The Dice of the Gods (Heath, Cranton) is not, as the title suggests, something rather thrilling in the way of romantic fiction, but one of those dispassionate novels in which the author, through the medium of his puppets, gently scourges the follies of society. William van der Beck, whose fictional house of clay very obviously clothes the spiritual essence of the author, Mr. Lucian de Zilwa, returns to his native Colombo with a liberal education, to find that the life and thought of the strange Indo-European bourgeoisie to which he belongs by birth present no alluring features. In point of fact the ambitions and hypocrisies, pretences and prejudices of the Cingalese "burgher" with the tell-tale finger-nails are merely those of Bristol or Amsterdam evolved under Colonial conditions. Jack van der Beck, for example, the pompous medical ass with a flourishing practice among the local nabobs, can be found in every provincial town in Europe. The Dice of the Gods has no plot worthy of the name, but Mr. de Zilwa has both satire and philosophy at his command, and a flair for atmosphere. His scenery and "props" too will be new even to the most hardened novel-reader. He paints a vivid Oriental background with which the semi-Western civilization of his characters alternately blends and contrasts rather effectively.
Mr. Tresidder Sheppard's The Quest of Ledgar Dunstan (Duckworth) is one of those half-sequels of which, while it remains true that You Can Start Here, you will get a better grip with some previous knowledge of the earlier story about the same people. Not that your hold upon the present book will, even then, be other than slightly precarious. For my own part I seldom met anything so elusive. I freely grant that it is original, thoughtful and provocative, but the effect it produces is rather like that of Jaberwocky upon Alice ("It fills me with ideas, only I don't know what they are!"). At first one seemed in for a comedy of disillusion. Ledgar and Mary, united, are met with in the process of living unhappily ever after. This is clear enough, human (unfortunately) and amusing. It was, for one thing, Mary's habit of misquotation that got upon Ledgar's nerves. "Alas, poor Garrick!" was one of her typical lapses. Nor was Ledgar himself more of a success with Mary, who found him (and here my sympathies went over to her) lacking in force and coherence. But as Mary eloped with somebody else at the end of part one she hadn't my prolonged experience of Ledgar's incomprehensibility. Nor did the question of his semi-lunatic friend worry her, or the whole problem of what, if anything, was the motive of the book. Eventually he is shown pairing off with his earlier love, Winnie; and I am bound to say that she too has my sympathy. I should sum up by saying that the analysis of introspective egotism, however subtly done, can make at best only an exasperating story.
In By the Waters of Africa (Robert Scott) Miss Norma Lorimer has described her British East African travels in a series of letters, in which she shows a very real sense of style and a delightful assumption of her own unimportance. To people suffering from the books of travellers who seem more anxious to air themselves than to give impressions of the countries through which they have passed, it will be a pure relief to find an author who suppresses herself and really gets on with her business. Thanks to her friends, whose kindness she frankly acknowledges, Miss Lorimer was able to see native life under conditions impossible to a less privileged traveller, and she misses no feature in it that is either humorous or enlightening. It is a model book of its kind, valuable up to a certain point and always pleasant to read. Some of the author's adventures might easily have excused a reckless use of notes of exclamation. But only once does she give way to this weakness, and this I pardon her, for I should always use one myself on the eve of starting for the Mountains of the Moon.
NEW SPORTS FOR OLD.
Snail-stalking in the suburbs.