FICTION.
BACK TO LIFE.•
" Deaceneue Averni facilia . . . tied resocare gradual, Hoc eat opus, lac labor." How easy was the entry into war—a war of self-defence in which every thinking person knew that this country was fighting for bare life! With what enthusiasm did the nation as one solid unit press forward for service I With what beating hearts did we hear the footsteps of our brothers from overseas hurrying to take their share in facing the common danger! But now—after four years of sheer destruction, and two of the aftermath of war—how tedious and how anxious is the process of reconstruction ! We question our peat in agony lest remorse should seize us for this or that occasion when the counter-stroke to the enemy's designs might possibly have been struck with too much force, or for that day when, stung to madness by his frightfulness, we went a hairbreadth further than was strictly necessary in carrying out the tea ialionia.
Sir Philip Gibbs' book—which, though fiction, is not, strictly speaking, a novel—is full of such searehings of heart. And yet he himself in the fin3t of the three sections of which the volume consists gives us convincing proof that Germany had no right to the chivalrous treatment accorded to a beaten but generous foe. Lille, in the wild frenzy of the deliverance of 1918, with her four years' tragedy fresh upon her lips, was not a sight to suggest the forgiveness of those who caused her martyrdom. The author gives us the story of the boy, Edouard Cheri—almost a child, so delicate, "catching cold so easily," as his mother says piteously, and yet in 1916 callously drafted off to dig trenches behind the lines under fire from his own countrymen. No word comes from him for two years. He returns after the Armistice, "haggard, with high cheek-bones prominent through his white, tightly-drawn skin, and his eyes were sunk in deep sockets. His hair was in a wild mop of black, disordered locks. He stood there, with tears streaming from his eyes, and the only words he said were :—
" Maman I 0 mama); maman I'"
But not all his mother's ears could save him—the strain had come when he was too young to support it, and he came back only to die. Again, there is the terrible episode of the girl who rather than starve yields to her German masters, and thus puts herself beyond the pale, so that no deliverance can help her. The hubbub of enthusiasm in the liberated town, with its amazing contrasts of force and tragedy, is given with vivid detail which, in spite of, or, more probably, because of its confused mass, brings fully home to the reader the bewilderments of that amazing time.
It is in the latter part of the book when he is dealing with the inevitable reaction that Sir Philip Gibbs' standpoint renders his work a little out of focus. In spite of its many limitations
it is impossible to accept his account of the Peace Conference: especially with regard to the r6le enacted by President Wilson. These are matters too high to be discussed as fiction, yet we can all meet on common ground in the aspirations of the little American doctor with regard to a possible substitute for the stillborn League of Nations :— " Doctor,' I said, 'there is still hope in the League of Nations!. We must all back that.' He shook his head. The spirit has gone out of it. It was born without a soul. I believe now that the future welfare of the world depends upon a change of heart among the peoples, inspired by individuals in all nations who will work for good and give a call to humanity, indifferent tø statesmen, treaties, andy Governments.' 'The International League of Goodwill ' He nodded and smiled. Something like that.'"
It must be confessed that the account given in the latet chapters of the marriage of Wickham Brand, a British officer, to the daughter of the German family with whom he is billeted while in Cologne tries the reader's complaisance rather hard. Although, of course, Elsa, the unfortunate girl, was not to blame for the faults of her country, it would be difficult for English people still reeling from the shook of all they had gone through to receive her as one of themselves. It ire indeed, impossible to accept Germany on the old terms of friendship till she has not only professed herself repentant, but given proof
• Bath to IAA. By Pinny Gibbs. London : Heinemann. Pa net.]
of a change of heart. The German professors, who should be the most sympathetically humane of their nation, issued a manifesto at the beginning of the war accepting their full share of their country's responsibility. No one could censure them for doing this, but, on the other hand, as they issued no mani- festo reprobating the frightfulness which Germany committed, they must take their share of the blame attached to her misdeeds. Those who have not come under the personal fascination of delightful and cultivated Germans must be pardoned if they cannot as yet forget the use of poison gas or the sinking of hospital ships—both horrors of war to which the Germans had solemnly promised not to resort. When an English girl calmly admits that her ordinary Red Cross service included being torpedoed while on duty it is difficult to feel that she has only been subjected to one of the inevitable dangers of war. There is no need to labour the point. Even France, it is to be hoped, will show mercy and not justice, deep as are the wrongs which she has to forgive. For ourselves, we must have some assurance that Germany will carry out her obligations as to disarmament, and that we shall not once more become her dupes, lulled into a false security by her assurances of friendship.
We shall all be in sympathy with the account of the feeding of the children of Vienna. Happily, more than this was attempted, for a certain number of the children actually came over here to be eared for by their former enemies. Let us hope that the economic conditions which at the moment are so threatening to the nation will enable us to continue in this work of mercy.
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