ONE WAY PASSAGE NEW BOOKS (Cotninued from Page 3) MEDIAEVAL PAGEANT by John ing display of narrative to please his bolt upright in the back seat, twisting her fingers and swivelling her head. around to see where the music was com- ing from. "It is merely the radio, Maman. My heavens, Violette, by this time you should surely know that automobiles are equipped with radios," the old man said calmly. "The old lady doesn't keep up with things," he said to John. "I have read for a long time in the papers how the American automobiles have radios in them." "How do you like my car?" "Ah, it is a fine car, my boy, a fine car. Of course, I have driven in auto- biles before, you understand. When I was once in Paris, I drove all over the city, for at least an hour, in a taxi. But this is a very nice automobile." Edith turned to look at the old lady, who was sitting very stiffly, her hands clenched together. Her face was quite pale. "John," Edith said, "I think you'd better stop the car. I'm afraid Madame Deval is ill." John swung the car over to the side of the road and brought it to a stop. He jumped out, walked around to the side of the car and opened the door for the old lady, who stepped out very slowly. "I will be all right," she said. "If I can just walk off by myself for a minute # will be all right." They watched her as she walked off the road, into a clump of bushes. She was quite bent over, and she walked with one hand on her hip and the other hand covering her mouth. "She will be all right," said the old mnan. "I should have told you, she has never been in an automobile before, and the excitement, no doubt. You know." He winked at John and Edith., In a minute the old lady was back. She climbed into the car and they drove off, with Edith holding her hand. "How are you, old lady?" the old man called back. "I am fine." "It is the car-sickness," he said con- fidently. Now the old lady was well and she be- gan to look about her, savouring the scenery. Soon she was chatting freely with Edith. In less than an hour, they had reached the town where Henri the college pro- -fessor lived with his family. They parked in front of his little home, and every- one waited in the car while John went to the door. In a moment the door had opened and John disappeared with- in. John reappeared shortly, with his arm around a neatly dressed man of thirty-five or so. They were followed out the door by a woman and her son, a boy of ten. They came down to the automobile and John introduced them all to Edith. They were a charming little family, she thought, the type of family that one would expect the old people to have. John said, "We're all going to drive out and eat dinner at some place that Henri knows about." Everyone piled into the car and they started off again. Henri, who seemed to be a very intelli- gent young man, spoke a passable Eng- lish, and Edith appreciated the oppor- tunity to speak English again. He was very interested in America, and wanted. to know all about the American uni- versities. Revell Reinhard, New York, Harcourt, Brace & Co. Wazted Saturday afternoons, double- lens spectacles, complicated footnotes- these are but a few of the unpleasant associations which spring into mind at the mention of the word "scholarship." This, however, is but a popular concept of the function and purpose of the scholar. Sometimes the "Learned Friend" smiles, and not infrequently he passes on his humor, sans bibliographical refer- ences, to the layman. As welcome proof that scholars have a sense of humor, a taste for a lively story, and a general warmth of human- ity, Professor John R. Reinhard of the English Department here at the Uni- versity offers his recently published collection of tales, Mediaeval Paceant. This colorful and varied pageantry of stories does not travel along the beaten highways of medieval fiction worn smooth by Chaucer and Boccaccio, but wanders instead down little-known b - ways, culling the best from the diversi- fied literatures of the Middle Ages. Drawn mainly from Scandinavian, Irish, Welsh, Celtic, English, French and Ital- ian sources, the cosmopolitan collection of one hundred and fifty stories in prose and verse affords a panoramic view of medieval life. Aside from this underlying historical value, the immediate purpose of the author is to entertain the Gentle Read- er. Striking, colorful incident, comic, situations, or scenes of tragedy and pathos form the nuclei of each of the stories which are concerned with a wide range of nationalities and classes, Thus the casual reader finds a tempt- personal taste. t rough the correction runs a pronounced vein of humor which finds expression at one time in the hoarse bellowings of a shaggy Icelander and at another in the swift white smile of a warm-blooded Italian. In preparing the background and narrative links which bind these stories into one coherent and plausible whole, Professor Reinhard displays commend- able imaginative ability. A great medie- val company of kings and priests, monks and minstrels are gathered at Pem- broke Castle in Wales. Bound by a kindred spirit of adventure or narra- tive skill, these semi-real figures move in a dreamlike atmosphere where any- thing can happen. Out of an after-din- ner conversation which touches on such topics as dice throwing, table manners, cures for madness, and the character- istics of cats, a natural opportunity is given for each narrator to step forth from the shadows and relate his story. The author's connective ligatures which display an intimate knowledge of the character and outlook of each speak- er, are often as humorous and enter- taining as the stories themselves. When such heterogenous personalities as Richard the Lion-hearted, Edmund Spenser, John Skelton, Einar Rattle- scale, Marco Polo and a host of learned, clerics and soldiers of fortune are assembled, verbal and physical clashes are inevitable. The author takes fre- quent advantage of the humorous pos- sibilities of the situation-incipient fist fights are continually smouldering, dif- ferences of opinion are shouted bellig- erently, and one redheaded Welshman is unceremoniously thrown into the moat. Although much can be said for the structural ingenuity and the funda- mental scholarship of the author, he deserves praise on other grounds. The Mediaeval ?ageant makes clearly ap- parent that uninhibited masculinity was once part of our literary and social fabric and this insistence comes as a welcome relief to the maladjusted and sugar-coated characters who people, modern fiction. This heritage of be- lief in personal physical prowess and mental and volitional strength has been forgotten in a society in which repres- sion is considered more admirable than expression. Our "refined" natures rebel at the seeming crudity of medieval man who had the courage to translate desires into actions with a fine disregard of consequences. As rationalization for our loss of individuality we peer through our veil of sophistication at the men of the Middle Ages and scorn them for their intellectual denseness, their ascet-. ic morality, and their grossness and brutality. In the popular mind, the are a veritable race of "men with hoes." If it is true that the Irish and. Norseme. in the tales noisily suck marrow from huge bones and playfully throw the joints at each other's heads, it is equally true that we modern "heroes" fish val- iantly and determinedly for cherries at the bottom of cocktail glasses; Rich- ard the Lion-hearted ate boiled Saracens for lunch-we balance our diet with white mice, gold fish, and Victor Re- cordings of Beethoven's Fifth; medieval lovers had a man-eating maiden to terri- fy them-we have the Michigan co-ed.; the hearts of medieval ladies beat high for the chivalrous and courageous Ga- wain and Lancelot-our wives and sweethearts leave home for Charles, Boyer and Errol Flynn. These stories, therefore, instead of constituting a fur- ther indictment of medieval values, afford a healthy antidote for the "soft- ness" of modern standards. As the author expressly states in his Preface, his elected tales are not pri- marily intended as contributions to scholarship. Readers untutored in medi- eval lore will have no trouble in appre- ciating them on their literary merits alone. If the Gentle Reader desires to supplement the insight into the Middle Ages provided by this collection of fic- tion, G. G. Coulton's Mediaeval Pano- rama is an excellently documented hand- book for the historical and social back- grounds of the times. Mediaeval Pageant is notably success- ful as an adventure in entertainment, as a source of interesting literary anec- dote, and as a healthy experience in robust, masculine living. -J. H. ROBRTSON and J. H. S'TIBBS THE GRAPES OF WiATH by John Stein beck; Viking Press, New York John Steinbeck's previous novels, Tortilla Flat, In Dubious Battle, Of Mice and Men have given him a high place among American writers, a place that remained however, until the publi- cation of this book, a curiously anomal- ous one. Most critics were in agreement about his control of form, his warmth of understanding, his steadily developing narrative abilities. But there was some- thing tentative about all his work. He had somehow become a major writer without producing a single major book. With the appearance of Grapes of Wrath, this is no longer true. Rather than merely quaint or sad or lovable, his characters have become mpresenta- tive individuals involved in one of the great and meaningful social transfor- mations of the present-day world. His canvas covers half a nation; his under- standing, of social and economic forces has matured. Sympathy for the out- casts and the exploited has become a compelling cry for justice and. for free- dom, because he has discovered that dispossession and eventual enslavement threaten, not only a picturesque minor- ity, but the entire American people. The story begins with Ton Joad's return to his family after serving time in the state penitentiary for killing a man in self-defense at a country dance., -The Joads are Oklahoma tenant farmers, who have tilled their forty acres of &n-&p As a Sword swung at midnight I saw one small wavering, edge of light Biting, the darkness bending above these fields that are staked out Swift barricades of wonder deny the flood its ego And purge it of its poisoned particles. Across these fields it flows a clear stream of singing sense, Its essence pure and purposeful as blood in arteries. Its body blossoms perfectly New petals drinking light Working a new synthesis for every fraction of eternity Theirs hands reach upward to stars That spring full-blown from eyes and lips Flowers blooming in the womb of Sarah's barrenness. -Nelson Wylie OHN Harwood had been to France once since the war, on business. Now he was back with his wife and his car. He had said to her, "We'll drive to the east by slow stages, and then we'll go south to the Spanish border, then back up to Paris along the coast, Edith." And she had said, "All right, dear." Now they were driving along the road that winds across from Dijon to Arbois. John was rather silent, commenting occasionally on the fact that there were no billboards to mar the scenery; Edith agreed. They had beenmarried for fifteen years, and Edith knew very little about her husband except that he was in a good business and that he was kind- hearted and very good to her. She also knew that he had been in the war, but he never spoke of it, and she thought she understood. At length he said casually, "This country hasn't changed a bit." Edith 'waited, then said, "Is this where you used to be?" She was unsure of her phrasing. John, however, took no notie and went on. "I was quartered in Arbois in 1918 and I thought it would be interesting to go back and see what the town looks like." He was explain- ing to her, but he was not speaking to her; and Edith knew now that there was some reason. When they were a few miles from Arbois, John spoke, his eyes focused tightly on the road. "I don't know if I ever told you, but I was billeted in Arbois at the home of a man of about sixty, a civil servant, with a wife and three or four little kids. I was just a youngster at the time, but I got along well with them; I was out all day, and when I came home at night to sleep sometimes I would sit around and talk with the old fellow. He was a completely good- hearted man."a "But how do you know he's alive?" Edith asked. "After all, they must be nearly eighty now. It's a long time." "They'll be there. We'll just spend the day with them." "All right, dear, if you say so." They drove on in silence until the road narrowed (it was not like an American road, even in the country) and they reached the little sign: Ville d'Arbois. Soon they were on the main street of the little village; it was nar- row and bumpy, and it seemed that their Buick was the only automobile in the town. Although it was midafter- noon of a lovely spring day, there were very few people abroad. The shops seemed almost deserted; several chil- dren were playing hop-scotch along the sidewalk, and an old man sat on the stoop of his cottage, next door to a wine shop, gravely puffing his pipe and watching the children. "Do you know where to go, John?" "Oh yes," he said, "I remember very well, but I'm not sure whether their street is wide enough for the car. We turn right two blocks up." They turned right, and again to the right; on this street the houses were much further apart, for they were al- ready practically on the outskirts of the town. The Buick jounced along the little cobbled road until it reached the farthest house. Here John parked the car. They sat there for a moment, peering out at the house. It was a little old clapboard structure, and it was im- possible that it contained more than three rooms; the frame was entirely overgrown with creeping vines, which wound their fingers in and out of the dusty shutters. There was no lawn about the house: it was surrounded instead with lilac bushes, peonies, and tulip beds, and purple pansies grew around the dooryard. Edith was not quite sure why John sighedbefore he said, "Well, let's go in." They walked along the mossy flag- stones to the low, warped door and stood No longer visited By that tumultuous sea That flings the heart-about In an audacious rout. Of extremity, 3I longed for what I once had: A daring, doom-eager heart, Most willful, most stubborn pate All women or their love Might make a mockery of; And a spirit born in hate Of indifferent art. "Laugh till the sinews break And the heart cracks with delight, And the timid, entangled mind, 'Unwinding and unwound, Sings with delirious sight Of such heartache;" Sang the spirit, undeterred; "And build this labyrinth In an insurgent place Most nourishing a race; Out of your ruin's strength These articulate words! Make of the mind a tower, And of the heart a gong; A gracious, high, eager house, Venturesome, perilous, Where sings, though with ruinous tongue, The spirit's character." -Kimon Friar there searching for the bell. "Where is the bell?" asked Edith. "There's no bell, you pull this rope and it swings the bell inside," said John. "I used to do it before I could come and go without ringing." "Oh, how quaint," Edith murmured. In a few seconds the door was opened by a fat, scraggly haired old man in an' opened vest and worn slippers, who stared at them quizzically over his glasses. "Hello, Papa Deval," John said. The old man's mouth opened wide. He stood for a second, amazed, then flung his arms out and clasped John warmly. "Jean, you've come back. I never believed it, I never believed it, even after what you said." He held ONE WAY PASSAGE .. . by Harvey and I used to play casino here eve- nings." His wife said nothing. They sat perfectly still, and in a short time the silence would have be- come embarrassing if the old man had not come hopping back into the room, displaying a remarkable agility. He was dragging his wife behind him. John and Edith rose to their feet. The old lady was almost petrified with excitement. "Jean, 'Jean," she shrieked over and over, "you've come to see us, all the way from across the ocean." She kissed him loudly on both cheeks. "The same old Jean!" "And you, you're looking fine, Ma- man." "Eh?" metres from I and a little b while he come ily. Just ima seur Deval. A the train, too "Well, that fine." Both of the ing; the old : collecting coo give her gues' who was inte pattern of th eyes occasiona Suddenly the to his feet w walked over t in the darkesi said to John, I have somet raised his eye and got up to probably been carpet was o ago, when I w "Madame, show you this He was reachi of the chest:1 letters wrap "Look, these s husband has s a fine friend every one. Yo them, eh Jean John was sil "Look, I ca long it was sir are all in Frei Then here yo grammar, the here you star fish. more an ters I have ta a very cultivat lated them fo too." Edith knew refusing to 10 so much the r for it which fi her feel, for years, that sh By some eff turning to tl loudly (so tha "How would y in my car? Pe if you point 01 " Aha, that "that's fine. no, Maman? and his famil genially. The so excited th word; she ra bonnet. "All right, John a little t have too muc "You know fidentially to to be a real a She's never 1: all, she's a gi I am, she's w know. Me, II train with He once." They walke "Now," John pose you sit and Maman s "Fine, fine. after the old directions, Jol had passed t1 were again r side, John be of the radio. I a Paris statio: a musical pr in loud and : shriek, "Ai! w what is happ It was the (Con finished their cigarettes, they got up and returned to the car. The sun had long since passed its zenith, and it was flooding the green valley-now with gold; as soft and warm as the wine. They drove back to Henri's home more slowly than they left it,' and Edith was really sorry to say good-bye to them, for they were very nice people, and besides she was afraid once again of being left alone in the car with John and the old people. When the old lady had kissed the boy for the last time, and slipped a few francs into his hand, they turned around and drove back to Ar- bois. The sun was already setting when they reached the little cottage. The old people insisted on their coming inside. The living room was dim by now, and John stood there, far from Edith, peer- ing about in the dimness. The old lady was puttering about in the corner, and in a moment she had come up to Edith, clenching something tightly in her wrinkled hand. "This is for you," she said, holding her hand out to Edith. It was a ring, a delicate little ring, which coud obviously no longer fit on the gnarled and swollen finger of the old lady. "It was my grandmother's wedding ring, and we pass it on in the family from the mother to the daughter." "But I couldn't take it," Edith said., "I couldn't possibly take it." "I want you to have it," the old lady said, slipping it onto Edith's finger, "because you are like my own daugh- ter now." There was nothing for Edith to say. There was nothing to keep them any longer, and they walked out to the car, followed by the old couple. On the way out the old lady bent over and snipped off a large white peony. She gave it to Edith, saying, "You are such a pretty girl, and you make a nice wife for Jean." My God, Edith thought, and I will be forty soon. The four people stood around in front of the car, waiting rather awkwardly. Then, as John was opening the door o$, the car, the old man grasped him by the shoulders and kissed him. "Mon meilleur ami," he said. They drove off slowly, waving.. good- bye to the old couple until-they.had faded from sight. Now they were in the country, driving into the sunset, and it was a long time before Edith buried her face in the.peony and began, to cry. 'John at arms' length and surveyed him. "You haven't changed much, you look like the same old Jean, even without your uniform." "Ah, and you haven't changed either. You still wear your glasses over your, nose, eh?" "But certainly. How can I see other- wise? And this, this is your wife, I presume? I remember, you wrote to me that you were married." "That's right," John laughed. "My wife, Edith Harwood, Papa Deval." . Edith was too surprised to greet the old man. It was surprise enough to hear John speak fairly good French, but to find out that he had been correspond- ing with these people - and she had never known! "Come in, come in," the old man was saying. "The house hasn't changed a bit, not a bit. And Maman will be anxious to see you. Here, sit in your old chair, Jean. See, there on the table are the same cards that we used to play witlh. And you sit here, madame. I will go fetch the old lady; she's puttering around in the back of the house." John sighed as he sat down in the old chair, whose rockers resembled bar- rel staves. He picked up the dog-eared playing cards, began to shuffle them idly, and said to his wife, "The old man "She's a little deaf, Jean," explained the old man, and then added proudly, "but I can hear as well as ever." "Well, now tell me, what has been happening here? What have you been doing with yourselves? Where are the children?"1 "Ah, the children. The two girls are both married a long time now. Millicent is in Marseilles-she's got six children. And Henrietta is living in Perpignan. Her husband is a customs inspector. And what she writes us about those poor Spaniards who have been fleeing over the border from the Italians and the Moors, oh, it's terrible. Terrible, I assure you." "And Pierre? And Henri?" "Pierre, I think he is a good-for-noth- ing, that's what I think." He turned to his wife and shouted, "Isn't it so, that Pierre is a goodfor-nothing?" She niodded sadly. "Yes, he is in Paris. What he is do- ing in the big city I don't know. Because the only time he writes to us is when he wants us to send him some money. But Henri, he is a good boy. He is a real success, Henri." "Is that so? What is he doing?" Edith watched her husband's face light up in anticipation. "He is teaching Greek and IAtin at the College, which is about seventy kilo- It seemed that they were in the middle of the conversation when John pulled the car off the highway and turned up a winding road that led evidently to an impressive castle, situ- ated at the, top of a hill. "This is no longer a chateau, just a restaurant now," Henri explained. They found that they could all sit at a large table in the open air. The food. was excellent, and. with the younger Devals to talk to, Edith no longer felt quite so lonely. When the wine was all gone, and when John and Henri had.. 9 * * ,