The Letters of Annabel Lee

Radio Record, Volume I, Issue 48, 15 June 1928, Page 6

The Letters of Annabel Lee

MY dear Elizabeth: In this year of grace ‘tis but few occupations at which the New Poor does not try its slender and competent hand. Amazing to find those hitherto apart from vulgar pursuit of profit can hold their own and haggle with the best. It would scem that in Belgravia the commercial instinct flourishes as well as in Whitechapel, and with even more success and finesse. The shop-keeper is born, not made, and the tricks of the trade, if not exactly a gift of the gods, a kind of sixth sense essential in treading the path of mundane prosperity. WITH eclat the mannequins of Mayfair combine sense of salesmanship with graceful, slippery slide, getting off decorative habilments on lovely ladies with a celerity that makes them well worth high emolument proffered by enterprising, aristocratic employer, and incidentally rendering more difficult and arduous the way of the poor and pretty shopgirl, without influence or education, who a decade ago was a favourite peg of novelists wishful of depicting the perils of virtue. Wy OODEN-HEADED are we to ‘ appear in the near future, if lucky enough to secure one of those late creations now worn in London by those aware of le dernier cri. Hailing from Paris, these are the work of an original and artistic designer, who weaves upon canvas foundation strange and charming shapes in wood of a most winning flexibility in tones of golden and russet, orange and rose beige and sand. Much sought after are they by noblesse and snoblesse; in fact, by all possessing the numerous shekels required, supply being for the moment limited and exclusive. TEERUDERLACEORESRRDORDERERDEDEREREUTUADEREREDOEEERE

T his brilliant best, Mr. Somerset Manghan is ahead of the majority of contemporary novelists and playwrights, provoking more than casual interest, and at times making imperishable impression; as who will question, remembering that sombre tale of genius and its words and works, "The Moon and Sixpence," which inexorably travelled to its dreadful close with the callousness of a malignant fate. As an example of economy of words, there is the revealing description of marooned travellers and true and terrible sketch of female depravity in the short story entitled "Rain," which no one, having read, is likely to forget. And now there is‘an "Ashenden," a collection of studies, many of them grucsome, but each an inherent quality of interest that holds the attention in thrall. yV ITH many of our novelists, it would seem, we are safe in expectation of portrayal of seamy as‘pects of life. But with Mr. Hugh "Walpole one never knows. From some charming fantasy exhibiting uncanny knowledge of the vagaries of a child’s outlook ,his versatile talent branches off to turn a searchlight on strange and sordid facets of civilisation. Equally at home with drainlayers and duchesses, to his probing vision and capable accomplishment which explore many strange fields, nothing comes amiss, and he illuminates foy us the outlook of sophisticated dweller in Kedar’s tents, dignitaries of the Anglican church, or those appalling and pathetic Old Ladies, the latter etched with devastating fidelity to type. In his able latest novel, "Wintersmoon," Mr. Walpole brings to his crowded canvas welcome reappearance of interesting characters in "The Duchess of Wrexe," telling this tale of mod-

ern society and manipulatmg his puppets with all his wonted verve. N these winter nights of cold and streaming rain, hurrying homewards through dreary streets, even the hard-hearted finds time for kindly glance at those cheery habitues of the kerbstone, the newspaper boys who shout their wares in young voices rendered raucous by the atmosphere and the nature of their calling. Recently purchasing an evening paper, inadvertently another journal was offered to me. The mistake was hastily rectified, and, surveying me from red-rimmed eyes: in which shone a glint of chivalry, with a tact worthy of Adam of Dubline himself, my newsboy remarked casually: "No, that’s not the paper for you! A Very Impertinent Paper, that is! Not for a lady like you !" An impertinent paper indeed, and one that I sometimes read; but I appreciated the tribute to my literary taste, as I surveyed those bulging boots that had reached last stage of decrepitude, and ragged coat covering youth so plucky and pleasant and gay. HIS morning, tramping through my | suburb with the nine o'clock brigade, it chanced I passed the open door of a bungalow, in which stood a portly female, lacquered hair gleaming in the tepid sunshine, dangling string of pearls and ornate dressing strangely incongruous at that hour. Before her, across the road staggered an infinitesimal, pampered mongrel on spidery legs, yapping and shivering in its padded coat. "Not too far, darling," pleaded the stout lady. "Come back honey, sweet one: come back to Mummie !" The contrasts of life! Your

ANNABEL

LEE