Evening star., 1937-03-06

whose dutOOtOgfdpny, some
thing of Myself, for My Friends
Kno1Un and UnknoiDn," has
Just been published By Double
day Dor1n.
being done for them, TO put every
obstacle in the way of any sort Of de-
velopment and to take all the cash
they could squeeze out of it. In which
respect they we're no better and no
worse than many of their brethren"
It was Batemans, his home in
Sussex, that claimed his final and
complete affection. and to his
archaeological researches on his land
there (Which resulted in Puck Of
Pook's Hill' and Rewards and
Fairies") he gives a detailed and low
ing passage
He writes little of literary con-
temporaries. but accords passing men,
ton to current tendencies in biography
under the name Of the Higher Can
nibalism" or the exhumation of
scarcely cold notorieties, defenseless
females for choice, and tricking them
out with sprightly inferences and
sex deductions to suit the mood of
the market" He also speaks of the
modern novels, as contraSted with
the "old hree-decker;;" they are,
he says, 'Quivering to their own power,
overloaded with bars, ball rooms and
insistent chromium plumbing helliShly
noisy from the sports deck to the
barber shop; but serving their genera
ton as the old craft served theirs.
The young men were already laying
down the lines for them. fondly be-
lieving that the old laws for design
and construction we're for them abro-
gated"
A ND he mentions reviewers and
= critics-"As I got to know literary
circles and their critical output, I
was struck by the slenderness of some
of the writer's equipment. I could not
see how they got along with SO casual
knowledge Of French work and, ap-
parently. of much English grounding
that had supposed indispensable.
Their stuff seemed to be a day-to-day
traffic in generalitieS, hedged by trade
considerations making my own
tests. would ask simple questions,
misquote or niSattribute my quota
tions; or (once or twice. invent an
author. The result did not increase
my reverence. Had they been news
roner mon in, hurry T ShoIIId have
understood; but the gentlemen were
presented to me as Priests and Pom
tiffs" And he adds, II would not
today recommend any author to con-
cern himself overly with reviews"
The gentle words log rolling do not
come into his discourse on this sub
ject, but the meaning is plainly in
his mind. And who should know, if
he did not?
The tremendous ouotability Of GER
tain Of his works astonished him, and
he comments on it. as he does on the
fact that the Moulmein pagoda does
not overlook the Bay of Bengal. by
way of pointing out that he never
said that it did. That he was the
ancestor of "Tarzan of the Apes" he
admits, but without shame. for, he
remarks, the author was reported to
have said that he wanted to find out
how bad a book he could write and
get away with" And that. says Rud-
yard Kipling "is a legitimate ambi-
tion.'
And so he continues, giving an ac-
count of the outside Of his life and
saying simply of its inside that he was
happy and that 1T is the greatest of
my many blessings that I was given
grace to know them at the time. in
stead of having them brought to my
remorsefu1 notice too late" The core
Of this happiness was his family-the
love between himself and his parents,
and that deep affection which bound
his own domestic circle so privately
and feliCltOuSly together.
The work ends abruptly on a breath
Tightening phrase. He is writing OF
his study and mentions that two
globes stood always beside his table.
On one Of these. he wrote. "a great
airman had once outlined in white
paint those air-routes to the east and
Australia which were well IN use be-
fore my DEATH
That death had to be mourned a
year ago. No one today is writing
better. Only golden few have ever
written as well.
THEATRE. BY Somerset Vaughan.
Garden City: Doubleday Doran
g. Co.
CINCE it is understood that Somer-
- set Vaughan never writes with
superficial badness, the only Job left
for a critic to do when one of his
works appears is to decide whether or
not its goodness is of superficial va
riety. 1t has been that way sometimes
in the past, as no one can know better
than Mr.. Vaughan himself. He has
written more than once with, as it
were,2 his left hand, with one eye shut
and the other fixed on the market.
On such occasions he has turned out
the best pot boilers that you could
possibly buy. But it must always be
remembered that he is a man who
wrote q Book. too. And when a man
has written one Book, why, he may
write another, although it will not
always follow that he does so.
Theatre" however, turns out to be
about midway between. It is better
than a pot boiler It Is better than
Cakes and Ale" for example, which
was not a pot boiler. It does not need
to be said hat 1t Is good reading It
Is absolutely delightful reading. It Is
Somerset Vaughan at his gayest. It
is perfectly grand fun.
It Is the story of woman OF genius,
established, when the book opens, as
the greatest English actress. She Is
in her late 40s at this time; she is
married and has been, without q
lapse, q virtuous wife. The boob de-
scribes her sudden entrance into extra.
marital adventures.
The adventures themselves are moth