NOVELS.
SCARLET AND HYSSOP'
Mn. BENSON returns once more to the delineation of that stratum of society which he first began to explore in Dodo, and then temporarily deserted for an excursion into the fields of historical romance. He returns, but with each recurrence the sense of his responsibilities deepens ; he is more unmis- takably on the side of the angels, less liable to the charge of condoning or commending the frivolities—and worse—of fashionable society. At times, indeed, he strikes a note imitated from Jeremiah when confronted by the spectacle of "the jostling race who clutch like greedy children with both hands at the two things they alone thought worthy of effort : pleasure, at whatever cost or violation; and money,
which was worth any sacrifice except that of pleasure." The one good woman in the book, the only character who contrives to reconcile virtue with charm, constantly harps on the degradation of the age, and the need of a national convulsion to bring people to their senses. Her views on national efficiency, indeed, would win the cordial approval of Mr. Wells and Mr. Arnold White. As for her own set and sex, her views are best expressed in her own words :—
" I despair of the human race cf the day, but I have enough grace to include myself. Do you suppose there ever was such a stupid class of people—especially we, Mildred, the women ? Wo have all, literally all, we should want to make ourselves happy in an animal way—good health, sufficient money, and a deep abiding selfishness. But we can't amuse ourselves; • we are not happy ; we are like dogs out for a walk and must continually have sticks thrown for us. We can none of us invent anything ourselves. We can none of us stand solitude, which is in itself a complete confession of our stupidity, our parasitic nature. We go and hear people sing and act, and make music ; we go and see horses race ; we play cards for hours because we have not got the wit to talk,—they say Bridge killed conversation. What non- sense! there was none to kill. Our whole brains, such as they are, are occupied in devising things to do to make the time pass. And we devise very badly : we are always glad when each thing is over. We go to a concert. How long ! We live three months in London. How nice it will be to get down to the country again ! We play Bridge. Will the rubber never end? We spend the autumn in the country. Will November never be over? On the top of that we do all in our power to make it appear that time has not passed with us. We dye our hair and paint our faces, in order to appear young, but the moment we open our mouths it is obvious we are tired, withered old women ! "
Laxly Alston's description of the modern pleasure-seekers who, in Dr. Johnson's phrase, "are afraid to sit at home and think," is brightly done, but we cannot honestly say that we
find Mr. Benson very impressive in the "/was, inws prae- eipites " vein. He is destitute of the saeva indignatio which is almost essential to the social satirist, and though he ex- poses the meanness, the greediness, and the petty malice of the inefficient and corrupt members of the circle he sets out to portray, there is not only no elemental quality in their wickedness, but the reprobation of the reader is seriously neutralised by three important considerations—(l) The culprits disarm criticism by being fully conscious that they are "rotten" themselves ; (2) they are apparently quite sincere in their admiration for the virtuous heroine; (3) they are much more entertaining com- pany than she is. Add to this the fact that the pain and misery to which the virtuous and beautiful Lady Alston is subjected are entirely the result of her jilting a devoted lover and making a mariage de amvenance with a wealthy Peer. If, however, the reader ceases to trouble his head with the problem whether Mr. Benson is a half or a whole hearted satirist, and accepts Scarlet and Hyssop merely in the light of a picture of the everlasting pleasure-hunt as carried on by its wealthiest and most aristocratic votaries, he will find plenty to amuse him in its pages. Mr. Benson has a real gift for reproducing the "hare-brained chatter of irresponsible frivolity," and the acid impertinence of Mr. Naseby, the effrontery of Mrs. Brereton, and the ineptitude of Mrs. Max- well are illustrated with no lack of ingenious flippancy, and
• Soviet and Hyssop. By E. F. Benson. London W. Heinemann. [6s.]
now and againe touch of real wit. The Anti-Gambling League will doubtless claim Mr. Benson as a supporter of their principles, inasmuch as the universal cult of bridge is in- sistently and unedifyingly prominent throughout the story. As an example of Mr. Benson's method of dealing with pluto- crats and Peers we may give the following nocturne,—a picture
of a midsummer Sunday night at a country house on the river:
"As night became deeper the animation of the party grew louder and their laughter more frequent ; the moon and the stars everlastingly set in heaven were to them but the whitewash of the ceiling of the rooms where they dined, the trees and infinite soft spaces of the dusk but the paper on the walls of their restaurant, the miracle of the dewy lawn a carpet for unheeding feet. Wine and food concerned them perhaps most, but in a place hardly inferior must have been put the charms of scream- ing and scandalous conversation. Dinner' in fact, was a great success. By midnight all the guests for the day who were not staying over the Sunday had left, and the stables, which had been a packed mass of broughams, victories, dogcarts, motor- cars, and bicycles, were once more empty ; and Lady Ardingly, whose rubber had most unjustifiably been interrupted by Mrs. Brereton's adieus to her guests, picked up her hand again with some acidity. Now, perhaps, we shall get on with our Bridge,' she said. I have declared no trumps. Nobody doubles ? That is a very masterly inactivity on our adversaries' part.' The four consisted of the two Breretone, Lady Ardingly, and Jack Alston; at another table were four more, who, however, abandoned their game at about half-past one, again interrupting Lady Ardingly with their superfluous good-nights, for she was having a very good night indeed. Marie and Maud Brereton had long ago gone to bed, but the other four still played on, in silence for the most part. Occa- sionally the dummy rose, and refreshed his inner self with some- thing from a side-table, and from time to time the note of a cigarette would sound crisply, as it were, on the soft air of the night. At last a strange change began to pass over the sky, from which the moon had now long set, hardly visible there at first, but making the faces of the players look suddenly white and wan. Then the miracle grew • the dark blue of the sky brightened into dove colour. the :tars grew pale, and a little wind stirred in the trees. • You played that abominably, dear Mildred,' said Lady Ardingly. We should have saved it if you had had any sense. What does that make ? ' She pulled her cloak round her neck as Jack added it up. 'The night is growing a little chilly,' she said. Mildred, who had been following the figures, looked up. ' The night ? ' she said. Why, what is happening ? It is day, is it not ? '= Very likely,' said Lady Ardingly. How much is it, Jack ? Never mind, tell me to- morrow. I will pay you to-morrow.' Jack rattled his pencil-case between his teeth. Thirty pounds exactly, Lady Ardingly,' he said. They rose and walked across the lawn towards the house, Jack sauntering a little behind, his hands in his pockets, smiling to himself. Mildred dropped behind with him, the other two walking on a few paces ahead The most odious hour in the twenty-four ! ' said Lady Ardingly, looking ghastly in the dawn. Very trying,' said Andrew. But we have spent the night very well,' said the other, as they parted at the foot of the stairs. 'A charming Sunday, Mr. Brereton. You and Mildred are great benefactors !' And she hurried upstairs, conscious that she was looking awful, and, in that hour of low vitality which comes with the dawn, not wishing to appear thus before anybody, however insignificant."
The means by which the machinations of Lady Alston's detractors are defeated and her faithless husband eliminated strike us as somewhat rough and ready. And there is some- thing almost grotesque in her final interview with Lady Ardingly, in which, when about to Marry her first love, now an African millionaire, she• proclaims her belief in 'God as the secret by which she has always kept "clean in the middle of the muck-heap." The plain hut is that Mr. Benson is still a great deal too much at his ease in his flippant vein to be seriously regarded in the light of a censor mama.
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