By the 'Frisco.

New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, Volume 1, Issue 12, 1 September 1900, Page 954

By the 'Frisco.

About Books

Amusements,

Erom "Alien."

July. ENGLAND in summer (all too brief) can, from June to August, hold revelry in sunshine, and as I write, it is easy to imagine that it is a New Zealand summer day. There is a steady, scorching sunshine, the air is hazy with heat, and through the open window there are wafted the aromatic fragrance of a pine forest, and the scent of the sea. But Sttmmer in London is another matter ; stifling rooms, dusty roads, and in July all the freshness dried from the parks and gardens. The hedges are grey with dust, and those who have pursued the season to its end are jaded and pale. In town, as in the country, the ideal month is from the middle of May till the middle of June. In town the season is in full swing : there is a brightness and cheeriness about the people which echoes, or perhaps is chiefly created by the atmosphere ; the sap seems to flow in the veins of the great city as through the branches of the trees. Year after year " Society " blossoms anew. It awakes from langour to new zest, new ambition, new fads, and new youth (for the women of fashion will not grow old. The daughters grow up to womanhood, but the mothers rarely grow grey, or lose the cream and rose pink of their complexions. Driving in the park, at garden parties, or on the river — everywhere you see some who might have stood for Dickens' drawing of Edith's mother in " Dombey and Son," round whom it is decent to draw the rose-coloured curtains). Into late spring and early summer are crowded most of the social functions. The

park between four and six is almost like a scene of Fairyland. Between the great trees and the blazing flower borders, an unbroken stream of carriages pass with spanking horses, liveried servants and exquisitely dressed occupants, frequently notables, sometimes royalty, and as frequently notorieties. From the old, staid family coach with its old-fashioned English gentle folk, proud of the crest, self-contained by right of birth — emulous of none — to the latest Society beauty or Music Hall star, they crowd each other, and occasionally through the ranks the murmur will pass — " The Princess," and driving unostentatiously in her phaeton, her lovely sad facenot looking a day over thirty — will rivet all eyes. The last time I saw her was in June, last year, and certainly the beauty of her eyes and the sweet melancholy of her mouth made her more beautiful than any picture represents her. She was in mourning, and her lovely face looked out from ruffles of billowy black. The season, this year, has not been so gay as last. The honours of war held pleasure in check, but when the tension was I'elaxed, a reaction set in, which showed itself in the usual gaieties, enjoyed more thoroughly, perhaps, because of the check. The outburst of enthusiasm that the spring of 1900 evoked will always be memorable in England. No description has exaggerated — it rose to a passion. The crust of convention, the stolid and well-bred calm, was swept away before the outburst, and when the news of British victory reached the capital, it might have been said of the city,

there was no night there, for the sun went down and all but rose upon its expression of joy. But English born and Conservative by instinct, New Zealand bred, and therefore Liberal by experience, one looks, perhaps, with alien eyes on what goes for religion to those to whom England has always been home, and while one prides in one's Motherland, one sees something of its — arrogance ? Certainly its diplomacy.

Perhaps moxe interesting than the books themselves is the story of how some of them are written. And in the talk among writers, some pathetic and some humorous revelations are made. There are some, however, who never admit to difficulty encountered, or anything less than a small fortune attendant on a first publication. In some rare instances this is true, bat the literary road to success is unflagging industry, and that sort of heroism that is not courageous only in the hours of inspiration when to " do " is easier than to die : but does not give in in those grey hours when to die would be easier than to do! Criticism has lost much of its old power. In most casesa writer makes his own public, and more is done by personal recommendation of a book than by print, for it is well known that one voice speaks through many journals, and not always its own opinion, for criticism rans in ruts like many things. It is Conservative or Liberal, smart or caustic, learned or otherwise, according to the ethics of the journal and the presumed taste of its readers. And sometimes the critics are yoang cubs from school whose horizon is limited by chimney pots, and sometimes by soured and disappointed failures, and sometimes men and women of knowledge and experience, whose praise and whose condemnation are alike just and impersonal and whose critical sense is keen. But for a book that sees the daylight, perhaps hundreds are known but to the writer and a publisher's reader. I know of one publishing firm that from two thousand MSS. sent for approval in one year, published

only thirty. Even a moderate) success moans more than is genorally uudorstood, for thousands of books are written every year of which the public never know, and would not know if they could. Miss Montressor's Into the. Highways ana Hedges kept the reader absorbed in the MSS. for days. Tom Gallon's Tattcrlg was first read, before the world had it, on a pile of carpets — for the reader received it in tho middle of a move, and decided that what could affect to laughter, and tears, and uttor forgetfulness of a foggy London day, packing, and furniture vans, was calculated to woo attention under any circumstances ! When a publisher's roador forgets ho is reading, he may guess that when tho MS. is in clear type, other readers will do likowiso. And The Cedar Star and Torn Sails did this. You have, of course, read The School for Saints, by John Oliver Hobbes ? Then read its sequel, Robert Orange, just out. Thoro is a treat in store for tho reader. Quo or two passages I quote, but thero is not a page that does not hold a thought. And some thoughts one could never forget, for instance — "That wonderful passage in the New Testament — I often remembor it ! After all the agony and separation were over, Simon Peter said to the disciples, ' i go a-fishing.' He went back to the work he was doing when our Lord first called him. What courage !" And isn't it ? To leave the boatou track and follow an ideal, and see it dio and disappear, and then to take up the old humdrum task again ! Yes, it is courage. And this — "I am thinking thero is but one way of resisting tho woo of life— the infinite must oppose the infinite. Infinite sorrow must be met by infinite love." " I suppose we have the sorrow, and the infinite love is God's. We mustn't call even oar love infinite, Robert." He hesitated a few moments before he replied, " I call it no name." " Still," she said, " the very book in which the vanity of all things is most insisted on has lived itself nearly three thousand years. Solomon has given the lie to his own despair

of being remembered. This is why I never feel sad now when I think about the other years which made him discontented." "Were they years? I believe he wanted to conquer the world, which is strong, and his own weakness which was even stronger, as an adversary. We must know the measure of a man's desh'es before we can sound the depths of his regrets." . . . "Nothing unknown can be wished for," she said gently, " and so if some few things did not last we should not have this dissatisfaction at the thought of their perishing. . . the greatest cross is to be without a cross." " . . . Every supreme blessing must be bought with long sadness both before and after." The love story of Robert and Mrs. Parflete is exquisite. Those who are acquainted with The School for Saints know the high tone of Robert's mind. In the sequel his asceticism is even more pronounced. Mrs. Parflete too is a visionary. In their journey through the world they are not of it, and walk through its slanders and contaminations as children do. Their love is a thing too fine to be understood. To tell the tragedy of their marriage day would be to cheat the reader. But John Oliver Hobbes believes that the priest and the sensualist are so born, and whatever are the experiences that go to modify, a character returns to its first ideal of life. In Fisher Un win's Colonial Library list for the coming publishing season are Among the Syringas, by Mary E. Mann, Edwai-d Barry, South Sea Pearler, by Louis Becke, both of which should be asked for, and Jerome's Three Men on a Buminel.

The hot weather is thinning the theatres, bat till recently Mrs. Patrick Campbell has been giving ten performances a week — six of Magda. She is one of those willowy, spirituelle-looking women who give the idea

of fragility, but her great eyes are always alive. She gets through a tremendous amount of work, and is a thorough business manager as the Royalty Theatre testifies. Of Kubelik, the genius violinist, it is said that he is the son of a poor gardener, who taught his sons to play the violin. He was the second son, and when his brother, aged seven (two years the elder of Kubelik) was taught by their father to play, the five-year-old lad clamoured to learn also. In three months he knew more than his brother — in six he had outdistanced his father. But although many offers were made by managers for the child, the good father refused them all, and saved his son for a brilliant career. He worked to send the lad to the Conservatoire in Prague whei'e he studied for six year's, kept by the sacrifices of the father. It was the irony of fate that the father died only a few months before his son made his great triumph. " La Boheme " has given its first production, and had a great success. The story of the opera is not far-fetched, having to do with personages and incidents within the ken of the public. The performances of " La Boheme " the critics assert have been among the best given at Covent Garden this year, Madame Melba as Mimi not losing her hold. The Bevieiv of the Week says: — "All that it pretends to do is to give four little scenes of Bohemian life, practically centring in the love of Rodolphe for Mimi. . . . and four very charming scenes they are. The introduction of Rodolphe to Mimi, through the medium of the lost key, is one of the most delightful episodes that I know. . . the return and departure of Mimi in the third act, the terribly pathetic attempts of the deserted Bohemians to return to their old jovial ways, and Mimi's final return and death : all these are scenes totally different to the ordinary high falutin of grand opera, and they are the more charming because infinitely more human."