AT about this time I begin to collect, those books which I anticipate reading in my summer vacation. During the winter certain volumes have been mentioned which I feel I want to read, either for the good of my soul or for sheer pleasure. From past experience I know that my summer library needs to be very varied and not so ambitious as one might suppose in January; for heat and exercise have a way of making a heavy book a sleepy proposition. Here, then, are a few of the items that will go off with me to a cottage: Liaison, by General E. L. Spears (Doubleday, Doran). an absorbing account of the first four months of the war with many vivid thumb-nail portraits. The Literary Mind, by Max Eastman (Scribners), a very stimulating evaluation of contemporary literature, with special attention to the effect of psychology. Thirdly, Hindoo Holiday, by J. R. Ackerley (Viking), which, according to London reports, is the delicious account of a young Englishman who went to tutor the family of an Indian maharajah. Finally, there is what I take to be the novel of the summer, The Fountain, by Charles Morgan (Knopf), an uncommon story, by turns so engrossing, so philosophic, that its reading should be spun out over several days. To the castle of the van Leydens, an ancient Dutch family, come three paroled British officers in 1915. Alison, the most likable of them, plans to devote his captivity to writing a history of the contemplative life. Oddly enough, it is Julie, the English stepdaughter of his host, whom he is tempted to contemplate. The ancient conflict between the active and the passive, really beautifully expressed in the first half of the story, develops a sensitive situation, complicated, as it is, by Julie’s Dutch relatives — and by the fact that her husband, a Prussian officer, returns wounded from the front. . . . Rinky dinky parlee voo.
The emotional scenes may seem overwrought, but one must remember that this story was lived at a time of great tension and that Julie’s loyalties were tried to the breaking point. It may be objected that the reflective passages are too studied; personally I feel that they add immeasurably to the substance and beauty of the novel.
