FICTION
By FORREST REID Count Belisarius. By Robert Graves. (Cassell. Ss. 6d.) Count Belisarius is an historical novel of the sixth century, when the Emperor Justinian reigned. It is a huge and learned work, largely, though by no means exclusively, concerned with the military exploits of its hero. In form, it is presented as a contemporary chronicle written by the eunuch Eugenius, lifelong and devoted servant of Antonina, wife of Belisarius. Those were the Dark Ages, and the world Eugenius depicts so graphically is surprising and unfamiliar, with mediaeval Constantinople at its centre. The book reads exactly as if it were what it purports to be. That is to say, it has little form beyond a chronological sequence of events, the material being squeezed in wherever a place can be found for it. But the thing as a whole is alive—has abundance, colour, movement and variety—though Eugenius is better at getting massed effects, at creating the life of the crowd, than at individual por- traits. His Belisarius, in spite of all the details we learn about him—his courage, his honesty, his fidelity to the Emperor— remains a somewhat wooden figure. The two characters who approach most nearly to complete realisation are Antonina and the Empress Theodora. These woman are extraordinary. They have been friends from childhood ; they began life as prostitutes ; in the end, through sheer strength of will and character, they influenced the whole course of world events. That the fate of nations should thus have been decided at the prompting of Aphrodite, least intelligent of divinities, may seem unsatisfactory, but it is distressingly possible, and after all, though one does not like her, one prefers Theodora to Justinian. She and Antonina have few scruples, but they at least have courage and determination. It is easy to see how Theodora obtained complete ascendancy over her sensual and superstitious husband. Antonina is of a similar type, but with Belisarius, who is honourable, firm, and a devout Christian, she has less pliable material to work upon. She has to employ strategy where Theodora goes straight to her end. Also her affection for Belisarius acts as a check, though how far it keeps her faithful to him is uncertain. Eugenius believes, or affects to believe, that her relations with Theodosius, the adopted son of Belisarius, were innocent. The point remains extremely doubtful. Nothing in her past life, nothing in the general manners of that age, makes innocence of any kind probable. Belisarius himself for a while believes her guilty, but accepts her protestations. After all, it is the best thing he can do, since he is fond of her, she is fond of him, her interests are his interests, and she certainly is a good comrade, accompanying him on his campaigns in Africa and Italy.
A more pleasing character, nevertheless, than either Antonina or Theodora is Porphyry the whale. This impetuous Porphyry does a lot of damage, and for twenty-five years has been harass sing the shipping of the Bosphorus and the Black Sea. Force and cunning alike prove useless against him, so the Bishops preach to him from the shore, and send texts floating down on the current urging him, in the name of the Trinity, to return to the Ocean. But Porphyry is unlettered and unbap- tised ; he continues his sports, paying no attention to the Bishops. It is a delightful touch, bringing the mental and religious atmosphere of this very disputatious and religious age more vividly before us than any amount of argument. And the book swarms with picturesque figures—kings, monks, slaves, priests, merchants. Its hero being a great general, naturally the bulk of the space is devoted to his campaigns. Belisarius, as Mr. Graves paints him, is a man of honour and simplicity, his military genius is tempered by a humane spirit, and his continuous success makes him even in his lifetime a half-legendary figure, so that several of his victories are blood- less. In these pages, at all events, he is unswervingly loyal to Justinian, who is weak, ungrateful, suspicious and jealous. So the end is not well, and the hero, after a mock trial conducted by Justinian himself, is blinded.
In These Quiet Streets is a difficult novel to classify. One can see plainly in the writing the influence of modern American fiction, but the book might be called either a thriller, or a realistic study of the submerged. The material is drab and dingy enough for Gissing, but the tale has vitality and hummir, its technique is brilliant, and the rigorous economy of its method rules out everything which does not contribute to the dramatic effect of the final scene. This scene is one of horror, and we are warned from the beginning that it is coming, though I myself, later, was lulled to forgetfulness. The centre of everything is a house in Tanton Street—a boarding-house run by Mrs. Emms—and the story is concerned with the occupants of the house, people possessing nothing in common except that all are failures. They form, young and old, a strangely mixed crew—a spiritualist, a couple of crooks, an unsuccessful writer and his wife, two musicians, a publisher's clerk, a boy in an office, an actress out of work. They are but staircase acquain- tances, each has his own private life, yet somehow all are in the story, shaping its pattern, contributing to it consciously or unconsciously ; and most of them are likely to be punished at the end. What emerges strongly is the strange mixture of wolf and lamb in human nature. All these people are human, several of them are decent ; yet the law, we know, will decide the fate of the majority, and we may be quite sure not according to philosophic justice. Mrs. Emms will come off worst, and Mrs. Emms is not a bad soul. Philip, too, will suffer, and Philip is neither better nor worse than most boys, merely rather foolish. The book is exciting, yet by no means to be dismissed as sensational fiction. It is sensational, but Mr. Westerby has talent. He can create atmosphere ; he has sympathy, understanding, a rare sense of form, and a gift for writing dialogue. • Even his minor characters, such as Harty the barman, spring instantaneously to life. I should like to see his treatment of a less violent theme.
Mr. Hilton has no sense of form, therefore his book is weak precisely where Mr. Westerby's is strong. The tone of Champion is pleasant, simple and attractive, but its composition is artless. Mr. Hilton's primary mistake was to bring two stories, each with a distinct theme of its own, into a single novel. Super- ficially he unites them, or tries to unite them, but there is no real fusion, either could be withdrawn without damage to the other. The first and by far the most interesting of these stories is concerned with Jimmy Watkins, who becomes a professional boxer. Half-way through the book, however, Mr. Hilton brings the narrative to a full stop, and when it starts again the hero is Charlie Smith, a hunger-marcher. The result is fatal. While we are following Charlie we lose sight of Jimmy completely, and the whole thing becomes static. True, Charlie and Jimmy are brought together at the end, but the union is arbitrary, the two stories are different in character; one being objective, the other subjective and intro- duced to enable the author to express his social views. Mr. Hilton writes with considerable power : the descriptions of Jimmy's fights could not, I think, be better ; and the doss- house scene, and the scene at Epsom—both • Charlie's—are admirably vivid. On the other hand, there is sometimes an ugliness of phrase that suggests insensitiveness. " Hundreds of times in the year he would muscle her up to the full stretch of his right hand. " It is, to say the least, not felicitous.
They Sailed for Senegal is a true story, an account of the wreck of the frigate Medusa in July, 1816. Commanded by a vain and incompetent officer, the Medusa, which was taking out to St. Louis the new French governor and a large number of passengers, ran aground off the west coast of Africa. The sea was calm, and a raft was built for those who could not be . taken in the boats. But of the hundred and forty-seven people who embarked on this raft only fifteen survived. The book is based on official records, and gives a ghastly picture of treachery, cannibalism and madness. " There has been no need," Mr. MacArthur says, " to exaggerate the horror of the most deplorable of all episodes in the naval history of the civilised world." And in fact we get too much of it before the end is reached. It is conscientious reporting, but it becomes wearisome, because there is nobody through whom we realise it, the characters being little more than names.
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