Monday, 22 September 2014

Penguin no. 572: Love and Mr. Lewisham
by H.G. Wells

Lewisham had a strong persuasion, an instinct it may be, that human beings should not be happy while others near them are wretched, and this gay glitter of prosperity had touched him with a sense of crime. He still believed people were responsible for their own lives; in those days he had still to gauge the possibilities of moral stupidity in himself and his fellow-men. He happened upon 'Progress and Poverty' just then, and some casual numbers of the 'Commonweal,' and it was only too easy to accept the theory of cunning plotting capitalists and landowners, and faultless, righteous, martyr workers. He became a Socialist forthwith. The necessity to do something at once to manifest the new faith that was in him was naturally urgent. So he went out and (historical moment) bought that red tie!

It may be that Mr. Lewisham holds fairly romantic notions about the brightness of his future prospects; the narrator certainly thinks he does. He mocks poor young Mr. Lewisham all the way through this story on account of what he judges to be an evident naïveté, but I was never sure that the narrator was really as worldly-wise as he supposed himself to be. It seemed to me a case of the very-green mocking the slightly greener.

Mr. Lewisham is an industrious eighteen year old pupil-teacher employed at Whortley Proprietary School, and his first problem with love comes from his having failed to make any allowance for it in his grand scheme. Mr. Lewisham intends great things, but they are all conditioned on his achieving his B.A. degree—with honours in all subjects—at the London University a few years hence, and to this end he has mapped out a schedule of study which involves almost every waking hour of every day for the next few years. He has pledged himself to rising each morning at 5am in order to study French before breakfast, to reading literature through every meal, and to devoting his afternoons to maths and science before heading out to his 'preparation duty'. As the narrator wryly notes, with so much set to be achieved at such a young age, '[w]here Mr Lewisham will be at thirty stirs the imagination'.

Sunday, 14 September 2014

Penguin no. 1398: A Perfect Woman
by L.P. Hartley

Cover illustration by Charles Mozley.
     Love is its own torturer; and, like cruder tortures, it makes its victim want to tell the truth — the truth about itself. It is by nature self-betraying; if nothing else, the eyes give it away. Denying Irma, Harold had denied the thing that meant most to him; now, instead of a sweet thought of her, he had only this monstrous lie, which came between him and his image of her, threatening it with extinction. In a panic, feeling she would be lost to him unless he testified, he said:
     'You were right, Alec. I am ... well, I am interested in Irma.'
     Relief came instantly. So might the victim feel when the thumb-screw is loosened.

Harold and Isabel Eastwood are a conventional middle-class couple living in a coastal town with their two young children. They share a married life which has been largely uneventful until now, and which they accept without too much reflection. But A Perfect Woman tells the story of a crisis in their marriage—or perhaps it could be described as an adventure—which occurs after Harold meets the moderately-successful novelist Alec Goodrich while travelling by train.

Until that day their marriage had served to give their lives structure, and provided a way for them to define themselves within their community. Isabel had devoted herself to being an enlightened mother and housewife, and had never reflected for a moment - or perhaps had carefully refused to reflect for a moment - on whether she was personally fulfilled in these roles. And being a husband and father gave Harold a sense of his own importance, and provided a platform from which he could look down upon all those who had failed to achieve such steps. But this all changes when Harold meets the author on the train; soon after both Harold and Isabel seem prepared to abandon everything which had served to give their lives meaning, without a second thought.

Goodrich is engrossed in a book for much of the journey and so there is little conversation - it turns out to be one of his own, for he is ever-hopeful that a fellow passenger will notice his choice of reading material and be effusive in praise, and so we learn early on that this is a man who is unusually self-concerned and in need of affirmation. But this is one pleasure that Harold cannot offer him, as he is not a reader, and he certainly knows nothing of Goodrich's novels.

Monday, 8 September 2014

Penguin no. 585: Rex v. Anne Bickerton
by Sydney Fowler

Well, he must make the best of the facts as he had to face them. He must decide which of the two women was the murderer before to-morrow was over, and after that there must be no looking back. Guilty or innocent, she had got to hang. But the thought did not perturb him. He had too great a confidence in his own ability.

"If you take at random half a dozen of the most famous murder trials of recent years, and read the evidence carefully, you'll probably find that not more than two were really proved—not to the degree of proof which would satisfy a bank or an insurance company in a business deal."

Sydney Fowler was clearly no supporter of the death penalty for those convicted of committing murder, and it would seem that he had many reservations about the process in use in 1930 to deliver people to that end.

He tells, in Rex v. Anne Bickerton, a story of three ordinary people who inadvertently find themselves involved in an unexpected death which appears to have been brought about by an intentional act: they face together the ordeal of having the case examined by the coroner, and then Anne Bickerton, as noted in the title, faces the subsequent ordeal of a murder trial on her own. He uses their story to canvass the many flaws he identifies in the process, flaws which are often underpinned by an incompatibility between the personal priorities of those who work within the system and its overarching intention.

He also focuses on the imperfectness of a process which makes no allowance for the uncertainty about what is known and what is not: when the facts seem incompatible with any feasible explanation of the crime, it is assumed without question that one of the suspects must be lying or keeping something hidden. But these witnesses are perfectly frank, at least about the things that matter (and where they are not, it is only to protect themselves from the avaricious inclinations of the lawyers); the problem stems from something else, perhaps a lack of imagination, or a conceit about infallibility.

Sunday, 31 August 2014

Penguin no. 902: Serenade
by James M. Cain

Under Socialism, it seems that there's only one guy that really knows how it works, and if some other guy thinks he does, it's a counter-revolutionary act, or, in unsocialist lingo, treason. So back in 1927, a guy named Serrano thought he did, and they arrested him and his friends down in Cuernavaca, and started up to Mexico with them in a truck. But then up in Mexico somebody decided it would be a good idea if they never got there at all, and some of the boys started out in a fast car to meet them. They fastened their hands with baling wire, lined them up beside the road, and mowed them down with a machine gun. Then they said the revolution was over, and the American papers handed it to them they had a stable government at last, and that a strong man could turn the trick, just give him the chance. So wooden crosses mark the spot, an inspiring sight to see.

It is the pace of this novel which is beguiling: there is never a moment when you can begin to relax, secure in a conviction that everything is going to turn out fine, and yet it is also never clear exactly what it is that will go wrong. And for this reason I am reluctant to discuss much of Serenade's plot, as I suspect his is yet another novel best experienced without too much forewarning. The only thing I would note is that it may not be a novel for anyone who finds it necessary to approve of an author's beliefs or prejudices. One premise of this novel is that opera has become captured by an effete crowd; another is that homosexual tendencies are emasculating.

Serenade contains several references to the opera Carmen, which Wikipedia describes as 'the story of the downfall of Don José, a naïve soldier who is seduced by the wiles of the fiery Gypsy, Carmen' after which 'José abandons his childhood sweetheart and deserts from his military duties, yet loses Carmen's love to the glamorous toreador Escamillo.' Carmen's plot seems to have a few parallels in Serenade, in that John Henry Sharp uses his own wiles to seduce the Mexican prostitute Juana Montes, having distracted her affections from the well-known bull-fighter Triesca.

Sunday, 24 August 2014

Penguin no. 98: The Murders in Praed Street
by John Rhode

Although the unexplained murders which had taken place in Praed Street were soon forgotten by the general public, their shadow hung heavily over the neighbourhood in which they had been committed...The police, under the direction of Inspector Whyland, were engaged in passing a fine-toothed comb through the Paddington district, and the minor offenders disturbed in the process were as concerned as a colony of ants unearthed by a spade. Mr. Ludgrove was visited furtively late at night by anxious people seeking advice how to conceal the evidence of their misdemeanours from the prying eyes of the police.

The murderer seems, at first, to be targeting shopkeepers. James Tovey, a 'Fruit and Vegetable Merchant', is killed on Praed Street as he returns from the only outing which could ever tempt him from his home on a wintry Sunday evening, and so it is immediately evident that this was no random crime, and that the killer has devoted time to the study of his victim. Tovey went out believing that he was needed at 'St. Martha's Hospital' as the only person able to identify the victim of a fatal accident.

And as there was nothing that Tovey enjoyed more on a Sunday evening than reading of the week's murders and accidents in the Sunday papers, the late-night phone call summoning him to the hospital has him fairly thrilled at the prospect of featuring in just such a story himself the following week. And so he does, but not in the way he had imagined.

Sunday, 17 August 2014

Penguin no. 1555: The Case of the Four Friends
by J.C. Masterman

'But you know,' he went on unexpectedly, 'what I like most about Victorian novels is that tidying up chapter at the end. It pleases my sense of order that all the eligible bachelors are neatly paired off with the available spinsters, that the villain dies in penury at Boulogne, whilst all virtuous characters flourish like green bay trees. And I especially like the '"flash-on" or whatever it should be called, when the numerous and rosy-cheeked children gather round their honest parents and are told selected passages from the romance of their earlier lives. It's all so comforting. Tell us, Brendel, what happened to the four friends.'

The four 'friends' of the title could not really be considered friends — they would be better described as uneasy co-vacationers, each of whom carries a secret enmity within his heart.

These men are all fairly well up the social scale and sufficiently wealthy that they can spend their New Year break at the Magnifico, putatively the most expensive and luxurious hotel in England. Yet each is guilty of having committed a crime, at least in terms of the laws which applied at the time, although their transgressions remain secret, or known only to a few. This has left two of the men vulnerable, and all of the men dangerous.

But the aspect I found most intriguing was this often-encountered idea, at least in the older Penguins, that the optimal solution to the affair will be the one in which none of the men need suffer the consequences of their irregular actions. It will be considered ideal, should no one end up murdered, if everything can be set to right without the involvement of police or lawyers, and without anyone ever finding out what they have done. Each man's reputation will then be left unsullied, and his family, friends and business associates will be shielded from the shame which pertains to knowing someone who has behaved inappropriately. I always wonder, when I encounter this attitude in an old Penguin, if the misdemeanours and transgressions of the lower classes were viewed in quite the same way.

Sunday, 10 August 2014

Penguin no. 79: The Rasp
by Philip MacDonald

     Belford stood where he was left. His lips moved soundlessly. The bank-notes in his hand crackled as the stubby fingers clenched upon them. Presently he raised his head and looked with blurred vision along the path through the trees.
     "Gawd!" he said, the refinement of the servant's hall now completely gone. "Gawd! What a bloke! What a bloody good bloke!"

Like Four Frightened People, this is another old Penguin which features an unfathomably favourable review from the time it was first published. A reviewer for the Glasgow Citizen considered The Rasp to be 'masterly' and 'worthy to stand on the same shelf as Trent's Last Case'. But while I appreciated Trent's Last Case, I didn't enjoy The Rasp at all, and rather than finding it masterly, I found it dull and far-fetched, with an explanation of the crime which seemed interminable and which took me several evenings to get through.

But my real difficulty with the story was in not finding a single character appealing — the female characters are either unfailingly efficient, given to hysteria, or, in the words of the protagonist, Puritan and sexless, while the male characters have been to the War and returned either neurasthenic or unscathed but speaking in the oddest way — a mixture of heartiness and bravado, and with what seems to be a rarely-overcome inclination to mock or patronise those of the lower classes.

It was the protagonist I found hardest to tolerate, although he was clearly conceived as a character intended to inspire admiration. He seemed to be an Ace Rimmer for the 1930s (and you can see this in the paragraph quoted above) — this would be fine in a work designed to amuse, but it is difficult to take when it is intended seriously. Anthony Gethryn seems to have excelled at everything he has ever attempted - sports, politics, painting, writing, and especially in his war service. And of course he is intelligent, charitable, self-deprecating and modest — so modest that he bristles should anyone should think of referring to him as Colonel. Yet somehow that title invariably makes itself known.

Sunday, 3 August 2014

Penguin no. 1708: Murder in Pastiche
by Marion Mainwaring

Cover design by Romek Marber
Normally this would have made a coolness between us, and when I went into Beare's cabin and saw him sitting up in bed with a few acres of yellow pyjama wrapped around his four hundred pounds, and his life-jacket within easy reach, I thought of a number of possible cracks, such as saying that the Captain was alarmed about a list to starboard, starboard being the side Beare's cabin was on; but I refrained. For one thing it wasn't up to my usual level and I also admit that I didn't have the heart. So I merely asked, Did he realize that if we'd flown we'd be a third of the way home by now.

Murder in Pastiche describes the chance gathering of nine literary detectives aboard a transatlantic cruise: Atlas Poireau, Mallory King, Jon Nappelby, Jerry Pason, Lord Simon Quinsey, Trajan Beare, Spike Bludgeon, Fan Silver and Broderick Tourneur — the names will be somewhat familiar to anyone acquainted with Golden Age crime fiction — discover that they are to be fellow passengers on R.M.S. Florabunda's journey from Dock 4-b in Liverpool to Ruggarty Pier in New York.

And with so many detectives gathered together it is clear that this will be the perfect crossing for a murder, and aboard is a passenger who seems the perfect candidate for murder victim. Lord Simon Quinsey describes Paul Price as 'a character in search of a murderer', and it is clear that he has been created by Mainwaring with his end in mind.

The few details we learn about Paul Pry, as he is known behind his back, suggest him to be amoral, avaricious and self-concerned, and entirely unworthy of any reader's concern: he works as a gossip columnist for a mainstream U.S. newspaper and he takes advantage of his position to indulge a lucrative sideline which has him charging both to publish positive reviews and to not publish negative ones. His journey to Europe was undertaken solely to curtail his niece's fledgling romance.

He doesn't survive his first night aboard ship. His corpse, adorned with the requisite perplexing props: a pipe and a red and yellow striped scarf, is found crammed tightly into a corner on the deck next morning, with injuries which suggest he has been struck on the head. Everything indicates that he has been murdered.

Sunday, 27 July 2014

Penguin no. 15: Four Frightened People
by E. Arnot Robertson

The Sakei were round me when daylight returned: little men, mean-featured, emaciated: the certain extinction of the race within a few hundred years will be a loss only to biologists: they were the worst physical specimens of mankind that I have ever seen.

'I—er—write a little myself—just novels, you know,' said the lean and avid red-haired lady with that air of terrific modesty now in vogue among professional women, who boast to one another of their cooking and their ability to renovate evening dresses and their visits to Ideal Home Exhibitions—being carefully non-peculiar. 'But I don't expect you to know my name! Do you know Malaya well?'

There is an excerpt from what must have been a very enthusiastic review printed on the inside cover of my Penguin edition of Four Frightened People, and I note that there are a number of editions and reprints listed in the relevant section, so this must have been a well-received book when it was first published; it was even made into a film.

But I cannot fathom why: I thought it was a terrible story, underpinned by a premise which simply makes no sense, and focused on the adventures of characters whose actions, judged only by their own accounts, have to be considered reprehensible.

Judy Corder, the narrator, seems possessed of an analytical mind, and so as she recounts the journey undertaken by four unprepared passengers who flee a plague-ridden ship and then walk to safety through a Malay jungle, she reflects on what it is that sets her apart from others, and sets apart those with whom she has an affinity - and by sets apart I mean sets above.

Having read her story I could offer a few suggestions - self-concern and ruthlessness seem the principal attributes, combined with a lack of humanity and compassion. But Judy prefers to characterise people like herself as having a familiarity with poetry, a sensitivity to environment, a sense of detachment and no belief in God.

Sunday, 20 July 2014

Penguin no. 1610: The Doors of Sleep
by Thurman Warriner

'Lahsen was a great man. He dabbled in occult mysteries, he put forward theories of life and death and time more fantastic than any man of his generation. But he was sincere, humble, reverent. He was trying to establish some relationship between man and God and the universe. Vinery had no such lofty ambitions when he became one of Lahsen's disciples. Shand was undoubtedly right -Vinery was after a short cut to personal power. I've known Vinery a long time. Nothing wrong with his intellect, but he's a mass of superstitious foibles. The type of man who'd use the electronic brain to win at roulette instead of measure the galaxies. You'd find him deep in archaic rites on Saturday midnight and reading his horoscope in the Sunday press next morning.'

Moira of Clothes in Books wrote two posts on The Doors of Sleep (here and here), before very kindly sending her vintage Penguin copy on to me*. These perhaps suggest that her enthusiasm for the book was a little muted, whereas I loved it from the very first page.

It is late September and Archdeacon Toft has been invited to give the Harvest Thanksgiving sermons at Slumbers St Mary's, the local church of a set of three idyllic villages collectively known as The Slumbers, located somewhere on the south Downs. Archdeacon Toft's ample size is evidence of his enthusiasm for food, and he feels no inclination to accept the hospitality offered by the local rector Smeaton whom he describes as 'that damned ascetic of a priest'. Knowing that the Vinerys employ a decent cook, it is his intention to pass his weekend at Vinery Court, despite the reservations he has about its owner.

He describes his host, Charlesworth Vinery, as 'beautiful as Lucifer, clever as Zamiel, cruel as Beelzebub', and as the man seems hated by his young wife, his brother and his manservant, Archdeacon Toft's reservations about Charlesworth Vinery seem to be shared by many who know him. Vinery had spent most of his early years abroad, but he had returned to the village upon the death of his father with the intention of taking up his inheritance, even though he had no knowledge about, or interest in, the family estate; in doing so he had effectively evicted a younger brother who loved nothing else. Within a month of his return he had also married the woman his brother loved, and he had then run the estate into the ground.


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