The Mad Carews
by . New York: Dodd, Mead & Co. 1927, 12mo. vi+ 346 pp. $2.50.
THE development of Martha Ostenso from a literary craftsman of rare ability to the maturity of her latest novel is a unique reversal of the Usual process, First novels, as a rule, are halting affairs at best: even when merit and promise can be recognized in them, there is ample evidence that the author has yet to master the mechanics of his craft. With Miss Ostenso it was different. Wild Geese and The Dark Dawn displayed such uncanny pretision in construction that the reader was almost persuaded the novels were better than they actually were. They were good novels — make no mistake of that. But, placed beside The Mad Carews, their faults become apparent.
Comparison is made easier because Miss Ostenso has not deserted the wide prairies. Her characters are the same men and women who know the tug of the reins about their waists as they guide the plough through the lengthening furrow, who learn to dread winter as a dreary succession of endless nights which mean early bed in order to save kerosene. In this atmosphere the author discovers affable Steve Bowers and his family, dwellers in Elder s Hollow. Above Steves land stretch the broad acres of the Carews, whose men take what they want and whose women tolerate the men to be in turn tolerated by them. The Carews are gentleman farmers. As such they are regarded curiously by the Hollow community, and shunned. That is, until Elsa Bowers marries Bayliss Carew and precipitates the age-old conflict between the simple folk of the soil and the more sophisticated who rise above it.
It is sheer pleasure to note the precision with which Miss Ostenso lays the snares for her readers interest. One is almost tempted into an analysis of the contrasts which keep suspense alive. But these things have been present, in her other novels. What was absent there was the leisureliness, the fullness, with which she moves through her latest novel. Before, her characters hurried across their prairie land, almost frantically at times. Now they proceed more slowly. Before, there was a certain sameness to the background. Now the characters are fully aware of its infinite variety.
One hesitates to say that Miss Ostenso has found complete maturity at her young age. But it seems altogether doubtful that into another novel she can crowd more of the truth of the prairies. Perhaps in time die will follow Elsa out of the Hollow to show what life exists beyond the wheat. The migration seems almost inevitable. But her admirers would undoubtedly regard the move with sorrow. Somehow one feels that Miss Ostenso herself would regard it so. She too would miss the freshness, the vibrant life of the prairies which she has made her own.
STEWART BEACH