BOOK OF THE WEEK

Taranaki Daily News, 4 August 1934, Page 1 (Supplement)

BOOK OF THE WEEK

AN INVALID’S PHILOSOPHY

(BY

U.S.)

"'Corporal Tune,” by L. A. Strong. Victor Gollancz Ltd., London. A. J. Fyfe Ltd., New Plymouth.

Those who know Mr. Strong s novels are aware how subtly he mixes philosophy with a story, and his Conrad-like method of suggesting rather than proving the inevitability of man’s reactions to training, accident, or enthusiasm. In Corporal Tune the philosophy is uppermost and the story is slighter than ever. The book is the account of the illness of'lgnatius Farrelly, a writer of note, who had married a girl in a higher social class than his own and had lost her after five years of gloriously happy life. The volume begins at the conclusion of a holiday spent by Ignatius and his two sisters Nelly and Moira, at Ardglashin in Western Scotland. It is his reactions to circumstance and to people that make this book an interesting if slightly morbid piece of analysis. The reader feels a little of the irritation of the specialist when Ignatius tells him he is determined to live “and keep my promise to you.” Dr. Tilkens replies: “Why your promise to me ? You must five for your own sake, for your work’s sake. Now you are being childish, Mr. Farrelly. You simply want to evade responsibility. This is your battle, your strength, your business I have seen,” he went on, “men die of scratches because they would not fight, and I have seen men conquer what seemed certain death because they would not for an instant admit the possibility of defeat. I have been a rebel all my life, though you might not think it to look at me. My whole life’s work is a rebellion. A rebellion against death, against disease, against orthodox medical ideas.” And so the little doctor stumps out of the room, leaving the tonic of fresh, hardheaded appeal to manliness as a corrective to the somewhat “precious” atmosphere of a nursing home, and the unduly quiescent philosophy of a patient. Of course when Mr. Strong is painting the rugged scenery of Western Scotland he has the gifts of the artist in full measure. Here is the vision given Ignatius on the day he leaves Ardglashin. He has climbed to a favourite ledge at the edge of the cliff. “The view was Wonderful. Southward .it looked at the headland crowned with fir-trees, and beyond the headland was the mountain. With these two masses the changing Highland light could work a hundred miracles. It would capriciously pull the headland forward, making it so unnaturally vivid that it dominated even the averted eye, charging its trees with sooty, snarling life and its rocks with menace; then, maybe an hour later, it would push the headland back till it seemed almost of one texture with the mountain; or, perhaps, casting a black shadow on the headland, it would pull the mountain forward with so bold and wet a splash of sunlight that the vivid green brilliance seemed about to tip over and engulf the sulking shrunken outcrop of rock and tree. On other days the headland would glow with soft life, its lines delicately suggested, fading almost into a bloom upon the air; while the mountain would be dim, a dream in the mind of some vast far-off 'country To the south-west the ledge looked out upon the astonishing activity of rocks and islets that made the coastline down past Arisaig, and ended in the low running outline, of Ardnamurchan. Out to sea came a shoulder of one of the lesser islands, then the dramatic, upflung Sguir Eigg, and its long, cliff supported table, pillared with shadows. Next, overlapping, shutting out the western sky, the noble shape of Rum, broken before its final modulation by the near hump of sheltering rock that jutted so suddenly in front of the eye as to make one 1 jerk one’s head back in surprise.” So on the journey southward, the train, wriggling along the curves, wormed its way into a tremendous valley Ignatius loved this valley, especially the view of the first mountain which was a soaring sweeping cone, perfect in the intolerant beauty of its line The mountain flung up its head with savage, peremptory pride, shooting to such a height it filled the beholder with awe and exhilaration.” Had Mr. Strong added “with a sense of coming home” to his description it would have expressed the feelings of many a son and daughter of Taranaki when Egmont swings into view after a long absence! Ignatius felt the view of liis mountain a good omen. It brought him a peace in which his wife’s death, her unfaithfulness, his weakness, were blended into one of Robert Burton’s “corporal tunes” that “pacify our incorporeal soul.” The lesser characters are suggested with fine delicacy and sometimes with a touch of malice. Dr. Forsyth, the professionally cheery practitioner, is rather a harsh picture. Dr. Tilkens, the specialist, one feels the author is really fond of. Mrs. Rogers, Farrel-' ly’s London landlady, who preferred her own diagnosis to that of any medical man and was annoyed because Ignatius wouldn’t take her advice, is very human. She thought a rigid diet was all nonsense. “Ridiculous, I call it” she observed, recovering her breath. “Whatever will these doctors find to fuss about next? Give me the good oldfashioned sort; bed and hot toddy and a pill. That’s the best physic. What you want is feeding up and good cooking. Nothing else. You’re run down with eating slops. Slops never did anyone any good, except for a few days, when they’d had the flu or something. But a gawstric stomach, like what you’ve got—feeding up’s the thing. How can you ever get it accustomed to digest its food properly if it never gets nothing to digest?” Mrs. Rogers was an affliction to the invalid but the reader finds her breezy surety quite refreshing amidst rather neurotic conditions. To assimilate this book one has to remember it is the story of an exceptional man in a special mood, “a special condition” his doctors would have said, and for that reason it is intriguing. It will not appeal to those who like a definite plot, definite and swift action, with motives that stand out clearly. Ignatius, one feels, has had a strong personality, has had steel as well as appeal in his make-up. But the reader is only allowed to see him in the twilight of ill-health, always a misleading atmosphere, and often as unkind to the 1 sufferer as to those who try to make his acquaintance.

New stocks of Jonathan Cape’s famous florin library have just arrived. Neatly bound in a fawn cloth binding, 2/9 each, postage 3d. "Lawrence and the Arabs,” Robert Graves; "The Golden Arrow,” Mary Webb; "Crazy Pavements,” Beverley Nicholls; “Strangers May Kiss.” Ursula Parrott; “Miss Mole,” E. H. Young; “Slaves of the Gods,” Katharine Mayo; “The Job,” Sinclair Lewis. Fyfe’s Ltd.. “The Book People,” phone 1397, New Plymouth?