The Fritillary, 10 March 1928

FRITILLARY MARCH i o 1928

Price SIXPENCE

Editor : MARGARET LANE (St. Hugh's).

Treasurer: JOYCE HANDLEY-SEYMOUR (Somerville).

Committee : RACHEL FLOYD (Somerville).

R. M. J. CAMPBELL (St. Hugh's).

ANGELA CAVE (Lady Margaret Hall).

F.

H.

BROWNE (St. Hilda's).

T. B. THORNE (0.H.S.).

FRITILLARY Magazine of the Oxford Women's Colleges

MARCH, 1928 CONTENTS Page

..

Editorial Narcissus in the 'Nineties Gold and Frankincense and Myrrh Epiphany (illustration) At a Solemn Music The Canterings A Suggestion ..

3 3 6 7 8 17

Page

Carioletta At Departing The Playhouse Super Cinema Music Notes College News Games Notices

18 19 20 20 21 23 24

Editorial

O

XFORD or not, it is really time we stopped falling in love with our

own souls, ceased crouching within our minds, ready to pounce on the least tremor of sensation, and drag it triumphantly to the light. It is a wearisome business, whether we undertake it spontaneously or ridicule the same phase in an older generation ; unless it is done superbly well, there is no real joy to be stolen from introspection beyond its own brief intoxication, which does not need to be published. But we understand fairly well why the woman undergraduate tends so to feed the inner flame and examine its every flicker. To begin with, she is not, legally, very well fed. Also, she lives for the most part in depressing neighbourhoods, and she has too much time to herself. Now, while a frequent steak might remedy the first ill, and time may remedy the second, we would suggest for the third a relaxing of the rule which in some places still compels women to be safely in college by eleven o'clock. If we had fewer of these dark hours of college life and solitude (and the cancelling of this rule would decrease them by one) we should have less opportunity of self-exposure in the dangerous company of our own attentive reflections.

Narcissus in the ' Nineties

BY MARGARET LANE. Marius woke in the first daylight, at the stirring of a little wind on his face. The curtains swayed inward from the open window, and the grey breath of a summer dawn crept in from the garden. Marius listened to the thrushes. It was his birthday, his twenty-second. His birthday. He stretched his arms and sighed with content. Now that he was awake so early the day would be all the longer for him ; he would have the very

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dayspring to himself, before the irritating family surge should be called to life by gongs and breakfast. Now there was no one to disturb him, no one to break the delicate bubble of thought that swam so• tremulously in his mind, no one to confuse the meandering patterns of his reflection, or break his own long silences. He swung his feet out of bed and walked to the window. The garden lay smooth and quiet, scarcely awakened as yet. The sudden desire to go out and awaken it with his own hands, his own voice, to make the misty lawns and the little river aware of him, to set his seal upon the day at its very beginnings, urged him downstairs. He corded his silk dressing-gown around him, slid his feet into green slippers, and crept downstairs to the drawing-room. It was dark. He drew back the heavy curtains and opened the French windows ; the sweet air came to his nostrils piercingly, like an intoxication ; he drew it in on an ecstatic breath, and stepped on to the grass.

Marius made his way toward the river at the end of the lawns, flowing smoothly beneath a grey fringe of willows. There was a flat layer of mist on the face of the stream ; it rose to the level of his feet on the grass bank, and the first fingers of sunlight touched it. He had a sense of the quiet house watching him behind his back, and it spoiled his solitude. He strolled along the bank to be out of its sight, and came to the end of the garden, where there was a small wicket gate in the privet hedge. Before him lay the paddock, yellow with buttercups, long and wet in the grass. He went into the field. Here the bank of the stream was unkempt. It ended raggedly in little reeds and mud ; there was a tangle of small thorns between the willows, and in one place the water was overhung by a climbing briar, in pale full bloom. He made his way to the briar, and stood staring at the water. Melancholy touched him. Why had his sense of completeness, of solitude, vanished so suddenly, at a touch? Was he never to achieve that oneness, that communion with beauty—or with self, which was it?—but some breath, some glance, must shatter his brief ecstasy and spill the petals of loveliness that he had built up for an instant in the spirit?

His hands plucked at the wild roses. Who could be trusted not to bruise the spirit, who could be admitted into experience, and yet leave the memory untarnished. The phantoms that were his friends rose in his mind ; in the moment of invoking they faded. He became impatient. Of what use were they? Where was the complete contact, the union between two parts that should make a perfect whole ? He spread his hands on either side as if to find that complementary spirit that should perfect him. They fingered the air for a moment and returned to rest in his own bosom.

A blackbird whistled in the willow above him, and some of the briar petals dropped on to the water. Marius bent to watch their slow revolutions on the smooth current, and his eyes met the gaze of a mirrored face intimately watching his own.

Dressing for dinner that night, Marius was troubled. He had no desire for the elaborate trivialities of a dinner party, and the fact that the guests were invited in honour of his birthday made him shrink all the more from contact with these friendly, curious people. Besides, he was haunted by a phantom that was elusive, and tantalised him. From time to time he would have a sense of its nearness, almost divine its meaning ; he would believe himself about to prick through the film of unrealisation to the reality that should resolve his incompleteness into completeness ; he would tremble, and the sensation would be past. Moreover, that indistinct, vanishing face of the morning was present in his mind, and his certainty of its relation to

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his restless apprehension of discovery led him even to peer anxiously into the ambiguous shadows, as if to find the object of his seeking dissolving between the dark curtains.

The conversation at dinner hummed past Marius' ears. He felt lightheaded. He was conscious of the light and warmth, of the double row of candles standing in haloes of reflection on the polished table, of the rainbow points and caught radiance of silver and glass ; of the diamonds sparkling on the low bosoms of the women, of the light falling on their hair, dressed high in pyramids of smooth rolls and curls; conscious, too, of the laughter and talk, the eating and drinking, the white wine, and the red. But of the identities of the people, and of the actual words they said, he was for a time unaware.

Suddenly the confusion receded, and his attention w.as concentrated by the shock of recognition. His eyes were held by those of the man opposite him. Marius' blood beat in his ears. Where had he seen that face before?

Those hands? How did he know and foresee each weary, graceful gesture, and recognise each modulation of the voice? The man w.as talking now, and a silence had fallen upon the rest of the diners. Marius had the curious sensation of invisibility, of being caught up above this strangely familiar image that he watched, of brooding over him like a spirit, following the meandering intricacies of his mind as he spoke, covetously noticing the effect of his every word, greedily remembering the admiration in the eyes of the women.

The lights blurred to his sight ; a surge of talk swept over the voice that he strained to hear ; the women were talking again; light shone on their satin bodices and round arms. He hated them. Where now was that face that he would give his eyes to see? Where that miracle of sympathy and completeness that he had for an instant discovered? The figures of the guests swam in his brain, and he could not find the beloved image ; nor, indeed, until some hours later did he again achieve duality.

III. Between the hours of one and two Marius woke with a dry throat and found that he had been dreaming. The dream had so instantly gone from him that he believed that, had he opened his eyes a moment sooner, he must have held it immobile on the dark. It was more real than a dream. It was familiar, it was near. A cool breath from the window brought the river to his mind. What if the phantom: should be fled there, to hide in the dark water the secret he had almost surprised at dawn? The suggestion became a belief, and Marius was not able to resist the longing that drew him from his bed to seek his dream where once before he stumbled upon it, and had not been able to hold it.

He opened his door cautiously and listened. There was not a sound.

He passed along the landing and down the stairs. The drawing room was quite dark ; stale cigar-smoke hung in the air, and there was a stuffy, tired odour of carnations. The curtains swung back under his hands and the moonlight flowed over him. He opened the windows like a door, and his bare feet brushed through the dew. In all the garden not a leaf stirred ; the shadows under the trees were motionless ; the moonlight lent the branches a gleaming unreality, and the pale faces of the flowers were like ghosts.

Marius opened the wicket gate, and it made no sound. His head swam.

What had he come out to find? There was nobody here. He stretched out his hands before him, and grasped after the intangible. His breath came

FRITILLARY quickly, and the willows swung slowly round him. Where was his vision, his consummation? Where the discoverey at whose very door he stood? A gleam of white in the willows drew him on : he stood at the edge of the water. The overhanging briar was beside him, the wet leaves and thorns caught at his hands, and the petals gleamed in the dark water. He leaned his body to see them, and caught the reflection of a moving figure. Quickly he turned. The emptiness of the river bank, the field, was a shock of disappointment. Nobody there? But assuredly he had seen and knew the outline of that dear head . . . Was he then so near? Then the river should not hide him. He would probe its secret, wrest his longing from its bosom by the very force of his supplication. He knelt at the muddy margin, his knees in the small sedge. He parted the reeds with his two hands, and bent to the face of the stream. There, circled in moonlight, and a little dim, was the strange familiar image. It looked up from among reeds and shadows, and the blossoms of the briar were about its hair.

I have found you ! ' cried Marius joyously, and the lips of the phantom smiled. He bent lower. The world receded to a great distance; they two were alone of all creation. His breath ruffled the face of the water, and the beloved trembled. On a sigh of content and fulfilment their mouths wandered together.

Gold and Frankincense and Myrrh ' Oh, Earth, there is peace on this quiet hillside now, But I am tired with the tramp of feet, and worn With the clattering foolish tongues of hopeless men.

Sickness and sin press heavy on a world forlorn.

Tell me, oh Earth, the secret of the evil here, And I will teach it then to men, and they will vow To earn no more so black a punishment.' ` Hush,' said the Earth. It is time for worship now.

Did you watch the dead gold of the apple orchard In the valley below light up, as a thin ray From the October sun fell slanting on the leaves?

There is the gold we bring to Christ, our King, to-day.

Do you see how the mist is rising from these pines, And can you smell its fragrance as it clings Among their tall straight stems? There frankincense Is offered up to God. And do you see how the springs Wash down from the hillside over leafy mould, Blackened with age, and bitter-smelling in the fresh Cold morning air? There is myrrh for the Christ.

For I, who am Earth, held His Blood and His Flesh Safe hid in my heart for two whole sacred nights.

At Golgotha I saw Him crucified For men.—But they are faithless when the shadow Of His Holy Cross falls clearly down beside Their paths. They cry for mercy and forget To praise. So I, their nurse, with pleading still must show The gifts of prayer and praise that God demands.

Come,' said the Earth, it is time for worship now.'

I. MORRIS.

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FRITILLARY 7

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At a Solemn Music U. M. CORMACK. Blest pair of sirens—sirens they certainly were—only look at those young men in the opposite row. It was funny what men were attracted by : sometimes they liked them brightly coloured, like those three in the opposite row ; sometimes . . . Margot was in a perfect nest of men and she wasn't being particularly nice to them either : she wasn't particularly well dressed or particularly good looking—not like Judith, who had a decidedly handsome man beside her • Judith had such lovely hair. Even Pansy Smith had a pimply person to charm.

It was funny how nice everybody looked at night, how different from the morning : they all seemed so gay and civilised. The hall seemed just the place for chamber music—no ugly platform or rows of chairs in red velvet. It might almost be a first performance of John Bull's or Dr. Blower's latest jigs. What a striking-looking person just in front on the right : it wasn't exactly strong features, nor her dark hair, but something vital in her face, or even perhaps in the pigment of her skin, which made her stand out so.

Listen to the buzz ; everybody was chattering fifty to the dozen ; she ought to say something to Miss Wilkinson, who was really quite a personage at home. ' Isn't it marvellous how chamber music in this hall takes one back to the days of virginals and viols? So sorry . . . I said isn't it wonderful how this hall and chamber music seem made for one another.' Dash the woman—I must be talking too quickly. I only said wasn't this hall nice for chamber music? . . . Yes, it is high . . . That is our Head who has just come in, in black with a shawl. She's rather a fine person—very original, you know ; those two beside her are dons. Do you see that girl in green with red hair over there? Rosemary Johnston. She is a second cousin, by marriage, to the Foreign Secretary ; and three away from her is Joyce Stone, a sister of Denham Stone, the poet. Have you read any of his things ? Well, perhaps he is not exactly famous, but he is fearfully original ; he does all his work in a room all done in green and writes on green paper, because he says he can't express himself properly unless he feels sea-sick. They have a perfectly charming house in Golders' Green.

Oh, they're tuning up now ; it's the Mozart first. I simply love Mozart . . . So sorry, there is such a noise. I said I liked Mozart.'

Mozart. There were only three composers on the programme. These select concerts were always like that. She must really listen and understand it all. The striking-looking person looked as if she was understanding it : she was staring at the chair-back in an absorbed sort of way. One must stop gazing round all over the hall ; it was too distracting. She would look straight in front—oh---that was Penelope's neck : her dress was rather low behind, and her neck wasn't at all what you would expect from such a cultured person. It was coarse-grained . . .

This must be the theme—there was always a. theme to begin with.

Mozart was delightful. Someone had once said that musical appreciation first began when one could hear three separate sounds at once. She certainly could—the 'cello, the piano and the violins. Of course there was more of a tune in the theme. Apparently there were three movements ; she must remember not to clap between them.

Personally she always preferred the largo : it usually had more tune and

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was rather sad. They were beginning to play quicker . . . a meaningless pattern of notes . . . Why was music called silly names, which conveyed nothing : Op. so and so in A minor? It would be much easier to remember them if they had real titles, something suggestive like A Night in March—.

Love in a Meadow—The Dancers. It was a pity there weren't any Chopin ; they were all so much easier to remember apart . .

Music wasn't really a very decorative accomplishment : the pianist bounced in her seat and every time the first violin struck a strong note the muscles of her neck stood out like string.

Why, that must be the end of the first movement. Of course Pansy Smith would clap : it was just like her. There were only two more now : allegretto ma non troppo and adagio.

This was a much brisker movement : the first violinist was nodding her head in emphasis.

How the light shifted on that green dress : it really looked rather nice against the men's black. A green like that in taffeta would be rather nice —flowered—only they would have to go to London for it. They really must next time : it always saved money in the end.

The lights danced so, there was a sort of haze of light in the hall and you couldn't see out of the windows because of the light on the panes. But the night was outside : you could hear the swishing noise of the wind in the poplars, like ladies in silk skirts dancing. No, it wasn't like that at all.

Poplars were much too real to be like silk. It was like . . .

How tiresome, she must have missed heaps of it ; it seemed to be rather a good bit too, everyone was listening ; the striking-looking person was clasping her head—she really must be musical.

She wondered where they were—was it the allegretto ma non troppo or the adagio? It was really rather hard to tell the difference ; it must be a slow part of the allegretto. No, they were obviously finishing up, with short, decided chords. What a flourish.

A rustle—everybody waking up and beginning to be lively again. Pansy Smith looked half asleep. She would. ' How did you like it? It was perfectly charming-, wasn't it? I thought the cellist's tone was very good, but rather heavy for Mozart, don't you think? . . . Oh, which bit? I don't think I noticed . . . Oh, yes, of course, a rather soft part. Yes, it was rather.'

The striking-looking person was speaking very decidedly about it . . .

How funny, it distinctly sounded like Sausage rolls and cider.' Perhaps she wasn't so musical after all.

Did you see his Cuosi Fan Tutti in town? " Well, no; I would have given anything to, but, somehow, we never seemed to have enough time when we were in town, and it would be so unsuitable to do a thing like that in a rush, wouldn't it ? There's the Head talking to the thin violinist, and Elsa Anoter. She is a very musical person ; her brother plays the piccolo for the Queen's Hall concerts. ' Oh, they're going to begin again-,--pieces by Bach. This is what I am really looking forward to.' Musical people often seemed to come for one thing and then go out : their music master used to, in quite expensive concerts ; it was decidedly original.

She saw, the other day, that it was now rather suburban to like Bach.

The suburbs always took things up after everyone else like Justice Shallow.

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Now they were off. It was really rather jolly. She must listen properly this time, so that she could remember them afterwards. Some people could go to a concert, hear things for the first time, and come back and sing them . . . It was rather nice . . . One set off and then another started after, like trains overtaking. She would never forget trains overtaking and the school certificate term, sitting under the trees, at field, between setts, and trying to show Barbara by twigs, how to do trains overtaking . . .

Water falling from a height . . . Heavens ! she was smiling idiotically at Penelope's neck. How silly it must have looked.

He must have enjoyed himself writing it ; did he see it all in his mind first—no, that would be rather dull ; he probably sat down and set off on the piano.

It was like a kaleidoscope, or a dog, setting up new hares . . . hares and rabbits lolloping about on a sunny bank and the sudden blink of white tails as they disappeared. They had probably never seen a motor before . . . What fun it had been.

He was playing someth ing diff erent now : it was decidedly sad. How odd. The striking-looking person was smiling happily to herself. She really could not be musical at all.

How big Penelope's neck had grown, it seemed to be everywhere and the lights were all hazy . . . with a voice coming out of the haze . . . or was it outside in the trees? . . . A land of tall trees with squelchy tussocks of moss underfoot and streams everywhere . . . and a high wind at sea—a rather monotonous roar ; she really couldn't make out whether it was a sound or a beat, the beat of the sea at the foot of misty cliffs, over and over again.

A general rustling and scraping of chairs ; it must be finished. One, two, three, four . . . you simply couldn't count Pansy Smith's young man's pimples. ' Yes, awfully nice. All the same, I think the craze for Bach is rather overdone nowadays . . . No . . . of course not ; but they do seem to go in waves; at Chopin . . . Yes, I suppose so.'

Miss ilkinson really was rather hard to talk to, and one really ought to have her to tea before she went back. But it would be rather difficult to find someone to have with her . . .

Good. They had started again—the last thing, by Dvorak, another Op. She must really listen this time, but the lights were hazier than ever . . .

Who would be a good person to have with Miss Wilkinson? Perhaps Stella Thomson and Marjorie Watts . . . Paste sandwiches and chocolate cake . . . and she really ought to get some fresh flowers . . .

What a hubbub ! It was like the French Revolution with the rumble of tumbrils going through it all . . . The lights were dancing up and down.

How hard the seats were. The Russians were a queer people : she supposed they were really happier when they were sad.

There. That was the end. What a crush. Hullo, Stella : how did you like it? . . . Yes, awfully, though of course I think Bach is overdone nowadays. The Mozart was perfectly charming, wasn't it? Yes, I noticed that ; and I didn't think the second violin was as good as the first, did you?

By the way, are you doing anything to-morrow afternoon? Could you come to tea with me?'

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The Canterings

BY Esmt SCOTT-HARSTON. I. They sat in the drawing room, after an exclusively family dinner. Mr. Cantering reclined on the largest chair, with a small table at his elbow, on which was placed the Evening News, the Heart of Midlothian and a bundle of neatly docketed reference notes. Mrs. Cantering lay comfortably half across the sofa and listened at intervals to the wireless. Towards ten her eyes would close and her expression become ecstatically somnolent. Francia Cantering, aged twelve, was carving quaint wooden figures in the far corner. She was an odd child. Dian, some five or six years older, crouched on a stool over the gas-fire, her long legs stretched in front of her. Hugh, just on holiday from his public school, lounged moodily against the piano, occasionally drumming his fingers on the keys and staring half-unconsciously at Dian's shadow against the wall.

The maid brought in coffee, and Mrs. Cantering satisfied the family requirements with leisurely sangfroid. Her beautiful compact face shone amusedly above the coffee-cups. There was no negative in her reaction to life, and very little surprise. She had accepted John Cantering twenty-five years ago, with his material prospects, his unenterprising precision and his bourgeois mind, just as she would have accepted any determining factor in her existence. There were no risks involved in John Cantering, and this had satisfied something in her expansive mind, which regarded marriage rather in the light of taking out an insurance policy.

Now, as her wide blue eyes wandered vaguely round the room, they rested for a moment on her husband. Stoutness sat uneasily on his meagre frame, and she noticed that increasing baldness had accentuated an abnormally high forehead, throwing into tortuous contrast an undeniably Disraelian nose. And then, almost in the act of trying to analyse her feelings —which would, of course, have been dangerous after twenty-five years of passivity—Mr. Cantering rustled his paper, and glanced up with fatigued precision : ' Have they given the time-signal yet? ' Dear John—Mrs. Cantering breathed an unintelligible sigh of relief dear John. How pathetically large his eyes were—such deep, irrational, surprised eyes. They should never have belonged to John. They were the eyes of a child who has been frightened in the dark.

Then the local news was transported with amazing irrelevancy through the ear-phones, and Mrs. Cantering's attention wandered again. She never managed to dwell on one idea for long. I doubt if she had ever formulated a theory in her life. Her actions were dictated rather by impressions than by facts. There was the impression in childhood of her own rather statuesque beauty, of the effect this had on others, and the need to guard it, to keep remote—the impression, later, of comfort, of having achieved a setting when she married John—and now, on evenings like this, the setting was comfortably emphasised. That epithet of ' comfort ' traversed her life, like a refrain. The family provided a background. All one had to do was to lie comfortably on a sofa, watching them with blissful acceptance.

Not that she ever really understood them—John, with his dew-drop eyes and fidgetty masculine insistence. And then her amazing children, who had grown up so oddly and, as it seemed, so suddenly. She had

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allowed them much freedom in their own development, because her own time had been occupied so closely with the complexities of her husband.

Mrs. Cantering was one of those people who cannot be concerned with more than one problem at a time, and no one expected her to be. So Hugh had more or less run wild, until a public school prospectus had reminded Mr. Cantering that his name had been entered at birth ; and then two years had to be cancelled off his admission to instil the required groundwork of knowledge.

Dian, after sharing in the truant stage, was also affected by the sudden reminder, and spent an intolerable three years at one of those scholastic establishments where one's constitution is prematurely shattered by compulsory games, and one's self-assurance permanently devastated by esprit de corps ; an institution which deals kindly with normality—but provides the abnormal with a pencil and scribbling block for autobiographical distress. For, of course, abnormality is always detected in dissenters from an established order, where that order is identical with health and physical comfort.

And all the Cantering children were abnormal. Any of the family relations could have told you that. Of course they were intelligent ; one even suspected a strain of genius. But it was so distorted, so unnatural. Look at Dian, with her queer, moody silences and unfinished poems, and her habit of dancing, alone, lit tle impassioned steps, with acrobatic agility and faultless rhythm. Mr. Cantering had watched her, unawares, one morning, and felt mutely uncomfortable. If only there had been a musical accompaniment. The silent regularity of movement was like a dirge.

And Francia, flaxen-haired, awkward child, with her cold, sceptical blue eyes and her abrupt hostility. There was a strain of Mrs. Cantering in her younger daughter. But if Francia was phlegmatic, she was also creative.

They *ere all creative. Even Hugh, rebellious creature, an anaemic boy, was talented like the others. Acting alone could rouse that fiery insolence in him, which had been forced so long into a sullen indifference, ever since that day when his mother had unexpectedly come upon him, standing upright and motionless, in the front hall. ' Hugh,' she had said, rather sharply, ' your father wants to see you in the library' ; and then, as he did not seem to have heard, ' Hugh, what is the matter? '—and he had started, swift fear in his eyes, and shuddered convulsively. But he did not move, until at last Mrs. Cantering, unusually exasperated, had murmured ' Oh, well,' and left him.

Hugh had not dared to tell her that he had been impersonating a hotel porter, and that his effort had been strangely successful. He had often wondered what could possess anyone's mind, standing indefinitely like that, and had discovered that it was very much like the period of half-awaking from sleep. You forgot time. People passed, but they were rather ludicrous. One wanted to laugh at the successive variety of their expressions, but consciousness of being cut off from reality restrained any emotion. His mother had seemed one of them, until the crude insistence on his name had at last penetrated. The experience had shocked him.

It was this capacity for subjective transformation which had created the secret understanding with Dian. Her violent outbursts amused him, and her rhythmic grace made him want to put his arms round her very tightly, just for a moment, and feel her soft hair against his face.

Mr. Cantering, while respecting his children's talents, was often irritated by their remarks, especially Hugh's ; but he had never contemplated an existence without the usual family background. For he was not a club man. Alienism was part of the Cantering creed. That is why this corn-

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fortable, if undecorative, house, in a beautiful but unenterprising village, had seemed the obvious move when Mr. Cantering had retired from his firm some seven years previously. Here he would spend the mornings gardening, and the afternoons planning an elaborate historical novel.

There was no society worth cultivating. Mrs. Cantering had got to the point of taking coffee of a morning with the dentist's wife ; but any Cantering would have been genuinely surprised and rather pained if you had imputed monotony to their existence. The country gentry were uninteresting and the villagers simply displeasing-.

There was that memorable evening when the whole family had attended a local concert. During the first interval, when cheery greetings were being exchanged in the rows around them, the Canterings had sat back rather stiffly. You could not have criticised their attitude as patronising or even boorish. It was simply detached. Mr. Cantering bit his lip frequently throughout the next item, and Mrs. Cantering was visibly distressed.

Francia sighed once or twice. And then Hugh had said aloud, tonelessly, Father, I'm bored ! ' And with one accord the whole family—they filled a row—had risen with dignity and swept out of the room. They seemed entirely unconscious of the stir they had created behind them.

The incident was characteristic of their attitude towards life generally.

Mrs. Cantering posed for the group, and, in spite of their individualism and antagonism and mutual misunderstanding, there had always been, up till now, some curious spark which united them •' so that they could sit in a room together and experience every emotion from mere resentment to merciless denunciation, but the idea of seeking a solution elsewhere would never consciously occur to them—until lately.

So Mrs. Cantering stared thoughtfully from one to another of her bewildering family, until, lulled by the insinuating rhythm of the radio dance orchestra, some impulse impelled her to a strange conclusion. Something was wrong. Why did Hugh appear so dazed to-night. He was well, wasn't he? They were all comfortable. The dinner had been particularly good—fried potatoes instead of baked, and sweet corn because Dian had wished it. Dian too—surely her eyes were not always so strained. And why did she keep rustling that letter?

Mrs. Cantering felt vaguely imitated. She had steered the family so carefully on the shore side of every conceivable danger. Tragedy, at least the ugliness of tragedy, had had no part in her life, and so her children had never suspected it. But this evening was proving decidedly unsatisfying.

And then the bomb-shell had been lodged. It came unexpectedly from Mr. Cantering. Looking up rather testily, he met Francia's enquiring stare, and shouted almost rudely : Why does no one ever say anything? D'you hear, my dear, why do we never talk? ' Mrs. Cantering looked startled, and Dian, jumping up quickly, slipped out of the room. Hugh followed her.

Dian—Dian ! '—he clutched her violently—' you're crying ! What is it? Tell me. Oh, Dian, what is going to happen ? They frightened me' —pointing back at the drawing room ; I think—I think I shan't sleep indoors to-night.'

Dian pulled him into the library. She was very calm and decided, but her eyes were red. ' Hugh—don't be afraid. It's all right really. Only, you know, dear, I've discovered something to-night. Isn't it funny, but —we're different. And I think father has just discovered it too. I'm sorry that it's happened to-night, because—please, Hugh, don't tell anyone this —I may be leaving home to-morrow.'

FRITILLARY But, Dian '—there was shocked uncertainty in the boy's voice—»' Dt'you mean—•ou have no money—you can't, you know.'

Dian looked at him sadly. ' It's a secret, Hugh. I'm not really going out of the village at all. I'm going to get married.' She paused triumphantly.

Oh, Dian, but you always said—' That when mother and dad died, we'd travel about together in an acting company, and I would write. But, Hugh dear, we were so young then. And you're still young, I think. Only I've grown old—just lately.

I don't think mother has ever thought that any of us would want to leave her. But girls do sometimes get married at seventeen.'

Hugh kicked the table viciously : Rot ! ' It isn't. It isn't. Oh, can't you understand. I'm so miserable about it too. You see—he's--he's the grocer.'

Dian—that man ! ' I was afraid you'd be surprised. So will the others, of course. That's why we've decided to go away and get it settled before anyone knows. No, I'm not going to argue with you about it. I've—I've decided that I love him—and—oh, Hugh, please—please be kind to me.'

Hugh stared at her for a long time. No, I don't—quite understand—' He jerked his head back impatiently and ran out of the room. And Dian dropped wearily into a chair and laid her head on the table—and cried.

At the breakfast table next morning the Canterings were more than usually silent. Hugh did not appear at all, and Mr. Cantering seemed preoccupied. Mrs, Cantering felt that something had quite definitely happened, and the sensation was new and unpleasant. But somehow the usual events of the day succeeded each other with surprising rationality.

Only Dian was really oppressed. But more because of Hugh's attitude than at the possible effect of her action. That seemed comparatively insignificant, so thoroughly had Mrs. Cantering instilled the comfort exclusively' theory of life.

But as she hurried out of the house, trying to conceal her suit-case until she had left the drive, she tried, for the first time, really to analyse her feelings towards Jim. It had been such fun staring at him earnestly, when she paid the bill on one of her daily commissions to the shop, and in one of the conversations which followed she had boldly suggested that he should take her to the cinema. He had been rather dubious. Of course the Canterings were known to be queer. And she was a nice kid. And Dian, feeling the first thrill of adolescence, had gone to sleep that night with curiously mixed feelings, partly the surfuit of a school-girl's romance, and partly something as yet unsatiated, which made her breathe very quickly and feel hot inside, when she remembered how Jim had looked at her and the sensation of his shoulder against hers.

That was nearly a year ago, and then, the other evening, when he was bringing her home, the rain had caught them, and they had started to run, and Dian had sudde nly stopped and flung her head back : Jim, I'm excited—I want—' And the man, looking down at the small, eager face, had felt the first pang of desire, and kissed her swiftly.

Dian danced a few steps now, as she thought of it. If only—if only Jim's hands weren't so red. But they were strong hands. Then her face clouded as she thought of Hugh. Until yesterday her relationship with Jim

FRITILLARY had in no way disturbed the inevitability of her place in the family. Her life had been blocked in, as it were, for endless years. She had simply opened the back-door a little to admit Jim. The future was immaterial. No Cantering believed in class distinctions. They saw humanity en masse, as so many faces and arms and legs. They were never dismayed by possibilities. So that what would, in an ordinary way, have been a difficulty did not present itself to Dian. It did occur to her, however, that nothing definite had been arranged about their immediate destination. And she hurried forward to their meeting-place at the end of Barnet's Lane.

Jim looked very large and comforting as he came out of the shadows towards her.

Hello, kid.' He put his arms round her clumsily. They walked on down the lane. For a while Jim breathed heavily, for it was a difficult subject to open.

Well—it's all off, kid.'

Dian looked up at him with wide eyes, and stroked his sleeve nervously. ' What d'you mean, Jim ? ' ' It ain't no use—our marryin'. You see, you're only a kid, an' I dessay folks 'ud kinder talk—an' there's yer Ma, an' all.'

But, Jim—don't you understand—we do what we like. A Cantering always does what he likes. That's what father says. And you know—you said—you loved me. Don't you—don't you, Jim? ' The man shrugged his shoulders impatiently. That ain't what I'm explainin'. Maybe I ought ter 'ave told yer before—stopped yer bringin' the bag, an' that. But it weren't so easy.' He drew his hand awkwardly through her hair, and tried not to meet the agonised look in her eyes.

Jim, you don't mean it really—oh, you do—I•can see you do.'

Then, for the first time, Dian realised the futility of what lay behind her—the emptiness of all she could expect. The family would be wondering what had happened. She must get back. That evening would be the same as every other evening. There were no turnings, then, in life. She felt, at that moment, the suffocating pressure of the little lane in which they stood.

It symbolised so much. She snatched her bag from his hand : I think—I almost hate you ' And then she ran and ran, until she found herself, breathless, at the drive gates. At any rate there would be Hugh. It was not that there was nothing left in life ; the dreadful fact which left her numbed and desperate was that there had never, apparently, been anything there at all. Only Hugh—darling Hugh.

Something vaguely sinister about the house impressed her as she approached it. There were sounds of hurried movement within, and she noticed the gardener running out of the back gate, in the direction of the village. But she was still too paralysed by recent events to sense alarm.

Dian ! ' Someone was calling her from the drawing room window. It was Francia, her hair tousled, her round face strangely swollen. Come quickly—it's Hugh ! ' Hugh—yes, of course. Where was Hugh ? He hadn't been in all day.

Something caught in Dian's throat.

They were all in the drawing room, bending over the sofa murmuring confusedly, ridiculously. Dian found herself kneeling beside Hugh, as he lay there, looking very small and crumpled. There was an ugly gash on his forehead, and his eyes sought her face with a feverish, tortured intensity.

He did not seem to be able to speak.

16

FRITILLARY

He fell off the roof,' Francia was whispering in her ear. He must have climbed up last night. The gardener found him, just after you went out.' The words were almost incoherent.

Dian just knelt there, holding Hugh's hand in her's—gazing at him helplessly. She heard her father cross the room to answer the telephone, and was conscious of her mother fetching hot water and soft towels. But still she did not take her eyes off Hugh's face.

And so she noticed the change before they did. Very suddenly his eyes lost their intensity. He tried to speak, and tightened his grip on her hand, and sighed once. ' I think he is dead.' She got up slowly and went outside. There was nothing else to do. There had been nothing in the past. There would be nothing in the future.'

III. It was two weeks after the funeral. Dian drew back her chair suddenly, before dinner was over, and was walking casually towards the door, when her father called her back. One moment, Dian—I've got something to say. And I want everyone to hear it now. I'm going to suggest that we leave this house, and perhaps--er—well, we might go abroad . . . ' Mrs. Cantering seemed unable to reply. Her mind was too confused.

The last fortnight had been so dreadful. Hugh's accident had hurt her acutely. It was the first time she had found her life, as it were, unanchored ; and it was difficult to re-adjust herself to the more unchartered motion.

She supposed, however, that John's plan would not involve any radical difficulties. She had heard that living was cheap on the Continent ; and the girls would improve their French. It was Dian who really disconcerted her.

The child seemed so subdued, so unintelligent.

Dian, your father is speaking to you.'

Dian came slowly back to the table. Suddenly her eyes blazed and she clutched the back of the chair to steady herself.

You know I don't care. I don't care where we live. You wouldn't have asked me two weeks ago. How dare you ask me now ! You would never have thought of moving two weeks ago. We might all have gone on eating and sleeping and thinking our different thoughts here, and living out our lives on nothing. Until Hugh died. And now you're suddenly afraid. Everything hasn't gone quite as you expected. You're beginning to realise that there is something unaccountable in life—something rather brave and insistent, which won't be pushed into shape haphazard. We're your children; but we're different. You've let us build card houses all our lives and never bothered to point out that they were unreal. You did not care very much whether we grew up or not, so long as we looked healthy and didn't rebel. Oh, yes. I know what I'm saying. I thought I was in love two weeks ago. I was going to elope. You see, everything was quite romantic—only I was turned down at the last moment—by the grocer's son. That, of course, was dramatic too.

Oh, I haven't regretted it.—Don't make that mistake too. Can you imagine me, living out perhaps fifty years of my life in the village, weighing out pounds of butter, and trying to persuade customers that bad bananas were simply over-ripe. That aspect doesn't occur when you think you're in love. But there was nobody else to tell me.—There was a family two weeks ago. But there isn't one now. Make no mistake about that either. The Canterings are crushed entirely and forever. Hugh is dead.

Francia is beginning to be aware—and you can't have me any more.'

FRITILLARY

iq

It was Mrs. Cantering who broke the long silence first. There was a pained look in her eyes, but her voice betrayed no emotion. It was very flat and calm. ' I see your point, my child, about the grocer. Such a pity —you might, of course, have found life more eventful with the chemist.'

Mr. Cantering simply looked from one to another in bewilderment.

Francia had listened attentively all the time, her eyes fixed on Dian's face.

Now she folded her napkin very carefully and stared across at her father.

I think we had better leave this house. The weather is better abroad, and I saw Hugh's ghost last night.'

A year later, if you had booked a room at the Hotel M— at St. Raphael, you would have met the Canterings. You could not have missed them, for they would have been pointed out to you, as some of the most interesting visitors. Mrs. Cantering was so distingue, with her white hair and firm profile. There was something almost regal about her detachment.

And the commissionaire would have assured you that Monsieur must be very famous indeed in English literary circles—he always wrote in the most conspicuous corner of the terrace. Francia amused the older people by her quaint mannerisms and bold unconcern. And Dian was quite the most sought-after partner on the dance floor. There were rumours of an approaching engagement with a young baronet who had come out for the tennis championships.

Oh, yes,' you would have been assured, in gracious confidence, the Canterings are a most enviable family.'

A Suggestion 0,

what a slender ghost you'll make To wander over heaven And pull the shadowy aconites Among the planets seven.

To look so closely on the moon That you may see its waters Flow slowly down its mystic hills To bathe its shadowy daughters.

When you have wandered out of time and space Into the cool dark lands about the moon, When visions of heaven touch your pallid face And earthly thought swings golden to its noon, When seraphim, your dread familiars move Content, on the great embassies of love, All you will see of earth will be its spires, The thin, fierce flame of visionary fires, And trees, illumined, quick on summer eves With the long music of their high-flung leaves, Nothing shall greet of earth's twisted sound, You will not see the dust that sweeps the ground.

R.M.J.C.

i$

FRITILLARY

Carioletta

BY KATHLEEN M. ABBOTT.

I do not know what to do. If only I could be quite certain of my dear Signora. But I was sometimes a little afraid of her. And now there is no one to go to . . .

It was somewhere near Rome that we first met, the Signora and I. It was late in the afternoon—a very beautiful one, and I was tired of playing and had crept away. I had hidden, I remember, half-way up the hill, and it was there, turning round, that I suddenly saw her. She was sitting a few yards from me, very still, her hands clasping her knees, looking steadily before her. I could hear the voices of the others below. Come away, Carioletta,' they had all called, for it was late and time to get back to the villa. And Carioletta ! Come this instant,' called the voice of Miss Lee, and I knew from her tone that she was very angry ; but I could not come for looking at the Signora. Without moving her body, she turned her eyes on me. ' Why do you not go, Carioletta ? ' she asked, for you see that the whole world is calling for you.' ' It is not the whole world, Signora,' I answered gravely ; only Franz and Josef and Miss Lee, who is my governess. And I could not go, Signora, because you are so beautiful.

And those were the first words that we spoke to each other. '

I saw her often and often after that—sometimes only in passing, sometimes she stayed to speak to me. We grew to love one another very much, and would have long walks and talks together. I think she had been very sad, though she never spoke at all about that. She was often ill, too, and I would be very anxious about her. It's a bad disease, I'm afraid, Carioletta,' she would say, shaking her head gravely at me. And then she would laugh merrily that sweet low laugh of hers, and I: would be quite happy again. She spoke to me sometimes of death, and very strange things she thought about it. But I would only say I am not afraid of it, Signora ' ; for we had an oath between us—Franz and Josef and I—that nothing in the world should make us afraid. I used in those days to wear a dagger in my garter, for, as Josef had said, one should be always prepared . . .

It went on so for a month of that summer, until Miss Lee discovered my meetings with the Signora. And they were all very angry at the villa, and said things of the Signora that I did not understand, and that I must never see her again. They said also that I was wicked and disobedient, for I vowed that nothing should keep me from her. And that was why they sent me to England.

I saw her once more before I went, a stolen meeting with the aid of Josef. It was at the place where I met her first. She said I shall be very lonely without you, Carioletta, for I love you very much. I think I shall always be lonely without you.'

I heard Josef's whistle from below. She kissed me and let me go, and I scrambled down.

And that was the last that I saw of her for a year.

FRITILLARY

9

1

England I will not tell you about, for I hated it and all things in it.

But most of all I hated school. It was better when the summer came, for then I went to stay at a house in the country, where the people, all of them, knew Italy. And there, quite suddenly upon a day, came the Signora. They had been old friends, it seemed, in Italy and England, in that past of the Signora's that I did not know. She came, but they would not let me see her. She was ill, they said, with travelling. She would be well perhaps in a day or two.

The days passed, and still I could not go to her ; but on the seventh day she came to me. I had gone to bed very early that night, and there must have been a storm, I think, for my windows rattled and I could not sleep, and the curtains blew out into the room. I lay very still and thought of the Signora, and of the summer in Italy and that she was ill ; and then, quite suddenly, I felt something touch my arm. I was afraid, but I would not let myself cry out ; so I turned my head instead, and there she was beside me. She was very pale and strange in the moonlight. Carioletta,' she said, very softly, ' will you do something for me to-night? " I will do anything in the world for you, Signora,' I answered, for I loved her very much. She moved away when I would have taken her hand, and looked at me from the foot of the bed. ' You must come with me where I am going,' she said, ' and you must not be afraid.' I sat up shivering in my nightdress. I had not known it was so cold ; but I got out of bed and followed her from the room. A strange journey we went through the darkened house, down through the house and into the garden. We crossed the terrace, we crossed the lawn ; we came at length to the edge of the lake. (I think I told you there was a moon that night.) It lay very still, cold and glittering. The signora did not stop in that strange journey. She went straight on to the midlde of the lake, and there she turned and looked at me. ' Will you not come with me, Carioletta,' she called, smiling and holding out her arms. I took one step and was in the icy water. I took another, and the lake closed over me. But before I sank I heard myself scream, and saw the garden alive with lights. I felt arms about me and went down through the water, and struggled and choked and grew suddenly still. There was a noise in my ears and a lightness in my brain, and then, gradually, nothing at all. With no perceptible interval I opened my eyes, and there I was in bed in my room again. I would have thought it a dream but for the scared faces round me and that I still had difficulty in breathing. They said many things, and I heard the words ' sleep-walking.'

It was not until the next day that I told them. They shook their heads and called it a dream. It seems that the Signora had died that night.

And now I do not know what to do. For if she should be alone and need me, and I were afraid to go to her . . . But they say it is wicked to take one's life ; and they tell such strange stories of the Signora. Also I am a little afraid. I do not know what to do.

At Departing Farewell : the love of you that made me sing Shall teach me silence, for it fares with me Like one who offers to a fighting king Laurels and lights instead of victory, Rhyming so long of life to living you, Whose eyes are from me, seeking deeds to do.

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FRITILLARY

Yet now the lute is broken, and made keen The sword, all-armed and girded for the war, Beneath your lighted window still I lean, Still make my foolish stay beside your door, Grieving to ride, because I have begun A song to tell you that my songs are done.

E. M. CHALLANS.

The Playhouse Each of us is a potential citizen of Ruritania. The Great War has made no difference to this side of our nature, and we see nothing to mock at in it. This means, of course, that the theme of ' Arms and the Man ' is most distasteful. Moreover, it is a tiresome play to watch, because the actors never carry out the stage directions. This is not their fault : it is impossible that they should, for the stage directions are not dramatic. For instance, how is Raina to express what is meant by her eating of chocolate creams in the first act? No one can quarrel with her for expressing next to nothing. The Playhouse gave a quite excellent performance of it. I never want to see a better Louka than Maud Risdon. This is the first part in which she has been able to show how gracefully she can move. Roy Malcolm as Sergius also found a part which suited him. Evelyn Neilson looked charming in her blue dress, but I do not think that Raina is her part. Peter Cresswell was good in the second act, but disappointing at the beginning, when so much depends on him.

In ' The Importance of being Earnest' the actors were not amused.

Consequently they did not know their words, and so could not think about action. Dr. Chesuble .alone seemed to enioy his part. Perhaps it was the fifth week of term? Or perhaps it is that Oscar Wilde is too dead a doornail. If I had not seen ' Dr. Knock ' I should say it was that farce is not in their line. But having seen it, nothing is clearer than that Virginia Isham, Richard Goolden, Maud Risdon, Roy Malcolm and Peter Cresswell can all reach pure art in farce. The Playhouse is to be thanked and congratulated for a triumphant revival.

DIANA LUCAS.

Super Cinema ' His Lady,' a melodrama in the age of golden dissipation at the French court, starring John Barrymore and Estelle Dolores. An entertaining piece, in which we welcomed the picturesque film château, whose basse-cour ' positively seethed with live-stock, and .an elaborate glimpse into the streets of old Paris. The court scenes were perhaps the most effective, especially when King Louis' Master of the Debauch ' appeared, flaunting on his purple-powdered cheek a black patch in the semblance of a tom-cat rampant.

From gaming and duelling we passed unerringly to female scum in the Magdalen ; then on to the typical convict vessel, with its half-comic, halflurid revel of ghastliness—a mockery of the Ancient Mariner ; and so to our remote colonial haven of felons, where the lady and her gallant are free at last to set up their tranquil shack. ' Getting Gertie's Garter ' is a bedroom farce that provokes emotion : it should be revived reverently every five years, and viewed as a venerable specimen of a long-past ' naughtiness.' The audience at the Super Cinema,

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FRITILLARY

21

however, seemed to be stirred by a more boisterous sympathy, a more intimate delight. We are told by sages that certain human passions endure unchanging from age to age : of these, possibly garters and pants and bedroom key-holes are some of the natural stimuli. ' The Lunatic at Large,' incredibly a National Film, was really splendid.

The charm of the idiots within this crowded sanatorium was varied and quaint, while the villain provided us with the sinister thrill of a Mr. Hyde personality---Jeckyll being played by his victimised twin brother. The incident of the two patients who imagined themselves to be Napoleon was full of dramatic force, and the shattering of the Venus de Milo excelled in the realm of knock-about farce. Further, an enigmatic spice was given to the whole piece by references to a mysterious ' dirigible,' on which the lovers were to spend their honeymoon. To our surprise it turned out to be neither a house-boat nor a tandem bicycle, but an air-ship.

E. HARMAN.

Music Notes Lefler Quartet.

If the oldest, the most soured, the most experienced and the most particular critic in the world sat down and listened to the Lener Quartet with the sole purpose of finding faults, he would be disappointed. A year or two ago he would perhaps have found fault with their very perfection, saying with other critics that he would have welcomed some roughness, some sign of human fallibility in their playing, and that their interpretations were too ' feminine.' But now, through, I believe, Herr Hartman, the 'cellist, they have broadened considerably, and without having lost any of their precision and finish, they have an added warmth and humanity. Their playing is so satisfying that one becomes unconscious of technicalities and is free to feel the music to the full.

At their first concert they played the B Flat, D Major and D Minor Quartets of Mozart ; at the second, Beethoven's three Rasoumoffsky ' Quartets.

Everybody will agree that Mozart is much easier to understand than Beethoven. Many people would say that this is because Mozart is superficial, and that he is a composer of ease, grace and charm, rather than of deep thought. think, however, that what people take for superficiality is in reality extreme clarity of thought. I feel that Mozart deliberately negates emotion in his quick movements and packs it all into his slow movements and Minuets. The Adagio of the B Flat Quartet is intensely moving ; yet its emotion is cloistral and detached. There is one phrase in particular given out by the first violin against an accompaniment of simple staccato chords, which is so poignant yet so serene and remote that it seems to be a spiritual embodiment (if there can be such a thing) of all the pain and all the joy that there has been in the world. The Minuet of the lD Minor Quartet expresses feeling of a different kind ; it is a vivid hymn to creative power. In the Finale of the D Major Quartet there is an intriguing two-bar figure which is played again and again by the viola only. This seems to me to be typical of Mozart'S method. Beethoven would have twisted it, developed it, discovered unguessed beauties in it ; Mozart exercises artistic restraint by leaving it as it is—he lets it speak for itself, and emphasises it by giving it to one instrument only.

The artists surpassed themselves in the three Rasoumoffsky Quartets, which make much more of a demand on both players and listeners than the ,

,

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FRITILLARY

Mozart. These quartets, which are late works, show Beethoven at his best.

His is a great and powerful mind, eternally probing in thought's wildernesses. Like Milton, he rides sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of the abyss to spy.'

But he can unbend to humour and delicate grace ; the humour of the Scherzo from the first quartet, where the instruments answer each other naïvely ; the grace of the second movement of the second quartet which preludes the Russian folk-tune. The Andante of the third quartet, with the 'cello playing pizzicato on pedal notes, and the other three instruments sharing the lovely melody between them, is one of the most beautiful slow movements that Beethoven ever wrote. Often his thought becomes dimmed by over-development, but this piece is quite inevitable—a perfect thing.

Beethoven found in Chamber Music an ideal medium of expression, more so than. Mozart, because he brought to it a more orchestral method, and consequently a wider range of colour, without losing any of the intimacy which it allows.

Oxford Subscription Concerts.

Miss Dorothy Silk's singing is always a delight. Such clarity of tone, such delicacy of phrasing are not heard every day. I would walk miles to hear Miss Silk sing Bach. Oxfor'd will be able to hear her again next Sunday, when she sings with the Bach Choir in the St. John Passion. Her singing will more than compensate for any weaknesses in the sopranos.

On Thursday, February 16th, at the Town Hall, Miss Silk sang ' Shall I seek to ease my grief ? '—a charming but rather flimsy song by Ferrabosco ; ' The Blessed Virgin's Expostulation' by Purcell ; Bach's Italian . Cantata, ' Non sa the sia dolore,' in which she was assisted by Joseph Slater (flute), the Charles Woodhouse Quartet, and Dr. Harris ; and three songs with string Quartet accompaniment from the Marienlieder ' of Hermann Zilcher.

The Bach Cantata is very beautiful, though not so beautiful as some of the Church Cantatas, and it was sung as Bach should be sung. What more need be said ? I was very much impressed by the Purcell, which is one of the most dramatic pieces of music that I have ever heard. So much so that the first verse was almost painful to listen to. In the second verse, which was much more balanced, there was one supreme moment where the name Gabriel is sung repeatedly and insistently on a high note. Miss Silk did full justice to this song.

The Marienlieder ' of Zilcher are unassuming, scholarly, but rather dull songs.

Mr. Slater played very brilliantly in Mozart's Quartet for Flute and Strings, and, with Dr. Harris at the piano in Koechlin's Sonata for Flute and Piano. The latter is a mixture of Grieg, Debussy, Edward German and an unknown quantity which is presumably Koechlin himself—mongrel music which is: not without charm, and which was very well played.

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FRITILLARY

College News SOMERVILLE. We are very glad to be able to say that the Vernon Harcourt Scholarship, which was announced in the last issue and which has been given in memory of Mr. and Mrs. Vernon Harcourt by their children, amounts to 4.5o a year, and will be awarded on the result of the scholarship examination to be held in December, 1928, to a graduate of any University in the British Isles (exclusive of Oxford and Cambridge), preference being given to candidates who offer Science or Mathematics.

On February 22nd there was a meeting of the Hotch Potch of Philosophers, when Miss Lorimer read a paper on ' The Festival of Sveti Nahum on Lake Ochrid.'

On February 26th Miss Calkin, Warden of the Women's University Settlement, gave an informal address on ' Social Work as a Career.' Later in the evening Jean Hamilton gave a piano recital in Hall, when she played the programme of music which she gave on March 2nd in the Wigmore Hall.

On February 27th Miss Fry addressed the College Historical Society on recent alterations in the Penal System.

ST. HUGH'S. The Debating Society held a debate with the New College XX Club on February 28th. The motion was ' That the buffoon is the slave of his sense of humour.'

The History Society held a joint debate with the Debating Society on the motion ' That patriotism is a bar to international understanding.'

The College English Club diversified its weekly reading by a lecture by Mlle. Lion on ' Form in Art, Manners in Life,' which was very much enjoyed by all members.

The Second Year gave two plays on Friday, March znd. The first was a curtain-raiser by Maurice Baring, ' The Rehearsal,' and the second was ' The Fantastics,' by Edmond Rostand.

A Ping-Pong Club has just been formed and a Folk-dancing Society is in the course of formation.

LADY MARGARET HALL. The Jubilee Celebrations will begin on Monday, June 25th, with a dance at the Masonic Rooms. On the following Saturday the Duchess of York is coming down, and there will be various functions, including a lunch and garden-party.

On February 29th Old Hall entertained the rest of the College to a performance of Cinderalla,' a Victorian puppet-show of 1850, adapted by the producers.

ST. HILDA'S. The Dramatic Society held its second meeting of the term on Thursday, February 23rd. Members of the First Year acted ' The Grand Cham's Diamond.' Charades and acting games followed.

The College Dance was held on February 11th and was much enjoyed.

Miss Lang has been elected President for the forthcoming year.

FRITILLARY

24

The Hockey XI lost in the Cupper against L.M.H. by I° goals to 3.

They were beaten 5-4 by Aylesbury Ladies. The Second XI lost by 3—I to Heading-ton.

The Debating Society has had three outside debates this term. The first was with Exeter College on the motion ' That the Press is a menace to civilization.' Miss Scott-James and Miss Brereton spoke for St. Hilda's.

At the Queen's College debate, on ' This House thanks God for Ireland,' the speakers were Miss Lang and Miss Spencer. Miss Buckley and Miss Kidd spoke against New College XX Club on the motion ' The life of the cow is the ideal one.'

On Sunday, March 4th, the Musical Society gave a performance. It included a piano duet, a violin duet, songs from Gilbert and Sullivan, airs with descants, and two Schubert solos.

Games Notices O. U. W. L. C. Captain—A. GEDGE (L. M. H ).

Secretary—P. VINCENT (L. M. H. ).

Treasurer—E. OLDFIELD (Somerville).

Matches since February 4th

Feb. II.

v. Bedford P.T.C.

„ 18. v. Putney L.L.C. „ 23. v. Brooklands L.L.C. „ 25. v. Wycombe Abbey School March 3. v. CAMBRIDGE

Lost, o— 6.

Lost, 4— 8.

Lost, 6— 7.

Lost, I-1o.

Won, 4—I. Remaining match Mar. Jo. v. Winchester.

Season's record to date :Won 4, lost 6, drawn 1, scratched 2 ; goals for 48, against 6o.

As a whole the season has not been successful, but the victory against Cambridge is a great redeeming feature. It justifies the final selection of the team, whose earlier vicissitudes accounted for much of the failure.

Apologies are due to the attacks on this head.

An account of the Cambridge match appears below. We much regretted the absence of the real Cambridge captain, who has been unable to play this term, and hoped that it was to some extent balanced by our loss of K. Smith.

Of the preceding matches, that against Wycombe was not, for various reasons, a real example. Otherwise the team has shown steady improvement ever since a fine effort against Putney, who had three Internationals playing. The attacks especially have been on the upward grade, finding their spaces and combining much better. They benefited by the change of H. Barkley to 3rd home and the inclusion of M. Macdonald. The defence owed much to E. Eldfield (pt.)—particularly in the Pitney match-P. Vincent (3rd man), and of course to R. Shaw (g.). Against Cambridge, H. Elgar (l.def.) and M. Buick (r.def.) also played very well, the latter intercepting excellently in the second half.

The whole team owes a debt of gratitude to Miss Newbold's splendid coaching.

TEAM.—g., *R. Shaw (Wycombe Abbey and 0.H.S.) ; pt., *E. Oldfield (Wycombe Abbey and Somerville) ; c.pt., *A. Gedge (Winchester and

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L.M.H.) (Capt.) ; 3rd m., *P. Vincent (Wycombe Abbey and L.M.H.) ; l.def.wing, *H. Elgar (Bartrum Gables and O.H.S.); r.def.wing, M. Buick (Malvern College and St. Hugh's) ; c., A. Smale (Down School, Seaford, and O.H.S.) ; r.att.wing, *E. Drew (West Heath and St. Hilda's) ; l.att. wing M. Macdonald (Liverpool College, Suyton, and L.M. H.) ; 3rd h., H. Barkley (Prior's Field and O.H.S.) ; 2ndh., N. Kenyon (St. Paul's and Somerville) ; 1st h., *1. Munro (Wycombe Abbey and O.H.S.). (* Old Blue.)

OXFORD

v.

CAMBRIDGE.

On Saturday, March 3rd, the Oxford University Women's Lacrosse XII defeated the Cambridge University Women's XII by 3 goals to I. The match, which was played at Cambridge in ideal conditions, was closely contested throughout, and resulted in an Oxford victory chiefly through the superior combination of the Oxford attacks. The Cambridge attacks relied too much on individual effort to break through the sound defence of the Oxford team. With the score standing at 2—o, Cambridge opened the second half with a determined and dashing attack, and early succeded in shooting a goal ; but their pace was too fast to be sustained for long.

The Oxford defence played with the steadiness and security born of nearly three years' established combination, and were brilliantly supported

by H. Elgar and M. Buick on the defence wings. Suitable adjectives have long before my time been exhausted on the play of R. Shaw in goal : I can only deprecate the poverty of the English language which allows her to pass through this match ungarlanded.

We should like to congratulate A. Gedge, not only on her distinguished play for the defence, but on her hard-working and successful captaincy this year.

O. U. W. H. C. Captain—D. PULLIN (Somerville).

Secretary—M. PRICHARD (Oxford Home Students).

Treasurer—A. NORWOOD (Lady Margaret Hall).

The Cambridge match, a report of which is found below, resulted in a win for Oxford by five goals to one. This is a very satisfactory conclusion to the season, especially as the team proved, in the second half of the match, that it was definitely the better side. The keenness and enthusiasm which has been shown throughout the season is most encouraging, and we owe our win largely to the fact that the team has been able to play together so much throughout the year. It should be mentioned, however, that E. Sandars (L.M.H.) gained her place as left-wing comparatively late, and that she has adapted herself to her change of position extraordinarily well.

On the whole it has been a very good year ; there is little more to say— except to thank the team for their support. We must express our gratitude to the Secretary, who has done a tremendous amount of work, and to whom all the credit for the arrangements for the Cambridge match is entirely due. We also want to thank Mrs. Cavalier very much for coming to coach us again. D.P. OXFORD 21. CAMBRIDGE.

Although Saturday, March 3rd, was a fine, sunny day, the steady rain of the previous days had left the Christ Church ground, where the match was played, heavy and rather difficult. These conditions, combined with

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FRITILLARY

the careful marking of the Cambridge defence, prevented our forwards from showing their usual good form and from taking advantage of the well-placed passes of D. Pullin, at centre-half, and of the backs, K. Kenyon and M. Prichard, who were defending brilliantly. Although the play was mainly in the Cambridge half of the ground, the only goal before half-time was scored by the Cambridge captain, C. Candler, following on a determined rush.

The roar that went up from the crowd of Oxford supporters at the beginning of the second half expressed their belief that their forwards would yet manage to find their form and to beat the Cambridge defence.

Before long, to our great joy, we saw the ball cross the goal-line, but the whistle had just blown for a penalty corner. However, the score was soon equalised by a shot from A. M. Norwood, at left-inside, after somewhat of a scrum in the circle. Our forwards now settled down, and E. Sanders and T. Brock on the wing broke away from their halves and, in combination with their inners, took the ball up the field and fed the centreforward, N. Joy, who scored two consecutive goals with brilliant flying shots. Just when the game appeared to be in our favour, A. M. Norwood was injured by a rising ball, but pluckily carried on and shot the last two goals.

But meanwhile, although well marked by our halves, the Cambridge forwards were making repeated attacks, and would doubtless have scored again but for the consistently brilliant play of M. Moffatt in goal, who cleared every kind of shot, calmly withstood all rushes, and gave us some of the finest goal-play we have seen. So the game ended in a win of 5—I, the reverse of last year's score. C. M. B. SOMERVILLE. LACROSSE. Captain—E. OLDFIELD. Secretary—S. 1VIARKs. Treasurer—H. TOMLIN.

The First XII were successful in the second round of Cuppers against the Home Students, winning 9-2. The attacks played much more as a team than they have at all this term, and the catching; passing and combining were very good. They also showed great determination in running back and intercepting clearing shots from the opposing defence. K. Kenyon played well at centre, and N. Joy dodged and made good use of her pace. The defence played steadily all through the match, D. Graetz at third-man covering her opponent particularly well, and M. Moffatt saved excellently in goal. It was a fast, enjoyable game, and we were distinctly lucky to win by so large a margin.

TEAM.—Goal, M. Moffatt • pt., E. Oldfield ; c.pt., J. Handley-Seymour ; 3rd man, D. Graetz ; c.def., 'N. Lee ; l.def., H. Tomlin ; c., K. Kenyon ; r. att. , N. Joy ; 1.att., P. Wilberforce ; 3rd h., B. Fell ; 2nd h., N. Kenyon ; ist h., S. Marks.

The Second XII played L.M.H. in the Cupper, and won 7-1 after a very exciting match. T. Hamand played brilliantly at centre and kept the whole team together. M. Ensor showed herself to be an extremely good defence player, and M. Fowler saved well in goal. Everyone played keenly and well.

TEAM.—Goal, M. Fowler ; pt., M. Crozier ; c.pt., B. Sydenham ; 3rd man, M. Ensor ; r.def., D. Pullin ; 1.def., J. Ross ; c. , T. Hamand (capt.) ; r.att., M. Jackson ; l.att., E. Gairdner ; 3rd h., B. ganderson ; 2nd h., B. Badcock ; 1st h., H, Brereton.

FRITILLARY

SOMERVILLE COLLEGE HOCKEY CLUB. Captain—D. PULLIN. Secretary—T. HAMAND. Treasurer—P. CLARK. The First XI won the Inter-College Cup by defeating L.M.H. by seven goals to one. The team has played extremely well the whole season, and especial credit must be given to the forward line for their excellent work in every match we have played this year. Both the First and Second XI's have made every effort to come to practises regularly, and thereby have contributed much to our success. It has been a most satisfactory year with regard to hockey in college ; we are particularly grateful to the Secretary, T. Hamand, and the Treasurer, P. Clark, for all that they have done during the season.

TEAM.-M. Moffatt ; D. Graetz, K. Kenyon ; T. Hamand, D. Pullin, M. Jackson ; G. Brock, P. Clark, N. Joy, N. Kenyon, E. Hamilton.

D.P. S. H. C. H. C. , 1928-8.

On the whole we have had a successful season. The First XI have played 13 matches, of which they have won 8, drawn 1, lost 4 ; goals, 50-35. The Second XI have played 5 matches, won 3, drawn 1, lost 1 ; goals, 14-13. The standard of play has improved, but is inclined to be erratic. Passing is more accurate, but still too square. The defence combines well, and the halves are really backing up their forwards more and are playing an attacking game. The mid-field play of the forwards is quite good, but they must learn to shoot at once in the circle.

In the Cuppers the First XI lost to Somerville 1-7. The Second XI defeated O.H.S. in the final.

First XI colours have been won by M. Beattie and M. Zvegintzov. M. Beattie has also won her badge.

TEAM.-g., *B. Roberts ; r. b., t*M. Beattie ; 1.b., *F. Welch ; r. h., *P. Scott ; c.h., *J. Helps ; 1.h., *M. Zvengintzov, r.w., *P. Fulford ; r.i., K. Jackson ; c., t*L. Stave ; /.i., *W. Murrell ; /.w., W. Reynolds.

HOLYWELL PRESS, ALFRED STREET, OXFORD.