e horrors, the
compensations, the tragedy and happiness of such work have come straight
into the book from life. But not content with this, he has peopled his
mission with fictitious characters and made a story about them. And good
as the story is, full of fine imagination and character, the background
is so tremendously more real that I was constantly having to resist a
feeling of impatience with the false creations (in _Macbeth's_ sense)
who play out their unsubstantial drama before it. Yet I am far from
denying the beauty of Mr. Walpole's idea. The characters of _Trenchard_,
the self-doubting young Englishman, who finds reality in his love for
the nurse _Marie Ivanovna_, and of the Russian doctor, _Semyonov_, who
takes her from him, are exquisitely realized. And the atmosphere of
increasing mental strain, in which, after _Marie's_ death, the tragedy
of these three moves to its climax in the forest is the work of an
artist in emotion, such as by this time we know Mr. Walpole to be. The
trouble was that I had at the moment no wish for artistry. To sum up, I
am left with the impression that an uncommonly good short story rather
tiresomely distracted my attention from some magnificent war-pictures.

* * * * *

As Field-Marshal Sir Evelyn Wood, V. C., in _Our Fighting Services_
(Cassell), begins with the Battle of Hastings and ends with the Boer War
there is no gainsaying the fact that his net has been widely spread. To
assist him in the compilation of this immense tome the author has a
fluent style and--to judge from the authorities consulted and the
results of these consultations--an inexhaustible industry. The one
should make his book acceptable to the amateur who reads history because
he happens to love it, and the other should make it invaluable to
professionals who handle books of reference, not lovingly, but of
necessity. And having said so much in praise of Sir Evelyn I am also
happy to add that he is, on the whole, that rare thing--an historian
without prejudices. Almost desperately, for instance, he tries to
express his admiration of Oliver Cromwell as a soldier, although he
quite obviously detests him as a man. I find myself, however, wondering
whether Sir Evelyn, were he writing of Cromwell at this hour, would say,
"For a man over forty years of age to work hard to acquire the rudiments
of drill is in itself remarkable." Even when allowance is made for the
differences between th