FICTION.

THE CRAVE IMPERTINENCE.t

MR. MARRIOTT'S new book is not merely a remarkable novel. but is remarkable for a certain very odd and indefinable flavour • The Thirteenth Hunars in the Great War. By the Right Hon. Sir H. Mortimer Durand, G.C.M.O., K.C.I.E. With ?daps and Illustrations. London: Blackwood. 142s. net.] t The Grave Impertinency. By Charles Marriott. London: Hutchinson. rid. add

by which, as well as by its more definite good qualities, it is dis- tinguished. The most obvious and striking thing about the book, or perhaps we might say about that portion of its author's mind to which this book is a window, is its subtlety. Mr. Marriott makes a point ; we agree. Very just. He makes another observation, rather like the first, and then slightly contrasts it with the other.

We admire his nicety, but only to see that he is really leading up to a third point so fine as to be analysable or even per- ceptible only by the help of the two first arguments between which he has, as it were, imprisoned it. As often as not, this real or ultimate observation is so much a " fine shade " or nice feeling " as to be incapable of statement in words.

But even if we do not quite catch it in the end, we are left within but a little circle of conjecture. There is, however,

nothing fiddling in all this meticulous exactitude, because the fine-drawn arguments have almost always larger irnplica- tiona. The book, in fact, continually reminds us of the use of spider's threads by astronomers. Because the objects of the measurement are two fixed stars, we are continually aware that the difference between the thickness of a strand of cotton and a spider's thread laid upon the glass of the telescope might represent a 'difference of a million miles in two calculations. Much of the earlier part of the book is, unfortunately, badly

written and so inadequately punctuated as to be not a little difficult to read aloud. This is particularly annoying in a book of which the thought is so careful and exact- We expect Miss Austen's delicate polish, and we too often get the hasty work of daily journalism. We hope that next time Mr. Marriott has wine of such . bouquet for us he will be careful that none of it has to be drunk from a chipped jam-pot. As for the characters and events of the book, they are all admirably suited to the illustration and development of Mr. Marriott's neat of arguments. They are all interesting enough to carry the reader along, but at a sufficiently gentle pace to enable him to savour and enjoy the real qualities of the book as he goes. Here is a point over which many fiction writers make mistakes. Scott and even that conscious artist Stevenson frequently did, for example. The proper regulation of the reader's pace and the deliberate focusing of his interest now upon plot, now upon character, now upon argument, now upon purely aesthetic passages, form an important part of the narrator's art. Stevenson, for instante, often makes the reader feel merely impatient with fine pieces of description because his attention has just been focused upon the plot and the author has, so to speak, forgotten to turn off the lime.

Therefore the passage which should have adorned the tale

becomes a mere interruption, and not only does the reader entirely miss its beauties, but he actively chafes while his eye

runs hastily over the carefully balanced phrases till he gets to the part where he can learn if

" The Chinaman's pigtail stood the strain,

Or the chocolate creams were all cocaine."

But his Philistinism is the fault not of the reader but of the author. This matter of pace and focus is analogous to that of stage lighting. An actor does not use his face to portray emotions, nor does a scenic artist employ great colour effects, on the dark side of the stage. This kind of mistake Mr. Marriott has almost entirely avoided. It is very difficult to select a passage from the book which will give the reader a notion of its peculiar qualities because its structure is very close, and the flavour of phrases which are really allusions to previous incidents is lost in an extract. However, the following may give the reader some idea. It must be explained that Mendoza and Sara are a biother and sister—very attractive and intelligent Jews—and that George is the—now slightly half- hearted—maker of an industrial village, whose progress is viewed with misgiving by General Dunster, the charming Radical General who is the local Squire :—

" ' Is George in love with Miss Dunster ? " I don't know,' said Sara, candidly, and as if a little surprised at her own ignorance on that point, ' nor, I think, does he.' Well, is she in love with him ? . . . Yes,' said Sara, quietly though emphatically. How do you know ? ' he said, with respectful amusement at her certainty. Quien sabe T ' said Sara ; but Partly because she is vexed with him.' This being in love,' said Mendoza, sententiously, seems to be a complicated business.' Poor Philip ! ' said Sara. She said it lightly, but

studied him with real concern. On the contrary,' he said

briskly, ' mine is a simple nature.' Yes, I really think it is,'

she said, though still in a tone of regret. . . . I don't think he knows--yet. But she lies in the same direction, and I think that when he comes to himself completely he will know that he is in love with her.' She's the white woman, in fact 1 ' said

Mendoza, harshly. Yes,' said Sara, with a quick glance at him, though neither he nor she would make that distinction.'

What do they want, these people ? ' said Mendoza, throwing out his hands in despair. ' I don't know,' said Sara, half amused and half compassionate, and I don't suppose they could tell us, not in words that we could understand, because what they want is what they are.' If they had thought out an alternative/ I could understand, oven if I disagreed with it,' said her brother, taking a shorter view than hers. Obviously we can't go back to the middle ages, but at least a case could bo made out for some sort of guild system. In fact, people are doing it. But you are not going to tell me that either George or General Dunster wants that.' Do you know, Philip,' she said, after studying him, maternally, for a moment, I think you over-estimate the intellectual consistency of other people. As you said, yours is a simple nature. I don't mean that General Dunster is not simple, but it is a simplicity that you cannot understand. It is made up of little, sure things : a house, a tree, a woman with a baby, a man working with a spade. What you would call a pettifogging way -of doing things. Until- we went down to Hinton Causeway I didn't understand ; indeed, I don't under- stand it now-; but I can see that it is their way, and that it has a meaning for them.' " It is most refreshing to come occasionally upon a novel like The Grave Impertinence, which does not seem to have been hacked out with the wood-chopper.