Fiction
Darkness at Noon. By Arthur Koestler. (Cape. 8s.) Laura Sarelle. By Joseph Shearing. (Hutchinson. 8s. 6d.) Darkness at Noon is a grimly fascinating book, giving us as it does a glimpse of the terrible, almost mad logic of the Russian revolutionary, a logic which perverts because it forgets its pre- mises (as applied logic so often does), and sacrifices humanity to itself. Rubashov, the central figure, was an old Leninist, who in his heart, though not in his mind, rebelled against Stalinism, and was in the end " physically liquidated." It is a stern and pitiable story, profoundly interesting and superbly done, with a mixture of cold terror, humour, and psychological insight which is alto- gether convincing.
What astonished everybody at the time of the Russian treason trials was the luxuriant orgy of confession which preluded the execution of so many loyal Leninists. Mr. Koestler lets us into the secret of this amazing business, so that now we can under- stand exactly how it happened. Under the stress of endless interrogation, without sleep for days, and blinded by a brilliant light, the victims who have dared, even in thought, to criticise the regime are made to see how their most innocent speeches were " reactionary," were " deviations " which might be regarded as direct incitements to murder " No. I." After all, they might be wrong; only history could justify them, as it might years after their death ; and if they really were wrong, and " No. r " was right, as he might well be, what a horrible responsibility was theirs for having tried to destroy the revolution! All they can do in expia- tion, for they are still convinced revolutionaries tainted only by a little sense of humanity, is to confess and die.
It sounds fantastic, but one cannot help believing Mr. Koestler as he takes us into Rubashov's mind, unfolded before us against the background of his past. The whole story is a terrible indict- ment of the Totalitarian idea, which, can make so shocking a thing of pure reason when it becomes enslaved to the idea of the State, in which the individual exists merely' as a number, and the " I " is nothing more than a grammatical abstraction. It was unknowingly to create this that the old revolutionaries poured out their passionate humanity, and Frankenstein has appeared, " flesh of this flesh, grown independent and become insensible." The human ideal, pursued to the end, becomes Moloch.
Rubashov is only one of a number whom Mr. Koestler shows us, and the interest is not merely one of political explanation, but also of prison psychology. For though the impelling motive of the book is detestation of the Totalitarian idea, it is balanced and essentially sane. Thus besides being a first-rate piece of demo- cratic propaganda, it is a masterly study of the human mind in certain circumstances. And there is pity "in the book, the pity over the fallen angel, for that Rubashov is, and even in hell pre- serves some of his ancient lustre. There, too, Satanic pride
destroys the value of his humility, for even that is perverted by the doctrine. Once again we see that unnatural vices Are fathered by our virtues, and the generous virtue of being able to give oneself wholly to a cause becomes corrupted to the vice of sacrificing other people. The atmosphere grows stifling, and out of the fumes emerges Gletkin, the Neanderthal man, a product of the sacrificing virtues of the old band of heroes, an automaton governed by the ghastly new Word, which once meant life, but now spells death.
-We can turn to the fresh air of pure innocent gangsterism in The Ghost Knows His Greengages, which is partly a robust guying of the form. It is enormous fun. A lot of people get bumped off, but except for one, it does not matter. They richly deserved it anyhow. But the fun of the book lies largely in the transposition of Chicago gangsterism into the purer air of Belgravia, so that it all becomes fantastic and absurd, especially so as it is written by the half-witted gangster in a slang which is fresh and very lively, and, what is more, immediately under- standable. It is a temptation, the blurb tells us, to describe the book as a mixture of Damon Runyon and Peter Cheney, whatever that may imply. Well, let it be so; at any rate, it is " very funny, very violent," and it is a pity that a little senti- mentality should creep in. The Ghost himself has a romantic past, he does good deeds; the nice (comparatively) girl in the book is killed, all of which brings the book hesitantly into the line of the ordinary thriller in which good overcomes evil. Yet that is to cavil ungenerously, for the book is a piece of high-spirited nonsense, and if you can bear it at all, you will like it very much.
Nonsense of a different kind is Mr. Shearing's Laura Sarelle, with its Bad Baronet, more of a Patterne than even Sir Willoughby, indeed pathologically so, and with its evocation of an old crime which his equally pathological sister tries to re-enact. It is difficult to see what the book was written for. It is not an escape into a fantastic world, it does not illuminate the human mind or explain a series of actions to make us understand our- selves better, nor does it reveal society to itself. Any or all of these things a novel may do, but this book does none of them. Yet Mr. Shearing has the knack of telling a story; he gives his people just enough life to make them tolerable marionettes, and he provides a certain amount of fleeting excitement. But the book disappears as soon as one has read it, leaving behind no sense
of exhilaration, thought, or brooding. BONAMY DOBREE.
Previous page
