6 JUNE 1908, Page 23

Maroft. By John Ayscough. (A. Constable and Co. 6s.) — This volume

is of so serious a tendency that it might seem more appropriate to notice it under the heading of theological works than under that of fiction. Much of the scone passes in a convent of contemplative nuns, and the novel generally is concerned with the higher problems of religion and the mystical aspects of the Christian faith. The book is written from the point of view of the Roman Church, but it will not be found in any way offensive to Protestant readers, and those who wish to take their sermons disguised as stories will gain much edification from its perusal. The heroine is a Sicilian girl of noble family, and the portraits of the other characters, such as her father, mother, and grandfather, are drawn in almost as great detail as that of Marotz herself. litarotz does not become a nun, not feeling certain of her vocation, and the novel embraces an account of a fourth generation, as Piccolo, Marotz's son, is grown up during the concluding chapters. Although the story opens at the .Austrian Court and the Convent of the Reparation is in Vienna, the atmosphere is Italian, though the strain of Northern blood inherited by Marotz from her father gives great breadth to her character. The work, though by no means faultless, is yet a remarkable achievement, and the serious purpose which the author has obviously set himself is fully attained. It may be doubted, however, whether, having chosen the form of fiction, Mr. Ayscough does not carry too far his method of allow- ing readers merely to guess at the facts of the story after they have taken place. Ordinary people will be extremely puzzled during the first four or five chapters, and will find it very difficult to pick up the thread of the narrative. This is merely a fault of detail, though it would be well for the author not to allow the elusive habit to grow upon him. We shall look forward with interest to Mr. Ayscough's next book. Though he appears unfor- tunately to be almost devoid of humour, yet the sincerity of his writing and the loftiness of his aim may condone this fault. Should he be able to maintain his present level of excellence, he may make no inconsiderable mark on the fiction of our time.