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Novels and Novelists

Two Novels

Two Novels

Madeline of the Desert — By Arthur Weigall
The Lonely House — By Mrs. Belloc Lowndes

Of these two novels the first only is by an inexperienced hand. In the way in which it is written—in its composition—the author has been at no great pains to discover a path that is less trodden than the familiar, popular route. We glance at the opening sentence and read: ‘The blazing orb of the Egyptian sun had passed behind the rugged hills of the Western Desert when Father Gregory, tall and gaunt …’ And then here follows a description of the retreat which he has made for himself and other souls in need of peace and—enter the heroine, ‘beautiful beyond the ordinary conception of beauty,’ riding a donkey, smoking a cigarette in a long amber holder, with something of the Russian Hussar, something of the boy and yet something ‘essentially feminine’ in her appearance. Her white slender hands are like those he has seen in the Florentine paintings of the Madonna. She has, of course, come to tell him the story of her life, while the light changes from gold to grey, the smoke rises from the evening fires, and the shepherds return page 194 with their flocks. She is, of course, very naive, very bitter, very indifferent as to what the end will be. Her mother was an English dancer in a café in Port Said; her father, so they told her, an Irish revolutionary. At sixteen she ran away with a kind man, who, kinder still, died, and left her a fortune. So she came to London, educated herself, played the Magdalene in a pageant, and then drifted—drifted. Now she is sailing down the Nile with an Italian Prince. Why does she tell him all this? Because she has heard him preach in London, because she wants him to look at her as he looked at his congregation then, ‘with all that blessedness in your face. Oh, man, don't you see that I'm miserable, miserable? …’

This for the hardened reader is a by no means promising beginning. And when, a few days later, the holy man receives a letter from her telling him she intends to commit suicide in Port Said, and we are informed at the same time that his nephew has arrived from England and is occupying a room on the same landing as she; when we are forced to trace his growing fascination for the half-gay, half-tragic girl, which culminates in his rescuing her from the moment of despair when she tries to throw herself over the balcony, and to listen to his ‘God sent me to you just in time,’ we feel that our worst fears are realized. Here is a new novel that never was new—a new carriage hitched on to the same old engine, making the same journey, stopping at the same stations and running into the same sunset. But no, this first novel cannot be dismissed so lightly. Under its appearance of superficiality there is a quite unusual and remarkable understanding of the character of Madeline. However absurd it may seem in this workaday world, it is nevertheless true that there are these little delicate creatures who drift through life until they fall in love as she fell in love with the rescuer. She fell in love and she was born again. The description of her relationship with this ordinary, rather stupid young Englishman is entirely convincing. We wish that Mr. page 195 Weigall had been content to write their story without introducing the labour party and their absurd, extravagant behaviour. As to Madeline's speechmaking and public appearances—they seem to us irrelevant. In our opinion he should have concentrated on the story of her relationship with Robin and developed the highly amusing character of Daisy Jones. In fact, he should trust himself more and free himself from the idea that a novel is not furnished if it does not contain all the furniture mentioned in all the catalogues.

The case of Mrs. Belloc Lowndes is very different. She belongs to yesterday, and her latest novel is written with such expertness that we feel it were impossible that anything could have been described differently. She has her certain rules; she follows them and she arrives at a certain conclusion. There is something determined and resigned in her manner which reminds us of your carver who has carved chickens for the past—how many—years. There is only one question which suggests itself to the admiring reader. How seriously does she mean us to take these dreadful murders? How shocked are we expected to feel by the spectacle of Lily, that ‘delightfully pretty, happy-hearted, simple-natured, old-fashioned English girl,’ on her way to the English church and finding her way barred by the decomposing body of a very nice man whom she had dined with only a short time ago? Whenever incidents of this kind occur, the author has a trick of saying that never in all her life would Lily forget—this or that tragedy of the moment. Wouldn't it be a trifle surprising if she did? The story is simple. Lily is sent to stay with some relations who are not really relations at their villa above Monte Carlo. The household is three in number—Aunt Cossy, the Count, her husband, and an ancient servant, Cristina. From the moment of her arrival we are prepared for the worst, but Lily can face mystery after mystery without having the slightest suspicion that she is living with arch-criminals. Their habit is to invite wealthy men to dinner, give them page 196 delicious food, drug them, and then take them off to some quiet spot, shoot and bury them. In this way their son, a young man of fashion in Roman society, is kept supplied with pocket money. If Lily had not gone to stay at the villa, ten to one they would never have been discovered, unless the trio had become so careless about disposing of the bodies that they had left them like fallen fruit under the trees. Their lack of precaution is one of the most entertaining features of the book. For the reader is entertained and thrilled throughout. His suspicions being awakened from the moment the Countess told Lily she could only have a boiled egg and a piece of bread on her arrival, his eyes are big to see something sinister in everything—even in the bath towel with a hole in it that the heroine finds, later, is used for drying the dishes. Perhaps, after all, this discovery, for the modest young girl, is more dreadful than the finding of that dead body.

(May 28, 1920.)