FRITILLARY June
12, 1926
110
Price 6d.
Edttor :
R. BAILEY (Lady Margaret Hall). Sub-Editor : R. 0. HAYNES (St. Hugh's College).
Committee : M. OWEN (Lady Margaret Hall). M. W. LANE (St. Hugh's College). C. OGLE (Oxford Home Students). M. OLIVIER (St. Hilda's Hall). K. M. CONSTABLE (Somerville College).
Treasurer : A. FALK (St. Hilda's Hall).
fritittarr Magazine of the Oxford Women's Colleges
JUNE 12, 1926 CONTENTS .. .. Editorial .. .. Article by Sybil Thorndike .. Poem Occasioned by Mr. Nichol Smith .. The Playhouse Bouquet .. Moon-mad ..
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3 4 6 13
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.. The Two Brothers From a Sonnet Sequence Notes on an Exhibition of .. Painting College News Games Notices
13 15 15 17 17
Ebitoriat HIS is our last Editorial, but before we indulge in any appropriate reflections on that topic we must deal with a question of finance. We will, however, begin as poetically as we can with a few observations of a hortatory and consolatory nature to those who, like Us, are going down. The nature of the act is evident from the phrase itself ; it is a declension, a descent, a falling off, and as such deplorable. From the heights of contemplation, serenity, idleness, leisure, you are to descend to some base and hurried mechanical occupation. You are to cease to saunter and meditate by this meditative river ; to amuse yourself with a toy copy of life while you observe the reality from a retired point of vantage ; you are to deal with the unwieldy original, and to walk briskly along a high road to a definite destination. The end, in short, has come ; and though it is also a beginning, and the gain may therefore well out-balance the loss, it suits our purpose to dwell for a little on the mournful aspect. For here we come to the point of our extempore effusion : we have a consolation for you—we can rescue you from the natural melancholy into which we fear that you have sunk. You need not lose hold of Oxford entirely ; here is Fritillary. Pay us 3/6 a year, and we will send you Fritillary twice a term. Or, better still, make an effort and pay us £3, and we will send you Fritillary for the rest of your natural life. These facts you will find clearly repeated on a later page. Here we will say no more, for the thing is obvious
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—you will grow old and bored. Will you then be able to forgive yourself for having neglected so cheap, easy and satisfactory a defence against the Tedium of Senility ? We must now return to the present and welcome our chief contributor, Miss Sybil Thorndike, whose article is the pride and point of this number. We ought to have spoken of it before our own sordid financial affairs. The rest of this number needs no special remark, and we may proceed to a final appeal to our contributors, past, present and future, excepting of course those who are going down ; but these we hope will no sooner cease to be contributors than they will become subscribers. To the others we venture to say this : Our editorial labours have here an end, a thought at which we sigh partly in melancholy but largely in relief, considering that never again, never in any world, need we write an editorial. But your contributory labours are to have no bound or term ; they are to continue and increase. Otium cum vel sine honore is ours ; but we implore you to consider that anything of the sort is a disgrace to you. Editors come and go and are unimportant; but contributors are important and should go on for ever. They should also be patient and believe that, however blockheaded we may seem in what we accept and what we reject, we are honestly grateful for their support. If you are going to be the caricaturist, the poet, the essayist or the no.velist of the future, it will be kind in you if you will exercise your ripening wits in Fritillary. We for our part will give you. scope, and incidentally acquire the copyrights of these rare and valuable examples of your early style. With which we will bring these impertinences to an end, merely remarking that we mean all we have said and so commend Fritillary to your kindness.
Article by Srbil CbortOike These are a few words in praise of the amateur in the theatre—or, rather, a few words of salute to the amateur. A girl came to see me once, very anxious to know how to set about going on the stage. She expressed great love .for it, great ambitions, and all the rest of it. On my asking her what acting she had done as an amateur, she replied, ' Oh, I never would act with amateurs ; I only care for professional acting ! ' I told her I was afraid I did not believe much in her love of acting—a real lover of acting does not consider anything but the chance to act, and cares not whether it is professional or amateur. I think, though, that the poor girl was only voicing a feeling that is quite common in a lot of people—a sort of sneer in the mind at the word amateur as at something second-rate and
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FRITILLARY.
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not worthy of encouragement. Personally I feel this to be such a destructive and wrong feeling that on every possible occasion I go to the other extreme and extol the work of the amateur to the detriment of the professional—which is also wrong and rather silly. So I will explain what I do believe to be the function of the amateur in the Theatre. To my mind there must be in every growing, live artist something of the amateur—of the one who works for the love of his art, for the sheer lark of it, without concern as to how his work will be received, without that fear which comes from the necessity of keeping in a job. If there is not this element in the work of an artist he might as, well be dead, for simply thinking of earning a living and doing the safe thing is a dull game and no fun at all for any man or woman. As there must be two sides to the individual artist, so do I believe that the Theatre is composed of two sides, amateur and professional. It is a mistake, I feel sure, to narrow down the Theatre to its professional exponents. The amateur societies of England—and the growth of these is enormous, astonishing, and so encouraging-4 say these amateur societies are the Theatre in its wide sense just as much as the professional societies or companies. I feel like shouting out to the companies of amateurs, You can be the pioneers, if you care enough ; you can be the experimenters. Don't follow old hackneyed professional ways ; strike out new paths—new, crude paths, maybe—the professional will follow and tidy up your muddles and crudities • but your function is experiment. We are hampered, we professionals, r idiculously hampered, by a hundred-and-one things you can afford to discard. We play for safety. We try not to play for safety, but it is forced on us. But you need not, you lucky amateurs. Never put safety first—a splendid rule. Leave that to the professional stage ; and maybe the happy day will come that Mr. Bernard Shaw has seen in vision, when there will be free bread and free milk for each and everyone, and we'll not need to worry any more about our living and can all be Amateurs ' ! ! SYBIL THORNDIKE.
poem Occasioned by Nichol Smith's lecture on Edward Young's ' Night Thoughts on Life, Death and Immortality.' If Man, in greedy lust of breath, Yields, grudging, t' inevitable death, His talk of immortality Is clearly mere formality. M. E. R.
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the Playhouse The Anmer Hall Company is a refreshingly cosmopolitan body of players. The queer medley of their accents—Russian, Scots, Oxford. and German—adds to their performances an exotic flavour which is very happy for the plays they have chosen. All their plays—' A Month in the Country ' (Turgenev), Rosalind ' (Barrie), and The Veil of Happiness ' (Georges Clemenceau)—have a decorative quality ; none of the people in them are real, and you see them as from a long way off and watch their doings with a sense of detached luxury. It is amusing to sum three plays up in a few sentences, but it is not quite honest. The Turgenev play fails because the people are not real but the things they do are ; so you find yourself despising people who mean nothing to you, and that is a tedious business. On the whole, though, Romance stalks at liberty through all the plays, and there is joy for the playgoer weary with the realism of Galsworthy and Noel Coward. A Month in the Country ' and Rosalind ' are both the stories of middle-aged women who are in heart still twenty-nines.' Natalia Petrovna resents her middle-age and falls hopelessly in love with her son's tutor, whom Viera, her ward of seventeen, also loves. They both tell him so, and he remains unmoved and more attractive than ever, and finally goes away, leaving Viera with a broken heart to marry a fool of ' settled habits,' and Natalia bereft by her indiscretions of Rakitin, her very loving friend and the only relief from her husband. All your sympathy is Viera's, in so far as you have any, for not one of them—except perhaps the Doctor —has that touch of sublimity that makes Tchekov's men and women, with all their futility, immensely worth while knowing. The lightly-drawn characters have much more personality than the important ones. The Doctor is worthy to stand by any of the dwellers of the house with the Cherry Orchard. And there is the wee, round-faced pudding of a maidservant, and the proposed husband for Viera, so mild that, according to the doctor, he isn't a man at all.' The play is dull because it is so laboriously well-made. One tete-h-tete, ingeniusly planned, follows another until you have a sudden longing to see the stage littered with people all talking together. This, I suppose, is a weakness bred of Tchekov. It is one of the snares of criticism that it is almost impossible to speak of a Russian play without comparing it to The Cherry Orchard.' Rosalind ' is middle-aged, too, but Rosalind—Barrie with the shocking licence of the modern playwright tells you in the stage-directions' is enamoured of her middle-age,' has a kiss for her dowdiness, so to speak. Then she is an actress, and is only middle-aged with one of her many selves ; she has cakes and ale waiting in the Forest of Arden. I think this is one of the most completely satisfying one-act plays in the English language—it is as beautifully rounded as an apple—and there is a surprise in it. Also there is Charles Roche, ' Eton and Oxford and so to bed,' and above all there is Rosalind herself ; delicious Rosalind with her lovely, dangerous ways, her laughter and her tears, and the audience always just round the corner. The Company do this better than anything I have seen them do. They time it perfectly. Anything as frail as this would be ruined by hurrying. "The Veil of Happiness,' acted with Rosalind,' is a translation from the French. It is an allegory, richly decorative, set in the Middle Chinese Empire. Here, too, is almost perfect construction which leaves you shout-
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THE ANMER HALL COMEDY COMPANY AT THE PLAYHOUSE.
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ing inwardly for joy. This is the only one of the three plays that has any beauty of staging. It is the story of a blind Mandarin whose whole happiness depends on his blindness. He has a wife of celestial loveliness ; he has written seventeen thousand two hundred poems extolling the three Dependencies and the four Virtues ; he has a dutiful son and two faithful criends. There are no shadows. He is lulled to sleep by the thought of is happiness and wakes to find that he can see, healed' by some drops riven him by a Barbarian. The fact that he is alone to bear all the joy )f his recovered sight is almost more moving than any of the tragedies %at follow. Before he has realized himself, a man whom he has saved om exile creeps in and rifles his coffer. Then he discovers to his horror at his book of poems has been sent to the High and Holy Emperor, not his own name, but under the pretended authorship of his friend as well. de sees his little son in the room mocking at his blindness. But nothing really matters to him except his wife, Si-Tchun, and then of course he hears her whispering with his best friend and, peeping through a hole in the wall, sees her in his arms. He is bowed in a frenzy of misery and loneliness ; but he cannot bring his mind, so long wrapped in the happy veil of blindness, to face reality, and so he makes himself believe that the Barbarian has charmed him and made him see all things as the Evil One would have him see them. He pours the drops in his eyes which this time will make him blind. The darkness folds him again, and in the exquisite agony of his sightless eyes the terror of the Evil One's reality slips from him. Si-Tchun and her lover creep back into the room, and the curtain falls on them in each others arms and on the ecstasy of the blind man in the restored reality of blindness. The acting of the Anmer Hall Players has a finish not often seen in the hurriedly-rehearsed acting of the Playhouse. Michael Sherbrooke is brilliant. As the Doctor in the Russian play he gives to the whole thing life, and his acting as the blind man in ' The Veil of Happiness ' has in it the rare quality of beauty. Modern acting is usually clever, and often convincing, but beauty in it is rare. Miss Gillian Scaife is lovely to listen to ; she acts almost entirely with her voice and with her rather large mouth, which has a personality of its own. The part of Natalia Petrov= did not really suit her, though she did it pleasantly, but her Rosalind was sheer delight. Christopher Oldham, I imagine, has only lately been hatched out as an actor ; he has bits of O.U.D.S. egg-shell sticking to him, which is happy in ' Rosalind' but wrong and irritating in the Russian play. He is not really good enough for the one young man of the Company. You draw in your breath when Boris Ravensky first comes on to the stage, because the Moscow Art Theatre has a glorious tradition ; but he is a little disappointing, because he has a beautiful face but a very stiff body, and his foreign accent makes him, in every part, seem nothing but the laborious foreigner trying to speak English. But the tight-lipped part of the sensitive, sentimental. Rakitin, suits him rather well. Natalie Moya is much too sophisticated as Viera, but makes Si-Tchun a very lovely evil lady, cooing with sleek satisfaction at her husband's adoring praise and her lover's passion. I hope very much that the Anmer Hall Company will come again to Oxford and bring foreign plays and polished acting for our delight. A. F. F.
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18ouquet I. Dorothy Lawson was painting the portrait of Valentina Mayhew. Dorothy is shown at once by the fact that the chief thing she envied about her sitter was her name. She was possessed by an incurable desire of the unusual, since it might contain romance ; such a name seemed to her as starkly without background as the noble figures in a tragedy, who exist only for the sake of beauty, and whose connexion with any past, or indeed with any ordinary boredom of life, does not exist ; so that they act with all the more force since they are remote, great, intangible as the marching stars of a black night. She envied her her name. She did not envy her ; she did not even notice that, in the deliberate untidiness of the studio, strewn in careful carelessness with coloured cushions, cigarette ends and torn sketches, Valentina's loveliness was definitely neat and compact (so definitely, indeed, that one had the idea that neatness and compactness pursued her, that she could never elude these qualities, though she had much rather have been as artistically ' slovenly as her surroundings). It was such an unusual name. Thus one had no associations with it as one had with the host of Marys ' and Bettys,' to which clung the ever increasing flavour of those whom one had known. It was new, unstained. She did not envy her her hair, lapped, in smooth copper waves, tidily over her ears ; nor her clothes, which, striving to be ' arty,' remained obstinately well cut (for the pleats of the black skirt were exquisitely sharp above the tight green stockings ; the line of the black jumper was undisturbed by the embroidered green dragon who brooded there, guardian of her sharp and tiny breasts). It was her name. Dorothy was romantic and the young art student with equal thoroughness. She wore a long jumper, pinned at the top with a gallant young Fascisti manner and a heavy ' art jewellery' brooch ; and she would have looked better in • a coat and skirt. You'll have to finish by half-past-six, you know,' said Valentina suddenly ; ' I've got to go and dine and do a show with Gerald to-night, and we're feeding at seven.' Dorothy went on painting, glancing for one second at her own hand, holding the brush—a glance characteristic again. They were so comforting, her hands, even when they were, as now, splashed with paint ; they were small, of the texture of milk, and its colour too, delicately shaped and elastically soft. For one second she caressed her right palm, sliding the brush ; she observed how subtly the smooth white skin of her fingers contrasted with the shining rose-coloured shells of nail. They were a beautiful thing of her own. Who's Gerald? ' she asked, after a moment ; I don't think I've heard of him before.' Doro, you can't possibly go on by this light ; why, it's almost dusk ! To-morrow you'll be sorry ! ' I'm only sketching . . . not bothering about colour . . . All right,' as Valentina wriggled impatiently ; wait one moment.' She stepped back and placed her head at the correct angle. Now, if you're tired and simply must tell me about Gerald, come down ; I'd love to hear about him.'
FRITILLARY. Valentina squealed an indignant protest : I don't want to tell you about Gerald . . . But I am rather tired. Please, may I get down? ' ' Of course, you silly ass. Have an orange?' She stooped to pick up, from the carefully planned chaos of the floor, a blue bowl, filled with oranges, great bubbles of gold. No thanks, darling. I'd get so sticky . . . And smelly. May I bag a cigarette instead? ' Do. Sorry I've no ashtray. But everything goes on the floor . . Dorothy said, with an effort after the appropriate' atmosphere : Here, catch. Matches ! No, I'll light it. Sit yourself on the sofa.' Posing, delightfully romantic, on one knee, she struck a light for the cigarette, and lit it with a shadow of gallant deference that pleased her enormously. Valentina, coiled up among a thousand cushions, smoked quite quietly for a little While, admiring how cleverly her little finger knocked off the ash. Then : D'you really want to hear about Gerald? ' she enquired. He's a very ordinary young man. Excessively ordinary.' Who is he?' He's got black hair and eyes. I met him at Tubby Wilson's. You know, that dance where you made such friends with the man who raved about . . . What was it about? Something you're very keen on, but I can't remember what—' The White Monkey.' Yes, that was it. (Can't think how you do it, however !) Did you ever see him again, by the way?' Dorothy's forlorn glance went for comfort to her white small hands lying on her lap, as she sat studiously cross-legged on the floor. No. I asked him to• tea. But I suppose he couldn't come. Anyway, he didn't . . . ' Oh, didn't he? How horribly rude of him. And he looked so nice.' Valentina's voice, irritatingly sympathetic, almost crooned over her. There was a pause . . . Well, I was telling you about something. Oh, I remember : Gerald. I met him at Tubby's dance. He can dance. Sort of perfectly enormous and yet as supple as anything. I've run into• him again at various times• lately—he was at Cleevings last week-end—and now he's asked me to this show. Hope it's good ! ' Lucky pig,' said Dorothy, enviously. Her lovely hands caressed each other for comfort. No one ever took her out. Valentina thought with compassion how much poor old Doro needed cheering up,' and proceeded to do it, effectively but unscrupulously. You needn't talk about " lucky pig " ! Damn it all, you managed to monopolise Stuart Anthony all that evening. At least, except for the minute at the end when he talked to• me.' Oh, did he? I didn't see him. He's rather fun, don't you think? Did he say anything particularly interesting?" He talked about you, darling, if that's what you mean ! ' Valentina went back over the conversation ; she had brought out her usual deliberately quaint' remark about Dorothy's hands; yes, he had agreed with her ; that was all right. She preferred a measure of the truth when possible. He said your hands were the loveliest he'd ever seen. Like white roses . . . as I have always said. I envy you them, Doro ; I don't know —they are so awfully jolly '
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Dorothy gazed at them more caressingly yet. Did he really say that, Val? ' I should say he did. Why, he was awfully impressed about them. When was he to have come to tea?' To-day. I thought you'd go rather well together.' ' Oh, to-day ! I shouldn't get fed up with him, my dear. He's probably not been able to help it. I expect you'll get some flowers or something from him to-morrow morning, and a note to explain . . . ' D'you think so? Or—I think he probably just went and forgot about it, you know.' Dorothy was deliberately ill-treated, and quite truly weary. What a perfect duffer you are ! . . . Hi ! what's the time? Good Lord, twenty to seven. I must simply fly. Good-bye, darling. Tuesday at eleven, n'est-ce pas? Adieu! ' In her theatrical black cloak she posed for a moment at the door, kissed her hand and was gone. Dorothy, reassured a little, began to put things away. She had a tidy soul in combination with a dramatic instinct, and the war between them was tremendous. For instance, she disliked having everything strewn about the floor, and yet she felt that it would be vaguely disloyal to her Art to do otherwise ; this resulted in a compromise. All day cushions, pieces of paper, cigarette ends, oranges and, indeed, anything that struck her as being picturesque and free' without being actually squalid, lay about in pathetically set' piles on the floor (` People must be comfortable,' she would say) ; but at night they all went into their places—the cushions piled on the sofa, the oranges on the table and debris into the waste-paper basket. In the morning cushions and oranges returned to the floor and sketches and cigarette ends accumulated there. This also perhaps was the cause of her clothes. She had abandoned her safe anchorage among coats and blouses and skirts, and embarked on rather ill-cut peasant woven' garments of various colours. She was, as she cleared up the general confusion, decidedly comforted by what Valentina had said. Perhaps he would send her flowers ; no one ever had before ; and she could feel equal to everyone else at last. Looking at herself in the mirror, which shone like water in the green dusk, she thought that she was not really ugly. She could not talk, it was true ; but then—i—she looked tenderly at her hands and stroked them, one with the other, shutting her eyes in order to feel the quintessence of the smooth softness through her finger tips. She slid her palm along her cheek, loving her hands as though they had some separate life, were remote enough from herself to be dear. She loved them . . Waking, she sighed ; even if Stuart Anthony did send her those flowers (on which she now counted almost as on a certainty), it would not compensate for the thought of Valentina and Gerald, enjoying themselves at the play together, while she had only a dull and lonely evening with her aunt to spend. •
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II. When she had come home, however, her aunt, a fat and sentimental woman of about fifty, had also got bored with life. Her husband was dead, she had no children, and when Dorothy had come to London to stay with her while she was at the Slade she had had great expectations of many bright young faces about the house ' (as she put it to herself), and, with odd and cinema-formed ideas of art schools, had foreseen herself corn-
FRITILLARY. forting the remorse of attractively wicked young Bohemians. Unfortunately, however, Dorothy's friends were mostly women who, even when they were attractive, showed no signs of reposing on Mrs. Bonser's motherly bosom in order to repent the sins which everybody knows attend beauty transplanted into an art school. Dorothy herself she had never dared to hope would be wicked enough to be repentant and capable of giving rise to those orgies of sentimentalism that she adored. At the moment, as has been said Mrs. Bonsor was bored with life. She stood on the doorstep and held out both hands to her niece : ' Well, Dorothy ? Got anyone coming in to-night?' (Her invariable greeting, intensifying the bitterness with which, every night, Dorothy said ' No.') ' I thought we'd go to the pictures, dear, if you're not too tired; I've had a dull day.' Dorothy, in a state of mind gently melancholy, and yet a little excited, wished for the pleasure of experiencing facile emotions. Presently they were sitting in the romantic darkness of the cinema, hearing the soft muttering of a couple love-making in the row behind, and eating the caramels without which they felt the pictures ' would be a hollow mockery, unaided by that rich sentimentality which follows indigestion. Lace ruffled, delicate, artificial, yet strong, Valentino was Monsieur Beaucaire ; in the Dresden china, moonlit atmosphere with which the twentieth clothes the eighteenth century, his strength, the slim power of his body, his dark eyes, were the only realities. Stuart Anthony had a profile rather like that, Dorothy thought. She was excited when he made love and ached with envy at the sound of kisses to which the love-making couple had been aroused, and at the little crooning sentences, scarcely meaning anything, that the woman uttered, held strongly in the curve of the man's arm. Later, however, as the film began to come to an end, she was filled with a vicarious satisfaction. She had identified herself with the heroine, enlarged in a passionate embrace, with the woman in the row behind, with Valentina, taken out by Gerald ; Stuart Anthony was going to send her some flowers . . . As the lights went up she pulled her hat down with a gesture she felt was charming ; and all the drama that she had been absorbing during the last hours came out as she made her romantic way towards the door, with small delicate steps and a deliciously provoking smile over her fur collar at her aunt just behind. Mrs. Bonsor, however, was wondering why Dorothy would grin like that. It didn't suit her : it just showed where her tooth had been stopped ; she must remember to tell her—but to-morrow morning; she was too tired, too desirous of remaining in this atmosphere of the dreams, which, she felt sure, existed really . . . if only Dorothy would make more friends at the Slade, to do it to-night. In the morning she would have forgotten ; so Dorothy would remain delightfully conscious of her power to fascinate and would go about (as was her custom for some days after any film or play with a romantic' heroine) enshrined in an atmosphere of self-conscious charm, in which she registered every gesture in her mind with the words of the novels she had last read : as, for instance the girl's white hands fluttered appealingly,' or her lips parted in a whimsical smile,' and so on. The very knowledge that her gestures, her movements, could be described in words (a fact of which she always remained excessively conscious, as I have said, for some few days after a film) seemed to give them a new value, a greater signifi-
to
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cance ; to make her feel important, since, if anyone took the trouble, it would be as possible to write of her as of any other heroine, and in much the same terms.
III. Next morning, accordingly, when the maid awoke her, bringing hot water, she turned luxuriously over in bed (savouring to the full the fact that this adverb might be applied) and lazily, in a nonchalant voice, enquired if the post had come. ' Of course,' she remembered, Stuart Anthony is sending me those flowers.' Yes, miss,' the maid said, in a faintly injured tone. But there wasn't anything for you. I always bring your letters up when I call you, miss.' Dorothy, who had felt so secure in her shrine of charm, had a pang. Was it possible that she had been wrong, and he was merely going to forget, without sending so much as a word of excuse? She would have wept with chagrin had not her injured pride seemed to dry up tears as bitterly as a sour wine draws ' and dries up the mouth. Are you quite sure there isn't one, May ? I mean, couldn't it have slipped in with Aunt Dora's by any chance?' I don't think so, Miss. I'm always very careful. I expect Mrs. Bonsor would give it me if I'd made a mistake. If you like, Miss, I'll slip in and give her her hairbrush that's drying in the bathroom, and that would give her a chance to give it me. But I expect you'll see her at breakfast.' Dorothy acquiesced wearily : yes, Mrs. Bonsor would quite certainly remember to give her the letter if it had come ; she would probably come in her dressing-gown to give it her, with a considerable amount of irritating, elephantine playfulness, since in this house letters addressed in a fresh handwriting were incidents of an interesting importance. Oh, don't bother, thank you, May,' she said bitterly. Aunt Dora will be sure to give it me, if she has got it. I rather expected one this morning, that's all. I expect it'll come by the next post.' She lay quite still in bed, her pride hurt to death, since she had counted on those flowers. Then she thought suddenly of an explanation. Of course he wouldn't send flowers by post. It was only children, staying in the country, who sent flowers by post to their friends—squashed, sweet masses of primroses, or cowslips pressed together in a luxury of deep yellow. Men sent girls flowers from the florists ; the florist's van brought them, or a messenger boy. And she had forgotten : even if he hadn't sent flowers, he had probably written to the studio address. She half persuaded herself that he did not even know where she lived, that he only knew the studio. Encouraged thus, she sat up, clasped her hands round her knees in their flame-coloured pyjamas, and stayed thus for a minute, relishing the reflection of herself in the mirror at the end of the long room, that showed remotely a black mop of hair half hiding the face in its night-tousled mass of bobbed ends, the bright pyjamas and her vivid blue quilt. Secure once more in her shrine of charm, she smiled, jumped from bed and went to have a bath. It was an off-day to-day : she could go straight to the studio, to arrange' it as she wished, to see if she liked the work she had done yesterday on Valentina's portrait, to clear it up a bit ; she would be glad of an off-day, it had been getting into confusion for a long time; she had
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FRITILLARY. lost her pet cigarette holder, and an ancient and adored piece of indiarubber for which she had that great affection and pity which is conceived for an inanimate thing used for many years. Yes, she must find it ; on sentimental occasions the pathos of its fate, cold and lonely in a heap of draperies, or forsaken perhaps with her old sketches, had moved her almost to tears. Poor, desolate little piece of rubber ! Yes, she was glad it was an off-day. In the bus she was glad ; there those flowers would lie, awaiting her ; should she write and thank him for them or leave it? Better leave it, perhaps. Yet a faint, absurd fear of their not being there made her walk more slowly to the studio. Nothing on the doorstep ; perhaps it was too early for them to have arrived yet ; looking at her watch, she saw that it was about a quarter past ten. Absurdly early ; but there might, of course, be a letter inside. She inserted her latch key with the subtle pleasure the action of fitting it carefully into the keyhole always gave her, and opened the door. Everything smelt faintly of paint ; there was no letter on the doormat. She was bitterly disappointed But it would have been absurd to send a letter and flowers separately ; they would probably come, together, about noon. Twelve o'clock was the earliest time at which they could possible arrive. Nevertheless, whenever a motor went by, she looked up with a start from her entirely futile rummagings in the chest, to listen for the stab at her door bell. Twelve struck : but of course twelve was the earliest, surely, that it could possibly have happened. She had not set it as a boundary, but as a beginning, to her hopes. Nevertheless she was sitting despondently on the floor, having given up the search for the indiarubber, and, as far as her chagrin would let her, polishing her nails in a preoccupied and desolate way, when the bell did ring, at a quarter to one. She leapt to her feet, and was answering the door so quickly that the messenger boy started. Miss Dorothy Lawson? ' Yes.' Flowers for you, miss.' He lifted up an enormous bunch of white roses and put them into her arms. But wait a moment. Who sent these?' Can't say, miss—didn't give his name. Tall young gentleman with black hair did come into the office.' ' Oh ; thanks so much ! ' She shut the door gently, with a certain dignity that was suddenly come to her ; and moved quietly and reverently along the passage to the studio, holding the roses. The white smoothness of her hands was scratched by thorns ; she exulted in it. Coming in, she sat down and looked for a note ; but there was none. Then she put them in a great black vase before the mirror, in a corner of the green walls that was always faintly shadowed. The roses themselves glimmered, silver realities, in the green twilight ; lovelier still trembled their reflections caught in the strange enchantment of mirrors, only less than that of water, casting a spell over the things gathered in one small crystal space, so that they seem more exquisite than their own reality, like echoes of music. She almost adored the roses for a time ; they had justified her of life at last, lovely things, letter and present in one. Had he not said that ,
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white roses were like her hands? A clock struck, presently, in the distance ; quarter past one. The strokes awakened her from a fantastic dream of gardens remote and formal ; eighteenth century gardens warm with roses ; of the notes of violins, poising and balancing, tracing subtle, delicate, antique airs ; and of herself, securer still of her shrine of charm, pacing slow minuets to a forgotten tune ; of the kissing of her hands, like white roses A quarter past one. She would keep luncheon waiting ; but she would never tell her aunt about the flowers. Reluctantly she left them ; closing her eyes, on top of the bus, that she might retain the sight of them there, as the echo of a song runs in one's ears. Then she opened them once more, to take off her glove and look, almost in awe, at the hard crimson scratch that ran diagonally across her hand. At luncheon : ' You're very silent, Dorothy dear,' her aunt said plaintively. ' Don't you feel well ? I shouldn't go back to that nasty cold studio this afternoon, if I were you.' How blind people were ! Her vanity was feeling well for the first time in its life, and she, silently excited, could scarcely eat. Of course she must go back to the studio : at any rate to see if the roses had not faded into sea foam, like elfin treasure. ' I feel very well, thank you, Aunt Dora. I think I must go back ; there are some drawings I simply must look to, if you don't mind.' On the bus again she thought, lingeringly satisfied in mind, of the flowers awaiting her, shining argent in the green dusk, faintly shadowed, remote enough to be exquisite. And as she got off she walked towards the studio as slowly as in the morning—this time not from fear, but in order to savour more fully the exquisite delight to come. She walked along the street lazily, and up to the door, and let herself in. A note was lying on the mat : a delicious pang of expectation hurt her as she stooped to pick it up. Stuart had written to her ; perhaps he was coming to see her. And yet—she knew the writing . . . delicate, whimsical and small, it decorated the green envelope with a tracery of copper ink. Valentina had written to her. Faintly disappointed, she took it into the studio, to refresh her eyes by looking at the flowers before she read it. The whole untidy room smelled of them ; they lit up the green, mirrored corner with white realities and images ; and a few petals had fallen to shew exquisite forms on the dark floor. How lovely they were She opened the letter, after a long gazing at them, like drinking water to her conceit, and began to read : MY DARLING DORO, I am most fearfully thrilled : Gerald and I are engaged. I'd have sent this note before, with the roses, but I'm too happy to remember anything. White roses, like your hands, darling. I hope you liked them. Heaps and heaps of love, VALENTINA. ' Dorothy looked at the flowers ; she looked at her hands. Her eye fell on the hard red scratch a thorn had given : she kissed it pitifully, and then fell into a passion of tears. ' My hands . . . oh, my poor darling, beautiful hands that I love. . . R. 0. HAYNES.
FRITILLARY.
13
flboon=ltnab The moon upon a pointing spire, Wet moonlight on a silver birch, Keen moonlight, shaking streams to fire0 Beauty-seekers, end your search ! Now the high sun may keep his gold. Small glamour does his daylight hold For us who know the fragile gates Where Moon, the lonely lover, waits. A.C.
'he Zwo :brothers (With sincere apologies to J. Stephens.) In all Connacht there was not the equal of Shemus Mac Cann, unless it might be his brother Ochall. He was tall and straight as a poplar, and his beauty was as glorious as the wild cherry in spring : his judgements were so full of wisdom that the sages, not only from his own kingdom but from others also, came to him for instruction ; and he could condemn a man to death in such terms that the sentence appeared to all those around him, and to the man himself, a gracious favour : he could ride a horse with the strength and swiftness of the wind, and with an arrow he could split in two a single grass swaying in the moonlight. And all this his brother Ochall could do also. And because of this a cloud rested always on the brow of Shemus Mac Cann, like a shadow thrown across a sunny wall, and always he strode up and down within his silent palace seeking in vain a way to make himself greater than his brother. And this his brother Ochall did also. And indeed the brothers each entertained so furious and rancourous a hatred for each other that their palaces stood silent with fear and sorrow, no longer glittering with arms and fair banners nor sounding with the feasting and laughter of guests, and their banqueting halls stared desolate as an empty hearth. A messenger arrived at the palace of Shemus Mac Cann, and under his arm he carried a black puppy. And when he came before the King he presented the whimpering, wet-nosed creature to him and said : Behold, Oh Treasure of the Earth, Midir, Lord of the Shi of Bri Leith, sends this gift to thee as a tribute to thy power and beauty and wisdom.' And the King received the gift into his hands gingerly, but he replied in gracious terms to the messenger, bidding him bear thanks and rich gifts in return : for he dared not offend the mighty Lord of the Shi. But when the messenger had gone, he viewed the black puppy with distaste as it valiantly tried to clamber up the two steps of his throne. Then the King's heart was secretly moved by the clumsy impotence of the puppy, and, rising, he said : ' The Queen has taken a fancy to the young dog and desires to have it for her own : see therefore that it be brought up in the Royal apartments, and kept apart from the other dogs.' This he said shamefacedly, for it is the habit of men to attribute their inconsistencies to their wives.
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And at the same time another messenger presented himself at the palace of the brother of Shemus Mac Cann, and under his arm he carried a black puppy exactly the same as that other, for it was born in the selfsame hour. And he gave it into the hands of Ochall as a gift from Midir, the mighty Lord of the Shi ; and Ochall gave it into the care of his Lord Chamberlain, saying that the Queen desired to have it for her own, and that it was to be brought up with special care apart from the other dogs. And the puppies grew tall and strong and shining black, with straight shoulders and feet as fastidiously dainty as an antelope's : and there was no other hound in either kingdom who could match them in speed or strength or intelligence. Shemus Mac Cann forgot that his dog ostensibly owed its preservation to the Queen, and he openly cherished it above everything else in his kingdom ; partly because he admired strength and wisdom and beauty, and the black dog excelled in these three, and partly because he reflected happily that at last he had stolen a march upon his brother. And the palace rejoiced again, like spring after winter ; again the banqueting hall was made merry with feasting, and the woods resounded with the shrill note of the hunting-horn and the tense, excited voice of hounds, for the .King welcomed every opportunity of displaying the wonder of his marvellous dog. And all this Ochall did also. And inadvertently it came to the ears of Shemus Mac Cann that his brother had revived the custom of feasts and banquets in his palace also, and that this was because he possessed a dog which appeared to enjoy exactly the same reputation as his own dog. But this raised no anger in his heart, for he knew that his was of the Shi and could not be equalled by any other dog on earth. So he sent a jovial message to Ochall, inviting him to arrange a contest between the two. And Ochall agreed to do this, for he knew that his was of the Shi and could not be equalled by any other dog on earth. And on the day of the contest Shemus Mac Cann led his dog to the field by a golden chain fastened to a golden collar : and he met Ochall there, leading his dog also. And a murmur of astonishment rose from the assembled companies of people, for it was seen that the dogs were twin creatures and no one could tell wherein there was a hair's difference between the two. Then, shadow of a misgiving entered Shemus Mac Cann's heart for a moment, but he dismissed it when he remembered that his dog belonged to the Shi. And they both unloosed the collars from the necks of their dogs, and stood back. The two black dogs flew instantly at each other's throats, and nothing else could be realised for some time by the eagerly watching people but a whirling, snarling, mass of dust and flying fur and snapping teeth. But soon it became evident that one of the dogs was failing in strength : and soon, that one was dead, and that the other was standing over him, with heaving sides, and victorious, panting jaws. And Shemus Mac Cann felt his heart leap with joy, for he recognised his own dog to be the conqueror : and the heart of Ochall also rose, for he knew instinctively that it was his own dog who stood alive. So each hastened to the other with cheerful and triumphant satisfaction, and protested expressions of sorrow and condolence. And when each realised the mistake the other was making, he offered willingly to prove his possession. Shemus Mac Cann said : Will you not
FRITILLARY.
is
be convinced, my darling, if the black dog comes to me when he is called?' and he called softly : Come here, my One Treasure.' And the black dog trotted up to him obediently and looked up at him with intelligent eyes. Ochall was astonished at this, and he said : I cannot be convinced otherwise when I know I am right. Will you be convinced, my lamb, if the black dog comes to me when he is called? and he called tenderly : Come here, my Heart of the World.' And the black dog trotted up to him obediently and looked up at him with intelligent eyes. But both the kings remained unconvinced by these tests, for each knew in his heart that the black dog was his, and therefore his heart warmed towards his brother with a pleasant feeling of superiority : and a feeling of superiority such as this makes hatred impossible. So they continued to feast and entertain each other with affection. And, afterwards, the black dog took no notice of either of them : for he was a good dog and belonged to the Shi.
from a Sonnet Sequence ' Where do you go, you flight of singing stars, You blessed ones, you vague unnumbered ghosts? I see you dimly through the prison bars Of trouble shadowed sleep. You fleeting hosts Of strange familiar wraiths, where do you go?' We passed the dim gates of the great twilight, We tread the shining road you used to know Over the river of dreams, the hills of night, Into the strange country you have seen, The goblin woods, the darkling haunted shore, The rusting glens, the heights where you have been ; But you will know the enchanted hills no more, The milk white thorn bath wrought this grief in thee That thou shalt find no more the strange country.' MARGARET LANE.
'Rotes on an Exhibition of Paintings by Sohn illbribge at 117 Ugh Street After a first cursory glance at this pleasant exhibition there was a feeling that the entire affair might be dismissed as clever ' and .‘ promising.' It seemed on the whole to be the efficient work of a young man who knew how to handle paint and who was experimenting in influences' to fill up the time of growing old enough to develop a style of his own. There was a general reminiscence of the Leicester Galleries for the last six years, even a taint of Mr. Tonks, who seems to be all-pervading, since I am told that Mr. Aldridge has never been near the Slade. Altogether it seemed an amusing show that pleased and satisfied the eye, though in no particularly original way, since it was as yet imitative, as the work of a young man must necessarily be until he knows as much of the practice as of the theories of art, and until he has enough confidence in himself to desert his
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admirations—admirations which, in the case of Mr. Aldridge, are very definitely marked. Among those which help to give the faintly French' impression I have mentioned are the following. The most ambitious of the oil paintings, Shotover ' (z1), is certainly arresting and sufficiently ' clever,' but does not attain its aim as well as the less pretentious ' Allotments ' (i8), the presentation of whose country sordidness is satisfying because it is so complete. ' Magnolia' (21) again is ambitious, and, I think, fulfils its aim ; it is a restfully secure piece of painting, which, though not so excessively experimental as some of the others, yet is very delicious to look at. One feels also that it would successfully pass the supreme test of ' being lived with.' This is not because it lacks the strength of its companions, but because the existence of that strength is taken for granted, used only as an accessory to the creation of a serene beauty : it is not violently projected at the onlooker as an end in itself, a fault from which some of the rest suffer in common with such of their ' influences' as Van Gogh. There was also one sentimental, romantic, commonplace picture of a lighted square at night : one enjoyed it shamefastly, like sweet champagne, because one felt it was so ' young' to like its adorable melodrama. This was a thing alone. On the whole all this early imitative stuff of Mr. Aldridge's is agreeable, possessing that quality of rhythm which is so delightfully a part of modern painting : the technique is able, though sometimes overstressed ; and the show pleases the eye and the mind sufficiently to make one desire a second visit. However, although Mr. Aldridge's talent here takes a sufficiently decorative and charming form, one feels that his display of versatility is rather a tour de force. He does it a little to show that he can do it. But, having looked at the pictures on the walls, I was shown a pile of water colours, which I looked through at first only with that mild interest aroused by the average efficient water colour, until I found in what, I think, Mr. Aldridge is really original, perhaps because he is most deeply interested. There were three pictures in which he showed real power : they were preeminently matter rather than manner : that is, he seemed to have been pre-occupied with the truth of the presentation rather than with the emphasis of a particular style, with the result that in these three he has really done an individual thing which shows signs of his natural bent and of very great talent in it. They are all three portrait studies, not so much accentuated as to be caricatures, but with a stimulant malice that makes them live. The best is perhaps number 28, the chalk study of the head of an old man : it is definitely good : there is no such qualifying phrase as ' considering his age,' considering he has to do an undergraduate's work as well' ; it would be good whoever he was. The same applies in a lesser degree to the portrait study of himself (43) and to the other portrait study (45)• These are the best things in the show, and curiously mature. Mr. Aldridge can imitate Paul Nash, and Cezanne and Gauguin ably and prettily ; but when he has shown that he can do the portrait type of work so much less self-consciously and so much more individually, it seems a pity that he has devoted so large a portion of his time to imitation and so little to creation. However, as Stevenson found, imitation is a training in restraint of the young wildness of originality into impersonal beauty. May Mr. Aldridge make the same discovery ; perhaps he has already done so.
FRITILLARY.
it7
'Flews in 13rief from Women's Colleges On June 1st, at two in the afternoon, all Somerville was present at the Sheldonian for the ceremony in which Mis s Penrose received the degree of D.C.L. That evening the members of the Council dined at Somerville. Mr. Craig, Chairman of the Council, introduced the speakers. The Right Hon. H. A. L. Fisher, Warden of New College, proposed the toast of Miss Penrose and Miss Hadow seconded it. Miss Penrose then spoke, and was enthusiastically received. The Beaufort Society of Lady Margaret Hall is to debate with the Twenty Club of New College. The History Society of St. Hugh's held and very much enjoyed an open meeting on June loth, at which Miss Perham spoke on ' The Making of Modern Egypt.' The Second Year at Lady Margaret Hall is performing a play at the end of term, and the First Year of St. Hugh's gave an entertainment on June 8th. On June 4th Professor S. Radhakrishnan, of Calcutta University, spoke in Somerville J.C.R. on Hinduism. St. Hugh's has elected Miss Huxley as President and Miss Lingar as Vice-President of the J.C.R. for 1926-7.
Oxforb anb Cambribge Ullonten's lawn tennis Match The Inter-Varsity match was played this year on Fenner's ground, Cambridge, on May 28th and 29th. The Oxford team was as follows :-st couple, R. Footman (S.C.) (capt.) and D. Price (O.H.S.); 2nd couple, A. Brunyate (S.H.C.) and M. Brunyate (L.M.H.); 3rd couple, E. Sharp (S.C.) and E. Oldfield (S.C.). Singles : 1st string, R. Footman ; 2nd string, D. Price ; 3rd string, M. Brunyate ; 4th string, E. Oldfield. The Oxford team never realized until Friday afternoon the advantage they had been accustomed to have in playing on their own ground and allowing their opponents to travel to Oxford. This did not lose them the match, or probably any single event. But it made everything hard, though delightful work. The Oxford ist couple was very good ; the Cambridge ist couple painfully good. A round of doubles was played first, Oxford 1st and 3rd couples winning easily against Cambridge 2nd and 3rd, while Cambridge st couple beat Oxford 2nd in two sets. In the next round the two captains met in a thrilling single. Miss Holden played well, and in a very short time the score stood at 6-3 in her favour. In the second set, although the final score was the same, the game was a far more even one. The only other match of any interest that afternoon was a single between Miss Brunyate and Miss Brown. It was the final match of the afternoon, the score then standing at four matches all. In the final set Miss Brown
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FRITILLARY.
was leading 4-2, when Miss Brunyate made a brilliant recovery, winning the match 6-4 and giving Oxford the lead for the day. The Oxford team put up at Ye Old Castel Hotel, and were entertained by the Cambridge team at a dinner there that night. On Saturday the most important event in the first round was the match between the two first couples, Miss Holden and Miss Pickard winning in two straight sets. In the next round Miss Oldfield met the Cambridge 3rd string in a very even and well-contested game. The first set fell to her at 14-12, after which both players were so exhausted that the second was a foregone conclusion. The Oxford VI has been very lucky in having Miss Footman in their first couple ever since she started her University career. She played a beautiful game this year, and was rewarded for all her hard work by returning in triumph with the cup (the owl comes from Malvern later), Oxford having won by 12 matches to 7.
aaurt. rowing club President : H. G.
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