Striving for calm, deliberate portraiture, the skill of Mr. Robinson has drown in "Roman Bartholow" a narrative prose-poem, versified in sober lines of meditative characterization. Sophistication echoes through its pages, weary effete, and unenlivening: and yet the characters and plot are such as fit most aptly to his purposes: a modern novel spared. Philosophies and passions are expounded in dialogue that wisely never tries to sound like human talk. He has discovered a way of simplifying subleties that makes them stark and stubbornly incisive; and even his intensest episodes embody wan denial of emotion.

The story of Bartholow is human matter fit for the pen of James of Meredith not unlike "Modern Love" in theme and manner but Meredith devoid of ornament. Bartholow, celebrating liberation of soul and intellect, discovers late the treachery of the liberating Raven "a resident savior domiciled", serene, a hypocrite redeemed by understanding. The woman, Gabrielle, whose tragedy is just a foil for Bartholow's reveals how superficial insincerity can stultify a spirit over-prone to casual conformity, until it dies unnourished. Like a "confidant" the other character--perhaps the post--is an incongruous philosopher who talks a Latinized American appropriate to the name of Umfraville. The three together, and occasionally this incidental fourth work out their lives in studied contemplation. Every act is done "off-stage" the poet chooses only moment of inner conflict to array upon his stage of words; and yet he offers clues to imagination for the rest that give if life. Prolixity at time intrudes; and his inordinate concern for their domestic trivialities is sometimes tedious and a bit absurd--bathos, perhaps. Consider Gabrielle's expostulating with the guest at breakfast for lax appreciation of the trout:

"They may be large, but they're not numerous,"

She said, "and I should weep to see them wasted."

"One's ignorance would not envisage you

As overmuch at home among the weeping,"

He told her;

a profound banality! And yet there is undoubtedly a charm in such adept periphrasis as this.

The poet's fluent readability is his redeeming grace. For "lovely lines" are to be found, but when they come they shine with special lustre in their sober background:

"Familiar stillness of eternal hills."

"You are too beautiful to be alive."

Or memory-gems like this one:

"I like rivers

Better than oceans, for we see both sides.

An ocean is forever asking questions

And writing them aloud along the shore,

Rivers are not monotonous.

(I Wonder. Lord Byron seemed to find it otherwise.) His intermittent polysyllables, recurring everlastingly along his fluid lines, at first amuse, but habit gives them a likeable distinctiveness; and certainly for suavity they lend an air of dignified austerity. If Mr. Robinson could claim to be American's first poet before he wrote this latest book, he still can claim that honor--although one questions if his title to it will be increased by "Roman Bartholow:"--for excellence at verse and excellence at portraiture alone don't make a poet. . . . And as for verse, what is it more than prose? As someone will discover, this review is written in Mr. Robinson's won metre.