IN THE sense of requiring elucidation or apology, this novel needs no introduction. The young lady who wrote it about two years ago, when she was eighteen, has already abandoned this work to publishers and other grown-ups, and with admirable professional good sense, is working upon fresh enterprises.

In this, indeed, she is a genuine artist. Nothing is more clear from her correspondence with the writer of this introduction, than that she is, without ever becoming conscious of the fact, a genuine artist. Speaking of the intellectuals who occasionally impinge upon the family circle she says: “They have a horrid habit of—— oh, I can’t spell it, but it means pulling their minds to pieces and finding out how they are made, and they do that with their emotions, too.”

Nothing of the sort is to be found in this tale of eastern England during the Restoration. And yet, while we may accept the unusual spectacle of a modern schoolgirl writing a red-blooded adventure story and privately poking fun at psychoanalysts and their dupes, we are justified in a certain curiosity as to the genesis of such a book. That curiosity the introduction is designed to assuage.

Margery Allingham, whom the writer first met at the early age of two, comes of literary stock. Her grandparents were publishers in the days before the big combinations made an independent weekly paper a hopeless hazard. Her parents are journalists and writers of fiction. The business aspects of literature, the philosophy of art, and the technical problems of serial fiction have been commonplaces of the domestic atmosphere which the future novelist breathed during her childhood. It was as natural for Margery to sit down and “write a story” as for a shopkeeper’s child to play at keeping a shop. It was inevitable also that she should start a magazine. I remember it well. It was called The Wag-tail, and the founder was about eight years old. I was foreign correspondent, a rank imposed because of my being on a ship and so bringing news of distant shores. Margery herself, however, was mainly responsible for the publication. It was written in a penny exercise book, and editorial, short-story, serial, answers to correspondents and advertisements were entirely by the founder. Our collaboration on this long-defunct organ laid the foundation of an enduring friendship. When she was eleven, Margery was graciously pleased to accept the dedication of one of my novels, in the spirit in which it was offered. It was a gesture neither of condescension nor of derision, but rather a sincere and, let us hope, successful attempt on the part of a man a good way up the hill to give a friendly and affectionate signal to a child already breasting the lower reaches.

And as the years followed one another in that peculiar progression which is neither arithmetical nor geometrical, but rather telescopic, whereby the young close up upon us and make us uneasily aware of our own slothful deficiencies, it became increasingly evident that in spite of the secret discouragement of wise parents, who did their best to hold themselves up as Awful Warnings, Margery Allingham would sooner or later express herself in one of the arts. Which art she would choose seemed equally certain until the family circle learned that she proposed to “go in” for elocution.

The present writer, hearing of this in foreign parts, was at first nonplussed. With the lack of intelligence that seems to distinguish so many grown-up males, he feared there would be “dirty work at the cross-roads” when his lady friend discovered the real nature of a theatrical career. He might have saved himself the trouble. The lady friend, gleefully reporting progress, was evidently too preoccupied with the spectacle of grown-ups in action to bother about the future at all. She regarded elocution as a means rather than an end. It was perfectly natural for her, when she failed to find pieces suitable for recitation, to write them herself. It was a simple step, it appears, when the class at the Polytechnic sought for a play in which to reveal their virtuosity to friends and parents, for Margery Allingham to write that play, to stage-manage it, to design the costumes, and to assume the principal rÔle herself. It was, in short, the little old Wag-tail magazine upon a somewhat larger scale. One might be pardoned for supposing that the advice of a large and talented family circle would be invoked on behalf of a favourite daughter. On the contrary, they are pictured in many letters as standing around in helpless admiration while a seventeen-year-old maiden carries through her plans with the precision of an experienced and ruthless impresario. The play, a blank-verse tragedy entitled “Dido, Queen of Carthage”, is rehearsed and ultimately performed with such astonishing success that additional performances have to be scheduled and the public permitted to pay for admission.

All this, even though it included illustrated interviews in the London press, was regarded by the chief protagonist as the inept reaction of grown-ups to a very ordinary achievement of modern youth. For it should be borne in mind that modern youth, while it is not particularly impressed with the performances or the philosophies of the preceding generation, is perfectly willing to abide by the rules of the economic game. The activities enumerated above were by no means the spectacular antics of a pampered parasite. Money was being earned in a highly diverting fashion. It appears that not only are films adapted from books, but books and stories are redistilled back from the films. Should money be necessary for scenery or costumes, it was Margery Allingham’s habit to witness a few pictures, transmute them into fiction and send them to the weekly journals that publish such stories. The picture evoked by a series of engaging letters written over the past three years is that of a shrewd and competent being from another world struggling with the stupidities and prejudices of a crowd of tottering half-wits upon the verge of dissolution. Youth seems to be having a tough time of it in England, as well as in America. There is nothing new about this, according to our novelist. “The modern girl is simply Miss 1840 without her petticoats,” is her definition, based on an attentive study of Jane Austen’s heroines. The trouble lies, not with youth, but with middle age, whose intellect tends to ossify more rapidly than of yore. It is an interesting theory, though evidently not designed to placate either publishers or the writers of introductions.

To come to grips with the question of the origin of this particular novel, however, is a delicate matter. We find ourselves on enchanted ground. When a young lady of eighteen writes a novel in four months and calmly asserts that the story came to her out of the air, as it were, communicated by so-called automatic writing, the average grown-up hesitates. He has a foolish predilection for sober realities, and is reluctant to admit familiar spirits, as it were, to the family circle. Modern youth, dragging her family after her, calls up the ghosts of departed rapscallions, witches, and serving-wenches, and forthwith sits down to fashion a stirring tale.

The novel, then, is a story within a story. The latter has for me a peculiar fascination. Knowing the characters who sat round that table in the house on Mersea Island, knowing the Island itself and the surrounding fenland, I wanted to write a story about them. I have repressed this desire, contenting myself with recounting to occasional groups of friends the amazing facts. Now that the novel has been written, and published in England and America by people who know little and care nothing about its origins, judging it merely as a piece of fiction commercially available, the opportunity arrives to reveal briefly the unusual circumstances out of which the tale was born.

That part of England called East Anglia has preserved through many centuries the salient features of the landscape. As Charles Dickens said of the French-Flemish country, it is neither bold nor diversified, being in fact a sort of continuation of that country on the other side of the shallow and recent North Sea. And indeed what Dickens went on to say of his Flemish-French country, that it was three parts Flemish and one part French, might be paraphrased for East Anglia as three parts English and one part Low Country, or three parts land and one part water. The shores emerge imperceptibly from the gray waste of the North Sea, with stretches of low-tide mud that shine with a metallic lustre beyond the dunes. The sea is loth to retreat, winding in and out among the fields, so that one is startled, driving along the road from Colchester towards Mersea, to see a huge brown wherry aground behind the dikes, many miles from the sea-lanes outside. And from Canvey Island, which is fairly in the Thames Estuary below Tilbury, to Aldeburgh, on the Suffolk Coast, the sea interpenetrates the land so deeply and with so many loops and backwaters, that the whole coast, to high tide, is compacted of lonely islands, with here and there a house and the square tower of an ancient little Saxon church showing above some weather-worn trees on the landward side. Bleak and perishing cold in the winter, there is a quiet loveliness in the summers there appealing strongly to unfashionable folk who seek the elemental sanctuaries of remote harbours and salt winds driving the thick white clouds athwart a sky of palest azure.

In such surroundings and with a practicable house for sleep, you come close to England. In such surroundings, on a fare of beef and cheese and beer, an English family might conceivably become so homogeneously identified with the spirit of the place that they could move at will up and down the centuries, assuming the thoughts and memories of any disembodied intelligences still anchored to their earthly haunts. So at least it emerges, reading the sober evidence before us, as those four set it down, signing it with their several names and styles, and asserting their right as truthful subjects to be believed.

And what they say is this: In August, 1920, being in their cottage on Mersea Island, on an evening that had turned to rain, the time hung heavily and it was suggested they pass an hour with the glass. The ordinary materials were soon provided, being no more than the alphabet on paper slips, arranged in a circle on the table with a common tumbler, from which ale is drunk in those parts, inverted in the middle. Nothing remained save to select some feasible subject.

One lay to their hand. While none of the company had practised the historical method in their fictions, since they lacked the special knowledge of bygone ways and speech such work demands, they had often discussed a legend persisting in the island, that a near-by tavern, long since destroyed, had been the scene of a tragedy. Old people in the village said they had seen the ghost, which haunted a house known as The Myth. “Let us,” said someone, “call up the landlord of the Ship Inn. Perhaps,” they added amidst some laughter, “he will reply.”

He did! Amid great yet repressed excitement, the mysterious glass slid to and fro, spelling out a name. As far as can be ascertained, for once the exact requirements of time and place and method came together, and some sort of communication was established across the “gateless barrier” that separates us from the souls who linger near the scenes of their earthly existence, loth to wander far from their native air. Night after night, for long hours, these inexperienced folk sat round their table holding converse with the spirits that syllable men’s names, piecing together the fragments, evoking new witnesses to check up obscure allusions, puzzling over the illiterate and archaic words and phrases which none of them, by any possible chance, could have heard before.

No provision, however, is made in modern publishing for works produced by authors after they are dead. It is absolutely necessary, when it comes to publishing, to have some representative this side of the grave, and Margery Allingham, whose mortal hand wrote the following novel, is compelled by the hidebound rules of a material and grown-up world to assume the authorship. Publishers, it seems, from an inspection of our correspondence, are grown-ups.

It cannot be said that they have, in this particular case, failed in their obligations to the public. There is one notable feature about this novel, which the present writer did not read until it had been accepted for publication, and that is the clean and workmanlike characterization. Here is no fine writing, no groping for “style.” With crisp hammer-blows the tale is told. A realistic romance, if you please, in the sense that no one stands between us and the characters of Black’erchief Dick. It is the realism of Defoe’s Captain Singleton and the Plague Year, where the author achieves a magical invisibility. So far from leading his characters forward and leaving them to speak, and so revealing themselves as the children of his brain, the realistic romanticist never appears at all. Unlike the romantic realist, who passes everything through the spectrum of his own personality, his story must stand by its own inherent quality. There are some who would deny him the rank of artist, claiming that title exclusively for the introspective specialists. The present writer cannot subscribe to that narrow creed. He can even imagine a votary of introspection casting envious eyes upon this stirring tale of love and piracy in seventeenth-century England, and wondering whether something may not be said for the objective method after all, where you begin at the beginning and end at the end, where something is allowed for the picturesque, and the artist works within the ancient and honourable conventions that are accepted, and loved, and comprehended by the crowd.

William McFee.

BLACK’ERCHIEF DICK