New Books

The following estimates of books much in the public eye were made after careful consideration of the trend of critical opinion:

WINE OF FURY--Leigh Rogers-- Knopf ($2.50). Against the black and bloody canvas of the Russian Revolution, this story rises sombre and of more than usual interest. The author, a young American who has lived some years in Russia, has caught all the swift horror of those cataclysmic days, has limned his plot against a background that rings true. Rasputin moves evilly through the picture, and Kerensky, Lenin, the dreaded Cheka are delineated with more than a modicum of truth. It is a colorful, kaleidescopic tale, ranging from scenes among the simple, suffering peasants to all the lavish splendor of the Imperial Court --the whole shot through with the sharp truths of racial contrast and alien heritage.

PANDORA LIFTS THE LID--Christopher Morley and Don Marquis -- Doran ($2.00). After a few pages of this breathless tale of plotters, pirates, kidnappers, buried treasure, all reeled out in the hair-raising style of the most approved thrillers, you find yourself wondering: "What are these two scriveners up to now?" They seem to be straining every nerve to convince you that they are done with flippant irrelevancies, that this time they are in deadly earnest, writing a sure-enough mystery story. But after they have you almost convinced, their deft fingers begin poking around into the defenceless ribs of the plot, and it all ends in roaring farce--a glorious melange of wisdom, wit, suspense, absurdity.

LAST ESSAYS OF MAURICE HEWLETT --Scribner ($2.50). That rare combination of quiet humor and penetrating wisdom which was Hewlett in his earlier years, grew with the man into a rich, mellowed roundness, here shown at its smooth and polished best. The quiet of the little Wiltshire village where he spent his latter days seems to have crept into his writing, giving it a leisured charm which recalls the 18th Century essayists. Yet withal, he can cock an interested and appreciative eye at the doings of quite alien spirits, and can write with gusto about the Cardinal de Retz, that insouciant and child-like Lothario, Sam Pepys, and Beaumarchais, of whom he remarks delightedly: "He may have been a bad lot; but he was evidently a good sort."

These essays are replete with the lifetime's rich garnerings of a keen and cultured mind, and the kindly shadows of Sterne, Goldsmith, Horace Walpole seem to fall more than once across their pages.

Sinclair Lewis

He Has Red Hair, Ready Wit

Sinclair Lewis has returned from England and, after a brief but vivid stay in Manhattan, has made his way to Sauk Centre, Minn., his native village. Like most satirists, Lewis is, himself, highly sensitive to satire; like many sensitive people he covers his feelings with a manner which now appears to be gayety, now nervous irritability, now downright rudeness. Since his year in England, he may have changed in appearance. I daresay his manners, from all accounts, are the same. The last time I saw him he was slight, wiry, acutely nervous, with a thin, tightly-featured, reddish face and wispish red hair. He takes delight in annoying people, both as individuals and en masse, and then, like a naive and naughty child, is surprised when they make some attempt at punishment.

The Sinclair Lewis of Main Street and Babbitt is the whole Sinclair Lewis. He knows only one side of the U. S. Although he attended Yale College, and might there have absorbed some of the quieter moods of the East, he was too busy wearing red shirts and puttering with the ideas of Upton Sinclair to take much notice of saner undergraduates.

One of our finest novelists, I believe, he was trained in the newspaper school, and as a reader in a publishing house. From this, he turned to short story writing with success. He is a brilliant humorous reporter. He is more than that, he understands the psychology of the times.

Having accomplished this in Main Street, having laid low U. S. business men in Babbitt, he now approaches the medical profession, collaborating with a doctor in the writing of Doctor Arrowsmith, now appearing as a serial in The Designer. This novel, in its full length, reaches 200,000 words.* When publication is completed, there will probably be little left of the medical sciences.

After a brief stay in the Middle West which he loves so well, Lewis will go to the Red River District in Saskatchewan, with a Canadian government "Treaty Party," to pay a visit of friendly greeting to the Indians. Possibly he will find some hope for America among its aborigines. Wherever he may be, he will find plenty to criticize and much to talk about. He is probably the most restive of novelists. I have often wondered when he 'did his thinking, because, obviously, he must think a great deal. Perhaps it is entirely instinctive. At any rate, we should be very proud of him.

J.F.

*The average-length novel has about 160,000 words.