Lawrence is indulging himself with a little portentous anthropology channeling James Frasier with a soupcon of Rider Haggard and Montezuma but mainly achieving a tour of his own unconscious. It is an unwieldy mixture of realism and the symbolic. The woman who rode away was a big blond with blue eyes and a commanding way with her. Frieda Lawrence was such a Von. Why was no one ever sent after her? We are told several times that her husband guarded her carefully. The land of the mysterious tribe of Indians was well known to the folk who lived in the foothills. Can it be a wish that Frieda Lawrence would head for the hills? The vigour of the dark Indians that attracts her is in sharp contrast to the ill author who can hardly have been a sun to her moon.
Febrile ravings.
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