Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/289

(Mr. Tennant, replying to a question in the House of Commons regarding billets, said, "Ample cubic space is provided.")

1st Tommy. "Only one bed! 'Ow've we got to fix it, Bill?"

2nd Tommy. "Well, supposin' I takes the bed, and you can have the cubic space?"

One of the pleasantest of Mr. Maurice Hewlett's early short stories concerns, I remember, the tribulations of a man who, having endured torments for the sake of his ladylove, found, when rewarded by her hand, that fulfilment was not so much to his taste as hopeless worship. I am reminded of this because the same author's latest book, A Lovers' Tale (Ward, Lock), is to some extent an amplification of this theme. Cormac, the hero—the story is laid in the Iceland of Viking—times-loved Stangerd; nay more, being a skald, he gave free rein to a habit of dropping into indifferent poetry (like Silas Wegg) about her on all occasions. Which was fun enough for Cormac, not unpleasing to Stangerd, but simply infuriating to her father and relations. One rather feels for them. However, when various folk had set themselves, with axes and other arguments, to regulate the situation, the pair were formally betrothed, according to market rates, and with everything in order. Whereupon Cormac blew hot and cold, threw some harsh words at his unfortunate fiancée, and finally rode away, leaving her to become the bride of an elderly lover who at least knew his own mind. This is the matter of the tale which, as Mr. Hewlett tells us in a note, is taken by him from an old Saga. He has re-dressed it well enough, with a direct simplicity of style very apt and becoming. But for all that I am bound to say I like him better when he makes up his own lovers and their tales. I should add that the book has been admirably illustrated with pictures of those large and heavy-browed supermen of whom that other Maurice, Mr. Greiffenhagen, has monopolised the secret.

The title, His English Wife (Arnold), the author's name, Rudolph Stratz, and the fact, also announced on the cover, that the book won a wide popularity in Germany before the War broke out (note that "before") at once indicate the nature of the story and warn intending readers that they may find their nation described as decadent at the very least. I have never before found the seeing of myself as others see me so comfortable a process; whenever the author spoke poorly of me, I could always say to myself, "Ah, but he can't think that now!" Whenever, on the other hand, he spoke well of me I felt how right he was shown to be. Even before last August I already appeared to him to be a sportsman and a gentleman, and to have a baffling exterior suggestive of something indefinable behind. Upon consideration, he decided that something to be a rotten core, my constant habit of laughing having deceived him into suspecting a frivolous indifference to all the things that matter. Events have shown that my cloak of fun is modestly donned to conceal my multitude of virtues and prove that Edith Wilding's luck was out, or her judgment warped, when she passed me over and married that earnest and purposeful soldier-man, Helmut Merker... In the darkness of this hour we pray not least of all that Heaven may awake at last some sense of humour in our unhappy enemy. Their want of it is a positive "kink," and that, as the marching song runs, is the cause of all the trouble, cause of all the strife. If our author could only have been the exception—and his other merits made me hope to the last that he would be—he might have seen beneath the surface and warned his fellow-countrymen. His book might have been less popular before the War, but himself would be much more thought of now.