Whatever else may be said about Mr. Arthur Compton-Rickett as a novelist, it can at least be urged for him that he displays no undue apprehension of the too-facile laugh. For example, the humorous possibilities (or perils) in the plot of The Shadow of Stephen Wade (Jenkins) might well have daunted a writer of more experience. Stephen Wade was an ancestor, dead some considerable time before the story opens, and—to quote the old jest—there was no complaint about a circumstance with which everybody was well satisfied. The real worry over Stephen was twofold: first, that in life he had been rightly suspected of being rather more than a bit of a rip, and secondly that his grandson, Philip, the hero of the story, had what seemed to him good cause for believing that Stephen's more regrettable tendencies were being repeated in himself. Here, of course, is a theme capable of infinite varieties of development; the tragedies of heredity have kept novelists and dramatists busy since fiction began. The trouble is that, all unconsciously, Mr. Compton-Rickett has given to his hero's struggles a fatally humorous turn. Philip's initial mistake appeared to be the supposition that safety could be secured by flight. But it has been remarked before now that Cupid is winged and doth range. Philip dashed into the depths of Devonshire, only to discover that even there farmers have pretty daughters; seeking refuge in the slums he found that the exchange was one from the frying-pan to the fire. In short, there was no peace for him, till the destined heroine.... Well, you can now see whether you are likely to be amused, edified, or bored by a well-meaning story, told (I should add) with a rather devastating solemnity of style.
M. Henri Domelier, the author of Behind the Scenes at German Headquarters (Hurst and Blackett), must also be accounted among the prophets, for he foretold the invasion of Belgium. Before the War he edited a newspaper in Charleville, and when the Ardennes had been "inundated by the enemy hordes" and the local authorities had withdrawn to Rethel, he stayed in Charleville and acted as Secretary to the Municipal Commission. This organisation was recognised by the Germans, but to be secretary of it was still a dangerous post, and M. Maurice Barrès in eloquent preface tells us of some of the sufferings that M. Domelier had to endure while trying to carry out his difficult duties. The French who remained in Charleville had more than ample opportunities of seeing both the ex-Kaiser and his eldest son, and M. Domelier writes of them with a pen dipped in gall. No book that I have read puts before one more poignantly the miseries which the inhabitants of invaded France had to bear during "the great agony." For the most part they bore them with a courage beyond all praise; but some few, giving way under stress of physical suffering or moral temptation, forgot their nationality; and these M. Domelier makes no pretence to spare. I think that even those of us who have definitely made up our minds regarding the Hun and want to read no more about him will welcome this book. For if it is primarily an indictment of Germans and German methods, it is hardly less a tribute to those who held firm through all their misery and never gave up hope during the darkest days.
I have before now met (in books) heroes who wore dungaree and had as setting an engineer-shop or a foundry, but never one who equalled Jim Robinson (Hutchinson) in the strictness of his attention to business. Jim is the managing director of Cupreouscine, Limited, a firm which deals in a wonderful copper alloy which he himself has invented, and the book tells the story of his long and losing fight against the other directors, who are all in favour of amalgamation with another and much larger concern. Sketched in so few words the book's subject sounds unattractive, but Miss Una L. Silberrad has a genius for making "shop" as interesting in her novels as it usually is in real life, and Jim's plans and enterprises and the circuitous ways of the other directors provide material for quite an exciting story. When I say "other directors," Mary Gore, representing a brother on the board of Cupreouscine and backing Jim through thick and thin to the limit of her powers, must be excepted. In spite of her gracious reserve and self-possession, it is plain that Mary loves the busy managing director; but Jim's feelings are more difficult to fathom. In fact he is so long in mentioning his passion that it is quite a relief when, on the last page but one, what publishers call the "love interest" suddenly strengthens and their engagement is announced, very suitably and to her entire satisfaction, to the charwoman at the foundry.
Open the Door won the two hundred and fifty pounds prize offered by Messrs. Melrose, and without troubling to inquire into the merits of its rivals I wholeheartedly commend the award. For some curious reason its length (one hundred and eighty thousand words—no less) is insisted upon by the publishers, but as a matter of fact Miss Catherine Carswell's novel would have been even more remarkable if it had been of a less generous bulk. Her style is beyond reproach and she has nothing whatever to learn in the mysteries of a woman's heart. The principal scenes are placed in Glasgow, and the Bannermann family are laid stark before us. Mrs. Bannermann was so intent on the next world that for all practical purposes she was useless in this. Having been left a widow with two sons and two daughters, she was incapable of managing the easiest of them, let alone such an emotional complexity as Joanna. It is upon Joanna that Miss Carswell has concentrated her forces; but she is not less happy in her analysis of the many lovers who fell into the net of this seductive young woman. Indeed I have not for many a day read a novel of which the psychology seemed to me to be so thoroughly sound.
I hope "Miss M.E. Francis" will take it as a compliment when I say that Beck of Beckford (Allen and Unwin) should form part of the holiday equipment of all of us whose brows are not too exalted to enjoy it. In her unostentatious way Miss Francis knows how to provide ample entertainment, and she has nothing to learn in point of form. When we are introduced to the Becks they are proud and poor, having impoverished themselves in the process of removing a blot from their escutcheon. Sir John is a working farmer, and Lady Beck does menial duties with an energy that most servants of to-day would not care to imitate. The apple of their old eyes is their grandson, Roger, and the story turns on his struggle between pride and love. No true Franciscan need be told that he comes through his struggle, with flying colours. So quietly and easily does the tale run that one is apt to overlook the art with which it is told. But the art is there all the time.