THE NEWEST BOOKS.

Otago Witness, Issue 4041, 25 August 1931, Page 64

THE NEWEST BOOKS.

AN ESSAY IN HUMAN RELATIONSHIPS. “ Two Prisoners.” -By Lajos Zilahy. Translated by Joseph Collins, M.D., and Ida Zeitlin. (Cloth; 8s fid net. ) London: William Heinemann, Ltd. The strange lady looked at him then and answered in a low voice: “ The heir apparent and Iris wife were killed at Serajevo this afternoon.

In this remarkable book much happened in the lives of Peter Takacs and Miette Almady. For one thing they had married and the world catastrophe cut in on their honeymoon. And there is. a great deal of self-revelation in the 160 pages which precede the frequent sentence quoted which was the death warrant of so many souls in so many nations. * Peter and Miette are in I different ways caught in the maelstrom which changed the world of morals and business in such strange ways. In the first place, however, a tribute ■ is due to the author of “ Two Prisoners.” Herr Lajos Lilahy is a Hungarian with a masterly talent for descriptive writing, with a keen and kindly insight into human nature, with a knowledge of widely-scattered events, and with the capacity to tell his story with force and charm. This book has several definite points of value. It.is a war book, but only in a sense—the war is the tragedy which wrecks the lives of some of his characters, which transforms the customs and social systems of nations, which firings to the surface things undreamed of before its reverberations shook Europe. There is little of actual warfare in it. Its author is primarily concerned with its reactions on character, individual and national. At the same time it is not a treatise on any special aspect of the war in particular or war in general. It is a human document, pulsating with virile life and movement. It is a realistic story concerning the lives of men and women, chiefly’ of the two prisoners—Peter in Russia and Miette in Budapest. And it enables us to make comparisons, contrasting war influences in various countries and among varied nationalities.

Briefly, after giving a vivid picture of life in Budapest, it tells the love story of the wooing of Miette and her marriage with Peter. Other characters are well drawn, but up to the outbreak of war these "two young people occupy the greater part of the stage. Both very passionate, Peter rather prone to unreasoning jealousy, they are living in earthly heaven when the war clouds ■rise. Peter, as a volunteer, is mobilised, leaves Miette in abject sorrow, and within a few days is a prisoner of Russia. It is unnecessary to follow him and recount his experiences, drab and ■horrible, until he arrives at Tobolsk,

where the Hungarians are to be for years domiciled at “ Misery Hotel.” The boredom of the routine life leaves deep marks on the prisoners, and Peter finds a friend in Zinatehka, a Russian orphan girl. When be decides that he can bear the strain no longer he attempts escape, is captured, wounded, and sentenced to a term in prison. And then he returns once more to Misery Hotel to hear the story of the experiences of his old comrades. He asks for letters- —those are the years when there were no letters. “ None of us have received any. There has been no -mail for more than a year and a-half—not since you left.” They feel they’ liave been forgotten by the outside -world. Meanwhile Russia was in the throes of revolution, when Bolshevism, “ the corpse of the war,” was sweeping through Russia, the time when Russians were too busy killing each other to bother about a few thousand Hungarian prisoners in Tobolsk. Some of the prisoners at Misery House married: some died, and some went White while others went Red, joining contending forces. Peter received a letter from Miette —the wail of a woman in suffering.

. . . and would it not be better if we never saw each other again? Yotrr eyes would always be searching mine, to find if I had remained faithful, and my eyes would ask the same question of you. We would never tell, but we would hate each other: we would hate those secrets in each other which would exist because we believe in their existence. Could our spirits ever draw close again . . . . ? “ This letter was no blow to him.” -His previous life was so far away that it seemed to him it must have vanished forever. Thera was now only Zinatehka. And then suddenly, after .seven years, the order comes for the prisoners to go home. In the midst of the hurried departure Peter is stricken with spotted typhus. He remains behind.

All this time the other prisoner leads her life. For years Miette wears her heart away for Peter. Her father dies and all seems lost. She has friends and a lover, Ivan Golgousky, an influential and wealthy man who is .fortunate enough to escape the rigours of war. Miette finds life sad, and the author traces her trials in the alternate chapters descriptive of those undergone by "Peter. Misery Hotel shows one phase of imprisonment:; the prisoner at the other end undergoing other trials is

Miette. She loves Peter and she loves love. For that side of the story the book itself is the best guide. When she learns that Peter is being repatriated she bids Golgousky farewell. She gees to the train bearing the prisoners, 'and learns that Peter has died of spotted typhus. Her grief is poignant and real. Five years later Golgousky and his wife—-the children are left behind—set out on a pilgrimage to Peter’s grave at Tobolsk. Golgousky is rich, and is now Minister-Plenipotentiary, and they reach their destination by car. Here we see the real artist in the author. They nsk the way of Dmitri, Zinatchka’s old servant and Peter’s friend; they see a little child playing with Peter’s old dog Comrade—and- find Peter’s grave. And neither Zinatehka nor Miette knew each other, who the travellers were, or why they were visiting the cemetery. It is a fine piece of artistry, but it is in keeping with the whole work. We would wish to meet Herr Lagos Zilahy’ again, possibly in a less tragic theme than the effects of a- war which has shaken the foundations of Western civilisation.

BLUE WATER FANCIES. “A Celtic Hurly-Burly.” By’ L. Luard. (Cloth; -Gs net.) Edinburgh ami London: William Blackwood and Sons, Ltd. She was the ugliest ship I had ever seen. Her lumbering lines, swelling into enormous clumsy breadth, forced her to squat upon the water like a distended scow; the line of her sheer seemed to fall at the bow, as if to hide her ignominy beneath the surface; hogged, awry, askew, her hull floated beneath our .feet, inert, lifeless, dead, an eyesore, a derision, a monstrous malformation.

This was one of the boats offered to the author to replace the beautiful Maitenes, which was sold to make way for a bigger and better yacht. A famous naval architect has declared that “yacht building is the poetry of ship building.” This fine story’ is an epic tale of the building and racing of Maitenes IT, and is one to gladden the hearts of men who love the blue-water yachts. At the moment it has a deeply pathetic interest in that last week’s cablegrams reported that Maitenes II had been abandoned in the storm which swept British waters. She was competing in the Fastnet race, and soon after Colonel Hudson ’was washed overboard and drowned the crew abandoned the vessel and were picked up by’ a steam trawler. If Maitenes II

is lost yachtsmen will be full of sympathy for her sporting owner. Lieutenant W. B. Luard.’ He shipped Maitenes II to America recently for the transatlantic race of 2950 miles, and she was a wellknown figure in British races. “ The Celtic Hurly-Burly ” is a narrative of the sea, describing the feelings of a skipper and crew who find themselves faced with the task of building a yacht to heat Nina, which had won the New York to Santander ocean race before reaching English waters, “ and had then calmly sailed circles round our fleet in the six-hundred-mile Fastnet race.” So—

We must have been a little mad at the tiifie; but I suspect a jetter in one of the yachting papers clinched the affair. “We need.” the writer asserted, “ a yachtsman with brains, money, and a ruth'ess determination, who is willing to spend himself in a great effort to regain, the Nina's cup. and prevent that cup from becoming what another cup—the America’s cup-—has been for so long, a standing symbol of Great Britain's inability to get what she wants.”

The merry crew set out to build a boat which would accomplish the object and meet their requirements without completely demolishing their fortunes. The story of their coming to grips with designer and builder and the scores of people who have something to do with the founding of a first-class yacht ii absorbing. She was built in France, and the builder was a craftsman and a cheerful soul. But he was a Frenchman, with all the excitable traits of his race. She was to be built against time—boats always are—and delays unexpected and unavoidable cut into the available days. Then came the launching.

We held our breath, for.the tide was steadying near the mark, and success or failure trembled upon its will. Maitenes 11, with her fifty feet of lovely -length, twelve feet of sturdy beam, and eight feet of staunch grip in the water, stirred, woke from a long slumber, rocked indolently, and floated at last.

endowed with life and impulse. Th e builder was Iteside himself. “ She is within a centimeter of her designed load water-line. It is superb. I could cry for joy!” The rigging hurriedly followed, the cruise to Cowes, and then the racing came before the crew knew their ship. They lost ten hours in tactics in the long race, and finished fourth. The designer was pleased. “ The mere fact that you completed the course,” he wrote, “ is a lusting testimonial to the Bermuda rig. Next year, with certain changes, she will be a different ship.” And next year came. The weather was •atrocious. Here is one of the author’s many strong descriptive paragraphs:— We had barely time to haul down three reefs before the storm broke, hard-fisted and brutal. In an Jiour the ship was tearing along, her decks awash. The wind seemed solid. It wrenched ■ and buffeted, roared and boomed, howled low over the ship, recoiled and lunged as though to lift her clear of the water, volleyed and exploded. The sea was a hissing mass of flying spume, was white as a plain of snow, was seething like a boiling cauldron, was beaten flat by a torrential rain.

Then followed a calm and later more wind. “ Surrounded by hurrying walls of water, the ship ran headlong, as though fleeing for her life. She logged nine knots, nine knots and a-half, ten knots, then Threatened to become unmanageable. A man went overboard and was saved by a miracle, his falling arm having crooked round the mainsheet. “We crossed the finishing line, seven days out, less a forenoon watch.” Maitenes II gained second prize. It is indeed an epic tale, but Maitenes II is at 'this time a derelict or something else. The Fastnet race has a record for maiming proud yachts.

THE ART OF DARYL LINDSAY. “Arat in Australia.” Daryl Lindsay number. (August; 3s fid; published six times a year). Sydney: Art in Australia, Ltd. Daryl Lindsay is an artist because he was born an artist, and his artistic judgments-strike one as instinctive rather than deductive, and his dexterities inherited rather than acquired.

These words are from the article “The Man Called Daryl Lindsay,” by Russel W. Grim wade, descriptive of the personality of this member of the famous Lindsay family. With his better known brothers Lionel and Norman he completes a trio ■which has probably no relative equal in the world of art. Daryl Lindsay was 30 years old before he •finally embraced his present profession. He started working life as an employee in a bank, decided that he did not like hanking, and then spent years in pastoral pursuits. He promised to achieve wide success in this sphere, but the war interrupted his life, and he became a soldier. His talent found expression in pencil drawings of war types and war scenes, and during his first leave in England in 1917 the private soldier was transferred to Sidcup Hospital, where his ability was used to aid the surgeons in the work of facial restoration. His knowledge and talent and drawing was used in the making of diagrams recording the progressive stages of the surgeons’ work. In the back of his mind he retained the idea of returning in peace times to the pastoral occupation, but the influence of Henry Tonks, then Slade Professor of Fine Arts in the University of London, induced him to further study. The result is that Daryl Lindsay is to day numbered

among the leading artists of Australia, Mr Grimwade’s sympathetic sketch helps us to understand the man.

The second literary article, “The Art of Daryl Lindsay,” by Basil Burdett/ deals more closely with his work. It isa successful attempt at an analysis of the' influences working towards the developmeat of Daryl Lindsay’s work, and an accurate estimate of the standard achieved. Mr Burdett follows the artist through tlie phases which make up his career. It is unusual for an artist of note io develop after 30 years of life, as Daryl Lindsay has done, but the writer soundly suggests that though “ he had done nothing towards the develop-ment-of manual dexterity, his mind and vision were being trained.” He finds the “ development ” of his work “ singularly direct and logical.” “ Stylistically.” says Mr Burdett, “ Daryl Lindsay is less ambiguous than most painters at his stage of development, and I think the reasons are the mature state of his mind and the definite foundation of an artistic consciousness before he began actual practice as a painter, and the nature of the influences which affected his beginnings.” His early work was all in water colour and pencil. His progress in oils “ are astonishing evidence of his advance in the short space of four years.” These articles together enable the reader to know the artist and to comprehend nis work.

In all 32 reproductions of Daryl Lindsay’s work are given, eight of which are in colour. These arc chosen to give an embracive idea of his achievement. Five oils and three water colours are presented in colour plates, and these embrace still life studies, landscape, and a distinctly notable oil, “ High Syce.” This horse is so definitely alive as to mark its creator as a master of form and colour as well as the possessor of accurate knowledge of animal characteristics. A black and white, “ The Little Mare—Millie,” shows the same definite certainty of form. The landscapes reveal personality, and are faithfully harmonious. These reproductions are all well done, and we cannot refrain from emphasising the good fortune of the artistic world in having a publishing firm of such unique and unerring instinct as Art in Australia. On the technical side there is nothing better done in anv country, while in the purely artistic field the choice of subjects is uniformly high.

A HANDICAP THAT WASN’T. “ Green Wine.” By Owen Archer. (Cloth; (is). London: John Lane (the Bodley Head, Ltd.). However full-bodied and promising a young vintage may lie, it is always raw and without soul—it is green wine.—The Vintner's Glossary’. . . . -One day some wisp of a girl will eye you and say, “ He'll do,” and that, boy, will be that.

Mr Archer's work has shown merit, and this latest novel pleases. There are those who will prefer stronger fare, but the normal person will count it satisfactory. It meets all the tests of a good novel. It does not attempt to try conclusions with those who make sex adventure the prime appeal. Neither is it a thriller. In fact, it is a story of real people moved by normal impulses which react to natural attributes.

Hugh Whittingham was in exterior an “ ugly duckling,” or thought he was (which for all practical purposes is the same thing). He really imagined that his face was so forbidding that the opposite sex must positively be repelled. He had the incomparable gift of straight, forward manliness, which, had he known it, is highly prized by many women. He did not like women, but that was probably because he believed that his ugliness set him apart from other people. In vain did his friends try to remove the obsession. “ You’re a rum chap,” said one in a burst of candour. “ Looks don’t affect a man’s life in the least. Look at rat-faced Disraeli, Cozens-Hardy, Marat. Roosevelt, old Kruger.” It was not of much avail, however, and Hugh went on with a man’s work. He went to the war and played a man’s part. Incidentally he saved the life of Henry Thornton, and his chief desire in that connection was that it should be forgotten. However, the Canadian refused to forget and waited his opportunity’ to repay the service. Like many others, Hugh could not find a place when the fighting was over, and he readily accepted Henry’s offer of a job in his firm’s motor’ works in the States. “But I’ve one condition. I’ll go through it as you did. From the bottom up. Get me in tho basement. Don’t let a soul know you know me. Leave me to —do or die.” And to the basement he went.

Hugh made good as a Whittingham, a man of determination and education, should. But he had a few serious jolts. He made good at his job, and returned to England to help the motor firm to establish a branch. He rescued a girl in a fire, and this led to a rather unhappy infatuation. Complications arose both for Hugh and Harry, for neither were fortunate in love. Hugh began to go downhill, and a crisis seemed imminent. Henry had a sister, however, an American girl of rare character. It is in this part of the story that Mr Archer is at his best, and his character drawing is excellent. There is no better way to learn this than by’ reading the book. It is worth while.