Stylishness
Francis King
Constance Laurence Durrell (Faber & Faber £7.95)
Laurence Durrell has used the le 'quincunx' to describe his plan ?„I. novels, of which this is the third. v-b, cunx' means the arrangement of five pa at jects in such a way that four of them atone the corners of a square or rectangle anel one is in the centre; but whether Constance, d of its two predecessors (Monsieur o'", Livia) or one of its projected successors; to be regarded as the central work, isre/the clear. At all events, a prior reading al ch first.two volumes is not likely to be ofC rntifl, help in making sense of the plot o O. stance or vice versa. pc of The first 156 pages of the 389 Pag",",,,i. this novel are, frankly, so dreadful that the}' this be mistaken for self-parody. Wter the narrative begins, Constance, her lots. Livia, her lover Sam, her brother and a friend Aubrey, author of Monsieur'ij, will be apparent that Durrell is up to the ctti's experimental-novel game of shni(i„ril d together separate packs of 'real' nQ 'Imaginary' characters), are sta„Ylear together in Constance's manor-house "0 Avignon. The detonation of the war hl°4 them in separate directions. Hilary and If in join up and Sam eventually finds himsel,nr, Egypt. Aubrey, a conscientious objee'0, also finds himself there, as part of the tourage of one of those immensely rich, I- rfir,enselY powerful, immensely cultivated Egyptians who appear in Durrell's novels but whom I myself was mysteriously and tantalisingly unable to locate when living in Alexandria. Constance, a Freudian analyst, goes to work in a clinic in Switzerland. Livia, a character who bears some resemblance to Unity Mit ford, assumes German nationality. At least three of these
Moves those of Aubrey, Constance and Livia — would strain credulity in a realistic novel.
This whole section shows Durrell once again Pampering his characters like some over-indulgent mother convinced that only the best is good enough for her children. When a woman goes mad, she is treated by Freud, no less. The Prince airily tells Aubrey before their departure for Egypt, You'll need some shark-skin dinner- :Jackets,' in the manner of a host telling a Prospective guest, 'You'll need some shirts.' Subsequently, when Aubrey has ar- rived at his new home, 'palatial disposi- tions' enable him to occupy 'a veritable apartment with several separate but inter- connecting bedrooms' and 'marvellous hieratic servants' present him with food 'on Matchless plate.' When two other characters, one working for `M13' and the other for the British military attaché in Switzerland have cause to celebrate, it is with 'a yeared Bollinger of almost carnal subtlety'. The yearning romanticism both of this imagined high life and of the style in which it is evoked reminded me of some novelist of the past, though I could not at first think whom. Then it came to me
Ouida!
Mr Durrell uses style in the manner of an aging woman using make-up. When he is discreet, the effect is enhancing; when he slaps it on, the effect is grotesque. Critics are always describing him as 'stylish' and whether they are using the epithet in its new sense of distinguished and elegant or in its °Id one of showy and pretentious, they have found the mot juste. When Durrell writes of 'soft, pornic clocks' (clearly a Matter for Mrs Whitehouse to investigate) or of a `ventripotent' banker, or when he compares a character to someone 'coming out of an epileptic "aura" ' (the aura Precedes an epileptic fit, it does not follow it), one can only squirm; but there are other Passages of writing — for example one about. Egyptian mummies in their sar- e°0hagoi, worthy of Richard Burton which make one want to cheer. „ i3n Page 157, Constance sets off, as a Ked Cross official, from Switzerland to Prance, in the company of the Egyptian Prince. It is highly improbable that, even in this capacity, an Englishwoman would at that time have been admitted to the coun- try, much less have been allowed to live in her former home; and it is even more im- Probable that she would have found her sister in the same town, nursing for the Ger- mans. But once the god-like author has Picked up these pieces from the chessboard and set them down where he wants them, there follow 158 pages of fiction of the highest quality. The sad humiliation of the defeated French and the brutal degradation of the conquering Germans are conveyed simply, strongly and compassionately. Typical of the French is the beautiful young woman who gives herself to the Gestapo chief in return for favours for her dying husband, food for her children and the oc- casional reprieve of some member of the maquis. Typical of the Germans is the scholarly double-agent, in love with Livia, whom Hitler has despatched to locate the legendary treasure of the Knights Templar. After the superb restraint of this section, the book once again descends into lurid vulgarity, like a train jumping points, runn- ing off the rails and crashing into a poster- paint factory. Constance, back in Geneva, starts a love-affair with a married Egyptian, who alternately penetrates her in a number of positions and produces statements like `The poor little vagina must be likened to a little animal always eager for its nourishment', 'Sperm with no spiritual axis cannot feed the woman's ideas or her feel- ings' and 'The psyche is seriously ankylosed by the rigour of our moeurs.' That she does not jump out of bed and run, screaming, from the room is, presumably, intended as an indication of his prowess as a lover.
Half of this book is worthy of the Booker Prize, for which it has been listed. The other half is the sort of tosh that would give the Romantic Novelists Association a bad name.
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