Fiction
The Spectacle. By Rayne Kruger. (Longmans. 10s. 6d.)
M. PEYREFITTE'S novel has been widely reviewed and is being widely talked about. One can easily see why. The story of a young diplo- mat's year at the French Embassy in Athens, it is intelligent, witty and frequently improper. Nothing positive is affirmed, except the eternal loveliness of Athens and the conclusion that war is foolish and diplomacy futile to prevent it. Everything else is laughed off or dismissed with a shrug as dust and ashes. True, there is a hint that once, perhaps, if things had happened otherwise, something else might be happening now ; but ... once again the shrug.
The activities of the titled young Second Secretary fall into two categories, professional and private. The first is by far the more amusing. With a clear eye and a lively mockery the author turns inside out the theory and practice which, he would have us believe, governed the conduct of certain embassies in the late 'thirties. Pleasant characters abound, the most attractive of them usually the most pig-headed, busy with feuds, intrigues -and jealousies, little different, save in the elaborate courtesy of the insults, from those which can enliven the common' rooms of public schools. In these the participants are vigorously abetted by their women-folk ; and M. Peyrefitte makes most amusing play with them.
In his private relationships Georges is gloomy and cold. He begins with Francoise, the ambassador's attractive daughter, and makes rapid progress.
" Georges savoured the irony of hearing these compliments from a father whose daughter he had just seduced. It was, however, 'difficult for the affair to develop.
" They had begun with the end. The pleasures of which they had partaken were those which a man dares only to ask his mistress after the lapse of some time.... Georges, at any rate, had the classic conception of love founded on esteem ; and though he saw a thousand reasons for delighting in this pretty girl, he saw none for loving her."
The madame of the brothel which he frequents, although he derives no satisfaction from " perfunctory bodily embraces," was deeply concerned for him—maybe because she was a regular guest at ambassadorial functions—and offered more perverse delights. There were, however, limits to his " desire for oblivion " ; and, ironically, his ultimate ,downfall was due to a distaste for the page- boys whose unofficial functions were the chief reason for their number.
These particulars will suggest that some of the Spectator's regular readers may find the book's moral atmosphere a little exotic. To me it lacks interest because Georges nowhere shows real warmth or affection. The nearest he comes to it is a half-romantic friendship for a young German diplomat. The only enthusiasm he feels is for Athens and her 'history. This lizard-like chill at the heart spoils, for me, a witty and otherwise diverting story. The translation, by James FitzMaurice, is superb.
There is nothing chilly about Enter a Player. Jenny, an unimport- ant member of a ramshackle Victorian touring company, has a baby boy by the leading man, who has already made another conquest. A friend adopts the boy, and Jenny, who has sworn to keep out of the picture, manages to see him in secret, thus complicating his childhood with deceit and subterfuge. The boy has the talent both his parents lacked. Despite all obstacles, not least the fanatical obstinacy of his adopted mother, he fights his way to the stage. Miss Lewis's writing is splashy and explosive, so that, despite its energy, her tale moves slowly. But her people are real, appearing through the haze of the style much as these players of the day before yesterday appeared through the dimness of fog and gaslight. Sounds and smells of the theatre fill the story, which vindicates, noisily but sincerely, the claim of art to be nourished from the whole of life, and the need of life to nourish art.
Mr. Millar raises the same point, if only to evade it. A promising young painter gives to one of his nudes the face of a neighbour's wife. The likeness is recognised by an admiral, who tries at once to whip up against the painter the feelings of respectable society ; and the book resolves itself into a struggle between painter plus narrator and the conventional opposition—Art versus Philistia. Unfortunately, or so it seems to me, Mr. Millar dodges the issue. The painter wins, but by trickery, and the real conflict remains unsettled. Lively in detail though it is, I found Siesta disappointing after Mr. Millar's earlier stories.
If you can believe and be humanly interested in a young man who shuts his detested boss in a safe, and leaves him to suffocate slowly while he spends the evening with friends, you will greatly enjoy Mr. Kruger's excitingly written story. He has the almost lost art of suspense and climax, up to the donning of the judicial black cap— and can spring a surprise even then. He writes very well indeed, but, unconvinced by his premiss, I could take only a partial interest in the many skilled deductions which he draws from it.- L. A. G. STRONG.
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