RECENT NOVELS.*
OLTPHANT'S contributions to fiction may be divided into at least three classes, and A Poor Gentleman is one of her stories of slow movement and minute observation. They are stories which owe their attractiveness not to the intrinsic interest of their incidents, or even of their characters, but entirely to the skill with which incidents in themselves trivial, and characters in themselves commonplace, are made so in- tensely real by a concentrated imaginative effort as to bring them within the range of that living sympathy which always follows upon any vivid realisation even of the simplest human experience. Edward Penton, the head of the impecunious family which inhabits the damp, dilapidated, depressing house at Penton Hook, is one of those people who can best be de- scribed by the epithet "ineffective." He is without vices, and he has various virtues ; but the latter are so entirely lacking in vitality, that they seem to lave lost the salt of virtue, and to have degenerated into weaknesses. Weighed down by that most enervating kind of poverty which never culminates in crushing calamity, but simply endures in discomfort, he has • (1.) A Poor Gentleman. B7 Mrs. Oliphant. 3 volt London : Hurst and Blaokett.—(2.) Cleopatra being an Account of the Fall and Vengeance of Harmachis, the Royal Egyptian, as set forth by his own Hand By H. Rider Haggard. London : Longmanz, Green, and Co.--(3.) Margaret Maliphant. By Mrs. Corny= Carr. 3 vole. Edinburgh and London : W. Blackwood and Bons. —(t) The Tents of Mem. By Grant Allen. 3 vols. London : Chatto and Windtus.—(5.) The Repentance of Paul Wentworth. 3 vols. London : Richard Bentley and Son.—(6.) Contedy of a Country-House. By Julian Sturgis. 2 vols. London: John Hurray.—(7.) 4 Lost Wife. By Mrs. Lovett Cameron. 2 vols. London F. V. White and Co. become so habituated to a resentful attitude of mind that he cannot abandon it even in the face of events which a nature of greater elasticity would have greeted as deliverances. Though a comparatively distant relative of Sir Walter Penton of Penton, he is the heir to the baronetcy, but it will be a barren honour, for the unciutailed estate is to go to Sir Walter's daughter; and at the great house, Sir Edward Penton will be a poorer, a more worried man than Mr. Edward Penton of the Hook. He knows all this, and he groans because of it, and yet when he receives an offer to co-operate in breaking the entail and disposing of his white elephant at a price which will rid him of all his cares for ever, he at first rejects it angrily, and when he accepts it, does so with a sense of yielding under pressure to a hateful and degrading necessity. We all know the kind of man,—the man whose cry to-day is, "All these things are against me," and who to-morrow, when "these things" have entirely changed their complexion, still repeats the old formula of complaint. He is a familiar character, and he is not a character whose portrait any novelist of average ability would find it difficult to paint with a fair amount of skill. The difficulty is to paint it sympathetically, to realise it not from without, but from within, so as to enable the reader to do what the novelist has done first,—to put himself in the poor man's place, and feel with him the apparent reasonable- ness of the emotion which from the outside looks so utterly and so irritatingly unreasonable. To create and present a character like that of Edward Penton in such a manner as to call out constant pity and frequent irritation, but never unsympathetic contempt, is a feat which may be wanting in superficial effectiveness of the vulgar sort, but which is characterised in a high degree by that higher and finer effectiveness which is always present when imagination employs itself in the task of quickening our sympathy by enlarging the area of our apprehension. Mrs. Oliphant's choice of title shows that she considers Edward Penton her pike de resistance, but several of the other personages are not less successful. Mr. Russell Penton is a very subordinate actor in the drama, but his portrait is a triumph of delicate art. He loves his wife devotedly, but he does not approve of her action ; and there is real genius in the skill with which he is made to manifest his love without any weak compliance, and his disapproval with no lack of perfect tenderness. Perhaps one of the most striking chapters in the book is that devoted to young Walter's drive to bring his father and the lawyer to the bedside of the dying baronet, in order that the arrangements for breaking the entail may be formally complete. The popular view is that a sudden strong temptation may be not unreasonably expected to overpower the character to which it is altogether alien. Mrs. Oliphant seems to hold the much truer opinion that in great moral crises the trite nature asserts itself unconsciously, and, as it were, automatically ; and so, though Walter knows well that if he only executes his errand in time the one hope of his lifetime must be blighted, and knows also that if he fails no blame can possibly attach to him, he instinctively urges the horse onward as he might have done had the successful issue of the drive meant victory instead of utter defeat. That A Poor Gentleman will have the popularity of some of its predecessors, is hardly to be expected; but it will be found very enjoyable by those readers who can appreciate fine art in fiction.
Admirers of Mr. Rider Haggard who read with considerable depression of spirit his recent stories of ordinary contem- porary life, will turn with a sense of relief to Cleopatra, in which he is once more upon his native heath of pure romance. It is true that in his latest book he deals for the first time with historical characters and incidents ; but though they stand out pretty conspicuously, they are still sufficiently subordinate to leave him almost as free a hand as he had when he told the story, not of a flesh-and-blood Cleopatra, but of that quite "impossible She." In many respects, indeed, the new book recalls both the remarkable story just mentioned and one or two of its author's other works ; and while it con- tains passages of descriptive writing as strong as any that have come from his pen, it bears witness to certain limitations in his range of invention. When we read in the intro- duction of the papyrus rolls which are taken from the violated mummy-ease, we are irresistibly reminded of the "sherd of Amenartus ;" the hiding-place in the pyramid, where the treasure of the Pharaohs is protected by sliding doors of stone, is only the mine of King Solomon with some new appointments ; and the encounter of Harmachis with Cleopatra's gigantic Nubian slave bears the strongest family likeness to some of the fighting achievements of the herculean Holly. But more striking than any of these correspondences of mere detail is the close resemblance between Mr. Haggard's' presentations of the historical Queen of Egypt and the imaginary bi-millenial ruler of Kew. There are, perhaps, few writers who would be able to discriminate and indi- vidualise two Queens, both superbly beautiful, both irre- sistibly fascinating, both selfish, sensual, cruel, but yet having sufficient womanliness to render them capable of at least one passionate loyalty ; and among the few Mr. Trsggard is not to be numbered. The accusations which have been brought against him of wholesale theft from other writers have been either obviously silly or obviously malicious, and it is not probable that they have done him much injury ; but there does seem to be ground for fearing that he is yielding to the temptation to plagiarise from himself; and when a writer who has made his mark by fertility and freshness of invention begins to live upon his capital, the outlook is not hopeful. As yet, however, there is no need for more than a word of caution. Cleopatra is not the book of a man who has written himself out. When all correspondences and reproductions are allowed for, there remains a body of invention which cannot be slighted without manifest injustice. The scheme of the story is an admirable piece of constructive work. Harmachis, the narrator, is the last representative of the Royal line of the Pharaohs, and after a preliminary training he is initiated into the mysteries of the old religion, and secretly crowned King of Egypt, swearing a terrible oath of fidelity to the chiefs of the conspiracy who are vowed to the deposition of the hated woman who represents the Ptolemaic dynasty. The reader soon foresees the humiliation in store for the young Prince who has lived the life of an anchorite, and has the anchorite's belief in his own invulnerability. Introduced into the palace by his kinswoman and ally, Charmian, he falls into the toils of the woman he has sworn to slay; betrays to her the sacred hiding-place of the great treasure ; and sees his country's cause lost for ever, and lost through him, only to find that he has been a fool as well as a traitor,—that he has sold his honour in rain. The story of the patiently wrought- out vengeance of Harmachis we must not stay to follow, but its interest never flags, and Mr. Haggard, though he frequently betrays his lack of literary restraint, has never written any- thing which in power and picturesqueness excels some portions of Cleopatra. There is real dramatic force in the interview which seals the fate of Harmachis, and the midnight visit of the victor and her dupe to the treasure-chamber in the pyramid is one of the most impressive examples of Mr. Haggard's weird invention.
We should imagine that Mrs. Comyns Carr is not only an admirer but a careful student of George Eliot, for while there is not in Margaret Maliphant any trace of imitation— George Eliot at her best having, indeed, too little manner to be easily imitable—there is a certain sympathetic touch in the handling of rural English life, in the rendering of simple and homely but passionate situations, and in the treatment of the quiet, rich landscape background, never obtruded and never forgotten, which gives us the same kind of pleasure that we have in reading the purely pastoral portions of such books as The Mill on the Floss and Silas Marner. It would, indeed, be easy to describe the new novel in terms which would give the idea of a structural similarity between it and the first of the books just mentioned, for Margaret Maliphant is the sad love. story of the daughter of a man who has been worsted in the fight with fortune. As a matter of fact, however, Mr. Maliphant, the reserved, cultivated farmer, with his one high enthusiasm—which is not for farming—bears no resemblance to Mr. Tulliver, and the new Margaret is sufficiently discriminated. from. the old one by the fact that she is a girl whom no one would think of calling "Maggie," though, like Maggie, she has the mournful charm which belongs to people whose minds are ilk regulated, but who love much. The story is a pathetic comedy of errors. Margaret is sure that the Squire's visits to the farmer's house are made for the sake of her pretty sister Joyce, and. she is also sure that Joyce has given her heart finally and irretrievably to the fickle Captain Forrester; while Joyce, on. her side, is equally certain that her sister regards Trayton
Harrod, the farm bailiff, with indifference, if not with positive hostility. These mistakes, which we are made to feel are quite natural—indeed, almost inevitable—provide materials for a very graceful and winning story in a minor key.
In The Tents of Shem, Mr. Grant Allen reminds us of what we were in some danger of forgetting, — that he can write a novel which is at once interesting and pleasant. The new book is not so good as Philistia or Babylon, but it helps us to rid ourselves of the nauseous taste left behind by such stories as This Mortal Coil and The Devil's Die ; and to the reader of normal sensibilities this counts for something. We do not suppose that Mr. Grant Allen wanders about the world in order to find suitable backgrounds for his stories ; but he has acquired the habit of thus utilising travels undertaken with another purpose, the result being that his characters are sur- rounded by pleasantly -varied scenes. In his latest book he takes us to Algeria, where, among the Kabyles of the interior, Le Marchant the naturalist, and Blake the painter, find a young orphan girl, the daughter of a Kabyle woman and of an English father of mysterious antecedents, who has been brought up as a Mahommedan, and is utterly ignorant of the customs of civilisation. For a short time we are in doubt as to which of the two men is to be the hero of the inevitable love-story ; but it soon transpires that the part is to be played by both, for while Le Marchant falls in love with Meriem, she falls in love with Blake. This complication is, however, thrown into the shade by other complications arising out of the provisions of a will under which it appears that Meriem is heiress to a large fortune. Various members of her family—including Iris Knyvett, a very charming product of the higher culture, and Harold Knyvett, one of those well- educated and thorough-paced scoundrels who are dear to Mr. Grant Allen's heart—are brought over to Algeria, and their visit is enlivened by some most exciting incidents,—notably an attack on the French Consulate at St. Cloud by the Kabyles, whose priests have proclaimed a Jehad. The story of the eventful journey of Le Marchant and Meriem over the snow-covered mountains to warn their friends of the peril threatening them, belongs to the kind of narra- tive in which Mr. Grant Allen shows himself at his best ; and the chapters which tell how the beleaguered fort was held by the plucky Frenchwoman, Madame L'Administratrice, are exceedingly brisk. The local colour is excellent throughout, and the novel is one which cannot be read without pleasure and interest. • It is not often that we encounter a book which calls for such equally balanced praise and condemnation as The Repentance of Paul Wentworth. It has one of those unreal but hackneyed plots which we are apt to consider the monopoly of the literary amateur from whom nothing of worth is to be expected; but from the general workmanship it is clear that the anonymous author has passed her 'prentice stage, and trained herself to the production of really good, solid work. We use the feminine pronoun without any hesitation, for both Paul Wentworth and his half-brother, Philip Irvine, are so emphatically women's men that it is impossible to feel any doubt con- cerning the sex of their creator,—though it must be said that the conception of the character of Muriel, the heroine, is not less essentially false and sentimental. That the love- making of a brilliant and attractive man like Wentworth should win the heart of such a girl, or of any girl, is natural enough ; and that her love should survive her discovery of his position as a married man, and his character as a reckless and unprincipled male flirt, may be also natural, though certainly not so probable ; but that a girl with Muriel's nature should marry a man whom she did not pretend to love, with the hope that her marriage would enable her to regard Wentworth with indifference, is incredibly absurd. The writer, it will be seen, walks in perilous places, but her footing is sure, and the novel is ethically as offenceless as it is artistically defective; but it will be felt that a story with such a framework cannot possibly be satisfactory. This being so, the fair-minded critic is impelled to add emphatically that The Repentance of Paul Wentworth contains some admirable writing. The writer has real command of both passion and pathos which are unspoiled by rant or exaggeration ; some of her conversations are not quite sufficiently broken up, but most of them are very easy and natural; and not a few of her portraits prove conclusively that her failures elsewhere are not the result of any lack of power to conceive and present lifelike characters.
Mr. Julian Sturgis is a very clever man, and there is so much cleverness in his Comedy of a Country-House, that no reader who knows good work when he sees it can fail to render hearty and ungrudging admiration. And yet, somehow, when our admiration has been duly rendered, we come away, like Wordsworth's star-gazers, "as if dissatisfied." If we ask, as in this introspective age we are certain to ask, why this is so, perhaps the best answer is that mere cleverness is an essentially unsatisfying quality. A book which has its raison d'être simply in the fact that it is a clever book, is like a display of fireworks : it is very attractive for the time, but it leaves nothing behind it. This, surely, is what is the matter with these two sparkling volumes : they leave nothing behind them, and we cannot help feeling that something ought to be left. The country-house which is the scene of the comedy, is the seat of young Lord Lorrilaire, who has just succeeded to the peerage and finds himself surrounded by a crowd of schemers, some of whom are anxious to marry him, others to live upon him, others to trick him, Radical as he is, into public patronage of Toryism. Considering his antecedents, the young Lord seems an almost incredibly simple-minded person, and there would be little chance of his holding his own were there not a party of defence as well as of attack. The conffict of wits is decidedly entertaining ; but it is, unfortunately, impossible to feel more than the most superficial interest either in the com- batants or in the issue of the combat, and therefore the book leaves an impression of ineffectiveness. Still, a bright trifle is better than a dull one, and The Comedy of a Country-House is bright throughout. The true tone of comedy is, on the whole, admirably maintained, though the portrait of Mr. Beck, the sub-editor, is clearly a deviation in the direction of farce.
By this time, the experienced novel-reader knows exactly what he has to expect from Mrs. Lovett Cameron, and what he expects he gets. There is not very much to be said about A Lost Wife, which is neither better nor worse than its pre- decessors, and not very different from them. Here, as in The Repentance of Paul Wentworth, a young lady falls in love with a man who turns out to be married, and who has lost his - wife in a very mysterious and improbable sort of way. Here, too, as in the book above noticed, there is nothing to call for censure from the moralist's point of view, though there is a good deal of the strained sentimental gush which makes the judicious grieve. In the end, Freda, the heroine, who for the sake of Mark Thistleby has run away from home on the eve of her marriage with a very wealthy and worthy suitor, takes a situation as companion to two ladies, whom she discovers to be Mark's missing wife and her elder sister. Of course Mark finds them out, and it must be admitted that he behaves with considerable tact in a situation which is as awkward as it is improbable. His trial does not, however, last very long. Mrs. Thistleby number one considerately dies to make room for Mrs. Thistleby number two, and the story finishes in the approved fashion. As an average circulating-library novel, A Lost Wife will pass muster, for in spite of its absurdities it is quite readable ; but whether it is worth reading is another question.
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