OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
I would heartily commend to all good English women and men The Book of Italy (Unwin), first because it will help the families of those Italians who have left England to join their ships and regiments and will make possible the works of mercy of the Italian Red Cross, and secondly because it is in itself an admirable book—the most distinguished, I think, of any of its kind published here during the War. It tells us something of the great Italian creators and liberators, Dante, Leonardo, Michelangelo, Mazzini, Garibaldi, Cavour—too little perhaps of Mazzini, than whom no movement for liberty ever had a nobler or a saner prophet. Of the good things, besides the contributions of distinguished Italians (a particularly interesting note on the Italian Red Cross by Signor Galante claims a Neapolitan, Ferdinando Palasciano, as the pioneer, in 1848, of the Red Cross idea), let me specially commend the spirited introduction of Lord Bryce, the eloquent letter of Sabatier, the memories of Frederic Harrison, the quiet wisdom of Clutton-Brock, the learning (decently veiled for normal eyes) of Frazer, of The Golden Bough; the inspired prejudices, fringed with epigram, of G. K. C. A mere catalogue of a few of the well-known writers represented, of Symons, Galsworthy, Gilbert Murray, Bagot, Hichiens, Barry Bain, Phillpotts; and of artists such as Brangwyn, Sargent, Shannon, John, Lavery, Richmond, Poynter, Frampton, Ricketts, Anning Bell, Cayley Robinson, makes its best testimonial. England has never been other than the friend of modern Italy, for the Triple Alliance was merely a freak of desperate diplomacy and was broken by the popular will when Germany (be it remembered) was giving fair promise of ultimate victory. We don't need conversion to the cause of Italy, but everything that helps to foster and develop the comradeship of the now Risorgimento of the Allied Nations is welcome. And The Book of Italy will serve this purpose excellently well.
More than once before now I have commented upon that almost unique gift that Mr. Jack London has of transferring physical energy to fiction. His characters must always be about some sinew-straining business that makes the reader ache in sympathy. However in The Little Lady of the Big House (Mills and Boon) the author seems to have allowed himself and his creations an unwonted holiday. Here is no fierce struggle for existence, but the fruits of it upon a millionaire ranche in California. Dick Forrest was the millionaire, by heritage and his own success; a great farmer and a breeder of shires. He had a wife, the Little Lady of the title, and a Big House that was one of the most eligible dwellings in fiction. A plain recital of the arrangements ("tweaks" we should have called them at school) in Dick's open-air bedroom makes the ordinary home look like ten cents. Mr. London certainly knows how to luxuriate when he gives his mind to it. Moreover there was a wonderful swimming-bath, with a concealed submarine chamber in which the Little Lady used to hide for the terror of uninstructed guests (she was rather that kind of person), and a great music-room for her to play Rachmaninoff in and flirt with the Other Man. This is all the tale. Eventually the flirtation becomes serious and the Little Lady is driven to suicide, with a death scene of rather unconvincing sentiment. The fact is, I am afraid, that Capuan ease does not altogether suit the super-strenuous beings whom Mr. Jack London designs. They are too energetic for it, and, lacking an outlet, tend to become melodramatic. I hope that next time he will take us back to the muscle-grinding.
When the War broke out Mr. F. W. Wile, an American gentleman, was living in Berlin as the correspondent of The Daily Mail. Having read his book, The Assault (Heinemann), I may say that I judge him to be singularly alert and wide-awake and admirably fitted for the position he occupied. He has no scintilla of hatred or animosity for the German people as individuals, but he wishes to see Germany beaten. "I wish her beaten," he says, "for the Allies' sake and for my own country's sake. A victorious Germany would be a menace to international liberty and become automatically a threat to the happiness and freedom of the United States." He saw the furious transports of patriotism and hatred to which the Berlin mob gave way; he witnessed the brutal attack on the British Embassy, and he was himself denounced as an English spy, was arrested and was lodged in jail, whence he was rescued only by the direct interposition of the American Ambassador. All these incidents he relates in a very vivid way and with a certain dry humour that adds to the effect. His description of the manner in which, on his way to prison in a taxi with two German policemen, he managed to destroy a telegraph code which was in his breast pocket, is positively thrilling. Had it been discovered on him, nothing, he thinks, would have availed to save him, so delirious were his captors with rage and suspicion. Certainly a delightful people. Finally he was allowed to leave Berlin and travel to England as a member of Sir Edward Goschen's party. In the later portion of this book Mr. Wile castigates us, not too unkindly, but, perhaps, a little too insistently, for not being ready, for not realising what war means and for being self-complacent. Since his criticisms are based on affection for us we can make an effort to kiss the rod, especially as he discerns signs of improvement in us. Incidentally I may add that he is, perhaps, not altogether fair to Lord Haldane, but, per contra, he gives Lord Northcliffe a high testimonial to character and behaviour.
Cordelia (Melrose) is a story as agreeable as its name, or as the pretty, if rather chocolate-box-school, picture on its wrapper. One small defect I find in the dissipation of its interest. Beginning with one hero, it goes on with another; and the result is some confusion for the reader who has backed the wrong horse. But Mr. E. M. Smith-Dampier might very justly retort that this is but fidelity to life. When in the early chapters we see the first hero turned from home by an unsympathetic parent, and faring forth to seek romance in a new world, it was surely reasonable to suppose that he would eventually be rewarded by the pretty lady of the wrapper, especially as Savile Brand (though his name inevitably suggests tobacco) is a character drawn with understanding and skill. But Mr. Smith-Dampier is good at lovers. He has another, even better, up his sleeve. This is Peter, the forty-year-old American cousin, who cherishes a tender regard for Mistress Cordelia. I should explain that all this happened in the time of powder, lace coats, and witches. This last is important. Those were the days when Cherchez la sorcière was the unfailing remedy in New England for every ill, material or emotional. It is from this, coupled with the mistaken jealousy of her sister, that Cordelia's troubles come, and so nearly turn her story to tragedy. The main motive may remind you a little of that grim play of witchcraft that we saw at the St. James's Theatre some years ago. But fortunately the end is more comfortable. Cordelia, in short, is a nicely-flavoured romance of old America, with at least three unusually well-drawn characters to give it substance. I have no doubt at all of its success.