Fiction

BY L. A. G.

STRONG.

MANY years ago, before the War, used to appear a monthly magazine for boys, excellently illustrated and produced, by name The Captain. Odd numbers of it came my way, my taste, in the period 1907-10 or thereabouts, inclining more definitely towards the adventures of Messrs. Dick Turpin, Claude Duval, Jack Sheppard, Robin Hood and Buffalo Bill, as recorded in penny volumes with four-colour frontis- piece, appearing at the rate of four a month. (Those were, indeed, the days. I wonder what has befallen that excellent illustrator, R. P.—Prowse ?—and his occasional colleague, Mr. F. W. Boynington ?) Then, one day, I happened on a number of The Captain containing an instalment of a serial about a boy named Mike Jackson, who had a friend called Wyatt. I enjoyed this so much that I saved up and bought the back numbers containing the earlier instalments. My parents, gratified by this evidence of improving taste, pre- sented me with a subscription to The Captain. The serial, which was by one P. G. Wodehouse, was followed by an even better one, entitled The Lost Lambs—to my mind one of the very best school stories ever written. I re-read it every two or three years, as I do its successors, The New Fold and Psmith, Journalist. At the preparatory school

where I used to teach, these masterpieces are in constant demand, due not a little, I like to think, to the lyrical praises of myself and a fellow-enthusiast.

It will be seen, therefore, that I approach a new novel of

Mr. Wodehouse with kindled mind. Not, if you please, an uncritical mind. On the contrary, with a hypercritical, fearful, almost snarky mind. Can he do it again ? Must he not, now at long last, let us down ? And, of course, Mr. Wodehouse has done it again, pouring Hot Water as coals of fire upon the head of the doubter. He has always been remarkable for the neatness and detail of his plots, both in short story and novel. The plot of hot Water is a miracle

of complexity. In fact, after a hundred and twenty-six pages of steady weaving, Mr. Wodehouse has the grace to admit as much :

" In every chronicle of the rather intricate nature of the one which is here being related, there occurs a point where the conscientious historian finds it expedient to hold a sort of parade or inspection of the various actors in the drama which he is unfolding. It serves to keep the records straight, and is a convenience to a public to whom he wants to do the square thing—affording as it does a bird's eye view of the position of affairs to those of his readers who, through no fault of their own, are not birds. Here, then, is where everybody was at the moment of Packy Franklyn's arrival at the Château Blissac. And this is what, being there, they were doing."

The list that follows comprises twelve major characters and a couple of supers. I am not going to detail the plot. The story starts briskly :

" The town of St. Rocque stood near the coast of France. The Chateau Blissac stood near the town of St. Rocque. J. Wellington Gedge stood near the Château Blissac. He was reading his letters on the terrace outside the drawing-room."

Mrs. Gedge's determination to make her husband an ambassador, plus her jewels, caused a number of characters to converge upon the Chateau, including Mr. " Soup " Slattery and Mr. " Oily " Carlisle. Senator Opal's daughter fetched in one or two more, including Blair Eggleston, the advanced novelist, and Packy Franklyn, late of Yale. All the ingredients are there--except Psmith : and, if he were there, the book would burst. It is brilliantly done, and as imbecile as ever.

Miss Marigold Watney confirms the good impression given

to her first novel. Uncertain Glory is a good deal better than Four Ducks on a Pond. It is not completely successful, but it suggests many kinds of promise. Miss Watney takes her reader to church, introduces various members of the congregation, and proceeds to follow up their individual lives. It is an ambitious theme, and she shows her sense in playing lightly with the parts that are at present beyond her, e.g., the choir-boy. One life, that of the girl whose patents wish her to marry " advantageously," suggests, afar

off, Miss Delafield in collaboration with Miss E. H. Young.

The girl's relationship with her parents is subtly seen and studied. This subtlety, Miss Watney's most promising quality, is offset by a liking for the obvious. Here is a

specimen paragraph :

" Mrs. Courtney was already at her post at the head of the stair. case ; people began to arrive. A steady stream surged upwards from the hall, at first only the tops of their heads visible, then gradually faces, then necks, until they became whole men and women shaking hands and saying How-do-you-do.' Men began scribbling their names in Caroline's programme with minute pink pencils which dangled from pink cards. Every moment the card was getting more full ; still Michael did not come, there would be no dances left if he did not hurry ; she felt on the verge of tears and then at last she saw him. She knew him at once because of the unruly tuft of hair that stuck out at the back like a feather. Cathie was with him ; she wore blue taffeta, the wrong shade of blue, even if it did match her eyes."

Miss Watney is going, I think, to be a successful novelist.

If the obvious wins, she may be a best seller. If the sub- tlety, she may develop into the real thing, and sell better still.

Rain on the Roof " is the story of Patty McBride, a lovely,

clear-eyed Irish girl newspaper reporter, whose unselfishness and courage in the face of heart-rending tragedy succeed at last in the attainment of love and happineSs." It is seldom safe to quote the wrapper. In this case nothing further is necessary. Besides, I cannot describe the story nearly as well. • Patty was always Being Wonderful : sometimes to Lance, whom she loved (but no one knew it) : sometimes to

her friend Joy, who married him : often to the young man whom she couldn't love in that way : to a woman on trial for a murder, whom she saved from being condemned : at last, even to Lance's Motherless Babe.

" Life moved on for everyone but Patty. She had the stricken feeling of standing still and watching all of life's richest experiences pass her by, while she remained marooned in the stagnant backwater of her thwarted emotions."

Let us leave her there.

Magnificat is a gentle, gracious example of the art of a distinguished Catholic novelist. It does not afford grounds for judging the full powers of the late Rene Bazin, but it is characteristic, and there is a quality of warmth and goodness that makes one reluctant to lay it down. As a novel it is unremarkable, but it is a quietly convincing testimony of faith. Gildas was the eldest son of Jean Guillaume, a Breton farmer. He was lcv ad by his cousin Anna, who lived with the family. When he went to the front, his fear was, not that he would not return to her alive, but that God would need him for the priesthood. Experience strengthened his belief in his vocation. He makes his sacrifice. Anna makes hers : and at the end, after long training, he is a priest in charge of a slum parish. The story progresses smoothly, after a stilted opening, with gleams of vivid description, to an end that has been destined and is inevitable once the episode of Anna's red apron at the Christmas Mass is passed. Anna is very much the man's idea of a woman in such a situation, and her ultimate sale of the red apron to pay Gildas' college fees puts a slight strain on lay credulity ; bat the book is deeply interesting, and holds a steady candle to

an unfamiliar world. * *