Historical-Fantastical-Comical
The Non-existent Knight. By Italo Calvino. Translated by Archibald Colquhoun.
(Collins, 16s.) Sources of Unrest. By Peter Vansittart. (Bodley Head, 15s.) The Conscience of Love. By Marcel Aymd. (Bodley Head, 16s.) The Blackamoor's Urn. By Jean Morris. (Cassell, 15s.)
SIGNOR CALVINO tells us that the two long-short stories contained in The Non-existent Knight combine with his earlier work l'he Baron in the Trees to 'define a genealogical tree of contem- porary man.' The non-existent hero of the first story illustrates conquest of being, the cloven viscount of the second story aspiration to com- plete being, and so on. One is suspicious of the poet or novelist who can so clearly elucidate his intentions. Inspiration comes out of the dark. Anyway, Signor Calvino's stories, delightful though they are, cannot bear the weight of these metaphysical interpretations. They are beautifully written; their texture is agleam with wit and humour; their fantasy charms us—but they are flimsy stuff. Having established his remarkable characters—Agilulf, the norf-existent knight : Bradmante, the dashing female paladin : Medardo, the viscount, and so on—the author does very little with them. The scene Once set; the construction goes to pieces.
Agilulf is an empty suit of armour which has its non-being during Charlemagne's wars against the infidel. Motivated by a stern sense of duty, 'he' has 'a mania to inspect everything and search out other errors and negligences.' Were it not for the author's claim to a higher purpose, I should have supposed that Agilulf symbolised the Eternal Busybody who comes to the top when better people are better employed. Agilulf gains the admiration of a young knight who has fallen in love with Bradmante. We are prepared for significant action on the enclosed stage of the battlefield when the author changes course by sending Agilulf off to prove the chastity of a virgin whom he had rescued fifteen years before.
The result is a sense of muddle and anti- climax. 'The Cloven Viscount' is better shaped, but sags in the middle. Medardo has come apart in a war against the Turks and it is his evil half which returns to wreak havoc in his home prov- ince until his better half appears and joins him. Despite the lack of medial action, these stories compel the reader with amusing episodes, such as the efforts of a noble widow to get Agilulf into her bed, and delightful concepts like the gay leper colony; the army surgeons who try to bring everyone back to life after battle with 'a saw here, a stitch there, leaks plugged, veins turned inside out like gloves' and when a patient dies 'using whatever good bits he still has in him' to patch up another; and the interpreters who trans- late the insults flung about between Moors and Christians. The easy, chatty, enchanting prose has found a translator worthy of its quality.
Unlike Signor Calvino, Mr. Vansittart takes a realistic view of the past, but this does not save him from abstruseness. Perhaps some sort of Cal- vino-caprice could help him to simplify for the reader his theories about the oppressive influence of historical events. Sources of Unrest is set in the present but the characters are badgered by by- gone tragedies and horrors. Graham, newly divorced and disconsolate, goes to stay with Charles and Barbara on a visit which becomes protracted. He senses a deficiency in the house- hold which makes his presence welcome; at the same time he hopes to contact an old love, Juliet, who is in the district. He becomes attached to Charles's son, Andrew, who, with his adolescent humour, his self-conscious mannerisms and his independence that masks a desperate need, is the
best thing in the book. Graham, a damp hero, is the worst. His bedroom scene with Juliet must surely be the anti-seduction of all time. Mr. Vansittart writes firmly, though at times with too great effort (The room was darker than others, set at an angle averted from the sun which was flaying the roses outside'). He is, one feels, struggling to impart something profoundly felt, but what it is I am not sure that I know.
In the French version M. Aymd's novel is called Les Tiroirs de l'Incontut. An exact trans- lation would, I agree, sound odd, but in view of M. Ayme's theme, the choice of The Conscience of Love seems to me odder. Martin, finding his fiancée Valerie in bed with his brother Michel, goes out and kills an innocent man. Released from gaol, he settles in with Michel and the men share Valdrie, who picks up and brings in other men when the brothers are out sleeping with other women. Martin starts an affair with Tatiana who leaves him for a gross purveyor of mink and diamonds. When they next meet. Tatiana whips off her pants and says, 'Hurry, darling.' This may sound piquant, but on the page it is flat, formless, diffuse and unfunny. A little vitality is added by some spicy documents and part of a play, and one suspects the main text was merely written to contain them. One wonders why it was written at all.
Miss Morris is a skilful novelist and if she is at the moment rather over-clever, she is a writer to watch. The Blackamoor's Urn stands by the gates of Stroybarton and observes the changing social scene. The Temples, Floria and Richard, live in the big house; the Bissetts are crowded into a cottage in the village. Richard falls in love with Floria's maid, Annie Bissett, and this love persists despite the long separation which results when Floria, made to look foolish by marriage to a bigamist, goes to live in Switzerland. Annie, in hope of reunion with Richard, clings to her mistress and becomes in time her equal. In the end, when the Stroybarton lands are sold and the house be- comes a suburban villa, it is scarcely possible to tell which are Temples and which are Bissetts.
Miss Morris's comment on the times is not original but she makes it in her own way. She has humour, a pleasing fantasy and an enviable gift for by-passing inessentials. The scenes be- tween the Temples and the Bissetts (especially Floria and Annie) are brilliantly done. It seems a pity, therefore, that the telling has been compli- cated by a first-person vehicle, facetious and cum- bersome, which adds nothing to the book.
OLIVIA MANNING
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