THE BOOKMAN

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 879, 24 January 1930, Page 14

THE BOOKMAN

Ea ISotes|pj

T. S. ELIOT

I'he Poet Of Disillusion l Written for The Sun. J Rising in popularity, the AngloAmerican port, T. S. Lliot , is nous regarded by many critics as the foremost of the exclusively modern poets. ,t New Zealander living abroad gives his impression of the man in the following article. THERE -was a surprise tor me v.hen I met T. S Eliot. I expected to see a "shrewdie” in a hard-hitter hat and hear a hard hitter American accent. In fact, I expected him to look more like a punter than a poet. This idea was the combined result of his verse and of the signed photo in Miss Beach’s famous shop ("Shakespeare and Co.”) at Paris. Instead, he turned out to be a very pleasant-looking young man. quite devoid of that "shrewdie” look so characteristic of our great epoch lit really is a shrewd epoch) and he spoke the purest and most beautiful English. I kept thinking: So this is he who wrote: This Is the wav Lie world ends this is the way tho world ends this Is the w-ay the world ends this la the way the world ends not with a hang but with a whimper. What I said aloud was: My word, M r Eliot, you’re a surprise after those hard-bciled followers of yours over in Paris. Tes, he said, disowning his disciples. f never mix with those people when I’m over there. I said: It annoys me horribly, the hard-boiled

look on all those literary people in Paris. I think a poet ought to be more interesting than his own works. T. S. Eliot quite definitely disowned all his hard-boiled followers—those people who think “The Waste-land” has cancelled Shakespeare. And on the point I had. raised he said sadly: Yes, a poet’s works are usually even less interesting than he is himself. This I thought was carrying the "this is the way the world ends” touch too far, and said so; and thought to myself that arter meeting this man with that sad, spiritual, kindly face, one would indeed re-read the “Waste-land” with great interest. For 1 really believe his feeling of disillusion is genuine. During the course of the conversation I said that when I first came to England I was a whole-hearted sup porter of Humbert Wolfe and all that he stood for in the realm of verse. One was born so innocent In New Zealand! But that after my "education.” as I call it. at Paris, I had said to Humbert Wolfe himself a propos of “Monologues and Dialogues,” that I could no more endorse “the slow majesty of the swerving gull” than 1 could "not with a hang but with a whimper.*’ T had. in fact, said to Humbert Wolfe that I thought the former line quite "over the edge.** Sc that I now found myself alone, detached from either school. T. S. Eliot smiled at my frank Te fusal to subscribe to his verse, and said that I should soon “find myself.” One was born innocent in the Middle West, too. It took him, he said, twenty years to find himself. I understood him to infer that the Middle West and New Zealand were similar in their middle-class crudeness, so I asked whether the American cities were Teally as pictured by Sinclair Lewis and as seen in the movies. “Yes.” he said, “it's a pretty fair picture.” “Well in that case.” I said, "even the worst New Zealand town Is nowhere near as bad.” "No,” he said, "from the New Zealanders I have met I shouldn't imagine it to be so bad.” I wanted to know how it came about that he spoke such pure English, with such an English accent. After all I myself am still conscious of a trace of New Zealand in my voice. "Well I’ve been here a long time, you know. It's fifteen years now I have lived in England.” No. that wouldn’t account for it. I said. "Were you educated at one of the great American universities?” “Yes, at Harvard. And then New England people speak good English. I come from New England." Then he asked if I were a university man, a point I had hardly ever thought of as bearing directly on poetry, though Indeed it does. This gave me a chance for singing the praises of Canterbury College, and saying how much more university-like it is than, say. the Sorbonno at Paris. I told him that when I was at college I had never sat for exams. At such a disgraceful neglect of the opportunities or learning. T. S. Eliot appeared rather disgusted. Universities however. like churches, are wonderful places if not taken too seriously. J think these American artists, conscious of some barbarity in their race, cannot help setting up European Culture as a little green-eyed god. Whereas to us, whose birthright ii Bngland and ail her wonder (and for me personally Poland as well! there isn’t ruch a need to grovel in the dirt before a mere university. We are the university—we are England. T. S. Eliot was good enough to ask me to let him see some of my own work, so I offered to leave the typescript of my book "Surprising Songs," for which Humbert Wolfe has just written a preface. “It isn’t In the least like your own work, you know. However it was written over a period of two years, and so as not to get the impression that I am a complete reactionary, you should read the last

poems first. Some of the earlier ones are poems of a type I shall never write again.” "As a matter of fact,” he said, "when I read an MS. of verse, I always do begin at the end.” During the whole time that I was with this curious man of letters, this songster of a disappointed age, I could hardly get him to talk about himself. If I were an ordinary journalist, I should praise his modesty; but L don’t believe in modesty at all. It is a virtue tor serrs, quite unworthy ot a great artist or a great aristocrat. Most of the conversation was about myself and New Zealand, a place which evokes astonishing interest in ail quarters. I believe people think ot New Zealand as a sort of terrestrial heaven. All else has failed, except New Zealand. And as a matter of fact I do very little to destroy this conception. GEOFFREY DE MONTALK. Terespol Palace, Lithuania.

The Faggot —

A Bookman’s Bundle FRANK comment on "The London Aphrodite” a literary magazine edited in London by Jack Lindsay, a son of the Australian artist Norman Lindsay, is made in a review in the "Observer.” The magazine was limited to six issues, the editor holding that no literary magazine could keep its punch over a longer period. It has now been issued in a single volume, and this is what the “Observer” reviewer says: “There is distinguished work in its pages, but most of them are mere safety valves for a chaotic adolescence, which is generally raw, occasionally ingenuous, and at times portentous, trumpet-tongued.” _ * * * On a population basis the sales of “AH Quiet on the Western Front" in Australia and New Zealand stand second highest in the world. Germany leads the way. The total distributed in Australia and New Zealand was 60,000. The novel has now been translated Into 18 languages. * * * ‘Hear your favourite author speaking” is how an English gramophone introduces a line of records it produced recently. A set of 12 records has been made, and in it 12 different authors give readings from their work. Those on the list include A. A. Milne, W. W. Jacobs, Temple Thurston, A. E. W. Mason, Rose Macaulay, Alfred Noyes, Hugh Walpole and Rebecca West. The wonder is that the idea has not appealed to the record-makers long before this. * * i. There have been no roses all the way for A. S. M. Hutchinson, so far as the reviews of “The Uncertain Trumpet,” his latest novel, are concerned. It is the first breaking of a long silence, and, so far as the “New Statesman’s” view Is concerned, the silence may just as well not have been broken. First of all, the reviewer confesses that he was not able to read the book through, and therefore disqualified himself from making observations about the plot. Then he goe3 on to the general comments. “The book,” he writes, “reminds me of nothing so much as a bed of lettuces that have gone to seed. The lettuce is an agreeable vegetable at the proper time of Its growth. But If it is allowed to go on growing beyond the proper time, It blossoms out Into a large, ungainly, and perfectly useless shape. Of course, lettuces cannot, correct their faults: perhaps Mr Hutchinson can correct his.”

Books Reviewed

ONE FINE DAY., IRELAND'S literary censors Will be hard put to it to decide just what should be done about “The House of Gold," the latest novel from the pen of Liam O’Flaherty, the most distinguished of the country’s younger writers. It Is a savage book, uncompromisingly anti-clerical, but great art despite the exaggerations which make it so violently propagandist. A fine picture is given of life in an Irish country town, a town which is dominated by the repulsive figure of a usurer grasping as Shylock, and free as Shylock of all human grace. Ramon Mor Costello is the ruler of what Is virtually a feudal community. He provides it with all the goods It needs, charging what he likes for necessaries, and giving as little as possible in return for the goods that are sold to him. The book opens with a description of the seduction of Costello’s wife Nora by Francis O’Neill, a wastrel rebel with a smooth tongue In his head. All subsequent action takes place during the following day. Nora and her lover plan to meet on the cliff-top the following evening, but the tragedies of the day keep them apart for ever. In the short span of daylight Nora loses her honour to a priest; there is a highway robbery; Costello dies; and there is a fine Irish riot in the town of Barra. O’Flaherty has certainly written a great novel, and in it there is some excellent character drawing, and the slightly exaggerated figure of Costello dominates the scene. His financial rapacity and uncontrollable desire for power make him a remarkable character. Nora is well drawn, too, but the finest study of all is that of Costello’s old harridan of a mother. The book is graced with some, fine passages ot prose. "The House of Goid.” Liam O’Flaherty. Cape. Our copy from the publishers. Robert Falcon Scott

■ROBERT FALCON SCOTT is still a name to conjure with. This gallant Englishman stirred the Empire and captured British imagination more than any individual figure in contemporary history. In the latest Scott biography Stephen Gwynn writes: “His failure, in so far as there was failure, only set the seal on his fame . . . he made England feel that heroic deeds were none the less heroic because the heroes brought back no spoils of victory.” Many letters hitherto unavailable to biographers have been produced for Mr. Gwynn. who has approached the subject of his monograph with enthusiasm and has given us a portrait of

Captain Scott that brings this splendid man still closer to us. Scott provides one of the finest examples of what can be accomplished by rigid self-discipline, and Mr. Gwynn traces the evolution of the man from his early days as a naval cadet to his maturity when carrying heavy burdens of responsibility iu relation to his mother—his devotion to her was a very beautiful thing—and to his sisters, he faced life with unflinching courage. Mr. Gwynn has selected letters which tell of mishaps at sea, of red tape, choleric admirals and the interesting events of a naval officer’s life; letters that show Scott as an organiser; a man of business, a lover, a sensitive soul to whom suffering in others was unbearable, and as a Stoic. Here, too, are letters which show his hesitancy to ask the future Lady Scott (then Miss Kathleen Bruce) to share his rather doubtful fortunes, and hi 3 diffidence as to his ability to please this brilliant woman. In one note he writes: Do you realise that you will have to change me, infuse something of the joyous pure spirit within you? A year or two hence it would have been too late. I should have been too set to admit the principle of change. It is something that I acknowledge my shortcomings . . . I’ll just do something with my life yet because there’ll be a little lady supremely interested. And what he did the world knows! This most interesting volume belongs to the Golden Hind series dealing with the great seafarers and explorers. It is admirably produced and illustrated. No New Zealander who treasures “Antarcticana” should fail to secure this volume. “Captain Scott.” Golden Hind Series. John Lane, the Eodley Head, Ltd., London. Our copy from the publishers direct. The Professor's Holiday The ability to write a book following a holiday tour abroad is not possessed by many persons, and perhaps it is just as well, for most of them would deal with the peculiarities of hotel porters and head waiters, and would be filled with illustrations of hotel fagades, each with a window significantly marked with an “X.” Professor Arnold Wall, of Canterbury College, is one of the exceptions. He wrote “A Run Off the Chain,” following a visit to Europe, and a breezy and informative little book it proves to be, with travel notes on Ceylon, Italy, Scotland, Norway and England; not the usual trite observations, but penetrating little notes giving one something of the author’s incisive and independent viewpoint on many subjects. Professor Wall is particularly interested in nature study, and although his Chair is that of Literature he has written much on the flora of New Zealand. A particularly interesting chapter In his latest book is devoted to the Scilly Islands, and the Scillonians who take pride in living upon the “remnant” of the lost land of Lyonesse. Many New Zealand trees are to be found flourishing in the Scillies and North Islanders “will recognise with a thrill the noble pohutulcawas which here grow to a great size, bloom and seed freely, and make quite a characteristic feature of the Islands.” It is impossible to resist the temptation to tell a Professor of Literature that some one has spelt camellia “camelia” on page 12 of his book. Still, In the popular parlance of the day: “What’s a missing T’ among good friends?” This is a refreshing little book. A portrait of the author from a pastel by Mrs. Elizabeth Wallwork, of Christchurch, provides a frontispiece. “A Run Off the Chain.” Whitcombe and Tombs, Ltd., Christchurch. Our copy from the publishers. “Edward P.” “The only criticism heard against the Prince of Wales,” says Lady Evelyn Graham in her biography “Edward P.,” “is that he is still a young man and therefore has the Irresponsibility of youth. That myth, as

we have seen, has no foundation and should be at once destroyed. The Prince of Wales is between the thirties and forties . . .” Lady Evelyn uses that statement to drive home what we ail know; that the Prince of Wales is a manly fellow who is not afraid to tackle a man-sized job, whatever its nature, and make a success of it. We all have our moments of secret ambition when, in a futile way, we devote a little thought to the success we might make of a governor-generalship or, if the inclination does not soar quite so high, we may speculate how we would look in a commissionaire’s uniform! But there are few who

would envy the Prince of Wales his exacting, arduous role nor flatter themselves that, even for 24 hours, they could fill it with one-eightietli of the triumphant ability of Edward P. One of the greatest trials of the Prince's position must be the biographer, or the journalist for that matter, who pries all sorts of strange incidents from the Royal childhood—apocryphal and otherwise—and ruthlessly presents them —amusing and otherwise —to the public gaze. Lady Evelyn Graham is a biographer of royalty. She has had many opportunities of studying her “quarry” at close quarters, and it must be said for her that she has done her work in a thorough manner and, of course, with the circumspection necessary in dealing with a royal personage still alive —and one so much alive as the Prince of Wales. The book contains many portraits of the Prince ranging from the days of his historic investiture at Caernarvon to a recent distinguished portrait of H.R.H. as Colonel-in-Chief of the Welsh Guards. “Edward P.” Ward, Lock and Co., London and Melbourne. Our copy from the publishers direct. Thistledown “Leaders.” The leading articles in “The Times” need no introduction and no recommendation. They are an institution throughout the Empire, and whether they declaim pontifically upon politics, or tell of the wonders of Irrigation from the Irawadi, they are models of dignified leader-writing. But those who read “The Times,” and not merely the excerpts that are cabled every so often, know to their great joy that at the end of the series of leading articles is always one of lighter quality, that makes the most fascinating reading. There are several types of English humour. There is the smaek-and-tickle variety of vaudeville; the Roast-Beef-of-Old-England kind, which has as its supreme example the slip on the banana peel; and the cultivated, suave humour that finds more brilliant exponents in England than in any other land. To this brilliant band—the Attic Salt School —belongs the man (or men) responsible for those wonderful light leaders in “The Times.” The enterprising Methuen firm has made a selection of these, and “Light and Leading” is the result, containing close on 100 diverting fragments, which range from thistledown comment on topical events to the most delicious nonsense, that is all the more delicious for being featured in a paper with so serious a tone as “The Times.” Literary snacks, the publisher calls them, and they are certainly epicurean fare. Unfortunately honour cannot be given to the author personally, as the anonymity of “The Times” staff is preserved even here. "Light and Leading,” Methuen and Co., Ltd., London. Our copy from the publishers direct. Historic Buildings Citizens of Christchurch are justly proud of the Provincial Council Chambers—steeped in Canterbury history—and the building is generally admitted to be among the finest specimens of architecture in the Southern Hemisphere, yet few have more than the most casual knowledge of the building. Thanks to the industry of Mr. E. H. R. Taylor, M.A., an adequate guide-book has been provided. Mr. Taylor, who is librarian to the Agriculture Department in Wellington, has been extraordinarily thorough in his research, and his book, in addition to giving a detailed description of the building, summarises in an apt, informative fashion, the history and significance of Gothic architecture. An interesting few pages are devoted to an explanation of the symbolism of the roof decorations. Then again, the study is completed by brief biographical sketches of the men who laboured to make the building what it now is. Mr. Taylor has produced a most interesting booklet. PUBLICATIONS RECEIVED “The Month” —January issue. Containing articles on H.H. the Pope’s fifty years of priesthood, “The Soul of Downside'* (by Charles Cunningham), the martyr-priests of England, the appeal of Lourdes, the heroic workers on Mokogai—and “On History/* by Hilaire Belloc. ANSWER TO CORRESPONDENT “Parnell.*' —Thomas Morton was an English dramatist born in Durham in 1764. He was the author of a number of comedies and farces which had a great popularity in his day. His dramas, “Town and Country” and “A Roland For An Oliver,” still retain their place on the stage. Morton died in 1838. Poets* Corner ANON (Written for THE SUN ) They’ve said so much of Helen, telling this and that of those who came to her, as if no maid was loved save Helen in all the towns and years that dream with her. Yet many times the night has heard two voices, and young love’s waking has been made a song, though time’s not spared his name nor her’s for all our seeking. So this I make for you, not fearing whether years are kind or harsh to it, if that, knowing not you nor I, nor caring, one woman find her lover’s voice in it. — C. R. STRATJBEL. BOOKS IN DEMAND AT THE AUCKLAND PUBLIC LIBRARY FICTION ‘■THE CAPTIVE,” by M. Proust. “HARRIET HUME,” by Rebecca “a"HIGH WIND IN JAMAICA” by R. Hughes. “DARK STAR,” by Lorna Moon. “LIKENESS OF EXE,” by P. MacDonald. “BLACK LAUGHTER,” by L. Powys. “SMALL RAIN.” by Leslie Storm. “THE WAY OF ECBEN,” by J. B. Cabell. NON-FICTION “THE AMERICAN ILLUSION,” by Collinson Owen. “A MISCELLANY,” by A. C. Bradley. “OUR NEW RELIGION,” by Rt. Hon. H. Fisher. “CAPTAIN SCOTT,” by Stephen Gwynn. “ALICE MEYNELL,” by Viola Meynell. “INTO THE BLUE,” by Norman MacMillan. “AFTER ALL.” by J. van Druten. “IN SEARCH OF ENGLAND,” by E. V. Morton.