COMMITTEE.
Editor: O. SioviN.
JEAN
Treasurer: JOAN YEANLEE.
Third Year Representative: C. VouNG. Second Year Representative: S. BANNING. First Year :Representative: M.TuLL.
THE CYGNET MARCH, 1936
Editorial
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HE other day the Editor gazed at the Cygnet smirking down at its long nervous neck, and the reason for its reputation as ' a misbegotten bird ' flashed upon her mind (a reputation which so far past and present Editors have suffered with patient bravado). Clothes make Man, Woman, and Bird. How then could those atoms of the soul of the Universe not remain palpably obscure within the Cygnet's breast, when its outward and visible form was so crudely clad. The Cygnet needed treatment to shake from it its defensive pose of conscious modesty. So the Committee was convoked. The Cygnet, under the skilled hands of Miss Llewellyn-Smith, was given an intensive physical and psychological massage, and set on its feet arrayed with fit insignia and office. Never again may it forget its origin and high calling. Commendation will be welcomed and criticism considered as to its new merits. Yet surely the change, in this Jubilee Year, already shows justification. One example will suffice. At last the salt of controversy has savoured the following pages, making the muscle ripple under the Cygnet's newlypreened feathers, the bosom swell, and the eye gleam fearlessly. The all-important question of the Position of Woman in the Modern World has been broached. The Editor was taking up her pen to reply to Miss Palmer's indignant outburst (may the Editor suggest that she relate the facts to her feelings) , when a piece of foolscap was slipped among the other contributions : ' A Plea for the Inequality of the Sexes.' The Editor read it, and quietly laid down her pen. Readers can take their choice without Editorial interference between two views of the Modern Woman — the Loving Wife or the Female Man. There may be a golden mean.
Transition And now no more— The door has opened and let loose all my store Of heaped-up treasure, And the sweet pain of passing separation Will not come again. And so no more ; The door has opened and the wind has blown And scattered all my joys upon the floor. In vain I kneel, to gather them again Into a golden store ; They whirl about me, in aching brightness rise Before my eyes, And now are gone. The wind of life has blown And left me, kneeling there, With empty hands, alone.
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The rain was coming down in jagged slashes on the window-pane. Lucy Tettiton, who had been sitting for half an hour in a very correct chair, toying with a book, decided that no one would call now, and she could make herself comfortable. This ' At Home' idea was silly, anyway. Because it was the third Thursday in the month, she had to waste a whole afternoon, sitting idly in the drawing-room, available for the refreshment and conversation of Mrs. Lemon, Miss Agatha Lemon, and Mrs. Briggs, with her daughters, Faith, Hope and Charity— not to speak of Dr. Peptone's wife and Mrs. Snooks, the Vicar's lady. Arthur's socks were in such a state, too, and Christine's blouse needed mending — and there was that essential patch to be put on Freddie's jacket . . . If she could get something done now, she could go up to Town next day to see her great friend, Doris Nenniton, and her conscience would be clear. The wintry dusk was falling, as she pulled the curtains over the bay window, and settled down in a comfortable chair near the fire. Out came the disreputable darning basket. Balls of wool were scattered over the rug. Lucy Tettiton wore an intense frown of concentration as she set to work on a sock. She thought how fortunate it was that the weather should be so bad— a real blessing. If she had had to entertain anyone, not only would it have been a wasted afternoon, but a disastrous one. Disastrous ! she thought, as she began to thread in and out the lines of grey wool, for Mary's baking had failed miserably this morning, and they had had to buy cakes at the village shop. Mrs. Lemon and Mrs. Peptone disliked bought cakes. For them nothing that was not home-made bore the hall-mark of respectability. But the children love them,' she thought, negotiating two threads that had become twisted. Even as she disentangled the threads, the door-bell rang. Mary answered it, and, with a chill of horror, Lucy recognised Mrs. Lemon's voice. She hurriedly bundled the sock into the basket, pricking her fingers as she did so. Mrs. Lemon must not see the debris — and Mary would be put out at having to get tea after all. Oh, clear ! she thought, grabbing stray balls of wool, and pushing the whole lot under her chair. Mary flung open the door, and, in a gruff voice which boded ill for Lucy's peace of mind, announced : Mrs. Lemon, Miss Agatha Lemon.' Self-evident,' thought Lucy, advancing politely, words of welcome on her lips. How kind of them to brave the weather ! She hoped they were not wet. Would they not come nearer the fire' You look flushed,' said Mrs. Lemon brusquely. Sit down, Agatha. Well ! Well !' It is a wet day, certainly, but I said to myself, I didn't see Mrs. Nenniton last Thursday at Amelia Snook's, so I'd better call to-dayjust for a few minutes—only a few minutes, the weather's so bad. But I had to be the first to tell you the news— ' The door-bell rang again. Lucy's heart sank. She distinguished Mrs. Briggs' voice, and the subdued tones of Faith, Hope and Charity. To tell you the news,' repeated Mrs. Lemon, quickly and aggressively — Mrs. Catkin has had twins.' At that moment Mrs. Briggs and the Misses Briggs were announced. Mrs. Briggs hurried forward, marshalling her daughters. Her face fell at the sight of Mrs. Lemon. ' Oh, my dear, so you have had callers. It was such a wet afternoon, I felt sure you would be moping by yourself, so the chicks and I came round to cheer you up. Just imagine,' she lowered her voice and dissociated
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Just imagine the news ! Mrs. Catkin has had
twins ! There came yet a third ring as she spoke, and while Lucy was arranging the four Briggs, Mrs. Peptone and Mrs. Snooks were announced. Both were effusive. It appeared that Mrs. Snooks had called for Mrs. Peptone, and had insisted on her braving the weather, in order to lighten the gloom which a solitary afternoon would undoubtedly cast on dear Mrs. Tettiton. Besides, they had news The ladies sat round rather uncomfortably. Poor Mrs. Tettiton ; I suppose you thought the awful weather would keep us away,' said Mrs. Snooks, making conversation brightly. But, you see, your patience is rewarded : we have all come.' ' What is under that chair? ' demanded Mrs. Lemon abruptly —she hated untidiness. ' Oh, I'm sure there can't be anything,' said Lucy, with forced calm. Unfortunately, the cat had entered unnoticed with Mrs. Peptone and Mrs. Snooks, and now, as if with malice aforethought, it produced a sock and a ball of wool, and started playing with them before the horrified gaze of twenty eyes. There is something under that chair,' announced Mrs. Lemon grimly. There was only one thing to do. Lucy lied valiantly. Mary must have put them there. She would really have to make a change, but maids were so hard to get . . . At that moment Mary entered with the tea, and the all-too-conspicuous cakes . . . Wretchedly Lucy wished that something dynamic would happen. But nothing happened. The ladies ate daintily, in disapproving silence. The brightest cakes blushed in vain upon the cake-stand. Abandoned, their colours seemed cruder . . . To Lucy it was as though slow ages passed before they began to make their farewells. Mrs. Lemon stayed the last, accompanied by the mute Agatha, and made too pointed remarks on the conduct of maids in general. At last she went. For a second, Lucy contemplated finishing the sock. But Arthur's key was heard in the latch. He came in, smiling. Hullo, dear ! You like gossip, I know. I've got some news for you— bet you can't guess what it is ! ' Mrs. Catkin has had twins,' said Lucy desolately. Why, yes—how did you know? Will Catkin told me in the train to-night—they'd only just •phoned the office. Why, what's the matter ? ' as Lucy burst into tears. I thought you'd like to be the first to hear the news.' R. E. TAYLOR.
Litany Now am I come to the crossing of three ways, to the dark shadowland between memory and forgetfulness, to the choice between memory that is anguish and forgetfulness that is mere lethargy of oblivion, to the choice between life that is death and death that can never be life, life and death and the half-state, being that is not being, living that is not living, animal reaction blind, unreasoning belief, life that is not life, acceptance.
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Save me, 0 Lord, from acceptance, from senseless degeneration into brute, the mark of the beast, deliver me from the final degradation of not knowing my success bitter failure, keep me alive, 0 Lord, though it be but to suffer, keep me alive though it be for my undoing, that I may remain conscious of self, conscious of sin, conscious of death, hell and torment, but let me not come to the half-state, to the snare of the tempter, the death of the spirit, the power of the dog, life that is not life, acceptance. From life that is not life, success that is failure, content that is no longer ecstasy, from pride and self-confidence, easy forgetfulness, perfect self-mastery, knowledge that is not understanding, wisdom that knows not humility, from easy dreams by night and :a clear conscience by day, from release from the lusts of the flesh, the lusts of the soul, the lusts of the spirit, life that is not life, acceptance, Good Lord, deliver W. M. F . . . . but do not deliver me from Thee. Mood . . . And where the burnt splendour of a failing fire And the long dreams that end yet never die And the old hapless misery That wracked my days are dead. A dumb desire. To know you and be known, a happiness That was in yielding to a dearer name Than Love ; a seeking flame, A love that killed and cried aloud In the waste places of a desert soul ; So was I then ; and now the new Unchanging old, the hound of distant years, Unleashed upon my heart — the formless fears A nd the dead lies that rising yet are true : So — yet we never seek ourselves Or search —ourselves that are the weak Unhappy sport of tides that mock our tears. .
A Plea for the Inequality of the Sexes The question of the admission of women to the Union, in all its phases from the tea-room to the floor of the debating hall, has called forth much discussion of the Equal Rights of Women. Although I claim no originality for my theme, I make no apology for stressing what seems to me an important point of view.
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My protest is not against the demand for Equality, but against the usual interpretation put upon it. I deplore the materialistic outlook which is due to the economic troubles of the world. Equality of the sexes is too frequently taken to mean economic similarity. Women demand to be admitted on equal terms to what were formerly considered male professions. There is no similar demand for the admission of men to female professions. This alone tends to upset the economic balance. Some division of labour is essential ; it is impossible for all to do the same work. Hitherto there has always been division between the sexes. Agriculture, for instance, may be men's work or women's, according to the circumstances of the community ; but there are few jobs which fall equally to the lot of men and women in any one group of people. Those who protest against discrimination on the ground of sex would claim that, in our advanced civilization, the division should be purely intellectual. This theory, however, so long as physical and physiological differences exist between the sexes, can never be carried to its logical conclusion. It would seem, therefore, better to stop this advance towards ' equality ' before we have lost all the privileges that our sex has previously enjoyed. For, undoubtedly, what we gain on the swings, we lose on the roundabouts ; if we become man's equal economically, we lose all that remains of the chivalry and honour accorded to the weaker sex. Let us retain our weakness, for therein lies our strength. Is it not rightly said that the successful wife is one who rules her husband, while letting him think that he is ruling her? Let me make it clear by one example that my quarrel is not with the principle of ' Equal Rights,' but with the all-too-common interpretation of it. To protest against the Higher Education of Women would be to express ingratitude which I do not feel. But educated women will not add to the peace of the world by competing against men in overcrowded labour markets ; rather should their education enable them to offer intelligent companionship to their husbands. So far as the economic aspect of life is concerned, women should learn ' to labour and not to ask for any reward,' and since life has its other aspects too, they will not in the end go unrewarded.
Candidate I want a peeling of the moon To show the clouds the sky, I want the sun to show the mists How thick they lie. I wish a flame would light the smoke, The wind unblind the rain, And knowledge let my ignorance See itself plain.
Letter to the Editress of The Cygnet If anything could justify the recent outburst of a member of L.M.H. it is the bolts hurled at the Women's Debating Society in last term's Editorial. It would seem that woman is indeed a creature of feeble reasoning and ill-balanced feeling, that she is incapable of profiting from Oxford or contributing anything to it.
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I fully agree with the remark of last term's President of the Union that women are women's worst enemies. Women have even less idea of cooperation than the nations of Europe. (Please don't misunderstand me. I am not launching a passionate appeal for a United Front of Ardent Feminists !) Now that man is abandoning his antediluvian standpoint, woman steps in to fortify the position against herself. Alas for our belief in the innate common sense of feminine nature ! Alas for our attempts to provide women with a means of proving their capacity for something more than a very narrow specialisation, their capacity for independent action and intelligent discussion on matters affecting her as much as men. Repulsed by the parochialism of the average woman undergraduate, we have—the unkindest cut of all—been dashed down by illogical thunderings, not from the housewives of suburbia, but from the Editorial Chair. The maligners of women are vindicated. Women are not capable of rational argument—above all, not in Editorial paragraphs. Even if the writer holds that women, so far from being the potential equals of men, are not even capable of an inferior development for which the Debating Society affords an excellent opportunity, surely she is not so dense as to fail to see that in rejecting the assumptions on which our Society rests she is undermining the whole position of herself and other women undergraduates. To sum up my remarks, the Editorial article is the embodiment of the very qualities that are the curse of the world to-day — the inability to see beyond one's nose, illogical hysteria, the desire to suppress the freedom of those whose point of view one is incapable of comprehending etc etc. Might I suggest that in the future the Editorial article refrain from tilting at its own windmills, that it rise to a higher plane of thought and sentiment, and justify its claim to existence by reserving its fulminations for real abuses. Yours in sorrow, IRENE, PALMER,
President of the O.U. W.D.S.
Water Water, Transmuter, magician and sorcerer, What are your spells? Have you dissolved from the witches you've drowned Their arts And sucked from their parts The sound Of their incantations? Water Is best over grass in the hollows, When meadows in flood Wear silvery satin with willow fringe knotted, And feet Are clasped cool and sweet, And spotted With silver bell bubbles
THE CYGNET By the water As they tread on the grass in the hollows. 0 water, transmuter, Have you dissolved from the hearts of the drowned Their power To change in an hour The ground With their incantations?
The Song Softly it came Almost in silence, A breath from the lips of a bird. Grew to a murmur, low and vibrating, The passing of far-distant feet Over turf that trembles with-life, It hummed on the chords of my soul. Rising, swept wildly in curves Over the waters of thought, And shattered their mirror-like sleep With the rhythm of wind, That rushes to hideous tempests— Strong and free And terrible ; Joyfully licking the ripples, Till they dance and fly up to the clouds In torturing ecstasy ; Or fall, forgotten, Frightened and lonely, Lost in the land they have left. Now it beat steadily, Constant and biting, Beat on my senses, stinging With tang of the sea and the peat. Then calmer it floated Like grey cottage smoke, Stroking the stiff-swelling mist That wound its cold mantle about Round the shuddering keenness of night. Wailing, I felt it drift far . . . Sighing, still lower It sank, Leaving me only the bog-myrtle scent of the moor.
Complaint Boy on a bicycle Whistling so blithely, Piping so merrily Out-of-date dance-tunes, Jazz ' as it used to be Called in my childhood,
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THE CYGNET Could you but think of me Cursing you heartily, Longing to yell at you Out of the window — Boy ! Stop that whistling ! ' Is it through envy That I thus grudge it you Seeing the sky so blue, Trees budding purple too, Gazing out longingly, Soulfully, dismally, Trying to struggle through Pliny collections — Why should I grudge it you On such a day as this When even Banbury Road, in the sunlight looks Less residential ? Perhaps in your inner soul Strives a poetic urge Hymns to the spring to sing, ' Jazz ' though they may be — Yes, Why should I grudge it you Boy, on a glorious day,— Yes, I forgive it you . . . M.
Sonnet Thou Enchanter ! let thy low piping cease. Put by thy pipe whose cunning lures my heart Till, so enslaved, in vain I seek release . . . The haunting strain still holds me, rapt, apart. Begone, thou independent vagabond Whose eyes are full of the forgotten things And glinting laughter. To the seas and beyond Wouldst lead me, drawn on plucked strings. In blossom-laden orchards, sweet and cool, Down darkling ways, whose perfumed dust the lime Doth shadow . . . pass, a ripple on a pool, Spindrift thrown upon the shores of time. At morn a beckoning shadow dost thou pass, Whose sandalled feet, unseen, sweep through the grass.
• Indiscretion (At the Chinese Exhibition) . Girl in green What do you here Strolling abstracted Beneath the grave stare Of those who, meekly
THE CYGNET Dressed themselves, Must drink rich beauty From the shelves. Oh heedless one, Although you bring To human mews A flame of spring, Unconscious, these Do better frame Such strange art ; Put you to shame. Wrap your coat Around your daring, Yet you still have An air uncaring Swift betrayed, Though faultless black, By the green feather In your hat. Your challenge cannot Be subdued. But though at last Endangered are Pure, rich glaze From bowl and jar, Shadow line Caught by brush, Their perfect calm Can quietly crush As, with amaze, well bred They breathe : ' How rude.'
Obeah Anthony was writing a poem. Crouched over his desk he tried to beat it from his brain— The dead moon haunts me, Palely she Ghosts it on infinity . . . ' Outside a tropic sun beat down, not fierce as yet, on an earth just beginning to surrender its dew to the demanding rays. He hated the blinding blue of the sky, the startling red of the pomaana's blossoms, and the vibrant thrilling greens of the foliage. Shut in this room with blinds drawn darkly against the light, he was trying to recapture the cool beauty of a moon — not a tropic moon, that rich, self-conscious thing, but a pale English moon, the very spectre of a moon. A full voice spoke at his side— Massa, my day off.' That was Shem, his black. Curse the lazy fellow. Yes, get out, and stay out till dinner-time. How he envied him in a way — no feelings, no emotions, no reactions, pure animal instinct — playing in the sun, and food and work. Anthony could swear he lived more in a minute than Shem in a lifetime.
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Shem hobbled out of the house, and stood for a second in the warm welcoming air, taking the earth to him. He stuck a hibiscus behind his ear and, leaping the hedge, began to run across the cane-fields with long easy strides. At the far corner some men were awaiting him. They stood still and their faces were graver than was natural on such a day. Without a word the group moved off, marched over another field, and another, and yet another . . . They grew smaller in the distance ; they were only little black specks when they struck the belt of thick woodland, supposed impenetrable, and seldom, at any rate, attempted. Muddy marshland lay there, mosquitoes droned heavily above it, and strange insects crawled on a surface that shook as you walked. Alligators stuck log-like noses from the muddier parts. Thick ropes of tendrils swung from tree to tree. Except for the mosquitoes a silence as of the dead reigned, and it was too dark almost to see. Shem and his companions thrust their way heavily through the undergrowth. They seemed to know the way, to find a track where no track had been. Once a man stumbled with a cry, but the others took no notice and he recovered himself . . . At last they reached what seemed the central, and surely the thickest part, of the wood. There a strange sight met their eyes. Trees had been hacked down — recently it seemed. A clearing had been made, forced from the resistant nature. Around it stood a ring of surly figures, deep in silence. In the centre— a solitary tree, and a woman bound to it. Shem and his companions joined the ring. No one said anything,— but suddenly, at an unseen sign, they began to sway, to dance. Quicker and quicker, round and round, minute after minute, eternal monotony. And the woman hung limp and looked at the ground. The weird light that crept through the trees touched her black skin, her cheekbones, the curve of a knee. Her breast rose and fell, but not in fury. Here was resignation. Suddenly the dance stopped, as suddenly as it had begun. A tall negro stepped forth. A white cock was in one hand,— appeared from nowhere, a knife in the other. He gestured wildly, strangely, and swept its head from the beating body. As the blood dripped he dashed it in the girl's face, and with one mighty sweep plunged the dagger deep, deep in her breast. The circle broke, and silently they plunged once more into the undergrowth. The body of the girl, shadow in shadow, hung limply. Even the crows did not come here.
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A rich voice spoke by Anthony's side : Dinner ready, Busha.' Anthony was still writing his poem. ' Oh, Shem — lazy devil ! Had a good day ? How I envy your peaceful life. Pastoral, I call it ! ' LUCILLE PARKS.
Rebuke for Airs and Graces Listen at evening How the viols of beauty breathe Sounds and sweet airs, Where the green candlelight winds and stares. This is no tune, The crimson curl of subtle blood (Lips caressing malice) ; nor is Thought's leafy mesh the willowing fingers weave Beauty, —till glow within the eyes, From spring's strange furnace, rise.
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Spring To-day the world is made of light, Circling blue And. lark's songs splinter the glassy air. Behind the dappled pool of the glazed leaves Beings of infinite richness, Naiad and dryad and quivering salamander, Stir in their sharp, sour, waking dream. Gently flutters the almond tree, And under its ripe buds of hail There, amber-eyed, the unicorn Tosses his frail and fluted horn.
That is All . I said one afternoon in spring, ' A beech-tree is a lovely thing ! Do look at that one, there against that sky ! ' She said, I say, it's rather lush, Just listen to that jolly thrush ! ' I hated her — I really don't know why. There is a sunset I remember, About the middle of December, By far the loveliest sunset I have seen. I said as much. One glance she took, Then turned to me with radiant look' It's like a picture-postcard . . . sort of . . . you know what I mean.' At dinner when they brought the drink I asked her if she didn't think That Shakespeare films should never be allowed. ' Perhaps it's I who am to blame,' I said ; they never seem the same, Though stars of bright and fiery fame Have drawn full many a large admiring crowd.' She said, ' They're quite heretical. Well, Shakespeare's so poetical, And Hamlet, don't you think he's too divine ! Macbeth's a gorgeous thing you know, And look at Antony and Cleo.' (She idolizes Romeo And Juliet ; seen it several times and quotes it line by line.)
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THE CYGNET Du liebe zeit ! ' Of course I know it, That everyone can't be a poet— We have to wait for that till kingdom come. (One sits on fluffy clouds and sings, They say, with halo, harp, and wings.) You may or mayn't believe such things, The fact remains ; till then I think 'twere better we were dumb. M.
Dramatic Society The Dramatic Society this term has read Galsworthy's Escape' with Magdalen Society, and Gordon Dariot's ' Queen of 'Scots ' with the John Oldham Society. After much discussion and several trial readings, ' Twelfth Night ' has been chosen for performance in the College gardens next term.
Netball Club The Netball team has been tolerably active but has only carried off one victory, and that was against Wychwood School. Good games, with less good results, were played against Bedford, Westfield and King's Colleges, also against St. Hilary's in the final round of the Cup matches. M. K. James has won her colours and has been playing in the United Second VII ; she also acted as reserve in the Cambridge match. M. Long has also been playing for the United Second, and D. Sherwood has been captaining the First VII. K. Hardy, D. Spikes and M. A. Acaster have been useful members of the College team. Many thanks are due to Miss Salt for persuading the gardener to refrain from draining the greenhouse overflow on to the netball court.
Hockey Club In spite of the fact that a great many matches have had to be scratched this term, as it has often been impossible to raise a full team, we managed to beat L.M.H. in Clippers. We hope to be victorious over St. Hilary's, and so win the Cup for the third year running, although we are handicapped by the loss of our Captain, M. Stinton Swans have been awarded to : M. Gay, B. Gibbons, A. Pellew, M. Prosser, F. Scurfield, N. Shaw ; and ties to M. Collins, K. Hargreaves, W. Jones. N. C. SHAW (for M. Stinton). .
HOLYWELL PRESS, ALFRED STREET, OXFORD
CONSTITUTION OF THE COLLEGE MAGAZINE. i.—That the Magazine be called ' THE CYGNET. 2 .—That the officers of the Magazine shall be an Editor and a Treasurer, elected by the J.C.R., and an elected representative from each year. 3. — Contributions shall be accepted or refused by the decision of the
majority of the Committee, the Editor reserving the right of the casting vote. 4.—The Committee shall not be held responsible for any opinions expressed in the Magazine. 5. — Nothing of intrinsic merit shall be excluded on account of views
expressed therein. 6.—The anonymous character of contributions shall be respected when required. 7.—Contributions are eligible from the Senior and Junior Common Rooms, past and present. 8. — The Committee shall be empowered at their discretion to invite
contributions from anyone not a member of the College.