I read this for the second time a decade and a half after reading it for the first, and I must confess I was less impressed this time around. Santayana is a brilliant thinker and in some ways a gifted and perceptive writer, but he is not a magnificent novelist. His style is essentially pre-modern (a less effective Henry James); while he was writing in the interwar years, contemporaneous with dos Passos and Fitzgerald, he was a man of an older era. Santayana is associated with conservatism, but his protagonist seeks to conserve something that is clearly moribund. His most dutiful characters, Nathaniel and Caroline, are clearly fish out of water, and while Caroline is curious and endearing she is a woman whose time has passed. Santayana is not dismissive of religion, but he makes clear his sentiment (as he did in his own life) that while he respected the traditions the dogma itself was untenable. Oliver's great friends Jim and Mario, representing in turn a sort of learned vagabondage and an upper class joi de vivre and unseriousness, are appealing in their own ways, but neither represents to Oliver or to a reader a serious alternative to the life he pursues. As Santayana wrote in the 1930s, Mario must have appeared to presage the Lost Generation and its characters. Jim's father is perhaps the most appealing character in the book, as he represents a thinking and honest man of faith, but even he seems out of place in the early 20th Century. The alternative course, that of business or of politics - that of Maud's fiance - is caricatured and never embodied by Santayana in a likeable character. That is, Santayana suggests in the autumn of his years that for a man of means and a great soul, a life of learning and intellectual curiosity is the appropriate path, and yet such a path is itself a dead end. Before Oliver's (appropriately banal, non-heroic) death in war, he presages a glum future as a professor, a rather autobiographical idea suggesting that for a thinking and dutiful man trapped in a moribund tradition, a life of letters is perhaps the only acceptable pursuit, empty though it might be.
Santayana is a man of a world gone by who is perhaps too old by the 1930s to situate himself in the new one. He paints a portrait of a young man similarly afflicted. His successors have tried to carve out new and viable traditions in the postwar world, but his remains a lament that is difficult to answer. The presentation has not aged well, stylistically or anecdotally (including as it does instances of tepid racism, outdated gender roles, and a rote, genteel anti-Semitism), but the thought underlying it still has something to say to us.