REVIEWS

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 73, Issue 115, 17 May 1930, Page 2 (Supplement)

REVIEWS

“THE VALIENT” by William MacLeod Raine (Hodder and Stoughton). —This author has a long list of swift, adventurous and romantic tales to his credit. This latest from his pen proves that the fount of his imagination has neither dried up nor become insipid. The story opens with the sensational shooting of two out of three as they are decamping with gold from the Cattlemen’s Bank in Bonanza. Jasper Cole, the sheriff, is the man behind the gun. There is a good deal of mystery about the whole business and this is intensified by the arrest of a solitary man who has lost his way in the hills, trying to find Bonanza. The sheriff tr»es to shoot the man while his hands are raised in surrender and only fails because one of the posse spoils his shotby a thrust of his hand. The arrested man, Bruce Barry, becomes the hero and Jasper Cole fills the role of villain. There are two delightful women—the supposed daughter of the sheriff and a lady of mystery. The tale does not follow an even course because there are numerous backwaters and eddies and whirlpools. The lover of the days when it was possible to hire gunmen and life was largely dependent on the ability of a man to draw like lightning will revel in this book. H.G.G. “KNOCKING BOUND’”by J. Le Gay Brereton (Angus and Robertson). —This is a slim book of 162 pages containing 18 essays and stories fully redolent of Australian life, literature and scenery. The author knows the music of words and plays brilliantly with them in sentences that charm. For the unique appeal of the Australian landscape I have read little cither to better or equal the word pictures in “Our Country.” Those who complain of monotony in the scenery will be constrained to add to their litany a request for eyes that see and cars that hear. The joy of the road before this age of high-pressure and disastrous hurry made many of our youth almost incapable of genuine indolence, is gloriously told in “Trav’lin.” ’’The motor-car is a curse to its user as well as the furtive pedestrian. . . . The loveliness of a tuft of grass, or the delicate mottling of a post with lichen, or the inverted depth of blue sky in a watery rut enters unbidden the consciousness of the man afoot, but is ignored by the motorist, to whom the passing beauty is a smudge. . . . Where are we to find rest? The car penetrates everywhere. The fastnesses of the hills are invaded. The stillness of the valleys is desecrated. The haunts of meditative fancy arc bestrewn with tins and paper. Vulgarity is rampant in the sullen bush, and every quiet solitude has been transformed to a wilderness of monkeys. ” Strong language; maybe, but is it exag-

gerated ? Those who would learn how to tell a short story should read “Robson”—an exquisite tale beautifully and delicately told. Then, too, there is humour both broad and subtle in “Dowell O’Reilly,” “Kicking,” “Unconscious Cerebration” and others. The author tells of his only interview with the most distinguished Australian writer of his father’s time: “I was playing solitarily in the paved courtyard in front of our home in Richmond Terrace, when a rather haggard man, whose trousers seemed to flap about his legs, came in i from the Domain. After a moment’s hesitation he approached me and said, ‘I suppose you’d like a penny.’ I supposed so, too, and answered accordingly. He regarded me with deep melancholy, shook his head and exclaimed, ‘I wish I had one to give you,’ and walked up the steps to the front door. Disappointment impressed upon my memory that simple conversation with Henry Kendall.” Much of the reminiscence of meetings and intimate intercourse with many of the Australian writers and poets leaves me with a nasty taste in my mouth. There is such a lamentable laudation of beer! This protrudes itself, most unfortunately. again and again on some of the author’s best pages. One wonders no longer that much of the early prom.se in many of the literate failed to reach a healthy, sane and vigorous maturity. The inaugural address to the Sydney University Literary Society, entitled. ’’Literary Groups,” is for a largn port "RnhcniianiKm run to sood.

But lot me temper this stricture by ex- ] .pressing my gratutudc for several of | the rhymes on the page of contents. As I one who has enjoyed the glories of tramping holidays, I find myself in accord with the lines under “Trav’lin.”: “With wine of love and bread of truth I face the winding way And, dowered with everlasting youth. 1 Through bush and city stray. And hope the far-receding goal May never cease to lure my soul.” Then, again, as I think of the likelihood of our civic authorities having the trees which line our streets loped because of falling leaves, even as many . people are doing the same in their gar- j dens, I find myself quoting the lines under “Trees: ” “When I observe how very neat The trees are, ranked along the street, I turn with pleasure, I confess. To God’s supreme untidiness.” H.G.G. “THE STAB IN THE DUST/’ by Beatrice Grimshaw (Cassell and Co.). — ; It is seldom that a novel keeps ’lsaac’ awake, or prevents him from turning I out the light till the midnight hour has > struck, but he found it an impossibility to lay down this book till he had 1 reached the satisfactory conclusion, i . “The Star in the Dust” is a book which captures the interest from the | first page and holds it to the last, and then leaves one with a sense of al- . most personal loss, for the characters are real. They live and move before one’s eyes, and as event event, . and as danger comes, so do the personalities, their hopes and fears, their joys : and sorrows, stand out in relief against the background of the lovely, if teri rible, Pacific Islands. Miss Grimshaw has indeed written a novel which is a • soul-gripping romance. She has chosen • for her scene the Islands which are so near to us. Fiji, the New Caledonia, ■ and the other smaller spots of coral : which dot the Pacific. She does not . strain after effect. The story flows on ■ in well-ordered sequence, with bright ■ dialogue, with scenes of beauty, and of ■ horror, until the conclusion is reached r and the usual ending of lovers is ful--3 filled. Piers Finian, son of a man who has : for long lived in the South Seas, has r to make the choice between wealth at I Home, or marrying Yvonne Salle, - daughter of a French biackbirder —and ) worse. His decision to marry the lovely ■ and good Yvonne is final. Home, wealth, i position, mean nothing apart from her. 1 Fate (hackneyed expression) in the per- ? son of his half-brother Arthur ( so re- • spected) intervenes, and on his wedding . morning he finds flags half-masted for ) his bride. The scene changes to Fiji - and Piers’ name changes to Green. The 1 description of Fiji and Suva is well - written and colourful. Green is visited ’ by Singer, who turns out to be his - cousin and physical double. Singer, or Lechanteur, has escaped from New i Caledonia where he has been serving a i life sentence as a French political. To r his amaze Piers learns of Yvonne, who ‘ is imprisoned and alive, at Bourail. Quite ’ naturally be goes to seek her and his - likeness to Lechanteur brings him into f the most disastrous consequences. • - Adventure follows adventure and s with escape from “Hell” only a hairs - breadth away he is recaptured, whilst f Yvonne and her convict husband go a free. How Salle, Yvonne’s father, ress cues her and how’ the story ends must ) be road to be appreciated. s j The most striking part of the story is that in which the French penal settle - meats are depicted. It is only a few . weeks since a scathing indictment of . prison life in France appeared in a i London paper, so that apparently mato i tors have not improved greatly in the - : last 30 years. If. as one supposes it t to be. Miss Grimshaw’s picture is a true - 1 one. then a reform in the penal system [ of the Republic is long overdue, and s could be taken in hand at once by the f authorities with considerable approbas tion on the part of those who hold that crime should be cured, not merely puuf ished. Stories such as Major Wren has given s us. articles such as we have referred to, - published books such as those written ■’ by the late Clement Wraggc, and oth--1 ers, all combine to leave the impression s that Republicanim is not all it might 3 be when the matter of the equality and - liberty of the subject is in question, a Two scenes from “The Star in the • Dust’’ -must livo in |li<> rondor’s bna« r -

[ination for long. The first, the marriage of the 150 convict couples at Bourail. If ever marriage were a farce, it is here, and presumably the farce still goes on. Secondly, the picture of the convicts used as animals to drag the heavy food wagon over many miles of hilly road is a revolting one. The conclusion, one is forced to is, that despite our many natural faults, of which we are quite conscious, our penal system is by far the most advanced and humanitarian of its day. Miss Grimshaw’s book is full of excellent dialogue and characters who grip the heart, and is of enthralling interest. One cannot say more. ISAAC OF YORK. “MEDAL WITHOUT BAB.” by Richard Blaker (Hodder and Stoughton). —Here is a war novel written by an Englishman for Englishmen. To the reader who lived through those years of 1914-18 this book is a harking back. To those whose recollection of those days was from the sheltered years of youth and childhood this book will give a bettor portrait of those times than any other book that has come under this writer’s notice. It must take some courage to write a war novel in those days. ' The continental ■novels are, well, continental. They arc realistic enough, but so frequently contain unpleasant crudities, which egg lon the curious, but nevertheless arc blemishes to the narratives. “Medal Without Bar” is true to its title. It sets out to the average Englishman going to the war out of a sense of duty, doing that duty to the best of his ability, never becoming conspicuous, never being called upon to do more than, the rest of the fellows round him and coming home a wiser, different man i.nd not being acclaimed a hero. He has “done his bit,” got his medal, but no bar. This is the experience of the many. When the war started, to Charles Cartwright—a London solicitor in partnership with his father and his father-in-law, fifteen years married and the father of two children, boys both, —- it was a stupendous and startling situation. He turns over his circumstances in his mind and decides that he must go. Breaking the news of his decision to his wife and in the ensuing conversation. his wife remarks: “I can’t help wondering, though, if it would all have fitted in so neatly if—if I had been twenty instead of thirty-five; fifteen years ago—.”

Thon the joining up, the wangling, the father pulling the strings to get his boy in a safe job and bringing it off. Everybody with a bit of influence using it for all they are worth, some to get out to the front quickly, some not to go at al], some to get promotion. There’s no doubt about the reason, for

the cynical ago will always follow a war. Everybody shouting patriotism and everybody looking for a string to pull. That’s war. Then the going out to the Western Front, the work, the situations, the characters arc all well described, for Richard Blaker can write. There arc no particular high spots in this book because the author wasn’t writing with high spots as objectives. For instance, when Cartwright goes up to Wanguetin it is the quietest part of the line. They reach it by a ration lorry. “Two cavernous, veiled carcases of sheep lying on boxes an 1 on sacks of bread, wagged their stumps of legs over the jolts in the road as the Q.M.S. folded up his map and stuffed it in his pocket.” Cartwright gets a surprise when told that they were a bit short of officers “and they’re forming trench mortars.” “They had been told nothing at Exeter about trench mortars.” Neatly packed gun ammunition by the roadside also gave a thrill at first sight. Entering an estaminct, “Come on and have some tea,” some one of the rakishly capped D. ' subalterns said; “the old man * 1 be back by then. He wants to see you before you’re posted, in case any of you arc horsemen. He’s a hell fire horseman himself. Cavalryman. Any of you cavalrymen ? The cheerful Denny of the H.A.C. could never allow small matters to rest in obscurity. “You seem to have been cxpcctin.; marines or cyclist corps chaps or something. What’s wrong with our being gunners? The talk is not dirty nor morbid. It’s just the talk of men on the job. The war dragged on and even'daily Cartwright is visited by his son, now an airman. Cartwright finds his emotions tense and deep being vented with “Come and have a drink.” Then the surprise when the Hun retired. Sir, can .1 wake you up, Sir? From the mumbled confusion of “Shut that door,” “Get out,” “What the hell is it?” and “What the devil’s up now?” he selected the last for his answer. “A bit of news just come through, sir, —old Hun —he —he’s gorn, sir “For God’s sake,” mumbled someone. ’’ that door;

freezing the place out standing there. Shut it and light something—on the table there. Here’s a match!” “It’s gawd’s truth, sir. It’s through to Brigade Official. The message will bo along to you in a minute. But I’d thought I’d just tell you—the Brigade signaller told me the message was on ’is way to the adjutant and I give the tip to the sentry to tell the men; and then I come along to you.”

Who the hell arc you? What message?

Then finale. Women good and happy, sound and sensible and great as Dorothy herself—such women can now be heard to say, “No, things haven’t changed at all. It hasn’t done a bit of good. There was some-

thing about it all that men must have liked —and would like again—or you wouldn’t think about it the way you do; and read those books, and talk about it—. ” Somehow Dorothy and such women seem to be right. 11.C.J.