FICTION.
A NEW NOVEL BY MIL PILANKAI.7.* Stealth 'mere- it might be supposed that Mr. Frankau has -changed very much since he first wrote fiction. 'There was little of the author of One of Us in Peter Jackson, Cigar Merchant that in many ways excellent novel of the War. 'There seems hardly, at first sight, a trace of him in The Love Story of Aliette Brunton. Mr. Frankau, we should say, has ranged himself. He has become less witty, but also less superficial. His sense of satire has become a little blunted, but so has his rather -tedious preoccupation with sex. In the course of this process of settling down some of his less obvious faults have manifested -themselves 'however. The fireworks of One of Us were really brilliant. May we recall to the reader the description of the 4th of June at Eton ?
" My hero's parents patronized the function, Proud of their child -as they that roar on Mellin They'd journeyed overnight:from Sidmouth Junction, Father and mother and fair sister Helen; Hauling Aunt Ermyntrude without compunction From her herbaceous hermitage at Welwyn ; Heedless that bonnet, parasol and bodice ill Became the day, so she would •add a codicil."
Or the account of the great day when the new vast American " Multiple Store " is -established in Landon and opens with a terrific clatter of advertisementl- " Howl, Harrod, howl ! Let Gordon Selfridge wail !
Mingle your tears with Woollands, William Whiteley, Lord•Mayors, nor Concert-teas, nor Great White Sale, Nor shopmen serving never eo politely, Nor-any Bargain Basement, shall avail To raise the takings you weep over nightly ; Since London waked to read that black decree, `'Our Opening Week—All Wares Eleven-Three i " Such passages abound. The advertisement pages of the later editions remind us that one review hailed the book as " almost monstrously clever," another as " written with all the impudence of high spirits," and so on with greater or less discernment. The moral tone of the poem we might condemn, but there are few of -us who would have been cold-blooded enough 'to object, that Mr. Frankan lacked a sense of literary background, that his work was essentially unscholarly. Yet it is just these defects, latent in his verse, that rob him of complete success in his latest novel.
The Love Story of Aliette Brunton, is well constructed, the characters are, for the most part, well observed, the situations not only serve for the display of the characters but are intrinsically interesting. In the long account of the murder trial Mr. Frankan 'wren aChieves eloquence. But all through the book -we are haunted by his two faults—first, his exaggerated idea Of the unfailing interest of the relations of men and women, •secondly, his lack of distinction in phraseology and in thought. The second • The Love Story of Aliens Brunton. By Gilbert 'Frankau. London : Backiason. ra of 'these, we repeat, would have taken an Argua-eyed critic to see beneath the glitter of hisextraordinary virtuosttyin rhyme and metre, nevertheless in any one of his three verse novels the reader might actually have •seen the seeds of what makes The Love Story of Aliette Brunton no more than a com- petent, honest, commercial article of a novel. However, it is much to have -a novel which is competent, one above all which is, despite a few longueurs at the beginning, readable, one over which the author has evidently taken pains, and yet is it possible •that we perceive prophecy of a yet further stage in Mr. Frankau's process of settling down ? Is there a hint in this book that he is going to become both rather pompous and rather sentimental later on ? Is there not a note of old gentlemanly " Potterism " in this sort of thing ?
" Because Love, the Real Thing—as all real things—demands infinite self-sacrifice : and infinite self-sacrifice is too divine a code for the average imperfect human being, who must needs make himself other codes or perish. This, therefore, Aliette's love story, deals of necessity with the self-sacrifices endured not only by Aliette, but by many of those who came within the orbit of her personality . . . All these people, Brunton, Fullerfords, Wilberforces and Cavendishes, were ordinary orderly English folk ; trained in that' school of thought which prises sheer character above mere intellect, which -teaches self- restraint and sell-respect and self-reliance, and believes—as an ultimate issue—in playing the game.'" It makes the reader feel that if Mr. Frankau were to take up verae.again hisreviewers might this.time be obliged to compare him with Ella Wheeler Wilcox rather than with the author of Don Juan.
Previous page
