The New York herald., 1921-06-05
Reviewed by
EDWIN CARTY RANCK.

4 NEW volume from the pen of
| ~ Edwin Arlington Robinson is
an event in the world of
books because Mr. Robinson always
has something to say and he says it in
way that gives his work individual
value to all lovers of real literature.
He is a master analyst of human ma
ture, and never have his powers of
analysis been more fully revealed than
in his latest book. "Avon's Harvest"
genuine thriller in blank verse. The
publishers call it "a tragic drama in
verse" but that description does not
quite suit the case. 1t is really melo-
drama done in blank verse. at amaZ-
| ing psychological study of a man who
hates another so unrelentingly and yet
fears him so morbidly that he is finally
caught in the web of his own horror
like a luckless fly doomed from the
start to be the prey of some malg-
nant spider
"Avon's Harvest" is a real achieve
ment because, although it is rather
long narrative poem done in the blank
verse that Mr.. Robinson handles so
dulness that usually accompanies such
an attempt, but holds the readers un-'
tagging attention from the arresting
first lines to the breathless denoue-
ment. Like a well built play, it has
motivation and suspense and the ac-
ton fairly springs along. In other
words, Mr.. Robinson's melodrama has
what one might call poetic punch"
The poetry is there all the time, but
it is never intrusive. Not for one
moment does it clog the swiftly flow
ing current Of the drama.
Avon tells his friend of his hatred
of a man that began when they were
both at school-a morbid. reasonless
hatred that was augmented by fear.
This fear pursues Avon through life
and even when his enemy has been
drowned on the Titanic Avon is
haunted by his memories of him and
his fear. He flies to the Maine woods,
but his fear clutches him by the throat
and he sees the ghost of his dead
enemy threatening him with a dagger.
In the end Avon is found dead and the
doctor tells his wife that 1T was a
nightmare and an aneurism" but the
reader knows-well, the reader knows
that Avon's implacable nen,v had at
last avenged himself. This ending,
with its eerie suggestion of devilish
forces at work. gives the reader a
touch of the cold fear that Avon felt.
Avon's hate-drawn portraits of his
enemy are perfect in their peculiarly
characterizing aptness. For Instance
he thought that "the Lord M g. have
invented long ago some private and
unspeakable new monster equipped for
such a things determination" Again
| Avon speaks of his tnemy's INA ignant,
oily swarthiness housing reLtle blood
! that could see beneath il. like heredi-
tary venom out of old human swamps."
But one gets the most repugnant i'm
preston of all from this description:
Often I'd find him srrewn along my
couch
Like an amorphous lizard with its
clothes on,
Reading a book and waiting for its
dinner
But there is nothing finer in the
whole poem than Avons words:
| Whenever your poet or your philosopher
| Has nothing richer for u.s." he resumed
| HE burrows among remnants, like a
mouse
In n waste basket. and with much dry
noise
Comes up again. having found Time at
the bottom
And filled himself with its futillty."
In "Avon's Harvest" Mr.. Robinson
has done a unique thing and done it
supremely well. 1t was a difficult task
that he set for himself: to depict a
man tortured by fear growing out OF
hatred and not make him grotesquely
impossible. That he has succeeded in
making Avon not only convincingly
real figure but tragically pathetic
one is evidence not only of M. Robin
sons unerring instinct for character
drawing but of his consummate art
lstry as poet