"THE CONSTANT NYMPH."

Press, Volume LXII, Issue 18674, 24 April 1926, Page 13

"THE CONSTANT NYMPH."

SOLITARY ENGLISH STAR OF 1925. (By Alfred Ollivant in the "Xew York Evening Post.") London. Some twenty years ago a certain English man of letters wrote in haste and hot enthusiasm to inform Professor William Lyon Phelps that England had once again produced a novel and a novelist. Tho novel was "The Country House," the novelist one John Galsworthy. Six months ago the same author reported to his friend the same find with the same fervour. "After a lapse of twenty years," wrote the Englishman, reminding the great American critic of their previous discovery and their joy in it, ."English literaturo has produced another novel and another noveiist, 'The Constant Nymph,' by Margaret Kennedy.". This time, however, the brilliant professor of English literature at Yale, instead of replying as on the previous occasion, "I have never heard of Galsworthy and am ordering the book at once," made answer, "I have been recommending tho book for months 'past." Miss Kennedy's success-in the two countries is indeed deserved,, and must give heart to all who sometimes despair of the Anglo-Saxon reading public, comparing its obtuseness and' stupid materialistic outlook to tho keen discriminating literary sense,of our Latin neighbours. The book, in truth', shines a solitary star in the literary firmament of 1925. True, it was published in 1924, but our Galileos did not turn their telescopes upon, it till the year just passed. I am inclined to say that it is the solitary novel written in English, published this century, that will endure as the works of Jane Austen have endured. For it has that quality of "livingness" which a curious and recondite natural philosopher of our times notes as the quality which distinguishes spirit from matter, the quality which most certainly marks out good art from mediocre. We love Tessa because she lives. Because slie lives we love also, .the frosty and academic Florence, although we laugh at her. If she is conventional and hypercritical, so are we. If she errs in condemning those she cannot understand, are not we guilty of the same offence? I cannot . agree with those many who aver that the book starts brilliantly like a rocket and like a rocket fizzles out. To me it is a perfect whole. That certain of the knowing «an have been so lacking in critical acumen as to attribute the book, as thj»y did in its early days, to tho author of "The Green Hat" is almost incredible. That book is moribund. Indeed, was it ever- alivef-—though I am well aware that for a space it pirouetted with ghastly gaiety among the ghosts in the literary graveyards of tc>day. Our lovely nymph, on the other hand, lives and will live. That is her delicious quality. When well-meaning critics rank . the book with ; "The White Monkey" and "The Passage to India" as one of the three great books of 1924, we would advise them to return to their Georgian poets and leave Georgian prose alone. John Galsworthy is a tradition,. E.' Ml Forster a convention. Both are excellent craftsmen, well worthy of our respect, who have written good' books. But neither of them has ■ given • us to drink of thosei waters of refreshing that fill us with life in our pilgrimage across the thirsty desert. •

Miss Kennedy,; who since she came down-from Sonierville College, Oxford, has lived her life among the painters in Cornwall, is now lliss Kennedy .no more. Last autumn sKe married David Davies, a barrister, formerly secretary to Lord Oxford, but it is-pleasing to know that she does not propose t<s forsake her fiist lore.