Fiction

By WILLIAM PLOMER 7s. t3d.)

THE publishers of Duel enclose among its pages one of those postcards on which a list is given of various kinds of books together with an invitation to the reader to put a cross against the kinds he fancies. Fiction, with first place in

this list, is divided into five categories—(a) thoughtful, distinguished ; (b) popular, - romantic ; (c) historical ; (d)

thrillers ; (e) short stories. This classification seems a trifle arbitrary, but would probably suit those numerous novel7

readers who. are more -interested in getting rapidly entangled in a "yarn " than in looking for any truly creative presenta- tion of life. Such readers, filled with anxiety lest their imagination and intelligence should be asked to function, would hesitate to plump for category (a), and would therefore be more likely to miss all four of the " thoughtful, distin- guished " books tinder review.

Mr. Fangen is a Norwegian, and the scene of his book is laid in Norway—mostly in the capital. He gives us no shovelfuls of local colour, but the temper of the book and its skilfully managed texture and atmosphere are such that a completely " Nordic " effect is produced. The characters belong to their country, the air is fresh, there are long northern twilights and views across water, the streets are clean, the nation is civilized, the people are vigorous, capable and serious—yes, serious at times to the point of heaviness. At first the story seems to be in some danger of getting drowned in a " Stream of consciousness " :

" But Rolf. That was another matter. (He had begun to dress now.) That was much more awkward. But• again— irritation, bad humour—accidents. Still—no, he didn't like— well, there was simply something in it he didn't like."

It seems as if Klaus Hallem, the middle-aged country doctor in whose head this is going on, will turn out to be a sort of Mr. Jingle without the sprightliness. -But Mr. Fangen has him well in hand, and it is important that we should know about his feelings, since the book turns on them._ These feelings are to be explained roughly in terms of " the inescapable modern expression : inferiority complex." We are suitably reminded that

" suspicion and fear were its -fruits—a suspicion and a fear that poisoned friendship between individuals and co-operation among the nations, and threatened to destroy all the fruits of culture."

Hallem's trouble was " simply that he could not feel only one thing for anybody : where he loved and admired, he also hated and despised." The " duel " of the title is the lifelong hostility in the friendship between Hallem and his brilliant contemporary George Roiter, a jurist and thinker of international fame, full of private as well as public virtues.

The strange fate that links them together, although they seldom meet, the repulsion that lies at the heart of their mutual attraction, is not merely described and analysed but given a deeper significance, so that Hallem and Roiter seem to represent a certain dualism in the nature of modern, civilized man—the forces of fear and suspicion and the longing for death continually at war with the forces of tolerance and kindness, vitality and wisdom and culture, from which they are inseparable and to which they are, in a sense, complementary. The supreme example of two different characters thus linked together like contrary tendencies in a single character is that of Don Quixote and Sancho. The " duel " between Hallem and Roiter is the centre of the composition, but is seen in its proper proportions, and Mr. Fangen manages to surround it with the fortunes of the families of both men, and to treat freshly such worn themes as the friction between old and young, the Modern" behaviour of the young, the self-torment of the unstable, &c.

To read of the highly civilized Roiter, who is, among other things, an almost perfect father, and of Hallem's wife, a woman of superb character, is to feel admiration for them and their creator, and faith as well that the everlasting duel is not fought in vain. - In his new novel Mr. L. A. G. Strong is also concerned with death in the midst of life—he describes the last days and thoUghts of a man mortally ill. The subject might not seem cheerful, and the superficial might suppose it morbid, but actually the book is, in the best sense, a cheerful one. Ignatius Farrelly, an intellectual living in Scotland, receives an " ultimatum " from his doctor in London ; he travels south, .goes through the preliminaries to an operation, and finally succumbs. The title of the story is taken from the Anatomy ,of Melancholy (" Corporal tunes pacify our incorporeal soul ") and the key-passage is Mr. Strong's comment on this quota- tion : " True : true enough. What was any experience, what was all life, but a corporal tune, which the spirit heard and interpreted as best it might ? All the material world was a play, a drains staged to render due to the infinite."

. Farrelly is a widower after five years of marriage. His wife died in childbirth. The child has survived, but he finds that it is not his. The discovery does not shake his love for his wire, not disturb his belief in hers for him. The thought of this love sustains him, and so does his intense and semi-mystical feeling for the particular Scotch landscape with which it was associated. As dieting sharpened his senses, his impressions had grown more poignant. About to die, he needs no outside help to enable him to make his peace with himself and the world. He is able to regard the world, " the whole material universe, as an expression of reality, not as reality itself." He is comforted by the knowledge of " an achieved balance, an illumination that would not be lost," and " there were no reservations, no misunderstandings, no remorse." There is nothing febrile about the writing ; it reflects the calmness and confidence of the hero. The book has a true nobility of senti- ment, and may prove a solace to some who fear death.

Mr. Hampson and Mr. Beachcroft were both contributors to

New Country, a collection of work by English writers who were all, I think, under thirty. They have more than that in common, and the motto from Beranger prefixed to Mr. Beacheroft's volume would serve for both : " Quoique leurs chapeaux soient bien Goddam ! Moi j'aime les Anglais."

Mr. Beachcroft no doubt chose this quotation not to proclaim a belief in the overwhelming superiority of the English, but to indicate that it is worth while putting up with those very ugly hats for the sake of the kindness and shrewdness, the quiet and easy-going stoicism and the sincerity that is some- times to be found beneath them. Both he and Mr. Hampson set their scenes in the temperate light of our own climate, and they both seem to feel respect mingled with affection for decent, ordinary," everyday people. " When his wife died," runs the first sentence in Mr. Hampson's book, " Saul Borlay gave up working as a coal heaver." " Elsie had plenty of time to kill," the first of Mr. Beachcroft's stories begins, "so she took her glass of stout very slowly."

Mr. Hampson tells of two brothers, Alf and Ted, brought up in a womanless home. The younger feels an exclusive and enduring adoration of the elder. Then women intrude. The father marries again, and Alf gets attached to a girl. When she is pregnant, but before they are married, Alf is killed in an accident. Ted marries her instead. She has the child by Alf ; she is to have another by Ted, who, we are given to understand, is able to devote himself, for the sake of his dead brother, to the business of being a husband and father—an illustration of the simple fact that, under the stress of economic, biological, or social necessity, we have to make the best of things as we find them. It is a touching story, written with delicacy and insight, by a writer whose gifts are already known. The notes he strikes are not loud, but they are true, and in its very gentle- ness his manner is distinguished.

Mr. Beachcroft is humane, he seems to bring the eye of a student of natural history to bear on the way people behave, and he writes carefully. All that is less common than might be supposed, and decidedly promising. A few of his short stories show a certain immaturity, but that is far better than emptY smoothness of the " romantic, popular " sort : some, on the other hand, are very effective.