Books

Radio Record, Volume II, Issue 29, 1 February 1929, Page 13

Books

WINTERSMOON. (Hugh Walpole.) R. WALPOLH knows his England. Perhaps no contemporary novelist, with the single exception of Mr. Galsworthy, is equally well versed in, and so accomplished an exponent of, the physical beauty of the country we call Home, as well as the spiritual oddities and attributes of the inhabitants thereIn "Wintersmoon," his latest, though not his greatest, novel, the author brings us in touch with many types. With "the Quality" we rub shoulders, and admire very much a butler named Hignett, who, by virtue of loyalty and single-hearted steadfastness of purpose, is a great man. Also we find admitrable vignettes of some types of maids and men in post-war England; and an arresting portrayal of a fast disappearing aristocracy which, in essential characteristics, is peculiarly of our own race and creed. There are many digressions and side issues, but in the main this is the story of Wildherne Poole and Janet, his wife, who married without love, as they frankly confessed to each other. Wildherne has had the romance of his life, or so he imagines; his wife loves her sister, the beautiful and heartless Rosalind, above all created beings. The two must dree their weird; relatives prove a hurdle on the road to happiness; together they break their hearts over the death of the small Humphrey, their one child, and a most engaging infant, worthy of the creator of Jeremy himself; and ultimately happiness is discovered in mutual devotion. This is a long book. Too long some will think; but the pictures of London life are enthralling, and there are arresting etchings of types of the younger set, hard, detached, glorying in shedding of shibboleths of sentiment, unselfishness, religion, and the rest. Memorable are some reflections of the charwoman who, as a proud and happy wedding guest, out of a wide experience decides :- "You could never tell with men. Tired of things so quickly, and of women quickest of all. At the beginning they wanted love, in the middle they wanted change, at the last they want a home, and if only drink didn’t ruin them they always came back." And we meet again that agreeable wordling, Lord John Beaminster, grown old and lonely in a world that gradually has emptied itself of the men and women he loved in his heyday, and now swarms past him carrying away d¢@ molished landmarks of London, hit

adored.-

R.U.

R.