FRITILLARY Oct. 24th, 1930
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Treasurer : JOAN TORRENS (Somerville).
Committee: BRENDA GREEN (St. Hugh's). MAY WALLIS (Oxford Home Students). ANNE. HARRIS (Lady Margaret Hall). FLORA MEADEN (St. Hilda's). L. BOSANQUET (Somerville).
FRITILLARY Magazine of the Oxford Women's Colleges Vol. XXXVI]
OCTOBER 24, 1930
[No. 13
CONTENTS.
PAGE
EDITORIAL IMPROBE AMOR DRAMATICS, Joan Torrens QUESTION, M. 0. MacAdie SPRING IN AUTUMN, H. D. Bosanquet RESOLUTION, Joan Torrens THE STORY A MODERN FABLE, M. M.M. CLERIHEWS, A. Harris COMPETITION
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Editorial
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HE REAS the real year begins decently in January, the educational year, on the contrary, begins in September. To the normal child this curious con tradiction must at first seem confusing, almost irrational. But the educationalists of the prehistoric past who decreed the times and dates of the school or university year were wise in their generation. In England, at any rate, it is pleasant to find the raw gloom of Autumn brightened by a fictitious Spring. And since all poets and painters agree that green is the colour of the Spring, we have decided, by adopting that colour, to give every assistance to the well-meant deception, and to help in this annual intellectual defiance of the seasons. Oxford, too, regardless of the perceptible approach of November, is at the moment full of an energy and vitality such as it knows at no other time of year. The pleasant disease of renewed enthusiasm is infectious, and, while it lasts, almost universal. Everyone, however advanced in his or her career, must be grateful to those who impart it. Need we say that we refer to members of the First Year?
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Undoubtedly in Oxford the clever subterfuge of those nameless educationalists has a good effect every year, and we are often at pains to remember whether it is Autumn or Spring. After all, in England they frequently have points in common.
Improbe Amor ! Que donneriez-vous, la belle Pour revoir votre ami? Je donnerais Versailles Paris et Saint-Denys. It were to give Versailles, the shifting fountains, The statues and the ceiling's painted roses, Our hanging gardens and our molehill mountains, The piquance of our nicely studied poses, The petty world the Trianon encloses Confronting marbled cloud with cloudy marble, Where Muses dream and cloistered learning dozes, The golden cages where tame song-birds warble, The modulated tinkle of the bells and bauble. ' Love in a but with water and a crust ' —So he who loved the rosy Cupid said' Is, Love forgive us, cinders, ashes, dust '— But true love still will live on common bread, And in the common highway must we tread With violets of commonplace romance To crown us in the bright tiara's stead, And minuets in skirts as wide as France Abandon for a plain familiar country dance. We know the platitude for what it is ; Seeing the triteness we accept it still ; And we renounce the pomp and vanities (But give the sinful lusts their decent fill) Choosing a primrose path that leads uphill, —Many there be, the scripture truly saithWhere we may walk with every Jack and Jill And in the open draw our normal breath, Preferring simple life to variegated death.
Dramatics The clock, a wedding present, struck the half-hour with irritating distinctness. Linda flung the volume of Milton to the floor in a gust of temper. Really it was sickening of Roger to be so late ; he would be annoyed when the cutlets were dried to a cinder, exactly as if it were her fault, as though cutlets, could sit in the oven half an hour after they had been properly grilled and show no ill-effects. Well, he could make a lunch off
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tinned peaches and biscuits and cheese : she was not to blame. She wished, as she retrieved Milton with some difficulty from under the arm-chair, that she could be really interested in Comus. The noble reflections of the Spirit and the First Brother were surely the very things to while away an empty hour. Why had she not some inexhaustible fund of philosophy that would make banalities such as burnt cutlets appear in the proper perspective? She must be growing petty : household duties were narrowing her horizon : soon she would degenerate into being nothing more than Roger's housekeeper, no longer his intellectual companion. This was obviously the truth, if she could not even fix her attentions on Comus. ' Fool,' exclaimed the Lady, do not boast ; Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind . . Sighing, Linda put Milton back into his snug place upon the shelves. As her eyes roamed along the rows of books for lighter fare, she caught sight of Maurois' Byron,' the library copy, pushed carelessly in along the top. This was intolerable. She had reminded Roger three times to take it to change at the library. It was typical of him to remember all his own books and to forget hers. Byron ' was months old, too, and that frightful Mrs. Dutton would inevitably happen in, to be surprised that she had not already read the newest novel by the latest high-brow, with which she, Mrs. Dutton, was automatically provided by the London library. Roger and Linda had a subscription at Boots' in the town. Linda decided that she would tell Roger exactly what she thought of him. She would speak clearly and without heat, but she would not mince matters. The attitude of some wives, who let their husbands grow into selfish, inconsiderate brutes just by allowing little things like this to slide through nervousness, or even mere laziness, was ridiculous. It would be a pity to have a definite quarrel at this stage, but it would put everything on a much more satisfactory footing. Linda pursed her lips firmly. Meanwhile, as there didn't seem anything to read, she might as well go out and weed the garden. The clock struck a quarter to two as she opened the door, and her temper was swept away by a sudden sickening wave of anxiety. Roger had said that he would certainly be in by one, if not before. He had only to send off two pictures and to change the books, after all, and he had left the house at half-past eleven. The drive in to the town took a quarter of an hour at most, and allowing him three-quarters of an hour for the pictures and the books (which was ridiculously much), he should have been back an hour ago. It was unlikely that he should have had a break-down, because the car had only just come back from the garage, and if he had been kept for lunch he would have rung her up. There had been a terrible smash at the cross-roads only yesterday. She felt rather sick. It must
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be all right, she told herself ; innumerable things could have happened : he might have had a break-down after all, or met someone at the station and not realised how late it was getting, or . . . Her imagination gave out, or, rather, leapt on to another range of possibilities. Roger drove so recklessly : there must have been a collision. He was hurt. He was dead. Linda went into the garden and looked aimlessly at the rather untidy flower beds. Roger was dead. He would never stride along the road from the garage, whistling with his peculiar sweetness, his hair untidy, banging the gate, and calling Lin-da ! ' in a gay and echoing voice. Tears came into her eyes. They would carry him in, the life gone out of his face, limp and pale and cold, and she would stand in the doorway, dry-eyed, with a white, set face, like a living statue. Or perhaps he was mangled, broken, and she would never see even the shell of him again. Life without Roger. All this new happiness cut short when it had only just begun. It was as sad a tale, almost, as Juliet's. She would be very brave ; she would never show in open, noisy grief how much she cared. She would not wear black, either, whatever anyone said, as if dressing oneself in a particular way showed the depths of one's sorrow, or was an effective tribute to the dead. She walked to the gate and looked down the lane which stretched for half a mile, empty of any human life. The old imploring cry of the fairytale came to her mind : Sister Anne I Sister Anne Is there anybody coming?' The church clock struck two from the distance, and another pang of fear clutched Linda's heart. Something must have happened. A voice, Mrs. Dutton's, hailed her from behind. Looking out for your husband—' she called benignly. Yes,' she replied, in a small, flat voice. There Linda turned slowly. was tragedy in this situation. While Roger lay dead, crushed under his car, this fool of an old woman bleated at her in the garden. I'm ' I was afraid you'd still be having lunch,' said Mrs. Dutton. glad I caught you. I just came round to ask if I might borrow your Pirandello. You have got the three Plays, have you not? My husband and I were having a little argument . . .' she babbled on. I'll find it for you.' Do come in,' said Linda. Perhaps when she heard of Roger's death even Mrs. Dutton's mouth would be stopped for a moment. The next instant Linda decided that, far from stopping it, such tragedy would merely give it matter of supreme importance, to be distributed to as wide an audience as possible. So awful about that smash yesterday,' grieved Mrs. Dutton. Both the people on the motor-cycle killed, and they say that the driver in the car can't recover. Did you hear about it? I always say that something ought to be done about those cross-roads. . .
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Icily detached as she groped along the shelves, Linda thought of the pitiful irony of it all, and felt a morbid satisfaction over what Mrs. Dutton's feelings would be when she heard of Roger's death and recalled this conversation. Linda might even remind her of it herself : Strange,' she would say, as she received the condolences, strange that while we were talking about that other accident, Roger was dead, killed at those very cross-roads.' There would be a marble restraint about her, a superb self-command, that might silence the old hag after all. Mrs. Dutton caught sight of the Byron,' which Linda had placed ostentatiously on the table that Roger might see it immediately he came into the room. He would never see it now. I read it some ' Oh, so you're reading this, are you?' she asked. time ago when it first came out, in the original. I'm surprised you care to read the translation. I know it's supposed to be excellent, but then it is never the same really, is it?' Linda, who knew only too well the limitations of Mrs. Dutton's French, swallowed her first indignation, and decided that any explanation of the peculiar advantages of this translation would take too long, besides savouring to Mrs. Dutton of excuse. She murmured agreement and found the Pirandello. Nevertheless, the fact of the Byron' being there at all rankled yet more deeply. And how is you husband's painting getting on?' enquired Mrs. Dutton. Linda thought : Perhaps Roger will never paint again. It might be that his right hand was crushed, and his career would be snatched from him. But that theme was too unhappily like The Rosary' ; she dismissed the possibility. He is doing quite a lot lately,' she answered ; he likes it here.' Mrs. Dutton enlarged upon environment and the artistic temperament. Well,' she concluded, I must be popping off. Thank you for the book and the nice little chat. How nice your garden looks. I do like an untidy garden in the country : so much more homely.' Linda watched her up the lane, and then went back into the house. It was ten past two. Something must have happened to Roger. At any moment the telephone would ring from the Police, or some stranger would drive up to the gate. I have bad news for you,' he would say. She would make no sign. Yes,' she would answer quietly, I knew.' The telephone rang upon her thoughts, and her heart felt as if someone had stuck a blunt knife into it. She went mechanically into the hall, and her hand trembled as she took off the receiver. A male voice said : Are you Stope 39? ' A sort of disappointment mingled with her relief. The sensation was disquieting to her self-respect. No ; we are Stope 35. Sorry.'
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She rang off and went back again to the sitting-room. She might at all events have eaten her cutlet, but she had no appetite ; somehow a meal savoured too much of funeral baked meats. If only Roger would come. But Roger was dead. She wondered what she would do now : where live ; how spend her days. She would go home first, she supposed, until everything was over, and then cast about for some occupation. Whatever happened, she would stand on her own feet, and be dependent on nobody. She squared her shoulders resolutely. The gate banged and someone whistled in the garden. Linda was conscious of a sudden and curious flatness, a disgruntlement that rapidly merged into irritation as Roger flung open the door and stood gaily on the threshold. With a rapid analysis of her feelings, she decided that she must be unnatural or else that she was no longer in love with Roger. This was the disillusionment that she should have expected. Before she could broach cutlets or Byron, Roger spoke. ' You must have thought I was dead,' he said. ' I'm awfully sorry I'm so late, sweetheart, but I ran into the Pritchards and their car died on them, and they had to get back for something or other. I forget what : they told me enough times, but I wasn't listening; anyway, I had to drive them back, poor devils, and it took me ages longer than I expected, even though I didn't stay to lunch. I am sorry, Linda.' She looked gloomily at him, planning a good opening in which to introduce Byron.' Roger came over to her chair and looked down at her, one eyebrow cocked, his mouth curled downwards as he smiled. I'm sorry,' he repeated. He dismissed her sombreness. Damn ! ' he exclaimed, I've left those books in the car. I've got that one for you you wanted, by that poisonous woman.' Linda caught the pocket of his coat as he turned. Don't bother to fetch them now,' she said quickly. But you left " Byron " behind.' I know ; I remembered I wanted to read something in it myself.' He swung her out of the chair. Is there any lunch? I'm starved.' It seemed to Linda that no one in the world could be quite so wonderful as Roger, who had never really died at all. She laughed and put her arms round his neck. I'd killed you off, darling,' she said, so there isn't anything fit to eat. But come on, and we'll make an omelette.' ' We'll have a Resurrection feast,' announced Roger, with a miraculous draught of sardines.' Laughing absurdly, they went into the kitchen. JOAN TORRENS.
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Question And why should I believe that poplar trees That wave in the wind and glitter in the sun, According to the wind's will and the sun's, Should hush their trembling at my lady's step ? If they have souls, what should they care for mine ? They are not sad with waiting for their pleasure, The air is always playing in their leaves— Their sun can woo them to a day-long kiss— What should they care for two such foolish creatures Who stand there hand in hand under their shade Gazing upon ideal loveliness Each in the other's eyes, and never leaning Nearer to touch the flesh that shrines their God ? They do not care. They do not notice us. And yet when she is gone, I hide my face In the cool grass at their feet, and clasp them round And feel that they have listened, and they know. Is she not lovelier than love itself ? They will say yes to the heart that asks for yes. And all the time they care no more for me Than for the moth that nestles in their bark Dreaming of darkness, and the light's white wonder. M. 0. MACADIE.
Spring in Autumn She had been kept later than usual tapping, tapping the office typewriter rewriting one of his endless business letters, with their ' dear sirs, we much regret that . . .,' dear sirs, re your letter of, etc.' She hated those vague ranks of business men, who would notice, it appeared, if she departed an inch from the ' correct formula.' To-day her mind would not concentrate, and repeatedly she had slipped into some silly mistake. He, Mr. Danby, who had taken her into the office out of kindness, he was patience personified, explaining each mistake to her at length as if to a child. She felt herself slipping back and back till she seemed to stand, no higher than the table, twisting nervous fingers in a dirty pinafore as she had done untold years before in front of her governess. That was long ago now, long before Father . . . . The clock on the office wall marked 1.13. She would have to run to catch her bus. She struggled into the worn brown coat, trying to hide a large baby-tear that had stupidly dropped on to her cheek and was rolling down to her chin. As she squashed a small strawberry hat over her greying hair the boss called out : By the by, Miss Pink, I find I shan't . . .' She
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had not time to listen to his words, but seizing up her bulging handbag and a sheaf of papers she hurried away from Danby, Trench and Sons ' and after the blue bus which was already drawing up further down the street. The two men waiting at the stop swung aboard quickly. She ran clumsily, vainly trying to attract the conductor's attention by waving her papers, but the bell rang with a sharp ping,' the bus gave two jerks and sailed swiftly off. For a moment Miss Pink was too breathless even to think : she paused to catch her breath hoping another Fenham bus would pass. Then her mind, disturbed from its groove, began to get flustered. She had never missed this bus before, she did not know how often they ran. Every ten minutes? Every quarter? Hope and doubt chased aimlessly through her mind as she stood waiting by the swinging sign. At last she made a dive and crossed the crowded street to the burly policeman on point duty. Fenham, ma'am?' He grinned condescendingly. Them Fenham buses passes here at the quarter past the hour,' then elucidatingly : the next one'll be by at 2. 15.' He prepared to loose the onward rush of traffic, but, pitying her as she stood helpless and perplexed, he added : If you didn't want to wait so long, Miss, I'd take a tram up to the Park gates. There's a lot of buses wait there that don't come this far in. That's your tram now, No. 5, just gone by—or a 5A will set you down almost there.' He waited till she was safely back on the pavement and then dropped his arm and sauntered across to another position in the road, while the cars, lorries and bicycles leapt forward like wild and hungry animals. At the Park gate Miss Pink threaded her way through various different buses—the vast red and green and yellow slugs from the suburbs and the rusty, paintless tin ones from the villages, but she could see none labelled for Fenham or that direction, and the conductors and drivers all stared at her so supercilliously that she did not dare to ask them. Finally, she went to the girl in the newspaper kiosk, who obligingly rustled through papers of a guide, with a damp forefinger, sucking her teeth. Mmno,' she shook her head. I doubt there's nothing going your way, not till 2.20. T'Saturday, y'see. Mmnop.' She re-licked her finger and studied a few more tables. Miss Pink grew more flustered. It was already quite half past one. Mother would be anxious, and then there was that speech for Mr. Danby, to be done by half past. Her shorthand notes were always indecipherable, so she had put off looking at it till Saturday, thinking there would be a nice long time over the week-end—and now he wanted it by five. The girl listened sympathetically. Miss Pink hardly realised she had been speaking aloud. Why now walk across the park ; it's not so very far I shouldn't think, not if you went straight across by the lake.' She came out of the kiosk to point the way with further minute directions.
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' It can't take so very long and you've got a lovely day, I must say ; more like April than October, isn't it?' She nodded cheerfully and went back to her novelette in The True Heart Series.' Miss Pink found herself obeying the girl's directions and trudging across the grass towards the pond. This was just like life : things were always going wrong. Bills being sent in a second time when their receipts were lost, Mother getting bad headaches, the general' burning the week's joint. But these repeated themselves so that their cure became part of the routine of existence. Here was a much worse trouble, a real mess. Dismal vistas were opened up, prospects of the speech being unfinished. Mr. Danby indignant, explaining just how kind he had been to employ her at all, and how inconsiderate she was, and how he really could not be expected to employ her any longer. She tried to imagine herself making stirring speeches in self-defence, but the knowledge that she had never yet dared to say more than y-yes, sir,' or no, sir' rather spoilt the picture. She saw ruin and starvation looming large ahead—angry tradespeople demanding payment, as they had done just after Father's death— when she had had to gather up her little courage and look for a job to eak out Mother's annuity. That seemed centuries ago, yet it was really only ten years. How hateful it had been at first doing the same thing day after day, instead of the variety of vicarage life with its girls' clubs, its sewing guilds, its calls from neighbouring clergy and its Sunday school trips to the sea. At first the work had seemed a slowly revolving wheel to which she was bound, a wretched victim to Necessity. Now, however, that the wheel in its revolution seemed likely to throw her off, she clung to it desperately. The only pleasant thing had been the hope—now shaken— that a time would come when she should be able to retire on an annuity or old age pension, like Mother, to wait in patient leisure till she should be pensioned off for eternity. She shivered slightly at the thought of death, for she had been brought up to regard it with proper respect. All the same it was very hot walking so, fast : she had covered quite a stretch of park, and was already alongside the pond. It was quite surprising how warm it was to-day. Autumn had come exceptionally early this year, and this spring-like day seemed to be thrown in now as a make-weight. The sun slid through an almost white sky with only a fringe of milky clouds hanging over the houses that edged the park. It was a glorious day, if only she had not been in such a hurry. She paused at the next seat to change the handbag over into the other hand, and as she did so the bundle of papers slipped from under her arm, and she had to sit down to tie them up again. It was very peaceful there. The park was almost deserted, for the pram-population and their chattering attendants were all at lunch. The beds of evergreen shrubs threw patches of pale shade on to the yellow path. The only movements were a
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tiny breeze that sometimes lifted a leaf or ruffled the rushes on the edge O. the pond, and a proud swan that gently rode the water staring at its reflection in that steel-blue mirror. Miss Pink was hardly conscious of all this except as a quiet influence stilling her agitated mind. Presently, however, a cry of distress roused her. A little ragged boy and his wooden scooter lay in a mixed heap in the middle of the path. By the time Miss Pink reached him the boy had picked himself up and was trying to mend his broken toy, but the two bits would not both stay in position so that he could push them together. She watched him fumbling and at last ventured to murmur : Can't—mayn't I help ? ' The boy silently held the bits towards her and waited patiently while she tried to mend them. His rust-coloured head gradually approached closer and closer. He was not clean : indeed, Miss Pink decided, he was distinctly dirty, but, though she shuddered slightly at first, by the time they had jointly mended the scooter she found herself interested in this stolid creature who showed no emotion at all. But the boy did not wait to be questioned or even to say thank you, but scooted off earnestly, leaving Miss Pink feeling as unimportant as the path he scooted over. Nevertheless she hurried round the next bend to see that her handiwork was really satisfactory. It was not. In a few minutes there had been another collapse. By this time and the subsequent times a big sister in charge of several other children was there to mend it in a deft way that showed she was accustomed. ' No wonder he's so nonchalant,' laughed Miss Pink to herself, ' I must see how often it happens.' It meant going slowly in order not to overtake them at each stoppage, but she had forgotten her hurry, or when she did remember it was only to add hastily to herself that it would be a mistake to hurry in such warm sun. Typewriting would be impossible if she was hot and flurried and . . . it was too lovely a day to go indoors yet. It was years since she had noticed the weather at all except to put on or take off an extra woollen spencer or jersey coat. To-day it reminded her of tennis parties at the Vicarage when she had played with the curate on that extraordinarily bumpy vicarage court, overhung by a vast chestnut tree. It was a slightly tragic, slightly sickly sentimental memory, and rather pleasant to indulge in just once in a way. He had become a missionary in Somaliland. Miss Pink had just reached the scene of this first and only visit to this old parish when she recognised the gates where she should turn out into Briar Road ; but it is impossible to go over sugary memories while pressing along crowded pavements. She turned her eyes in the other direction and strolled on—just a short way—to make sure the little boy had not really hurt himself. When the children stopped to play in a sand pit she stopped too, and
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sat down on a seat beside an elderly woman dressed in black from bonnet to boots, who was knitting a coarse black stocking. She felt quite young beside this dowdy creature with bugled bonnet, wispy grey hair and sprouting beard, and even found herself beginning to giggle at the gloomy prophecies she uttered in a deep voice to no one in particular. Time was non-existent while she sat by the old woman. Whenever her conscience gnawed her with recollections of the speech she thrust it away and sat on not caring, watching the sand castles that rose and were knocked down, watching the black stocking grow gradually longer. At last the clouds came up over the sun, and with a sudden pang of chill and hunger she remembered that she had had no lunch and it must be nearly four. Four o'clock ! and in an hour she was supposed to be at Mr. Danby's house with the typed speech ready. She had let herself in for it now. ' I'm sorry,' she would have to say, I'm afraid I have not done the speech because I was sitting in the Park.' Mr. Danby would turn rather pale about the neck then, and would be very kind in explaining how it was his time she had wasted and not her own ; then he would politely tell her that her services could be dispensed with,' and then he would repeat it all over again to her in several different ways, without giving her time to get in another word. But had the old woman been a witch, or had she knitted up all Miss Pink's conscience into her block stocking ? Somehow the prospect no longer seemed appalling, but rather a relief. ' After all, it's not as if Mother were really dependant on me,' she thought, I've only myself to think about.' Any old job would be enough to keep her from starvation. She pictured herself as a shop-girl selling black woollen stockings ; as a nurse-maid looking after a little boy with rust-coloured hair ; or even becoming a tramp. She had once planned a walking tour in the Shakespeare country ; now if she had to become a tramp she would see it at last. She looked forward almost with pleasure to this last interview which was to give her her freedom. At last she would have plenty of time to sit about in the park watching children and the birds. She hurried back down the path and up Briar Road into Shakespeare Avenue, longing to tell her mother or anybody about the walk, the sun, the children and the old woman. Her excitement made her shake so much that the latchkey scratched all round the lock before it finally slipped in and turned. She burst joyfully into the tiny sitting-room, where her mother sat over a hot fire drinking tea and reading Home Chat. She hardly looked up. Oh, Mother, I've had a heavenly time. I've— ' Is that you, Maud, dear? Would you shut the front door—there's such a draught. You lunched in town, I suppose? No? Well, well. You'd better have tea quickly. Mr. Danby's been looking for you ; sent his
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chauffeur up with a note. You'll find it on the hall table. I looked at it in case it was important. He says you're to go to him at 9 o'clock to-night instead of 5—or was it 6—anyway, you'll see. Is that tea very cold ? No, don't ring, dear, I sent Daisy out to the post. You better bring in the ham.' The flow trailed away as she settled her plump body more comfortably in the deep armchair and absorbed herself again in Sick Room Hints.' Half-an-hour later Miss Pink was crouched over her little typewriter in the fireless dining-room—tap-tap-tap-tap—' the essential policy of refreshment,' no, perhaps the word was retrenchment.' She bent closely over her hieroglyphics, but she could not be sure. She did not understand what this speech was about. She was cold and got up to shut the window. How the world had changed in the last hour. The sun had gone and it was dusk now, and rows of lamps gleamed on either side of the road. A crowd of girls and men came past giggling ; somewhere a child was crying in a tiresome unending wail. A rising wind came gustily round the corner ; she could hear it swirling the dead leaves and rattling the ill-fitting windows. The brief spring afternoon had gone for ever. Spring in. Autumn is only a trick, and, like all tricks, leaves behind it a feeling of having been cheated. Miss Pink went slowly back to her work. The flame of the afternoon had died and again she was middle-aged and tired. It was autumn now. H. D. BOSANQUET.
Resolution Let us be sure of this before the rest : Let us be certain that we know each other, That in a reality we do not seek to smother Some phantom loveliness we've not confessed. Like her who cried once with a sudden fear That she should be beloved for love alone, And not for some elusive grace be dear Which suddenly laughs and is as swiftly gone ; Let's build a certainty devised so high Time will not trouble it, a tower found Not upon shining sand, nor a bird's cry Waking to the dawn, but upon some steadfast ground More constant than the chances of the mind And fugitive delights. 0 let us find In this uncertainty some certain pledge Change will be left behind. Let there be truth in this story we are telling Surer than the revelation of a sudden joy, Lest between you and me there should lie the ghost of a Helen And you should be lost in the tumbling towers of Troy.
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The Story Anne was thinking about her home—the big house near, the Heath, which she, the wife of the celebrated writer, Guy Lawrence, was going to run so perfectly ; where she would give dinner parties to the other celebrities that should be the talk of London, and At Homes to which all the ' interesting ' men of the day would come to talk Froust and O'Neill; the temple of her idol, where she would be at once high priest, worshipper and slave. She knew every room by heart, even to the hangings of Stuart needlework linen in the lounge. Of course, as yet the beautiful house was not a thing of fact ; Guy was not famous yet, nor was she his wife. But her dreams were none the less confident for that ! for Guy, she knew, had genius ; and he loved her. He had never said so in words ; but when the stillness of realisation came upon her, flooding her being with wonder at the miracle which had changed ' Cousin Guy,' her adored tyrant, intoGuy—then she knew that the same stillness was in Guy's heart. And then she would close her eyes and run it all over again, dwelling on the outstanding and beautiful episodes as if telling it to a willing listener. Her cousin Guy was eight years older than she was, and they had lived all their lives in the same village on the Norfolk coast. From babyhood she had been his worshipper, content to follow his lead in everything ; a breathless listener to his youthful bragging ; deeply honoured when, on rare occasions and under vows of strictest secrecy, he read to her his latest tragedy or epic. When he was eighteen, and about to leave school, his father died, and his death cut short Guy's dream of Oxford. Ten-year-old Anne scarcely knew what Oxford meant, but she felt a sense of outrage when she heard that a friend of Guy's father was going to take him into his business, and invented a thousand plans to get a heap of gold and throw it at Guy's feet so that he could go to Oxford. Sometimes, lying wakeful, she wondered if she could sell herself into slavery, or sell her soul to the devil. She said the Lord's Prayer backwards very distinctly ; but then fear seized her and she shut her eyes tightly so that she should not see the devil. When she opened them he had gone. . . . She hated herself for days for being too great a coward to get Guy the money to go to Oxford. . . . Three years later Guy's employer sent him to Spain. His long absences and rare, brief visits home endued him, in Anne's eyes, with a halo of romantic mystery—Guy was always strangely reticent about his life in Spain. As she grew older she wondered sometimes why she both longed for and feared his home-comings ; why his departure left her with a sense of failure and disappointment. Sometimes he treated her as grown-up ; talked to her about his writing, and even asked her opinion. That should have made her happy, but somehow it didn't. It was not what she
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wanted. It was not until she was nineteen that she began to wonder if she were in love with Guy ; and not till a year later, when he came home for good, that she knew that she was, and he with her. People wondered often, as people will, why Guy delayed so long in proposing to Anne. But she did not mind. What need was there for a proposal—what need for love-making? She remembered what Sacha Guitry said about himself and Yvonne Printemps ' We talk of everything else, and we feel in love,' and hugged the saying in her mind, loving it for its truth. She knew'when she and Guy were together, though they talked notYng but literary criticism and never so much as touched hands, that the air was sonorous with passionate, unheard harmonies of the Song of Songs. And yet . . . Her thoughts to-night were a little wistful as she passed through the rooms of the dream-house, one by one. The master for whom that house was to be so beautiful was not to be her god only, but her husband and her dear love. With a tenderness that was half passion she thought how she loved his dear, plain face, his pale, tanned skin and straight, fine hair, and the fine wrinkles round his eyes when he laughed. The god of her idolatry and her beloved little boy. No—her happiness was not complete yet. But Guy was coming to-night, and then . . . perhaps . . . Anne sprang from her chair with crimson cheeks. Waiting to be proposed to, like a Victorian miss,' she told her reflection furiously. But the radiant face in the mirror told her triumphantly, ' Of course I am. I am a woman to-night, and more beautiful than ever in my life before.' Her heart was pounding and her knees trembling as she sat down again by the window. It was a wild night, even for January. Perhaps he wouldn't come. From his home to her's was a long, cold walk over the cliffs, and the rain was beating down. Of course she couldn't expect him to-night. . . . He was turning into the gate. Guy—my dear ! ' Now he was talking to Mother in the hall. Of course Mother would leave them alone—she always did. Why, Guy, how nice of you to come on a wild night like this ! ' Anne, I had to come. I want to talk to you.' You sit in Father's chair, then, and I'll sit on the humpty, and we'll be comfy.' (Soon, soon, to sit at his feet for ever ! She would love to rest her head on his knee, but she must not—yet. Be quiet, hear !) Silence for a few moments. The glowing coals were the House Beautiful, and the leaping flames danced to the measure of the Song of Songs. I'm in a little bit of a muddle, Nancy, and I must talk it out with you to get it straight.' He had not called her Nancy for ten years. ' It's about—a story. I've got it so far, and now I'm in a muddle and can't think how to finish it.'
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' Guy You came all through the rain and cold just to talk about a story? Is it—your big story?' ' Yes ; my big story. And nobody but you can help me to finish it. Will you listen to just the outline of it as far as it has gone? And then tell me what you think?' ' Why, of course, Guy.' The House Beautiful crumbled away : the flames forgot to dance to the Song of Songs. She remembered how, long ago, Guy used to talk to her just like this, and she had not known why she felt empty and disappointed. She knew now that to be Guy's inspiration was not enough—she wanted him to love her. Was it possible that he . . . didn't love her? A momentary fear tore at her heart, but she put it away with scorn. She thought resolutely : ' We talk of everything else, and we feet in love.' Half turning, she watched the firelight playing on his face. He looked tired and heavy-eyed ; his voice, even, sounded different. Perhaps he had been sleeping badly, or overworking. Or perhaps he had caught cold. She looked at him with grave blue eyes. He caught the look, and laid his hand on her bright hair with a smile. At once she was full of self-reproach. Of course his great book mattered more than anything else. He was working on it late at night, making himself ill, worrying because it was not going well. She must stifle the rebellious feeling in her mind. ' Go on, Guy.' ' Well, I'll make it as lively as I can. You see, the hero goes away from England when he is quite a young man and totally inexperienced. While he is in—in Italy, he becomes infatuated with a pretty peasant girl, and marries her secretly, fearing opposition from his people and his employer. He is idyllically happy, just for a few weeks ; then he finds that his wife is given to fits of violent rage. Not long after he learns the truth —she is insane. Horrified, he leaves her ; makes arrangements for an allowance to be made to her. She writes to him begging him to return, again and again, but he is determined never to see her again. He tries to divorce her, but he cannot prove her unfaithful. His brief infatuation is completely killed, but he has to go through life with this terrible burden— a double burden when, after his return to England, he falls deeply in love with a young girl who, he believes, returns his feelings. He dare not speak to her, though she is the one true love of his life. Then he receives a message from his wife's brother—she is dead, and he is—free ! At last he can show his love ; he is on the point of asking her to marry him, when an anonymous note with an Italian postmark is sent to him : "Are you sure that your wife is dead? " He makes a hasty journey back to the village where he was married. His wife is there — alive, living with her brother. It was he who invented the false report of her death and afterwards sent the anonymous letter ; both with the same idea—blackmail. The woman is sunk in hopeless imbecility, and the brother is willing to
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keep the secret—at a price. In horror, he pays the hush-money agreed on.' There was a pause. And there I stick,' said Guy presently. Now, what am I to do, Anne? I want you to tell me how you think I ought to end it.' Anne was not thinking very hard. She was thinking how she loved the touch of Guy's hand on her hair, and wishing and wishing that Guy would stop talking about his old problem story and take her in his arms. Neither spoke for a long time. Guy was thinking hard—frowning a little —all about a story, Anne thought suddenly, with a wild rush of tears that pricked her eyes and hurt her throat. ' Oh, Guy—my dearest dear . . ! ' Anne ' Had he seen her tears? She blinked them away and forced herself to think. Well, of course, you have put him in a terrible dilemma. He can't go back to his wife, and he can't marry the girl in England.' He could marry her, Anne.' You mean and trust that nothing would ever come out? But Guy—if you ended it that way—' Yes? ' (very eagerly). It wouldn't have to end there. You would have to tell of the shame and guilt he would feel more and more, the remorse for the deceived woman who was not his wife, the fear that exposure must come some day, the horror of it all.' But, Anne, why should he feel either guilt or remorse? Surely the contract between him and that dreadful creature is not binding in the right of God ? Hasn't he a right to build up happiness on the ruins of her youth ? ' Guy, it wouldn't be happiness.' Then, hasn't he the right to—love? ' Guy, you must see that he has no right.' Then how am I going to end it? ' A little impatient devil peeped up in Anne's heart. She gave a quavering little laugh that turned out a giggle : Can't you make him commit suicide? An easy way out for him and you too.' Suicide,' said Guy. Damn good idea. I hadn't thought of that.' (` Oh, Guy, what does he matter when there's you and me—you and me, Guy ? ') Guy stood up. He did look tired. With a quick pang of tenderness she wanted to draw him down beside her, make him rest his head on her bosom and stay there out of the storm for ever. I must go,' he said. Must you—already?' She meant : Why are you going away from me? I want you, my dearest, I want you.'
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FRITILLARY But all she said, in a frozen, polite voice, was : That ought to be a good story. You must let me read it when you get it finished.' And Guy only said : Yes, I am going to finish it now, and then you shall read it. Goodbye, Nancy.' When he had gone she laid her head on her arms and cried and cried because Guy had not kissed her. It was a pale, cold, bright day when they buried Guy Lawrence. The mourners would not be back yet, and Anne sat huddled by the fire with closed eyes and quivering breath, reading the story that Guy had written. She scanned in her mind the hurried feet at the door, late on the night when Guy had not kissed her ; the whispering ; mother, with scared eyes, telling her that Guy, going home over the cliffs that night, had missed his way in the dark and . . . . The sensation that had shaken all the family when her father, going through his dead nephew's papers, had found .a bundle of letters—misspelt scraws in bad English, in a woman's hand, and at the bottom of the pile a letter announcing the death of his wife. Guy had never told anyone that he had been married in Spain. The inquest. She had to give evidence, the last person who ever saw Guy alive. Did he seem morbid or depressed? ' ' No.' Had he any worries that you knew of ? ' ' Not real ones. He was working on a book which wasn't going well.' What did he talk about on that night?' About the story. We talked it over and he said he was going home to finish it.' (Going—home? I am going to finish it now.') He said nothing and hinted nothing about suicide? ' No.' (` Damn good idea—I never thought of that.') Accidental Death. Home. People talking in subdued voices. Tears—not her own. Mother's voice : You're a little feverish with the shock, dear. You'd better not go to the funeral. Try to get some sleep.' Alone at last, reading Guy's story. I am going to finish it now, and then you shall read it. Going to finish it now He had finished it : she had made him finish it. The door opened, and her mother came in. Mother, I pushed him over. I pushed him over, Mother.' Clearly she was feverish, for everyone knew that Anne Lawrence was in her mother's drawing-room when her cousin Guy fell over Sheve Cliff in the dark.
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A Modern Fable A CERTAIN MAN set out upon a journey ; But e'er he parted He called to him his seven children, Polonius, tall and strong, and tender Rose, Rudolphus, long of leg and lank of neck, Gypsophila, the flapper, and naughty Lucifer, Praxinue, charming in the fresh glow of simple girlhood, And little Nick. And giving them his benison He promised them that in a little while He would return. Till then they must outstrive each other To live in peace and favour with mankind, And daily to perform Acts of Christian kindliness and love. If thus they laboured to perform their duty, He, on his return, Would on each and every one who thus had striven A gift bestow. THE TRAIN steamed out with fearful rush and roar, The timbers shivered, and the bookstall shutters Clattered with awful doom-foretelling clang, As the great steel-intestined monster Hastened on oblivious, To its all-relentless destiny. THE FIRST EDITIONS of the morning papers Announced the train-smash to an unheeding world, Which, though appall'd at the disaster, Pursued its work and play, and soon forgot, Forgot The pictures of that bloody morn— The smashed and twisted iron-work, The scorched and blackened corpses— The horrors they had seen Printed in all the illustrated Dailies, And shown in all the cinemas Among the milit'ry reviews and football matches, One item of the News Gazette. YET DEATH, The dark and sinister angel, Had visited full many a home, Had stol'n the bridegroom from the bride, The children from their mother's lap, The father from the well-loved family circle. And behind the closed shutters Of a small suburban sitting-room, Sit in solemn family conclave. Polonius, Rose, Rudolphus and Gypsophila, Praxinoe beside her brother Lucifer,
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FRITILLARY And, dressed in new and horrible black trousers, Little Nick. IN DEEP AND SOMBRE MOURNING though arrayed, These boys and girls, undutiful, ungrateful offspring, Devote scant time to tearful recollections Of the Departed, How he had lived and rash conjectures How he had died. No, for a more important question is at hand. Their father was a reader Of Britain's widest read and most commercialised newspaper, And they must now decide—at least they choose to do so now, Now when the corpse is dripping red with blood With eighty others in the Mortuary— How they all may with greatest value spend TEN THOUSAND POUNDS. MORAL (if any). If you should meet with accidents At thoughts of death you will not quail If you have had the common-sense To read THE DAILY TALE. M.M .M.
Clerihews BEDE. The Venerable Bede Did nothing but read And translate what he read Until he was dead. OSWOLD AND GRIMM. The geteaffulla Oswold Believed all that he was told— Luckily for him No one knew about Grimm. SWEET. I will not repeat What people say about Sweet, For he is a man That I forget when I can. EADGIFU. The aenlice Eadgifu Did what she wished to do And no one could turn her From her purpose—not even Verner. A IDAN. Said Aidan to Aelfric, ' If ever you come to EferwicAnd I hope you will come— Remember to change at Basengum.'
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Competition Fritillary offers .a prize of half a guinea for the best Clerihew received on or before Monday, November 3rd. Clerihews should be sent to the College representatives or the Editor, each one being accompanied by an entrance fee of 3d. There is no limit to the number of Clerihews which any one person may submit. The Editor's decision is final, and the Editor and Committee reserve the right to publish any of the Clerihews received.
Games News HOCKEY. The fact that we still have nine old Blues up gives one a certain feeling of confidence (though the large number of promising First Years may not fill the old Blues with an equal feeling of personal confidence. As usual, there is a superfluity of backs among the First Year, but of the forwards, Chappel, Leitch and Lucas (Somerville) are specially noteworthy. Burton (Malvern Girls' College and St. Hugh's) makes a very promising goal and appears up to county standard. Among the more important matches we have to look forward to playing Bedford P.T.C., East Gloucester and Cheltenham School. The Cambridge match (away) is on February 28th. M. K. BEATTIE. LADY MARGARET HALL. LACROSSE. The Hall was relieved and glad this year to welcome a great many new Lacrosse players, nearly twenty in all. Relieved, because though the Hall has had its fair percentage of Blues in the last two or three years, the total number of players has been very small. This year's Freshers are all keen, and the average standard of play is fairly high. We are lucky to have secured the services of E. Ross, who played centre for Wycombe last year, and also of K. Edwardes, who, in addition to playing for Wycombe some years ago, has also had the advantage of playing for as good a club as Putney Ladies. These two, with the Blues of last season, should form the nucleus of a far stronger team than the Hall has been for many years. UNIVERSITY FIXTURES. Among the most interesting matches to be played this season are (this term) those with Yorkshire L.L.A. and Kent L.L.A., and (next term) those with Boxmoor L.L.C. and Putney Ladies. The Cambridge match, also next term, will be played here.
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