Fiction

BY L. A. G . STRONG.

Family History. By V. Sackville-West. (Hogarth Press.

Invitation to the Waltz. By Rosamund Lehinann. (ChattO and

1Vindus. 7s. 6d.) MERE is no modern author who arouses in me a higher sense of expectation than Miss Sackville-West, and I have never yet been disappointed. Her new book, less perfect than All Passion Spent, by its very imperfection raises expectation a stage higher. It has two themes, of which the second, a love story, soon overshadows the first. Miss Sackville- West's handling of this second theme is uneven, and the unevenness suggests a fresh development in her art. The characters have escaped from the severe, decorative control she has hitherto kept over her creatures, obliging her to follow them from her place apart into the crude light of day. The result is interesting. In several passages, her handling of them is uncertain, and her • work less clearly stamped with the hallmark of her individuality : but the final chapters will be a surprise even to her admirers. Old Mr. Jarrold, who won his way upwards from Victorian industry to a barony, is disappointed with his family, whom he regards ' as degenerate misfits. The. only satisfactory member is Evelyn, who has married into it, and been left a widow. Her son Dan does not get on well at Eton. Evelyn en- counters a rising young politician named Miles Vane-Merrick, whose modern ideas disturb her and delight Dan. Fifteen years his senior, she falls in love with him, inevitably becoming jealous of his work and all that keeps him from her. The story follows their love, mostly desperate and at cross-purposes, with poor Dan a bewildered third party, finding it all out long before he is told, and behaving with unhappy dignity.

Their love flickers on till Evelyn's death. .

Old Mr. Jarrold is a splendid figure, and Dan is perfectly realized. Evelyn herself is thoroughly understood, but becomes rather wearisome before the book is ended. There are passages of .deep emotion, beauty,. and satire, and the

writing, is as grave and musical: as ever.. • . • • " Ruth felt that life at such moments -was too good to be true. She revelled in the lights, and the music, and in the privileged crowd of which she was ono. Surely, she thought, the English upper classes (a horrid expression, but she must define them some- how) were the most decorative on earth. They looked as though for generationS they had been well fed, well warmed, well exercised, and nourished in the conviction that the world could not produce their peers. The standard of looks was amazing ; they had the distinction and beauty of thoroughbred animals. The young men were as elegant as greyhounds, the young women coloured as a herbaceous border. What-did it matter; Ruth-would have added, had she thought of it, that those sleek heads contained no more brains than a greyhound's, since those slender bodies expressed an equal grace ? What did it matter that their code should strangely enough involve a contempt for the intellectual advantages which might have been theirs ? What did it matter that they should immure themselves within the double barricade of their class and

their nationality ? " •

Miss Sackville-West has entered on a new and exciting phase in her development as a novelist.' • - Miss Lehmann's new book proves triumphantly that Dusty Answer was no fluke, but marked the accession of a real novelist to English letters. A Note in Music showed a definite advance in. art, but suffered from a jejune theme. In Invitation to the Waltz art and theme are happily married, and the result is a delight. It is quite simply the story of a young girl's first ball, with a description of her home and family, and of the preliminaries to the great event. Miss Lehmann has not only captured adolescence perfectly, but gives us a number of portraits, full of life and charm, touched in with the lightest and most precise of strokes. How unerringly has she- caught the misery of failing to get on with people with whom (all the time) we do not 'really want to get on I Mow happily she catches the casual encounters that produce such sudden floods of irrelevant embarrassment or joy ! I simply do not know which passage in the book stands out most vividly, whether it is Olivia's meeting with Major Skinner, and the devastating . consequences of her smile ; whether it is Mrs.. Curtisat the breakfast table ; or Whether it is James ripprbving his sister's appearance befora -the dance—but it is impossible to select from so charming

a whole. The book is slight, short, and, within its narrow limits, very near perfection.

I suppose that Mr. Beresford is as unlike Mr. H. G. Wells as it is possible for any novelist to be ; yet they have one notable quality in common, the power to interest us

in the lives of utterly inconspicuous character's. In Hipps and in Love and Mr. Lewisham, Mr. Wells pursued the careers of commonplace individuals with a passionate enthusiasm Which he communicated to his readers. In The Middle Generation, Mr. Beresford, after his very different fashion, does the same thing, though his secret is less enthusiasm than a genuine affection for his characters and a quiet, highly

personal philosophy which enables him to view their lives

consistently. Owen Hillitigton, decent, totally undis- tinguished young man, married beneath him, suffered accord-

ingly, and gradually returned to what in the eyes of the world was the level from which he had descended. He was not one who could forget social•distinctions

" Underneath all young Pilling's boast of his present position there had been a recognisable air of something a little like deference for Owen's social standing. He might be working in an office, but he came of a county family; and that 'still counted for something with people of the Pillings's class. But he had relinquished his birth-right, and for an hour or two after that meeting he ivas keenly aware of that unchangeable essence in him which could never adapt itself to his present way of life. At times such as these the thought of Nellie came to him with a sense of shock. It seemed impossible to believe then that he could continue to live the rest of his life at her intellectual and social level. Indeed, when he was away from her he rarely dared to think about her. In her presence it was easy to forget the standards of the worldin which he had been educated ; but when he was alone be saw her too objectiVelY."

This double consciousness was his chief difficulty.- No one but Mr. Beresford could have made so sincere and so quietly charming a story out of a character so nearly colourless. It is impossible to read this book without becoming gratefully aware of the predoriainance of sheer human goodness in the world : a tonic belief in a generation which has somewhat lost faith in that quality.

Mr. Hartley's first collection of stories was, if my memory serves me, entitled Night Fears. They were not nearly as ominous as the present collection. Mr. Hartley's method, all his own, is to .describe a series of apparently innocent happenings in such a way as to make the reader increasingly- suspicious and uncomfortable. The effect is much as if one were to sit down-with an assembly of friends, and gradually perceive that one after another they were assuming sinister expressions, leers, or squints, and gazing with apprehension at some innocuous object such as a footstool or a grandfather

clock. Mr. Hartley is a past master of disquieting innuendo. After reading three or four of these stories one dare not look even a pair of bedsocks in the face.' I dO not know which of the eight takes the prize, but the title story is all that the most hardened could desire ; and Mr. Hartley is as witty as he is horrifying :

`. . . A Children's Party,' the voice announced in an even, neutral tone; nicely balanced between approval and distaste. between enthusiasm and boredom ; ' six little girls and six little' (a faint lift in the voice, expressive of tolerant. surprise) ' boys. The Broadcasting Company has invited them to tea, and they are anxious that you should share some of their fun.' (At the last word the voice became completely colourless.) ' I must tell you that they have had tea, and enjoyed it, didn't you, children ? ' (A cry of Yes,' muffled and timid, greeted this leading question.)

We should have liked you to hear our table-talk, but there wasn't • much of it, we were so busy eating.' For a moment the voice . identified itself with the children, But we can tell you what we ate. Now, Percy, tell us what you had.' "

Pantagruel is still a name to conjure with. No mere list of properties can give an idea of how well Mr. Watson conjures.

, He revives Pantragruel, Panurge, and Friar John, and reinstates them in the chateau of Thelema, with Mrs. Bacbuc as chatelaine. To them he adds a young architect, an American girl, and several prejudices. The result is original and highly entertaining-not " Rabelaisian " in the journal- istic sense of the word, but a plea for better love and better laughter, marred only by an occasional lapse into- sententiaus- ness. Mr. Watson is to be congratulated on a distinct success.