MIDDLE-AGED, ONLY

Evening Star, Issue 21974, 9 March 1935, Page 2

MIDDLE-AGED, ONLY

[Written by Mary Scott, for the ‘ Evening Star.’] I was witness of a mild sensation in our library a month ago. A now subscriber, a" gentle old lady with a deprecating air, asked our librarian which of Annie S. Swan’s novels she could personally recommend. There were several young people round the counter at the moment, but, although I watched closely, none of them reacted at all to the’ once-familinr name. It was obvious that our librarian had heard of Annie Swan and a little more; she moistened her lips, faintly and genteelly. and murmured, “ They’re all very readable ” —one of the stock-in-trade remarks of any and every librarian if she wishes to lead a quiet life. But this was not enough. The old lady, like many of those gentle people, was inexorable. “ What are the names of your favourites ? ” she asked sweetly. The librarian collapsed and looked to me for help. I looked out of the window and appeared rapt in contemplation of the corrugated iron roof opposite. For, truth to tell, I could not help her. I had heard the name of Annie S.Swan in my youth, but I had only a. vague memory of trying to read one of her novels and finding it sentimental and treacly—the sort of thing we then described as “ decidedly feeble.” She was one of those whom, in ray cock-sure youth, I thought all the intelligentsia must despise. And so they did; and not, I must confess, having since dipped into ‘ Aldersyde,' without some justification. So that I little expected, within a few weeks of this experience, to read and enjoy a book by the late-despised. Certainly it was its title that first attracted me. for there is something pleasantly resigned, yet humorously challenging in the name ‘ Testament of Age,‘ coming hot upon the heels of Miss Brittain’s .spectacular success. Who had dared thus to challenge comparison, and who had dared to be old? The name Annie S. Swan on the title-page came as something of an anti-climax. Moreover, 1 had fancied her dead a decade

ago. And yet she is very much alive and has written a charming book of her own reminiscences. It is not “ a clever and provocative autobiography,” nor yet is it “ filled with amazing and perhaps shameless revelations”; for these reasons alone it might claim to be almost unique among the reminiscences of the day. It is only the simple story of a woman’s life; that she happens to have been also the most popular novelist of her day makes it the more interesting. For it is hard for us who have been reared on the novels of Galsworthy and the poems of Masefield and Rupert Brooke to realise that in her prime the name of Annie Swan was better known than any of these has ever become. At a time when the output of fiction was infinitely smaller, there was a burning, personal interest about her work that would be impossible to-day. At a political mooting, for example, the question was handed to her, “ Will Mrs Burnett-Smith tell us whether Captain Hannay is going to marry Jean Adair? ” She received countless postcards from unknown admirers pleading with her not to kill off the amazingly popular characters in her serial stories. Hard to imagine Galsworthy besieged with requests as to the fate of Irene Heron or the marital fidelity of Fleur ' Strangest of all is it to discover that the life of this writer of the tamest possible books was by no means tame itself. She had known experiences as devastating as any of Miss Brittain’s; had found happiness in her perfect lovemarriage, burning interest in the insight her life as a doctor’s wife gave her into the lives of the poor, tragic despair in the loss of her only son, sensation in the destruction of her English home in a zeppelin raid, intellectual occupation in her lecturing tours for the government. But it is not for the happenings of this full and interesting life that I liked this hook; it is for its kindness, its wisdom, its humour, its wide humanity. She calls it a testament of age. and makes no claim to any intellectual pretensions in its pages. Well, we can do without that; we have had plenty of it. It is extraordinary and soothing to read of anyone who accepts happily and without argument the simple religious faith that belonged to her generation. Because of this, or, if you prefer it, in spite of it, the book has certain fine and gracious qualities, a reserve and delicacy, a spirit of high courage, a simple faith that “ never dreamed that wrong could triumph.” It is a delightful example of “ the wisdom of acceptance,” rare in this age of revolt. Above all, it is a charming and graceful lesson in the art of growing old. An unpleasant topic this advance of the enemy; but one which sooner or later we must all face. One of those modern and distressingly clever French writers said in his last novel; “ Before the age of forty njen think of death once a year; after forty once a month; after fifty once a week; and after sixty every day.” But it is not even as simple as all that; between the milepost of forty and death there lies that dull and dusty country called middle age: beyond it, still unseen, lurks that unknown, terrifying land called old age. Bub why must it be terrifying? J asked a charming friend the other day whether she resented the encroach of anno domini. She smiled as she answered: “Nob in the slightest, but then I am old-fashioned enough to believe that the best is yet to be. Also I find 1 have so much more time, and I shall need it all, for I am determined to learn to grow old gracefully.” To grow old gracefully—there’s an ambition worthy of attainment. Wbat more delightful companion than a charming old man or woman; what more devastating than one who is elderly yet determinedly young? Surely the worst part of growing old is the fear of it: remove this fear, replace it by the ideal of a gracious and generous old age, and the prospect becomes beautiful. Undeniably the charming old people are those who accept the demands of Time and never fight against them. There are few sights more pitiable than the hectic middle-aged woman who clings to youth with dyed hair, car? mined nails, rouged cheeks, a talk of lovers, and a vocabulary of modern slang at an age when her mother would have been wearing a charming lace cap. I don’t suggest that when w© reach middle life we should immediately accept old age, but I believe that if wo meet this enemy, Time, with gaiety and good humour he will behave like any other enemy and become an ally. Cor* tainly it is better to advance to meet him with at least an appearance of welcome than turn in a frenzied flight that must he overtaken and end in ugly and inglorious defeat. I love books about old people if they he generous and kindly, Angola Thirkell’s Lady Emily, Elizabeth Corbett’s Young .Mrs Meigs are nxamnles that I have lately met. William I)c Morgan knew how In make old age charming, and so did Galsworthy with Old Jolyon. The secret? Surely it is a young heart and H living jwath -the -ms-

doin and tolerance of non and experience ; thus, and thus only, can we dofoal. the sad, wise old French proverb that says: “ If youth hut knew; if old Age hui had J.i}& »eyy.erj'-’