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.
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