NOVELS.
THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS.*
IT was inevitable that sooner or later the extravagances of what has been called the Kailyard school should provoke a reaction. Along with many other admirable qualities for which we are duly grateful, the representatives of that school have shown a dangerous liability, in Artemus Ward's phrase, to "slop over,"—to show, that is, in a growing crescendo, a weakness for mawkish, maudlin, and morbid sentiment; to adopt a thrasonical and bouncing tone in regard to the exploits of local worthies ; and, in general, to invest Scots life and manners with a roseate glamour of optimism. The reaction, we have said, was bound to come, and to come from a Scots novelist, since there never was a race more efficient in self-criticism ; and it has come with a vengeance in Mr. GeorgeDouglas's ruthless contribution towards a Scots Comgdie Humaine,—The House with the Green Shutters, a novel of engrossing interest and remarkable power. The success is one of sheer merit, since Mr. Douglas makes absolutely no concessions to popular or patriotic requirements. Here are no risky situations, no smart society, no highly-spiced dia- logue; the entire action takes place in a small Scots country town, none of the dramatis personae are of gentle birth, the " love-interest " is non-existent. And yet, unlovely though his theme and uncompromising though his handling of it, Mr. Douglas, like the Ancient Mariner, is a narrator whom
one cannot choose but hear. He holds one enthralled by the intensity of his own concentrated interest in his creations. Authors who are in love with their characters generally make themselves ridiculous. Mr. Douglas escapes the pitfall because there is no one to love in his book. But though the story is terrible, and no ray of poetic justice lights the path of the innocent victims dragged down by the fall of the central figure, it is the logic, not the temper, of the book that is pitiless. The whole catastrophe is inherent in the sketch of Grourlay- the protagonist—on the day of the birth of his younger son given by one of the " bodies " or village gossips who play the part of Greek chorus in this grim tragedy of the fall of a village tyrant :- "' Re's getting a big boy, that son of Gourlay's,' said the
Provost, how oald will he be P HeNt approaching twelve,' said Johnny Coe He was born the day the brig on the Fleckie Road geed down, in the year o' the great flood ; and since the great flood it's twelve year come Lammas. Bab Tosh o' Fleckie's wife was heavy-footed at the time, and Doctor Munn had been a nicht wi' her, and when he cam to Barbie Water in the morning it was roaring wide free bank to brae; where the brig should have been there was naething but the swashing of the yellow waves. Munn had to drive a' the way round to the Fechars brig, and in parts o' the road the water was so deep that it lapped his horse's belly- band. A' this time Mrs. Gourlay was skirling in her pains and praying to God she micht dee. Gourley had been a great crony o' Munn's, but he quarrelled wi' him for being late; he had trysted him, ye see, for the occasion, and he had been twenty times at the yett to look for him—ye ken how little he would stomach that; he was ready to brust wi' anger. Munn, mad for the want of sleep and wat to the bane, swfire back at him ; and than Gourley wadna let him near his wife ! Ye mind what an awful day it was ; the thunder roared as if the heavens were tumbling on the world, and the lichtnin sent the trees dandin on the roads, and folk hid below their beds and prayed—they thocht it was the Judgment! But Gourley rammed his black stepper in the shafts, and drave like the devil o' hell to Skeighan Drone, where there was a young doctor. The lad was feared to come, but Gourley swore by God that he should, and he garred him. In a' the countryside driving like his that day was never kenned or heard tell o'; they were back within the hour ! I saw them gallop up Main Street; lichtnin struck the ground before them; the young doctor covered his face wi' his hands, and the horse nichered wi' fear and tried to wheel, but Gourley stood up in the gig and lashed him on through the fire. It was thocht for lang that Mrs. Gourley would die; and she was never the same woman after. Atweel aye, sirs, Gourley has that morning's work to blame for the poor wife he has now. Him and Munn never spoke to each other again, and Munn died within the twelve- month,—he got his death that morning on the Fleckie Road. But, for a' so pack's they bad been, Gourley never looked near him: Coe had told his story with enjoying gusto, and had told it well—for Johnny, though constantly snubbed by his fellows, was in many ways the ablest of them all. His voice and manner drove it home. They knew, besides, he was telling what himself had seen. For they knew he was lying prostrate with fear in the open smiddyahed from the time Gourley went to Skeighan Drone to the time that he came back ; and tbat he kad.ra seen him both come and go. They were silent for a while, 1 pressed, in spite of themselves, by the vivid presentment of Yhe ROUge with the Green Shutters. By George Douglas. London : John [62.1 Gourlay's manhood on the day that had scared them all. The baker felt inclined to cry out on his cruelty for keeping his wife suffering to gratify his wrath ; but the sudden picture of the man's courage changed that feeling to another of admiring awe; a man so defiant of the angry heavens might do anything. And so with the others; they hated Gourlay, but his bravery was a fact of nature which they could not disregard; they knew them- selves smaller and said nothing for a while."
Gourlay, the big man of a little Scottish town, is the incar- nati on of several of the qualities which supply his race with
driving power,—dourness, pride, strength of will, and dogged tenacity. Holding no office, resolutely avoiding any contest of wits with those whom he recognises as his superiors in education and intellect, he nevertheless dominates them all by the " glower" of his eye, the unswerving fixity of his pur- pose, the savage irony of his invincible ignorance. He amasses wealth as a carrier and lessee of a quarry more through lack of competition than real enterprise, but in the very height of his power sows the seeds of his ruin by his
ungovernable temper. Oderint dum metuant is a dangerous maxim in commerce, and from the day that the astute huckster Wilson gains a footing in Barbie, Gourlay's fortunes enter on the down grade. But it is in his home life that
Gourlay is seen at his worst, bullying his slatternly invalid wife, and cowing the spirit of his boy, a nervous weakling, the butt of his schoolmates, but adored and spoiled by his foolish mother, whose devotion to her son is almost the only instance of natural affection in this sombre recital. The beginning of the end is reached when Gourlay, already embarrassed in his circumstances, sends the boy to Edinburgh University, where a small success turns the weakling's head, and he is expelled for a drunken insult to one of the Professors. Returning home in disgrace, John Gourlay, goaded to madness by the ferocious contempt of his father, assaults him when in terror of his own life, and brings about, if he does not directly cause, the old man's death. Of the terrible sequel we hardly care to speak, save to say that it is the explicable if not inevitable outcome of the dead man's cruelty.
We cannot think that this book will achieve popularity in Scotland. Mr. Douglas, apart from his general tendency to emphasise the least amiable traits of his race, is too fond of interspersing such comments as the following :—" For many reasons intimate to the Scots character, envious scandal is rampant in petty towns such as Barbie. To go back to the beginning, the Scot, as pundits will tell you, is an indi- vidualist. His religion alone is enough to make him so. For it is a scheme of personal salvation significantly described once by the Reverend Mr. Struthers of Barbie. ' At the Day of Judgment, my frehnds,' said Mr. Struthers ; ' at the Day of Judgment every herring must hang by his own tail.' Self. dependence was never more luridly expressed. History, climate, social conditions, and the national beverage have all combined (the pundits go on) to make the Soot an individualist, fighting for his own hand," — and Mr. Douglas proceeds to show how from individualism springs a keen sense of competition, and from that again an envious belittlement of rivals. In a Southron this would be high treason, but from a Scot it will perhaps be taken
in good part. But in any case, Mr. Douglas has yet to learn that the occasional aggressiveness of his editorial com- mentary, so to speak, is not so artistic as the self-efface- ment of such artists as Tourgueneff. That the book is not without genuine humour of a sardonic flavour is shown in many passages, including the above extract. But it is as a study of parochial megalomania that the novel challenges and rivets attention. It is strong meat, too strong at times for
fastidious readers ; but though Mr. Douglas now and then writes with rude frankness, the book is not only void of offence,
but thoroughly sound and wholesome in tone. Mr. Douglas, we may note in conclusion, has no affinity with any living Scotch writer. His masters are Galt and Basso, but there are few traces of the novice, and none of the imitator, in this uncompromising picture of the seamy side of rural life in Scotland in the " fifties."
Previous page
