FICTION.
THE PILGRIM OF A SMILE.* Mn. :NORMAN DAVEY'S book of short stories—stories of the adventures of that quiet gentleman Mr. Matthew Sumner— are in the best tradition of Stevenson and Mr. Chesterton. We do not mean that Mr. Davey is a copyist, for the Stevensonian seam is a rich one and the master himself by no means exhausted it. Mr. Davey, in adopting the same careful, ornately simple style and many of the same methods for the production of his surprise, is well within his rights.
One of the most delightful things about this book is that many of the adventures related are adventures not of the body but of the spirit. Nothing perhaps happens in them, but some state of mind is revealed which staggers the reader far more effectively than does. Mr. Tubby Haig. The stories are, in effect, psychological " penny dreadfuls " of the first order. The reviewer is sorely tempted to give away the surprise which is hidden with so much skill amid the hedges of each pretty, well-trimmed labyrinth. There is one, " The Hilarious Conduct of a Man of Taste," which, though not so good as " The Quaint Enquiry of the Minor Canon," is a first-rate story and typical of the collection. A great collector not very well known to the hero, Mr. Matthew Sumner, dines with him at his club. `` Mr. E. B. James talked comfortably of his Constables and his Corots, his Raphael drawings, his Pisanellos, his Fragonards and his Bellinis, as any other man might speak of a Canaletto or a Nasmyth or drawings by Pennell or Muirhead Bone." Mr. Matthew Sumner, a collector in a small way, says how much he envies him :—
" This small man, who now sat by his side sipping from his glass of Tonic Water, walked about the streets and squares of the cities of the world finding rare and beautiful things in obscure corners where others would pass on without looking, or, looking, but find dust and rubbish.
' I should much like to see your pictures,' said Sumner, after a minute's silence.
Would you ? ' asked Mr. James. But,' he continued, you may only do that on one condition, the condition wider which Zobeide admitted the Caliph. You must have eyes, but no tongue ; you must not ask the reason of anything that you see, nor speak of anything that does not concern you.' "
Mr. Sumner of course promises, and is, in fact, almost offended at the insistence of his friend on this vow of secrecy. He pledges his honour almost huffily that he will in no way forget that he is Mr. James' guest. They go to a house somewhere behind Berkeley Square. Again his host warns Mr. Sumner. They go into a large room, and, as the lights are switched on, Mr. Sumner sees the first of the pictures :- " It was an almost full-size painting of a nude figure that stood out against a dark background with an amazing insistence. The technique, the drawing, the flesh tints, the value in tone, were very wonderful ; but that was not all, and as Sumner stood spellbound before the picture, he knew he was in the presence of a master. What a glorious thing ! ' he said in a hushed voice, as one might speak in a church. What drawing ! 3.nd what an amazing silvery tone in the painting of the flesh : it is like moonlight in winter, and yet warm and living.' Yes ; you see it's painted in tempera : it's a Credi, of course, and the same model as Venus in the Uffizi ; but better, 1 think— undoubtedly a finer work.' `It's marvellous,' murmured Sumner ; marvellous.' But James had gone back to the table. Will you have any more soda-water ? ' he asked, picking up the syphon. No, thank you,' said Sumner. Then it doesn't matter if the syphon breaks,' said Mr. E. B. James, in a tone so iifferent from that in which he had- hitherto spoken, that iumner_ turned round suddenly to look at him. The little Ilan came Luwards him swinging the syphon to and fro in his sight hand, and there was a light in his eyes as strange to Sumner As the tone that had crept into his voice. With a sudden circular movement of his right arm, he swung the soda-water syphon behind him and above his head, bringing it down and forward with all the force of which he was capable into the centre of the picture."
To the horror of Mr. Sumner, bound by his oath to non- interference, the collector smashes picture after picture—. Constables, a Watteau, a Bellini, a Van Eyck, a Goya. Why ? The reader is not let down by the denotiment- they are not sham pictures, the collector is not a madman. Mr. Sumner even ends by feeling something like sympathy for him. Three of the stories that are here included are not of quite so high a calibre as the others, and it is in them that the author's faults are most apparent. Ho sets his scenes so minutely and BO carefully that he is occasionally apt to spend too much time In preparation. To be a little slow in coming to the point is • The Pilgrim of a Smile. By Norman Davey. London Chapman and Sall. [8s. 6d. net.1
often to weaken the point when it does come. It is not that his scene-painting is indifferent, it is always distinguished. But he aught to remember that it is psychologically inevitable that when the reader is promised a story of adventure, mental or physical, he will be impatient of an intervening essay, however excellent. It is, however, a long time since we encountered a book which had so completely recaptured the Stevensonian faculty of amusing the fastidious.
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