NOTABLE NEW NOVELS.

Press, Volume LXIII, Issue 19150, 5 November 1927, Page 17

NOTABLE NEW NOVELS.

Gallions Roach.—By H. M. Tomiinson. We are all by this time well and glad- j ly aware that Mr Tomiinson deserves to I bo called an Elizabethan, partly because lie ventures into places lovely, ! strange, and terrible, with unßtaled eyes, undulled ears, and an unbroken imagination, and partly beoauso his impassioned roport of these wrings new wine from the overtrodden grapes of language to communicate the excitement of his original impressions. But, unlike an Elizabethan, ho is too chivalrous and gentle, for all his courage, to ravish from thoso marvellous shores anything but intangible plunder of pity, terror, mirth, fine friendship, and such faery spoil of clear-coloured iuiagos as makes it seem still something of a privilege to linger on such an inexhaustible Earth. And what gives the greater validity to this brightly minted speech of his is the fact that he is no bigot in his sense of beauty and no runaway from the mingled wrong and sweetness of his native land. He knows how the hard radiant morning breaks cruelly over a desolate pithead as well as how ineffable colours may solidify into an island in seas of spice; and London Kiver can still amaze one Who has passod through jungle-alleys on the Amazon. Also he is not kip to those lusty literary pretenders to n mimic adventure and a theatrical Open Boad who scoff at things of art as if they were not even more deeply rooted in nature than the transient daffodils. All fair shapes are safe with a lover of tho Pleiades, So, in this brave and "beautiful book, where the indifferent waves, "their glassy inclines fretted with lesser waves and hurrying cornices," wash down .the struggling ship and quiet captain, the pale, ethereal jade bowl in the Chinese house at Penang can be a refinement of spiritual experience for the young man who has harcjly survived those dominant purges crested with death; and the glaze on a previous porcelain betrays the temper of humanity as well as the on a sailor's oath. But it is this temper of humanity that is the author's chief concern, whether it stands isolate among seas and jungles, or be pourod in crowds through London and Rangoon. The quality of Mr Tomiinson |s imaginative substance, the fierce and tender patterns of his romantic realism, the sleights and surprises of his style of exquisite exactitude, h,,T,ve beaome familiar from books like "Gifts of Fortune" and "Sea and Jungle." It was certain that, when he chose to'write a novel, none of these gifts would be lost. We were assured of experiences intimate, agonising, overwhelming, o4dly clarifying in the end, like the impressions that come through a long convalescence. We waited for the outlines of far-bound ships, and fragrances from sinister and enchanting lands where civilisations have perished to feed the jungle and complicate the orchid; and confidently expected the communication of primeval fear, and enduring courage, a profound compassion, and a bright anger against all oppressors. But miuds caxelcss of easy comparisons heeded no phrase about an ?'English Conrad." Both writers are versed in the incalculable ways of the sea, and N tho high hard wsys .of chivalry; and there the likeness ends, Not here the sombre atmosphere, heavy with fatalism, brooding mightily oyer some predestined and aristocratic souls! For all the disaster and failure in this chronicle, it is steeped in a great luminosity, in the light of morning before the daisies are awake, qr ithe light of eventide and peace that is the sole and sufficient reward of.endurance to the end.

I daresay that those that analyse the construction of novels may decjde that "Gallions Beach**, has faults in its deyplqpmentj Doubtless, i qr instance, considering its. scale, the story is, tpp leisurely in its beginning, though, it wpuld be h,ard l;o parf; with Jimmy's wa_lk to thei British and! his illuminations ampng it ß s°ves am A 89<\ B ' Indeed, it has, birt a pfcturesque pjqt,,-1 suppose, for Jnqmy, having casually knopked in thp grpgg red faqe of Injus? tice, as personified in Mr Perriam, merely follows the felicitous, gestures of Chance. (Or is it Chance! The delir cate image of Euan-Yin decides his way.) This is a lyrical novel, the Odyssey of a spirit realising, its own qualr ities by fine responses to perils "and seductions on sea and land.' Probably there is material here for at least two books —a. npblp fault ;n these cf a yp thin and crackling tales pf negligible people wJip }tf {'l"dare not" wait iippn "I wpiild," The story pf Jim'B, reception intq Jfcp courtesy aiuj comity pf the '(Altair," thj? voyage of that doomed ship, and her heart-moving end in the wild, Indian spss, with ske sequel of the anguished survivors in. the boats, seems almost,enough for the consciousness. But a new adventure begins in Kangoon and Penang; an 4 after thp suffering and exaltation of the sea comes the more fantastic suffering and exaltation of the jungle. Per? sonaßy, I would not miss a single epir sode. The only thing which does not convince me is Jjni's final wish to lay the ghost of Perriam. The Perriams of this world cannot possibly have a ghost; they §re altogether subdued to jafittal-j ity.

? f (3alliqns Beach" may be an imperfect novel; but it is a gallant and love: ly bpok, thronged with figures that are all printed on yqur eyes, and that near T ly all make some attack on your heart. The sityle is as pure and rich as a great aquamarine and as penetrating as a dagger. To read it is to find pnp's. worldly experience irradiated, one's sympathips, quickened and wfdened, and pjip's philosophy stirred by thp symbolic image qf an insubstantial ship tljat after unimaginable fortitudes makes a landfall qf Hesperidpan jsleg.-dßachel Annand Taylor. .

Our Mr Dormer.—By K. H. Mottram. No two ideag have suffered sq diverser ly from the changes of thin century as those of Space and Time; the one has dwindled and pined aneeinically b«: neath the qnrush of commercial enterprise and standardised civilisation, while •the other has purred and battened on a never failing cataract of hours and days. Never has that slow and steady appetite and that lethargic digestion so stimulated and baffled their victims, and the mind of authors seems to remain fascinated in their contemplation like the kid before the python by which ultiniatcly it will be absorbed. It is unlikely tftat tye mystery of time will ever be more clearly stated £han by CEdipus and Ajax; but in an age when so many of the spiritual forces presumed to be stronger than man have been discounted by man himself, the passage of time, the mosj; personal and the most perceptible of all those inhuman processes, alone remains to hold his wonder and respect. Time passes; it is a fact without a moral; yet its passing is a reality worthy of epic cycles and family Bagas, of a few lyric pages in **To the Lighthouse" and as many volumes in "A la Becherche." "Our Mr Dormer" belongs to tjiese romances of the hour-glass; any such study of time requires a keen and painstaking observation, and something more than this is necessary where the story concerns the rise to fortune of a pro r vincial family in a provincial J>ank. Dormer is the bead clerk of a small Quaker firm in Bast Anglia at the time of Napoleon. 'He shoots a .highwayman undramaticaHy, and gradually becomes

the most important figure at the bank; his son is more of a gentleman and less of a character, and his grandson a florid product of easy prosperity and imperialism. The last of the Poxmers is, a girl who sees the firm through the war? and the book ends, with the bank, now amalgamated with one in London, being expensively rebuilt, and the portrait of Mr Dormer, which has. remained as a silent commentary on the WfcHs, js removed to a museum. The desire of human beings, tp become something more has been fulfilled. Mr Dormer is no, longer Mr Dormer nor the Bank Doughty's Hand, Although the story of the bank is npt a chronicle of wasted time, but one of undimmed prosperity, the journey of thp Dormer family down the t>rqad river of the Victorian age is a gentle declension from tho integrity of their Quaker founder. Yet they do not deteriorate so much as adapt themselves to a more and more exacting age. "Our Mr Dormer" is. impressive through the simplic-' ity of the hero's outlook, rather than its value; he has the unity which is lent by bias and desired in vain by his successors, The book is a criticism of the Vic.tqrian era rather than a study of human affairs.-, This is what makes it interesting, for the developments in standards of life or. of banking are Worked put with, a fine regularity which differentiates the forties from the six-, ties as clearly as the eighties frpm the present day. The dull subject is redeemed by observation, a subdued grace of styie, and a glow Pf diffused patriotism that jmakes pne warm tp the solid distinction of this vanishing England and the probity and Bense that developed the English cheque, that miraculous testimonial of man's faith ?P man.' Never was security "sp spacious npr comfort so in harmony with the soil as in these warm and well-staffed houses in the years of long credits and largo, hams. This belief; in the last century ig the pnly comnipn factor to these three bopksjthe first two. ignore modernity as far as possible, while Theophilus goes out of his way to quote Tennyson and. deplore Jfegenj; Street- There from tflem all a. devotion t° the pasi which suggests that we may witness a fine Her'eward revival of inspiration as' liter- J atnrf makes % last staqd; against the drain of Jewish-American civifisa- j tion on its wild unprofitable fens. "Our Mr Dormer" is a reminder tnat we originated this materialism, and that as it was from. Victorian prosperity: that it was hegotten, so it is Victflri4n?ata.teliness that it w\\\ destroy. Thu is the lnorai of Mr Mottram's hovel and it is j confirmed by Mr Tpmlinspn's attempt tp | wring romance from the cooling surface i of th.e Statesman."' !

The Bride's Prelude.-By Mw Alfred

of uj who, Ijaye pixticififttftl ty the sardpgio chjefrje sp contagiously overheard in Mrs Alfred Sidgwick's chronicles on the minor exasperations of life, and relished her bland exposure of *M? way? of tlifl grptegqim human hear); seeing its own. comf qrt, w$ pe aUgMlr start}ed at hgr use of a Rpsgettian recalling the heaviest noontide in poetry and faint syllables of shame and fear •frflßPiflg ha}f-audßbly through the stil{ air frpm th# Jips qf the silyer-hjclden bride. Yet ' "Thp Bride's Brelude" does disclose in mpderp way a , similar siljuati'9P~JH?4 ? worse, Mrs. cpqld not write, a lifeless bppk; anq", if she committed herself wholeheartedly to the domain of tragic psyohplpgy, she ■would pfqbabjy succeed in a new man; ner. But, after creating the tragic situation here, she either has a sudden distaste for the blind dark motions of mortal desire, recognised fpr one wrecking moment, or ejse she is bored by the melodramatic pf her plpf (blackmailing butlers and so on); and her lively mind leaves Cr9ssida," to glance about the more absurd minor figures of her drama in its blithe wicked way. But warp leff biapldy £sr wildered by that Cressida, who remains incomprehensible. She may have been. ; spoilt, she may have some "tempera:' ment," she may hayp listened too muchj to the wild Miss Brown from Bohe- i mia, may have been dazed by the j thunder, a little wine, and propinquity, j Unless she were as wanton as her name- j sake, she could hot have surrendered | herself to Colin, who has, she knows, j only a physical spell for her, the night before she meets her bridpgrqpm, whom she does love. She is not supposed to be wanton; we are required to syqipa: thise with her, to greet her kindly'when she reappears after h,er hpneymqpn (dping which we have been much, amused by Sandy) as a devoted wife and a perfect lady. People do extraordinary things in moments of amazement in a novel we must be convinced, and h«re Mrs Sidgwiek won't take the'trouble to convince. AH the humorous side-play in the Cornish scene is s-kindle with, gay malice; Cressida's suicidal moment is unreal boside any tea party at' Mrs Cqttqn/s. Mr and Miss Gilfoy are Ipvr able figures. But there is a laek of cohesionJ Comedy may wait on tragedy: some undertone must sound a muted comprehension. Impossible situations, may be suiqqihed away by the I\W»W disinclinatipn to confront a truth would cause disruption; yet insane actions have their subterranean sequels, and if seems as if the «ns»os h*d ignored f>°,me difficulties. HpwWer, if there be occasional confusion between accidentals and essentials, the comedy sparkles and dullness shadows no page o? tha hook.—«sse Spectatq-r,''