page 137

Dragonflies

Blindman — By Ethel Colburn Mayne
New Wine in Old Bottles — By Eleanor Mordaunt
Interim — By Dorothy Richardson

Who can tell, watching the dragonfly, at what point in its swift angular flight it will suddenly pause and hover, quivering over this or that? The strange little jerk—the quivering moment of suspension—we might almost fancy they were the signs of a minute inward shock of recognition felt by the dragonfly. ‘There is something here; something here for me. What is it?’ it seems to say. And then, at the same instant, it is gone. Away it darts, glancing over the deep pool until another floating flower or golden bud or tangle of shadowy weed attracts it, and again it is still, curious, hovering over….

But this behaviour, enchanting though it may be in the dragonfly, is scarcely adequate when adopted by the writer of fiction. Nevertheless, there are certain modern authors who do not appear to recognize its limitations. For them the whole art of writing consists in the power with which they are able to register that faint inward shock of recognition. Glancing through life they make the discovery that there are certain experiences which are, as it were, peculiarly theirs. There is a quality in the familiarity of these experiences or in their strangeness which evokes an immediate mysterious response—a desire for expression. But now, instead of going any further, instead of attempting to relate their ‘experiences’ to life or to see them against any kind of background, these writers are, as we see them, content to remain in the air, hovering over, as if the thrilling moment were enough and more than enough. Indeed, far from desiring to explore it, it is as though they would guard the secret for themselves as well as for us, so that when they do dart away all is as untouched, as unbroken as before.

page 138

But what is the effect of this kind of writing upon the reader? How is he to judge the importance of one thing rather than another if each is to be seen in isolation? And is it not rather cold comfort to be offered a share in a secret on the express understanding that you do not ask what the secret is—more especially if you cherish the uncomfortable suspicion that the author is no wiser than you, that the author is in love with the secret and would not discover it if he could?

Miss Ethel Colburn Mayne is a case in point. In these short stories which she has published under the title of ‘Blindman’ we have the impression that what she wishes to convey is not the event itself, but what happens immediately after. That is, one might say, her moment—when the party is over and the lights are turned down, but the room is still left just as it was with the chairs in little groups, with somebody's flowers left to wither, with a scrap of the paper on the floor that somebody has dropped. One might almost fancy that there still lingered in the air the vibration of voices and music—that the mirrors still held the shadows of shadows. To reconstruct what has happened without disturbing anything, without letting in any more light and, as far as possible, adding nothing—that would seem to be the author's desire. But she is so fearful lest the atmosphere of her story be broken by a harsh word or a loud footfall that she is ever on the point of pulling down another blind, silently locking another door, holding up a warning finger and tip-toeing away until the reader feels himself positively bewildered. His bewilderment is not decreased by the queer sensation that he shares it with the author and that she would not have it less. ‘There is something here—something strange…’ But does she ever get any nearer to the strange thing than that? We feel that she is so content with the strangeness, with the fascination of just hinting, just suggesting, that she loses sight of all else.

Mrs. Eleanor Mordaunt's latest book, ‘Old Wine in New Bottles,’ is a collection of short stories likewise. But page 139 never, never could she be accused of dropping the bone to grasp the shadow. This is a book without a shadow, without—for all its obese Chinamen, foul opium dens, prostitutes, negroes, criminals, squalid cafés, murders at sea and lecherous Prussian officers—a hint of strangeness. It would be interesting to know Mrs. Eleanor Mordaunt's opinion of these stories. Are they merely the expression of her contempt for the public taste? We cannot think so. She has catered for it too lavishly, too cunningly—she has even set new dishes before it with unfamiliar spices. But on the other hand she can hardly agree with the publishers' announcement that these pretentious, preposterous stories are ‘vibrant with the common passions of humanity.’ Let us examine one which is typical of them all. It is called ‘Peepers All.’ Rhoda Keyes is a girl in a jam factory. She is beautiful ‘with her yellow hair … the creamy pillow of her neck, the full curve of her breast in the flimsy blouse, the shapely hips beneath the tight sheath skirt.’ She lives with her man, who is a sailor, in a first-floor room opposite a Chinaman's shop. Every afternoon at five o'clock she comes home, strips to the waist, carefully washes herself, and then changes her clothes before going off for a lark in the street with her pals. Now it happens that the filthy fat old Chinaman can see into her bedroom, so every afternoon he sits looking through the blind. ‘More than once he put out the tip of his tongue and licked his lips; the hands lying on his fat knees opened and shut.’ He is not the only spectator. Unknown to him his two friends, Fleischmann, a German Jew, in the White Slave traffic, and Ramdor, a Eurasian, share the exhibition, and all three of them determine to seduce the innocent, careless, heedless Rhoda. They are repulsed, and in their anger confide in each other and arrange that she shall be lured to the Chinaman's room and discovered there by her husband. But at the last moment her place is taken by a poor cripple, wearing her hat and coat, who receives the blow meant for Rhoda, and dies murmuring: ‘Greater love—eh, dearie me,’ ow does page 140 it go, I've lost a bit—but summut—summut o' this sort—ter lay down 'is life fur—fur 'is pal.'

We protest that such a story, such a mixture of vulgarity, absurdity and ugliness, is an insult to any public that can spell its letters.

‘Interim,’ which is the latest slice from the life of Miriam Menderson, might almost be described as a nest of short stories. There is Miriam Menderson, the box which holds them all, and really it seems there is no end to the number of smaller boxes that Miss Richardson can make her contain. But ‘Interim’ is a very little one indeed. In it Miriam is enclosed in a Bloomsbury boarding-house, and though she receives, as usual, shock after shock of inward recognition, they are produced by such things as well-browned mutton, gas jets, varnished wallpapers. Darting through life, quivering, hovering, exulting in the familiarity and the strangeness of all that comes within her tiny circle, she leaves us feeling, as before, that everything being of equal importance to her, it is impossible that everything should not be of equal unimportance.