NOVELS.
THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY.t
WE are not quite sure whether Mr. Chesterton was well advised in adding " a Nightmare " to the title of his new fantasia. On the one hand, it has the effect of reassuring the timorous reader, so that when the suspense of the narrative reaches an unbearable pitch, he can always comfort himself by saying : " Oh, after all, this is only a dream ; the fellow will wake up at the end and find himself all right." But it may at once be objected that Mr. Chesterton does not address himself to the timorous reader. It is not his way to make concessions to the average man ; for although an inveterate optimist and a supporter of the existing order, his method of proving himself on the side of the angels is so paradoxical, so exuberant, and occasionally so outrageous that it is often calculated, if not actually to make the angels weep, at least to disconcert the orthodox. But even those who are most • The Story of Crime from the Cradle to the Grave. By H. L. Adam. Illos- * English Socialism of To-day : its Teaching and its Aims Examined. By the trated. London : T. Werner Laurie. [12s. 6d. net. j tolerant of Mr. Olie-s-te-riOn's tustige Streiche in virtue of his under/ying sanity may regret that he should have labelled his romance a nightmare. For with all its extravagance the success of the story depends so much on the semblance of realism—which is most skilfully maintained for about three- quarters of the book—that it is annoying to have the inevitable a?r' rywy' iElyp6ulv always hanging over us. The story, viewed as a mere piece of narration, is up to a certain point quite first-rate. It opens much on the same plane as The Dynamiter of R. L. Stevenson,—that is, of fantastic, subli- mated melodrama, in which the style, at once tense and vivid, is in perfect keeping with the astonishing succession of incidents which it depicts. The dialectical encounter of the two young men at the garden party at Saffron Park, and the sudden and wholly unexpected manner in which the anarchical poet convinces his opponent of his sincerity, make a brilliant opening ; but the sequel, in which the detective is elected to the Central Anarchical Council, and exhausts all the resources at his disposal to evade discovery, rises to the highest level of transcendental sensationalism. The note of the narrative rises to a positive scream, but it is Mr. Chesterton's peculiar merit that he is able to scream with distinction. Mr. Chesterton's sense of the romantic picturesqueness of London has never been more happily displayed than in the scene of the night journey on the Thames, or, better still, in his appreciation of the exotic character of Leicester Square. The actual change from the horrific to the burlesque is happily contrived ; but unluckily, once the transit is completely effected, every semblance of realism is abandoned, and we are committed to a carnival of incredible absurdity, out of which, by an abrupt jerk of the kaleidoscope, we are suddenly pro- jected into an atmosphere of exalted allegory, in which the demon-Falstaff of the plot assumes a role of mystical benevolence. Mr. Chesterton cannot be blamed for failing to achieve the impossible—to graft spiritual ecstasy on to riotous extravaganza—but it is a pity that he should be so wanting in self-criticism as to have made the attempt. The story is a wonderful tour de force up to the episode of the duel. The subsequent efforts to be facetious and to be edifying have marred the delight of a brilliant improvisation.
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