THE BLOOM OFF THE PEACH.*
As a novel, The Bloom, off the Peach has many merits. It is carefully put together, it is entirely free from all mannerisms, its characters are sufficiently life-like, and in all respects it bears the mark of being the work of an educated and careful writer. But something more than negative qualities is needed to make a first-rate novel. The power to write a really good work of fiction is not possessed by every one who knows how to turn a sentence, and who can keep the characters well in hand. Neither is the art learnt, as a matter of course, by careful painstaking and avoidance of mannerisms. The art of telling a story vividly and sympathetically is a definite gift, while, added to this, there must be power to arouse interest in the characters and situations ; and there should be something about the plot that may suggest to the reader that he is being initiated into things not intended for every ear. Un- fortunately, with its many merits, The Bloom o(f the Peach is devoid of all such subtle charm. The characters are of the most ordinary kind, and they are chosen from the class the least productive of original thought or situation. As a rule, to place the scenes of a novel among well-to-do county families, with no eccentricities or originality of circumstances to redeem their dull respectability, is to weight a story with ready-made difficulties. The self-centred standard which so often makes the lives of county people uninteresting to those who watch them is a difficulty in itself, if a novel is to be at all a faithful picture of the life it deals with. No doubt, all classes can supply good material in the hands of an experienced and able writer, but a novelist young to the work is handicapped at the outset, and has to fall back upon the plot to provide all the interest. Unfortunately, in this case the plot is not up to the work, its merit consisting chiefly in a certain naturalness of sequence and an absence of all that can offend, rather than in more positive qualities.
The story centres entirely upon the chief character in the book, Margaret Auckland, the beautiful and highly-educated
• The Bloom off the Peach. By Lois Hume. London : Rivingtons. 1882. daughter of a country clergyman. We are given to understand that her power of fascination is so great that all the men, and most of the women, she comes across fall in love with her. But here, we think, the author is at fault with the effect her heroine would have produced. It is not denied that she has faults, but it is doubtful if the author and her readers will be agreed as to what those faults are. From the first chapter, where she refuses the proposal of her father's curate, to the last, she shows a conspicuous absence of sympathy with others and a concentration of interest upon herself, which are just the faults which women are very keen to see and quick to resent. Perhaps the fact that the scenes are princi- pally laid in a country neighbourhood where intellectual qualities are not too prominent, may account for the number of her male admirers; and if the reader feels strongly the some- what priggish lines of the portrait, it is partly because prig- gishness is a fault which is felt the more when a character can be viewed as a whole, and when each thought and word can be judged in the light of what has gone before and what follows after.
In consequence of the inopportune proposal of her father's curate, Margaret Auckland decides to strike out roots for herself in the more congenial atmosphere of London. Join- ing a friend occupied in the same pursuits, she leads a half- student, half-teacher's life, and is worshipped everywhere, on account of her beauty and superb voice. Happily, society recognises quickly the gifts of its members. A leading artist paints her portrait, and men and women are entranced by her singing. At the same time, we are told " she was con- tinually made to feel the smallness of her own attainments by the sight of real excellence in others, and all real excellence always called up her genuine admiration.' " If so, it was only an intellectual admiration that she gave, as the humility thus suggested appears nowhere in her conduct. This fascin- ating life, however, was not to continue. The strain of enjoying and making others enjoy breaks down her health, and she leaves town, to begin her real romance as a resident governess in the country. In this character her lot, fortunately, is different from the humdrum existence generally associated with gover- ness-life. Instead of studying so many hours of the day in a dull school-room, enlivened only by a daily walk in country lanes, Margaret finds in her governess-career fresh opportunities for conquest and admiration. Before many days are passed, she comes across, in one of the leading personages of the county circle, a man whom she has already made acquaintance with in London, and love-making begins in earnest. As a lover, Arthur Beauchamp is all that the most fastidious heroine need require, but, after an unsatisfactory kind of understanding between them, he takes his departure for foreign lands, leaving Margaret exposed to the fascination of his intimate friend, Walter Brink- mere, whose poetic but somewhat unprincipled affections are quickly carried captive by Margaret's beauty and singing. A futile struggle follows between honour and passion, which ends in his falling in love, after the adoring, engrossing manner that artistic natures are wont to affect with very beautiful young women. Here the author shows a delicacy of touch, as the reader is not told, but left to divine, the precise reasons that caused Margaret Auckland to be faithless to her absent lover, whose affection for her never wavered for an instant, although the obstacle to their immediate union still continued. Perhaps it was the physical beauty of Walter Brinkmere, perhaps it was the nameless charm that some women find in selfish, passionate devotion, which never will see the obstacles in its path, far less be hindered by them. A ball, some private meetings for the ostensible purpose of reading Arthur Beauchamp's letters, and the faithless young couple are engaged, with the old love and his trust thrown to the winds. In spite of growing remorse on the part of Margaret, the marriage is hastened on, and, after a very few weeks, she finds herself Lady Brinkmere, of Brinkmere Hall, and condemned to be the wife of a man who is too dilettante to do his duty as a country gentleman, but sufficiently alive to his treachery to his friend to make him an uncomfortable husband to the woman he has stolen. This takes us to the end of the first volume, which has been uniform and sustained, if not ex- citing, in its interest. Early in the second volume, Sir Walter dies, and Margaret returns, a widow, to her husband's country house. What follows it is not fair to tell. Whether the bloom is really off the peach, the reader must judge for himself.
Of the characters themselves, it is difficult to say much. The heroine is painted in high lights, and, in spite of her mistakes, leaves an impression that the author aims at drawing impossible and disagreeable perfection. The men are true to their type, but the type itself is not one that is interesting to study. There is nothing to discover about any one of them. There are no subtle lines to stimulate curiosity, and no contradictions to arouse analysis. All is told, and each character acts with that com- plete consistency which leaves nothing to the imagination of the reader. Want of imagination, and an entire absence of humour, are the chief faults of the book. The story has been well thought out, but there is such a sense of deliberation over the whole work as to suggest a determination on the part of its author to write a novel at any cost, while, at the same time,. we doubt if the writer has sufficient sympathy with suffering and broken lives to be able to accomplish the highest kind of imaginative work. The book, however, is good in its way. If novels are to be written by people who have no special gift for writing them, The Bloom of the Peach is a fair specimen of the work that will be produced. If it gives the impression of being written by the yard, the material at least is good, and the pat- tern inoffensive. If, however, these who have ready pens could be made to understand that novel-writing is not the one end of existence, clever and capable writers might not, as now, insist upon following, like a flock of sheep, in the tracks of those who have gone before them.
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