Laurence Durrell has used the word 'quincunx' to describe his plan of five novels, of which [Constance] is the third. 'Quincunx' means the arrangement of five objects in such a way that four of them are at the corners of a square or rectangle and one is in the centre; but whether Constance, one of its two predecessors (Monsieur and Livia) or one of its projected successors is to be regarded as the central work, is not clear. At all events, a prior reading of the first two volumes is not likely to be of much help in making sense of the plot of Constance or vice versa.

The first 156 pages of the 389 pages of this novel are, frankly, so dreadful that they might be mistaken for self-parody. When the narrative begins, Constance, her sister Livia, her lover Sam, her brother Hilary and a friend Aubrey, author of Monsieur (it will be apparent that Durrell is up to the old experimental-novel game of shuffling together separate packs of 'real' and 'imaginary' characters), are staying together in Constance's manor-house near Avignon. The detonation of the war blows them in separate directions. Hilary and Sam join up and Sam eventually finds himself in Egypt. Aubrey, a conscientious objector, also finds himself there, as part of the entourage of one of those immensely rich, immensely powerful, immensely cultivated Egyptians who appear in Durrell's novels but whom I myself was mysteriously and tantalisingly unable to locate when living in Alexandria. Constance, a Freudian analyst, goes to work in a clinic in Switzerland. Livia, a character who bears some resemblance to Unity Mitford, assumes German nationality. At least three of these moves—those of Aubrey, Constance and Livia—would strain credulity in a realistic novel.

This whole section shows Durrell once again pampering his characters like some over-indulgent mother convinced that only the best is good enough for her children. When a woman goes mad, she is treated by Freud, no less. The Prince airily tells Aubrey before their departure for Egypt, 'You'll need some shark-skin dinner-jackets,' in the manner of a host telling a prospective guest, 'You'll need some shirts.' Subsequently, when Aubrey has arrived at his new home, 'palatial dispositions' enable him to occupy 'a veritable apartment with several separate but interconnecting bedrooms' and 'marvellous hieratic servants' present him with food 'on matchless plate.'… The yearning romanticism both of this imagined high life and of the style in which it is evoked reminded me of some novelist of the past, though I could not at first think whom. Then it came to me—Ouida!

Mr Durrell uses style in the manner of an aging woman using make-up. When he is discreet, the effect is enhancing; when he slaps it on, the effect is grotesque. Critics are always describing him as 'stylish' and whether they are using the epithet in its new sense of distinguished and elegant or in its old one of showy and pretentious, they have found the mot juste. When Durrell writes of 'soft, pornic clocks' (clearly a matter for Mrs Whitehouse to investigate) or of a 'ventripotent' banker, or when he compares a character to someone 'coming out of an epileptic "aura'" (the aura precedes an epileptic fit, it does not follow it), one can only squirm; but there are other passages of writing—for example one about Egyptian mummies in their sarcophagoi, worthy of Richard Burton—which make one want to cheer. (pp. 22-3)

Constance sets off, as a Red Cross official, from Switzerland to France, in the company of the Egyptian Prince. It is highly improbably that, even in this capacity, an Englishwoman would at that time have been admitted to the country, much less have been allowed to live in her former home; and it is even more improbable that she would have found her sister in the same town, nursing for the Germans. But once the god-like author has picked up these pieces from the chessboard and set them down where he wants them, there follow [many pages] of fiction of the highest quality. The sad humiliation of the defeated French and the brutal degradation of the conquering Germans are conveyed simply, strongly and compassionately. Typical of the French is the beautiful young woman who gives herself to the gestapo chief in return for favours for her dying husband, food for her children and the occasional reprieve of some member of the marquis. Typical of the Germans is the scholarly double-agent, in love with Livia, whom Hitler has despatched to locate the legendary treasure of the Knights Templar.

After the superb restraint of this section, the book once again descends into lurid vulgarity, like a train jumping points, running off the rails and crashing into a poster-paint factory. Constance, back in Geneva, starts a love-affair with a married Egyptian, who alternately penetrates her in a number of positions and produces statements like 'The poor little vagina must be likened to a little animal always eager for its nourishment', 'Sperm with no spiritual axis cannot feed the woman's ideas or her feelings' and 'The psyche is seriously ankylosed by the rigour of our moeurs.' That she does not jump out of bed and run, screaming, from the room is, presumably, intended as an indication of his prowess as a lover.

Half of this book is worthy of the Booker Prize, for which it has been listed. The other half is the sort of tosh that would give the Romantic Novelists Association a bad name. (p. 23)