THE LITERARY

Southland Times, Issue 20445, 24 March 1928, Page 13 (Supplement)

THE LITERARY

ROLLEDBY

IOTA

LOG

THE LENGTH OF NOVELS.—What is the limit of a novel’s length? No one really knows. Some novels of a hundred pages are far too long, others of three volumes are too short, but there must be a limit beyond which the reader will not go. Of course, the serial novel is not quite on all fours with rhe long novel the several volumes of which appear from the publish er’s house simultaneously. The novel that evoked this protest from a reviewer some years ago:— We have not read this book. We 03 not believe that anyone could read this book. What might be accomplished by relays of readers, placed at suitable intervals, we are not prepared to say ‘ The World of William Ulissold” though its volumes appeared at intervals was not a serial novel because the three sections were necessary to complete one story. That is different from Romain Rolland’s “Pie Enchanted Soul,’’ for instance, for each of its volumes is a complete novel, though all of the series will be necessary for the author’s purpose. ‘‘The Forsyte Saga” is a series of novels, for though they are all parts of a family history, each one could bo read and considered as a novel without reference to its companions. But when one considers the length of modern novels mistakes can be very easily. The authors of the Twentieth Cen tury who indulge in the Marathon novel only seem longer than their fellows of the Eighteenth Century where the short novel —of say 100,000 words—was almost rare. The Eighteenth’s first novelist, Daniel Defoe, set a long standard at the outset when he put 120,000 words into the first part oi “Robinson Crusoe” and 135,000 into “Moil Flanders.” Fielding w*rote “Tom Jones” in more than 340,000 words, “Amelia” in 215,000, and “Joseph Andrews” in nearly 140,000. To “Jonathan Wild,” however, he only devoted some 70,000. Smollett, again, took nearly 320,000 words for “Peregrine Pickle.” 190,000 fnr “Roderick Random,” and more than 140.000 for “Humphrey Clinker.” “Sentimental Journey” was one .»f the dwarfs of its age, hawing only some 40,000 words to its statute, but “Tristram Shandy” seems to have about 220,000. Yet even the longest of, these books shrink to liliputian appearance before Richardson’s “Sir Charles Grandison” and “Pa mela.” which boast respectively and approximately—of 446.000 and 524,000 words. Against them, incidentally, may be placed two short novels. Dr. Johnson’s “Rasselas,” with 39,000 words, and Goldsmith’s “Vicar of Wakefield.” with a litth* under 60.000, to show that even among the best eighteenth century books there was little uniformity in the matter of length. One may, at this point, hazard the guess that novels by writers who are nor primarily novelists are usually short ones. In the first years of the Nineteenth Century there were many of the small books. Peacock shunned length, his “Headlong Hall” and “Nightmare Abbey” required about 30.000 words, but Jane Austen, whose novels appear to be almost as short as Peacock's when one is reading them, actually used 160,000 words for “Emma” and about 120,000 for “Sense and Sensibility.” It is something of a surprise, also, to find that Sir Walter Scott’s books are not so very much longer than Miss Aus ten’s; “Rob Roy” has about 165.000 words, “Anne of Geierstein” 198.000, “The Talis man” 130,000, and ‘The Antiquary* 172.000. Scott seems to have had something approaching a standard length in his mind when he planned a novel; but Dick ens. a few years later in the century', apparently had no such thing, and his booSs —even confining one’s attention to the more important novels—varied very greatly in length. “Oliver Twist” has 173,000 words, and “A Tale of Two Cities” only 156,000, whereas “The Old Curiosity Shop” has nearly 220.000. “Pickwick” nearly 290.000, and “David Copperfield”—perhaps naturally—more than 390,000 words. Modern novels on the average are shorter than those of the Eighteenth Century writers. The “shockers” range about 100.000 words, and even the sequences and serialknown to-day are not equal to some of the single volume works of other days. “The World of William Clissold” I should say ran to no more than 253,000 words and “The Forsyte Saga,” taking its three novels and two long short stories that have appeared to date, is estimated to run to 330,000 words, while Dreiser’s “An American Tragedy,” goes to 390,000. rivalling “Tom Jones” or “David Copperfield,” but dwarfed by “Sir Charley Grandison” anrt “Pamela,” though Richardson’s giant would be beaten in an exact count, I should say by Tolstoi’s “War and Peace,” which must run to about 529,000 words in its three volumes. These, however, w’ill dwindle in importance if the novel which a few years ago was being written in South Otago ever reaches the public. Four years ago it had spread over twelve volumes and the author was still full of vigour though he could not see the end. What has happend to that tremendous work I do not know, but both Tolstoy and Richardson must appear like the narrators of anecdotes to him. HIDING AND FINDING.—When we set out on treasure hunts readers usually have no more to help them than the rough map left to the hero or to the heroine’s father, but John Trevena has shown us more consideration in “Typet’s Treasure” for writing story and sequel in one book he has kept up all the mystery he requires by a silence covering seventy years, while placing in the reader's hands the story of the hiding of the treasure. This first tale is a grim thing told with quiet strength. It is laid for the most part about Bishop Rock, Rinsey, between Porthleven and Marazion of Western Cornwall, a region where legends are abundant. To Rinsey in 1688 Captain Cairns, who was also known as Typet Richards came for the purpose of taking off one Adam Ives and three years later he was again seen in the port to hide treasure gained in the West Indies. Typet Richards was a pirate, that much was well known and he was crafty, which explained how he kept his post as commander of his piractical craft in spite of his personal cowardice. With the treasure hidden, trouble sweeps up with grim abruptness and death overtaking the treacherous Richards, we leave the disabled Adam Ives, with his love Marian Pendrea and his West Indian, Eve, on the pirate ship which, unguided, is plunging out to sea in a gale. This is the story of the hiding of the treasure, but the author has made the connection between it and the second part—the hunt for Typet’s hoard —stronger by the use of scarcely hidden hints to persuade the reader that the people associated in the search for the pirate plunder include some who are descend-

ed from the characters of the first. The vicar has a parrot which Typet once owned. It has lived through the seventy years separating the two stories, but the inference to be drawn—the author intends it to be drawn—is that Sibley, the foundling, is the granddaughter of Marian Pendrea. Sibley is the heroine of the second tale which is narrated by Miles Grugworthy, the man who seeks the treasure. There are some exciting times before it is located and more excitement before Grugworthy is able to stow it safely beyond the reach of the desperate men who desire to make use of Typet’s legacy. One of the interesting characters in this section of the book is Periwig, a clerk, about whom there is always an air of mystery. Periwig carries with him the suggestion that the spirit of Typet Richards is within him, but whether that belief is sound or not, I think the author intended that the reader should suspect Periwig of some more than physical connection with the pirate. “Typet’s Treasure” is a first-class piece of work, and obviously it is written by a man who knows the Cornish coast untimately. The scene is authentic and in such abetting one accepts the grim story readily. “Typet’s Treasure” is published by Messrs Chapman and Hall, London. THE VITUPERATIVE WlFE.—References to a political meeting in which a male political candidate was “heckled” by his wife has recalled the most celebrated instance of the kind; the attack on Sir Bulwer Lytton by Lady Lytton seventy years ago, when he stood for Hertfordshire against Lord Palmerston. Lady Lytton, who was Rosa Doyle, a beautiful and'an accomplished woman but liberally endowed with what is called “artistic temperament” was not happy with her husband, who then was at the height of his fame, and when Sir Bulwer appeared on nomination day she attended and told the assembled electors exactly what she thought of him. The husband retorted by having her clapped into a lunatic asylum, but she was at once released and continued to be a spectre for Sir Bulw'er who never knew when she would again appear to “characterize” him in picturesque and effective language. Some idea of Lady Lytton’s capacity can be gleaned from a few lines of one of her philippics: My husband is a man who has been born out of his due time. Had he been born 1900 years ago he w’ould have been Judas Iscariot. He would have betrayed his Master: he would have taken the thirty pieces of silver; but he would not have hanged himself; far from it. He would have sat down and written the Epistle to the Ephesians. A woman who could write a paragraph like that could not be other than an anxiety to a man seeking political honours, particularly as he knew 7 she had the courage and the ability to talk to public audiences. It was the son of this brilliant, but ill-assorted couple who was Disraeli’s Viceroy of India. SAWDUST.—A new story by Gilbert Frankau, “So Much Good,” appears with the Hutchinsons. Two anonymous books by the late Lord Morley have recently been traced. They are: “Modern Characteristics,” published in 1865, and “Studies in Conduct,” published in 1867. Book-collectors would be advised to look among their shelves for them. “But Gentlemen Marry Brunettes,” Mrs Anita Loos’s successor to “Gentlemen Pre-, fer Blondes,” will appear in London shortly, after a success in the United States. A biography of the Marquis of Reading, written by C. J. C. Street, is forthcoming with Mr Geoffrey Bles. The late Mrs H. G. Wells was, like her husband, a writer, and a collected volume of what she wrote is to be published by Chatto as “The Book of Catherine Wells.” Harry Preston, who is so well known in the world of sport, has, w’ith Patrick Thompson, been writing his reminiscences, and they will be published by Constable. Mr. St. John Ervine’s biography of Charles Stuart Parnell is being issued by Benn in a popular edition. Rosita Forbes has two books, one of fact, the other of fiction, appearing with Cassell. “Adventure” consists of “some incidents, excitements, and impressions of twelve highly seasoned years,” and she describes the whole as “a Gipsy salad.” It records events and incidents of her travels in the deserts of Africa, the wilds of Abyssinia, the arid regions of Arabia, the jungles of New Guinea, the war-riven zone of China, and elsewhere. Her work of fiction is made up of two stories, whose names are joined in the title, “Account Rendered and King’s Mate,” and the scenes of both are laid in the African desert. Hulbert Footner may be regarded by some only as a writer of “thrillers,” but he has gone into realism with “Rich Man, Boor Man.” which Messrs Faber and Gwyer publish. Mr Footner, born a Canadian, now lives in Maryland, U.S.A. Stephen Graham, whose “New York Nights” has just been published, has returned to Russia for the background of a new novel, “The Lady Confessor,” which Messrs Ernest Benn are publishing later this year. According to the new Catholic Who’s Who, Alfred Noyes, the poet, was received last year into the Roman Catholic Church. Constables have published a first novel, “The Eartehen Lot,” by Miss Bradda Field, on which they rest great expectations. It begins in Malta, in the queer household of a naval officer, and then goes to Weymouth, and from there goes north to Manchester. Miss Bradda Field is the daughter of Mrs Agnes Herbert, who is well-known in literary London and well remembered for her book, “Two Dianas in Somaliland.” A second first novel promised by Constable has the title of “Spring Darkness,” and is by John Metcalfe, who wrote a volume of short stories called “The Smoking Leg.” Maurice de Pange was a French boy of a well-known family, who at the age of 12, was sent by his parents first to a preparatory . school at Folkestone and then to Westminster. He died last year of meningitis. at the age of 16, and now a series of letters which he wrote home to France is to be published by the Bodley Head. “Maurice’s letters,” we hear of them, “are those of an unusually intelligent French boy commenting, often in naive and amusing language, on his English experiences, and giving a piquant picture of English school life, as seen through his eyes.” “The English School Days of a French Boy,” which is the title, are printed just as they were written. Among the more interesting forthcoming books of reminiscences is “The Man Who Broke the Bank,” by Charles Coborn, the great comedian, who takes his title from his most popular song. Mr Coborn is a devoted sidesman in a South London church. '