_A Son at the Front._ By EDITH WHARTON. (Charles Scribner’s Sons.)
As the most and vagueness surrounding the late war are slowly cleared
away by passing time and subsiding emotions, and the conflict settles
into a semblance of perspective, the more recent books that deal
with it show an increasing grasp of its essentials, and a higher
understanding of its trials and lessons. Where once were only trees,
we can see a forest now, whose outlines are becoming more distinct as
the shock of the cataclysm becomes a memory. It is past, now, and
irrevocable, open to description or interpretation.
Speaking sincerely from the depth of her own experience, Edith Wharton
here gives us a faithful picture; not of the mechanics of the war, but
of general and specific reactions to it. Paris is the setting almost
throughout the narrative, that of an American painter whose son, born
in France, is drawn by the logic of his instincts and sympathies into
the struggle. The scenes and events of the war, its growing tragedy and
sternness, and their gradual effect on John Campton, are recorded with
an insight and understanding that fascinate, while their subject-matter
grips. The author shows a keen grasp of small details, as well as
of large issues and their significance. Her style is delightful--a
silver rapier that here waves benignly, and there strikes humorously
or satirically, with great precision. Several delicate threads of
narrative underlie and emphasize the main theme--Campton’s art, Paris
visibly changing, and the younger Campton’s love affair. The story
never falters as it traces out that “huge mysterious design which
was slowly curving a new heaven over a new earth”. The author, in
that design, points us to a philosophy of the war, a personal moral,
comprehending its soul.
Our growing literary heritage from the World War contains few
contributions more authentic or more inspiring than “A Son at the
Front”.