Fiction
By L. A. G. STRONG.
A Modern Hero. By Louis Bromfield. (Cassell. 7s. 6d.)
Amenimiow once confided to William Morris that his taste bad reached such a pitch of refinement he could read nothing but Shakespeare. " Stuff," retorted the Master and added, " Flame is flame, wherever you find it." This dictum, which I respectfully commend to the attention of Mrs. Leavis, is heartening and salutary for the reviewer, reminding him that those who can warm their hands at few braziers are as often influenced by fashion and dogma as by genuine response to the creative spirit.
So, pace Mrs. Leavis and her five fixed stars, there is matter for critical attention in the writings of the first author upon our list to-day. I do not for a moment suggest that Mr. Louis Bromfield is a great writer, or that any sane person would mention him in the same breath with a Lawrence or a Joyce : but the heavens are wide, and they have room fur that clear, hard light of his which has some- times lost a little through twinkling too smartly. Twenty- four Hours was a good and memorable novel. .4 Modern Hero is less good, because less well organized. It has individual passages which are memorable, but the story gives Mr. Bromfield less opportunity. There is still too much smartness, and, for some tastes, too much melodrama, especially at the end : but that Mr. Bromfield has a definite place in contemporary fiction cannot be doubted.
Miss Daphne du Maurier's novel has enormous- faults, and is a success in spite of them. Of all upon this list, it has in the highest degree the quality saluted by William Morris. Its first part, entitled " Jake," is completely unreal. Not until Richard meets Hesta does the story come alive, and froth that point onwards it never falters. It is a strange phenomenon, this break between two modes of vision, and it seems due to deeper causes than the fact that Miss du Maurier understands one sort of life and does not under- stand another. In the first part, her imagination takes wing prematurely. She has barely glanced at the facts of a scene before she is off in the air, writing what is, in relation to the starting-place—to the solid bridge, for instance, from which Richard is about to drown himself—absolute nonsense ; but nonsense made coherent by some queer logic of its own : " ' Sure, I can ride,' I said, but his words seemed nonsense 10 me, and the air was very thick, and his voice was coming from a long way away."
That is precisely the effect of the first part of the book. When we come to the second, we can thankfully echo words of one of the characters : "`I am only glad that all this here is real, and that your story
is over and done with. It can't happen "
It couldn't have happened at all. The talk on the bridge, the voyage to Sweden, the fight in which Jake broke another boxer's neck with a single blow, and the fight in the tavern, are all the completest moonshine. They are not improved (nor is the rest of the book) by the fact that Miss du Maurier has read, marked, learned but altogether failed to digest Mr. Hemingway. She should watch this, and take more care with her writing in general. The trouble again comes from a premature take-off of the imagination. Such phrases as " Running like silly geese to buy picture postcards from a stall " are symptomatic of this impatience, and of the half- baked effect which it produces. I am nagging at Miss du Maurice in this churlish fashion because the rest of her book is so amazingly good. The story of Richard and Hesta, which in the end makes him guilty of the precise thing for which Jake killed the man in the boxing booth, is true, moving, and most excellently told. If Miss du Maurier develops on the lines of the first part of her novel, she will be a portent, blended of Marie Corelli and Hall Caine. If, as I fervently hope, the second part keeps uppermost, there is no saying what she may become. In any case, I have a feeling that a very great number of people are going to be deeply interested and influenced by her future work.
Anyone who has been at a university or lived in a university town will be predisposed in favour of Poor Scholars, and I do not think that many who read it will be disappointed. Its theme is Cambridge, as seen by a boy and a girl. May and Philip Chesterfield are a pleasant couple, and Mr. Rossiter gives us, as a picture of university life, all that care and observation can set down. The one thing that the book lacks is the evidence of a real creative impulse : in other words, flame. It is nevertheless an attractive and interesting piece of work, and I enjoyed it. - I also enjoyed If This be Error, in which Miss Askwith demonstrates that she can write very pleasantly without her collaborator. This short novel surveys with quiet assurance- the marriage markets of seventy years ago. Since her sister had married for money, Helena intended to elope for love- -and would have done so, but for a thunderstorm. Her story has been told many times before, but Miss Askwith retells it agreeably and with detachment, neither accepting nor con- demning the standards of " county." The conclusion of the whole matter, reached when Helena is forty and still unmarried, would seem to be Perhaps Louisa spoke truly after all—people made too much fuss about love. And yet —" A slight and pleasant story.
Czardas has flame, but sometimes one can hardly see it for the smoke :
"But Karmel soon broke off this third fiaison. Clare meant even less to him than Irene ; she served only to round off the cycle. His hatred was entirely consumed in his vengeful kisses, and when his revenge was sated, ho was satisfied."
It is a thorough-going, vigorous example of our old friend the Central European story, with a liberal allowance of prostitutes and maniacs, energetically written, and admirably translated. It has a genuine power, and often strikes an English reader as rather ridiculous. Incidentally, the book is most beautifully printed, produced and bound, and has the best jacket which I have seems for months.
The remaining novels have less flame about them than sparkle. In other words, they are aimed simply at our entertainment. Had Darley and Hugh and Osbert really agreed to share their luck if any of them drew a horse? This query, with its subtle and disquieting echoes, is only the first raised in The Sweepstake Prize. It is not hard to imagine the complications which an enormous stroke of luck may bring ; and Mr. Nicholson makes the must of thesis. His characterization is a little naff, and, still unpractised in fiction, he hesitates between what he shall explain to his readers and what he shall show them ; but he has a story to tell, and tells it with enthusiasm. The Sweepstake Prize should be as popular as it is timely.
Sea Green Grocer opens poorly, with sneers at rural culture and morris-dancing, but when once Reginald Pybus is shipped on the ''Erod Antipas ' it becomes really lively and good. The Professor, old Whalebelly, Hairy Butler and his other companions in the foc'sle provide some of the most picturesque deep-sea dialogue that ever did not need expurgating. Reginald, an unwilling voyager over half the world, gets well seasoned, manfully knocks out :a homicidal cook with a York ham, remembers in a Calcutta cinema that he is Reginald Pybus, wholesale and retail provision merchant, of Pottleworth—for Red Mahaffy's blackjack has robbed him of his memory=and. eventually goes rolling home, taking his vocabulary with him. Very good entertainment.
Martin's guardian pulled blinds, and kept the Sunshine out of his life. From the care of a head-master who pulled wool over the guardian's eyes, lie passed, cid a Sweet, Innocent Kiss, into the care of Celia, who also kept the blinds down. It was left for Vital, Radiant Vera to restore to hiin his beloved Sunshine, enabling him to divorce Celia by methods unusual but effective. My own feeling is that several of these characters might with advantage have been kept in the dark.
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