WE may think of other ages as more romantic than our own, but certainly none of them has been more exciting. It seems to me there was more high-explosive change in the first quarter of this century than in any other span you can mention: the war, the Russian Revolution, Mussolini’s dictatorship, the aviation achievements, the explorations, the Chinese chaos, are only some of the high spots. The excitement these events occasioned is in our blood. We crave it, and to offset our humdrum duty we live vicariously in the exploits of others, which accounts, I think, for our large appetite for autobiography, the more daring the better.
The art of writing in the first person is possessed by only a few. Benvenuto Cellini had it. Winston Churchill has it. Dr. Munthe and T. E. Lawrence displayed it at least once. It is a talent that sorts with men rather than women, and at its best is a happy combination of gusto and spirit, candor and humor.
Some if not all of these qualifications are present in the memoirs of Grand Duke Alexander of Russia, cousin and brother-in-law of the last Tsar. Known for his sanity and liberalism in a court renowned for neither, he suffered many rebuffs and disappointments before the final debacle. But that he found life fascinating no one can doubt. Once a Grand Duke (Farrar & Rinehart, $.3.50) is a book that stands out above defeat: with glittering detail it celebrates the glamorous early years of royalty: with insight it etches a portrait gallery of the last of the Romanovs; with shrewd irony it chronicles the selfdestruction of a State and her final abandonment by her allies; with singular absence of concealment it confesses the failings of a sensitive man. Its humor, noticeable at the outset, gives place in the end to more than enough recrimination. And I feel that the author has occasionally confused hindsight with prophecy.
While Grand Duke Alexander and his family were being kept under guard in the Crimea in 1918, Richard Boleslavski, an officer in the First Regiment of Polish Lancers, was undergoing an experience which is now the making of a remarkable book, Way of a Lancer (BobbsMerrill, $3.00). The revolutionary corruption of the Russian army created an incredible chaos. Hostility between officers and men led to a guerrilla warfare which spread throughout the countryside. The Poles, dreaming of liberty, wanted to get home, and so the survivors of this famous cavalry set out to cut their way through Revolution and the enemy’s lines. Theirs is a story of vivid flashes set against a bleak and oppressive background. This book is like a thunderstorm: violence is in the air, and with the crack of lightning the reader is stunned by the tragedy or pathos which the scene reveals. There are episodes of shocking brutality, such as ’Colonel’s End’ and ‘Ravine,’ and others of compensating tenderness, ‘Preserves’ and ’Last Roll Call.’ A man’s book, and one which will fascinate him with the sheer power of its writing.
To calm down I turned to (James) Branch Cabell’s new collection of essays. These Bestless Heads (McBride. $2.50). Of the forty semi-continnous papers which compose this book, nearly all are concerned with idle speculation started seasonally by a postman,a portrait,a flag,or a bust. In a t ime when good essays are as scarce ashen’s teeth. it is a pity, I thought, that this fastidious writer has not served us better. I had supposed that by the change of his name he meant to close his mind to the extravagant tapestry of Poietesme. I had hoped we might have here something as robust as his earlier volume. Beyond Life. Instead, with a charm of style and a show of irony, we have those flushed fancies that run through Jurgen and that seem, as we look back On them, rather small and silly potatoes. Mr. Cabell, it seems, has dropped the James from his name, leaving the Branch bare.
