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COMMITTEE
Editor: LUCILLE PARKS.
Co-Editor and Treasurer : JOAN YEAXLEE.
Second Year Representative: R. E. TAYLOR.. ;First Year Representative: J. SUMMERS.
THE CYGNET JUNE, 1936 EDITORIAL HERE is a kind of Grandeur and Respect, which the meanest and most insignificant part of Mankind endeavour to procure in the little Circle of their Friends and Acquaintance.' Thus Mr. Addison in The Spectator, and we will have it that a prophet is not without honour even' in his own country, if he is deserving of it. So it is with no blush upon his countenance that the Cygnet emerges to-clay, and he has donned garments of a sober hue not in token of self-obeisance, nor even as a subtle compliment to the unhappy victims of Schools doomed to the melancholy sub-fuse. Their misfortune has of necessity robbed us of many a maturer point of view, but the rest of us have laboured gleefully, and (may we say?) manfully, making up in zeal for what they lack in judgment. It has been a most enjoyable term, and we owe happy memories to the Principal and Council who were so kind as to take us en masse to Stratford to see King Lear ' (surely a most trying experience for those in authority, and especially for the Bursar, who seemed to be everywhere at once, yet never too busy to exchange the most unhurried pleasantries). Then the Dramatic Society gave us a woodland evening with their Twelfth Night' in the College gardens, quite converting us to open-air production, more particularly because by that means we escape to some extent the horrible modern habit of starring' performers—a difficult achievement on a backcloth ' of Nature, when we see the actors in the round and an artificial posture is rendered the more glaringly so by her unconscious grace and dignity. The results of this happy term we may see in the Cygnet. We boast more than one parody on the affected and the strained ; our poets are as dreamy, but their ecstasies seem less bitter, and we have cheerfulness itself in Miss Diana McKenna's letter to the Editor. Once again numbers of men and women go down from the University to face a world that is very real, and very different from Oxford. Most of us have spent our three or four years wavering between work and play. Some have given up the greater part of their time to social contacts, political clubs, etc. Some have devoted themselves to their books to the exclusion of practically everything else. And hardly anyone is sure that she has followed the right course. Schooldays are over, when a carefully mapped-out plan, comfortably simple and rigidly clear, ordered our days and our lives. We have been accorded the gift of Reason, but alas ! Doubt ever follows close in its train. Happy is she who can see straight before her nose, but we do not envy her that happiness. Even if she never reaches her desired goal, we know she will have all the joy of labouring to reach it. But it is to those spirits, anxious but bewildered, so eager to go on the.path most suitable for them that they dare not choose for fear of choosing the wrong— it is to them that our sympathies go out. But to all we wish the best of luck in Schools, and a very happy and profitable Long Vacation. LUCILLE PARKS.
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PRIZES A prize of 3/- each has been awarded to the authors of :Prose: Summer Afternoon,' Idyll," A Letter to the Editor,' and the painful experiences (or lack of experience) of a young novelist. Poetry: ' Sonnet ' and Going to Bed.'
CORRESPONDENCE To the Editor of the Cygnet. MADAM,
I venture to address you concerning the recent verminous invasion of the collegiate buildings in which we both have the honour and privilege to reside. The undersigned recently took part in a nocturnal hunt for a lizard, alleged to inhabit the East Wing:. it is true that her investigations with a naked sword (kindly lent by Miss Manton) resulted in no discovery, but she was able to view the ravages committed by the monster on an unprotected bar of chocolate. She also learns from an authoritative quarter that official action has recently resulted in the capture of no less than fifteen mice, and, while personally having seen a black beetle in College, she is informed by Exhibitioners and other persons of undoubted probity, that this species of fauna swarms in the upper corridors and makes massed attacks on unwary washers in the second floor bathrooms. She therefore begs you to allow her to ventilate her opinion that no good purpose is served by a wavering attitude towards the menace, and that those who welcome or at least turn an indifferent eye to the advancing army of pests have the true interest neither of their college or their university at heart. Let them ponder the awful reality that although it is mice this time, next time it may be pink elephants. Trusting that this cry may find echo in many kindred hearts. I remain, etc., etc., Your obedient servant, DIANA MCKENNA.
IDYLL A MODERN STORY. He had married her because she was so ugly. But the wallpaper screamed at him. No. It's not difficult at all—a simple tale really. For when he had met her he had fallen deeply, wonderfully in love with her ugliness. She was not simply plain, or stark, or scraggy. Her every word, her every gesture, was the culmination, the superb climax of the hideous. She had brought the revolting to a high art, or, rather, it had been born again in her. It wasn't only that her mouth was slack, yet muscular, cruel yet loose. It wasn't only that her neck was tight and ridged like a snake's, or that her shoulders were aggressive. He had never seen such beautifully ugly toes. The thin hard crust of their nails fascinated him ; he wanted to carve them, exaggerating their knobbly knuckles, in shining black wood, high-polished till the light loved it and would not depart. The lean line of her hips, capable as a camel's, and as unhinged, kept his eyes on her. But best of all were her relentless platitudes. How she loved proverbs ! She
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weltered in them like a beetle in black mud. He thought of her in his homes his former mistress, which he had built up of slender beauty, of gossamer idleness, and brooding wishes, and he could not resist it. This seething, unclean mass of the perfection of the commonplace should sit, a ball of jet, in the midst of loveliness, and everything would preen itself about her, become more translucent, proud of the contrast. So they were married. And for six months—no, not happiness, not that, never that, but a sick fascination that was at once satisfactory and cloying, an exhilarating nausea, the exquisite agony of probing an indignant tooth. And then she grew tired of being adored and hated, caressed and battered, by him. She sought for some other emotion to fill her little soul, her little days. And became house-proud. He could refuse her nothing. Day by day he loved —or hated—her more, the effect was the same. At first she was content to move things about so that they might be 'Cosy," Comfortable," Warm,'Homey'oh, the pain of those words of hers, more potent than the serpents and toads that dropped from the mouth of the ugly princess of the fairy-tale. Life became a high-strung glory, an agony that could not be endured, yet grew 'fiercer and fiercer, soared higher and higher, and there was no relief. Each time that he re-entered this habitation of theirs, and saw a picture moved, or worse, replaced, when Goya hung by Greuze, when" he found moth-hungry orchids flung into glaring blue glass, or heard Gilbert and Sullivan following smartly on the pale heels of Debussy, he grinned deep with a fulness of—contented pain. But, she invaded his room. Not a study, not a sanctum, not a den, as she called it, not even a Holy of Holies in phrase if in effect. His Room. And she papered the walls. It wasn't even ugly. It wasn't commonplace. He couldn't place it, he couldn't escape it, and he couldn't live with it. It was pink—yet indescribable. No daisies, but it reminded him of all the daisies that ever were. If it had been a little more—this—it would have been beautiful and strange. If it had been a little more potent, a little more lacking, it would have been ugly. But that it should be just this•it was a maniac jest of the gods. She should never have been capable of this. Of a beautiful accident, perhaps. Of the hideous, the platitudinous, yes. But of the fantastic, no. So. He had married her because she was so ugly. And the wallpaper screamed at him.
GOOD MATERIAL It was not going to be so very easy, Aline decided, to write her great novel on Scottish country life. Of course, this was her first visit to Scotland, and in two days one couldn't really expect to have collected all the necessary material for a great, possibly a revolutionary, work of art. Besides, it was a hot summer day and she seemed to have walked a very long way in her search for a suitably romantic setting. Sitting on a dusty seat by the roadside, she gazed back along the road towards a cluster of cottages and the entrance gates of some large house half hidden among the trees, and kicked meditatively at a piece of orange-peel which lay curling dryly in the heat of the sun. On the whole, this seemed a suitable spot to be enshrined in words which should make her name famous among modern novelists. That house among the trees must be the ancestral home of some noble Scottish laird
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(she noted down ' laird ' on her scribbling pad as providing an excellent touch of local colour) who would stride forth in his kilt and plaid playing proudly upon his pipes. (Or was it his devoted retainers who played the pipes? She must make a note and find out.) An old woman in a dusty black dress, with a large deep-crowned hat perched on her grey hair, was pushing a pram along the road from the village. A fine country type, thought Aline, to trudge along the road with her grandchild on a day so hot that there was no sign of life in the cluster of cottages behind. But when the old woman reached the seat she too seemed to find it inviting, for she sank down upon it with a grateful sigh of Och ay, it's gey heartenin' tae hae a wee bit rest.' Then after a moment she bent over the child : Come on oot o' the pram, my duckie, and hae a wee seat on ma knee. He's a bonnie wee laddie, is he no? ' She added to Aline, as she lifted the child from his pram and sat stiffly down : He'll no be lang afore he's rinnin' roon, I'se warrant.' Yes, indeed,' remarked Aline politely, but somewhat vaguely. She simply must try to note down some of what the old woman was saying, but how on earth did one spell it? Perhaps she might be able to find out something about the owners of the house she had chosen for her setting. The old woman was now rocking the child backwards and forwards, tapping rhythmically with one foot on the ground and attempting in her creaking old voice to croon to him some queer country rhyme: Deedle deedle dumpty, The cat run up the plum tree; Half a croon tae fetch him doon, Deedle deedle dumpty. Aye, ma fine wee laddie ! Is he no a bonnie wee man? ' she asked Aline, with the twisted smile of the very old. Yes ! oh, yes ! a beautiful boy,' replied Aline enthusiastically. What a perfect picture of old age, she was thinking, peaceful and gentle and kindly. I wonder, can you tell me,' she asked, who owns the house clown there? ' Yon hoose? ' The woman clutched the child against her dusty black na, I dinna frock and looked vaguely where Aline pointed. But the baby had set up a sudden wail, and she stopped to hush it with Dinna greet, ma wee lamb. See noo, I'll sing to ye.' And once again she was dandling him up and down, playing with his toes, to the old rhyme of John Smith, fallow fine Can ye shoe this horse o' mine? Yes indeed an' that I can Just as weel as any man. Pit a bit upon the tae Here the child crowed with delight as the rough old hand tickled his toes. That'll mak him spiel the brae, Pit a bit upon the heel That'll mak the powny gang weel weel, weel ! ' After a glance at her watch Aline decided that if she were to catch an evening bus she had better find out all she could about the hidden house, so leaving the old woman in the sun she went off once more along the
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road. The grounds of the house were well surrounded by a high and solid wall. Aline discovered two or three entrances, but all seemed to be securely locked. After some puzzling she hit on what she thought must be the solution. The laird who owned the place had become completely impoverished and shut up the mansion and—yes ! that was a good idea !the old woman must be a family retainer ; that would explain why she started when she was asked about the house. That could surely be worked into the plot somehow. As she tried to work out her plot, Aline walked back to the village and waited by one of the cottage gates for the bus which should take her back to the market-town. Two women with baskets over their arms were chatting by a cottage gate, and Aline listened idly. One of them was rocking a pram backwards and forwards—the same child, surely, thought Aline, as I saw with the old woman this afternoon. The wain looks nane the worse, Mistress Tamson,' remarked the other woman. ' It's fair mccraculous he wasna harmt.' Ay, I'm gey thankfu', I can tell ye,' replied Mrs. Thomson, looking complacently into the pram. But och ! the auld body hadna the strength tae gang far.' Whit way was she oot ava' ? Do they no aye keep them in? ' Och, she's aye been allowed tae tak' a wee bit daunder by her lane ; she's never done any hairm up tae noo.' Whit's the reason she's tike yon, think ye? ' It was forty year syne her bairn was burnt ae nicht, an' she canna mind yet that he's deid. She must hae taken the pram frac the door when I was oot the day. Ay, they got her back easy enough—Jock Paterson he helpit her back doon tae the asylum there,' and she pointed to the house in the trees.
A POEM My daffodils have died. Yesterday they were golden glowing starsTo-day no more than shrivelled yellow paper. I dipped one dead dried up head in the fire. It smudged all black, curled down, and leered at me. I threw the horrid thing into the flames. Its burning body hissed and sang. It raised its charred and headless stalk M. C. JACKSON. And leered at me.
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SHE
He was a struggling and ambitious young man, by day a journalist, on one of the ', yellow ' daily newspapers, by night—a poet. Often he wondered at himself, that he was able to reconcile two such incompatible occupations, and knew that he endured the Sordidness of the first only in order to eke out the slender return he obtained from the second. He had not yet written his Masterpiece. Inspiration would not come yet, but he was patient. Often he would wander through the streets, searching for the Woman of his Dreams, whose beauty might unlock the Floodgates of his Soul, but no—she could not be found. There were many beautiful women ; he saw them pass by quickly to their work, light-hearted and
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kindly, and many gave little stares of womanly pity at his pale, earnest, troubled countenance. Don't he look just like Ivor Novello,' some would say—and he would turn away with cold contempt in his heart. And nowhere could he see that Subtle, Rare, and Spirituelle quality of Soul reflected in the features of any woman. Spring came, and failed to infect him with its wonted gaiety ; the days lengthened, and the light increased ; the sun shone and the birds sang and the flowers bloomed, but he walked in the Darkness of Despair until. . . . One -day his work took his dragging steps to the Private View of the Royal Academy Exhibition. Listlessly he trailed around the halls, writing dully in his notebook that. Lady Grandiose looked superb in her perfectly marvellous ensemble of light-blue and orange with appliquéd violet spots, and striking feather boa ; and that the Honourable Eddie Gigglesbury (surely you know him, m'dear !) was seen engrossed in a delightful tgte-atete with that delicious young deb.—Miss Sandra Salad. Occasionally he glanced contemptuously at the exhibits—what a form of expression for one's Innermost Soul ! And pursuing this thought he gazed again at the walls ; several nudities—several unhappy landscapes—several portraits of dour statesmen and dangerous Ladies With Gowns and With Shawls—Oh ! He arose suddenly from his seat, and elbowed his way through the crowd in a manner worthy of a Rugger Blue (light or dark as preferred) and remained motionless before a portrait. Lucinda ! ' Here at last was his ideal ; he gazed with reverent rapture at the Noble Brow, Sensitive Nostrils, Mcbile Lips and Starlit Eyes. As if in prayer he clasped his delicate hands, and half-closing his eyes he pictured her—his inspiration—listening with delight and sympathetic understanding to his glowing poetry. Infused with new life, he wrote such a spirited account the next day, of the Private View, that his editor, on the receipt of numerous delighted communications from Society, perceived that the young man had a certain amount of talent, and told him that he would be given a Bigger Job Next Week. The Poet, engrossed in his masterpiece, took little notice. Inspired by Lucinda's beauty, he did not spare himself, but worked incessantly throughout the nights, running up the most fearful Electric Light Bills. At last his wonder work was finished—the Poem of the Century was written, and his Soul was At Peace. He made quite a good thing out of his poem, and all the reviews hailed him as a Young Poet of Great Promise. His editor approached him with suitable humility, and begged him to interview a wonderful new star who had just arrived from Hollywood by the World's Greatest Liner. ' Your Last Job,' he murmured wistfully, for my sake, go.' Full of the joy of Spring, that had at last burst upon his fevered brain when he first saw his dream, the poet sallied forth to the Hotel Cosmopolitan, the newest and largest luxury hotel in London, and arrived at the star's abode. A coloured maid (why?) ushered him into the Presence—aced there reclining on a couch covered with black satin, and clad in a robe of profound purple that accorded so well with her remote mystery was— Lucinda ! Aeons passed, while his brain reeled. Then with great presence of mind, he declaimed his poem—his song of praise and worship of Lucinda. On he went, more eager and paler yet, until at the end, trembling, he lifted his eyes, mutely asking her verdict—hers alone mattered to him. Dead silence. The Woman of Mystery opened her lips. ' Oh yeah? Gee Annabel, is that all this guy can do about my publicity? Wish I was in li'l Noo Yark. They'd have pro-vided sump'n slick. Gimme a highball. I'm tired of this rant.' M.T.J.
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UNDERGRADUETTE He said excellent things ; But I could not pick them up Because of the anxiety that moved within me, Effort for effect.
It was my first book. The review said : An amusing piece of work. Miss is young. She has had no experience. We recommend her to live and then try again. Her style is pleasant.' At school once I had stood in the half-light in the white bathrooms, with the steam running down the window panes. I had stood on the taps, leaning out of the window, watching the moon; The metal cut through my slippers. I did not notice it. I stood watching a sky like the breast of a dove, waiting for the moon. I went back to bed, and lay and thought about myself. They all lie sleeping in their white beds. Only I stand upon the taps in the bathroom to look at the moon.' The next day I lie under a tree and take off my shoes and say, ' 0 God . . . What is the matter? ' Last night I stood on the taps in the bathroom watching the moon and never noticed that my feet hurt. Look, I am bruised.' Then everyone knew I had the soul of a poet. They thought me rare and wiser in beauty than they. Whispering at night they said,.' She is fearfully interesting.' I was glad. When I was twenty-one years old I met a man with whom I fell in love. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. I contemplated with pleasure in the mirror my blue-rimmed eyes, the ethereal look of my face. I did strange things. I Was happy. I said, ' I am alive.' One day I saw the healthy, pretty woman with red cheeks. I thought of the unearthliness of my own beauty and the strange fascination of my ways, and I knew that I would win. But I didn't. She got him. When I heard the news I was sick. Someone came in and found me lying on my face on the bed. I was glad afterwards that she had come in. It had been such a beautiful attitude and quite unconscious, too. I was glad it had been unconscious. It was only afterwards that I thought of the colours of my dress and of the bedspread—violet, white, green, lovely. That, with the abandonment of my grief, the wild darkness of my hair, must have looked so significant to one coming in. I was quite satisfied with the artistic effect. (I practised again afterwards and satisfied myself.) While I talked I was flippant and hysterical by turns. Then I gained a dangerous self-control. My friend went away. How glad I was when I heard later what she had said of me. She will go mad or kill herself.' That night I walked in my sleep for the first time. I was thrilled., The next day I stood at the top of the stairs. I thought of myself as I must have looked walking down the dark emptiness, surefooted and mute, urged by the restlessness of my brooding torment. Of course, there had no one there to see it. But the thing had been done. Ihad ad done it. I had looked so. I must have the soul of a great one. Dido, Cleopatra, Heloise. ' Happiness?—a dog asleep in the sun. They know ecstasy.' Then with glorious certainty the realisation which had been half known
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all my life's consciousness came full upon me. I was as they were. I had known ecstasy. How glad I was then ! I wrote a novel about it. My friends said, She will find relief.' I said, Now everyone will know that I have known ecstasy.' The reviewer said : ' An amusing piece of work. Miss is young. She has had no experience. We recommend her to live and then try again. Her style is pleasant.' I. M. TOWNSEND.
SONNET Come silken down the mirrored winding stair Beings moving in your pride and cloudy grace, Phantom-fair joy seen in the glass of the face And heard in voices. Cozen and cheat us there. Each day glowing and changing like chameleon, Strange as a haunting word-enchanting sense, This murk of beauty clouds intelligence, Gives to life's creatures brilliance not their own. Turn your eyes from the mind beyond them, parting Gesture from thought and even the thinker ; furled On the rich surface gather them, they bring Life's rare, her secretive features, turn away Palpable darkness from the loop, of the world And all the subtle lights that burn the day.
SUMMER AFTERNOON Sunlight lay along the river in shallow sparkles. The sky overhead was smiling, and the willow trees were smiling too. The girl slipped between the willow trees and sat down on the bank at the water's edge. The boy followed her more cautiously, edged behind her, close to the willow tree, and sat down beside her. All was still again, except for the water chuckling against the tree-roots. How silent it is, thought the girl. How perfectly serene. The meadows stretch lazily on the other side, yellow in the sun. The air is clear. The sky is blue. Everything is at peace. Now he will begin to talk of love, and I do not want him to talk of love, I who have striven to bring him to the point where his blue eyes will darken, and his face quiver, as he tells me he loves me. I do not want him to disturb the tranquility of the afternoon, the perfect standstill of thought. I do not want the vibrations of his voice to break the still air around me, and rouse me from this divine lethargy, in which the serenity of life seems to enfold my body. Why must this golden peace be broken — why must we come to life, when everything around us is existing in perfect stillness, urging us to rest, passive, to be and not to strive? How quiet it is, thought the boy. The water is brown when you look into it, blue when you gaze across. No cloud has the energy to stray across the still, blue sky. Now I must talk of love, and I do not want to, I who have coaxed her for weeks to smile at me, and walk with me sometimes. I do not want to shatter the peace with the sound of my voice, to find words in which to express my love, the hot, red workings of my heart, in
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the golden perfection of this still afternoon. The air is crystal-clear. All things are content, just to be. Why must we alone act and speak? If I speak now, I shall spoil the silence. My thoughts and words will break the miracle as a stone would shatter the gleaming mirror of the river. I am glad he does not speak, thought the girl. So my peace is not shivered, and I can rest for a moment from the coiling probleths that confront me. And yet I am vexed that he should sit here by my side, calm and emotionless, as if I were a willow tree. Why should he not speak of love? A m I not slim and white and golden? Am I not fair and desirable? Does he find the meadows and the river more beautiful than me? Why does she make no sign? thought the boy. Why do I not speak of love? She is more beautiful than the trees and the sky. She is alive. She can give love for love, as the meadows cannot . . . . Could I but raise on this night-painted sky ecstasy disembodied, sudden gleam and radiance of man's quintessential dream, all cosmic loveliness intensify, prison the myriad memories that cast flickering cobweb shadows down the years and tinctured with the rainbOw dye of tears fashion one glittering perfect whole at last. Yet how live on hereafter? He who has gazed on faerie revelry by night, amazed beholds again the day. So sadly he, that monk of old, returned, who in the wood heard sing God's nightingale and listening stood a hundred dreaming years in ecstasy. W. M. F
GOING TO BED Alone at last, door fast, Swiftly she slips from her clothes And joys in the swiftness. Here is no harshness Nor naked yellow glare ; The gaslight find its echo In the pale warmth of her body. Then with a sober smile The strange-eyed candle hints At gay forgotten tints In a flowery dressing-gown. The honey-haloed light Steals copper gleams From darkly falling hair Lithe-threaded by a comb. Soon light is gathered In the cup of face Held by brown hands And page reflective.
THE CYGNET She reads, and separate, calm Lies stretched impregnable. Through windows wide Interminable flow from depths Of green night, spread without, To the floor's dark pool. Then clarity of candle light Is struck, cashiered, And long limbed darkness, grateful, Takes its ease, Assumption made more absolute By the serpent wisdom, Eye intimate, ash lidded, Of burning joss stick, Till moon stares. Girl stares ; So passes into thought. Set free, glance strays detached— Trapped by the curious curve Of patterned bedspread ; And mind sees The pattern of its process Made concrete. Coil of thought and design are one, And seeping through the brain The flow of Persian patterns Mesmerises Sleep.
DIRGE FOR A DEAD LADY From the French of Alfred de Musset. Lovely she was, if that the night Chilling the sleep of marble death By lovely, as it blinds the sight Of masks that once had life and breath. And she was kind, if careless gold, Unblessed by prayer, or care, suffice, Fallen from a palm untouched and cold . . . If gold be kind when heart is ice. And thoughts she had, if easy tongue, A facile charm of murmuring words, May tell of thought as streams that sung Or idle chattering of birds . . . She prayed, if prayer it be to raise Two lovely eyes above to God, And lower them with equal grace As one who seeks the Devil's face, A Satan in a sod.
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J.S. His heart was beating in an intensity of fear ; he did not know how he came to be in this old, silent house. There was no moon, but he could distinguish the broken rails of the twisting staircase, and some instinct urged him upwards. Hardly trusting his steps on the rotten wood, he began to ascend in the silence. At the first landing he stopped, suffocating with terror. There was no sound. The window gaped wide, its apertures crossed and recrossed with filthy cobwebs. Up and still up. Again it came, that insistence of the silence. Was that a sound? A vibration, perhaps the pulses in his ears. No. Faint footsteps, slow at first, then quickening. They brushed past him rapidly, and his heart stood still. The awful loneliness of the place, incarnate, was rising up to confront him —darkness and the untroubled dust of ages. Again the silence settled around him. Up, again, and up. When would he burst the suffocating bonds of doubt and anguish? Spectres were whispering, fears were sucking at his heart. Where would he find safe haven, broad serenity of belief? He stopped and listened. Amongst the murmurings and whisperings of the evil old house he heard another sound, faint but firm. A fitful ray of moonlight stole in, and the sound increased. Before him was a chapel, and monks were chanting a broad, comforting hymn. His soul swelled out, transcending the melody in the echoing, piercing counterpoint of unbearable spiritual bliss. A golden light glowed. The ground was holy. Here was his haven. And then the •footsteps came again. The music grew fainter, the shadowy figures faded, as a tumult of minor sounds invaded his ears. The whispering grew. The sinister suggestion, the faint, mocking laughter lapped around him as the glory faded. Fear raced in his pulses ; he turned from the cobwebs and ran down the steps, headlong, and as he went the stairs creaked in evil mockery. The huge glassy waves were sucking him under, powerful and silent. The sky was black —clouds massed above him. Suddenly the moon streamed down with a pure wan light, resolving the infinite question, shining into his mind, which was weary with unbounded range of thought, establishing stability in his mental world of fluid chaos and shifting conjecture, breathing in him the finite quality of infinite truth. Doubt engulfed
THE CYGNET his body, but above the crashing of the heavy waves, the swelling of that broad, triumphant, fundamental theme, in its comfort and stability, drew forth his soul into the streaming radiance of light : his bursting lungs filled for the last time ; his burning eyes saw the calm moonlight for the last, eternal second ; bursting from its sucked-down poison, with one last effort, his soul proclaimed, I affirm the one and indivisible truth . . .' and the earth and the waters re-echoed with the mighty force of trumpets. A dubious crackle of applause broke forth ; it swelled and thundered up the hall. People looked around for their gloves and programmes. The last movement of Brahms' First Symphony was over . . . R. E. TAYLOR.
FOR A MUSICIAN Wind I have heard that weaves wild magic in the leaves till Tree for shame must lace green hands across her face : lark's song that from the skies drops as from Paradise and waterfalls that steep the wearied soul in sleep. But your lithe hands ensnare beauty beyond compare, your flickering fingers hold harmony lost of old. Rivers that listened mute at sound of Orpheus' lute stayed not their course to hear music so heavenly clear ; Ulysses, when the song of sirens mocked his thong not so much beauty's prey as mortals when you play. Circe's cup could impart brute shape to man : your art rarer than Circe's wine makes souls of men divine. W.M.F. Shape in suspension Is flattened into formless lethargy. Leaves huddle in massed and unexpectant gloom, Or shudder and are still. The last few rain drops Stick half-dried, blotting the window pane, Beneath the leaden impendancy of clouds. Laziness Lies grey and quilted about the heart of things.
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MAY The lilac bursts its buds and breathes A heavy incense, hawthorns sway Snow laden blossoms, and the scent Of lilac mingles with the May ; Laburnum shakes a silken thread Of tasselled sunlight overhead, And thrushes sing though seldom seen Through lilac clumps Laburnum mists And feathery avenues of green. RUTH WILSON.
Dear to me are fields With their high green corn, A dark sea flashing In the dewy morn. Dear to me long grass ; Bent low and left again, A thousand silver steeds Prancing across the plain. Dear the dark brown earth Where the hill rises high, And the bare furrows lean Tilted against the sky. T.G.
TO M.W. Wordless affection, linking hand with hand Sent us so gaily swinging down the undiscovered ways Of men and books ; Or seeking aimless fairy paths That, hooking their green fingers, bade us come And lose delightfully our time In idle explorations. Now, heart against its will being quickened with some new wonder, Hand, forgetful, gropes for hand and finds Nothing. Quick heart throb, quick turn of the head, still forgetting— And there stands peering memory leering Over the emptiness Mocking. Then the heart, sickened, stumbles on and cries : What need? And the tired tongue stumbles Over familiar things, because of that broken handclasp
THE CYGNET
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But with the night, peace. The shining stars have gathered to themselves The quietness that walked and listened in our daily ways ; And instead of a handclasp there remains the right To be alone with quiet breathing, To feel your comfortable peace, your quietness, In widths of evening sky.
DRAMATIC CLUB ' TWELFTH NIGHT.' On Friday, the 2gth May, St. Hugh's presented ' Twelfth Night' in the College garden, under the capable production of Winifred Fox. The stage chosen, with its background of trees and bushes, made a most effective setting for this idyllic play, though a more solid background would have made the audibility better ; while the cleverly arranged lighting also contributed, as the evening grew darker, to the atmosphere of romance. The costumes were most effective, the colours being striking and yet harmonious, that of Olivia especially calling forth much admiring comment. The exits and entrances, and the original and brilliant presentation of the box-hedge scene and also of the final scene of the play, testified also to the care and thought expended with so much effect on the production. Under such conditions the actors could hardly fail to do well ; even so, several of the performances were decidedly above the average. Margaret Gay as the Puhe was a dignified and impressive figure ; she spoke well and clearly and could always be heard ; M. Acaster was excellent as Olivia, imperious, dignified, yet humanly impulsive where her love for Viola is concerned ; while M. Donaldson made a sufficiently pomous and conceited Malvolio. Sir Toby Belch, acted by M. Oswald, and his inseparable companions were delightful ; Maria, acted by D. Lovegrove, and Sir Andrew Aguecheek, taken by Diana. McKenna, being especially good ; while Mary j Mackintosh capered and fooled as the jester with an agility and complete lack of self-consciousness as delightful as it is unusual, and sang most charmingly at the end. The performance of the evening was that of Viola by Sheila Wilson ; she looked charming, spoke clearly, and altogether gave an excellent portray al of the wistful Viola, with her mixture of boyish bravado and scorn for the imperious Olivia, and natural timidity and concealed love for the Duke. Both producer and actors are to be congratulated on an excellent performance and on the way in which they overcame unexpected difficulties, for on the second night, owing to rain, the play had to be transferred to the hall. The actors showed skill and courage in adapting themselves to the new conditions, managing most effectively, considering they were quite unrehearsed, their exits and entrances and the grouping on the stage ; in spite of the difficulties, this performance was also most successful and acclaimed as such by.a large and enthusiastic audience. The host of helpers also must not be forgotten, the many people who toiled for hours to make the most effective costumes ; especially Eileen MacKinlay, whose coolness and efficiency when bombarded with demands for tickets and advice was admirable, as was her organisation of the band of stewards and programme-sellers. P. McC.
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THE CYGNET THE FIRST YEAR PLAY.
It is an exacting tradition that expects the Freshers to entertain the College with a topical play. That they amuse themselves is generally obvious, and if the rest of their audience can laugh at other people's failings enough to forget the hits at their own weaknesses the play has achieved success. This year we were fortunate in seeing a most spirited production of an enterprising and original play by P. Llewellyn Smith. After a bad beginning, the play proceeded happily with its ' Greek ' chorus in sub-fusc, its wealth of alliteration, and its lyrics. We started guiltily at the appearance of two extraordinarily masculine Proctors with their yapping attendants; the evil machinations of the ' November' Club have now been exposed, and the gullibility of a senior member of the University most realistically portrayed. The undergraduates were attractively impertinent, and the final chorus with its atmosphere of ' Now thank we all our God ' tempered by Gilbert and Sullivan restored the good humour of all sections of the audience, and sent them away pleasantly exhilarated. A.M. H .
TENNIS We have had a much more successful season than last year, thanks to the better weather which has allowed us to have at least two matches each week. Besides our more serious contests, we have had several enjoyable games with Wadham, Magdalen, Leatherjackets, S.E.H. and Lincoln. The second team, captained by Wenda Reynolds, has also had several matches and succeeded in winning one round of cuppers, being defeated, however, in the semi-final by St. Hilda's. The first team (C. Peters, J. Theobald, J. Field, F. Scurfield, D. Yeats-Brown, A. Pellew), after defeating Somerville and St. Hilda's, is at the time of going to press in the final, which is to be played against the Home Students on Monday ; and we are hoping that, as the result of the experimental tactics we are employing, we may enable the College to enjoy a Bump Supper. The College has been represented in the University team by Joy Theobald, an Old Blue, and Cherry Peters, who gained her Blue this year. The courts are much improved, having been resown, but unfortunately suffered somewhat through the dry weather during the first half of term. C.P.
CRICKET There has been no college cricket this term, but St. Hugh's has been well represented in the united team, five people having played regularly for it : N. Shaw, M. Cane, S. Banning, M. K. James, M. Stinton. F.M.S.
SWIMMING Swimming Cuppers have not yet been held. The following will swim in the College team : J. Perkins, C. Hornby, B. Thom, R. Wilson, C. Clark, D. Bleasby. C. Clark has been captaining the United team, and D. Bleasby and R. Wilson are also members. J. Perkins has served as a reserve. D.B. 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 he empowered at their discretion to invite contributions from anyone not a member of the College.