FICTION
By FORREST REID
I WONDER how Mr. Brett Young would fare if some ruthless dictator forbade him to write novels of more than 40o pages in length. He would at first, no doubt, find it very irksome, yet might it not in the long run have a beneficial effect upon his work? The Abbe Prevost, it is said, composed with such facility that he could write a novel and carry on a con- versation at the same time. I am not suggesting a comparison —far from it—The City of Gold is a solid and informative work, and if it was quickly written it shows no sign of care- lessness. The evenness of its style is indeed as remarkable as the pleasantness. Only why drag the tale out to such an inordinate length—practically 9oo pages? Or why, if it comes to that, stop there? But quite possibly Mr. Brett Young does not intend to stop there. The present chronicle, following on They Seek a Country, begins in the 'seventies and closes with the Jameson Raid, therefore an open field is left for at least one further romance.
Of course, the length of the book is partly due to the fact that it contains so much South African history: actually, I should think, there is more history than fiction. Cecil Rhodes, Kruger, Doctor Jameson, if they have fewer words and scenes, play more important parts in the development of the story than do any of the imaginary characters. Chief among these latter are the sons of John Grafton—Adrian, a staunch supporter of the Boers ; Piet, who is on the English side, though primarily interested in pursuing his own fortune ; and Janse, the gold-seeker, much the most sympathetic of the three. To Janse is given the one idyllic episode of the book— his discovery of the child Lena, whom he adopts—all the rest of the action is closely bound up with the political history of the country, of which Mr. Brett Young obviously has made an exhaustive study.
As for " the city of gold," that is Johannesburg, called after the members of the Commission who helped to found it— Johannes Joubert, Johannes Mayer, and Johan Rissik. As a source of information the book interested me ; as a novel, concerned with the Grafton family, I must confess that I found it scrappy. This is mainly due to its construction. No sooner is one's interest aroused (in Janse's search for gold, for instance) than the curtain is dropped and the story given a fresh turn, introducing another set of characters. It may be, considering the breadth of the ground Mr. Brett Young has undertaken to cover, that this was inevitable, but it means that the book fails to establish, or at any rate to maintain, any real grip on the imagination. There is no central figure through whose mind the events are seen. The characters are adequately drawn, yet one gets the impression that the author is less interested in them than in the crises through which the country is passing.
Nevertheless, though I do not regard this as one of Mr. Brett Young's best novels, it is the best novel on my present list. In comparison with it, Mr. Maurice Griffiths' No Southern Gentleman seems crude and undistinguished. It, too, is a historical romance—dealing with the Southern States before the Civil War, and just bringing in the War at the end. But the historical element is here kept much more in the background, and the novel really is one of incident. The hero is a youngish English doctor, Roscoe Torrence, who has decided to come out to Brazil, partly to study tropical diseases, and partly because, owing to the tragic failure of his marriage, he wishes to make an entirely fresh start in new surroundings. The first incident is the destruction by fire in mid-Atlantic of the steamer on which he is travelling. It is an exciting chapter and prepares the way for incident number two, in which Roscoe and a steward, after drifting for many days in an open boat, are picked up, more dead than alive, by a passing slaver. This episode, also, lends itself to a somewhat sensational treatment, for though Captain Hawke is a genial enough ruffian, the conditions on board his ship are appalling, and presently a plague breaks out. The happenings, however, are only introductory, and have little to do with the main body of the narrative, which begins when Roscoe reaches New Orleans, where he gives up all idea of the medical profession, and buys a share in a Mississippi steam- boat. In partnership with Captain Isaiah Hickman he now enters enthusiastically on his new career, and if the romance of steamboating in the 'fifties has already been fully treated in Mark Twain's Life on the Mississippi, it is picturesque enough to bear repetition. In fact, it is only in his portrayal of the adventurous activities of men that Mr. Griffiths is successful ; when Roscoe falls in love the entire novel loses reality. Moreover, in the role of lover, Roscoe himself becomes less likeable. This doubtless is partly due to the nature of his courtship and marriage, for as a subject the taming of a shrew can never be attractive. It was not attractive when treated by Shakespeare ; it is not attractive here. Roscoe strikes us as alternately brutal and foolishly amorous, and in neither mood does he show to advantage. Nor is the un- pleasantness diminished when, with very little encouragement, we find him ready to become the lover of his wife's younger sister. She, fortunately, is not prepared to do more than confess her love, yet we have an uneasy suspicion that this restraint is chiefly due to Mr. Griffiths' desire to furnish a happy ending. Adultery, therefore, is out of the question, whereas—? Suppose the elder sister were to contract a fatal illness, and in that illness her whole nature were to become softened, and husband and wife were to become reconciled. The husband now would `be deeply compassionate, yet his grief would be of a kind that might be consoled by the devotion of a really good woman, and he would at the same time have an easy conscience. It is odd that I should have hit upon this solution independently and so rapidly, for I did at this point hit upon it. I may add that I did not think much of it, and would counsel Mr. Griffiths to cling to robust adventure and avoid affairs of the heart.
In saying this I have in mind a perfectly serious and realistic kind of novel, based on experience and observation, but essentially a novel of action. Balkan Express, for example, though described as an adventure story, is not in the least what I mean. To begin with, neither plot nor characters will bear examination, and the sole appeal is to curiosity. The hero is an American journalist—that is to say, a son of cross between a detective and a reporter—but he is operating in Europe, and the slangy dialogue in which most of the tale is written would seem to have been influenced by Mr. P. G. Wodehouse. The Wodehouse humour, unfortunately, can only be supplied by Mr. Wodehouse himself, for it is not a trick, it is genuine. But I do not wish to disparage Balkan Express ; I should describe it as a light and readable Ruritanian thriller. Much obviously depends on the pace at which such a tale is taken, and Mr. Ross wastes no time. His plot might not have been considered particularly ingenious by Edgar Wallace, bin it serves his purpose—political assassination, flight, pursuit by train and aeroplane, the discomfiture of a villain, and at the end the union of two extremely up-to-date lovers.
The Last Legend of Smokeover is less a novel than a philosophical fantasy written round the contemporary inter- national situation. "Don't you agree," somebody says, " that the one thing that matters supremely in this world is the moulding and fashioning of human beings—that all the politics and economics, the sciences and theologies and philosophic, are important only in so far as they lead up to that? " I do ; I have always believed it ; but so, I imagine, has Herr Hitler and everybody else. The difference is that we—that is to say Mr. Jacks and I—are pacifists, and would mould and fashion human beings by educating rather than by drilling them. Pis has never been a popular view. Nor, I imagine, will Kw of the views set forth in Mr. Jacks's fantasy have the 'slightes*, practical effect. Their irony may amuse and their wisdoir charm a certain section of the public, but who for a moment is going to allow his conduct to be influenced by a doctrine of the universal brotherhood of mankind? Well, a few philo- sophers perhaps, but they are harmless in any case, and their number small and their influence negligible.
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