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Novels and Novelists

A Holiday Novel

A Holiday Novel

X X X — By X. X. X. (X. X., 75. 6d. net)

Seated in one of those sealed, sumptuous interiors where the rich, unbridled furniture seems to have gone back to the jungle, and the illusion is heightened by the two immense ebony elephants in full trumpet on the giant sideboard, each bearing on his trunk—inexplicable anomaly—a minute white china vase containing a dead fern, the terrified eye fluttering over the deathly-white page of the illustrated something or other, the terrified ear on the qui vive for that discreet rustle which must be followed up the ominous stairs and into a chair which page 240 would seem to have been designed as a smoking-room armchair for a skeleton, the entrapped mind all the time busy composing that sentence which should convey in a breath that we had not time to-day, and, indeed, had not come to have anything done, but just to be looked at in case—our attention was arrested by a winning little paragraph of advice which was intended for those of ‘our readers’ who had thought at all seriously of taking away a book with them to read on their holiday. It was distinguished by a note of quiet confidence, infinitely reassuring to a timid unaccustomed reader, to the effect that, provided the holiday was long enough, the print large enough, and the margins sufficiently wide, there was no reason at all why the entire book should not be finished before the hunt for the return half of the ticket began. It was hinted at that the book should have a serviceable cover to protect it from the ravages of wind, wave and tide—that it should not be read while swimming except in the case of a novice, when, an exciting chapter being agreed upon, the teacher should hold the book out of the water on a level with the patient's eyes, and, walking slowly backward, draw him on, almost literally speaking. Should the book suffer from unexpected immersion (the book indeed!), a brisk drying in the open air, or failing this, on the outside of the bedroom window-sill (should the landlady have no objection), would soon set all to rights again. But while on the subject of accidents it further suggested that if the book should be buried, there is no cause for alarm; a spade should be quietly borrowed, the exact spot ascertained as far as possible, the sand gently removed so as to avoid any bruising of the cover, and upon recovery: ‘Hold the book by the two stiffened sides. Clap together. It is one of the famous charms of sand that it is so quickly and so cleanly capable of removal….’ In the case of a picnic, especially where portable liquids were carried, it was strongly advised to place the book, if the reader looked forward to a quiet half-hour with it under a tree while the little folks 240 page 241 wandered, on the top of the picnic basket, and, to prevent any fading or curling of the leaves, to make all snug with an old copy of yesterday's newspaper.

We were surprised to read that there were occasions when the presence of a book on a holiday made for selfishness, or perhaps thoughtlessness, rather. The example of reading at meals was given. To read at meals meant that the book was bound to be propped against something, and that something was almost equally bound to be an article of common use such as the cruet, the milk-jug, or even, in very thoughtless cases, a pot of jam. How often the writer had seen a retiring or shy nature's enjoyment of the meal entirely spoilt by his choosing to go without rather than force himself to break the silence of the table, at the risk of a possible snub or glance of amusement as well. On the other hand, it is not wise to leave the book on the hall-stand or thrust into the stairs during dinner. A run up the stairs with it to one's own bedroom may save many a long hour's search for it, later, or even a more bitter disappointment still. Never read either directly before or after eating; after all, we have come away to give our digestions a rest; and, it is unnecessary to say, never read in bed. One may as well stay at home as risk one's life with a strange lamp or candle. One word more. It is most unwise to take away an author who is not thor ughly well-known and liked. What could be more unpleasant than to find yourself on a rainy day, in seaside lodgings, with someone whom … what indeed?

(August 13, 1920.)