Fiction
By L. A. G. STRONG.
Violante. By George R. Preedy. (Cassell. 7s. 6d.) Old Callender. By Claude Copping. (Harmsworth. 7s. exL) Tut,. heroine of Mr. Preedy's new romance more than once made me think of Webster's Vittoria Corombona, even though in character she does not greatly resemble that lady. She could not have had the wit to frame Vittoria's cry : " Condemn you me for that the Duke did love me ! 8o May you blame some fair and crystal river For that some melancholic distracted man Hath drowned himself in't : " —though it would have well suited her predicament. For the beauty of Violante turned many men melancholic and distracted ; each thought her a fair and crystal river ; and each was drowned. Her beauty became a scandal in Toulouse, and the expedient of marrying her to poor Valmaison made platters worse, for he was murdered, and her friends and relations came under suspicion for the deed. She, whose only wish was to please and comfort her suitors, brought evil to them all. Confessing at her trial, she said that she had given herself to them out of compassion, but neither the parliament nor the recipients appreciated her generosity, the only man she loved turned from her in contempt, and there was nothing left for her but death. The chief characters besides Violante are the priest who for her sake breaks his vows and forswears his faith, and Monseigneur de Falaise, urged on by his jealous passion to persecute her and those he believes to be her lovers, unable to rest till he has extorted from her what he dreads to hear. Mr. Preedy, who has here supplied his own interpreta- tion of an historical case, has made a fine and richly coloured story. He is perhaps a little too fond of extraneous thunder- storms and other atmospheric devices for heightening the action of his story, but many of the scenes are powerful enough even without such assistance. Violante can be recommended to those .who love a full-blooded historical novel.
Another story in which melodrama plays a vigorous if belated and somewhat unexpected part is Miss F. H. Dorset's ,Silent Meadows. I have puzzled for some time over this novel. Certain things are obvious—namely, that the end is not as good as the beginning, that the book changes direction, and that. Miss Dorset suggests a number of questions to which she provides no answer. There must however be a reason for all this, and I think that the reason, the central weakness of the hook, lies in the character of Sidney Palmer. Anne and Algy, daughters of William and Veronica Grant, led the materially comfortable and repressed existence which we expect to be told of in any modern novel with a Victorian setting. Miss Dorset, eyeing her scene with sympathy and perception, makes all perfectly credible. No less credible, if less expected, is the diversion by William Grant of Anne's inheritance for his own purposes, and his subsequent theft in order to pay her back. William is alive, and so are his two daughters. But what of Sidney Palmer ? What is this man with whom Anne elopes ? Is he just a bad hat ? Did he want Anne only for her money ? Did he, as he said, fall in love with her after- wards ? Miss Dorset, instead of answering these problems, supplies an octoroon armed with a compromising photo- graph, a number of violent coincidences, and a convenient pond. A story which began as a character study ends as a roaring melodrama ; and in the last five pages we skip thirty years and read two letters addressed to the curate whom Algy -would have married if all had gone well. Silent Meadows is exceedingly interesting and raises high hopes for Miss Dorset's future. As a whole, however, it cannot be called a SUCCeSS.
Quite early in my reading career I learned that it was, worth -while to read Mr. Temple Thurston, if only for the sake of an occasional reward. His books have varied almost as greatly as their subject-matter, but in every one the reader, if he keep on long enough, will be rewarded by some passage of observa- tion so exact as to be a permanent addition to his knowledge of the human scene. I can recall many such : and as a result I am always ready to put up with the things I do not like in his work for the sake of the things which I do. The Broken Heart is no exception to this rule. Some of the stories are a little easy in construction and vocabulary, but all are worth reading. " From the Dead to the Living " is characteristic of Mr. Temple Thurston in both his manners. He has so concen- trated on his main idea that he has failed to see how much more meaning the story would have had if he explained to us the paradox of the condemned man's behaviour. As it is, the robbery and murder are flung at our heads because Mr. Thurston, intent upon the business of the letters, has taken the first excuse that came to hand in order to create the situation he requires. Perhaps the best story in an interesting collection is " The Anniversary," an uncommonly neat plot managed with a casualness which only the skilled hand can achieve.
The author of that excellent novel, The Public School Murder, opens his second book with a summary so concise that I cannot do better than set it down in full : " Few young mon have accomplished more on their first holiday in London than Ernest Chevington. He was the means of restoring to an aged fellow-townsman a long-lost grand-daughter. He was granted a private interview with a Cabinet Minister He 'was present at a still more remarkable interview between the Cabinet Minister and a famous figure in the shopkeeping world. He was admitted behind the scenes in Fleet Street.
" He was the hero of a thrilling episode in which he went to the rescue of a celebrated airwoman whose name just then was on every- one's lips. " What is more to the point, perhaps, he had two adventures in love. One of these went comically awry. The other, on which the Fates seemed to have cast a benevolent eye from the very beginning . ."
Admirable though this is, it leaves out one or two matters of interest. It does not make explicit the connexion' between the celebrated airwoman and the butcher at home in Worces- tershire. It contains no reference to that sinister individual, the Rev. Mr. Vyle. You would not realize from it that Ernest penetrated the literary and artistic thickets of Bloomsbury, nor that he encountered a gentleman whose name was T. St. C. de V. Otley-Parkes. It insufficiently describes his expe- riences with publicists and in the world of the cinema ; and it passes over completely Mrs. Perfect, that model among land- ladies, who dealt so faithfully with the various persons com- mitted by an indifferent fortune to her care. Mr. Woodthorpe is in the best sense an original writer. He gets off the mark quickly, sets a strong pace, and stays the course.
Old Callender was an unpleasant old man. Retiring at seventy-five, and turning his back upon Kingsthorpe, he announced to his friends and relations his intention of living to be a hundred—and proceeded to defeat it, in the span of four years, by a number of ill-informed and stupid actions. Of his family he cared only for Marjorie, widow of his beloved son, who had been killed in the War. He had his human moments : " You know, Bess. I'm sorry to go,' said Mr. Callender, as they waited on the station platform. They're building some nice houses on Ridge Hill. We might have taken one of those.' " Well, you'll always be able to sell "this new house of ours, and come back again—if you want to. I don't think I shall. I've never had the friends here that you've had.' " Mr. Callender sighed. He'd miss those old cronies. He was afraid there wouldn't be much society for him in his new home. These seaside towns catered for a smarter set than he was used to.
" Still, Bess is right—I can always come back.' " Sitting in the train he watched the roofs of Kingsthorpe grow small and distant across the flat fields, and wondered rather-sadly if the place would be the same should he return to it in years to come."
At the end of the book, too, one cannot withhold a touch of sympathy for the old man battling along in pursuit of his purpose through taxi-accidents and the various obstacles that rise in front of him. Still, he is an unpleasant old man, and this, I think, is the main objection to Mr. Copping's story. It would have been strengthened if he had persuaded us that the tale of Mr. Callender was more than the decay and demise of a self-willed old curmudgeon incurred prematurely through his own folly. Even so, it remains a very able piece of work.
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