New-York tribune., 1922-05-21

Crome, the home of the
Wimbushes, somewhere
near Camlet- on thew Water. Tremen-
dous things happened. Just words,
mostly. And few frustrations. And
the people. Such people!
There was Denis, for instance. A
poet Poor, baffled, vain, ignorant, ap-
pealing, insufferable Denis. Mr.. Hux-
ley might have been like that but for
the grace of God. So might he have
been any of the others. He is, of
course, all of them, for to each one he
has given the authentic spark of life.
And he is greater than any Of them,
excepting only Anne.
For Anne is infinite and incommen-
surable. She is the answer to every
thing. She is Mona Lisa and Beatrice.
Anne is she whom we see all too in
frequently in dreams or meet every few
blocks on the street. Perfect. She was
even nice to Denis, who wrote poems
about her.
Mary Bracegirdles face was pink and
childish. and her short hair, clipped
IKE pages, hung in a bell of elastic
gold about her cheeks. But alas! she
was serious. She kept dreaming about
ladders. Priscilla Wimbush's square,
miauve-powdered face was surmounted
by most fearsome orange transfor-
nation (surely it was that. And, alas,
she was not serious. She was solemnly
addicted to such levities as astrology
and the higher life. Odd girl, Jenny
Mullion-oJenny, who sat apart, amused,
observing, in the ivory tower of her
| deafness.
Henry Wimbush was pale, like his
pale gray bowler hat. Pale. Pale.
There are pills for such people. Mr..
Scogan was "like one Of those extinct
bird-lizards of the Tertiary" and even
wiser. Gombauld, the painter, had
come out on the other side of cubism
and was painting a recognizable horse
And lvor, protest. ional demigod, went
about singing snatches of French and
kissing people. He only got slapped
once. Delightful, these people, to read
ABOUT. Charming folks, in their own
limbo; that is to say, in art.
ssCRoME YELLOW" glitters. Its
W trivialities may lie, very we'll,
upon the further side of wisdom. Why,
are we here, anyway? Nobody knows,
except the ignorant. "Crome Yellow"
however, isn't trivial at all. Only, Mr..
huxley has kept his sorrows to him
self. But once he brings tears, this as
tonishing author. He does it very
beautifully in pale Henry's story of the
passing of Sir Hercules and Filomena
long ago.
If you like, clever reader, you may
see in some of Mr.. Huxley's least pu-
dent fippancies much worthy matter,
and in his gayest scenes a vast sig
nificance. AS when Denis climbed to
the top of one of Crome's three towers
to survey the villagers at the fair, or
the world in little, if you choose. What
did Denis, become for the moment LIE
Penseur, gigaantically symbolic and
pregnant surely with some final utter
ance, what did Denis think of this mad
spectacle? He thought
My soul is thin tent of gut" i.
But he changed that, for the worse,
think, to
"My soul is pale, tenuous men,
brane"
Continual triumphs are Mr.. Huxlev,s
verbal, philosophical, psychological
But that reminds me. Mr.. Huxley
(through1 Mr.. Scogan) has himself per-
fecty described Crome Yellow. Mr..
Scogan recalls that his favorite novel
lst, the great but strangely unknown
knockespotch, he who "delivered US
from the dreary tyranny of the realis-
tic novel;" once spoke these words:
| II am tired of seeing the human mind
begged In a social plenum i prefer to
paint 1t in a vacuum, freely and sporttye
: ly bonn bnating'
s,oH How shall n describe them7" say. Mr..
aoas seoEan of Knocksspotchs
IKE gayly dressed performers on tho
trapeze. There are extraordinary advenD
lures and still more extraordinary specu
lations. lntelligence and emotions, relieved
GI 3tua al the ne imbecile, preoccupations Of CIV
dannd dlazea lie move in intricate and subtle
fiH5peatng' tian ana impPnging An immense erud
hand. Al the ideas of the present and
OF OF the past o.. on every possible subject, bob
SsTmaoe Si!n nns.I caricature Of themselves. then
new. The verbal surface of his writing is
rich and fantastscaly diversified. The wit
Exactly. "Alas," Mr.. Scogan added
"Knockespotch's great book is like the
sword Excalibur. 1t remains stuck fast
In this door, awaiting the coming of
writer write ;, with genius enough to draw it
forth" And this, you see, is just what
has happened. viii. GGippv