It is rather the history of
the collision of the soul of George Ponderevo (narrator, and nephew of the
medicine-man) with his epoch. It is the arraignment of a whole epoch at
the bar of the conscience of a man who is intellectually honest and
powerfully intellectual. George Ponderevo transgresses most of the current
codes, but he also shatters them. The entire system of sanctions tumbles
down with a clatter like the fall of a corrugated iron church. I do not
know what is left standing, unless it be George Ponderevo. I would not
call him a lovable, but he is an admirable, man. He is too ruthless, rude,
and bitter to be anything but solitary. His harshness is his fault, his
one real fault; and his harshness also marks the point where his attitude
towards his environment becomes unscientific. The savagery of his
description of the family of Frapp, the little Nonconformist baker, and of
the tea-drinkers in the housekeeper's room at Bladesover, somewhat impairs
even the astounding force of this, George's first and only novel--not
because he exaggerates the offensiveness of the phenomena, but because he
unscientifically fails to perceive that these people are just as deserving
of compassion as he is himself. He seems to think that, in their deafness
to the call of the noble in life, these people are guilty of a crime;
whereas they are only guilty of a misfortune.
Pages:
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103