April 21, 1957

Tycoon's Harem

By RICHARD SULLIVAN

THE SERAGLIO By James Merrill.

When he learns that his father-the fabulously rich, noticeably aged, yet still at least vocally lecherous tycoon, Benjamin Tanning-has located a new medical treatment which will probably relieve him of pain, young Francis Tanning says casually, "How weird." The words, as he speaks them, have merely polite conversational value: stepped up to exclamatory level, they might express the average reader's response to this excellently phrased and often witty yet somehow remote and casual novel. Average readers, of course, are likely to be more exclamatory than poor Francis.

"The Seraglio" is a book whose title-whether taken in the direct meaning of "harem" or in the indirect one of "place of separation or segregation"-is remarkably appropriate. For the major complications rise out of the swarm of eager women who surround old Benjamin in a collective existence which, whether on Long Island or Jamaica, is considerably separated from that of the average reader. Old Tanning's doting nurse, his nervous ex-mistress, two prospective current mistresses and at least one of his three ex-wives make up the seraglio. To the calorific group Francis whimsically adds an urgent sculptress, who later has a child which he momentarily thinks might be his own-but is really sired by the composer of an opera titled, no doubt symbolically, "Orpheus."

Poor Francis. He is the point-of-view character of this novel for about half the distance. Then, baffled and affected by the coy, oppressive sexuality of his father's household, he performs upon himself an almost suicidal operation which fits him traditionally to be keeper of the harem. After his self-surgery he remains (though the narrative now switches to other persons as temporarily central) as inadequate and helpless as ever. He lingers over his ouija board; he yearns to find himself, to face life. At the very end, playing hide-and-seek with children, he realizes an exquisite and overwhelming pleasure out of the thought that he is himself, that the entire world is real.

The writing in this first novel is admirably controlled. There is a genuine intimation of ennui, sophistication, decadence-all brightened by wry humor but all misted over by cloudy hints of pseudo-psycho-mystico-meaningfulness. "How hopeful, how promising, how accomplished," the average reader may say, in a casual tone. But exclamatorily he may add, "How weird!"

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