The Salt Lake tribune. [volume] (Salt Lake City, Utah) 1890-current, 1914-01-25
A GALsWoRTHY NOVEL.

The Dark Flower By John Gaisworthy. Published
by Charles Scriouor'o Sons, New York,
In The Dark Flower" John Gals,
worthy. a popular, English novelist and
playwright has devoted himself TO a
style of writing which tho French
have wasted much OF their art This Is
Is a masterful man with the women in
a high-bred, temperamentai. modern way.
Mark Lennan's first love affair is with
the wife of an Oxford professor: AL
36. she Is unable TO hold the affection
Of the young man, who turns to Sylvia
who is Just slip OF girl.
The book tells the story Of Lehman s
love affairs In various periods OF HIS life,
and the author Seems to find an en-
thusiasm In his trivial work which the
judiclous reader cannot share. One can
only wish that SO much art and fine
writing had been expended on a nobler
subject than tempera mental artist who
Is such lion among the ladies. The
following selection. which Is written In
Mr.. Galsworthy's most admirable style.
Ing OF the one woman whom the artist
loved best:
What happened then he never
knew, never clearly-in ali those
after years. vision OF her white
form risen to its feet. bending for
ward like a creature caught, that
cannot tell which way to spring;
crashing shock, his head striking
something nara NOlHTRncSS. y Ilu
then-an awful awful struggle with
roots and weeds and slime. des-
perate agony OF cropping In that pitchy
blackness, among tree -stumps. in
bottom-he and that other. who had
leaped at them in the dark with his
boat. Ike a numbering beast; night
mare search more horrible than
moonlight on the bank they laid her.
who for all their efforts never
stirred There she lay all
white, and they two crouched at her
head and feet-like dark creatures
OF the woods and waters over that
which with their hunting they had
slain.
How long they stayed there-not
once looking at each other, not once
speaking not once ceaslng TO touch
with their hands that dead thing
he never knew How long in the
summer night. with its moonlight and
Its shadows qulvering round them,
and the night wind talking In the
reeds.
And then the most enduring OF all
sentient things had moved in him
Never again to see those
eyes that had loved him with their
light Never again to kiss her lips!
with the flower still clinging at her
breast Thrown out on the bank like
plucked water lily. Dead? No.
NO. no, Not dead! hf Alive in the night.
this dim bank, In this hideous back
water, with that dark, dumb crea-
ture who had destroyed her! Out
there on the river-in the wood Of
their happiness-somewher alive
And, staggering up past Cra-
mier, who never moved, he got into
his boat, and like one demented
pulled out into the stream.
But once there In the tide, he fell
huddled forward. motlonless above
And the moonlight flooded his dark
skiff drifting down. And the moon
light effaced the ripples on the wa
ter that had stolen away her spirit
Her spirit mingled now with the
white beauty and the shadows. for
ever part OF the stiffness and the
passion OF a summer night: lowering
floating. listening To the rustic OF the
reeds, and the whispering of the
woods: one with the endless dream
that spirit passing out, as all might
wish to pass, in the hour OF happi-
ness.