THE IMP March, 1929
COMMITTEE.
Editor : R. M. J. CAMPBELL.
Treasurer: JOAN DICK.
Third Year Represeritative--M.
JAMES.
Second Year Representative—E. HICKS.
THE IMP MARCH, 1929.
Qbitoriat
T
HE IMP is ten years old. This is a great thought. Other great thoughts will be found on other pages. The Editor has none. COMPETITION.
The entries for the first competition, ' An Epigram,' were not numerous enough. No prize can be awarded. We advise a course of Union. Tickets at the office. The entries for the second competition, A description of a member of College,' were good. We award the prize to Miss Joel for two subtle studies in black and white. The originals may be seen on application to the Editor, rooms 19 (the New Wing) and 59A (Old Wing) or having early dinner on Mondays.
friw of one Recurrent figure The day begins with an agreeable sensation. The presence of innumerable living men and women, running with me down the tube stairs, rushing with me into the train's conglomerate swaying, absorbed with me into the roaring, somnolent warmth of tunnels, is a delightful stimulation of the herd instinct. I am quite ready to sing The Red Flag' or Lead Kindly Light,' or even ' Land of Hope and Glory,' with the beloved crowd of people who are going to work with me : though I feel sure that as units I should hate every one. For a while individuality is joyfully lost in mass • emotion, dormant as a piece of flint in a jelly. In the office I go to my room, saying Good morning, Miss So-and-So ' to whomever I may meet. It is considered polite always to call people by name : even in conversation it is correct to tag every sentence with Miss So-and-So.' This convention is at first hard to remember : but I think it must be a very subtle form of courtesy, showing that, however interesting your subject, may be, it cannot thoroughly absorb you, and that you are continually receiving the little agreeable shocks of your interlocutor's personality. My room looks into a courtyard, usually quiet and grey, but now alive with the slow singing, the vivid hammering, of the man who is mending the burst pipes next door. There is a broad white window seat, with a green bowl on it, where stand white narcissus, their limpid petals giving grace to the stiff and austere stems. The windows are latticed, and filled with dimpled glass, which catches threads of flame at evening.
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I sit down, and begin to read a novel, which opens with the phrase Patricia, she of the raven tresses, had ever been chosen Queen of the May by her schoolfellows . . . ' : it is so funny that I read on for a little, to learn that the Earl was too great an English gentleman to betray surprise at seeing total strangers in his dining room,' before I put it in the chest for rejected works. A typist comes up presently, to ask if I would mind addressing an envelope for her because she is sending valentines to all my gentlemen friends, Miss Haynes, and they're all in different writing. Thank you, Miss Haynes. Oh, Miss Haynes ! '—seeing a photograph on my desk—' Excuse me, but is that your boy? He has got a nice face, Miss Haynes. • May I • look? ' She shows me her valentines : they are not very romantic, for they seem to consist mostly of postcards inscribed with funny stories about cheese. A message comes up that I am to write an advertisement. I do so, and I am presently called down to have a lesson in advertising : one must always quote favourable reviews, and in one's own descriptions of a book one must work in words like mysterious,' fascinating,' great,' delightful ' and intriguing.' I find advertisement composition difficult. The telephone rings : an old lady has arrived with a book : she will not be content with leaving it and getting a receipt from the reception-clerk, but insists on an interview with the reader. I let her come up, and presently receive an untidy, elderly woman, soberly dressed except for stockings of a vivid purple. She gives me a resume of her life, entreats me to be kind to her ewe lamb,' and is at last induced to go. Her book is as purply passionate as her stockings : legs and literature seem to be her only outlet for emotion . . . There is another ring. Sir Somebody So-and-So wishes to come and talk over the possibility of his doing a book for us. As he arranges to arrive about 4.15, I ask the secretary if she will send up an extra cup of tea for him. Later in the day I ask the office-boy to go out and buy me two lumps of compressed fuel, as the coalman has not come. Oh, Miss, I can't.' Why not, Quince? ' Well, Miss, I've the things to wash up—and some manuscripts to take —and I've got to wash up well, because Miss Blank says there's a Sir to tea! ' After a considerable amount of reading and of writing reports, lunch in Trafalgar Square is a sharp escape from the prison of words to a lively sensual reality. I sit at the feet of General Gordon, eating sandwiches and fruit until two men with ladders come and turn me off, for they want to wash my protector's face. I go and sit on the edge of the fountain, and feed the pigeons with corn. They brush, agreeably soft and warm, against my ankles ; the brave ones settle on my hands and arms and shoulders, so that their swift, grave beauty can be closely seen. When a bus backfires, or there is any sudden noise, the whole flock of birds from all over the Square leaps into flight, and swoops in great rhythmic curves round and round the Nelson Column. After a time they settle again, and come towards the small children, woolly figures of scarlet and blue and white, who are brought by their mothers with the day's crumbs to scatter. I leave Trafalgar Square, the living crowds, the roaring crimson buses, the cool gravity of the National Gallery and St. Martin's, mellowed by the misty sunlight of London, and go back to work,
THE IMP A young Scotsman comes to my room with a manuscript : he is very eager about it—' most topical; can he have a decision immediately : a book satirising women in politics . . . He could have wished the interviewer was not a leddy . . . ' I regret my sex politely, and begin an argument with him. He is about twenty-four, with a strong, immediate beauty of thick hair brushed back from a square forehead, eyes set wide apart, and a firm, sculptural jaw. He has, I learn, laid roads in Colorado, run a farm, been on two newsagencies and a newspaper ; and he wrote the book because he had to occupy himself somehow when he was laid up with a broken hip. The argument ends amicably, and each thinks to have won. As he goes I realise what is the resemblance that is puzzling me. He has a queer facial likeness to my tutor. Perhaps that is why I was so deferential to him . . . The afternoon goes on. I have tea, and my interview, I also see a young woman from the Slade who thinks to make a living by drawing book-jackets. Her specimens are very Slade . . . I write various letters, yawn over a book about bridge, and wish the man who is mending the pipes would learn another tune. He has been singing Sonny Boy' for seven hours now. . . The office-boy comes in and shuts the windows. Good-night, Miss. You won't be late, Miss, will you ? Close the front door as you go out, Miss '—his invariable evening refrain. Everyone stretches, gets clothes, and goes. I stand for a little while in Piccadilly. I am short-sighted enough to miss the meanings of the sky signs and only to perceive their abstract beauty, limpid drops of colour for ever cooling the dry blue dusk . . . R. 0. HAYNES. ,
'kyr lace
Vale
1-ler face is pale, but never fear For that is Art. She is not ill : It makes those matchless lips appear Redder and more enchanting still. Now with those lips she never swears— At least I've never heard her do it. But, oh ! the jumper that she wears— That orange one—if she but knew it !
AB i5 a Rectangular _figure AB is a rectangular figure produced to meet College at both ends of the term. She moves within a small circle which cannot be described, and she is equidistant from all figures outside that circle. AB may also be defined as the apex of a triangle ; therefore it can be assumed that she has no point of contact with the base; but this cannot be proved by reductio ad absurdem. Since any acute observer cannot fail to be complimentary to AB (though it does not follow that the letter is obtuse), let it be added that AB is equal to four times the altitude of her position. QUOD NON ERAT DEMONSTRANDUM.
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tatonic
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Calver Coffin slammed his note-books down on the table and began pulling off his gown. It was good to feel that one's lectures meant more than a flow of dustladen words ; it was good to know that one's voice was deep and smooth and echoed clear in a big room ; it was good . . . A knock at the door. ' Come in,' said Calver, without turning round. It would probably be Gracedene, or Philpots, or possibly young Cartwright—Cartwright was a nuisance; he lapped up all one's ideas without contributing any of his own. Please, Sir.' Good heavens ! It was a female voice ! Calver turned round. It was one of the undergraduettes who attended his lectures. He never noticed anybody as a rule, but he had noticed her because she had rather a large face and sat in the front row. When he saw who it was he pursed his lips, hid his surprise, and looked down on her as if from the heights of his intellect. Please, Sir, may I ask you a question ? You always dash away as soon as you've said the last word, and I do want to ask you something.' He had expected to listen first to an apology for entering his rooms in this unprecedented manner, but as the woman seemed to think it unnecessary he ignored the breach of rules too. I go out as soon as I've finished my lecture,' he said, ' because otherwise I should be late for my lunch.' As he said it he knew he lied : he rushed out, not because of his lunch, but because he was afraid of all those listening faces turned towards him, afraid that if he waited they would come up to him and question him, and with their heckling enquiries dam up the steady flow of his thought. My question is, Sir, do you consider the present state of society a civilised one? ' ' No,' said Calver, thinking what a disconcerting habit this ' sir' was. ' No.' If this were a civilised society, and consequently women had a real equality with men . . . ' ' No,' said Calver, taken off his guard ; ' that doesn't follow at all. The Greeks . . . It doesn't matter about the Greeks,' she interrupted. If this were a society where women were really equal with men I should be able to come to you and say, " Look here, Calver Coffin, at present I regard you as the realisation of an ideal. You seem to me beautiful in every way, mind and body ; you seem to have a harmony of thought and life ; your appearance is an index of your soul. Please show me that it isn't, or else ,prove to me that I am right." ' Calver looked straight at her, standing there, her eyes very serious, her mouth smiling, and he knew she was not fooling him. How on earth did you know my Christian name? ' he asked. ' As you do know it, you might at least tell me yours.' It's Jane.' Now that the thing that he always dreaded had happened, now that the sea of faces had surged up to him and was washing on the edge of his
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thought, Calver was calm and even happy. If Jane had the courage to speak to him like that she must be a bit different to the ordinary run of women. What you want me to do is to show you that I have feet of clay? Isn't that it, Jane ? ' Yes, Sir.' Don't call me " Sir," ' he said, annoyed ; it's a silly habit in a woman.' Don't call me a woman. It's a silly habit in a man.' Calver was going to frown, but then he laughed. I say,' he said, the last shreads of academic dignity dropping from him, ' your point of view is quite a new one to me. Would we find out more about each other over a meal ? What about . . . ' Jane's friends were much amused; whenever they met Jane and Calver together, generally in the country, they tittered and remarked How too pastoral ! But of course it's the best setting for her Renaissance figure.' Jane, however, was not thinking of her figure : she was still trying to find out whether her opinion of Calver was illusion or true perception. She was not making much progress. The outlines of the old Calver of the lecture room were becoming clouded by his present humanity. Calver himself thought that he had long ago discovered all Jane's points of view ' ; her opinions were many, but simple ; but he found now that whatever she said seemed to him endowed with a new significance. Her remarks, often superficial in thethselves, laid open to his mind vast fields of irregularity, the existence of which he had never before suspected. His neat and ordered universe began to topple about his ears ; but a flower was growing up in its place. At first Calver objected to the flower because of its seeming inability to fill up the vacancy left by the universe ; but it grew apace. At last, because he was at heart a courageous man, he admitted he was in love with Jane. He was about to tell her so—indeed he had purposely manoeuvred the long- silence that he judged a fit prelude to such an act—when Jane surprised him. I've come to the conclusion that the idol has feet of clay,' she said. It's a blow ; but thank you for showing me. If you hadn't I should have treasured the most god-like picture of it all my life, hugged it to me, worshipped it, and it would have been all an illusion. Thank you, Calver.' At the beginning of her speech terror had held him, but at the end he felt only gratitude. He said At any rate you call the idol " it," and you thank " me." ' ' What do you mean? ' Well, you've succeeded in separating us at last—the idol and me, I mean.' ' Oh, of course, that's what I've done, I suppose. It's the idol and not you that has been found wanting.' To hell with the idol,' he said. Jane, I love you.' And Jane, who was a model of sophistication in disguise, forgot her philosophic gropings, and responded in the most approved fashion.
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Cpigratit5 i. Food is a concession to life : College food is a concession to a very uncertain life. 2. Divorce is that piquant situation when the individual plays hearts; his partner makes a revoke ; and convention secures a grand slam. A doubtful story concerns the one certainty in life. 3. 4. What a licentious conversaton,' said the idealist. ' Not at all—a psychological one,' said the philosopher. 5. Manners are the unimaginative man's substitute for a manner. 6. Friendship in Oxford is an infinite capacity for sharing food. 7. Her past, like her underclothes, was indiscreet : she showed too much of both. 8. At least she had the courage of her doubtful stories. 9. I regard myself with faith, my enemies with hope, and my friends with charity. to. An epigram is the apotheosis of the untrue.
Tbings4
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1. Whether the good, clean fun advertised by the Scouts and Guides cannot be extended to the S.C.M. ? 2. Who are you going to meet at Aberystwith? 3. Whether Geejay and Seedy have ever been to Alvaqueque? Whether Williams ma. thinks there should be an official guide to the College S.C.M. ? 5. Whether Miss Hartnoll is supposed to have sat on ' the S.C.M. Committee? 6. Whether the St. Hugh's Debating Society enjoyed the spirit of the House Debate ? 7. Whether the sudden interest in Folk Dancing is but another manifestation of the Elizabethan tendencies of our conversations? 8. Why the J.C.R. gramophone consistently keeps its Witts about it? g. Whether a certain motive spirit of the Second Year thinks green an inconspicuous colour? to. Who discovered that Miss Salt, had a temperature ? i i. If our faces are equal to the style of hairdressing we sometimes adopt? 12. Whether the fashion of communal hair will spread? 13. When is a Fellow not a Portress? 14. Whether the number of cups of cocoa consumed afterwards varies with the times the garden is encircled at dawn ? 15. If the fact of a Second Year asking a First to share a punt with her was wholly unconnected with the College Dance?
THE IMP r 6. If there is any truth in the rumour that writing an essay acts as an
emetic upon a certain First Year? 17. If No. 82 has really challenged the Lawn to a contest for discovering the loudest voice, and whether Miss J— is to represent the former and Miss B and Miss C the latter? 18. Whether certain inhabitants of the East Wing belong to any organised operatic society ?
Mbe artbbtaton in tbe 2ppit rcbarb All that Sunday the sun shone in molten pride. The village of Rime Intrinsica slept soundly, folded in the green blanket of the hills. Inside the church the congregation slept even more soundly, for there was at least shade in those dim, pillared aisles. Small Jimmy Bowditch, his fair head clamped tightly to his mother's jet-hung bosom, stirred slightly in his dreams and tried to brush away a bluebottle that would keep humming in his ear. His mother slapped him quietly, and he woke with a start, to find that it was not a bluebottle after all, but only the visiting preacher's voice that boomed on sonorously overhead. Small Jimmy could see just his rosy face above the pulpit, floating like a disembodied cherub upon a cloud of white surplice. What was he saying, wondered Small Jimmy sleepily ? Something about Pagan worship and the sinfulness of animal pleasure. Small Jimmy knew all about Pagans : they were the gipsies that camped on Little Toiler in blackberry time. But what was animal pleasure.' He burrowed his head harder into the maternal casing and slept once more. His mother, however, knew all about animal pleasure, and drew her lips into a thin line with great significance. Miller's Susie should have been there to hear that. High time she was made an example of ; but their own parson was too milk-and-mealy to say anything. The Archdeacon now, he was an upholder of the law. What he meant by all this talk about heathen gods and goddesses she couldn't rightly say, but sins of the flesh she did understand, and nodded her flowered bonnet several times to show her complete agreement with all the Archdeacon might say. After service, at lunch time, the rector took occasion to compliment the Archdeacon on his sermon. ' Very sound indeed, very sound. You let them have it straight from the shoulder.' The Archdeacon, smacking his lips over a very tasty rectory cutlet, said that perhaps he had been rather strong, but he had picked up Ovid only yesterday, and he couldn't help thinking, you know, that ideas had not changed much, not changed much. Why, coming along in the car yesterday he had asked a yokel the way and had been directed to go past Pan's Temple—Pan's Temple, my dear sir, in a Christian country, was still the name for a clump of trees. The superstition that still existed in these country districts was scandalous, positively scandalous. Punctually at 10.30, for the Rectory kept early hours, the Archdeacon retired to the chitnz-hung spare room. The great four-poster bed was a lavender-scented ship afloat in the dim waters of the room. The Archdeacon sank into its depths as bullion into the hold, His dinner had been excellent;
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the taste and fragrance of that last cigar was still an exquisite memory ; his fat little body smelt faintly of verbena bath-soap and clean Viyella pyjamas : but in spite of all these things, sleep would not come. No, these low-raftered rooms were unbearable in summer, most oppressiye. He flung off his bedclothes and still he was prickly with heat. Finally he got out of bed and leaned out of the window. Ah ! that was better ! Outside in the garden the moonshine made patterns on the daisied lawn. A little wind went gossiping through the trees. The apple orchard particularly, just beyond the garden, was as cool as green water. How enticing it looked down there, like—like the Garden of the Hesperides. Tut, tut. That's what came
of reading Ovid. Suddenly the Archdeacon decided that he could not bear his room any longer. He would go out into the cool, dim garden, perhaps even into the apple orchard. Being always mindful of the proprieties, he 'dressed himself completely, even to the Archidiaconal gaiters, and then quietly tiptoed downstairs, holding his boots in his hand, with an unaccountable feeling of truancy. The front door was far too cumbersome to be undone without awakening the household, so he decided to use the study window. Really, it was like old times to be barking one's shins on a window-sill again, though he seemed to have become far shorter of breath
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than in his school days. Once outside, he sat down on the grass, put on his boots, and then, humming under his breath, sauntered idly across the lawn, trying to feel as if he was taking a normal stroll and to suppress that ridiculous feeling of schoolboy excitement. Bats swooped and rose over the lawn, calling mournfully, to each other. A big white owl flew sedately past, like the ghost of some staid alderman. In the apple orchard the moonshine dappled all the leaves until the trees seemed once more covered with blossom. Something called, reed-like, faint and far. Very softly the Archdeacon opened the little wicket-gate and went through. The orchard was green and dimmery : in •among• the grass lay fallen apples, translucent gold in the dew. Suddenly, for no reason at all, an apple hit the Archdeacon plump upon the cheek. It didn't fall from above, like any sensible apple ; it deliberately hit him on the cheek. The Archdeacon swung round as though he had been shot, and surely, there among the treetrunks, something moved. Surely he could hear laughter. At the same minute another apple hit him in the small of his back. He leapt round, infuriated ; and this time the laughter was unmistakable—gay, glinting laughter. There, behind that tree ! What was it that stirred and fluttered behind that tree? Casting his dignity to the winds; the Archdeacon made a dash at it : something leapt away, and again came a burst of merriment. This time the Archdeacon laughed too ; and immediately, from behind every tree, a laughing wood nymph peeped at him, tossed her curls, and as suddenly disappeared. The Archdeacon made a snatch at a fluttering piece of bronze-green drapery and gave chase. Slim white legs twinkled through the grey tree-trunks ; hazel eyes mocked. at him ; invisible fingers tweaked him, now on this side, now on that. At last, worn out with the pursuit, he sank limp beneath the largest apple-tree, his round face purple with exhaustion. And then, from all their hiding- places, out they' trooped—the lissomest, prettiest creatures that ever any man saw. They clustered round him like bees on laburnam ; they pulled his hair, they tickled his neck with grasses, they adorned his gaiters. 'There were so many of them that it was quite bewildering ; but one in particular, a rather small one, with daisies in her dark hair, and eyes as brown as a bee's soft body, stole his heart away with her little brown fingers till he could have worshipped every golden freckle on her tiny, turned-up nose. She made him a wreath of big moondaisies, and she held a buttercup under his two chins, and one liked butter and the other didn't. She rippled with laughter over that, and she kissed the Archdeacon on his bald spot too. She was just a bit of a minx. Then they made a circle round him, and wagged their fingers at him, and spoke to him most reprovingly. For you know,' they said, ' it was very, very wrong of you to preach against Pan and his wood nymphs. For we are older and wiser than you ; older and wiser than all the world. We al e as old as the stars, and as young as the youngest butterfly, and we shall outlast the world. Will you never do it again ? ' And the Archdeacon promised very solemnly that he would never do it again. Now very early the next morning, when dawn was just peering over the hill-top, the Rector happened to wake and look out of his window. He listened, and he listened, and he thought he could hear music. The sound came nearer and nearer, and the Rector's eyes grew wide, and his mouth
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fell slowly open. For out of the apple orchard and across the daisied lawn came slim young creatures dancing : girls with tossing hair, and flutter of bronze-green draperies. And in the midst of them, garlanded with daisies, playing on a flute, his gaitered legs twinkling beneath his plump body, danced the very reverend Archdeacon. The Rector, pale and trembling, went to wake his wife. My dear,' he said, I don't feel at all well. Not at all. Something the matter with my eyes. I must certainly see an oculist.' His wife fussed over him like a clucking hen, and by breakfast time he felt better, and thought he had had a nightmare. For when he came down to breakfast there was the Archdeacon, just as usual,- sunning himself by the window. Did you sleep well? ' enquired the Rector. Oh, quite well, thank you,' replied the Archdeacon ; ' in fact most remarkably well. I was just admiring your garden. It is very pretty from here.' He rubbed his fat little hands together and sat down to his eggs and bacon ; but was it fancy, or did the Rector really see a rosy-petalled daisy still nestling in his hair? M. F. E.
'Lecture Pote5 Written in a fit of disillusionment after attending a week's lectures. What force can make the unwilling creep Into these halls to whisper or to sleep ? No pearls of wisdom ever drop in here, Or, if they do, no one's awake to hear. Shakespeare emended is a travesty : Lord ! what fools these scholars be ! He lectured on Romance, he said ; And now romance is really dead. The dust of manuscripts has dried his bones, His only pleasure now is throwing stones At 'scholars less intelligently cracked on Discovering the depths of Anglo-Saxon. To my earnest neighbour. What you so carefully and neatly note now In Schools undoubtedly will make you plough. What would the chaste Victorians have said To disinterment of the shady dead, Whose works—though not devoid of spice— No lecturer can label nice.' To any lecturer. His wit was poor, the laughter loud Proceeded from himself and not the crowd.
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fitioterget ' Quite suddenly Alice found herself sitting in a blue chair —.she remembered particularly afterwards that it was blue—in a large room with a fire in one corner. By the fire, with her feet on a little rush stool, sat the Fillolerjist. ' How very curious,' thought Alice to herself ; I do believe her hair is coming down ! And she is all grey-and-black stripes, like a peppermint ! ' The next moment she found she had, quite without knowing it, made this remark out loud, for the Fillolerjist, without looking at her, but staring instead at a little vase with a Stork on it, that stood on the mantelpiece, said : It's very provoking to be called a peppermint—very ! ' I said you looked like a peppermint, if you please,' Alice gently explained. And some peppermints are very nice, you know,' she added, as a sort of compliment. Some people,' said the Fillolerjist, still looking at the Stork, have no more sense than a baby. ' Alice didn't quite know what to reply to this, and as the Fillolerjist kept on looking at the Stork, she amused herself by repeating softly : King Loowis had his head cut orf and spiled his constitootion.' This was part of a song she had heard somewhere, and it was all she could think of to say (anyway, as she carefully explained afterwards, it seemed so ridiculous to sit saying nothing at all). But suddenly, and Alice jumped with the start it gave her, the Fillolerjist looked at her for the first time, and said, eagerly : ' Now take the word " constitution," for example.' Alice felt that she'd rather not take the word constitution,'—anyway, where was she to take it to?—hut she wisely held her tongue. The word " constitution," ' went on the Fillolerjist, shows what I have been trying to illustrate, namely, how one word can do duty for several, or many, things. There is your and my constitution, and the French consitiution, and the constitution of language, and . . . others,' she added abruptly. (` Because she can't think of the rest,' thought Alice.) The question is,' said Alice, whether you can make words mean so many different things.' The question is,' said the Fillolerjist, which is to be Master—that's all. That is to say, which particular denotation of a word tends to emphasize itself, and finally to predominate over all the other denotations or meanings attached to that word?' Alice was too much puzzled by this time to say anything, so after a minute the Fillolerjist began again. They've a temper, some of them— particularly verbs, they're the proudest—adjectives you can do anything with, but not verbs—however, I can manage the whole lot. of them ! ' ' You seem very clever at explaining words,' said Alice. Would you kindly tell me the meaning of the poem called " Il pleut, it pleut, bergere " ? ' Let's hear it,' said the Fillolerjist. I can explain all the poems that ever were invented—and a good many that haven't been invented just yet.'
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This sounded very hopeful, so Alice repeated : pleut, it pleut, bergere, Piesse tes blancs moutons ; Allons a la chaumieere, Bergere, vite allons. . . That's enough to begin with,' the Fillolerjist interrupted ; there are plenty of hard words there. A " bergere " is an Easy chair.' (` Oh,' thought Alice, I'm sitting on one ; I must remember that.') It can also mean a Shepherdess. I can't tell you its origin, because although I've got a dictionary, it doesn't go any further than A.' I see,' said Alice thoughtfully, meaning that she hoped some time to he able to see, and what is blancs "? ' " Blanc " comes from the Old High Bunkum " blanch." ' And what's " moutons "? ' " Moutons " is mutton ; something one returns to.' went on the Fillolerjist ; and " allons ' comes from " aller," Old French " aler " with one "1," which comes from . . . from . . . Anyway, it means " to go," ' she said, looking hard at Alice. There was a long pause. ` Is that all?' Alice timidly asked. Good-bye.' That's all,' said the Fillolerjist.
aping5 of Or Week 'Tany rate.' Miss GL- vER. Better? That'ss right.' Miss S - LT. The comparative study of commas is most fascinating.' Miss S - TON. I'm so sorry. I must have mislaid it.' Miss FR - NC1S. You pore thing.' Miss G - - DING. Yes . . . Miss . . . and . . . what . . . college? ' Miss Gw - R. ' The following are missing . . . " L'Histoirrre de la Literrrature Frrrancaise." ' Miss P - - M. Och, it makes me wild.' Miss D - - NEE. Hugo ! Hugo ! ' Miss TH - - NEY - FT. This is not a pub.' Miss 0 - - N. I wish to complain about . . . ' Miss B - TTS. Oh, my dear ! How sweet ! ' Miss B - RR - WS. Really? ' Miss Sc - TT - H - - STON. Lord ! what fools these mortals be.' HUGO.
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ettp Pace ' A COMI-TRAGEDY OF STUDENT LIFE. Scene. A small, crowded room. A table and chair littered with papers and books ; a chest of drawers which seem to combine the functions of sideboard and dressing-table ; an armchair with a pile of stockings on the seat ; on the walls an assortment of cheap pictures, hung without design or selection. Under the window, which looks on to a garden of lawns and trees, grey and misty in rain, is a bed, badly disguised by a gay casement cover and cretonne cushions to seem a couch. YELENA and PALYA are sitting on the bed, with their hands on a small radiator, for warmth. They have no fire, although it is a cold day. Time. A March afternoon. YELENA. The rain will stop soon, but it will be too late to go out. I have still a lot to write. Another afternoon wasted ! PALYA. The bell will ring in a minute. YELENA. 0 that bell ! I dread it with all my soul. Its hideous vibration pierces my brain, like knives stabbing, tearing. . . . It marks the divisions of each wasted period, calling us always to some state worse than before. It takes us from the beds where we know a little rest to the turmoil of day again. It summons us from the cell, where we are at peace and alone, to a crowded room where we fight for loathsome food—haddock, cabbage, mutton, macaroni cheese ! We are no longer a civilised society, but animals lusting for food. We hurry, jostle, babble, laugh . . . at what? Pah ! Then, at the day's end, it shrills triumphantly over each chronicle of unfulfilled plans, summoning us to sleep, as the only refuge. Next morning it wakes us again. . . . There it goes ! (The bell rings. YELENA puts,,her fingers in her ears, and her face assumes an expression of intense pain.) PALYA. Come along. There will be nothing left for us unless we are there first. YELENA. Nothing left? . . . I do not want anything ! That samovar, broken and dinted ; the cracked cups ; the odd spoons • the perpetual stream of rough, brOwn tea ; the food we maul in our efforts to possess it ; jam in bowls, like sacrificial blood . . . Oh, why am I here? Why must I suffer it all? PALYA. Listen ! They are all going. Anna, Ekaterina, Olga. They are laughing. Katya is whistling. Tea will do you good. YELENA. Not from that hateful samovar. It will poison me rather. Those footsteps ! Will they never end? They will drive me mad. Palya, I must tell you,—it is footsteps I dread. They come by my room, incessantly, with a heavy rhythm that thuds on the fibres of my brain. I hear them come nearer and nearer. I sit, tense, expectant, wondering if they will stop at my door, or pass on and die away . . . like everything. . . . At times they stop and someone comes in : talks about herself—empty chatter !—takes away the book I am reading, borrows my gown, leaves her untidy things on my drawers, obtrudes her personality into my mind Then she goes out, and I listen to her footsteps dying away like the rest. Often the steps pass by, and my nerves are keyed up for a crisis that never comes. I wonder
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where they are going, and why. They pass and repass, and pass again. I lose my youth and health waiting for them to stop. Sometimes there is music, harsh and banal, laughter . . . or voices . . . I am surrounded, imprisoned, by the jarring notes of other people's minds. PALYA. You never used to be like this, Yelena. Once e all envied you your brains and your happiness ; but now . . . Tell me, what is it? YELENA. I don't know. Yet I do. It's living here. It is three years since I first came. I remember there was almond blossom everywhere, delicate pink against a mild blue sky. It fell on our heads and strewed the paths in the garden where we walked at evening. I saw women like goddesses, beautiful rooms, stately ways—all to be mine as the crown of toil. I planned all the fine things I was to do. I was in Paradise. For a while I was happy, but it was because I was ignorant. I thought I was living, but I was only playing at life. Then I tasted the bitterness of knowledge, but I sought to escape the inevitable realisation awhile in a round of pleasure. Now there is no time for pleasure, only reality ; and what remains? What have I done here? What can I look forward to doing? Nothing ! (Slowly and cryptically) There's something wrong about this place. PALYA. When did you go to bed last night, Yelena? Don't do any more work now. I will say that you have 'flu. YELENA. You do not understand. Those steps ! (Footsteps come nearer, pass, and die away. )(ELENA sinks back breathless, in agony.) Three years of this! PALYA. When did you go to bed last night, Yelena? YELENA. That doesn't matter. (More footsteps, nearer and nearer. They stop at the door. Someone knocks.) Oh—I cannot bear it ; who will it be this time? Come in ! (She seizes the electric lamp, brandishes it, and brings it down on the head of ANNA as she enters. ANNA falls.) PALYA. Oh, what have you done? YELENA. I have killed Anna. One of us has escaped. PALYA (examining ANNA). No, she is breathing. Fetch Sophia quickly. YELENA. But I wanted to kill her. Wait ; she may die before Sophia comes. (PALYA goes out, hastily.) (YELENA sits on the bed, looks out. The sun is breaking through clouds behind the waving beech-tree. Voices are heard in the garden below.) The rain has stopped, and the sun shines. So the gardenerYELENA. woman puts in her plants for summer. The gardener lives for the future, believing that every plant will flower some day, a thing of beauty. This brown earth, those dull roots planted beneath my window—they shall come to blossom, in a summer that I shall not see. I shall have gone then. It is always winter, but we hope for summer. Ah—footsteps ! (Hides her head in the cushions. The door opens. Enter PALYA with SOPHIA.) SOPHIA (continuing a conversation) . . . she will have to be put in San. YELENA. San ? I cannot bear it ! (Opens the window, jumps out. There is a sound of breaking bushes, and a thud of earth.) PALYA (looking out of the window, then up at the sun). She has gone to join the flowers ! SOPHIA (bending over ANNA). Her temperature is quite normal. She need not go to San. ,
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i5t ening to PRELUDE A L'APRES-MIDI D'UN FAUNE.
Now strangely-fashioned crystals of purest music Fall through the limpid air, to sleep for ever. With time and all that is gone, in a pool of silence. The faun with his passionate story of endless longing Spends his soul on the vale, in plaintive pipings For the cold, pale dryad, the reed that rewards desires. Listen ! The pipe grows faint in the hazy woodland ; Only the wind makes murmur, the leaves rustling . . . . . . ! ! ! eow, eow, eow, eow, EOW, Eow ! Grrr. Grrr. Gr! Gr! drrrrrr Damn ! I forgot. The record has a scratch on it Such is life.
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Xppe5 of irtiO ihautp YOUTH IN OXFORD.
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Interbietu5 I. Although we had, of course, an appointment with Miss --, we approached her with some trepidation. We enquired the way to her room from some very junior member of her college. Miss --? ' they said. Wonderful ! Wonderful ! ' Then, rousing themselves from the dreamy abstraction into which they had fallen, ' First floor, second turning, third door, South Front. South and far south—our admiral—' We left them and approached the room of Miss —. Her firm Come in ' aroused a responsive thrill in our feminine spine, Miss Tinclined her semi-Harrow crop. As she reached down to clasp our hand we were conscious that Miss — would never stoop to any action unbecoming to a Pioneer of Male Method in Women's Colleges. We doubted whether Miss --'s form was originally designed for stooping. No,' she said, in answer to our questions, ' I do not drink. I never have drunk ; I will not drink. No, nor young men. . . Bottles and young men. . . all under chairs. . . For a moment Miss — was overcome by something like emotion. It could not have been excitement of that sort. But it was like that. My hobbies?' said Miss -- ' Plain common-sense (I am a practical woman). Coffee in the J.C.R. Mud in the country (walking is the only manly sport—especially in mud). Not jiu-jitsu ; it has become effeminate : look at our J.C.R. But I like the direct method—the straight blow from the fist—and hang the body out of the window. ' Movements I am in favour of? Reformation of clothes, I think. I dislike frills and curls : I try not to wear either ; severity even on Presidential occasions is to be encouraged. I believe in shirts : first of all shirts. Then sensible suits, a neat high-necked tie, good socks, berets. . Plus-fours ' we suggested timidly, in the immediate future? ' No,' said Miss — firmly, and pressed the single wave which ran the length of her head. She strode to the cupboard, and pulled out piles of slices of bread and quantities of tins. Will you have cocoa?' she asked, I drink a great deal of it. I also eat toast : I believe in common-sense.' Having collected, arranged, filed and docketed each piece of bread, she presented it in an orderly manner to the fire, piled it systematically on a plain green plate and proceeded to eat it with strict regard to rotation. At this moment the Students' Committee entered. Order ! Order ! ' she said, rising to her feet. I call upon the Secretary to read. . At this moment we took the opportunity to flee. We found that we still retained a cup of cocoa in our right hand and a peculiar stiffening in the back-bone. II. [Miss -- is discovered by the reporter on a landing of the New Wing. She is, in a characteristic position. She is posed on one toe, with her arms spread, gazing into the middle-distance. Relaxing, she falls gracefully backwards into our arms, extending her feet in an opposite direction.] MISS : At last ! At last ! Adolphus, you have come ! (Rapidly and passionately.) And I told that lily-livered loon of a woman to bring you here at once. But enough ! Let it pass !
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WE : Can you give us a line on your hobbies, recreations, amusements. . ?
Miss — : On all these. On all these. But not on work. Talk not to me of work. Go to the bees, thou sluggard . . . (Enter, left centre, a philologist, chuckling.)
am going to be Andr-rocles and Ear-r-rnest and— Miss — (giving vent to wild hysterical laughter and flinging herself in a violent swoon at our feet) : Now I shall have to be a measly Lion. Oh, I am undone ! Would that I were a-Maying ! PHILOLOGIST : I
(Philologist, chuckling, passes out, left wing.)
Miss — (recovering): You would like to know what I do? I act. produce. I design. That is all. It is, it is enough. (She bends her head downwards, places her hands behind her back and paces backwards and forwards.) WE : Is it true that you are the last of the Elizabethans?
: In language, yes. I believe in the full flow of the Elizabethan Miss curse combined with Restoration innuendo. (Enter Puffles, a friend, sneering.)
Did you say language? She knows none. Her language papers are— Miss : Undone ! Undone ! Hence, vile' varlet ! The devil rend thee. Have you ever seen my joie de vivre in the library as I leap zestfully from grammar to grammar, from paper to essay. . . Yes. You would like to hear about my work. In conclusion, may I say thot my work is corpse-hunting, trick-dancing, encouraging the Fantastics of my College, bird's nesting and Mr. Brett-Smith. I have still something yet to do. PIFFLES
:
(She advances to the centre left; executes several complicated steps ; leaps suddenly at Puffles; stabs her to the heart with a sword; stands upon the corpse on one foot with arms spread, gazing into the middle-distance.)
For men may come and men may go, But I'm damned if I won't stay where I am. (Curtain.) III.
, flowing into On our way through the New Wing we saw Miss her room. An aroma of Russian cigarettes and the strains of jazz smote us as we entered. I am on my way to the George,' she said, ' but I generally have time for interviews. ' With that delightful languor which characterises her least movement and has earned her a hundred appellations culled from bird and beast, she sank into a chair. It was as if drowned sea-weed had drifted there. Her curls slid into the positions arranged for them and caressingly outlined her ruminating profile. She gazed upwards. How that gesture recalled her many evenings when the haze of a thousand cigarettes smoked in the furious desperation of an hour's wait lifted that face to an almost supernatural ecstacy of publicity. She gazed downwards. How that recalled
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these many nights at the George, at the cinema, in the crushed strawberry, fainting rose-leaf light of the Poetry Club. ' I have nothing to say,' she said, I have already explained myself in your magazine, for which, by the way, I have no great respect.' Do you believe in Cabalas,' I said, or the segregation of the fittest? ' I believe,' she said, in journalism (a pile of Fritillaries slid to the floor), in beauty (a mirror above reflected the subdued gleam of her eyes) and pearls (she twisted one round her smallest finger). But I have no other beliefs. My low vitality does not permit me to lead a vigorous existence in thought or action.' She drifted with her words into space with that subtle movement of her velvet covered hips which is the delight and enchantment of our lunchtables. . .
jurtber 3internietv We knocked at the door. Come in, lady,' said a voice. We came in. Seated round the feet of our Gamaliel were a large number of admiring devotees. Seated on the table with her legs dangling poetically, sat our Gamaliel herself, while further devotees dispensed her tea. This, lady, is not a committee,' said our Gamaliel. ? ' said we, astonished. ' No,' she replied, it is an epigram bee.' She giggled charmingly, and read aloud, in a voice touched with the faintest nuance or soupcon of passion, her latest discovery, the poems of Wilhelmina Stitch. . . You are queer, said I, addressing our Gamaliel familiarly by her pseudoChristian name. No,' said she. No ! No ! ' in a rising crescendo. Her face grew pale, she passed a distraught hand through her yellow locks, thus rendering them more untidy than before. I am not queer ; you do not understand, that is all.' She paused. After all, queerness, if you see what I mea(i, well, queerness is the utmost essence of queritywell, I mean, the gumtersential. . .' Yes,' we interposed, hastily, but have you any message for the great world outside? ' ' Certainly,' said our Gamaliel, in a voice suddenly matter-of-fact. This. Tell-them-that-the-/mp-goes-to-press-to-morrow-and-the-Frit.-is-on sale-for-sixpence-and-the-Sailing-Club-meets-this-afternoon.' We bowed and went, stumbling over a few cups and devotees on our way. As the door closed behind us, a voice called, Good-bye, lady.' M.J.
rife 'econb rear Pap The choice of ' The Lady from Alfaqueque ' (La Consulesa) by Serafin and Joaquin Alvarez Quintero was an ambitious one. It is the kind of ' good comedy ' which gives the players little opportunity for the easy and crude appeal of burlesque. The point of the humour has to be given just the right amount of stress, and it is the highest possible compliment one can pay to amateur production and acting to say that the Quintero brothers came through it very well. The actors made the audience respond to the right kind of appeal. Whoever casted is to be congratulated. E. M. Lawrence, as Fernandita, could scarcely have been bettered. Her bearing was appropriate, her acting restrained, her make-up and the sweet dignity of her clothes
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in the second act were excellent. J. Woodrow's Don Pascual was also remarkable for its quietness, and I have rarely seen a better example of the ' quiet smile.' I feel sure the authors themselves would have approved her air of ` ironical blandness.' M. Zvegintzov succeeded equally well in catching the spirit of her part. She was, as the authors intended her to ' a beautiful girl, graceful and gentle.' P. Bourne was a very ' fretful poreentine ' as Nicolas and lost her temper realistically. Moreover, she can walk and talk, and, ) above all, stand, like a man. G. Joel, as Felipe Rivas, was very expert in the matter of staggering into a room and fainting. She should make a habit of it. One doubts whether the Quin* tero brothers intended their charming rogue to be quite as amusing as Miss Joel made him, but that was the effect of her eyebrows. I could not take my eyes off them. M. Evans gave an excellent performance as the valuable and affectionate Adoration and her gesticulations, illustrative of a ' twisty-twiddler,' were a master-stroke. H. Alexander, as Realito, conveyed the right impression of acute shyness and pleasure, and twisted her large hat about with convincing embarrassment. H. B. Williams was a good Noblejas, her ' bowing and scraping' must have made her's the most tiring part. C. Dahl brought out the full flavour of Poloma with her habit of taking the words out of her father's mouth and her filial grimness. D. R iviere was a striking `twiddly-twister ' (what is the Spanish for that, I wonder?), and she made excellent use of her hands. P. Kirkby was the competent Alberta for whom Don Pascual must have been very grateful. Finally, a word of praise for the pictures by Geejay and Seedy, which, though not specifically Spanish, were certainly artistic.
M. JAMES.
il.eport5 BOAT CLUB. President—Miss FARROW. Captain—Miss KEENS. Secretary—MISS HusE. Committee—MISS REYNOLDS, MISS MORLEY, MISS HARE. Severe frosts have made boating on the river impossible, and up to the seventh week ice-floes still made it hazardous. Rowing has been at a standstill, but there is great hope for the College Four in the stroke (Miss Huse), coxswain (Miss Facon), and in the first years (Misses Cooper, Collington, Lloyd, Mottram and Vile). The final selection for the Four has not yet been made. Non-swimmers, who will inevitably want to go on the river next term, are reminded of the rule ' That no .one may go thereon unless she can swim fifty yards,' and are advised to learn this art during the vacation. MARY KEENS.
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HOCKEY. HILARY TERM, 1929.
(* Colours.
t Badge.)
Team f*RosERTs (goal).
*SLIMON (right-back). Plays an energetic and enthusiastic game. A little slow to recover, and must mark more closely. The mainstay of the team—no more need be said. Has had rather a chequered career owing to the absence of the centre-half. Always plays vigorously, though apt to pass rather wildly and to be a little rough. *REYNOLDS (centre-half). Has had very little hockey this term, which we much regret, and especially her enforced absence in the final cupper.' *WELCH (left-half). Plays a very sound game. Should try to stop the ball more dead, as it sometimes rebounds for about three yards and gets out of her control. Has given some good long passes, especially latterly. Lucas (right-wing). A promising forward. Passes well when approaching the circle. Should tackle 'back a little more. *JACKSON (inside-right). Combines well with the centre and has much improved this season. Has shot several good goals. t*HARDIE (centre-forward). Keeps the forward line well together. Shoots well, and is very fast. Must try and keep her stick down and take the ball with her when tackled. *ATTENBOROUGH (inside-left). Combines very well with the centre. Stickwork very neat and has the ball well under control. Has shot some good goals from a difficult position. Moir (left-wing). Must try to start off the mark more quickly and get free. Must keep her stick lower to take the passes, and pass quickly near the circle. f *BEATTIE (left-back). HARE (right-half).
We have had a moderately successful term, though terribly weakened by the loss of two halves, Reynolds and Zvegintzov. The chief fault is an inability to find spaces to pass into, owing 05 a feverish desire to get the ball a little nearer the opponents' goal ; an observation of the left-back's tactics will show the defence how to gain time. Also the marking is not clever enough ; the halves and backs are not between the ball and their opponent. The team was happy to be in the final of the cupper against Somerville, and regretted the unfortunate accident which somewhat spoilt the game. All thanks are due to Beattie for her untiring devotion to secretarial duties. Results :Goals against. Goals for. Played. 19 0 ... St. Hilda's 2 Lady Margaret Hall 3 2 ... Somerville 4 13 . . o Heading-ton Ladies 2 TO King's College, Strand ... 2 King's College, Strand ... 4 — — 20 39
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SECOND XI.
Team. *Bromley, g. ; *Vincent, r.b. ; *Mortlock, Lb. ; *Hatton, r.h. ; *Kirby, c.h. ; Penhale, 1.h. ; *Diuthoit, r.w. ; *Ratcliffe (capt.), r.i. ; *Faure, c,f. Sharp, Li, ; Yarwood, /.w. The Second XI did well to beat Somerville in the first round of the Cuppers, and we were sorry that O.H.S. overcame them by 6 goals to 5. lVfortlock has played a very sound game at back, and Hatton at half, to whom we are also extremely grateful for her work in the First XI.
HOLYWELL PRESS, ALFRED STREET, OXFORD.
CONSTITUTION OF THE COLLEGE MAGAZINE. I.—That the Magazine shall be called ' THE
IMP.'
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