Cricket 1907

S e p t . 19, 1907. CRICKET : A WEEKLY RECORD OF THE GAME. 421 “ A MOTHER’S SON.” * It is a point which has never yet been definitely settled whether criticism should be subjective or objective. The purely objective ciiticism, however, does not seem to me to be app’icable to works of fiction in any case. It may be suitable in dealing with a dictionary, a phrase- book, or the like ; but unless one can say of a novel either that one likes or does not like it, one should not criticise it at all—except as a matter of earning one’a bread and cheese. The Editor of Cricket has been good enough to allow me to 6ay what I think of Mr. and Mrs. C. B. Fry’s first novel; and I am glad of the opportunity, beciuse I think so well of the book that to write about it is both easy and pleasant. Perhaps it ought to have disappointed me. For I expected a good deal; and when one expects a good deal one is generally disappointed. I have for a long time past believed that Mr. Fry could write a good novel. Now I am sure of it. I hope he will write many more; but I do not think he will ever write another which is quite so much a piece of himself, so to speak, as “ A Mother’s Son.” In speaking of the book as Mr. Fry’s, the idea of minimising Mrs. Fry’s share in it is far from my mind. Unless I am greatly mistaken, some of the best chapters in it (and iu particular Chapter VIII., the genuine pathos of which brought a big lump into the throat of one reader for whom I can answer) owe much to her; and the portrait of that noble lady, Mark Lovell’s mother, has touches which only a woman could have given it. Some critics have denied the right of the book to ba called a novel at all. Certainly it has no plot properly so- called. “ Vanity Fair ” had not. Dickens’s plots were not his strong point; and the same may be said of Scott. On the other hand plot is everything in such “ novels ” as those written by Messrs. Fergus Hume, ■William le Queux, and their school; but personally I would not give one single chapter of “ A Mother’s Bon ” for all the books that those inger-ious gentlemen ever turned out. There may be no plot in “ A Mother’s Son,” but there is life—real life—life as it is lived to-day in England by the people who are not heard of much outside their immediate neighbourhood, because they do not belong to “ the Smart Set ” or get into the Divorce Court, or other­ wise gain the notoriety so dear to the many noisy people of whom one does hear widely. Lord Matechley and Long Crawford are portraits of whom any novelist might be proud; and the same may be said of tbe lesser characters, and notably of Gooseberry Gandy, Churcher, and Thorold. The last-named is very lightly touched in; and yet one feels that one knows him well. * “ A Mother’s Son.” By B. and C. B. Fry. Methuen. 1907. Six Shillings. For the book has that spaciousness so hard to define which one finds in the books that make real lovers of many of their readers. One is sure that one knows much more of the characters and of what they have done than one is told. Dumas pere had that quality of spacious­ ness. You can project his characters into scenes of which he never tells you. I defy you to do this with the wocden pump-handle creations of many of the “ plotty ” novelists. They are “ cabin’d, cribbed, confined ” within the covers of the book that contains them. Yet my one quarrel with “ A Mother’s Son ” is that there is not nearly enough of it. Not more than a hundred thou­ sand words, certainly. Why, one would have welcomed 300 pages dealing with Mark Lovell’s school-days alone! At least another 300 might have told the story of his ciicket career. And then there would have been enough left to fill some hundreds more. But perhaps such amplification would have spoiled that fine quality of spaciousness. Something must be left to the reader’s imagination if one would achieve that. For the cricketer there is not nearly as much cricket in it as he would wish; but that is because what there is is so un­ commonly good. There ought to have been a detailed description of at least one Oxford v. Cambridge match, one thinks ; but perhaps that would have detracted from the charm of the chapter “ Versus Australia.” In that imaginary match cricketers will revel. But to me it seems to have one drawback. Perhaps it is because the match is not to be found in the Book of Wisden that Mr. and Mrs. Fry have refrained so sedulously from mentioning at:y player save Mark Lovell himself by name. But to one reader, at least, this makes against, not for, glamour. If I could have written—if I had written—that chapter, “ the veteran captain of England ” should at least once have been referred to as “ W.G.” But that is the smallest matter, for everyone must recognise him. The other players, however, are mere shadows. Who were the “ three remarkable bowlers, all rather above medium-pace,” whom the Austra­ lians had ? When W.G. held conference with “ three of his most trusty players,” who were the three ? Who was “ the beet of all English wicket-keepers ? ” It is tantalising not to be told. But per­ haps my mind is too literal. Several critics, I notice, have taken it for granted that Mark Lovell is practi­ cally Charles Fry. 1 do not believe that Mr. Fry intended this ; but it does seem as though, without intending it, he has transferred to his canvas, in painting his hero, many of his own features. Mark’s independence of mind, his aloofness, seem to me characteristics of his creator. Neither Mark Lovell or Charles Fry has that peculiar quality, not wholly admir­ able, which seems necessary for anyone who is to be a genuine favourite of the crowd. The familiarity that breeds contempt is not to be practised with such as they. I never heard but one man speak of Mr. Fry as “ Charley Fry ” ; and that man was an unmitigated ass, and furthermore certainly had not the honour of Mr. Fry’s personal acquaintance. When you can say of a public man that no discriminating person other than bis nearest and dearest would think of referring to him with such familiarity, you have said something that implies a great deal. The popular idol may be a very good fellow. He often is. He may be a realty great man. He is sometimes. But the man who is “ Johnny ’’ or “ Billy ” to everybody lacks something that a man should have. The heroine (though perhaps it would be more reasonable to deem Mary Lovell the true heroine) of “ AMothtr’s Son ” is to me a little shadowy; and the small amount of lovemaking in the book never rises near the heights of passion. But perhaps that is as well. It is long since the convention that a novel is primarily a love-story was exploded; but there is room still for novels in which the love- motive is quite subsidiary to the main interest. Mark Lovell’s real mistress is Duty ; and it was to her service that his mother had trained him. Apart from the “ Versus Australia ” chapter, there are three great incidents in the book from the sporting point of view : the Matechley Hunt-Cup, in which Mark Lovell rides Messmate to victory, and to death in the shadow of Buekett Steeple; the story of the Gordon Cup, and how Lovell thrashed the blackguard who had meant to make of him an innocent accom­ plice in roguery ; and the winning of the Grand National. All these are told with verve and thrill. One’s blood runs faster in reading of them. And perhaps there is nothing better and truer in the 304 piges than Mark’s first letter home from Winchester. The fight with Wagstaff is told of in true schoolboy style, and the youngster’s enthusiasm for Thorold is wonderfully well suggested. “ I have spoken to the cricket Pro. His name is Thorold: he used to bowl for Nottingham. He is very handsome, with a red skin and small brown eyes that twinkle. . . . He is a good fisherman, and has a tenor voice; he sings in the Cathedral, and sometimes does a solo.” Here is a sample that should make one want more. Mark is just nine, and is going to school for the first time. On the morning of his doparture he went into the garden after breakfast, and made his way to the farmyard in search of Churcher. “ I ’m going to school to-day,” he said. “ Major Crawford’s coming to fetch me in an hour’ s time.” Churcher, who was engaged in tossing up the bedding in the cow-pens, replied that book-learning was fiddle-faddling half the brains in the country, and that he didn’t hold by schools not a bit, he didn’t. “ I expect I shall get on all right, don’ t you, Churcher ? ’ Mark asked. “ I shouldn’t be surprised if you ddan’t,” answered Churcher, shaking the damp straw vigorously. “ If I have a fight, I shall try to win,” went on Mark, repeating a lesson he had learned from Long Crawford, *1and if I am beat, I shall try not to cry.”