Fiction
141- .L. A
G. STRONG The Saint and Mary rate. By Frank O'Connor. (Macmillan.
. 7s. 6d.)
Dead Water. By C. E. Lawrence. (Murray. 7s. 6d.) Sidestreets. By Madeleine H. Murat. (Putnam. 7s. 6d.) Heat Lightning. By Helen Hull. (Cobden-Sanderson. 7s. &I.) Tor: excellence of Mr. O'Connor's short stories makes one approach his first novel nervously. It would be too much to expect that in the longer work he should show, quite the same, mastery of form, yet The Saint and Mary Kate contains every- thing that made the short stories so remarkable, plus a leisure for contemplation which was impossible in them. The first quarter of the book finds Mr. O'Connor a little uncertain of his direction ; but, just when it appears that he is going to lose grip, he pulls himself together, and from that point the story never falters. Mary Kate is a child reared in a Cork tenement known as the Dolls' House. Her mother is no better than she should be, her aunt is " a character." Phil Dinan loses. his mother, but Mary's goodness to her has cemented a bop and girl friendship that soon grows and begins to fight against Phil's fierce dedication of his spirit to religiOn. Phil takes service with a crazy old carpenter, whose philosophy is so un- settling that he has often recourse to a pious woman, Dona Nobis, likewise a tenant of the Dolls' House, for spiritual armour against it. Mary goes to Dublin to housekeep for her supposed father. Phil, finding out the facts, goes to rescue her. She has taken no harm, but he brings her hack. The two walk, beg lifts, and spend an adventurous night in a hovel, which shows Mr. O'Connor's powers at their fullest. In the end, sainthood beats love.
;• Mr. O'Connor is the best of the newest generation of Irish Writers. He has a quick eye for character, a quick ear for speech., and a full sense of the significance of all he sees and hears. It is this quality, and a complete absence of the bitterness characteristic of so many of his contemporaries, that give his work its importance. He has written a book which is full of humour, strength, and beauty.
. Miss Kathleen Hewitt is the author of a play, African Shadows. If it is anything like Mardi, her first novel, it must be pretty good. Mardi, like Mary Kate, lived in squalid sur- roundings ; but the Naylors had less character and less pcetry than the inhabitants of the Dolls' House. Mardi, a girl of character, decided to get out of her environment. She escaped to Madame Pauline's, left her discreditably (but was able to pay her back), and graduated via night-club life to a milliners' shop in partnership with the amorous Lily. I.ily taught Mardi her job, but was of no good otherwise ; and at
last Mardi found the happiness and security she had so pas- : monately desired. Miss Hewitt's novel is sincere, vivid, and
unpretentious. Gert, Ivy, Dick, to whom Mardi was for a while engaged, and Peter, whom the publishers tactfully style a "masculine woman," all attest her quiet power of character drawing. An excellent debut.
Mr. Richard Aldington is a writer for whose work I have always had a sincere respect. Singularly courageous and out- spoken, a fine and severe poet, he has seemed lately to let his- generous enthusiasm for the worthier aspects of humanity degenerate into a sporadic harrying of the less worthy. To often he uses a sledge-hammer to drive home a tintack. At his first growl, little nonentities such as the Oswald and Julia of his first story run like frightened sheep. There seems no. need to pursue them for nearly sixty pages. " Why go out of your way to squash a worm ? " says the narrator of his second story. Why, indeed ? Not that all the victims of Mr. Ald- ifig,V ton's satire arc worms : not that he lacks power : not that be does not write admirably when his subject can stand up to him. Constance Lechdale can ; Charlemagne CoX lasts a couple of rounds ; but Mr. Aldington needs opponents of his own weight if he is to display his power fully.
Mr. C. E. Lawrence has hardly had the recognition to which wcrk entitles him. Anyone who has not yet made hiS :,.-qmentance is recommended to begin it with his latest nove4 Mal was it that reached out from the old Cotswold inn to.l. attack the life of the Sylvestere baby child 4 Whatever it was, it matters less than the character studies and witty writing. 'Dead li'ater is a sound, well-flavoured, individual piece of work by a practised hand. In contrast with it is the first novel of a very young beginner, Miss Madeleine H. mutat. She calls it Sidestreets ; but Fleur's path was a one-way street, of semi-detached love affairs. •Good-looking, independent, deliberately " modern," Fleur had an affair with Stephen,' followed it up with several others, and intended .to marry: Stephen's brother Paul. Stephen, discovering this,- crasheth fatally in his car. Fleur Ihund that she was going to have a. child by him, planned to commit suicide, then decided that: Paul would treat her very nicely, poured the poison down the sink, and discovered that she believed in God. Miss Murat- writes very Well, with coolness and detitehtnent. Si* will Write even better When she finds something more solid to write about.
Heat Lightning is front America. In its quiet, unemphatic way, it seems to me first-rate. Amy comes back to her home in a country town, leaving Geoffrey to make holiday on his • own. She finds the family, as ever, under the domination of her magnificent grandmother. The book expounds slowly the various themes that inspire this summer orchestra, the stretched nerves, the flashes of irritation, the petty secrets,' the thousand selfishnesses and unselfishnesses of a large family and those who have married into it. Miss Hull's work will stand very close inspection. Her people are all distinct and drawn in the round. The affair of Curly finds its dis:- turbing parallel in the affair of Torn and Lulu. Amy has her secret fear, as have Isabelle and Dewitt. The whole book has the scent and disturbance of summer, and is told with a tole'', mince and insight which, although there is strain between the . characters, keeps it from fatiguing the reader, and which can reveal petty ambition without destroying our regard for those who harbour it.
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