Evening star., 1961-03-19

RSVA SAASoa OAPPSoC SAAoS AAAoNS
ties of his characters, he
merely spreads them out
when he runs across them,
but is quite unintereSted in
any epiphdnieS - those con-
else and Scintillating mo-
mentS Of insight, searching
the heart Of the matter. Sup
pose that he is content to let
incident remain fragmentary,
to create no picture, either
etching or canvas, to present
no thesis, tell no story, sell
dom find anything arrest
ing or distinctive In the peo-
pie sliding from his penpoint,
and be as surprised and cur
iouS as his reader when he
does.
Would the novel be worth
1t after all? Would it be read
able. especially when it is
obvious that the approach de-
mands a long book? Yes. the
answer is yes, it is proven
by The Chateau" the new
novel of William Maxwell.
Although his blood does not
quicken, although he feels
himself only casually in
volved, II at all, although he
may be deceived into find
ing no art in 8 style that is
oStentatiously inconspicuous,
the reader, drugged by the
peculiar craft of Mr.. Maxwell.
no more considers laying the
book aside than he con-
SiderS ceaSing to breathe.
For Mr.. Maxwell, every
thing that impinges on our
consciousness is so fragmen-
tary that none Of it can be
understood. Events have no
pattern-even in the infor-
NAL chat he has with the
reader at the end of the
book, the novelist as God,
omniScient and omnipotent,
can extend the frame Of ref
erence only so far. The frag-
mentS merely become big
ger, or rather, more complex.
In real life, ordinarinesS and
thwarted comprehension is
the rule, and it makes no
difference whether you di-
rect the activities Of your last
ten days in Paris or take
what comeS-it amounts to
the same thing.
why people do not go
around in a continual state
Of surprise Is beyond me-"
the novelist exclaims at one
point. If I understand his
meaning, 1t Is not that things
turn out Unexpectedly, but
that we should be aStounded
that we notice them happen
at all. like George Meredith's
little girl who looked down
and laughed out loud, 1t was
so odd to see her own feet
peeping out from under her
skirt as she walked.
Harold and Barbara
Rhodes, "a and 81, three
years married, happy. in
love, and just ordinarily be-
set by their perceptions Of
life, are on a four months
vacation in Europe in the
spring Of l94S. No traveller
in France would deny the
validity Of the usual carica-
ture Of the American tourist,
checking off points of inter-
est he has seen in his Mi
chelin and buying postcards,
noisy, elate, out-of-place and
a little distasteful. But the
Rhodes are no less genuine
a type-they are you, your
self. They are sympathetic.
eager, all but innocent Of the
French language but trying
to learn it, not well informed
but curious, not rich" Amer
leans, but with a wallet Of
travellers checks. They are
going to France, Austria and
Italy. and they start their
trip with a two-week visit in
a chateau at Brenodville-
sur-Euphrone, 200 kilometerS
southwest of Paris. They
have arranged by letter to be
payfng-guests.
Beaumesnil is owned and
run by Nine. Vienot, who the
author declares forthrightly
Is the heroine Of his novel.
The chateau was occupied by
the Germans during the oc-
cupation. 1t Is very old and
shows evidence Of having
been extensively maintained
until recently. M. Vienot is