NEW NOVELS

Press, Volume LXXII, Issue 21940, 14 November 1936, Page 13

NEW NOVELS

much in little; By David Mathew. Longmans, Green and Co. 148 pp. («/- net.) « _ April, 1838, the steam packet Queen Adelaide, plying between Calais and Dover, ran comfortably aground on a shoal, one and a half hours out from Calais. This was In kut in another hour the tide rose, the vessel floated away on its y°yage, and the sun came out. Withih this small frame of incident Mr Mathew has drawn, limned perhaps, aoout a score of characters, passengers and seameh' on thfe - paddlesteamer. Half of these people are personalities, eminentos from foreign parts and ecclesiastics making their way to London to see Queen Vicgowned. Forward, in a bare' cell, their attendants, male and female, English and; foreign, moan or shiver or dice or drink. This microcosm-—.the word is inevitable, so carefully has Mr Mathew selected his players-—is a Remarkably clear representation of European society, *?■ a ti°nal relationships.- That this should be so done in a book so small is a tribute to Mr Mathew’s power of striking off a character’in' a few lines. ' The speech of these people is also good. Here speaks the mechanically' minded, news-paper-reading Mr Burnaby; “In connexion with this matter a very ingenious gentleman of high reputation maintains in a printed letter concerning Dover harbour ;that this harbour, which he allows to be the best between Portsmouth and the Medway, now gives a bad impression indeed to , the foreigners who see it, of either genius or regard to the means of increasing our marine.” The scope of the, book is surprising when one recalls the largo number of memorable, characters: a Lithu- ' anian servant,; a practical-joking seaman, a Balkan nobleman, an English business man, a snobbish English female aristocrat, two , good clergymen, a timid Roman Catholic, and a socially uncertain Anglican, a shrewd and drunken major-domo; and all these are plain- representatives of the; eighteen-thirties.

AFTER THE FUNERAL Rmnfustian. By Judith Fay, J. M. Dent and Sons Ltd. 303 pp.

With the freshness of a spring morning, a little on the gusty side, Miss Fay romps through the fantastic affairs of the' Nankeen-Fus-tians, rustling the rich leafage of their absurdity, whisking through the shadows and away, and finally and surprisingly shaking her amazing family into the composure of a happy-ever-after ending. Faults, awkwardnesses, there are in the style, and Miss Fay is too doggedly resolved to. laugh at every convention and shock even the tolerant reader; but the way ward iridescence of the book is never broken or lost. The death of Brigadier-General Sir Armitage Fustian relieved , of its fiery head a* family as individual as the of their historic drink —the recipe for which Miss Fay obligingly prefixes. Years of life in India had left their legacy of fame and liver, and a fondness for the Zoo; unfortunately, ’ the General's more specific bequests were strange, and favoured the animals more than his children. Their consultation turned the eldest, Beatrice, true descendant of a long line of Boyal housekeepers, to the management of the home; Vanessa’s part, -as a dilettante journalist, was to inend the family fortunes byanpaxing the exquisite Arnold Mmsty,. of the Foreign - Office; Lancelot reluctantly returned to his super-aseptic school; and to the child Elaine fell a programme of specialisation in pantheis, including the vetting of her friend Mamie at the Zoo, and a course of museums. How the Minsty campaign was upset by an explorer’s intervention; how Lancelot was launched into sophistication and Elaine became a press sensation and a film star complete with panther as drawing-room pet, must be learned from Miss Fay, and cannot be learned without laughter.

THE AUSTRALIAN BOY Saturdee. By Norman Lindsay. Illustrated by the author. T. Weroer Laurie Ltd. 277 PR-

Norman Lindsay’s larrikins are at all times convincing. Their quarrels and friendships and the. zest with which they enter upon the sunlit hours of leisure are described with unflagging humpur and considerable psychological insight. It is not easy to give a personal distinctness to the Unformed characters of youth; but Peter Gimble and Bull jo Peddlar—to single out merely two—are surprisingly individual' in their reactions to joyful and perilous- occasions, There are escapades of varying intensity, from the stone-throw-ing at old Poulter to the nearly tragic shooting of Stumpy Bodgers. “Yer in for it now, murderin’ Stumpy Bodgers: he’s goin’ to put the police on yer!” roared Butcher Crowley. “I never done it,” quavered Oswald. “Strike me breath I never—” “Yer did. It’s proved Stumpy’s got a bullet in him might kill him stonedead this very identical minute,” let out a piercing scream at this horrifying diagnosis, leaping in circles to try and look around himself at himself. “It’s fair into me; how far in is It?’ he yelled. “It’s fair into yer,” yelled the minions.

School life is shown in a flash of drama concerned with the attempted punishment of Mick Hogan and his tremendous defiance, and directly after this comes Peter’s sudden awareness of girls. His infatuation for Dolly Trimble, however, is merely an episode. The stern business of boyhood is essentially masculine, and Mr Lindsay never falters among the gloriously irresponsible moods of tlje young. It is a book for adults—impossible to read without many chucklings. POIROT PLAYS BRIDGE Cards on the Table. By Agatha Christie. Collins. 2&6 pp. Mr Shaitana, whose foible it was to ape Mephistopheles but who had hardly enough intelligence to fill the part, invited Poirdt, Superintendent Battle, Major Race, and Mrs Oliver, the detective-story writer, to an ingeniously arranged' dinner party; for the four other gtlests—pretty Anne Meredith, Colonel Desparcl Dr. Roberts, ana Mrs Lorrimer—were all, so Shaitana had assured Poirot, murderers who had “got away with it.” It was the sort of knowledge helihec to have, and to use; and he was punished for his taste. When the after-dinner bridge tables broke up, the guests went to awaken Shaitana, who had sat out, dozing by the fire; but he was beyond waking, with a pretty little dagger planted i his heart. And nobody but one of his four exhibits could have planted it there; one of the brief spaces of freedom afforded

to “dummy” tnusthave been ; used for the planting . ... This is, of course, an admirable beginning, which forces Battle back on the history of the four equal suspects for the clue that the crime does : not yield and which sets Poirot to the characteristic task of matching psy* chology and crime to find his answer, Mrs Christie hj never excelled the series of logical surprises in which Poirot hears -the confession of one suspect and denounces it as a lie, anticipates the murderous attempt of another to cover, not the guilt of Shaitana’s death, but the guilt he knew, and reads in a bridge-score the answer he must prove. Even when it appears that the last, proof is the gift of chance, Poirot has still a disclosure to make, and scores a perfect slam.