The Bookshelf.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLVI, Issue 1, 5 July 1911, Page 45

The Bookshelf.

•By

DELTA.

BOOKSHELF FEUILLETON. “The Old Wives’ Tale.” IN the preface to the “ Author’s Edition” (U.S.A.), of “The Old Wives Tale,” Mr Arnold Bennett tells how he came to cenceive and execute what the most reliable [judges declare to be the best work he has ps yet accomplished. Mr Bennett says: •In the autumn of 1903, I used to dine in ithe Rue de Clichy, Paris. Here were, among others, two waitresses that attracted my attention. One was a beautiful, pale young girl, to whom 1 never gpoke for she was employed far away from the table I affected. The other, a stout middle-aged managing Breton Woman, had sole command over my table and me, and gradually she began to assume such a maternal tone towards me, •that I saw I should be compelled to leave that restaurant. If I was absent for a couple of nights running, she would reproach me sharply: “What! You are unfaithful to me?” Once when I complained fibout some French beans, she roundly informed me that French beans were a subject about which I knew nothing. I then decided to be eternally unfaithful to Jher, and I abandoned the restaurant. A few nights before I left, an old woman came into the restaurant to dine. She was fat, shapeless, ugly and grotesque. {She had a ridiculous voice and ridiculous gestures. It was easy to see that ishe lived alone, and that in the long lapse of years she had developed the Jrind of peculiarity which induces guffaws among the thoughtless. She was, burdened with a lot of small parcels which she kept dropping. She chose one seat; and then another. In a few’ moments she had the whole restaurant laughing at her. ’ But though Mr Bennett was indifferent to the middle-aged Breton’s laughter, he confesses that lie was pained to see a coarse grimace of giggling on the face of the beautiful young waitress to whom he had never spoken.

“ Came the Vision.” The aforesaid incident set Mr Bennett thinking. This woman was once young, slim, perhaps beautiful, certainly free from these absurd mannerisms. Very probably she is unconscious of her singularities. Her case is a tragedy. And in every such ease there is material enough for a heart rending novel, for there is extreme pathos in the mere fact that every stout ageing woman was onee a young girl, with the unique charm of youth in her form and movements and in her mind. And the fact that the change from the young girl to the stout ageing woman is made up of infinitesimal changes, each unperceived by her, only intensifies the changes; It was at this stage of his reflections that Mr Bennett conceived the idea of writing the book which ultimately became “The Old Wives Tale.”

Too Obviously Unsympathetic. But the stout, ageing woman, aforementioned, was, felt Mr Bennett, too old and too obviously unsympathetic to act as a model; for a heroine must not be unsympathetic. And so he knew that he must choose the sort of woman that Would pass unnoticed in a crowd.. For a time the idea was shelved but never out of reach. “For several reasons it made a special appeal to me.” I had always greatly admired Mrs W. K. Clifford’s “Aunt Anne,” but I wanted to see in my own story, many things omitted in that story. Further Mr Bennett had always revolted against the absurd youthfulness, the unfading youthfulness, of the average heroine. As a protest against this vogue, this author had already planned a novel (“Leonora”) of which the heroine was forty, and had daughters old enough to be in love. “The reviewers, by the way, were staggered by my hardihood in offering a woman of forty as a subject of serious interest to the public. But I meant to go much further than forty.” Guy de Maupassant’s "Une Vie,” as an Example and a Challenge. Tn the “nineties,” continues Mr Bennett, we used to regard “dine Vie,” with mute awe, as being the summit of achievement in fiction. And I remember being very cross with Mr Bernard

Shaw because, having read “Une Vie,” at the suggestion, I think, of Mr William Archer, he failed to see in it anything very remarkable. In 1908, I again read “Une Vie,” and in spite of a natural anxiety to differ from Mr Shaw, I was gravely disappointed with it. It is a fine novel, but decidedly inferior to “Pierre and Jean,” or even “Fort coniine la mort.” Then Mr. Bennett determined to go one better than Guy de Maupassant and finally decided that the English story should, trace the development of two girls into old women. There is more interesting matter in this preface, relative to the characters, environment, locality and incidents of plot, and a mention is also made of the /frigid reception at first accorded to “The Old Wives’ Tale” by the English public. In the March “Bookman,” Mr F. G. Bettany, in a character sketch of Mr Bennett, comments rather severely on that author’s lack of a proper meed of respect and indulgence for old age. as evidenced in “The Old Wives’ Tale” and we fear he was riglft. It is forced upon the reader, too, in “Clayhanger,” which, we think, a marvel of realistic detail, clever, subtle characterisation, and an admirably comprehensive history, social, industrial, political, and economical, of at least one. of the five towns and its people. But unsympathetic, withal. The ideal writer is not, we think, he who with most unerring finger points out with wealth of detail and enumeration the exact location of the plague spots of sordid, erring, or suffering humanity. but he who holds up, as did Moses, a symbol for the afflicted to look up to and become healed. We detest this vivisection of stout, ageing old women. Nor do we think that old age comes on unconsciously, either mentally or physically, and the odd, and ugly, and grotesque in the aged is brought about largely, we are sure, by an undignified acceptance, or as a defiance to that toesin of decay which at once sounds the knell of a departing humanity yet rings in a new spiritual birth. A Book of the Day—“ Francisco Ferrer.” Mr William Archer’s new book, “The Life, Trial, and Death of Francisco Ferrer” (Chapman and Hall, 10/0), while it does not add substantially to the information already given in Mr Joseph McCabe’s admirably condensed pamphlet, entitled, we think, “The Martyrdom of Ferrer,” and issued at sixpence by the “Rationalistic Press,” will have greater weight with the world at large, since Mr Archer’s name stands deserved-

ly high in literary and journalistic circles, and with {the public generally, while Mr McCabe, though he. too, is worthy of the highest respect, is denied, either the same wide and respectful hearing and is denied also his just volume of appreciation, because he is an apostle of the unorthodox. Mr Archer’s motive for writing this book is a noble one, as Mr Joseph McCabe’s was, viz., the vindication of Ferrer’s memory. Tire facts of the Life, Trial, and Death of Ferrer were detailed at length in “Graphic Bookshelf” columns some time ago, and nothing remains but to express our conviction, that when Time shall have destroyed the personal and clerical animosities that have smirched or obscured the fair fame and value of his work as patriot, teacher, and reformer, Francisco Ferrer’s name will be inscribed high on the roll of heroic fame. For he died a martyr to the cause of freedom. And we warmly re-echo the concluding sentences of Mr IL Sacher's fine review of Mr Archer’s book, which appeared in the “Daily News” of April 26, and who says:—“We arc grateful to Mr Archer for this record of one of the fine, pitiful, and heroic tragedies which purge common men of meaner passions, and make an epoch in the progress of the human spirit.” We commend Mr. Archer’s book to the notice of our readers.

Interesting to West Country Folk. Devonshire people in particular should find some interesting material in “The Family and Heirs of Sir Francis Drake,” which Lady Eliott. Drake is publishing through Messrs. Smith, Elder. The book will contain some hitherto unpublished documents relating to the circumnavigator, and will descrilie the fortunes of several Devon families. Contemporary letters dealing with the public and political affairs of the period will form a large portion of the work, which is based on the fruits of painstaking research. Of Interest to Educationalists.

Mr. Holmes, who is being pounded on every side for the iniquity of his “circular,” is going to commit the further indiscretion of bringing out a book, which will be published by Messrs. Constable. The title will be “What Is and What Might Be” in the field of education, and by all accounts we are promised a very interesting work.

Women As Constables. One by one the leaders of the “Women’s Movement” are disposing of the reasons why women are not entitled to the vote. First it was refused them because “they could not ba soldiers.” Joan of Arc and other warrior women were then mentioned, and then came the assertion that women “could never be policemen.” This argument, however, is now disposed of, for in “Votes for Women,” for April 28, which reached us recently, attention is called to the fact that in Hunnewell, Kansas, Mrs. Rose Osborn has been -chosen out of a host of

applicants to fill the position of Chief of Police, and in Berlin we hear that thirty women are to be appointed. Their duty will be to inspect houses where children are farmed. The women must be “physically strong, quiet, -e'f controlled, tactful, and dignified, an 1 have some knowledge of medicine and nursing. They will have large powers of inspection. and will be entitled to break into dwellings wliere they think children are being illtreated. If the experiment sue, cels the number of policewomen is to be increased to one hundred.” This is a step in the right direction, the work projected being purely woman’s work. The “Critics,” comments a writer in “Votes for Wo men,” “will have to hunt for new liogies.” The Maxims of Methuselah.

Here are a few maximums of Methu selah, brought up to date by Gelett Bur gess, author of “Are you a Bromide,” “The Burgess Nonsense Book,” etc. Mr. Burgess has studied the fair sex to some purpose, as will be seen in the follow ing extracts, which absolutely exude wisdom, of a sort: — “To be two years a widow exceeleth a colleducation; and a woman without brothers hath a hard time.” “Count no woman wise, until thou hast received a letter from her hand; but love none thou has not seen face to face, for she who is not foolish on paper is worth knowing.” “Wonder not at woman's inconsistency, for she hath been created of warring essences,” “A black corset is an abomination, and she who leaveth her hair in the comb shall be cast out into utter darkness.” “Even as one who putteth the mucilage brush into the ink bottle, so is he who saith to a woman: Beloved, how young thou lookest to-day; how well thou a;> pearest.” “The damsel yea me th for chivalry, but the matron desireth impertinence.” “Praise not a woman for what she hath, but for what she hath not, and thy re ward shall be exceeding great.” “A witty woman for her beauty, and a damsel for her intellect; a wise woman for her jests, and a frivolous maid for her literary criticism; a pianist for her cookery, and a housewife for her mathematics, so shall thou praise them.” An Influx Into Australia.

Mr Champion, of the Melbourne “Book-Lover," has always shown a bias in favour of Mr Foster Fraser, whose book on Australia gave so much offence to the numerous swelled heads of that meagrely populated country. In the current issue of that vivacious, literary journal, Mr Champion says:—By-the-way, has anyone noticed the great influx of population to this country? It, followed the publication of Mr Foster Fraser’s book, which was so much laughed at and misrepresented by ig norant people in the press. I fancy that, thousands of people who were thinking of emigrating into Canada.

were gild to halt by 'the glowing pictures which that author gave. He was, no doubt, in error on a minor point or two, but he deserved nothing but thanks from these people, many of whom have scored very decidedly by the rising tide of immigration.” C/hai’lcs Brookfield’s Recollections. “On the two or three occasions that I have had to witness cricket matches from the alleged security of a pavilion, I have always felt as nervous as the historical sufferer froth gout who used to sit in his wheel-chair on the dills at Ramsgate and wave his stick and shriek with apprehension if he saw a vessel go past his foot so near as the horizon.” “I have never seen any theatrical company cross the border into Scotland without one of the comedians performing an imitation Scotch reel on the railway platform, generally with .a railway-rug twisted round him, and exclaiming: ‘Hoo’s a’ wi’ ye?’ to the nearest station off', Jia,!,.” “I remember one day, at a rehearsal of the ‘Merchant of Venice,’ the Bassanio advanced at the eml of his Casket scene with outstretched arms, prepared, according to the stage directions, to embrace the Lady of Belmont. Poor Miss Terry started back with a look of terror; then recovering herself said with great presence of mind: ‘No, Mr Sykes, we don’t do that business; you—er —you merely, kiss my hand. It's more Venetian.’ ‘Oh, come, Miss Terry,’ expostulated Mr Sykes, with an engaging leer; ‘you're cu'ttin’ all the ‘fat’ out of my part.’ ” —“Random Reminiscences.” By Charles 11. E. Brookfield. Popular edition. Nelson. 1/ net.

REVIEWS. TWO CAPITAL NOVELS. "The Broad Highway”: By Jeffery Farnol. (London: Samson, Low and Co. Auckland: Wildman and Arey. 3/6.) Pure enjoyment of this book has almost suspended criticism, and we have only to complain that though Mr Farnol has set his scenes in the 19th century, in the days of the Prince Regent, its thought and vernacular is that of advanced modernity. But this matters little, nay, is even advantageous, since

the modern reader finds it somewhat boring to.hark back to a vernacular, a procedure and an-environment'with which he is not familiar. As we pointed out in our last issue, Mr Farnol is strongly reminiscent of several authors who have left their mark on English literatureAVith “Liber” of the- "New Zealand Times,’’ we detect in the book more than a slight resemblance to Borrow, Reade, Hardy, and Blackmore, and we also see in his hero a philosophy as fascinating, serene, high, and as mundanely indifferent as that which Locke visualises in his “beloved vagabond.” But it is only a resemblance, as the style must be that which has.-been formed at the feet ofDame Nature and at the shrine of humanitarianism, as were the styles of Borrow, Charles Reade, and the great novelists aforementioned. These were the writers, who insisted upon the inherent good in man being superior to the inherited evil. We have not space to outline the story which is supremely fascinating. Nor would we if we had space, for “The Broad Highway” is not a work that can be adequately outlined, since the value and charm of the book lies in its superb characterisation, happy alike in its delineation of virile youth and venerable old age, its healthy sentiment, the tender purity of its attitude towards the fair sex; its crisp, cheery sententiousness, its gracious tolerant outlook upon humanity and things in general, and also, and mainly, for its power to invoke the best, and abash the worst in man. In short, Mr Farnol is a romancist to conjure with, and though this is, we are told, his first published novel, it is not to be his last, as he has another upon the way which is to be entitled “The Money-Moon.” “The Broad Highway” is, we feel confident, but the forerunner of better things to come.

“A Little More Than Kin”: By Patricia-Wentworth. (London: Andrew Melrose. Auckland: Wildman and Arey. 3/6.) In this novel Patricia Wentworth, who will be remembered as the writer of that fine, strenuous book “A Marriage Under the Terror,” has demonstrated that she is not a one-book-writer. The period is that of the French Revolution, and the book’s scenes are set respectively in England and France, and the story details how one “Maurice Waveney,” an

English baronet, set out to France, in obedience to his dying father’s request, though repugnant- to. Iris own feelings, he conceiving himself in love and pledged to his cousin Madeline Majoribanks, his father’s ward, and an inmate of Waveney, to marry his half French cousin Claude Waveney. Claude’s father was an exile from England, though by birth he was the’ legal heir of Waveney. (And Sir Anthony, Maurice’s father; had conceived the notion that by the marriage of Maurice and Claude, an old wrong would be partially righted, for he had loved his exiled cousin. Front the time of the arrival of young Sir Maurice ’Waveney into France to wed his cousin Claude, there stretches a long tale of misadventures, killings, exciting, hair-breadth escapes, and deadly dangers, which would furnish enough material for several novels, not the least dangerous if the most revolting of which is the escape of the hero and heroine from Paris during the most sanguined epoch of the Revolution, in a eart packed with dead bodies. But the author has so contrived that the story lias an air of fine reality about it, and if it is less strenuous than “A Marriage Under the Terror,” there is ample compensation in its romantic love story, which is the most complex we have read for a long time, and in its finale is, surely, one of the most true and tender of that troublous time.

Flamsted Quarries: By Mary E. Waller. (London: Andrew Melrose. Auckland: Wildman and Arey. 3/6.) If the “Woodcarver of Lympus was good, what can be said of “Flamsted Quarries” to be adequate. The “Woodcarver of Lympus” by the way, has, since its issue four years ago, gone into its twenty-second edition. “Flamsted Quarries,” like that book, is no story of high life, yet many of its characters are ■born ladies and. gentlemen, who if they needed outward refinement had to create it out of very crude material for Flamsted is “way-back,” and its inhabitants are few of them blest with worldly goods. It would be easy to single out more than one hero and heroine, for so many of Miss Waller’s characters are east in heroic mould. But, for the majority of readers, the interest of the book will revolve round Aileen Armagh and Champnoy Googe. Aileen Armagh came to Flamsted from a New York .Catholic Orphanage to act as useful, humble companion to Mrs Louis C'hampney, the most wealthy lady in Flamsted. Champney Googe, who has a somewhat unworthy desire to become a millionaire, is the only son of his mother, and nephew to Mrs Champney, who is childless. Champney is somewhat older than Aileen. Never-the-less he falls in love with her but never speaks the word that would make her happy; that is, he makes love to Aileen, but does not ask her to marry him, intending to make a rich marriage. Then a company is formed in Flamsted for the purpose of working its extensive quarries, and Champ-

ney, with a view to one day taking sole management of these quarries; accepts the proposal of Mr Van Ostend, a distant relation and a millionaire, largely interested in the quarries, to learn the business of financing. He goes to branch houses in Loudon, Paris and Berlin to learn various business > methods, and engages in speculation on his own account, and more than doubles his capital, which is money that represents the whole of his mother's capital. He again speculates, this time with ail his own available capital and a large sum that has been entrusted to him for remittance to Flamsted Quarries, to pay the men’s wages. He then absconds but, after great hardship and suffering, is tracked down and being brought to trial, receives eeven years’ imprisonment. The rest of the story is devoted to the repentance ami rehabilitation of Champney Googe. Here we leave the reader to discover for himself whether Aileen Armagh is made .happy or no. This is the merest, barest outline of a story which is as good, nay better, than any that has ever come out of America ; and that is saying a great deal. It is a novel that deals with the fundamentals of life, and comparing it with the typical American novel, light, frothy elegant, it is indeed hempen-home spun with a downright power of handling that which is eternal in human‘nature — love, mercy, cruelty, hate, and fight—-especially fight for betterment. Tn short it is a human document and should be accorded the highest rank in the literature of fiction.