BOOKS and AUTHORS

Dominion, Volume 19, Issue 48, 20 November 1926, Page 27

BOOKS and AUTHORS

(By

“CHERSWUD.”)

Give a man a pipe he can smoke. Give a man a book he can read: And his home is bright with a calm delight Though the room be poor indeed. -JAMES THOMSON.

books of the day.

Sub Rosa. “Under the Rose,” by Anatole. France (John Lane, London; per Wliitcombe and Tombs). This volume is made up of scraps of unfinished writings by tins famous French author. One hardly knows how to view their publication in their present form, but it might be as well that those who are not yet familiar with the works of Anatole France should not make his acquaintance through this volume, lest they do not seek to read further of his writings. This last, not so much owing to the effect on the reader of what France has here . written (admittedly scrappy and unfinished, and much of which would have been considerably altered or entirely discarded had the author lived to prepare the same for publication), but to the combined effect of reading these incomplete statements, plus the often unwise and alwavs flatulent commentary supplied bv M. Michel Corday. 10. those familiar with Anatole France’s writings, the reading of these trifles, criticisms and opinions, no doubt will give pleasure, though tinged witn regret. It is a joy to watch the picture of a beautiful landscape grow on the canvas as the deft hand of the artist gives it form and colour. Even. so, one longs sometimes to get behind the scenes and watch the master-craftsman work. But these notes left incomplete impel one to recall the pleasure experienced when first one lead jus masterpieces. The dialogue is a style which Anatole France much affected. We get examples of his ability in this kind of writing in “The Garden of Epicurus,” “Pierre Noziere,” “My Friend’s' Book,” etc. Here we find a dialogue on metaphysics and the existence of God take up’ over a third of the volume, though this would Lave. been considerably shorter had the egotistical loquacity of his commentator been judiciously “subbed” bj’ the translator. The fragments of this dialogue, more than all else in the book, give the reader and student an intelligible idea of France’s thought and style. From these one sees that he spared. himself no labour in making his meaning, not only clear, but exact, while at the same time approximating as closely to perfection of style as the most scrupulous care, allied to genius, could achieve. From these notes we gather that, though over eighty years of age when he died, he was still planning new novels. One was to be named “The Cyclops,” after the style of “Penguin Island,” and another was to be based on Napoleon’s escape from Elba But the Anatole France of “Under the Rose” is not the goodnatured satirist of pre-war days. As has been written of him, the rvar, with its suffering, roused in him an angry compassion. The ditches of the period about patriotism and the misdeeds of the enemy exasperated him. “War is a crime,” he wrote, “for which victory brings no atonement.” He hated the war as a blind confused grappling of one mass of people with another. Contrary to the expressed conviction of most men, he held that “Civil war is not so detestable as war with a foreign foe. We at least know what we are fighting for.” This last, even in civil wars, is not always so. A hater of war, I,ie was no antimilitarist. The war was a time of bitter travail for him. Like many others, as was probably inevitable, he was misunderstood. Clemenceau said. “I admire him. But if he says a word too much I’ll have him arrested.” (Price, 10s.) “Stalky” Again and Others.

“Debits and Credits,” by Rudyard Kipling: (Macmillan, London; per Whitcombe and Tombs). If there is one sure sign that a writer has genius and not merely talent, it is surely that, having reached unto a high standard he should be able to maintain it. Some writers start out well, but subsequently are unable to attain unto the heights. Some of these deliberately turn aside to give the public “what it wants,” because it is easier done, success is more immediate if less lasting, and—that sordid cash nexus—it pays better. Kipling has occasionally written when he had been better resting and sung when he would have found silence golden; but these lapses have been at long intervals. In the prose part of this book we have the real Kipling—Kipling the romancer, Kipling the humorist. The master touch is everv bit as potent here as in anv of his former successes. And of the stories in this book it can be said that “the last of the bunch is the best of the bargain.” Indeed, I would say that “The Gardener” is equal to anything he has ever done in the’same line. The verses which are interspersed throughout the volume I read first, which was just as well, as a subsequent reading of the prose portion completely wiped out their disappointing effect. The poems, I found, with two exceptions, but weak echoes of the old-time bard I suppose Kinling himself was conscious of this when he chose his title, and intended that the latter part should cover these. (Price 10s.) The Eternal City.

“A Wanderer in Rome,” by E. V. Lucas (Methuen, London; per Ferguson and Osborn). Mr. Lucas is one of the most versatile of living authors. There is scarcely a literary form of expression which he has not only attempted, but in which he has succeeded. His “Wanderer” books are among his most successful, and deserved!}' so. We all know that “Rome was not built in a day,” and as “all roads lead to Rome,” and lest they lead us there eventually (a consummation devoutly wished, but gets no further with most of us), we have been taught that we must “do in Rome as the Romans do” —very discreet advice at any time, but now more than ever necessary, or Mussolini might have something to say concerning any want of conformity. Those, therefore, who “cannot conform,” had better make their visits by proxy, and I know no fitter proxy than R. V. Lucas’s new volume of the “Wanderer” series. Candidly, I do not think it as good as his "London” or his "Paris,” but it is an excellent book, nevertheless, and I know no book or. Rome so pleasantly informative, or so ramblingly impressionistic. The drawings and photographs with which the volume is illustrated are as usual excellent, (Price, 12s. 6d.)

LATEST FICTION From Messrs. Hodder and Stoughton, London. From this firm come eight books per Whitcombe and Tombs and Ferguson and Osborn. “The Law of the Talon;” by Louis Tracey. This writer is too good a master of plot and incident to turn out an uninteresting story, and this is a most interesting, not to say a thrilling tale. The Scots reader,

however, will feel aggrieved at Mr. Tracy’s presumption in making ms hero and villain Scotsmen, yet exhibiting in his story an unpardonable ignorance, under the circumstances, of Scots’ topography, Scots’ legal terminology, and Scots’ law! Why should ” l* ,e Oban Peerage” (sic) come before “the Probate Court, London”? lhe mere Sassenaclis and other heathens, unaware of these errors, will vote the story first-class. “Wolf,” by Albert P Terhune, would have delighted the heart of Dr. John Brown, author of “Rab and His Friends.” 'those who have read the same author’s "Buff: A Collie,” will buy “Wolf,” and those who have not must buy both if they would know the latest and best stories about that dog of dogs, which the Scots tell us “has the brains o’ a man an’ the. weys o’ a wumman.” “The Valley of the Stars,” by C. A. Seltzer. The hero in it goes west to take up a partnership in a ranch. An enthralling western cowboy story. 'lhe House of Secrets,” by S. Horler. A thriller, if ever there was one, and the hold it gets on the imagination shows the strength of the writer, or the weakness of the strongest reader. “Half a Sovereign,” by lan Hay. Captain Hay gives his story the subtitle “An Improbable Romance. It is; but there is nothing improbable about its depreciatory effect on Captain Hay’s literary reputation. “Cns,’ by John Ironside, is, as the jacket declares, “just the love story of a girl of to-day,” but it is a rattling good storv, too. “Go Bang, Garry,* by Guriby Hadath. The best one can say of this story is that it is by Gunby Hadath. The author is still a schoolboy at heart. That is why he understands so well and writes so convincingly of schoolboy life, “lhe Proper Place,” by 0. Douglas. To say I enjoyed this story is to be niggard of praise. Nicole is fine spun gold! And who that knows Pollokshields does not know Mrs. Jackson ? Indeed, Mrs. Jackson is one of the finest creations Miss Buchan’s pen has yet given us. But whoever heard a Scots mother say to her bairn, “I ken ye’rs”? And what does “tae’n” mean? There are many similar—all of which she may blame on the “comp.” But here is one for which she must accept the responsibility. Referring to the ruins of St. Andrew’s Cathedral, Alastair asked, “Who knocked it down?” Nicole said, “John Knox had it destroyed.” What a whid! A Scots woman, and a Free Kirk minister’s daughter at that; ought to know better. I’ll have a correction inserted at “The Proper Place” in my copy, for I could not “thole” to part with the book itself, otherwise . . . From Messrs. Hurst and Blackett.

Per Messrs. Ferguson and Osborn come the following novels: “The Acid Test,” by E. W. Savi. A young man who sees life as he thinks it ought to be, goes out to India, where he encounters its temptations and risks, and gets mixed up in its social intrigues. Another man’s wife becomes enamoured of him. He remains true to his ideals. “Cupboard Love,” by Stanley Wrench. There are such women as Marah Durknall, and life for others is often as hard. ■ We all know such cases, and though it shows its author has some genius, this book is not a pleasant one. “Torn Sails,” by Rachel MacNamara. Her parents being divorced, Deb Mallory goes to India disillusioned. Her companion is a designing woman who woos voting men to her net Deb meets some of these, and one of them acts in such a way as to renew her faith in man. The rest can be guessed. “Nuts in the Husk,” by C. M.

Matheson. This book will considerably enhance the reputation of the author of “Children of the Desolate.” It is written with force and distinction. “Dulearnan,” by H M. Rideout. A story of treasure hunt. Begins in Provence and travels through Indian gaols, up swampy rivers, beneath old palaces ; nd finds its climax in a situation that would thrill the most blase reader of “shockers.” From Messrs. Methuen, London. “Dangerous Bonds,” by Lady Troubridge. The heroine lives a shallow life and apes to be very modern. Physical attraction between her and «cnnis leads to marriage. He grows jealous, and they all but make a mess of their lives; but both get wise in time, and all is better than well. “The Wrong Letter,” by W. S. Masterman. A detective story, which, log-rolled by G. K. Chesterton, who writes the preface to the volume, ran into a second edition within a month after publication. G.K.C. says: “This story deceived me.” But then, Chesterton is so credulous. Nevertheless, this is a good storybetter than many of the same type. “Growing Up,” by M. H. Walsby. This story is real to the reader. Giles, the husband of Gerry, is a good, sensible fellow, and Gerry, the Parisian heroine, wayward, erratic, unconventional, adventurous, is a bit of the real stuff. “The Dark Places,” by Percival Gibbon. If you do not like sombre stories you may buy this book, but you need not read it. Verily, the author takes his readers through “dark places.” There are six stories, and the further one gets into the book the more intense does the darkness become. There is no gainsaying the eerie power of Mr. Gibbon. Ugh! “The House of Far Distances,” by Florence Drummond. What a relief to turn from the “dark places” described in the above book, to this quiet room where one can look—with the mind's-eye—out over the Firth of Forth, while listening to Miss Drummond tell her story. It is an invalid’s story of confinement to her room, a single room in a house, a house that is but one in a row, but the touch of genius makes it bright for us, as the seeing eye and understanding heart show us pictures of the outside world we had previously passed uuseeing, and interpret for us their message and mystery. Miss Drummond is the spiritual successor of “The Roadmender.” This is a book for all those who know, or would know, the great gain of drawing themselves apart into a quiet place to rest awhile, to read without hurry, to read and muse, and muse and read. One rises from it feeling that his spirit hath bathed in living water. Miss Drummond belongs to the elect! (Per Wliitcombe and Tombs.) From Messrs, Hutchinson, London. Four new novels come from this firm (per Wliitcombe and Tombs), “The Temple Murder,” bv H. M. Richardson. Of the making of murder mystery romances there is no end, and from this most incredible, cleverly-con-ceived, and artfully-told tale, it would seem neither is there an end to human ingenuity. “Valiant Heart,” by John Hugh Regan. Canadian ranch life in the days when it needed strong wills as well as strong arms to go out back and stick it. The valiant heart is found in a deformed lumberman, who, in the nick of time, saves his boss’s daughter from the evil designs of her stepmother. He marries her, but it must remain a marriage in name only. The hero “goes out” during a storm. Though it is believed to be an accident,, it is his own doing, for lie knows his wife—wife in. name only—loves another. “Moonflower,” by Margaret Peterson. I alwavs thought the vampire woman a vile wretch, but the picture Mrs. Lister draws of her convinces me that that ladv could add to the blackness of his Satanic majesty. Mrs. Lister’s pictures of Africa are good, and she brings the tale to a telling conclusion, but she lias done better —and will do better. “What Should a Man Do,” by Horace Hutchinson. Another murder mystery. But

what a man should do when he discovers the real criminal, under the circumstances built round the crime by Mr. Hutchinson, the reader must decide for himself, for Horace doesn’t “split.”

From Messrs. Jenkins, London. “The Wrong Number,” by Peter Luck. A woman in distress rings up a friend on the ’phone. She is given the wrong number; nevertheless, the man who gets her message goes to her assistance, and is plunged headlong into a series of startling adventures, and, finally, wins love and happiness. “The Unforbidden Sin,” by Roy Vickers. A tale of boodle and blackmail, murder and mystery. A London lawyer is too proud to live on his wife’s newly-inherited fortune, he wishing td work, while she desires to play milady. Then the trouble, begins—and it is some trouble. (These per Wliitcombe and Tombs). “The Lady of Lebanon,” by Pierre Benoit. A romance of Syria, in winch a French officer and a British officer, once broth-ers-in-arms on the Western front, are now in opposing camps, each, in his country’s interest, trying to get the better of the other. How they both do their duty is worked into a very engaging novel. Also to hand, copies of the 3s. 6d. editions of “The Perfect Alibi,” by John Lawrence, and “Manchester Royal,” by J. S. Fletcher, both excellent stories. From Messrs. Cornstalk Company, Sydney. , “Jacob Ussher,” by Naomi Jacob. Here is a storv out of a hundred. One you can read'with enjoyment; then, instead of parting with it, lay it on your bookshelf, for some day you 11 want it again. “The Blue Castle,” bv L M. Montgomery. The author of “ Anne of the Green Gables” and others of the well-known “Anne” series, never used her pen to better effect. Other books from the same company which will make acceptable gifts to young people during the coming festive season are “Sally Warner,” by Florence M. Irbv; “Breakers in the Bush,” by Leigh Bell, and “The Valley of Adventure, bv E. V. Timms, all of which come per Angus and Robertson, Sydney.

What Shall We Give? “Laurie’s Cyclopaedia of Gifts, compiled and edited with notes by Niya Becke, who, by the way, is. a daughter of the late George Louis Becke, the well-known author of “By Reef and Palm” and other popular South Sea stories. This catalogue of useful and ornamental articles is supposed to be of help to anyone about to give a birthdav, marriage', Christmas, New Year, or other present. There are over 2000 carefully selected collected suggestions of presents suited to all purposes, to all persons, and, what is most important, to all purses. (Price 2s. 6d.)

The New Shadowgraph. “Cut-Outs: The Shadow Picture Book,” bv G. F. Scotson-Clark (T. Werner Laurie. London, per Ferguson and Osborn), provides a new and novel amusement for children. The book is made up of twenty-four pictures in black and white of well-known characters, from Charlie Chaplin to Father Christmas, not forgetting Lloyd George and Peter Pan. The drawings are so arranged that when the black portions are cut out one can, with the aid of a light, produce either upon a sheet or upon a wall an excellent representation of the persons caricatured. (Price 55.) “Alison Vail,” by Elizabeth Newport Hepburn (per Wliitcombe and Tombs). What an amount of artists there must be in the United States! Not that the picture dealers are flooded with “American Masterpieces,” but judging from the number of characters in American novels whose occupation, or rather “profession,” is “Art.” In this story, hero, heroine and several other. characters are artists. But the heroine is a lovable heroine, and there are love, doubt, jealousy, cross-purposes and all the other paraphernalia of the novelist —all so old, but, as told and manoeuvred in these pages, ever new and very fascinating.