Fiction
" You ought to read something more modern than Conan Doyle for a change.'
" A damned fine writer. He could teach you boyos a thing or two. At least he had a story to tell, and he got on with the job of telling " This fragment of dialogue in one of today's novels drew from me a heartfelt sigh of approval. English criticism generally has devoted its attention to texture and finesse, neglecting the original creative impulse of the story-teller. &mks:lidos and, above a certain authors have become self-conscious, more and more ashamed of the primitive virtues of story-telling ; and writers like ()man Doyle and Jack London have been despised because the texture of their work was heavy or careless, and have been denied the praise due to their creative vitality and their power to tell a story. Hugh Walpole would probably have been affronted to be compared with either of them. Beyond a doubt his ambitions went beyond theirs ; but he was clever at picking up anything that could help him, and would not miss what he could get from the author of The White Company. He was, as he once said to me (ruefully yet with a touch of pride); ,att.-inexact miter ; and above the entertainment level inexactness -A fatal to the writer of short stories. Walpole could do two things extraordinarily well. He could portray the disintegration of a character through fear, and he could so vividly establish his background that it became part of the novel itself. The short:story did not give scope for either of these qualities to show to full advantage. One of his short stories, called, if I remember, The Silver Mask, was a brilliant success in the former category. He tries it again this time, in The White Cat, but it does not come off. Walpole was a vigorous story-teller, who knew more about the craft of the novel 'than nine out of ten of his critics, but his short stories lack distinction. They are irrelevant, the by-products of an unusually imaginative vitality. The present volume, which has much' in it to like, will do his reputation neither harm nor good. Mr. Wallacec Nichols restores to us the old-fashioned virtues of story-telling, and in many respects they are welcome. He gives us a frankly romantic eighteen-thirtyish tale of a young hero, rather sillier than most young men of his age, his beautiful sister, a false duchesse, with whom the hero falls in love, an eccentric, one Pro- fessor Ferrabosco, a journey by coach, a visit to Rome, and divers Bonapartist goings-on. The opening is excellent, the development readable if a little sedate, the texture sensitive and shot from time to time with a poet's felicities. Now and then, it must be admitted, the dialogue has an improbable shade : " Have you any useful connections of any mat ? ' he asked quietly. Think carefully before you answer, and do not let pride—if pride should flap wings—rise up in the way like a scared cockerel in a farm-lane in front of a gig. "
Once or twice, too, the narrative displays that innocence of device known among screen-writers as Here-comes-Charlie : -
" Tell me about this beautiful young duchesse,' begged Andrea, partly out of a stirred curiosity and partly to compare his knowing. ness with Gazonars,' " but chiefly to give us readers information. But these are small blemishes in a warm-hearted and likable book, which, I repeat, gives back to story-telling virtues which are rare today. Except for pace and excitement, Conan Doyle has less to teach Mr. Nichols than most historical novelist& Mr. Denys Val Baker also shows a poet's sensitiveness but less skill in narrative. The Widening Mirror reminds me of a string quartet, with its harmonious blending of four characters, a man and his wife, the wife's brother, and a German prisoner who works with them on the farm. The thematic material is a good deal stronger than the development. After getting off to one of the slowest starts I remember, ten pages spent in setting the scene, Mr. Baker develops the emotional relationships between the four and brings them to a satisfactory conclusion. He has a curious trick of separating his sentences of dialogue by large chunks of analysis. I tried the experi- ment of first reading the dialogue, then going back to see what, if anything, the chunks could add. In my respectful submission, they add precious little. This can mean two things—that Mr. Baker writes excellent dialogue, and can trust to it far more than he does ; also, I am afraid, that The Widening Mirror is over-long for what it contains. Even so, it contains a great -deal of true and sensitive obseriation. Mr. Rearden Conner also presents a quartet, but his is subjective.
Mark Loran, unsuccessful writer of four thrillers, becomes obsessed by their four main characters. Distrustful of himself, living in a boarding-house, he becomes engaged to a nice girl, who, alas, sub- scribes to the views:of her parents. Her father supposes all writers to be wealthy, and is disappointed to find that Mark has never made more than a hundred pounds out of a book. In order to humiliate him, and estrange him from Helen, he gives Mark a post in his office. I will not reveal any more of Mr. Conner's story, but leave the reader to find oats what part is played by Isolde, the extremely lively daughter of his landlady, and CrIfegarthy, the less than reput- able doctor who is his fellow lodger. It is O'Hegarthy, by the way, who pronounces the eulogy on Conan Doyle already mentioned.
Of all these books I enjoyed Mr. Conner's most, in spite of a weak patch hl the middle. He writes admirable dialogue his characters are alive the women especially, and, like Conan Doyle, he gets on with his job of telling a story. Despite its subjective element, which makes My Love to the Gallows an ambitious venture, Mr. Conner never forgets to be entertaining ; and, as far as I am concerned, he has his reward. Conan Doyle -has not so much to
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