THE BOOKMAN

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 719, 19 July 1929, Page 16

THE BOOKMAN

Reviews Mj & NotesJjcj

An Anthology Of Asses [,.Written for The Hun.] SOME little while ago two earnest litterateurs sat upon a seat in a Buckinghamshire wood, discussing a heap of contributed script. They were solemnly assisting at the birth of a new quarterly, which was to burst upon the world as did “The Philistine” of the Roycrofters in America, or "The Germ” of the preRaphaelite brethren in England. It was to be the "dernier cri,” nothing modish or eccentric, but simply the last word in art and letters. So absorbed were they that they were unaware of a third party to the discussion, until an unmistakeable sound from the rear caused one of these adventurers to start back, and receive a hairy caress on the back of the neck. It was a Buckinghamshire donkey, and instantly started a train of literary associations. There are asses to be found in counties other than Buckinghamshire, and literary asses to boot. But Buckinghamshire is, par excellence, the county of the literary donkey. There is, of course, the famous Neddy encountered by Robert Louis Stevenson upon his memorable walk from Godstow to Tring, by way of Wendover and Great .Missenden. This journey was made. It will be remembered, upon an autumn •lay; and the account of It Is to be found in "Essays of Travel,” under the title "An Autumn Effect.” Robert Louis Stevenson has never written anything more redolent of England, or his view of that country. He seems ever to have had a soft place in his heart for what was to him a soft place. Stevenson found this Buckinghamshire donkey woefully entangled 1a his tether, and was so overcome with amusement that he feared lest »n old lady who happened that way might nurse doubts of his sanity. A page from "An Autumn Effect” Would certainly have a place in my anthology of the ass. One could conceive of such a little volume neatly bound in cloth boards, of a colour with Modestine's coat —a mouse grey, if my memory of “Travels With a Donkey in the Cevennes” serves me. There should be stamped upon the cover a medallion of the asshead with which Titania bedizened the Athenian clown. But before passing on to Modestine, we must dispose of the other Buckinghamshire donkey. It is not so far a cry from “An Autumn Effect” to "The New Jerusalem”; for Mr G. K. Chesterton has recently written a study of R.L.S. in which he manages to say something new of Tusitala. Mr Chesterton went to the Holy Land after the war, and his impressions open and close with affectionate references to his donkey, whom he bade farewell when he started upon his pilgrimage. Readers of the poem, "The Inn at the End of the World,” will not need to be told that Mr Ches terton is no house-proud man. Nevertheless, there is a little passage at the very end of "The New Jerusalem’ which is calculated to Induce a nos ralgia in the most hardened vagabond. After the kaleidoscope of furrin’ parts come the silent road amid the beeches of Burnham, the wash of the night air, and the voices of his dog and his donkey. . . . This passage would be placed opposite to the famous poem, too well known for quotation. It is called “The Donkey," and has been very effectively set to music. So much for the donkeys of Buckinghamshire.

The literary donkey is not unknown in Kent. It will be remembered how a herd of them browsed outside the house of David Copperfleld’s benefactress, and how she would make a sudden sally to chase them from her precincts. ... I am certain that George Borrow must have given us a Norfolk donkey, though I cannot recall a passage for my anthology at the moment. Modestine, of course, would occupy several pages. “Travels with a Donkey” shares with “The Inland Voyage” a distinction very difficult to define. These two little books alone might have established the author's reputation as “The Story of My Hear!” established the reputation of Richard Jefferies ... A page would be devoted the donkey in “Veronique.” He is the subject of the daintiest, most tuneful duet, sung in the original production by Miss Ruth Vincent and Mr Lawrence Rey. Mr and Mrs Frazer Gange sang it upon their recent New- Zealand tour. Lawrence Sterne, Cervantes, and the chronicler who tells us of Balaam would all be represented in my anthology. So, for that matter, would Saint Francis of Assisi. But I foresee problems of space arising, not only for my anthology, but also for the present sketch. . . . We must rigidly exclude Euclid and his pons asinorum. C. R. ALLEN. Dunedin.

YVETTE GUILBERT, FAMOUS DISEUSE WRITES MEMOIRS

XTVETTE GUILBERT, the woman ; who eventually became queenllof the music-hall stage of France, and a favourite diseuse in London, was hissed by her own countrymen when she first tried to persuade the world of her talent. This is one of the confessions she makes in her altogether delightful “Song of My Life,” which has just been published in London. No one can read this book without admiration for the courage which enabled a young girl to survive a poverty that often approached starvation. Yvette Guilbert’s father was the son of small Normandy farmers, and he had curious ideas of the responsibility of a husband:— My father had married my mother without a penny, and had obliged her to work from the first years of their marriage. . . As years went on their lives had split up: my father earned his own living, but my mother earned hers and mine, too, without fatliw ”- iributing a farthing. That a woman should be able to manage for iierst ,1 ..s also in my father’s creed. ■•Well.” what would you do if you were a widow?” my father would say. A chance meeting with Zidler, the manager of the Hippodrome, was Yvette's introduction to theatrical life. He wanted her to become a circus tuler. but she had other ideas, and

this kind man sent her a hundred francs with which to buy her makeup and clothes. Courage—a Virtue It was a long and a hard struggle. When Yvette asked Zidler when she would be able to earn a decent salary he said: In ten or fifteen years. In Paris success for w« -men is very slow. Have courage, my child. It’s a virtue, courage; but in the theatre one virtue has never been as useful as two vices. When Yvette Guilbert appeared in Lyons the whole hall hissed.. I tried to come back, but there was such a din that finally 4:he curtain had to be let down. Manager, artists, everyone, was in a panic. Yvette recalls the old days of the Empire, where she first appeared in London. How smart the audience was! How different it looked from the cafe-con-certs of the time. All the men and women in evening dress, and what an orchestra . . . what taste, what luxury in the ballet . . . what artistic dignity in the choice of programmes, what quiet elegance in production! . . . George Edwardes. the manager, man about town, lived like a lord, elegant in

speech, and in manners; Hitchins, distinguished, clever, well born, looked after the establishment with the manners of an aristocrat. Tennant, the least gentlemanly, something of a roisterer, saw to the promenade to make sure that the girls should be beautiful, smart, and decent in behaviour. Yvette and the Prince Yvette was summoned to Cannes to sing at a private party given by Mrs. Ogden Goelet, an American, whose guest was to be the Prince of "Wales, afterwards King Edward. She was asked to sing her ‘‘least risky songs.” The Prince, however, after he had listened to Mile. Guilbert’s songs for jeunes filles, whispered to his hostess, and then went to the singer and said, “Dear Mile. Guilbert, why don’t you let me hear your songs of the Montmartre? I have read so many articles about your way of interpreting the spirit of the Chat Noir.” When the Prince was told by Mile. Guilbert that she had been asked to sing only songs suitable for young girls he roared with laughter, and asked for the most Parisian items in her repertory. The epilogue of Yvette Guilbert’s book, dedicated to God, is the most remarkable of its kind which an autobiography has produced. In it the writer gives thanks not only for her wonderfully happy marriage, but for the disappointments and privations which taught her sympathy and gave her courage.