"Before July, 1916, our Army," he says, "was like a small hoy hoping

to grow up and be big enough to lick a bully some day. Told to attack

him before he felt sure of his own strength, the small boy would not

have been sorry to wait a bit longer, but the pressure against Verdun

and against the Russians had to be relieved, and so with steadily

increasing skill and confidence the attack was made, and day after day

fresh units proved themselves more than a match for the enemy." The

result was a series of victories--Mametz, Contalmaison, Pozières,

Guillemont, Thiepval, Beaumont-Hamel--and the writer is able to

associate with each immortal name the regiments there engaged, all

heroes, for "there were no stragglers." Indeed, if there is a weakness

in the book it is that the insistent recording of the individual

heroism of different battalions tends to become monotonous. But what

a fault! It is a monotony of British valour crowned by a monotony of

British triumph.

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

A point that will hardly avoid your notice in the plot of _In the

Night_ (LONGMANS), by Mr. R. GORELL BARNES (now Lord GORELL), is the

exiguous part played in its elucidation by the Great Investigator, who

(as usual) happens to be on the spot and able to place his services

at the disposal of the local authorities. It is, I suppose due to the

Sherlockian tradition these unhappy persons, the local detectives,

must always be supplemented by a superior and high-handed expert. I

think, from his preface, that the author does not quite share my own

taste in such matters, since he promises that his Investigator shall

keep no secrets and observe nothing withheld from the eye of the

reader. So faithful is the author to this undertaking that he

practically keeps his expert hanging about with the unenlightened

crowd, while another character, in light-hearted amateur enthusiasm,

does all the work. But of course, in a tale of this kind, the only

thing that really matters is the one question of spotting the

criminal, or who killed Cock Robin. Naturally I am not going to spoil

your fun over this by any officious whisperings. As you probably know,

the one safe rule in such matters is to concentrate upon Cæsar's wife;

and even in repeating this antique maxim I may have betrayed too

much. Forget it, and you may find what happened _In the Night_

a sufficiently intriguing problem to provide a pleasant bedtime

entertainment that will leave your subsequent repose unimpaired.

 

In deciding to add to what one may call the fiction of Metropolitan

Adventures, whereof _The New Arabian Nights_ may be regarded as both

the model and the prototype, the author of _The London Nights

of Belsize_ (LANE) has undertaken a task which is both easy and

difficult--easy because a sophisticated style and a lively imagination

are the only essential qualifications, and difficult because it

involves competition with a perfect galaxy of distinguished authors.

There is always room for more of it, however, and, if Mr. VERNON

RENDALL disappoints us, it is not merely because the standard has

been set unusually high. His style is smooth and assured, and, though

somewhat lacking in humour, his touch is light and pleasing. He begins

well and interests us in his principal character so that we look

forward with zest to the adventures of a personality which is

everything that this sort of fiction requires. Here unfortunately the

matter ends. _Belsize_, who promises so much, has no adventures worth

the name. It is true that he rescues the _Prince of Mingrelia_, runs

to earth a gang of highly-educated and æsthetic criminals, and does

other things that we properly expect such men to do. But there is no

excitement about his methods. Not to put too fine a point on it, the

author of _Belsize_ lacks the true imagination that makes the unreal

seem real--a very different thing from the imagination which merely

clothes realities in a garment of mystery. Notwithstanding this

defect, _The London Nights of Belsize_ should wile away an hour or so

very pleasantly.

 

     

If _A Regimental Surgeon in War and Prison_ (MURRAY) does not create

so profound an impression as it would have done two years ago, the

reason must be that our capacity for disgust at Hunnish cruelty is

exhausted by the demands already made upon it. Captain DOLBEY was in

the Mons retreat and assisted at what he calls "the Miracle of the

Marne," and in writing of these events he shows a real knowledge of

both friend and foe. Taken prisoner under circumstances entirely

creditable to himself, he saw the inside of German prison-camps, and

suffered the indignities and horrors for which these places have so

justly become infamous. His experiences are described with an almost

judicial calmness. In one case of childish revenge I trust that the

sufferers were sustained by a sense of humour. When the picture of a

"Prussian family having its morning hate" appeared, the prisoners were

punished by having their deck-chairs confiscated. Mr. Punch, while

deeply regretting this vicarious expiation of his offence, cannot help

deriving some solace from the thought that he succeeded in penetrating

the hide of these Teuton pachyderms. When, for a change, Captain

DOLBEY received a kindness from German hands he acknowledges it

frankly. He also makes one or two suggestions which I sincerely hope

will be considered by those who are in a position to deal with them.

Altogether an illuminating book.

 

        

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