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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 42383
   :PG.Title: Hugh Walpole: An Appreciation
   :PG.Released: 2013-03-20
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Joseph Hergesheimer
   :DC.Title: Hugh Walpole: An Appreciation
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1919
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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HUGH WALPOLE: AN APPRECIATION
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      Cover

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      :alt: HUGH WALPOLE

      HUGH WALPOLE

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      HUGH WALPOLE

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      *An Appreciation*

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      *by*
      JOSEPH HERGESHEIMER

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      Author of "Three Black Pennys"
      "Java Head", etc.

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      *Together with Notes
      and Comments on the Novels of
      Hugh Walpole*

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      NEW YORK
      GEORGE \H. DORAN COMPANY   

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      Copyright, 1919
      GEORGE \H. DORAN COMPANY

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   BOOKS BY HUGH WALPOLE

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NOVELS
   THE WOODEN HORSE
   MR. PERRIN AND MR. TRAILL
   THE GREEN MIRROR
   THE DARK FOREST
   THE SECRET CITY

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ROMANCES
   THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE
   FORTITUDE
   THE DUCHESS OF WREXE
   MARADICK AT FORTY

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BOOKS ABOUT CHILDREN
   THE GOLDEN SCARECROW
   JEREMY

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BELLES-LETTRES
   JOSEPH CONRAD: A CRITICAL STUDY

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   HUGH WALPOLE

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   *An Appreciation*

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   JOSEPH HERGESHEIMER

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   I

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It is with an uncommon feeling of
gratification that I am able to begin a paper
on Hugh Walpole with the words, in their
completest sense, an appreciation.  But this
rises from no greater fact than a personal
difficulty in agreeing with the world at large
about the most desirable elements for a
novel.  Here it is possible to say that
Mr. Walpole possesses almost entirely the
qualities which seem to me the base, the absolute
foundation, of a beauty without which creative
writing is empty.  In him, to become
as specific as possible, there is splendidly
joined the consciousness of both the inner
and outer worlds.

And, for a particular purpose, I shall put
my conviction about his novels into an
arbitrary arrangement with no reference to the
actual order of appearance of his dignified
row of volumes.  Such a choice opens with
a consideration of what is purely a story
of inner pressures, it continues to embrace
books devoted principally to the visible
world, to London, and ends with a mingling
of the seen and unseen in Russia.

Yet, to deny at once all pedantic pretense,
it must be made clear that my real concern
is with the pleasure, the glow and sense of
recognition, to be had from his pages.  The
evoked emotions, which belong to the heart
rather than the head, are the great, the final,
mark of the true novelist.  And they may be,
perhaps, expressed in the single word, magic.
Anyone who is susceptible to this quality
needs no explanation of its power and
importance, while it is almost impossible of
description to those upon whom it has no
effect.  It is quite enough to repeat it
... magic.  At once a train of images, of
memories of fine books, will be set in motion.
Among them the father of Peter Westcott
will appear--a grim evil in a decaying house
heavy with the odor of rotten apples; and,
accompanying them, the mind will be flooded
with the charmed moments of Mr. Walpole's
descriptions: Russian nights with
frozen stars, rooms swimming placid and
strange in old mirrors, golden ballrooms and
London dusks, the pale quiver of spring, of
vernal fragrance, under the high sooty glass
dome of a railroad station.

In this, at once, the remarkable delicacy
of his perceptions is made apparent: it is
impossible, in thinking of these books, to
separate what occurs in the sphere of reality
from the vivid pressures, the dim forces,
that, lying back of conscious existence, are
always gathering like portentous storms
behind Mr. Walpole's stories.  To have stated
so calmly his passionate belief in just these
influences was, at the time most of his books
were written, an act of that courage he has so
persistently extolled.  Yet the details of his
fortitude belong properly to the examination
of individual novels.

Time, however, has altogether justified
his spiritual preoccupations: the literature of
the surface of things, the sting of onions in
a glittering tin bowl, æsthetic boys--still the
wistful ghost of Wilde, the flaneur--dragged
through the pages of Freud, unlimited
sentences in sociology hardly humanized by a
tagging of proper names and mechanical
desires, have been swept into the dust-bin for
temporary reactions and fevers.  Nothing
can be gained by speculation about the future,
it is enough to realize that, in imaginative
letters, the school of arrogant materialism
has been discredited; and that Mr. Walpole,
because of his steadiness in the face of
skeptical and mocking devils, has easily,
securely, entirely, survived the most blasting
and calamitous ordeal men have had yet to meet.

His books, from the first to the last, have
not become antiquated; they are as fresh
to-day as they were at any time through the
past ten or twelve years; the people in them,
true in costume and speech to their various
moments, are equally true to that which in
man is changeless.  They, the novels, are at
once provincial, as the best novels invariably
are, and universal as any deep penetration
of humanity, any considerable artistry, must
be.  Never merely cosmopolitan, never
merely smart--even in his knowledge of
smart people--they are sincere without
being stupid, serious without a touch of
hypocrisy; and on the other hand, light without
vapidity, entertaining with never a compromise
nor the least descent from the most
dignified of engagements.

All this, on the plane to which I am
confined--the pleasure to be had from
accumulated words--is as rare as it is delightful.
The world, particularly the world of
novel-writing, is choked with solemn pretensions
and sly lies; it, the latter, is the fertile field
of all the ignorances--the dogmatic, the
degenerate, the hysterical, the venal.  And,
unhappily, there seems to be very nearly a
public for each; unhappily the deeply bitten
prejudices of men, the secretive hopes of
women, control to an amazing degree their
opinions of the one medium--the written
story--that should be kept superior to all
pettiness as a resource solely of alleviation.
Usually great creative writers--gifted,
together with pity, with clarity of vision--have
dealt in a mood of severity with life;
they are largely barred, by their covenant
with truth, from the multitude; but
Mr. Walpole, not lacking in the final gesture of
greatness, has yet the optimism that sees
integrity as the master of the terrors.
Literature, different from painting and music,
serves beauty rather by the detestation of
ugliness than in the recording of lyrical
felicities.  But, again, Mr. Walpole has
countless passages of approval, of verbal
loveliness, that must make him acceptable not
only to a few but to many.

In reading, for example, The Secret City,
there is the satisfaction of realizing that the
consequent enjoyment rises from an unquestionably
pure source.  It is a preoccupation
to be followed with utter security--for once
an admirable thing, a fine thing, is altogether
pleasurable.



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   II

Mr. Walpole's courage in the face of the
widest skepticism is nowhere more daring
than in The Golden Scarecrow.  The book
itself, in both conception and composition,
presented extraordinary difficulties; one of
those themes clear enough in the creative
mind, but so deep in implication, so veiled
in mystery, so elusive psychologically, that to
put it at all upon paper was an accomplishment
of very high order.  In brief, it is
founded on the implication that children born
into this faulty world retain, for varying
short periods, memories of a serene existence
from which they were banished into human
consciousness.  This remembrance is
embodied in the appearance, in dim rooms,
against the sunset, in the mists of beginning
sensations, of a kindly protecting shape with
a beard.  The vision is all tenderness and
gentle melancholy wisdom ... Christ!

The particular danger in such a narrative
is the almost inescapable shadow of
mechanical sentimentality.  The conjunction of
Christ and little children is perfectly safe to
evoke of itself the tear of ready sympathy;
and miracles, from the beginning to the late
Irish school and later, have been the chosen
medium for a useful and easy squeezing of
the heart.  But, it should be said at once,
The Golden Scarecrow is remarkably free
from the merely easy, or from cheaply
borrowed pathos.  It is sustained not only by
beautiful phrasing, delicate imagery, but
equally by an iron rod of truth.  If the vision
exists, clad in splendor invisible to anything
but innocence, so too does the world
Mr. Walpole clearly sees and correctly grasps.

He knows that, while there may be a
Saviour for purity in extra-mundane spheres,
in London there is no such security: there
is always the ugly possibility, no--probability,
of accident, of the destruction--by
cruelty or envy or vice or sheer
carelessness--of youth.  In addition to this The
Golden Scarecrow gathers importance with
the increasing recognition of the extreme
importance of the impressions of childhood.

Addressing, with his surprising and
justified confidence, the instincts of the
newly-born, he follows the human mind opening
gradually to the spectacle of living.  The
progress is established by a succession of
episodes, of stories really, bound into a
whole by a return, at the book's end, to
its beginning statement and mood, and by a
single passionate conviction.  It is this,
certainly, which gives Mr. Walpole his force
and beauty--the ability to deliver himself
of a high hatred tempered by pity.  In
The Golden Scarecrow his resentment has
for incentive the fatalities brought by chance
or design on beings endowed with the finest possibilities.

The arrangement of his novels places this
among Studies in Place; and the scene is
principally March Square, not far from
Hyde Park Corner.  There lingers about it
the atmosphere of the days of St. Anne, a
tranquillity hardly disturbed by the din of
London; and its bricks and greenery, its
fountain and statues, one commemorating
a general of the Indian Mutiny and the
other a mid-Victorian figure, are the last
to hold the strains of mendicant street
musicians.  To these are added the cries
of children at their games, garlands of
children on the smooth lawn and under the
overhanging trees, and, from around the
corner, the bells of St. Matthew's.

Each part has for its central figure a
child of one of the houses surrounding the
Square, from the three-months-old Henry
Fitzgeorge, Marquis of Strether, son of
the Duchess of Crole, to young John
Scarlett, the offspring of a solid K.C., about to
leave home for the adventure of public
school.  But there is, in the range of the
book, the greatest possible diversity of
children and houses: 'Enery, the simple-witted
son of Mrs. Slater, care-taker for
Old Lady Cathcart at No. 21; Nancy Ross,
daughter of Munty, of potted shrimp fame,
in danger of being turned by an impossible
mother into an impossible Dresden china
figure, but saved by her ugly black little
father; Sarah Trefusis, living in a smart
little house with green doors and with a
widowed mother of the loveliest and most
unscrupulous of eyes, Sarah possessed of a
sinister devil; Angelina, who would say
"Wosy" when she meant Rose, and
infuriated her two neat aunts with rather
yellow, squashed-looking faces.

It is, perhaps, to Angelina Braid, that the
memory most persistently returns; for in
the direct story of Angelina and the rag
doll she adored above all others--Rachel
and Lizzie, two Annies, a Mary, a May, a
Blackmoor, a Jap, a Sailor, and a Baby in
a Bath--Mr. Walpole has gathered all his
art and fury.  In it hard meanness, petty
destructive tempers, meagreness of heart,
are exposed so utterly that it is difficult to
suppose anyone, reading it, could ever again
support the oppression of a child.  The
episode of Angelina Braid is told with the
utmost restraint, its means are simple,
inevitable; but its conveying of irrevocable
harm, of the spirit fluttering away from the
rigidity of flesh, is matchless.

As a whole The Golden Scarecrow is,
considering its heart of mystery, amazingly
coherent and satisfactory.  From the
opening paragraphs, when Hugh Seymour, a
lonely imaginative boy, is mentally bullied
by a stolid school-master, to the last where,
a man, he regains the voice of his Friend,
that Friend of before-birth, the book is a
living entity.  Of the golden scarecrow:

"To their left a dark brown field rose in
an ascending wave to a ridge that cut the
sky....  The field was lit with the soft
light of the setting sun.  On the ridge of
the field something suspended, it seemed, in
mid-air, was shining like a golden fire.

"'What's that,' said Mr. Pidgen again.
It's hanging.  What the devil!'

"They stopped for a moment, then started
across the field.  When they had gone a
little way Mr. Pidgen paused again.

"'It's like a man with a gold helmet.
He's got legs, he's coming to us.'

"They walked on again.  Then Hugh
cried, 'Why, it's only an old scarecrow.
We might have guessed.'

"The sun, at that instant sank behind the
hills and the world was grey."

It was, visibly, but an old scarecrow,
with waving tattered sleeves and a tin can
that held the light; but it had been, as well,
a man in a golden helmet.  He had come
toward them.  That, in a sentence, expresses
Mr. Walpole's magic: we see the rags and
the tin; and we see, too, the heavenly
shining; which is the reality he leaves, as he
must, for our determining.



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   III

In no other novel of Mr. Walpole's are
the forces that--perhaps--lie back of life
so explicitly expressed as in The Golden
Scarecrow, while, of all his books, The
Green Mirror is most frankly concerned
with terrestrial existence.  It is the second in
a plan of three called The Rising City,
not, he is careful to inform us, a trilogy.
Indeed, English society, in the broad sense,
placed in London, is the subject of this
series; beyond the introduction in The
Green Mirror of a few names made
familiar by The Duchess of Wrexe, the novels
have no actual intercommunication.

They were, however, clearly led up to in
other pages, notably Fortitude; but there
the dark shapes, like embodied evil
passions, were always gathering about the rim
of consciousness.  But The Green Mirror,
except in minor incidences, completely
illustrates the spirit in flesh.  This it does
delightfully with, and this is surprising, a
most entertaining humor.  Aunt Aggie is
one of the old embittered women that
Mr. Walpole understands so thoroughly; but, in
The Green Mirror, he is more lenient with
her than usual.  He follows her mind, a
mind like the thin scraping jangle of a
worn-out music-box, with an amazing
flexibility and insight; the latter, in his
consideration of Aunt Aggie, predominates.
Understanding, of course, dissipates hatred: in
the completed picture of ancient maliciousness,
positively wicked in intention, the
reader is continually cheered by perception
of the true, the rare, Comic Spirit.

But she, Aunt Aggie, is comparatively
unimportant; the weight of The Green
Mirror is the imponderable weight of the
Trenchard family.  They are not aristocrats,
such as the late Duchess of Wrexe, or
Roddy Seddon; yet Mr. Walpole makes it
clear that, essentially, they are more deeply
rooted in tradition, in precedent, than a
higher and largely frivolous class.

Here, more than by George Trenchard,
the head of this branch of the family, they
are represented by his wife, the mother of
Henry and Millicent and, above all else, of
Katherine.  They are shown in the somber
drawing-room of No. 5 Rundle Square, by
Westminster in the heart of London,
passing and repassing in the aqueous depths of
a looking-glass above the mantle:

Mrs. Trenchard, heavy and placid in
exterior; the gangling Henry, incurably
disorderly and racked by the throes of
green-sickness; Aunt Aggie and Aunt Betty,
sparrow-like, with little glints of cheerfulness;
Grandfather Trenchard, as fragile as
glass in fastidious silver buckles; and Katherine.

The story itself is the relation of
Katherine Trenchard's love for Philip Mark,
and how, in the end, it smashed the green
mirror of her family.  While it is that in
detail it is, by implication, the history of
the breaking of old English idols.  This
duality of being, the specific and the
symbolical is, certainly, almost the prime
necessity for creative literature; and in the
published volumes of The Rising City it is
everywhere carried out.

Philip Mark arrives, through a dense
London fog, at the Trenchards' during the
celebration of Grandfather Trenchard's
birthday--the day, above all, inalterably
fixed in their traditions.  He is from
Russia--Hugh Walpole's land of supreme
magic--and his coming is the signal for small
irritations, growing complexities, jealousy,
that finally set the individual above custom,
the present over the past.

Philip Mark, or rather the love of
Katherine and Philip, is the cause of so much;
but the most impressive, the most important
figure in the book, is Katherine's mother.
This is a familiar arrangement of
Mr. Walpole's; to erect a largely silent
negative force, like an evil and sometimes
obscene carved god in the shadows, and
oppose to it the tragic vivid necessity of youth.
In The Green Mirror it takes the shape
of maternal jealousy--hard for all its
apparent softness of bosom; cruel in spite of
undeniable affection, cunning as against an
apparent slowness of mentality.

The sweep of the novel is rich with acute
observation and borne on by an action
rising--as it always must--from causes at once
trivial, informal, and inevitable.  Philip
Mark's past in Moscow, continually coming
to the surface by the utmost diversity of
means and places; now threatening his
happiness, now a foundation for his maturity,
furnishes the center of movement, a fact
taken up as a weapon or justification by
nearly everyone in turn.  This, specially to
the Trenchards, is of monumental dimensions;
but its operation, in Henry's undependable
shirt-stud, Aunt Aggie's agitated
slap, has the authentic unheroic accent of reality.

The richness of The Green Mirror, however,
has its inception in Mr. Walpole's
extreme sensitiveness to the spirit of place
and hour: all the translations of his action,
the changes from place to place, day to
night, are recorded with a beautiful and
exact care.  This is the result of a pictorial
sense at once strong and delicate.  No one
has had more delight from the visible world
than Mr. Walpole, and none has been able
to capture it better in words:

"In Dean's Yard the snow, with blue
evening shadows upon it, caught light from
the sheets of stars that tossed and twinkled,
stirred and were suddenly immovable.  The
Christmas bells were ringing; all the lights
of the houses in the Yard gathered about
her and protected her.  What stars there
were!  What beauty!  What silence!"

This conveyance of a crystal mood, without
exotic or intricate phrases, without
ornament, is the mastery of an art that must be
at once brushed with emotion and serene;
in it lies the miracle of words, inanimate
fragments, brought warmly to life.
Katherine, about whom they were written, is
sentient as well; a girl stronger in the end than
even her mother, a girl who bent being to
her will.  A lovely girl, concealing behind
a completely feminine need, behind clothes
never precisely right, Mr. Walpole's beloved courage.

Here particularly, in Katherine Trenchard,
the individual and universal humanity
are woven one into the other; an immeasurably
greater accomplishment than the
projecting of mere eccentricity, called, I
believe, by the doctors, the creation of
character.  Anyone, almost, can invent a set of
whiskers, a stuttering speech, write imposing
indignations into mechanical masks; but only
a few have put all youth into a girl of their
imagination, on almost no pages do we find
the truth that is ourselves.



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   IV

For Mr. Walpole, however, the dark
secret of being was always hidden in the heart
of Russia.  It has been his land of enchantment,
of magic and desire; and it possessed
him in the way that Shelley and Browning
were Italianate.  The English Merchant
Marine had the same fascination for
Mr. Conrad, the same fascination and
incalculable influence.  Throughout Hugh Walpole's
novels there is the persistent turning to the
dream forests and night-ridden cities of
Russia, to the mingled simplicity and
inexplicable complexity of its men and women.

Russia presented the greatest possible
contrast to the England, the English he
knew; and, although Mr. Walpole's
descriptions of London are steeped in beauty, he
has been unable to find there--even in the
serenity of March Square--any such
creative impulse as Petrograd held for him.

The Russian character, too, with its
peculiar freedom from the British defects that
he specially hated, offered him an
uncommonly broad means of expression and
intelligibility.  Philip Mark's years in Warsaw,
his mistress there, Anna, formed an ideal
background for the utterly different purity
of Katherine Trenchard.  So it was inevitable
that Mr. Walpole should invade Russia
not only with the spirit, but, as well, with
the body of his books.  This, of course, was
brought about by the war, and resulted in
the publication of The Dark Forest and The
Secret City.

The Dark Forest was, in many ways, a
prelude to the latter.  Semyonov, the doctor
with a square, honey-colored beard, the fatal
spirit of the former, accomplishes his final
fatality in The Secret City; the narrator of
one novel is the narrator of the other; but
in The Secret City a great deal that was
nebulous--but in no way ineffective--is
exactly weighed and expressed.

The surprising quality of The Secret City,
and which makes any description of it
difficult, is that while it is a tragedy, it is
nowhere oppressive.  The obvious reason for
this is that the story is vividly
interesting--not because it includes a remarkable
description of the Russian Revolution, but on
account of the humanity and variety of its
characters, the depth of emotion and
brilliancy of surface.  In reality, the Revolution
constituted a very serious danger, for in
creative fiction, the author, the novel, must be
greater than the event.  A novel holds
within its covers a world of its own, a complete
reality which, for the moment, must take the
place of all other reality; and the presence
in it of an overwhelming contemporary event
may well crush the illusion, the shining ball,
into dull fragments.  But this Mr. Walpole
avoids in his concentration upon the
essentials of his purpose; the Revolution, as a
fact, fades before the more enduring
veracity, and importance, of his imagination.

Vera and Nina, the fretted Markovitch,
and Jerry Lawrence, tied in a knot of
passion and longing and bitterness, now
struggling blindly and now illuminated with
devastating flashes of realization, are more
compelling than the accidents of wars and
shifting governments.  They are the human
means of the drama, but--again--it is a
pressure lying back of living that is mainly
important.  In The Secret City, Petrograd
itself controls the mood of the action.
Mr. Walpole has seen it in a unity of tone far
more perfect than his grasp of London.  He
sees it impressively somber, an iron city
mostly in the grip of winter, its blackness
emphasized by glittering, immaculate snow,
remote and thinly pure skies, and the crystal
stars to which he is so individually sensitive.
It is, in The Secret City, an evil place, with
bare, wind-swept files of apartment houses,
broad avenues emptied by the staccato rattle
of machine guns and suffocating slums with
dead canals stirred with the vision of
slow-rising, scaly monsters.

Against this, however, there are glimpses
of a peasant, a symbolical reality, deeply
bearded and grave and patient, standing, it
might be, on a bridge or disappearing into
the dark.  Yet there are no prophecies, no
auguries of a future regenerated from
without.  Mr. Walpole is not concerned with the
temporary plasters, the nostrums, of
propaganda.  He rests serene in the novelist's
isolation from small responsibilities,
addressed only to the qualities at the base of
humanity from which current fevers rise.

And here, at last, he has combined the
inner and outer pressures of which I spoke
at the beginning.  While it is true that
Petrograd strikes the persistent keynote of
The Secret City, while he sees monsters
stirring and records dreams woven into the
texture of actuality, these are projections of
the deep significance of Lawrence and
Markovitch; signs and visions are unnecessary
with their complete expression of the states
of the spirit.  Lawrence, the Englishman,
slow, fixed in honor and duty, romantically
pure, and the Russian, worn by doubt,
forever lost in the waste between performance
and idea, oppose, perhaps, in little, their
countries.  Certainly they illustrate
Mr. Walpole's own questioning and offer facts,
entirely convincing, for the support of his
intricate structures.

Semyonov, who, under almost any other
hand, would have degenerated into a mere
villain, is presented with Mr. Walpole's
passion for entire understanding, that
comprehension which banishes contempt.  Vastly
intricate, a character seen on a hundred
sides, he still remains intelligible, consistent;
a consistency which permits him to take
naturally his place in a story at once
involved and simple.  He is, above everything,
a spoiled soul; the unhappiest possible
example of the oil of heaven arbitrarily
imposed on the water of earth.  His is the
agony of the animal confronted with the
mysteries of the spirit; and the ruin which
emanates from his torment and skeptical
detachment is the result as much of his
superiority as of his fault.

It is, more than anything else, the fusion
in The Secret City that, at the time of its
publication, made it the most notable of
Mr. Walpole's novels.  As a story it is
enthralling, the mere progress of the action is
irresistible; the atmosphere, the envelopment
of color, is without a rent, a somber veil
like a heavy mist subduing the flashes of red
at the horizon, muffling the sounds and glints
of passion, absorbing the shouted ambitions
of men.  That it is not Russia, but himself,
Mr. Walpole has been very careful to point
out; it is simply the land of magic to which
he has been always drawn, and which,
conceivably, having explored, he'll leave,
returning to England.



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   \V

As a whole, Hugh Walpole's novels
maintain an impressive unity of expression; they
are the distinguished presentation of a
distinguished mind.  Singly, and in a group,
they hold possibilities of infinite
development.  This, it seems to me, is most clearly
marked in their superiority to the cheap
materialism that has been the insistent note
of the prevailing optimistic fiction.  There is
a great deal of happiness in Mr. Walpole's
pages, but it isn't founded on surface
vulgarities of appetite; the drama of his books
is not sapped by the automatic security of
invulnerable heroics.  Accidents happen,
tragic and humorous, the life of his novels
is checked in black and white, often
shrouded in grey.  The sun moves and stars come
out; youth grows old; charm fades; girls
may or may not be pretty; his old women--

But there he is inimitable, the old
gentlewomen, or caretakers, dry and twisted,
brittle and sharp, the repositories of
emotion--vanities and malice and self-seeking--like
echoes of the past, or fat and loquacious with
alcoholic sentimentality, are wonderfully
ingratiating.  They gather like shadows,
ghosts, about the feet of the young, and
provide Mr. Walpole with one of his main
resources--the restless turning away of the
young from the conventions, the prejudices
and inhibitions, of yesterday.  He is
singularly intent upon the injustice of locking age
about the wrists of youth; and, with him,
youth is very apt to escape, to defy authority
set in years ... only to become, in time, age itself.

This, of course, is inescapable: the old are
the old, and not least among their infirmities
is the deadening of their sensibilities, the
hardening of their perceptions.  But then,
as well, the young are the young, and youth is
folly, blind revolt, contumacy.  Here is
perpetual drama and, with it, Mr. Walpole's
hatred of brutality is drawn into practically
all his pictures of childhood, as, for example,
the school in Fortitude.

In all this he recognizes clearly that beauty
and ugliness are twisted into the fibre of man,
they are man; without one the other must
cease--in spite of the contrary legend--to
exist.  Beauty lies in struggle, in the
overcoming of evil; without struggle there is not
only no story, there is no fineness; and
without evil there can be no good.  Victory,
certainly, is not unheard of; but it is rare, the
result of amazing courage, strength, or
amazing luck.  To say that anyone, almost,
can triumph over life, that temptation is
easily cast aside, the devil denied on every
hand, is one of the most insidious lies
imaginable.  It is an error into which Hugh
Walpole has never fallen; the progress of his
books has been an increasing recognition of
the tragic difficulty of any accomplishment
whatever; and, as time goes by, such success
becomes smaller, more momentary, and more
heroic.

The course of the novelist is from the
bright surface of life inward to its
impenetrable heart, from the striking the easy, the
lovely, to the hopelessly hidden mystery of
being; and Mr. Walpole is steadily, perhaps
unconsciously, entering the profounder
darkness.  It is a march practically condemned to
failure at the start; but, not only unavoidable,
it is the only attempt worth consideration.
Not a happy fate, God knows, to leave
everything that the world, that people, most
applaud; there is no possibility of mistake about
the latter--the beauty that is truth is not
popular in a society which, blind to its transitory
and feeble condition, must see itself as the
rulers of creation.

Yet this, for its part, is entirely commendable,
the illusion necessary to the sustaining
of an affair difficult at best.  Novels that ring
a musical chime of bells, an anodyne for the
heart, are always sure of their welcome;
they represent an appreciation in the
dimension of width; while the reception of The
Secret City goes rather in the direction of
depth.  At the same time there is that strange
absence of oppression already noted, a story
always enjoyable for its suspense, the play
of character on character.

The result of the commingling, in Hugh
Walpole, of the seen and the unseen!  If he
were a conventional materialist the disasters
to the flesh would be unrelieved tragedy, his
Roderick Seddon, paralyzed for life, would
be, to the haphazard mind, unsupportable;
but Mr. Walpole manages to put the
emphasis on Seddon's spirit, that proves to be
above accident.  When Markovitch, at the
end of his unendurable suffering, kills
Semyonov, there is no horror, but only pity.

The novel, of course, is the man; and the
emotions of The Secret City are the emotions
of Mr. Walpole; it is merely the extension,
by an art and a record, of the mind of its
creator.  The pity of the reader is Mr. Walpole's;
wherever his novel goes, wherever it
is read, if there is any response it is one
touched with dignity and wisdom.  There is
the validity of the superior accomplishment,
the payment for the failure implied in the
greater undertaking: the recognition of the
insignificant novel is insignificant, it is a part
of the life flashing for a moment in the
sunlight, dead, forgotten, by evening.  But if
there is any discoverable solidarity in men,
any hope of final escape from intolerable
futility, it must be assisted, if ever so little,
by the simple honesty, the communication of
fortitude, in books founded, at least, on what
is changeless, inevitable, to living.

When these qualities form the pleasure of
the multitude, as they now do of a minority,
the world will be a vastly different and better
place.  Yet this is not primarily, not at all,
I personally feel, Mr. Walpole's concern: he
is the carver on the stone, the embellisher on
parchment; his art is the sign, the
recompense, of civilization.  He is the pot of
geraniums in the window, the beauty, utility,
above utility.  Not for nothing do we allow
the philosophies, the doctrines, even the
humanities, of the past to fall into oblivion;
while we preserve any marble fragment of
beauty we are so fortunate as to recover.

Mr. Walpole is a part of that great
necessity, of the longing, really, for perfection,
for perfect beauty.  This, too, is the only
salvation for ease; the animal, when he is
replete, fat, dies; and man, successful in the
flesh, degenerates.  There only spirit, beauty,
animates the clay.  Roses, in the end, are
more important than cabbages.  Here, Hugh
Walpole, cultivating the fine flowers of his
imagination, setting out his gardens in the
waste, is indispensable ... very few have
accomplished that.





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   NOVELS by HUGH WALPOLE

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   *Description and Comment*

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   THE SECRET CITY

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What is the secret city of the title?
Petrograd?  Yes, partly.  But much more is it
the citadel of the Russian proverb which recites:
"In each man's heart there is a secret town at
whose altars the true prayers are offered!"  And
so what we have in this book before us is first
(and always foremost) the story of several lives.
Petrograd itself, with its insane atmosphere on
the eve of the Revolution, is painted for us
persistently, with many patient and wonderful brush
strokes.  The Revolution, or the first weeks of it,
are narrated for us with an eyewitness's veracity
and an eyewitness's incompleteness.  But Petrograd
and the Revolution ... all that ... are put
before us only so far as they enter into the lives of
a few people--a family of Russians and three
casual Englishmen.  Which is as it should be.
Petrograds change, revolutions come and go; but the
secret city of the human heart is not transformed.
Human motives remain.  Human passions ebb and
flow.  Human hopes perish--and are reborn.

The people of Mr. Walpole's novel are completely
realized.  They are as much alive as if they
moved in the flesh before you.  The reader may be
baffled by them--many a reader will be, though to
most readers they will be comprehensible before
the closing chapters.  But baffling or not, there is
no disbelieving in them.  Two of the most
important--Alexei Petrovitch Semyonov and John
Durward, the narrator--are characters in Mr. Walpole's
earlier novel, *The Dark Forest*.  It is not
absolutely necessary that before reading The Secret
City you should read *The Dark Forest*, but it is
much to be desired that you do so.  Otherwise you
will be unable to fathom Alexei Petrovitch (the
overshadowing character) as adequately as you
ought to from his first entrance.

But about the others, the others besides the
sinister Alexei Petrovitch.  Take poor old Markovitch,
for example.  It's not easy, of course, to see
him as anything but a self-befooled, ridiculous figure
until you grasp that he had three ideals to live up
to.  The first was his wife, Vera; then there were
his hopeless inventions; lastly, there was Russia.
Came a time when, as young Bohun, one of the
Englishmen, put it: "He'd lost Russia, he was losing
Vera, and he wasn't very sure about his inventions."  At
the last he clung to Russia, hopefully.  This
revolution meant something wonderful for her--and
for the whole world!

Take Vera, beautiful and with immortal pride;
with a great and candid courage, too.  She had
her sister, the girlish Nina, she had her husband.
What was this tragedy of love that came to her
and destroyed everything?  Nina, tempestuous,
lovable, like a child--why in the name of all that
is merciful should *she* have to suffer?  Thank God! there
was a happy ending here!

Others--a half dozen or so--that we mustn't
speak of singly.  Even such minor characters as
Uncle Ivan and Baron Wilderling are etched
perfectly.  We would say a few words about the
background.

Mr. Walpole makes Petrograd as memorable a
city as does Tolstoy his Moscow, with Napoleon
gazing upon its rounded domes.  And that is
memorable indeed, as any one who ever read *War and
Peace* will certify.  An intensely colorful city,
lighted by stars and bonfires, exhaling the stink of
the swamp and Rasputin's corpse, coldly menaced
by the frozen Neva River, a volcano of human
destiny with its thick ice melting rapidly from the
heat of terrible flames underneath.  A city where
a great slimy beast seems to appear apocalyptically
from the sheeted waters of the canal.  A city where
always there stands silhouetted against the evening
glow the immense figure of a black-bearded peasant,
grave, controlled, thoughtful, watching.  A city
of dream--only the dream is true.

There can be no doubt about it; this is a noteworthy
book, a beautifully written book and--what
is best of all--a book with a backbone.  You may
like it or you may not; you will be unable, we
believe, to withhold admiration.--From a review in
*The New York Sun*.

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"Hugh Walpole has proved his right to eminence.
*The Secret City* is a worthy successor to *The Dark
Forest*.  His art in presentation is consummate.  But
the trait that stands out in his writings is his
humanity."--*Chicago Daily News*.

"This is, we believe, Mr. Walpole's best novel,
a finer book even than *The Dark Forest*.  Its
descriptive passages are many of them superb; we get
the sense of the strange and alien forces lying
beneath the somewhat Europeanized surface of
Petrograd in a truly remarkable way."--*New York
Times*.

"It is one of Mr. Walpole's achievements in this
book that along with his philosophic study of
Russian minds and matters, he maintains a running,
throbbing story of the romance-tragedy of the
Markovitch home.  Its form and style confirm it
in a place of great literary distinction.  Being the
sort of book one desires to keep as well as to read,
it sustains the final test of a fictional work."--*New
York World*.

"Hugh Walpole has equalled himself at his best
and far surpassed himself at his second best.  A novel
of the rare sort that is meant for the delight of
discriminating readers."--*Washington Star*.

"The best recommendation of his novel is its
excellent quality as a story: its absorbing interest in
character."--*Boston Herald*.

"The story is tensely dramatic in its incidents
and situations, its characters are real and
interesting....  You cannot merely read this book, for
if you mean to keep on you must think and keep on
thinking."--*San Francisco Chronicle*.

"Mr. Walpole is a story-teller with something
in him besides fine facility, and it is fascinating to
consider this excellent example of his work."--*The
New Republic*.

"Somehow, by the magic of his words, Mr. Walpole,
in his portrayal of a people in the process of
evolving, makes his readers understand better what
has taken place in Russia than political experts in
many an analytical treatise."--*Springfield Union*.

"One of the best sustained, most continuously
interesting and dramatic stories Mr. Walpole has
written."--*New York Globe*.

"It is his best work as a piece of literature and it
is his most important as an ethical, sociological and
political study."--*New York Tribune*.



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   JEREMY

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The real beauty, tenderness and gaiety of
childhood is an elusive thing--too elusive often
to be caught and pressed into words.  By some
magic of his own Hugh Walpole has made live
again in Jeremy the childhood that we all knew
and that we turn back to with infinite longing.

With affectionate humorousness, Mr. Walpole
tells the story of Jeremy and his two sisters, Helen
and Mary Cole, who grow up in Polchester, a
quiet English Cathedral town.  There is the
Jam-pot, who is the nurse; Hamlet, the stray dog; Uncle
Samuel, who paints pictures and is altogether
"queer"; of course, Mr. and Mrs. Cole, and Aunt Amy.

Mr. Walpole has given his narrative a rare
double appeal, for it not only recreates for the adult
the illusion of his own happiest youth, but it
unfolds for the child-reader a genuine and moving
experience with real people and pleasant things.
No child will fail to love the birthday in the Cole
household, the joyous departure for the sea and the
country in the long vacation.

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"A story of the most human elements, tender,
witty, penetrating in a breath.  It is the study of
one year in a boy's life....  Mr. Walpole goes
straight to the heart of the child for his inspiration,
and never strays outside the narrow limits of a
child's experience.  It is 'the real thing,'
wonderfully remembered, and most sympathetically and
unaffectedly recorded."--*Daily Telegraph*.



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   THE DARK FOREST

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Out of Russia, where Hugh Walpole had been
serving with the Russian Red Cross, came
this strange, wonderful, exotic book, containing an
inexplicable treasure of beauty,--the glamour of
the Russian forest, the scent of blossoming orchards,
the wistful heroism of young Russian soldiers.  *The
Dark Forest* would be an astonishing performance
if only in this--that Walpole has conceived and
written a *Russian novel in English*.  But there are
scenes that are the most vividly realized moments
of which Walpole has ever written.  Scenes which
the *Westminster Gazette* calls "the equal of the
most dramatic passages in English fiction."  Mystical,
poetical, spiritual, the theme of *The Dark
Forest* is the triumph of the soul over death.  One
may read in it an allegory of the soul of Russia.

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"To say that this book is remarkable is only to
lay hold on a convenient word as expressive of at
least a part of the sensation the story produces.
Here is a book for which many of us have dimly
waited; a book that transcends the outer facts and
reveals the inner significance of war.  *The Dark
Forest* is a love story of unusual beauty, as well
as a story of war.  Who, having read it, will
forget this book; at once awful and beautiful?  It
must be read, for neither quotation nor description
is capable of giving more than a bare hint of the
nobleness, the intensity of this work of art so deeply
rooted in reality."--*New York Times*.

"Of all the novels that have come out of
European battlefields there is probably none of such
scope, such penetrating analysis and such completely
spiritual quality as Hugh Walpole's *Dark Forest*.
It is many novels in one....  It is instinct with
the sense of spiritual adventure.  It is young, finely
emotional, stamped with the consciousness of beauty
and infinity, of heroism and horror, love of life and
the vision of death."--*Eleanore Kellogg, in The
Chicago Evening Post*.

"At last there issues a novel with qualities of
greatness and the promise of endurance.  Hugh
Walpole's *Dark Forest* should, indeed, as a work
of literary art, easily survive the terror and the
turmoil."--*New York World*.

"Dostoievsky compressed within a few pages.  A
remarkable book indeed--beyond doubt the most
notable novel inspired by the war."--*New York
Tribune*.

"*The Dark Forest* is the first fine story product of
a high order of creative art we have had from the
European war."--*Boston Herald*.

"The very spirit of Russia is here.  This is
unusual.  Walpole appears to have become gifted in
a few months with the true Russian literary method.
Its magic is his."--*Boston Transcript*.

"It is a story of sustained power; tragic import
and impress, and careless disregard of western
conventions.  The rapt mysticism and unselfish
devotion of the heroine; the downright, uncompromising
materialism of her Russian lovers; the
pathetic appeal of Trenchard's loyalty, and the
situation finally developed by the heroine's untimely
taking off--these, in connection with the continually
recurring episodes of grim war, afford large
opportunity for originality of treatment and
characteristic, forceful dramatism."--*Philadelphia North
American*.

"Such a novel needed the war for its background.
It needed the war for its origin.  It could only
have been planned on the battle line.  It could be
written for and appreciated by only such an
audience as has been prepared by the melancholy of
catastrophe.  War's blood is in it, war's nerves and
sinews.  It is the very soul, upheaved, bereft, of
war.  It is the one great romance that has come
from a world of armies."--*New York Evening Sun*.

"*The Dark Forest* is a novel of extraordinary
beauty and power....  It is a work of art,
unqualifiedly a great book."--*Review of Reviews*.

"Hugh Walpole's *The Dark Forest* is the best
story yet written about the war that we have
read."--*New York Globe*.



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   THE GREEN MIRROR

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The title of *The Green Mirror* is symbolic.
In the drawing-room of the London house of
the Trenchards, not far from Westminster Abbey,
it represented the past and the present of a great
and typical English family.

"Above the wide stone fireplace was a large old
gold mirror, a mirror that took into its expanse the
whole of the room, so that, standing before it, with
your back to the door, you could see everything that
happened behind you.  The mirror was old, and
gave to the view that it embraced some comfortable
touch, so that everything within it was soft and
still and at rest."  Henry Trenchard, gazing into
it, saw "the reflection of the room, the green walls,
the green carpet, the old faded green place, like
moss covering dead ground.  Soft, dark, damp....
The people, his family, his many, many
relations, his world, he thought, were all inside the
mirror--all imbedded in that green, soft, silent
inclosure.  He saw, stretching from one end of
England to the other, in all provincial towns, in neat
little houses with neat little gardens, in cathedral
cities with their sequestered closes, in villages with
the deep green lanes leading up to the rectory
gardens, in old country places by the sea, all these people
happily, peacefully sunk up to their very necks in
the green moss....  His own family passed
before him.  His grandfather, his great-aunt Sarah,
his mother and his father, Aunt Aggie and Aunt
Betty, Uncle Tim, Millicent, Katherine."

Katherine embodied the spirit of revolt from the
tyranny of family.  When Philip Mark, a young
Englishman, who has spent the greater part of his
life in Russia, and whose experiences have made
him more Russian than English, comes wooing in
tempestuous fashion, she throws off the yoke of her
family and chooses for herself.  It is when the ties
of family are about to be shattered that Henry
Trenchard, in a fit of passion, flings a book at
Mark, the invader, who has shaken Katherine's
faith in the family, and, instead of hitting Mark,
demolishes the mirror.  "There was a tinkle of
falling glass, and instantly the whole room seemed to
tumble into pieces, the old walls, the old prints and
water colors, the green carpet, the solemn bookcases,
the large armchairs--and with the room the house,
Westminster, Garth, Glebeshire, Trenchard and
Trenchard traditions--all represented now by
splinters and fragments of glass."

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"*The Green Mirror*, the second in the series of
the *Rising City* series, which was opened by *The
Duchess of Wrexe*, is not only quite individual in
style but the story is told with a most vivid sense
of that which the realists are supposed to lack--form.
But there is no sacrifice of truth to it.  The
psychology of the characters rings true.  The
reaction of an unimaginative, sober, righteous family
to a prospective son-in-law has seldom been better
done.  The story will add to Mr. Walpole's
reputation and will not at all suffer from the fact that
it was written before the war, as his overmodest
preface might indicate that he fears."--*Chicago
Evening Post*.

"Henry James once said of the author that he
was 'saturated' with youth, and in this story
Walpole idealizes the triumph of the youth of the new
generation that breaks the cords that bind it to the
old and starts out for itself--a careful, coherent and
brilliant study."--*St. Louis Globe-Democrat*.

"This is a splendid study, the love story is charming
and altogether the book is an exceptionally good
piece of work."--*The New York Tribune*.

"In *The Green Mirror* Hugh Walpole shows his
masterly skill in building up a really dramatic novel
out of plot material that is almost without action.
His crises are always crises of feeling and no one
equals Mr. Walpole in his analysis of the feeling
of his characters and his exposition of their motives,
development and change."--*Cincinnati Enquirer*.

"*The Green Mirror* will serve further to intensify
the belief that Mr. Walpole is one of the great
novelists of the time.  The reviewer does not
hesitate to proclaim the conviction that he will be the
greatest novelist of his generation who uses English
as the medium of his expression."--*Providence
Journal*.

"Mr. Walpole has written a most unusual story
and has handled it in an exceedingly capable
manner.  His plot is so out of the ordinary and is so
well worked out that *The Green Mirror* may well
be classed as an exceptional novel and as such is
likely to rank high among the fiction of the present
years."--*Brooklyn Daily Eagle*.

"As a picture of contemporary life, the novel
contains some elements that are as fundamental as
those which make Dickens characters of old
London real flesh and blood to readers of today.  As a
study in motives animating society the book is
worthy the best traditions of English literature.
*The Green Mirror* is a distinct contribution to
literature."--*Detroit News Tribune*.

"*The Green Mirror* has not one touch of aniline
in all its warm colors, rich presences and faithful
portraiture.  It is a fine novel, grappling bravely
with the great ironies of mother-love."--*New Republic*.

"In the development and disclosure of the
essential and incidental scenes of the domestic
embroilment following upon disclosure of the central
situation Walpole vindicates his title to the primacy in
the ranks of British fictionists who have undertaken
to represent imaginatively the source, spirit and
outcome of insularity translated in terms of selfishness
and family pride.  It is life transcribed as
inexorable and fatalistic as *Fortitude* and *Duchess of
Wrexe*."--*Philadelphia North American*.



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   FORTITUDE

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The novel which first introduced Walpole to
America was *Fortitude*, that most beautiful,
most strong story of a man's fight against heredity
and circumstance for mastery over himself.  The
theme of the book lies in a saying of the Cornish
fisherman, old Frosted Moses: "'Tisn't life that
matters, but the courage you bring to it."

Peter Westcott, son of the black and sullen
generations of Scaw House, heard Frosted Moses say
that, as he, a tiny little boy, crouched in a chimney
corner at the old inn and heard the sages talk of
ancient Cornish legends, and of the glory of the
great world without.  So did he imbibe a spirit of
adventure which he never lost.

He left Scaw House and his gloomy father,
fought his way through school, through the welter
of a London boarding-house, through poverty and
failure to success as a novelist.  But his struggle
and his success were not the poor desire for petty
fame which many conventional heroes of fiction
regard as struggle.  What he desired in life was
fortitude, not headlines; the power to face failure as
well as the ability to become known.  The spirit
of adventure, humanity, these ever stirred him, and
he lost neither in becoming a victor.

Of the woman who loved Peter and the woman
whom Peter loved, Walpole makes a magnificent
love story.  There were many hours of dramatic
misunderstanding in the passion that sprang up
between the solid, broad-shouldered Peter, with his
quiet desire to write and be friendly toward all
sorts of people, and Clare, the slender, nervous, gay,
red-haired girl who had always been protected.  But
there was a great and beautiful wonder of passion
as well; and the happiness of the little London
house to which they returned from the honeymoon
is not to be forgotten.

And throughout there are very many people who
are not to be forgotten--Stephen, the Cornishman,
huge and bearded and bewildered and inarticulate,
loving the youngster Peter and the girl he could
not have, tramping the hard white roads of
England, an outcast for love; Zanti, the "foreigner,"
always a-quiver with babbling excitement over some
new adventure on whose trail he was following;
quiet Norah, untidy and pale, yet burning with a
love which gave back his fortitude to Peter when
it seemed lost; Cardillac, the elegant; Galleon, the
great novelist; the kiddies who adored big Peter;
Peter's own son, whom he so terribly loved.

It is a marvellous gallery, and more marvellous,
even, is the gallery of scenes, not painted in long
and laborious descriptions, but in quick snatches,
which show the fact that Walpole watches sky and
wind and tree as does no other novelist.

Do you not come from the heart of dusty
country back to the sea again as you read this?  If you
do not, then you do not love the sea, whose very
breath is here in this description from *Fortitude*:

"They were at the top of the hill now.  The sea
broke upon them with an instant menacing roar.
Between them and this violence there was now only
moorland, rough with gorse bushes, uneven with
little pits of sand, scented with sea pinks, with stony
tracks here and there where the moonlight touched it."

Put this with the first lines in *Maradick at Forty*
and you have a whole seaside holiday:

"The gray twilight gives to the long, pale
stretches of sand the sense of something strangely
unreal.  As far as the eye can reach, it curves out
into the mist, the last vanishing garments of some
fleeing ghost.  The sea comes smoothly, quite
silently, over the breast of it; there is a trembling
whisper as it catches the highest stretch of sand and
drags it for a moment down the slope; then, with a
little sigh, creeps back again a defeated lover."

Or, if you will have the soul of the gay city, here
it is in a quotation from *Fortitude*:

"The street stirred with the pattering of dogs
out for an airing.  The light slid down the
sky--voices rang in the clear air softly as though the
dying day besought them to be tender.  The
colours of the shops, of the green trees, of slim and
beautifully dressed houses, were powdered with
gold-dust; the church in Sloane Square began to
ring its bells."

But it is not so much beautiful imagery, not so
much interesting people, that distinguish *Fortitude*
and make it a great-hearted book, as the courage for
life, the demand for fortitude.

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"*Fortitude* is a book in which the writer has put
much passionate intensity of thought and conviction.
It has no faults of insincerity, weakness, nor
poverty of mind or heart.  It is fascinating.  It is
the expression of a born writer.  One reads it all.
There is humor, there is generosity; as of some big
man overflowing with ideas.  There is a noble spirit
in the book that blows fresh upon one, like a wind
from the sea.  The wind may have blown through
desperate places and seen bitter things, but it is
clean and bracing, and one is glad of it."--*Hildegarde
Hawthorne In The New York Times*.

"*Fortitude* is a story that one will like to linger
over after it is read.  It is reminiscent of Thackeray
at his best, mellowed with the charity of
well-proportioned truth."--*New York American*.

"*Fortitude* is impressive.  Its revelations of life
strike deeply into those springs of youth from which
are filled the wells of manhood."--*The New York
World*.

"This novel is a genuine performance.  All is
worked out in the finest detail, like the careful
etching of a great, stone-made cathedral."--*The
Chicago Evening Post*.

"Hugh Walpole is a literary force to be reckoned
with.  He knows life; he is not afraid to
depict it.  He can be sympathetic without being
sentimental.  He is afraid neither of pleasure nor
pain--nor of seeming to fear the conventionalities.  He
has the true idea of romance.  He knows that the
enchanted land of adventure may be found in a
London boarding house as surely as on stormy seas
or in deep hidden gold mines.  He knows that
man's fiercest battles seldom are fought to the
accompaniment of cannon.  He knows that loneliness
is one of the hardest, one of the most universal of
humanity's tests and sorrows.  *Fortitude* is a book
to read more than once, to ponder.  Instinct with
life and vigor, lovers of sentiment, fighting,
psychology, romance, realism, each will find it worth
while."--*The Chicago Record-Herald*.

"*Fortitude* is a book of splendid strength and
significance.  It is done with much care for
workmanship and with a large understanding of the meaning
of life, so proving doubly worth while....
Throughout the book is marked by a penetrating
knowledge of humanity, so that it brings one
continually into touch with real people and real human
crises."--*The Continent*.

"Mr. Hugh Walpole has the faculty of infusing
vibrant life into his characters in fiction, and in
*Fortitude* he presents one of the strongest and best
novels of the season."--*The Baltimore Sun*.

"The people here are as real as life.  The theme
is big.  The movement is controlled and steady, a
leisurely movement, as stories that deal with
character rather than action must be.  The sketches of
London, in their whimsically personal note, make
one think of Dickens in the same field.  The whole
is big in every sense.  One of the two or three or
maybe four novels of the year that will live to
celebrate even a single birthday."--*The Washington
Evening Star*.

"There is not a dull page in the book.  Its people
are real flesh and blood beings, with courage, with
love and with humor in their souls.  All of them
are interesting, while the circumstances which
surround them in *Fortitude* increase the delight of the
many readers the book is certain to achieve."--*The
Boston Globe*.

"The book is full of thought.  Mr. Walpole has
written a chapter of life, pure and simple.  The
reader cannot skip one page."--*The Philadelphia
Public Ledger*.

"Fortitude is a great book.  It marks the arrival
of Hugh Walpole as a novelist to be reckoned with.
We will await further performance with an
anticipation like that with which we look forward to
a new Five Towns tale by Bennett."--*Norma
Bright Carson in Book News Monthly*.

"One of the remarkable novels of the year.  This
is a great book."--*The San Francisco Chronicle*.

"This book of humor, romance, and realism is a
pæan of youth and strength and love, a valiant and
bracing sermon."--*The Nashville Tennessean*.



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   THE DUCHESS OF WREXE

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Walpole's constantly increasing perception
of the breadth and dignity of the world has
given to *The Duchess of Wrexe: A Romantic
Commentary* a spaciousness, a universality which make
it apply to the big problems of today wherever
found--yet his ceaseless interest in human nature
keep it a pleasant tale to read, with a surge of
power.

It is the story of the second generation's struggle
for freedom, for the right to think and grow and
love and form social circles as it wills, against the
tradition which commends them to do as tradition
wills.  It is the struggle which is identical all over
the world, whether in London or San Francisco,
Paris or Peking.  It is the struggle which expresses
itself in feminism, in changing art, in growing
rationalism of manner and speech and thought.

The Duchess of Wrexe is the autocrat of the
autocrats; the modern cavalier; old, shriveled, feeble
of body, but keen of eye as ever, with her cynical
wit and sophisticated manner unchanged, who until
she is dead will never give up her fight to keep the
race of cavaliers ruling the nation, to keep the
despised race of ordinary people (especially the
*nouveau riche*) in their places.  From her darkened
rooms, where she sits in a great chair with grim
china dragons on either side, she plots against the
spread of democracy shrewdly, ruthlessly, ceaselessly.

The spirit of the times is proving toe much for
the Duchess.  But she fights on.  However glad
the reader may be of the defeat of all the tyranny
for which the Duchess stands, he cannot but be
touched by her plucky fight and the grim persistence
of her cynical wit.

It may be mentioned that Walpole does not, like
many writers, draw on imagination entirely for his
pictures of aristocracy and smart society.  Essential
democrat though he is, Hugh Walpole is the cousin
of the Earl of Orford, the son of a bishop, and a
descendant of the famous prime minister, Sir Robert
Walpole.

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"*The Duchess of Wrexe* is a wonderful piece of
creative character study.  There is a maturity, a
sureness of touch in the book that marks the man
who knows just what he can do with his medium
and does it enthusiastically and well."--*Book News
Monthly*.

"A definite and notable addition to English
letters is made when a new novel by Hugh Walpole
is published.  His latest book, *The Duchess of
Wrexe*, deals on large elemental lines with the
restless, changing spirit of the time.  To the strange
medley of modern life the novelist's powers of
invention, description and characterization are highly
addressed.  His spirited and finished portrayal of
one phase of the changing social order exemplifies
finely and naturally the picturesque realism of
new-century romance."--*Philadelphia North American*.

"*The Duchess of Wrexe* stimulates thought and
encourages reflection.  It contains a multitude of
ideas and it also allows the reader to think for
himself.  It is energetic and vigorous without being
truculent; it sets forth social conditions without
being polemic.  It is genuinely a story, and it is at
the same time a suggestive commentary on life.  *On
every page it dignifies the art of the novelist*....
With all his subtlety, with all his restraint, with
all his ingenuity in making it a social study,
Mr. Walpole has not made *The Duchess of Wrexe* any
the less effective as a story.  It is a novel that
entertains, that charms.  On a single page of it will
be found more about mankind and life than is
discoverable in the entirety of many another novel....
He has lavished upon it ideas, situations,
events and characters sufficient for the lifework of
numerous other novelists."--*Boston Transcript*.

"Those who take Mr. Walpole's work as a plain
story will find it of compelling interest.  Those
who read its message complete will be impressed
by the sense of a great theme thoughtfully and
powerfully presented.  There is no flattery in the
statement that this book is *one of the really great pieces
of modern fiction*."--*New York World*.

"All the grim, unyielding pride of race of
England's old autocracy is made incarnate in the
personality of one aged woman, the ever-dominating
title-character in this admirable study of changing
social orders.  It is a heroic picture that the author
paints of this grim old head of the house of
Beaminster.  She stands out supreme amid the pages, one
of the most notable figures put into a book in a
long time."--*Philadelphia Press*.

"Walpole has strengthened his claim to position
by proving that he is not a man of one book, for
*The Duchess of Wrexe* is without doubt one of the
big novels of the year.  It is a novel of extreme
significance."--*Samuel Abbott in The Boston Post*.



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   THE GOLDEN SCARECROW

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"If you love enough we are with you everywhere--forever"--that
is the word of the little children
that stupid people call "dead."  Always here,
playing in the room they loved.  Such is the end
of *The Golden Scarecrow*, the most original book
by the author of *Fortitude*.  It is the story of a
dozen children living about a spacious old square,
a square filled with leisure and the sound of leaves,
in the heart of London.  The son of a duke is one,
and one the forlornly playing child of a housekeeper
who drank and was untidy, but their lives were all
bound together by the Friend--who is the Friend
of Stevenson's child-verses--who in dangerous or
unhappy moments comes to children and with his
great warm arm guides them....  There is a
wonderful fancifulness in *The Golden Scarecrow*,
a mellow and gentle beauty; and a really remarkable
ability to enter into the children's own world,
where carpets are vast moors, and the fire whispers
secrets, and the lashing out of a whip of wind
suggests things vast and secret and perilous.  Mr. Walpole
has "loved enough"; has so loved children and
the little land of the imagination that he has put
into this book the quality which can never be quite
plumbed--tenderness.  And it is not the awkward
tenderness of the person not born to write; but
graceful and perfect and winning as a Greek vase.

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"The fact that childhood is not a mere prelude
to adult life but worth while for its own sake has
seldom been more beautifully expressed."--*Chicago
Evening Post*.

"Few adults preserve their line of communication
with that world of fancy so real to children.
But when one of rare fancy visualizes it a chord of
kinship is struck; memory rolls back the years, and
the heart responds.  Barrie did it in *The Little
White Bird*.  Hugh Walpole joins him with *The
Golden Scarecrow*."--*Boston Herald*.

"Only those readers of Mr. Walpole's novels
who have missed any real sense of them will be
surprised by this singularly attractive series of
sketches.  There is an infinite pathos and a quite
exquisite charm in the first sketch, the one which
suggests the spirit of them all....  It cannot be
too strongly insisted upon that in these child-studies
there is not a whiff of the pseudo-sentiment about
childhood which in some writings has reached the
nauseating point.  Mr. Walpole simply has the very
rare gift of actually getting the child's point of
view, and we always feel that he really understands
what he is talking about."--*Providence Journal*.

"In one sense it bears kinship to Barrie's *Peter
Pan* and Maeterlink's *Blue Bird*, for although it
is unlike either of these fairy tales in material and
treatment, it is related to them in that it recreates
for older readers the magical world of the
imagination that plays so large a part in the lives of
little folk.  Mr. Walpole writes with charm and
tenderness."--*Philadelphia Press*.

"It is as beautiful as it is unusual--a wonderfully
sympathetic and illuminating study of the mind of
the child done with an understanding and sympathy
so complete that it is uncanny."--*New York Evening Mail*.



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   THE WOODEN HORSE

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With hesitation one approaches the first novel
of an author whose growth has been so steady
as that of Walpole.  It is therefore a double
delight to find *The Wooden Horse* a thoroughly good
story.  Indeed, it has in it certain qualities which
should, as Walpole's work becomes more and more
known in mass, be one of his most popular.  For it
is filled with the youth's first joy of expression; its
excitement about life and its yearning for strange
new roads.

*The Wooden Horse* is the story of the Trojans,
a family which accepted as tranquilly as did the
Duchess of Wrexe the belief that they were the
people for whom the world was created.  But when
Harry Trojan came home after twenty years in
New Zealand, with the democracy learned by
working his hands, he was the "wooden horse" who
boldly carried into the Trojan walls a whole army
of alien ideals, which made of that egotistic family
a group of human beings content to be human.

Interesting are his struggles against stubborn
prejudice; dreamlike the pictures of the old Trojan
house, rising from the edge of the gray Cornish cliff
like an older cliff, yet surrounded by fragrant rose
gardens; but what most distinguishes *The Wooden
Horse* is its passionate adoration of the sea, the
cliffs, the weather-worn old Cornish houses, where
bearded men tell of haunted moors and the winds
of the deep.

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"Reading this story after reading his later ones
will not prove the disappointment that such a
procedure usually is.  Here are no signs of faults
outgrown, no weaknesses that will hurt the lover of
Walpole's later works--by which statement we do
not wish to be taken as denying that he has
developed.  Mr. Walpole is a realist with a wide angle
vision to whom not only the littered and close
ways of short-sighted and selfish men are real, but
to whom the large species of nature and her
healing quiet are just as real.  He sees life steadily
and sees it whole--yet keeps his temper and his
hopes."--Llwellyn Jones in *The Chicago Evening Post*.

"Nowhere has Walpole shown a greater grip upon
life's realities, a stronger appreciation of the
elusiveness of man-made conventionalities and a better
artistic sense of the dramatic value of contrasts.
In describing the subtle changes brought about in
the family circle by the presence of one outside
influence, Walpole has displayed much skill and
literary power.  There are no long disquisitions, no
democratic preachments, but his dramatic personæ,
when brought face to face with new situations, are
moved to action according to their light.  This is
one of the very best novels from the pen of
Mr. Walpole, and that is saying much."--*Philadelphia
Public Ledger*.

"A most notable piece of artistry.  In Harry
Trojan, the 'unrepentant prodigal,' Mr. Walpole
has given us a splendid vigorous personality whose
acquaintance is a delight to readers wearied by
heroes of the type of Harry's semidecadent son.  The
picture of the Trojan family is one which for
vividness could scarcely be surpassed.  And, indeed,
Mr. Walpole has scarcely written anything more
excellent than the account of the dying of Sir
Jeremy Trojan--'I am going, but I don't regret
anything--your sins are experience--and the greatest
sin of all is not having any.'  That, in a sense, is
the motto of the book.  *The Wooden Horse* is
one of the few novels which not only may be read,
but must be read by the discriminating
reader."--*Providence Journal*.

"If one wishes to read a good story without being
preached at, he can do no better than read *The
Wooden Horse*.  The story catches the atmosphere
of the Cornish coast, and you have the feel of the
salt spray in your nostrils as you read."--*Indianapolis News*.

"As delicate a piece of work as any modern novelist
has attempted and superlatively well done."--*Lexington
Kentucky Herald*.



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   THE GODS AND MR. PERRIN

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Hugh Walpole spent some time as a
master at an English provincial school, and
consequently he has been able to put into *The Gods
and Mr. Perrin* quite all the atmosphere of a school
where the system, the confinement, the routine of
petty tasks get on everyone's nerves and turn a
group of human beings into strange hybrids that
are at once machines and animals with raw nerves
sticking out all over them.  Whoever has--whether
in the confinement of a school or an unhappy office
or a jarring household--been smothered by the
atmosphere of some set of human beings, will find
himself in this book, and rejoice with Perrin's fight
to break free.

*The Gods and Mr. Perrin* finds Mr. Perrin
coming back to the workhouse-like school for boys at
the beginning of term-time, determined to be kind
this year.  But the drudgery, the smell of cold
mutton and chalk, the endless succession of frightened
boys, the smug ironies of the reverend head-master,
get on his nerves, and then the Cat of Cruelty
begins to whisper at his ear and suggest that it would
be pleasant to twist one boy's ear and cuff another.

He bursts out, at last, gloriously, and at a solemn
gathering of the school for the awarding of prizes,
tells what he really thinks of the hypocritical
headmaster and the drab futility of the whole school.
Uncompromisingly, unflinchingly, Walpole has
painted that school as it is.  His picture should be
enough to make any head-master who still believes
in education by repression go off and commit
suicide.  It should be enough to make any man who
is yearly growing more choked, more afraid of life,
more smothered in a stuffy environment, rebel and
fight his way out of that kingdom of dullness, cost
what it may.

But because of that very spirit of revolt, *The
Gods and Mr. Perrin* is not a drably disagreeable
novel which will frighten off soft-minded readers.

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"Marked by technical excellence, insight,
imagination, and beauty--Walpole at his best."--*San
Francisco Bulletin*.

"The psychological crisis in the life of a
schoolmaster, uncouth, unhappy and unloved, is keenly
analyzed by the hand of a master.  The hysteria
that attacks the faculty of a boys' school at
examination time has never been so well described as in
the moving chronicle of the 'Battle of the Umbrella'
which proves that Mr. Walpole has the crowning
gift of humor."--*The Independent*.



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   THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE

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So excellent is the versatility of Hugh Walpole
that this writer of dignified and realistic and
always beautiful pictures of life has among his books
one with all the tension and strange plot of a Poe
masterpiece--*The Prelude to Adventure*.  It starts
with a murder.  Dune the silent, the cleverest yet
laziest and most snobbish man in his class at
Cambridge, has struck down a red-faced, silly, ignoble,
beast of an undergraduate who has been boasting
of his conquest over a poor little shopgirl.  He did
not mean to do murder, but there lay the man dead,
where the gray Druids' Wood dripped with rain
and gray twilight.

He calmly went back to his rooms and kept silent.
What happened is so filled with suspense that, very
real and human though it is, the plot comes to have
all the unexpectedness of the cleverest detective
story.  And Dune's vision of God, as a great gray
spirit standing gigantic there on the campus,
waiting, waiting, is a revelation in spiritual motives.
Dune's love story, too, is fascinating--and his victory.

Suspense--color of life--love--fear--triumph--they
all mingle in an atmosphere as effective as
the Cornish sea.

"A powerful novel of Cambridge life, or rather
the story of a Cambridge student with the
university sketched in with rapid and sure strokes as a
place through which Dune's tragic and lonely
figure moves.  The sentiment is lofty and manly--Hugh
Walpole walks with a sure and firm tread
toward a definite goal."--*The Independent*.



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   MARADICK AT FORTY

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The theme of *Maradick at Forty* again gets
into the life of every man and every woman;
a theme equally timely in 1000 B.C., 1000 A.D. and
10000 A.D.--the question of what is to be done
when a man wakes up to find himself getting
almost old, with life slipping from him to the next
generation.  One may smile at the white slave
terror, and be quite selfish as regards educational
movements, but one cannot smile away the progress of
one's self from the forties into the fifties.

Maradick, strong, large, well-bred, a capable
stock broker, awakes at forty to find that life has
eluded him.  He has married respectably--his fussy
little wife does not love him.  His children are
dutiful--they are not admiring.  His business is
safe--it is not absorbing.

While spending the summer at the "Man at
Arms," that marvelous dark old inn with
unexpected bits of gardens and tower rooms rambling
over the Cornwall cliffs and fronting a vast sweep
of sea and sky, he meets with a young man to whom
life and poetry are real, to whom women and seas
are "bully! marvelous!"  The youngster's youth stirs
Maradick to demand that he no longer be taken
for granted by wife and children and business--and
life!  He plunges into a spiritual adventure which
is the Adventure of Everyman.





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   THE NOVELS OF HUGH WALPOLE

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   THE SECRET CITY
   THE DARK FOREST
   JEREMY
   THE GOLDEN SCARECROW
   THE GREEN MIRROR
   THE DUCHESS OF WREXE
   FORTITUDE
   THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE
   MARADICK AT FORTY
   THE GODS AND MR. PERRIN
   THE WOODEN HORSE

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   GEORGE \H. DORAN COMPANY, *Publishers*
   244 Madison Avenue NEW YORK

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