Evening Star Newspaper, June 21, 1931, Page 87

SCHLIEMANN: The Story of a Goldseeker. By Emil Ludwig. . Translated from the German by D. F. Tait. Ilustrated. Boston: Little, Brown & Co. ALL, grave, not unbeautiful, wearing a close coif of splendid gems inter- woven, long ropes of precious stones lying neck and breast. Not unlike the face-raking long-eared skull caps of the present mode. Dif- ferent, in effect, however. A Greek woman, Sophia Schliemann, wear- ing the jewels of Helen of Troy. But there was no Helen of Troy, no Paris, nor Menelaus, nor Priam. No field of Troy, no Trojan war, no burning towers of Tiium. There was no Homer. So the savants said. A man, waist deep in a white drift of docu- ments. “Twenty thousand” scraps of paper. Letters, diaries, notes, jottings, plan sketches, project charts; the full whatnot of years of busy recordings. In littering bulk, the bestowal of Sonhia Schliemann upon Emil Ludwig. And here is Emil Ludwig, again doing his great stuff. A sculptor with his clay. A painter with his colors. A divining and competent man, recreating another man, bringing him back to life and shepherding him through in- fancy and youth and fulfilment. The im- portances of his career outstanding. The triv- ialities thrown away. So here he is, a living man, clean-cut in character and purpose and achievement: Schliemann, the archeologist, who became this through a dream, through a life- jong passion of faith in the actual substance of a legend, in the real existence of Homer’s ‘Troy. in the main, an unimpressive fellow, this Mecklenburg youth, Heinrich Schliemann. A little more active in an avid sort of way than boys are likely to be. Looking for jobs and getting them, saving his money and putting it to work. Wandering a lot, for his day and age. Picking up languages as if they were playthings or sweetmeats. Somewhere, oo, picking up that glamorous Homeric tale. A seed, this, that, settling into some fertile corner of his being, grew like a green bay tree, silently sheping the course of his astonishing career. Across to Holland, looking for work and a living. Getting both in good measure. Over into Russia. There young Schliemann found a wife. Didn't like her. Came to America to shed her, out in Indiana, then the Reno of this country. Down into South America, round and round, active and money-making and de- cidedly coming on. Finally into Greece, for good” and all. Picks and shcovels, carts and mules, laborers and overseers—these the equip- ment of Heinrich Schliemann for digging a dream out of the ground. And how the wise men laughed. We actually see their derisive smiles and hear their contemptuous chortles. The main count with these against the fellow was that he so readily changed his mind. Now real scientists are not supposed to do that. But here this one was shifting from here to there like an ordinary man, which he so indubitably each plan a little more snugly to the sought for it. An untidy wise man, truly, but a devilishly pertinacious one. And would you believe it! There it finally lay—not a dream of dust and moonshine. A veritable walled palace instead, a measurable splendid life—war and love and hate and cruelty. For all the world like our own day. For all the world like us, save for the glamour of centuries. Just such, maybe, as will halo the high spots of this twentieth century along about 3333 A.D. or something like that. It is a great story. True as truth, but enough ke a “yarn” to enlist any reader from head to heel. The best of the Ludwigs, we say. Perhaps because it is cast not in the specialized lines of professional warfare or diplomacy, like the “Napoleon” or the “Bismarck.” More on our own line, working and dreaming and once in a while getting somewhere. A splendid story. Mr. Carper hints that Ludwig is writing “toe fast.” Old Caviler suggests that the “Schlie- mann” rather points that way. Not a chanoce in the world to get away with such feeble talk, Read the story for yourself. Besides, here is Emil Ludwig himself in proof of good literary substance and high sincerity, both shiningly clear of any smudge of senility and decay. High tribute to the man and his work comes English archeologist, surpassing excellence Ladwig in recreating Heinrich Schliemann in the clear and salient lines of his work for science and for history and for art itself. Great reading adventure walts for you here. THE ORCHID. By Robert Nathan, author of “There is Another Heaven,” etc. Indianap- olis: The Bobbs-Merrill Co. - v " WHE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. €, JUNE 21, 1031 NV % _IDA GILBERT MYER / Emil Ludwig’s Newest Book Is the Story of a Career—Novels for Summer Reading. Scotty Allen Tells His Interesting Yarn. When an artist forgets her career, as she picks a primrose here and there with the man who has forgotten his wife. When the rusty street musician Sorgets his shabby carrousel, cariying little devils in place of singing seraphs, while he remembers when he was a great temor in his beloved Italy. While he re- — members to make love to the fading lady as he abstracts from her pocket the wherewithal for a splendid new carrousel fitted with air- planes, and submarines, and steaming Levia- thans, in place of moth-eaten goats and scale- less serpents, and hairless tigers and fangless Hons, Sounds like the house that Jack built— doesn’t it—the round of Spring, flowing as a hot stream through the veins, driving men and women to every sort of moon-struck madness. Here we all are, all of us. But, under the smiling #rony of Robert Nathan .and wise old Prof. Pembaucr, we hardly feel the softly smit- ing hand. As we go along, agreeing to the truth of ourselves, it is more than likely that we pass much of the frailty and the selfishness and the folly of us over to the rest of the world, instead of taking it home. Here is satire, with the sting extracted. Here is complete understanding, with the rancor missing. Here is a way with words that is & A smiling and inspired bit of irony applied to all of us in the Springtime— Again Jet me thank ycu, my dear H—— for the “good reminder” of “The Orchid” and Rob- ert Nathan. DARK HERITAGE. By Shirland Quin. Bos- ton: Little, Brown & Co. UST a minute for praise of the admnirable crafismanship of this novel. The author has a theme. Many of them do not have. She is possessed, also, of a definite purpose in offer- ing that theme. Therefore, so she doubtless said, theme and purpose must get into harness together to direct the ccurse of this matter to the end for which it was created. And, with- out any obvious effect of striving or straining, that is exactly what she did for this creation. The result is, clearly, a work of art. And, as of substance and form. And the matter itself is worthy of high con- sideration, and deep. The love of native land, passion for the home spot—this a preposses- eneral as to count among the univer- , just possibly, among all these home there is none more tenacious in such ection than the Welshman. Passionate in all emotions, imperious by nature, this one clings to his land and resists alienation from it. A family of Welsh sons, sons for generations of Plas Mawr, becomes the center of this highly That which Shirland Quin has s0 1 or these sons she has equaled in her heart-and-hand seizure of the land it- self. The Welsh landscape, Welsh moods of weather, fierce and battling or austerely serene in capturing beauty, the acocord between the na- ture of its people and the land itself—these un- fold here in a gradual interpenetration that is as certain as it is bold and beautiful. High passions enter the story. Family dissension. Continued from Sirteenth Page Koester, Lydia Ewing, George Lewis, Helen Levitov, Ned Schmitt, Norlaine Lewis, Conway McDevitt, Mary McDevitt, Tracy Thomas, Frederick Fryer, Kathieen Johrden, Grace Mc- | i Pflmotl’lol..ndlltu.chyunrm were presented in a series of recitals be- ginning June 9 and concluding Saturday, Graduates included Charles White, David Pezold, James Johnson, Helen- Mindling, Michael the slow yielding, the reluctamt yiclding $o the lure of a new life. The short stay lengthening t0 years. The return to the old home, in joy and forward-looking—then the rueful convic- tion that the roots have loosened, that some- thing has changed—either Wales itself or this runaway from it. A love story—several, in fact. Good ones, too. But, at bottom this is high srtistry and deep feeling expended superbly on the theme of human rootage in place and time. Deservedly is this a novel of enthusiastic praise among readers and critics. SAM. By Freeman Lincoln. Co-author with Joseph C. Lincoln of “Balirs Attic.” New York: Coward-McCann, Inc. ATURALLY, I thought Sam was a boy. Not being in the boy mood at the moment, delivered the goods in fine shape after she really found where it was she wanted to go —all this it is that makes a matter worth a girl has to have notions about. this one had to work and so could not afford to fall in love. Not even with a well-to-do man, since she was not the kind to unload a family upon anybody. Sam couldn’t fall in love—but she did. Twice in a row, er twice In the good old stories of com- The wealthy suitor is a corker. Which that he is a regular man, generous, ist, in a recital at her studio last Wednesda: evening. John Russell Mason gave & program of organ from New York for a six-week trip in Europe. Band Concerts. OTABLE numbers on the program to be the Capitol Mondsy night will be Rimsky- Korsakow's “Cappriccio Espagnol” and instead of striving to create a feebly radiant as this one is, he had not gtne away somewhere by hims<lf, to the shore or %0 the woods or to any other rationalizing soli- tude till he got over this “spell.” Ohb, yes, it &8 easy to foresee what the friends will say. This, of course, is an allegory of war and peace; maybe. It is a subtle anzlysis of society under this, and this, and this. All right. Al right. It sounds like not much <f anything at all— save a capering of war lunatics. Sorry! . GOLD, MEN AND DOGS. By A. A. (Scotty) Allen. Tilustrated. New York: G. P. Put- nam'’s Sons. COTTY ALLSN tells his own story. ¥He recalis himself first as a boy of 16, tending sheep on the hill farm of his father in Scotland, Then as a youngster still in his teens bringing a splendid stallion over to the States, the roome mate and full partner of the great creature across the seas. ‘Then, dazed but by no means dulled over the immensity and excitement of America, crossing it in almost every conceivable kind of “job,” till Alaska and the gold rush tock compilete possession of the growing young Scotchman. A vivid story, Mr. Allen tells and & most exciting ope. In the gold scramble up north the adventurer seemed to lose his taste for men, maybe for himself in a measure. Af any rate, he turned, naturally, toward animals— liking dogs better the more he saw of the humsan. He gathered and traised sledge dogs. Trained them with intelligent care and - standing for the hard existence of this in the frozen regions. These constituted the transportation system of Alaska then. And they became a means of the high Winter sport of racing. At this point Allen and his D and the rest was due some of such intelligent attention as is, now and then, given to the 1747R. L Ave. North 1134