FICTION
By KATE O'BRIEN
THERE are two historical novels to be discussed this week,
and it occurs to me that some who consider themselves " choosey " about fiction-reading, and who probably regard historical fiction as an unprofitable irrelevancy just now, will avoid Miss Irwin's romance, which they will know is bound to be about the decorative but preposterous Stuarts, but will be inclined to make exception in favour of the work of Heinrich Mann, (a) because the author is a foreigner, and (6) there may be a didactic and topical value now in presenta- tion of the tolerant character of Henry IV of France. If I am right this means that they will miss a good book, and commit themselves to a battle through one of the worst-constructed and worst-translated novels that has come my way in a long time.
The Bride deals with the Stuart story from January, 1649, when Charles the First was executed in Whitehall, until May 21St, 1650, the day of execution of the Marquis of Mont- rose in Edinburgh. " The Proud Servant " of another of Miss Irwin's books here works out, with characteristic passion, and to tragic conclusion, his service to two kings, father and son, who, neither of them, used him well. But it was to their cause that he was dedicated more than to them, and beyond it, to a particular conception of life.
The Smarts put their own rather childish and inconsequent interpretation on the doctrine of the divine right of kings, and it is probable that had Montrose been the champion of almost any other dynasty he would have been longer-lived and more happily extended in his great powers. He was a remarkably gifted man, possessing inordinate measures of foresight, magnetism, mental agility, courage and imagination. Had he been born to serve in some great European field— under Charles V, say, or with Gustavus Adolphus, or in the armies of Maria Theresa or with Buonaparte—his personality might have carried him to any conceivable peak of fame. But he was a Scot, and it was his fate to die, still young and newly in love, to slake the parochial, small savagery of the Edinburgh Covenanters. And he must have known that from every point of view his death was waste. It certainly did his butchers no good, and it smirched, because of the cowardice, double-dealing and hesitation which allowed it to happen, the romantic, narrow cause for which it was so exemplarily undergone.
But the whole wasted life and death of this singularly efficient and attractive Quixote make a splendid story, and here in the second part of it Miss Irwin is probably at her best. Unblushingly committed to a tenderness for the Stuarts which does not permit her indeed to conceal all their grave faults, but certainly coaxes her into condoning them, she is nevertheless So much mistress of the age she works in, so much at home in its archives, that we can take trusting delight in her period-evocation, and learn a great many interesting or agreeable things as we go, in the pleasantest possible fashion. But chiefly, while giving thanks for scholar- ship and industry deftly assembled, we will praise, by com- parison especially with what is to follow, a shapely, ordered and well-lighted whole, something clearly imagined and masterfully carried through, a novel, in fact, by a good novelist.
In Miss Irwin's book, form and artistic purpose are coolly imposed on learning, subduing it imaginatively to make it reveal and illuminate a particular story and particular people. In Heinrich Mann's third volume of historical fiction about Henry IV—I have not read the preceding two—we are con- fronted with a deal of writing which undoubtedly represents wide knowledge of France between 1598 and i61o, but for the life of me I cannot find any good thing to say of the slovenly, mystagoguing, pseudo-impressive, pseudo-reflective manner of its assemblage, or non-assemblage. For there is none of the pressure and formalisation which we imply in " assemblage " in this cloudy, lazy, over-worded, under- muscled impression of a vaguely liberal-minded king, half- apprehended through undefined emotions, unclarified ideas and shapeless situations.
Read in The Bride the execution of Montrose ; then read in Herr Mann's work the assassination of Henry IV. Read Montrose's conversation with young Charles II at The Hague, and then read any of Henry's thousand conversations with his ministers and servants. Read Montrose's first love-scene with Louise, Princess Palatine, his Louey, read any of their grave and characteristic love-passages ; then see if you can tackle Henri Quatre and Gabrielle. The effect will be of turning from order to chaos, from the controlled reality of art to a most boring and curious confusion.
We all know something of the tragic death and of the sweet personality of Gabrielle d'atree, Duchess of Beaufort and mistress of the charming Henry. But to try to read that story here is an exercise in patience which I would not impose on an enemy. We all know that Henry's marriage with Mary de Medici was a union of incompatibles—but what did happen on their wedding night, over and above the conception of Louis XIII, I mean? If anyone can make sense or sequence of the murky farce of that occasion, as presented in these pages, I will eat my hat. No—to my amazement, having dutifully read the opinions of its two predecessors printed on the wrapper of this German book—I can only record that I find it a morass of disorganisation. If Herr Mann has a clear conception of the person Henry IV was, he would surely have aimed at bringing that conception to final' and monumental shape in his last volume? But I, for one, seek it in vain. Was he a tolerant liberal, ahead of his time? Was he the poor man's king? Was he any kind of statesman, any kind of individualist or idealist? Was he the good amorist he hoped he was? Was he irresistibly charming? Before I read this book I may have had some interest in such queries, but at present I have been bludgeoned out of it, and I suggest to those who are looking for the answers that they seek them in a sound, official history of the Reign of Henry IV of France.
Mr. George Orwell is always very readable and manages to make his novels easily distinguishable from those of other people. Coming Up for Air is, like his other books, easy to read, and will probably prove, like them, easier than most to remember. But all the same, it is not as good as, say, Keep the Aspidistra Flying, which, in spite of its somewhat exuberant title, is remembered particularly, I think, for quali- ties of bitterness and astringency—both of which are intended here, no doubt, but evade the author, probably because he took the risk of telling this story in the first person.
With George Bowling, seeing what he had to be, this was a fatal misjudgement. This fat forty-fiver, seven-pounds-a- week insurance tout, and not by any means a fool, is yet incapable of the discipline needed by the simplest man if he is to tell his own story. Mr. Orwell realises this, but perhaps does not realise that, in letting him do it all the same, adverbs and sort ofs " and all, to heighten his grey realism, he is asking himself to be more authoritative than Flaubert in commanding our patience. The result is that, unjustly enough, we are often for whole pages indifferent and incredulous as Mr. Bowling rambles on about his private grievances, his civic preoccupations—very much up to the minute—his memories, and finally his flight in search of le temps perdu. It is all true enough, but it really isn't firm enough—not for Mr. Orwell. We have no quarrel with the theme, nor, on the whole, with its execution, for the book is well above the average—but there are lapses in technique, there are unnecessary repetitions and other symptoms of haste and weariness. In short, this book is good, but its author is generally better.
Pamela Hansford Johnson must be a very uneven novelist. I have only read one other of her novels besides Girdle of Venus, a book called World's End, which I remember with particular pleasure for many passages of unflinching realism and tenderness. But this new book is not one-half so com- mendable. It is about a dreary little middle-aged widow who takes up fortune-telling in a seaside town and makes a lot of mischief, has an awkwardly over-written love-affair, and wriggles out of the follies of self-deception in the end. Miss Hansford is a much better writer than this novel suggests.
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