Fiction
BY L. A. G. STRONG.
7s. 6d.)
FOR some years Mr. Swinnerton has been tantalizing his admirers by omitting to write the novel they expected of him.
Knowledge of life, a darting humour, pity, understanding sterling sincerity ; an observation so quick as to be almost birdlike ; an insatiable interest in the human scene : his team of qualities is exceptionally strong. The trouble has been that, except for once or twice, no subject has come along able to discipline them fully and compel them to pull together. Mr. Swinnerton has too often used his gifts as a journalist rather than as a novelist : that is to say, they have been at the service of chapter, page, and paragraph rather than of compelling, solidly constructed whole. Meanwhile the admirers have waited, with faith unshaken, for a theme that should unify the energies of so rich a personality.
They will find justification in The Georgian House. It will not entirely satisfy them—nothing short of a masterpiece will do that ; but it will prove they have been right to wait. It is a full story, rich in character and incident, leisurely but never slow, and exhibiting all the degrees of Mr. Swinnerton's touch, his sprite-like lightness and his deep reserves of strength. It is both artfully and sincerely told. Where it falls short, judged by the highest standards, is (I suspect) in the fact that it is possible to state the plot without more than casually involving some of the most important characters. The story of old Mr. Starling, Ruth, and Philip is compact and powerfully knit. By comparison, the Davitts are merely people who also happen to live in Sandersfold, and Lettice Holpen seems just an accident. In other words (this is merely my suggestion : I may have missed Mr. Swinnerton's design) the main theme has not gripped the whole book.
Old Mr. Starling, owner of the Georgian house, left all his property to one Philip Spears. Something happened which caused him to make a draft of a later will, disinheriting Spears, but apparently he never signed it. At least, Leonard Holpen, his solicitor, cannot find the second will. Philip, who is working in a bookshop under an assumed name, receives notice from Holpen of his inheritance. Holpen tells him that there is in the house a lady, by name Ruth Coulevain, in a somewhat equivocal position. Philip asks her to stay on as housekeeper.
Holpen tries to get the full story of Philip out of his clerk Burgess, but without success. The reader, however, is allowed to look over the old rascal's shoulder, and learn why Philip changed his name. Philip and Ruth get married. The reader has another look over Burgess' shoulder. Burgess comes and tells Ruth a thing or two, and Philip, by means we need not go into, finds old Starling's second will, which leaves everything to Ruth. When she hears that all the property is hers, Ruth rushes off to Holpen, who has been her lover and is the father of her unborn child. The climax, and the ending, happy for Philip and for another character, whom it has not been necessary to mention in this synopsis, the reader must discover for himself.
The writing is excellent, and full of felicities. Burgess " was rarely deceived by deliberate deceptions. Only inno- cence discomfited him." Mrs. Burgess " had pointed, mali- cious teeth, and hard dark grey eyes. The two features made her look like a tabby cat in a good home, who yet did not disdain an occasional mouse." How quickly Mr. Swin- nerton seizes on a significant gesture : " One of the batsmen . . . was of that charming variety to whom runs seem to be offered. He scored fast, without effort, often enough stopping his partner with a raised hand and calmly watching the ball as it skimmed the shaven grass to the boundary, while a panting fieldsman, beaten by its pace, flung up a hasty arm of signal and despair."
The character drawing is rich and satisfying. Rose is well done, Ruth even better. Holpen is thoroughly understood, and Burgess is a triumph. The two old gossips are most happily described—particularly their inch-by-inch separations —but they did not help me to understand what was going on. The Georgian House is easily one of the half-dozen best novels of the year, an earnest of unusual gifts and of an observation second to none.
Miss Naomi Jacob is a most interesting writer. Young Emmanuel has the sovereign merit of making one feel, either that one is a Jew, or that one wishes to be. It is-easily written, and extraordinarily readable. Julian and Emmanuel are brothers (there is a third, but he does not matter), sons of Max, grandsons of old Emmanuel Gollantz. Julian is the hare, Emmanuel the tortoise. Character and relationship come out when Julian gives his brother's name in a night club raid, and Emmanuel, because Julian has an election in front of him, subscribes to the deception. Viva did not know which of the two she loved ; but, when Max was posted off to Aix by his doctor, and Emmanuel had to take over the business, she appeared to prefer Julian. Julian told Emmanuel it was as good as settled. However, Viva's version was different. Then Julian used his brother's name in a less reputable connexion. Here Miss Jacob tried me hard. When a character in a hook behaves like an ass, and takes the blame for something he didn't do, I generally throw the book away. Nine times out of ten the sacrifice is a trick to fill the book out. Em- manuel's isn't ; but it takes some swallowing. Miss Jacob asks us to believe, first, that for his mother's sake (she is ill, and is supposed to love Julian best), Emmanuel would ht himself be branded as a pervert, lose Viva, and be banished to Italy. It is, perhars, barely possible. Let us grant her the point ; but was it necessary ? Angela is told a tale to account for Emmanuel's going. Why could she not have been told a tale about Julian ? Why need anyone have gone away, seeing that the deplorable affair was hushed up ? I admit that Emmanuel's life in Italy, with his partner, with the excellent Guido, and with Juliet Forbes, is interesting enough to be sufficient excuse for getting him out there. Miss Jacob adm its, finally, via Angela, that he was an ass, and Max was an ass. She has just failed to convince me that they -would have been such asses, and, on the story's mechanical side, that they ever need have been. In all other respects, I delighted in Young Emmanuel, and was genuinely sorry to finish it.
Mr. Hartley Kemball Cook, a writer new to me, has written in Ambrose Terring a sound and ingenious story. He tackles the problems of Communism and democracy in agreeably straightforward style, setting his scene in a Midland village, and his time shortly after the last General Election. His hero, who is lame, holds firmly to his political creed, and justifies his faith in a work of supreme self-sacrifice. By contrast, Herr Boree's tale seems much ado about precious little. Mr. Aldous Huxley has, I believe, somewhere commented upon the boring discussion of love which usually must precede its practice. The unhappy hero of Summer's Not Over did not get as far as the practice. " Either you feel as I do or you don't," proclaimed his Dor : and she ultimately concluded that he didn't. Neither do I. There is beauty, delicacy of perception, and wisdom in the story ; but the young lady was not worth so much trouble.
Sheba Visits Solomon is a wicked and amusing fantasy on a Biblical theme which will hardly appeal to the orthodox believer. Those who can forget the story's associations, how- ever, will have no quarrel with it.
Readers of Mr. Kipling will recollect the masterly portrait of Torrigiano in Rewards and Fairies. Mr. Nichols gives us the great man at full length. I do not like " historical novel dialogue ; but, with this one complaint, I commend this fat, full novel to those who like a period well studied and a rousing story.
Reactions to fantasy are strictly personal. If you like Come, Dreams Are Endless, you will like it very much. For myself, while complimenting Mr. Knight on the fertility of his fancy, I must say regretfully that the magic key is not best made of sugarstick, and that I am rather particular how I am addressed by 'a squirrel.
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