The Fritillary, 9 November 1929

FRITILLARY November 9,1929

SIXPENCE

By Appointment to H.M. King George V and H.R.H. Prince of Wales.

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Editor,: .• E. J. SOL/VEIL (Somerville).

Treasurer : J. H. M. Mumim: (Lady Margaret Hall).

Committee : PHYLLIS SINGLETON (St. Hugh's).

E. M. CRAWFORD (Somerville).

M. SAUMAREZ SMITH (Lady Margaret Hall).

MONICA PEREIRA (St.

Hilda's).

FRITILLARY Magazine of the Oxford Women's Colleges Vol. XXXVI] NOVEMBER 9, 1929

[No. 2

CONTENTS. PAGE. Editorial 1 Oxford Poetry, 1929, by Divers Hands 2 The Caserne of Kings, H.M. 5 Malice against the Moon, M.C. 8 Transience, M. S. S. 8 An Expedient, E. J. Scovell 9 A Broadcast from Covent Garden, Grenda Green 22 Roses, W. L. Mantle 22 Fantasticheria, M.K.B. 23 Three's None, M.S.S. 25 On looking at Vermeer's Portrait of a Young Girl, Freda M. Houlston 27 Logic Lecture, E.C.M. 28 Freshers' Guide to Politics, E.C.M. 28 Frescoes at Lady Margaret Hall 29 Music Notes, R.D.S. 29 Playhouse Rev iew 3o My Soul's Chin recedes 31 Book Reviews 32

Editorial N a city like Oxford, where the temperature is designed to promote lassitude, and even the air is a soporific, it takes a very strong stimulant indeed to excite anyone to any violent action. The Staff of Fritillary were engaged upon thinking this, when ' Oxford Poetry, 1929,' like oxygen liberated among us, produced an almost unbelievable excitement and criminal energy. The first effect was the incontinent sacking of the bureaux and strong-boxes of all Oxford poets : this we conveniently conducted under the disguise of effigies of Guy Fawkes, for providentially it was November the Fifth. It would be impossible to publish all we found of first drafts, abortive ballads,

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passions not run into any practicable mould ; in a word, all the buttermilk of ' Oxford Poetry, 1929.' But we shall publish a selection, not of the best, but of the most representative poems ; and if our readers want more, let them go to the fountain-heads.

Oxford Poetry, 1929 Part II

BY DIVERS HANDS. DEDICATED NEITHER TO LOUIS, NOR TO STEPHEN. DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO SCHOOLS. IT.

my muse is on the streets and gets clichés, like stubs of cigarettes.

THAT. my muse is frail, and wastes her age in matrimonial vassalage.

IT. mine's parvenue, and likes to be the latest in immodesty.

THAT. mine only kriows, to store her rhyme the old acceptances of time.

IT. yours is a matron, mine's a strumpet.

THAT. mine blows a whistle, yours blows a trumpet.

A.C.M. EPIGRAM ON EPIGRAM. The Words, with meretricious grace, Fall neatly to the perfect place, With no superfluous intervening— Why, dammit, I forget the Meaning.

E.M.C.

MENTAL TUMOURS. (Extract from The Pencil-Sharpener.)

The curling black festoonings Of a nocturnally excited pen Drain all the vivid dark from night.

The ruthless fingers Push on over paper ; and An odious ill-formed trail Inelegantly lingers.

H. C. H.

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ADDRESS FROM MY EDITORIAL CO-HIGH-CHAIR TO STEPHEN SPENDER THE POET. Muttering the manuscripts tumble upon us, Let's make the best of the worst, I think I mean, Since I grant you we are here.

(Throw the shuttle under and over.

Syllables breed with astonishing rapidity.

Why do they grow so? Impossible to know.)

There may be quite a lot to be said For a hot-water bottle in a deep, snug grave ; But who's to have the bother of making the bed?

Well, Mr. Spender, like any more of it?

For my part I shall leave it at that.

Not but what I couldn't, if I gave my mind to it, Write you a compendious history of the world in Catullan hendecasyllables.

F.L.McN.

MEZZOTINT. e-aw e-aw e-aw sing the poets e-aw e-aw e-aw inconsciently their voice rings enter these withered wilds where scarcely a thought stirs life-whelmed, in pools eyedeep to keep their brains indolent and immobile, poets brood or lazily raise listlessly swish and droop their ears go gravely upon broad feet broader than space utter your cries tut,tut you are tinned flesh dead cod look out through your eyes.

Poe poets e-aw e-aw droves to crowd too resolute through Fame's green laurel-grove.

C. P.

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POEM FOR YOUNG POETS. The Great thing is to end every line with the smallest of words that you can procure till the line is tapered to a point much finer than a needle's tip or the fine antennae of a moth, floating slowly out into the darkness and so no more of it only I don't know how to.

E.R.

THE ABERRATION. These verses from their source In strange confusion make a start And flow with dubious art On their uncomfortable course.

They are hidden far from sense Like vitamins in malt, or shredded Portions of pear, embedded Under the pie-crust's eminence.

E.J.S.

(A REJECTED PREFACE TO OXFORD, POETRY.) Going along the road Gives legs, eyes, exercise ; Like importunities Of beggars, life plucks sight.

But having been out of doors, Or even being out, less Fills eyes with tearlessness Than reading book of ours.

S.H.S.

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The Caserne of the Kings Tamburlaine's ensigns swooned upon the enervating air of noon, and the red motionless curtains were dyed to a purple languor in the deep blue shadows of the portico. Not even a temararious lizard crossed the whitehot marble of the courtyard. The tall cyprus-trees around the fish-pond could give no shade because of the sun's merciless perpendicular, and each goldfish had anchored in the thin shadow of a water-lily leaf.

But this infernal temperature of mid-day seemed not at all to incommode the King of Fez, who sat beside the fish-pond in the shadow of an enormous blue umbrella. He required his umbrellas large — out-size, in fact—for he found considerable discomfort in compressing his person into the limited circle of shade cast by an ordinary-sized one. He never deprecated his bulk nor endeavoured to• tone down his contours, but dressed himself proudly in reds and yellows, so that at present he was hardly distinguishable from the prismatic pile of cushions upon which he sat, and the whole group looked like some oiled still-life of all the luscious fruits of Africa piled up in an obese and glowing pyramind. At the flank of this pyramid, upon a modest cushion, crouched the King of Morocco, staring with sombre abstraction at a water-lily bud. ' Twenty-six I had,' the King of Fez was saying, ' and I had just bought my twenty-seventh, a red-haired wild cat from beyond Caucasus, when that Devil got me. And now only the Prophet knows what has become of them.'

The King of Morocco sighed deeply.

Ah, yes,' said the King of Soria, who had come slowly across the courtyard and heard Fez's last remark, ' he must have realized the cruelty of confining us here totally without feminine society. And I feel myself becoming coarser daily in this unalleviated atmosphere.'

He settled himself delictaely beneath his umbrella, stroking his peagreen trousers with pearl-grey, delicately ringed hands. He fanned himself a little with his lemon-yellow straw hat. ' May the curse of sand and shingles afflict him in his middle and his old age,' said the King of Morocco softly ; ' may he burn sleeping and waking through this life, and after life in hell.' ' Amen,' said the King of Arabia, flinging himself down on a rug at the edge of the pond with a silver scintillation of bracelets.

One by one, as the noon declined, the Kings drew back their damsonred curtains and crossed the courtyard. The Soldan of Egypt, in freshlyplaited linen, approached the fish-pond with the traditional contortion of his house. From the opposite side came the King of Trebizond, his savage auburn hair, missing the familiar bondage of a crown, falling about his ears in angry curls. After him followed the Kings of Angier and Amasia

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in hot theological controversy upon the relevance of back-scratchers in Paradise. The King of Fez passed round his Turkish Delight, and conversation became general.

I've just remembered another thing he did,' said Trebizond, angrily liberating his teeth. I had a mare, 0 Kings, a filly of Paradise, shod with gold and adamant, and he gave her to a dairymaid to fetch his mother's butter-milk.' ' What would you do,' asked the Soldan, ' if he were to be suddenly assassinated and we released?'

I should instantly go home and consult my Koran,' said the King of Amasia.

I should squash a grape,' said Soria, irrelevantly.

And I,' said the King of Arabia with irritation, should beat you out of your neglected but notwithstanding useful kingdom like a goose before a butcher.' ' Nonsense, you silly old camel ; you haven't even . . .' began Soria, and, stopped with his bouganvillia mouth open at an unladylike angle and an expression of unseemly astonishment upon his pearl-grey face. Trebizond turned to follow the stare.

The great iron-grilled gates had opened and shut with a clang, and inside them stood a slim young man holding .a zither. He was all pale gold—his short curls, his lovely limbs, his insignificant silk tunic.

It is a divinity,' said the King of Trebizond.

It is Apollo,' said the Soldan, who had had some classical education.

No,' said Fez ; it is Lucifer.'

The boy crossed the courtyard, and sitting upon the rim of the pond, he played upon his zither : and the silver tears ran down his cheeks.

Later, sitting beside Fez upon his ample bosomed cushions, he told them his name was Allamy ; he was a captive prince from beyond the yellow sea, sent by the tyrant to share their captivity. Then, leaning confidingly up the King of Fez's swelling chest, he brought his pale lips to brush the king's ear.

But for your ear alone, 0 King,' Allamy murmured, is the full tale of my wrongs. For you alone will protect me. When they find out I shall be dishonoured unless you are my friend. For know, Great King—alas ! how can I say it?—I am—with tears I tell it—I am a woman.'

The King of Fez trembled.

Ah, my pigeon,' he whispered, laying a majestic arm round Allamy's shoulders, fear not ; I am your friend, your Lord and King.' ,

Striding down the empty portico in the fragrant afternoon, the King of Trebizond was startled by the sudden appearance of Allamy from behind a curtain.

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FRITILLARY

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. Sire,' said Allamy, in muffled tones of passion, do you hate your enemy? ' More than I love my God,' answered the King.

Ah, you are a gentle man. He has wronged me beyond thought. I will tell you my secret. I am a woman, and my honour is gone should all these kings find out. But you will protect me, Lord King, will you not?'

Trebizond swore a great oath. He clasped his brazing collar of sapphires around Allamy's neck. ' Who touches you dies,' he said, and spat upon his dagger.

It was dusk when Allamy and Amasia stopped to whisper behind a cyprus tree.

But, dear girl, I love you, and the Prophet will protect you.'

Alas,' sighed Allamy, the Prophet is in Paradise, while Trebizond is here.'

Fear not, then,' said Amasia ; I would die for your sake.'

That night, in their fantastic uniform of ivory collars and heavy green kilt, the two guards of the Caserne squatted outside the grilled door roasting locusts over a small brazier. They were talking a little, and their thick lips moved gravely, gently in the luxurious intricacies of speech. They were silent all day, but at night they permitted themselves to exchange ideas.

The God-begotten is weary of the complaining kings,' said one.

Indeed, he has exhibited them many times to his relations. Their usefulness has departed,' said the other.

He would desire to be rid of them without scandal.'

Then it seems strange that he should send them such pleasant loveliness as that gold boy.'

The great Lord has always his reasons. Pass the locusts.'

They crunched the locusts gravely, gently, while a clear cool voice rose in the courtyard. Allamy was singing to the zither.

Set not your heart on apricots, Which the sun will betray ; Fair rings will fall into the stream, And pale topazes gleam Where the amphibious lily rots In the dark water-way.

Your lovely swans an hour will sing And suddenly be dead ; And though you love immoderately, Leopards, they perish presently.

Set not your heart on anything— Set it on mine instead.

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The aspiring sun had not yet topped the tall houses of the town when, his horse's hoofs ringing a carillon in the narrow street, Tamburlaine rode up like a prancing flame, scattering the pale green morning shadows. The guards prostrated themselves.

Rise,' said Tamburlaine. ' What happens in the Caserne? ' Lord-of-life-and-death,' said the first guard, someone has stabbed the King of Fez.' He was difficult to stab, I should think,' interjected the second. ' The King of Amasia cast himself down from the roof last night.'

His brains appear fewer than usual,' added the second guard.

And the King of Soria has the appearance of being about to drown himself very presently in the fish-pond.'

Tamburlaine smiled, and his smile was like the flashing of a thousand waterfalls on the side of a gloomy mountain.

When they have all made an end of one another,' he said, inter the bodies with decency. You may have their jewels. And then send the boy Allamy to me. He shall have a vice-regency for this.'

And spurring his horse, Tamburlaine rode off down the narrow street like a blazing comet.

H. M.

Malice against the Moon Slow moon, Fantastic, Coldly decadent ; Type of eternal evil Endlessly Leering upon the world And leperously Chilling to whiteness The warm blood of life ; Transmuting colour Into nothingness, And light To shadow, Evil mindedly.

M.P.

Transience This garden once was playground for a child.

Treasures of sticks and stones, her secret store She'd hide among the tree-roots, and implore That dandelions and daisies might grow wild.

FRITILLARY Her play-time's over. And where is she fled?

Since now the garden-trees no longer keep Her little lovely treasures, and the deep Lily-pond mirrors not her shining head. . . .

Can you not tell, you who sit motionless, Knowing yourself a woman now, and fair?

The child is gone, and you are witness where—, Your beauty is the grave of her lost loveliness.

M.S.S.

An Expedient I. The first time George Birch went to stay with his cousin, who was an innkeeper in the south of Westmorland, he was thirteen years old. The little girls, his cousin's children, were younger than he ; Agnes was eleven and Cassie only eight ; but Agnes was more than a match for him. She was a strong, lively child, and taller than George, and could climb the fells better than he, and play and quarrel with him all day without getting tired.

Yet he liked Cassie better : this was perhaps because she never contradicted what he said, but followed him about and always looked at him and smiled when he spoke to her, and in all her silent ways seemed to express an unquestioning devotion. It was August, but even in holiday time the children did not often wander far over their fell. But George, because he was greedy of new sights, and Agnes, because she had unbounded energy, used to climb in their paddling far up the streams, and scramble over rocks and bracken to the first cairn, and run down again on the other side to where the cart-track cut its way over the high broken stretches of the fell. And Cassie, for her own reasons, came with them or behind them, but generally with them, because George was kind and waited for her ; and Agnes even was kind really, however much she laughed at her and scolded her for being too slow.

It happened that one day, as they sat and ate their picnic sandwiches on the grass by a stream, Agnes asked George ' What are you going to be, George, when you grow up?' (For he was still at a secondary school.) ' I'm going to be an artist,' said George.

Oh, but you have to be awfully good at drawing for that,' said Agnes.

She looked at him critically. ' Are you good at drawing?''

Yes,' said George, sulkily, because it was such a silly question. ' Conceited ! ' said Agnes. I don't believe you are. You have to be good at painting, too.'

Aren't I?' cried George, jumping up. I'll show you.' And when they got home and had found a pencil and piece of paper, he said, I'm going to draw Cassie.'

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Draw me,' said Agnes.

I shall draw Cassie, because she's prettiest.'

Well, you are a gentleman ! ' said Agnes, tossing up her chin ; but she did not really mind much, because she knew it was not true, and that George had only said it to annoy her.

George placed Cassie in a desirable light, and began, with quick strokes, to indicate her head and the slope of her face. When Agnes came to look he covered the sheet with his hand, and said, You shan't see till it's done.'

He was silent the rest of the time while he drew, and when he had finished he had forgotten that he was quarrelling with Agnes, and called to her gently to come and look. But she had been bored and gone out of the room. Cassie came and looked at the drawing, and laughed with pleasure.

When he said, Well, Cassie, do you think it is like you?' she went into the parlour of the inn, where there was a mirror above the mantelpiece, and, standing on the bar of a chair, turned her head so that it appeared in the three-quarter position in which he had drawn her (but the eyes, of course, were different), and came back and said, Yes, I do.' And do you like it?' She nodded. Presently she said, I think you're awfully clever.'

She was right : for it would not have been easy to draw merely a recognizable likeness of a face so round and unformed as Cassie's ; but he had caught not only the shape of her face and head and features, but also the peculiarly serious and intelligent expression which belonged to her eyes and mouth ; and if he had a little over-emphasized what signs of bone and muscle there were, a little squared and sharpened the edges of the shadows and heightened their contrast with the lights, so that the face became stronger and older, and it seemed a prophetic portrait, that, many people would say, was a fault rare in so young a draughtsman, and a fault of great promise ; and some people would not call it a fault at all.

When Agnes came in and looked at the drawing she said, ' Well, if that's how you draw, I'm glad you didn't draw me.' But she had got it ready to say before she looked, and it did not come out very convincingly because she was, in fact, startled and impressed by the skill of the drawing. But she was in a disagreeable mood and would not give in, so she said, Cassie can draw better. Show him some of your drawings, Cassie.

Show him the one you did of cuckoo-flowers. That's a painting,' she said to George. I bet you can't paint.'

I can paint ; but you wouldn't know,' said George.

When he looked at Cassie's faint and careful little painting, with its signs of rubbing out, he felt inclined, because he was angry with Agnes, to say what a washy thing he thought it ; but, finding Cassie's eyes fixed eagerly on him, he was magnanimous enough to refrain. It's jolly fine,' he said, smiling at her kindly. You'd never need to ask what those were.'

You see,' said Agnes, she's not so soft as you'd think, She's sharp,

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II

really. She doesn't miss much,' Then, emulating his generosity, But of course,' she said, I think yours is best really, I mean, it's more like a real artist's drawing. We must show it to Dad.' Agnes and Cassie were big schoolgirls, and George was a young man of eighteen, by the time he came to stay with them again. Cassie was still nearly as quiet, but sometimes now she said pretty things or shrewd things that made people smile ; and Agnes and George quarrelled as often, only Cassie saw that they liked each other better between their quarrels. She could not help seeing everything. George told them he had not begun to be an artist yet, because his father had not enough money to let him learn, and he had to stay at home and help with the farm. He told them this with his brows bent, frowning on the ground. But, of course,' he said, raising his splendid eyes defiantly, ' I draw and paint in all my spare time, and if something doesn't happen soon, I shall . . . well, never mind.'

Do you remember when you drew Cassie? ' said Agnes. It was pretty good, that. Dad was going to have it framed, but it got smeared.'

Oh, that ' said George. I should think it was awful. I hadn't any idea how to draw then. I'll show you what I can do now. I'll do her again.'

Do me this time,' said Agnes. George looked her up and down. ' I'll paint you, full figure,' he said. But when he tried, she would not keep still enough, and by the time they were reconciled he had begun a painting of the fell. He painted in water-colours : he had never been able to afford oils. He took three days over this picture and was very serious about it ; and he would not let Agnes look on while he was painting, but he let Cassie, because she came quietly and only talked when he liked, and never disturbed him.

When the picture was finished Cassie and he took it indoors, and propped it on the mantelpiece of the upstairs sitting-room. The view of the fell from this room was almost the same as from the garden where he had painted it. Cassie went to fetch her mother and sister from the kitchen, but at that moment only Agnes could come. She came in and gave the picture a quick look ; then she began to frown heavily.

You don't like it, then?' said George.

Well, at least I think it's a Oh, I like it well enough,' said Agnes. fine picture. You'd notice it in a roomful. But what I mean is, you're so funny—you make everything out so grand and gloomy. Now if it was the Alps or somewhere, I'd say no more about it, but the fell's not like that.

You can see for yourself ' He looked out of the window, and back again, proudly. Perhaps it isn't now,' he said, but it will be.'

Oh, you make me sick ! ' said Agnes. But Cassie, who knew what he meant, and believed that he could really change the eyes of the world,

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turned fearful and sad at heart from the dominating picture to where she could see the fell going back, in an unfathomable complexity of colours, to the wide curve of its sky-line. She stood with her hand on the folded window-shutter, and wished things always to be the same.

Agnes was still talking : Conceit ! It isn't the word ! He thinks the world was made for him. He thinks he's only got to paint a pokey little picture and God will obligingly change everything to suit his requirements.

The fells will be made to measure for him ! Lord, I'm glad my head's not swelled like that. There isn't a word for it. It's more like raving lunacy.'

She threw back her head and laughed, and her sharp tongue and mocking eyes made him so angry that he thought he would have struck her ; but instead he caught her round the waist and shook her, and suddenly began kissing her violently. She wrenched herself away, choking with passion and laughter. And I don't know what you think you're doing now,' she cried. ' I'm not one of your darned accommodating fells, thank you! ' All startled, angry brightness, she ran out of the room.

This was the second time George stayed at the inn. He was coming again the next spring, but in February the innkeeper heard from his cousin, George's father, that the boy could not come ; he had had an accident. It sounds a pretty bad thing,' said the innkeeper when he told his family at breakfast. It seems he got his hands caught in some machine, and the bones of the fingers got crushed. Tom says he may have to have them off.'

What a dreadful thing ! ' said his wife. Whatever will the poor lad do now?' ' Both hands? ' said Cassie, faintly.

I don't know what he'll do. Yes, " hands " ; he says " hands." — There's not much, is there, a man can do without hands? And I'm thinking of Tom. It's hard on him, too. The boy's had a good enducation, and you know he was wanting to be an artist. They've saved for him ; they'd nearly saved enough, I believe, to send him to study for an artist.

Of course, that'll be off now.'

It seems very hard,' said the innkeeper's wife. Doesn't it seem hard, Agnes? ' Agnes said, not meeting her eyes, It's hard to be hurt. All the same, I don't suppose he'd have been a very good artist.' Her mother was shocked, as if she had defamed the dead.

II. George had to have his left hand amputated and three fingers of his right hand ; but the poison had spread further, and he was very ill for a long time. He stayed for a while at the inn during his convalescence, and there everyone was dismayed by the change in him, by how from being full

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FRITILLARY of arrogant vitality he had sunk to an apathy from which almost nothing could arouse him. When he was well again he helped his father in overseeing his labourers, and he learned to hold a pencil in the two fingers of his right hand sufficiently firmly to be able to keep the accounts of the farm. When his father had a lawsuit over a piece of land to which he laid claim, George went to London to look after it for him ; but there he came to so strong a sense of his injury that for long he could scarcely give his mind to business at all. For he could not get used to his impotence, but when he saw any form that stirred him, in the groupings of streets and buildings or the people in the streets, before he could think he would imagine the line of it on paper or canvas, and his brain would send motions of power down to his useless hand. He frequented the National Gallery and the Tate Gallery, and other collections, as many as he could learn of.

There he generally stood for a long time before some single picture, till there was no line or touch of colour in it of which he did not understand both its place in the picture and its individual truth. But this his greatest pleasure was also the highest torture to him ; for the technical knowledge of his art which he gained from such study, and the mental power which he felt growing in him both here and out of doors, the more organic vision and the stronger impulse to paint, these all heightened his jealous egoism so that the thought would break in upon his pleasure in some picture, like a cry from outside him, ' This is what I ought to be doing.' Outside, the world was only the raw material of pictures. He could not rest in the contemplation of what he saw or conceived, but his impulse to express it, morbidly strengthened by frustration, came spoiling and embittering the pleasure. Sometimes he tried not to see ; but it was all his deliglit as well as all his pain. There seemed no way out from such a conflict.

However, the lawsuit was won and he came home a richer man. ' You're your own master now,' said his father, who was pleased with him ; ' you can do what you like.' He went, therefore, to see his cousins in Westmorland. It was more than three years since he had seen them, and he hardly remembered what they were like the last time ; he had been ill then.

He knew that now the girls must be grown up, even Cassie.

Agnes was out when he arrived, but her father and mother welcomed him warmly, and in the kitchen he found Cassie, who had grown quite tall, and prettier than he would have believed possible. He remembered how fond he had always been of her, and being her cousin, would have kissed her, but she seemed very shy of him. ' Are you better again?' she asked quickly ; then said, ' We are so glad you have come,' and seemed to have no more to say. So he began to tell her about his time in London (only of the part he had enjoyed), and he was pleased, as he used to be, by her responsive smile ; but when Agnes came in, like any other man, he forgot Cassie.

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Agnes had been shopping in the nearest market-town. She had ridden home on a bicycle through the dark ; for it was very early spring, and dark fell soon after tea. Her hands when she took George's wrist were cold, and her face bright with cold. They said, Good evening, Agnes,' Good evening, George,' and smiled at each other, till suddenly her smile widened and broke, and she laughed. George laughed too. ' What's amusing us, Agnes? ' said George. ' Oh, I don't know,' said Agnes, except I remember I always used to laugh at you before, and now I see you again it makes me think of it and laugh again.' She had actually been embarrassed, but she got over it quickly. I promise you, George,' she said, I won't laugh at you now.

I've learnt better manners, I hope.'

You were certainly a little devil,' said George. She shrugged her shoulders, repudiating the word, or making light of it. In the silence which fell between them, Cassie moved to the -door, unperceived.

You can laugh, if you like,' said George, then. ' I must take off my coat,' said Agnes. At the door she said, You'll make yourself comfortable, George?' But she seemed to be laughing at him still.

George looked at the pictures on the wall. They were sketches in water-colours of this north-west Pennine country, and they looked blurred at a distance, but near to they were seen to be clear and bright, and not without a modest distinction. The mother of the girls came in and saw him examining one. Yes,' she said, those are our Cassie's paintings.

What d'you think of them?'

They're very good, aren't they? ' said George. She's improved a lot.'

But he did not like her so well.

The mistress of the County Yes, indeed,' said the proud mother.

School said to me the other day—she's there still, you know, though she's turned eighteen ; but then she does so well there ; she's all round clever— she said to me, " She's got a very charming talent for drawing." Those were her words. Then she said, should we like to send her to a place in London to study art—that or Paris ; but I wouldn't hear of Paris for a girl of mine. But there is this place in London where they give a lot of scholarships, and if Cassie worked hard she might win one, the mistress said—not but what we could afford to send her without. So now you see we're wondering about that.'

I should think it's a good idea,' said George ; but he liked her still less.

I should think it would be splendid for her.' He looked back at the picture, and said, She needs to bring things out more.'

I suppose so,' said the innkeeper's wife.

Agnes, besides helping her mother in the house, and keeping tidy and filled the garden where visitors to the inn had their tea in summer, looked .

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of arrogant vitality he had sunk to an apathy from which almost nothing could arouse him. When he was well again he helped his father in overseeing his labourers, and he learned to hold a pencil in the two fingers of his right hand sufficiently firmly to be able to keep the accounts of the farm. When his father had a lawsuit over a piece of land to which he laid claim, George went to London to look after it for him ; but there he came to so strong a sense of his injury that for long he could scarcely give his mind to business at all. For he could not get used to his impotence, but when he saw any form that stirred him, in the groupings of streets and buildings or the people in the streets, before he could think he would imagine the line of it on paper or canvas, and his brain would send motions of power down to his useless hand. He frequented the National Gallery and the Tate Gallery, and other collections, as many as he could learn of.

There he generally stood for a long time before some single picture, till there was no line or touch of colour in it of which he did not understand both its place in the picture and its individual truth. But this his greatest pleasure was also the highest torture to him ; for the technical knowledge of his art which he gained from such study, and the mental power which he felt growing in him both here and out of doors, the more organic vision and the stronger impulse to paint, these all heightened his jealous egoism so that the thought would break in upon his pleasure in some picture, like a cry from outside him, This is what I ought to be doing.' Outside, the world was only the raw material of pictures. He could not rest in the contemplation of what he saw or conceived, but his impulse to express it, morbidly strengthened by frustration, came spoiling and embittering the pleasure. Sometimes he tried not to see ; but it was all his delight as well as all his pain. There seemed no way out from such a conflict.

However, the lawsuit was won and he came home a richer man. You're your own master now,' said his father, who was pleased with him ; ' you can do what you like.' He went, therefore, to see his cousins in Westmorland. It was more than three years since he had seen them, and he hardly remembered what they were like the last time ; he had been ill then.

He knew that now the girls must be grown up, even Cassie.

Agnes was out when he arrived, but her father and mother welcomed him warmly, and in the kitchen he found Cassie, who had grown quite tall, and prettier than he would have believed possible. He remembered how fond he had always been of her, and being her cousin, would have kissed her, but she seemed very shy of him. ' Are you better again?' she asked quickly ; then said, ' We are so glad you have come,' and seemed to have no more to say. So he began to tell her about his time in London (only of the part he had enjoyed), and he was pleased, as he used to be, by her responsive smile ; but when Agnes came in, like any other man, he forgot Cassie. ,

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Agnes had been shopping in the nearest market-town. She had ridden home on a bicycle through the dark ; for it was very early spring, and dark fell soon after tea. Her hands when she took George's wrist were cold, and her face bright with cold. They said, Good evening, Agnes,' Good evening, George,' and smiled at each other, till suddenly her smile widened and broke, and she laughed. George laughed too. ' What's amusing us, Agnes?' said George. ' Oh, I don't know,' said Agnes, except I remember I always used to laugh at you before, and now I see you again it makes me think of it and laugh again.' She had actually been embarrassed, but she got over it quickly. ' I promise you, George,' she said, I won't laugh at you now.

I've learnt better manners, I hope.'

You were certainly a little devil,' said George. She shrugged her shoulders, repudiating the word, or making light of it. In the silence which fell between them, Cassie moved to the -door, unperceived.

You can laugh, if you like,' said George, then.

I must take off my coat,' said Agnes. At the door she said, You'll make yourself comfortable, George?' But she seemed to be laughing at him still.

George looked at the pictures on the wall. They were sketches in water-colours of this north-west Pennine country, and they looked blurred at a distance, but near to they were seen to be clear and bright, and not without a modest distinction. The mother of the girls came in and saw him examining one. Yes,' she said, those are our Cassie's paintings.

What d'you think of them?'

They're very good, aren't they? ' said George. She's improved a lot.'

But he did not like her so well.

The mistress of the County Yes, indeed,' said the proud mother.

School said to me the other day—she's there still, you know, though she's turned eighteen ; but then she does so well there ; she's all round clever— she said to me, " She's got a very charming talent for drawing." Those were her words. Then she said, should we like to send her to a place in London to study art—that or Paris ; but I wouldn't hear of Paris for a girl of mine. But there is this place in London where they give a lot of scholarships, and if Cassie worked hard she might win one, the mistress said—not but what we could afford to send her without. So now you see we're wondering about that.'

I should think it's a good idea,' said George ; but he liked her still less.

I should think it would be splendid for her.' He looked back at the picture, and said, She needs to bring things out more.'

I suppose so,' said the innkeeper's wife.

Agnes, besides helping her mother in the house, and keeping tidy and filled the garden where visitors to the inn had their tea in summer, looked

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after eighty or a hundred hens in a field behind the inn. They were not her own, but she had sole charge of them. On the first two mornings of his visit, when. Cassie had gone off to school on her bicycle, George went with Agnes to feed the chickens and to look for eggs. On the third morning, which was a Saturday, Agnes said to him, Wouldn't you rather go with Cassie? She's going to paint down by the pinewoods against the river.

You've not been there in Spring.' ' I'll come with you,' said George. I've not been with you much in Spring.'

She looked at him quickly and laughingly, as if she had some provocative retort to make, but she only said, You're welcome,' bending to take up the bucket of bran mash.

When they had fed the chickens, however, and she had to go indoors and do housework, George started to walk down the field-path towards the pinewoods. At this point the river (the Lune) flowed between high banks, and on the side on which Cassie was, the bank under the pinewoods was almost perpendicular. She sat a little way downstream from the pinewoods, and as the river just higher up flowed in a convex curve, she could paint the red cliff of her own bank and the dark woods above it. She had begun this picture the Saturday before, and she found that in a week the grass had grown brighter, and even the few thin beeches that were mixed with the pines at the cliff edge were beginning to look green. She painted very carefully and with great concentration, so that she did not notice George till he was beside her. Then she started, and splashed the sky with ochre.

Damn it ! ' said George ; look what I've made you do.'

I didn't know you were coming,' said Cassie. I'm glad you've come.'

No, but you must wash out that mess,' he said. She washed it out as well as she could, but still there was visible a slight flaw in the sky.

But I was going over that,' said Cassie.

I hadn't finished with it, you can see. It won't show when it's finished.—How did you find your way here? ' Why, I knew it of course. I've been here before.'

Oh, of course,' said Cassie, a long time ago. It'll be five years this Summer, the tenth of next August. I used to keep a diary then,' she explained, and I have read it every year since then, so I remember almost everything that happened on every day.'

George laughed. Well, I don't remember much,' he said.

But I should say you talk a good bit more than you used to.' At once she was very still and blushed deeply. I'm not blaming you,' said George, observing this ; I'm saying it for a compliment.' But she had only blushed with pleasure to think that he should so much as notice her speech or silence.

He sat on her little stool and took her block on his knees, and now there was a tense moment while he appraised it with his eye. It's not half bad,' he said. You're getting along nicely, Cassie.'

FRITILLARY Tell me where it's wrong,' said Cassie. ' Oh ! ' He looked up at the cliff and the woods with narrowed eyes.

Oh, I can't tell you that,' he said. I could have showed you. It's just that it's too weak altogether. It needs to be—you know, firmer, the whole thing. I expect it'll come.'

No, but do explain,' said Cassie. She dropped on her knees beside him. A brush was still in her hand.

I can't explain,' he said, impatiently. But he tried.

Well, see this shadow on the water. It isn't just a light, dainty thing broken by ripples ; it's tremendous and kind of threatening—it's a sharp shape on the river.

You've not made it big enough for one thing. And the ripples over those hidden stones—you've made them like silk blown about anyhow, but they're as hard and fixed as marble really. And that gap in the trees above where the cliff goes in—don't you see you haven't made it important enough?

Why, everything hangs together there. It's just a great, dark hollow— but you bother so much about the separate trees.'

I did bother about that,' said Cassie.

I thought I'd got it nearly right.'

Don't talk about right,' he said, trembling with pain and exasperation ; you must get it more than right. Don't you see what a poor, pale little shadow yours is? Why are you so afraid of speaking out? Now see that shadow against the green.' (He moved his left arm in a queer sweeping gesture.) See the line it makes—as hard as nails, and back it falls.

Look here, give me . . . Look here . .

Suddenly his voice broke and he began to cry. He sat where he was on the stool and sobbed with his head in his arms. Cassie caught in her breath sharply and knelt rigid beside him. It was dreadful, like some unthinkable calamity in a newspaper or history-book, like earthquake or sudden death. For some seconds Cassie knelt in frozen agony ; then her hands began to twist together. She lifted her head and looked at him, and, with a very quick movement, threw her arms round him. She pressed his arm and shoulder that were nearest her against her breast, and her lips against his rough coat. But he did not want her ; with one movement of his shoulder, he drew himself away and shamed her love. She still knelt there, seeming stunned, and he got up and went down to the river, fighting his tears.

Now Cassie, having nothing better to do, looked down blankly at the painting he had left on the grass. If it had not been fixed to the block, so that a pen-knife was needed to remove it, she would no doubt have torn it up at once. As it was, she just looked at it, until an idea came to her, and she sat on the stool and took up the block again. If we may not be good to the people we love, in the natural way, we may perhaps in other more recondite ways ; at any rate, we can try. Cassie looked for a long time at

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the scene, the wood and cliff and river, then shut her eyes and thought of George, imagined his way of feeling and seeing things. She knew him very well. She had thought about him much, and known what he would be like this time before he came. She concentrated with all her might, using all her knowledge and love of him, upon how he would see this scene, and at last she seemed to imagine clearly how it would be. She took up a brush and began to paint, mixing deeper colours and putting them on in stronger, cruder juxtaposition. It was not difficult to superimpose his conception so as quite to hide her own fainter colours and lines. When she had finished, she put the block down and looked up. He was coming to her along the bank. How brave and kind of him, she thought, to come back George said, as he came up, I'm sorry, Cassie. I'm ashamed of myself.' He was flushed dark red, and he did not look at her. I'm sorry, George,' said Cassie. I didn't mean—' It's just,' said George, ' I can't get used to not being able to paint.

But I've never been so—I've never done that before.'

Oh, I am sorry,' said Cassie. Then, with an effort, she showed him the block, and said, George, is that more how you meant?' She knew that if it wasn't she had only made things a hundred times worse.

However, he seemed surprised and pleased. It is,' he said. It is almost exactly how I meant. How did you know, Cassie? And I thought I'd never make you see. Why, it's almost as if I had done it myself.'

For a moment he was really pleased, and he seemed more pleased than he was, trying to make up for his unmannerly behaviour. He smiled at her as if enraptured.

Then Cassie's intelligence failed her. From those words, It's almost as if I'd done it myself,' an idea leapt in her, so vast that for the time she could not look at it ; she only felt it inside her, tremendous and fluttering, and she looked at him with dazed eyes. When he said, It must be getting on for dinner,' she mutely picked up her things and went with him, and only when he said, You won't say anything about that to anyone, will you?—not to Agnes?' was she roused enough to shake her head and say, Oh, no—no, of course.' ' Though, mind you,' said George, as they crossed the fields, I think if I could paint now I wouldn't do these kind of things at all now. They've not got really enough shape and character. I'd do city scenes, houses and streets full of people. There's life, if you like. There's things that startle you to do them. London's full of odd sorts of pictures.' He fell into a sudden pained silence, like a man who feels the twinge of an old wound.

I should like you,' said Cassie, to talk to me about it some more sometime, if it doesn't make you mind.'

He shook his head. May as well talk,' he said. They had just reached

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the door of the house. As she went in, he said, ' You're a good girl, Cassie,' and smiled at her most kindly. But she was dazed ; she had so much to think about.

III. That autumn Cassie went to the school of art her headmistress had recommended in London. She went up with a scholarship, for during the summer her drawing and painting had improved beyond recognition. Indeed, her whole style had changed, so that her art mistress was puzzled ; but she was pleased because she liked firm and bold work, and the change was all for the better. But Cassie had been modelling herself on George : it was her ambition to be for him a substitute for hands. With this fantastic end she sacrificed ruthlessly the beauty of the world as she knew it.

She liked lines that were hardly lines, and shades changing imperceptibly to deeper shades ; she liked to be teased and overwhelmed by the variety and complexity of colours in a landscape ; and when she painted she liked to copy what she saw in detail, patiently and exactly. Now she did violence to her own perceptions, and tried wherever she was to see in George's way. In summer, when she went to bed before dark, she leaned out of her window till she had drawn out the whole of the fell from behind the corner of the house, and then she looked at it with half-shut eyes till it was no longer that familiar, inexpressible mountain, but a design of strong patches of colour, some shining and some dark. When she found herself at any time seeing it in the old way, she pulled herself up and made herself see it as a picture by George. This made her very lonely, for she missed the familiar looks of things ; but she kept to her purpose.

With the fell, she had George's old painting to help her, the one that had caused such a scene between him and Agnes ; and with other things she learnt from her knowledge of him, and intuition, and from often talking to him about painting, how he would like them done. She could not tell him what she wanted to do for him, but he supposed she liked talking about the subject merely from interest and anxiety to get on ; and no doubt he found such conversation with her an outlet for his frustrated desire.

But she became shyer of him as time went on, and when, at Christmas, she came home from her first term at the art school, she was shyer than ever, and more silent. For she had begun to notice how much cleverer she was (in a general way) than he, and this filled her with a deep, incomprehensible shame ; as if her very intelligence had been a kind of disingenuousness compared with his candid simplicity.

George was often at the inn now, and might almost be said to live there. Everyone knew that he was courting Agnes, and in the next March they became engaged. Since there was nothing to stand in the way, they were married that April ; and the people who said she had taken him out of pity for his infirmity were mistaken.

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At first George took his wife home to his father's farm, but that year the innkeeper died suddenly, and soon George and Agnes went back to take on the inn. Cassie went there for her holidays. She was very quiet now and seemed harder ; it was because she had learnt a great deal in London that she could not talk about to her family. She knew the names of things, she knew about schools of aesthetics of which George was quite ignorant ; and if she tried to talk to him about them he got impatient.

She could not hide from herself that she painted better than George could have done. He would not have the patience,' she thought ; but she believed still in his greater genius, and still painted as she thought he would wish to paint. Only she felt estranged from George and Agnes, and they noticed it and felt it too. Cassie was happiest with her mother ; there existed between them a very tender affection unspoilt by intellectual questions.

In the year after their marriage, in Summer, George and Agnes had a son, whom they called Thomas after George's father. He weighed ten pounds at birth, and was very like George ; and for a time the mere pride of having him gave George a look of confidence such as he had not had since his accident had embittered his life. Cassie stood Godmother to the baby, and painted him in all kinds of attitudes ; but Agnes said, ' You make him out quite ugly,' and would not have the pictures in the house.

The next year Cassie left the school of art, and began painting on her own in London. She showed many of her pictures to George, and though he always liked them and praised them, and even seemed to derive from them a certain satisfaction, they never seemed to be to him quite what she had meant. She worked very hard ; she seemed all intelligence and will ; for she was determined to do for him at least one picture which should make him cry, That is how I would have it be,' and she never paused to consider whether resolution might not outlast love.

Once she did not go home to the inn for a long time, and they knew it was because she was engaged on a very big and important picture. At last she wrote to her mother and told her it was finished : it was going to be shown soon, but she asked if she and Agnes and George would like to come and see it first. But her mother declined because she did not feel up to the journey, and Agnes could not go because her little boy (who was three years old now) was not at the time very well ; so George went alone. Cassie met him at St. Pancras, and they had supper out and then went to her rooms.

She had only a bedroom and a studio ; but more than one critic had marked her as a rising painter, and she might soon be rich. George had taken a room in a commercial hotel near. ' We might wait to see it till daylight,' said Cassie.' But George was anxious to see it at once. ' You haven't told us what it's of,' he said, as they went upstairs. ' Oh,' said Cassie, it's a street scene. It is a street accident mainly.' She turned up the studio lights.

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George stood before the picture for a moment, without speaking. At last he turned to her and said, It's wonderful ! Cassie, it's a great picture ! ' He seemed extraordinarily moved : he turned back to it again and began examining it more closely. Cassie said nothing. She leaned back against a bare space of wall, and her lids dropped over her eyes. She was very tired.

She heard, as from another world, his frequent ejaculations of wonder ; but she could not be so pleased with them as she would have liked. At last he came to her and shook her and said, Cassie, it's a wonderful picture.

I've only one fault to find.' ' Oh ? ' She opened her eyes and smiled at him.

It is the signature,' he said. Why don't you sign with your full name.

Cassandra's such a fine name for an artist. But as it is, you've put a tiny little C. B. in the corner (and the C. has such blobs at the ends anyone would take it for a G.). But there,' he said, seeing her distressed look, I won't laugh any more at such a great artist. I say it's a very splendid picture, and everyone else will think so next week. You ought to be proud, Cassie.'

Suddenly the familiar look of pain came into his face, and he said, I wish I'd painted it myself.'

It is for George, not Cassandra.' She But it is a G. ' said Cassie. stood up straight and tried to explain. I did it for you, George. I had an idea, I thought I might perhaps do for you instead of your hands.

Of course I knew it would take a long time, but I tried to see things as you would, and paint the things you wanted to paint, in the way you liked. It isn't my picture really : it's yours.' I just executed it for you and signed it " G.B. " That's for " George Birch." It isn't what I'd have wanted to do myself. I'm quite different—I was. I wish,' she said, you would have it as yours and take it away from me.' She turned away. She felt there were words which could have explained, and if she had tried hard enough she might have found them ; but it did not seem worth the effort of trying.

George did not understand at all, but he was kind enough. You musn't talk so wildly, my girl,' he said. Look here, you're tired, you must be tired.

You're too modest, Cassie. I do believe perhaps I've helped you a little, and I'm very proud if so ; but the picture is all yours, right enough. I grant you it's the kind of picture I'd like to have done, and I believe I'd have tried to treat it like that.' She raised her head, in hope. But of course,' he said, making a great effort, I couldn't have done it. I don't believe I could.

You're a better artist than I'd have ever been.'

Oh, no ! ' cried Cassie. He took her by the arm. You go to bed,' he said, you look worn out.'

When he had gone, Cassie went back into her studio, and at first she could not feel anything ; and nothing seemed to matter so much as she had supposed. Presently she took a paint-brush, and turned the G into a C, for there was clearly no sense in leaving it as it was. When she had done this .

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she stepped back and looked at the picture (which she hated) , and a curious sense of strength and freedom came over her ; but it was a strength so barren and a freedom so desolate that she dropped on the floor and pressed her head against one of the legs of the easel and suddenly, though she had not cried for years, she began to cry. For half the night she cried, and at last she went to bed and slept without dreams.

Two days later George and Cassie travelled up together to Westmorland; for Cassie was going to rest for a few days at the inn before her exhibition. They started very early, and got there before tea, and while Cassie was with her mother, George told Agnes about the picture. ' Of course,' he said, you never really think of Cassie as a woman, but when I stood in front of it, and thought, " a woman did this," I was quite knocked over. It is such a strong piece of work, you know. Some would call it cruel.'

I'm glad you like it,' said Agnes. I'm glad she's made good. And I'll tell you what,' she said, looking at him mischievously, she's not the only artist in the family.'

What do you mean ? ' said George.

Well, the day before yesterday, when Tom was in bed, I gave him a pen and a piece of paper to amuse himself with, and—well,' she said, there's hardly a thing in the house, or out of it for that matter, that he hasn't drawn since then. You can't stop him.'

Where ? ' cried George.

Oh, my dear, you're not going to take it seriously ? Gracious heavens, I don't suppose they're good! ' But he was out of the house already and running across the lawn to where the little boy sat, authentically engaged in drawing, though what he was drawing it was difficult to see. Agnes followed her husband out, laughing, for she could never take the artistic pretentions of any of these people seriously ; but she only laughed gently now.

There Cassie found them. And before she came up she saw that George was quite changed, that all the bitterness had gone out of his posture and face. He was like he had been before his accident. He was standing over his child, talking to him quickly and eagerly ; and the little boy was exactly like him. Look at the pair of them,' said Agnes, in derision. You'd think he was a child genius by the way they carry on.'

Seeing Cassie by him, George smiled up at her ; and his face even seemed singularly young. Look ! ' he said, in a whisper, did you ever see such a sense of form. We'll make a great artist of him yet. Oh, Agnes, you may laugh as you like, but Cassie knows. Now, isn't it wonderful, Cassie? For, you know, he's only three ! ' Yes, wonderful,' said Cassie.

E. J. SCOVELL.

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A Broadcast from Covent Garden You in the throng, and I in loneliness, Unlit by any star, are listening ; You, where the sculptured, cold, unearthliness Of calm, gold faces raised, are pillaring The resonant vault with pennant music hung, And your clear-limned imaginings ; and I, I in the little room where night has rung A quiet curtain down from the still sky ; Till our two souls, rapt in the harmony Of the one music shall arise and sweep Out from the ringing rafters, surge and shine About the midnight sky, till gloriously, Your soul, above the battlements of sleep Shall find the wandering spirit that was mine.

BRENDA GREEN.

Roses There was a scent of roses in the gloom ; Yea, though the air was still, And we were far from roses, far away ; Far, far away on some rose-girdled hill, night, passing on her way, Swept the soft petals downwards through the gloom.

But here there were no roses and no breath Troubled the brooding air, Nor bird to call up such illusions sang ; Far in some shadowy wood a night bird mourned for roses faint and fair Cast down, but here no roses and no breath.

Some strange remembrance told me this was doom And though the air was still, And dark foreboding banished far away, Though my unready and oft-daunted will felt only wonder, yea, The scent of roses shadowed forth my doom.

W. L. MANTLE.

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Fantasticheria She sat there motionless, very straight in her chair, her hands lying listlessly in her lap, gazing with unseeing eyes at the view framed by the pillars of the loggia—big, thick, white pillars, their surface, rough like clotted cream, almost hidden by creepers and climbing roses. A kitten luxuriated in the sunlight one small grey paw patting the dancing shadows that flecked the warm tiles. The oleanders swayed softly in the pool, their crimson blossoms dully mirrored in its depths. A bronze Mercury, green with verdigris, stood poised on the brink, one winged foot sharply outlined against the blossom.

Beyond, the garden sloped in terraces towards the olive trees and vineyards below. On the far side of the river the mountains lay — a misty, sombre mass — faintly blue in the heat haze. The river itself slid smoothly through the valley, a glowing, silver curve, molten in the heat.

The afternoon wore on and still the woman sat there, heedless of the scene on which her eyes were fixed. She had been ill . . . so ill . . . her brows contracted at the thought of the days and weeks—could it have been months ?—that she had spent in that room upstairs ; it swam before her eyes now—the heavy, walnut press, brass-handled. She had always liked to think that centuries since some proud Medici dame had laid her brocades within—sometimes she could almost hear them rustle with disdain at her own modest garments ; but when she was ill she'd only noticed that a handle was hanging loose—so loose it was nearly off, and no one would tighten it. . . . The ewer and basin—coarse country ware, a dusty yellow splashed with tawny tongues of colour—fixed in a rickety wooden stand. The little painted table by her bed, and the bed itself —.she had thought she would never escape from it, and its memory of long hot days and unending nights, when she had tossed and turned until she was too tired even to roil her head over to the cooler side of the pillow. Her eyes filled with tears of self-pity. It was all over now, however, all over, and she was getting better. They all said so, and she mustn't forget it. Her teeth gritted for a moment. The mere effort of thought was too much, and she sank back, trying to conquer the rising darkness that clouded her brain.

Slowly words began to fill her mind, surging forward and forcing themselves on her lips—rich, glowing words, pregnant with meaning—soothing yet strangely exultant—names of men and movements, of places and pictures, the whole world past and present mirrored itself in a few phrases —battles were fought—she could see the horses plunging out there in the sunlight, saw men charge forward, reel, stagger and fall in grotesquely

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twisted heaps on the ground. She caught the light glancing on the swords, and her nostrils were filled with a reeking stench — the acrid smell of powder mingled with blood and filth. Strange figures drifted past : here a man with manuscript and ink-horn, there another with canvas and brush ; there were ships out there—great galleons, their sails filling in the breezecutters—Titans of iron and steel. Everything clashed and coalesced, and her lips smacked salt as the spray flew up and they were lost to her sight in the swirling mist.

She closed her eyes—yes, for a moment. It was all gone . . . she must have been dreaming. She'd been so ill, of course. All that glowing exultant feeling had left her, and she was only conscious of an odd sense of expectancy.

A man had come round the side of the house and was standing before her. Philip. Of course it was Philip—she'd waited so long for him. She got up, and they walked hand-in-hand to the pool and sat down on the raised edge of the marble basin. She gazed down at the goldfish, sluggishly sunning themselves in the water, and the reflections of the oleander blossom and the little Mercury. Something was missing. „ . . A vague feeling of distrust stole over her as she tried to think ; but Philip was talking now; and as she listened everything was merged in the harmonious whole of her self-content. Drowsily she contemplated him, exulting in his squarejawed face with its grey eyes and swift, ironical smile that cut deep lines in the sunburnt flesh. And there, on the other side of the pool, stood Anne, small grave Anne, her brown holland smock creased and crumpled, with a grass stain down one side, a shabby, moth-eaten teddy-bear clutched in her arms, and her eyes—grey like Philip's—laughing up at her mother.

How lovely it was, how warm, how—how infinite. . . .

Suddenly she felt cold. What were they doing here? They weren't, they were . . . ghosts . . . Firmly she closed her eyes till everything seethed scarlet before them. Then she opened them. They were still there, and they were looking at her gravely. Then she remembered her vague suspicion, bent forward, and looked into the pool — goldfish, oleanders, even the bronze Mercury shimmered on its smooth surface --but where were their own reflections? No Philip . . . no Anne . . . not . . . even . . . herself . . .

She wrenched herself away and stood up. ' Y-you ' — the words tore themselves stickily through her lips—`aren't Real.' The childish phrase made her laugh a little—nervously, weakly.

They said nothing, but the child raised her arm and pointed back to the loggia with one stubby, brown finger. She turned and looked. . . .

Back on the loggia the nurse was bending over her dead body.

M.K. B.

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FRITILLARY

Three's None Mary Mary ! ' Her mother's voice, insistent, could be heard quite distinctly from the shrubbery, where Mary had fled. She lay face downwards on the tangles of creeping ivy among dank laurel bushes, and buried her head in her arms so as to shut out the sound.

I'm not coming, so there,' she muttered, for her mother's calling still beat faintly on her ears, and she knew that everyone would be wondering where she was and why she wasn't ready to greet Martin and Joanna.

Martin was going to marry Joanna ; they had become engaged a fortnight ago. His letter had reached his mother at breakfast, and the whole scene repeated itself again, as it did so often and so vividly, in Mary's mind. She herself had been the first to notice the envelope with Martin's handwriting, and had placed it on top of her mother's pile of letters, for there would surely be a message for her, and she hated waiting. But mother read the letter through twice, the second time with an odd smile.

Mary turned to ask whether there were a message, but dared not provoke Naomi's ridicule ; so it was Naomi herself who broke the silence by saying, tentatively, Secrets ? ' No, but a surprise,' said Mother, Martin's engaged. ' The air seemed suddenly charged with electricity, the very sunbeams vibrated with excitement. In a flash the plates and cups seemed to Mary to expand and as quickly to contract again to their normal size, but they looked unwontedly hard and mean in comparison. Her senses were shaken back into their accustomed grooves, and she heard Amy saying, When shall we see her?' Amy, who was twenty-three and romantic, had already begun to speculate about. Joanna's appearance and disposition.

Martin says he'll bring her down in a fortnight—he can get away for the week-end on the zoth,' said Mother, referring to the letter, which she had not yet laid down, but fingered it gently and thoughtfully.

And since then, Mary thought wearily, Joanna had been the principal subject of conversation. Amy talked incessantly about the engagement ; Naomi said less, but occasionally let fall remarks that puzzled Mary, who was only nine. For instance, why had she said to Mother, in that halfinsolent, half-affectionate tone, Your innings are over ' ? Or to Amy, Imagine marrying nothing but female relations,' an observation of which Mary could make nothing. But Naomi was often cryptic. Mary feared her, and hated her for putting into words a fact which she passionately knew to be true, a conviction which had tormented her ever since that letter had come. ' You won't be Martin's shadow now, Mary,' she had said, Two's company, you know.'

Martin had been such a .very special person ; Mary considered it all .

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miserably. He was fifteen years older than she was, almost grown-up ever since she could remember him ; but they had done the loveliest things together—birdsnesting, and shrimping, and secret games. He used to tell tremendously long and enthralling stories, and, best of all, sometimes he would just talk to her, as though she were his own age. He teased her and called her Limpet,' and made fun of her even in front of the others, but she knew that next to Mother he liked her better than anybody—better than Amy or Naomi, even though they were grown-up.

Now this Joanna person would claim all his time and all his love—and what would Mary be? Just a brat. Who wanted Joanna in the family ?

Why couldn't Martin have waited until she had had time to grow up?

Then she could have kept house for him, and they would have gone to the theatre every other night. Mary, defrauded of her cherished future, clenched her teeth on her wrist till there were deep indentations in her skin that smarted and burnt. Her mother had stopped calling long ago. They must have come, Martin and Joanna. Surely by this time all the how-do-you-dos were over. Perhaps Martin might be wondering where she was. All was very quiet. She could hear nothing but the baying of a dog down at the farm and the busy chattering of a couple of sparrows in a laurel-bush. She slowly rolled over, sat up and pushed her tousled hair from over her eyes.

Then, with sudden resolution, she jumped to her feet, brushed off the dead leaves that were clinging- to her jersey, and ran towards the house.

She could see the glow of the fire-light reflected in the long French windows of the drawing room, and, determined to see without being seen, she slackened her pace and approached on tiptoe. The room was dusky, lit only by the leaping flashes of flame. Was no one there?

And then, against the darkness of the hanging folds of curtain, she saw two darker figures. There was Martin, Martin, Martin—her heart pounded till it seemed like the beat of a drum. His hands were on the shoulders of a girl. So that's Joanna,' thought Mary, and as she tiptoed closer, to see her features more clearly, Martin's figure in the flickering light seemed to leap forward and become one with Joanna's. He's kissing her,' said Mary aloud. Hot waves of crimson shame surged round her, till, half choking, she broke away and burst into the house, banging the door behind her.

She almost fell into Naomi's arms, and, though she would have dashed past her, she found herself caught by the shoulder.

Not into the drawing-room, kid,' said Naomi, ' I told you two was company.'

I wasn't—I'm not--T know it is,' said Mary, helplessly, as scalding tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

Oh, you know it is? ' said Naomi. Poor brat . . . Martin asked for you to come down to dinner to-night, and Mother said you might. Cut along and wash your face ; you look a perfect scarecrow.' M. S. S. .

FRITILLARY

On looking at Vermeer's Portrait of a Young Girl Once long ago, she looked with happy face At floors of old Dutch tiles of ordered grace That shone in glazed symmetrical design Round bright and cleanly hearths. She once held fine White cambric, neatly sewed with supple hands To make fresh linen collars, prim white bands, And sober hemstitched caps of finest lawn, With many tucks and quillings to adorn Her sleek brown hair. The copper pans she rubbed Until they shone as gold ; and then she scrubbed The wooden chairs and tables, in a row She placed dull pewter jugs, and filled the low Brown bowls with newest milk, and baked clean bread With shining crust, till, lifting up her head, She saw the far green stretch of pasture land And cleanly cows in grass ; while, near at hand, Grew ordered tulip beds of comely red And sunny yellow.

Times, with firm young tread In Amsterdam, she walked the cobbled way By gabled houses decked for market day, And saw the burghers, shrewd of eye and ear, With wide-brimmed hats and velvet suits, and clear Thick hanging chains of gold, while, proudly by, The masts of sailing ships rose straight and high Above the house-tops. Then, with busy feet, She hastened past the quay and narrow street And went to fishwives' stalls, there often bought Some plump Dutch cheeses, round as suns, and sought Sometimes, in wicker baskets, deft of hand, For cloth, or length of lace, or silken band Of happy hue. And back once more she sped With girlish joy to twist it round her head—, A lustrous turban—then she fetched with glee A carven box of trinkets, filigree Of silver, golden chains, and precious gems That lay in gleaming heaps, and diadems With bracelets, brooches, rings . . . soon eager-eyed She took some faded yellow scarf and tied It round her head, then stretched a band of blue Across her cool white brow, and even too Put in her ear a pearl of wondrous size— And looked upon herself with grave, sweet eyes.

FREDA M. HOULSTON.

27

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FRITILLARY

Logic Lecture New College Hall Isn't at all New. A few EnthuSiastic persons grew To status of affluence sufficient to instal Their portraits on the wall.

Their coats of arms enthrall All who Find that their preceptor starts to pall E'er halfway through The play of his vagaries cerebral.

Ah, you, Too, Suit this Hall.

You Are not new.

E.C.M.

Fresher's Guide to Politics Mr. Costin Is usually lost in A welter of unimaginative facts, Seemingly less vital Than those acts From which his lectures take their title.

And also Dr. Carlyle Has quite a peculiar style.

Anecdote and reminiscence Charm the ear of him who listens ; He who on them tries to think Is driven to drink.

Mr. Elton of Queen's Knows just what the other chap means, And tells us in excerpts terse, Giving chapter and verse, The sort of thing we poor fools Should gratefully accept for use in Schools.

We wonder what subjects Mr. Elton Has himself felt on?

E.C.M.

FRITILLARY

29

Frescoes at Lady Margaret Hall Now that pictures, and even frescoes, are the fashion again, problems of interior decoration are becoming more complex. The average portrait or landscape will fit into any room, but works of the more individualistic modern painters are almost bound to clash with the chintzes and furniture of ordinary drawing-rooms and studies. How then can the space afforded by the Common Room of a Women's College do full justice to two interesting frescoes?

They are the work of Mr. Adrian Allinson, who, spending the greater part of his time between Italy and Switzerland, has chosen the former country as the subject for these pictures.

One of them represents a town on a hill. The treatment is almost architecturally constructive, and very decorative, the design achieving its effect by the massing of houses in diminishing blocks, thus giving a feeling of receding height. The monotony of this effect is broken by a zig-zag staircase peopled with dark figures. The general impression is that of sombre solidity, yet very restful by reason of the soft harmonious colouring.

The second fresco is in complete contrast ; the scene is almost pastoral, while the effect is brilliantly sunny. The foreground is taken up by carefully grouped figures ; the landscape at the back is reminiscent of Assisi, yet the whole seems lacking in unity and coherence. The figures in the foreground, although partially Italianised, form a distinct picture by themselves, quite apart from the charming mediaeval landscape behind them.

The style of the design is flatter and not so well built as in the other picture, and the colouring is cruder. The English, however, are too fond of calling foreign colouring crude, purely because really brilliant effects are never seen in England.

Together the two frescoes form an interesting contrast, and their wealth of detail, although detracting a little from the general effect, will amply employ the leisure of those who frequent Lodge Common Room, and would well repay a visit from anyone interested in painting.

Music Notes It is with some trepidation that we admit to coming away from the concert given by Jelly d'Aranyi and Adila Fachiri feeling a little disappointed. And yet, looking back over the evening, the cause seems trivial enough—only that the third movement of the Bach Concerto for two violins seemed a little slow. The programme, except for the inclusion of a work

by Spohr, was well chosen. We had Purcell's Golden Sonata, a work by Pugnani, the aforementioned Spohr, a duet for two violins and piano by Darius Milhaud and the Bach Concerto for two violins. The technique of

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FRITILLARY

the players was beyond praise, the intonation perfect and the finish of each movement especially precision's self. Each performance had its moments of complete satisfaction, but this high level seemed too difficult to be sustained throughout, and the occasional descents were jarring.

The charm of the Golden Sonata was marred by a certain ' squareness ' about the Canzona, but on the whole this was the most entrancing performance of the evening. The promise of the first movement of the Pugnani was not fulfilled by the Fuga and Caccia. We liked the Milhaud, in spite of the fact that the composer still appeared to be in two minds about Debussy. And the Bach . . . We had, perhaps, expected too much, though the first movement certainly satisfied all our hopes.

But where such artists as Jelly d'Aranyi and, in a lesser degree, Adila Fachiri, are concerned criticism is an impertinence. With our critical duties discharged we may now rejoice in the memory of a notable evening.

R. D. S.

The Playhouse CAMBRIDGE FESTIVAL THEATRE COMPANY IN MARRIAGE,' BY GOGOL, PRECEDED BY WOMAN'S HONOUR,' BY SUSAN GLASPELL. The juxtaposition of these two plays is unlucky. They have certain likenesses in situation-4n Marriage' the men suitors turn up in the samb fantastic excess as the women suitors in ' Woman's Honour '—but this likeness does not make the pivot of any useful contrast or comparison. It rather shows up the extraordinary difference in the ability of these two playwrights.

Miss Glaspell gives us the uncomfortable feeling that she has overworked her intellect, which, nourished on Sociology, has grown too strong for her good sense. Her development of the situation is angular and spasmodic, too scientific, and such interplay of character as there is seems too deliberately contrived, like the precipitancies of a bad partner. The play seems to have been starved in infancy : its ribs show. But Gogol's play, though not altogether of this world, is, in some other convention, as alive as possible. It is a gay, eccentric, disarming extravagance, vivacious with a verbal humour for which there is an admirable material counterpart in the silly delicious dresses.

In ' Woman's Honour' there was no distinguished acting. Miss Phipps Walker and Miss Robson did better than the others with not much better material. ' Marriage ' was very well acted, with energy and charm, and Mr. Waldo Wright, as the vain, nervous, indecisive middle-aged bachelor, gave a remarkable performance. He is a very expressive actor, in voice and in face and in gesture. He seems real.

We shall be glad to see the Cambridge. Festival Theatre Company again.

OXFORD PLAYERS IN HE, WHO GETS SLAPPED,' BY LEONID ANDREYIV. This was a characterless performance, but it is a difficult matter to assign justly the blame for its insipidity. That it was in the serious parts sentimental, and in the comic parts simply unmoving, may be the fault of the play itself, of the translator, or of the Company. In justice to the Company, it must be said that the play, which has the slightest and at the same time the least explicit of plots, and is enervated by one air of rather

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FRITILLARY standard philosophy, demands a very high and certain standard of acting, and perhaps, indeed, would do best with actors who were used to ballet, since that alone could give any reality to the circus setting—a reality which is not to be attained by realism, but by style. The production would have been more convincing if it had been more conventionalised. In part, it was conventionalised. Mr. Alban used throughout the simple gestures of dancing rather than the subtler ones of acting. But the treatment of the play as a whole was not homogeneous. Miss Fagan acted like the heroine of a thriller. And so the more formal parts stood out as something bizarre and ultimately boring, because they were not incorporated in a whole intricate pattern.

The Producer has some successful moments, particularly in the beautiful grouping towards the end of the last act. Of the actors, Tilly and Polly (Mr. Vincent Pearmain and Mr. Gibson-Cowan) were the most likeable, and they looked as if they would have been better in a circus than any of the others. Miss Macdermot gave a good performance as Zinida, the liontamer. She acted with precision, and remained interesting even in the most difficult moments of the text. ,

My Soul's Chin recedes Shakespeare wrote many plays. Theories about them cannot be counted.

It is about this stage in the term that the accumulated mass of such things weighs so heavily that the soul is near to death, from inanition and lassitudinous torpor.

Perhaps it was the prevalence of this state of mind in L.M.H. that drove a large and expectant audience to the performance of Max Beerbohm's Savonarola,' by the First Year. The audience was roused. It rose to its feet to get a complete view of Lucrezia Borgia (pseudo-Ophelia) playing with straw in her cell. And although the electric light bulb inside the appropriate skull in Lucrezia's poison-laboratory was too strong, and effectively obscured all possibility of recognition until the lights went up, the audience, to a man, was purged by such lines as : ' Mark how the purple bubbles froth upon The evil surface of its nether slime.'

LUCREZIA. IS't done, Sir Sluggard?'

FIRST POISONER. Madam, to a turn.'

The clothes were a magnificent achievement if they owed their origin to the acting-chest. The properties and scenic effects were a credit, to modernity : especially the sun, which dropped beneath the horizon with such ĂŠclat upon the Pope's edict : ' In deference to this our double sorrow, Sun shall not shine to-day, nor shine to-morrow.'

Incidentally, there was a useful hint of new possibilities in rhyme to such as are still so old-fashioned as to like such a thing. Lucrezia remarks : Tho' love be sweet, revenge is sweeter far.

To the Piazza ! ha, ha, ha, ha, har ! '

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FRITILLARY

An effective exit of the usual Shakespearian type. Altogether, it was a much more polished product than the usual run of Freshers' plays. The players' achievement of the true satiric solemnity points to a commendable appreciation of the dignity of dramatic art. We returned to our studies refreshed, and add to the interpolation, Sweets to the sweet, farewell ! ' our comment : For this relief much thanks.'

Book Reviews

By Rebecca West. (Hutchinson. 7/6.)

This book is a fantasy. But it is not, as we think of most fantasies, blurred and characterless, like a play-scene behind layer after layer of gauze.

It is not coloured like an opal, but like a formal garden, very full of flowers.

It is precise, almost to pedantry, and in this precision is its excellence.

Most novels, even the good ones, are written in a makeshift style. We can get at the sense without much noticing the words. Harriet Hume' (more like poetry) demands the minutest attention. It is full of highly decorative imagery, which makes it elaborate but not florid, for it is kept from this by the astringent coolness of its manner.

An aspen which laid its lower branches across this window seemed to be delivering some testy message by tapping on the glass with its nearer twigs.' This is a precise, not facile description.

This meticulous style is given substantial interest by the convincingness of the people. Harriet is convincing, as we are shown her, from the outside, and Arnold Conderex from the inside, as we are shown him. Harriet for character has two highly specialised gifts and a habit of compliancy ; but we know her well. We know her by her way of talking, a little priggish, like a pleased cat, or plaintive like a discouraged kitten, by the way she lifts her chin or curls up her legs, by the way she reads the newspaper, squatting on the floor with her eyes narrowed between immensely long eyelashes and her sleek head veering back and forth.' Arnold thinks and feels like a real man, with the same complexity and indistinctness, and he changes slowly but thoroughly with the desperate persistence of all human nature. He is only unluckier than most people in being deprived of every human being's right not to know quite what he was doing.' Yet, even here, characteristically, he is able to negotiate with his own knowledge.

Certain passages have a special claim on our interests and affections.

There are admirable descriptions of London and one exquisite fairy-tale, and two charming, though singular, policemen, whose moustaches, wet after beer, gleam ' like clean hay.'

But who can choose out beauties from a book that is no less beautiful in its whole design and execution than in its elements?

HARRIET HUME.

By Patience Ross. (Basil Blackwell. 3/6.)

In some of the poems of this collection; Miss Ross achieves the simple, sensuous and passionate,' of which A. E. Housman is the supreme master in this age. The swinging metre of the short poem beginning : The hour before the morning All streets lead to the sea.'

BLACK BREAD..

FRITILLARY

33,

and of the last poem : Oh, I'll bestride the nightmare And ride the road to Hell, Bidding to friends and enemies A casual farewell.' is faultless.

In other metrical experiments Miss Ross is less happy, and reveals the characteristic strenuous trifling of much modern verse. Her imagination seizes upon the paradox, rather than the simile, and she uses this figure with effect throughout ' Mon frere, Mon Semblable.' It appears again in other poems : — a prisoner Unfree in space, unfettered by the chain.

Oh, he inhabits solitude.'

Miss Ross has not avoided the overwrought `beautiful' expression :— ' the laughter hiding tears,' in every beauty the sharp, dark point of pain,' expressions which for the artist may still retain their original virtue, but which for the reader have come to have a second-hand look.

There is passion and simplicity in Miss Ross' best poems, which redeems the collection from a second-rate uniformity. The dramatic lyric about one who promised to come ' at three o'clock and hadn't come by four ' is excellent in its kind. Apart from the poems in which Miss Ross echoes A. E. Housman, her best poem is probably the one containing the lines : Each of us islanded in the separate mind Huddles eternally, deaf and dumb and blind.'

Black Bread' is certainly one of the thin volumes of verse which repay reading.

By Iris Wedgwood. (Hutchinson. 7/6.)

Lady Wedgwood's latest novel, The Fairway,' should attract a wide public, but it is of particular interest to the Oxford woman student. Ann Kleider, a most enchanting character, is a brilliant woman, who. fresh from the University, marries a shipbuilding magnate, hoping that with him she will be able to put her theories into practice. Young and sure as she is, their economic infallibility. like all the really clever, she has doubts as Ann's husband, Billie, however, gives herno no chance to experiment. He is the son of a shrewd working man whose energy and genius have raised him to the head of one of the largest shipyards in England ; but by education he is the polished product of Eton and Oxford ; Lady Wedgwood asks whether this is a wise combination. In this case, indeed, the result is tragedy, though a tragedy which frees Ann from an unhappy existence, and decides whether she will creep into her shell in the senior common room of her old college, emerging occasionally to publish a treatise on economics, or whether she will enjoy the essentially warm feminine existence for which she yearns.

The situations are cleverly handled, and the author excels in humorous touches which make the book human and vital. In addition, the descriptions of the countryside are delightful. Lady Wedgwood's treatment of her characters is at all times sympathetic, but never more so than when dealing with the return into Billie's life of the naive and fascinating Coralie Denny, whose morals may cause our aunts to blush, but whose intentions were always of the finest.

THE FAIRWAY.

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FRITILLARY

A HIGH. WIND IN JAMAICA. By Richard Hughes. (Chatto and Windus.

7/6.)

There are two realms fabulously attractive and strange to those who read reviews of new novels. One is the mind of childhood : the other is the romantic world which has receded into nursery days for most people, the world occupied by the Swiss Family Robinson and Alph, the sacred river. No amount of imaginative effort of the adult mind can make this last anything but a beautiful and unreal place : Mr. Hughes makes it real by approaching it through the first, so that, while neither of them loses its glamour, no effort is needed to realise them, and for the space of a few hours the reader is granted again the freedom of both. Values have regained their early proportions, seen through the eyes of the normal Emily, aged ten and a half. The annihilation of one's home, the violent death of one's brother, the tragedy of one's friend, these are not to head one's list of Experiences. Far more important is it to have Been in an Earthquake, and to have Slept with an Alligator. The children are only one stage removed from the adults : these take captures by pirates for granted ; these are untroubled by the change of seasons. The pirates themselves belong to one world only, and are horrified that one of their ' young female prisoners ' should have committed a bloody murder in cold blood—but Emily's terrified hacking of the bound body of the Dutch captain is no more serious than her biting Jonsen's thumb.

All the senses are appealed to throughout the book : that is what gives the descriptions their compelling brilliance, whether we are witnesses of the blackness of a starless tropic night at sea or of the re-acting of the prologue to Tabby's death in the brain of Emily :— . . . clearer than everything was that awful night when Tabby had stalked up and down the room, his eyes blazing and his fur twitching, his voice melodious with tragedy, until those horrible black shapes had flown in through the fanlight and savaged him out into the bush.'

Humour and realism mingle in the children's conversations. The book is no essay in ' child-psychology.' Mrs. Bas-Thornton is an ironic warning against that study. It is reality which forces us to re-adjust our sense of values for at least the short space of time that it takes to bestow affection on a drunken monkeyfied sailor, and to conceive of London as El Dorado.

PHOEBE

ASHBURNER.

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