ON the jacket of this recent novel, a statement is made to which we should like to take immediate ex-exception. "The readers of Mr. Weston's first novel will not be surprised by the original manner in which he presents a powerful story"--so runs the brief puff. Well, frankly, we were surprised by it. More than that, we were mollified. In such a frame of mind it is hard to get eye-to-eye and cheek-by-jowl with an author's intentions, supposing that he has some. And so, in trying to line up a few impressions of "The Patchwork Madonna" we are at more than a usual loss.

Mr. Weston is a member of the psycho-analytical school of writers, a charter member we should say. His technique springs full-armed from the fulminations of Freud. It is a sort of detective mechanism for discovering the well-springs of character. It is deft in the same way that the technique of Conan Doyle is deft. But instead of clues you have complexes; instead of crimes, weaknesses of character. By taking the stuff of complexes, you arrive at the source of a spiritual flaw.

In "The Patchwork Madonna", Mr. Weston makes use of two central characters, a psycho-analyst and his patient, the London actress, Creda Reid. The chapters consist of the progressive consultations in the treatment of her case. And since the actress is indeed a pretty well tattered madonna, a certain amount of interest is attached to her explanations of the origins of her hates and loves. She is described as tall, supple, and of "almost tigerish strength." When we add that she speaks in a husky voice and uses tangerine perfume, any reader familiar with One-a-minute-Oppenheim can visualize the type. Her chief weakness seems to be that she is given to sudden uprushes of emotion around men, either pro or con, and, when they are pro, she generally ends up with a little more patchwork. This failing leads to a purple scene with the specialist himself. However, he is stupid about it and repulses her advances. This part of the book is also memorable for a typographer's error that gives us the crisp descriptive sentence: "Her hand sank on his shoulder with a low laugh."

The ending of the book has some dramatic power. Creda Reid is suddenly freed from one of her major complexes, hatred of her mother, by the unexpected murder of that unpleasant old lady. The nerve doctor assures her that all will be well after this, if she will only learn to confine her vagrant affections to one man instead of to the Fifth Regiment of Horse Marines, or their equivalent in citizens of the realm. Creda consents, but we suspect that she had a cunning twinkle in her eye when she hurried from the consultation room.

Among the attractive features of this novel are the illustrations of the talented Zhenya Gay. She makes use of a style reminiscent of Aubrey Beardsley. It fits in with the type work harmoniously.