Executive En Fete

In appreciation of the good work done by the Dramatic Club throughout the current year, members of the committee and interested friends were entertained recently at a social evening organised by Mr. Rollings on behalf of the Students' Executive. This original entertainment was conducted on orthodox Rotary lines, and in the course of the evening amidst much merriment, the Dramatic Club were lined one guinea for "Exuberance of Spirits." Mr. Rollings also wanted to fine the Professorial Board for aiding and abetting members of the Club in their nefarious practises, and failing to assist the Executive body in the noble work which it was endeavouring to carry on. The Misses Gibbs and Dunn snored assent. Quaking with mirth, Mr. Reardon opposed the motion and said, amidst roars of laughter, that it was becoming more and more obvious that Mr. Plank and Mr. Rollings were merely "carrying on" on behalf of Mr. Malton Murray and the N.Z.A.A. On the verge of hysteria Mr. Rollings explained to all assembled that although he was intent on checking the excesses of the Club in question he would not like those present to run away with the idea that he was making an example of it. He was, on the contrary, on the best of terms with the Club, and only as recently as August 15, had been offered a drink by at least five of its members.

At this point Mr. Bannister and Mr. Hannah dived under the table, and amidst hearty back-slappings and thigh-smotings and such-like expressions of esteem on all sides, the evening came to a conclusion.—"Scorpion."

Bowl along—Crawl along.

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Dear Smad—

My modesty is just sufficient to prevent me from exhibiting my own private reactions to "Smad's" bored gaze, so I confine myself to the sentiments commonly indulged in by those who farewell V.U.C.

Time and place coincided to give me my farewell view of the Dramatic Club in "Berkeley Square." Handily enough, this reading summarised most of the objections and delights to be found in most V.U.C. student occupations. What the play lacked in vraisemblance (enhanced on the stage by costume and acting) it gained in that peculiar savour imparted to a play by a cast of amateurs well-known to their audience. I was overjoyed, for instance, to see the worthy hero acted with something of the tragic intensity of "Hamlet." His interpreter's infrequent lapses into a genuinely effective naturalness made us regret the interpretative talent wihch may lie hidden under that well-tended but misplacd top-dressing of elocution and histrionics.

This brings me to another glaring fault of New Zealand University students' debates, dramatic work, oratorical contests—all are blackened with the same smear—the tarbrush of the elocutionist, who is, God knows, as acceptable to the average citizen of taste as the Neon lights that sear from Bond Street corner. Curiosity has led me to take a census of current opinion on both these ghastly monstrosiaties—it reveals the fact that hatred of "elocution" in the competitions style, and of Neon lighted windows, is equally widespread and unanimous.

Reverting to "Berkeley Square," it exhibited nicely the salient features of most plays read. In all, sixty-two people were edified by a play about as probable as "Mary Rose," enlivened by what has been aptly termed "that crude epigram of circumstance called a situation"; the play itself, for dialogue and characterisation, was not as good even as one of E. Barrington's purple romances: in short, ten of the audience, given accessible copies of the play, might have read it for their own enjoyment: I doubt whether one would have read it. had it been written in novel form. And yet this considerable audience divorced itself from its studies (so near November!) for two and a-half hours to listen to a Jules Vernish excursion into the past.

However, we got one satisfaction from the diversion that a similar outlay on novel-reading would lack: obviously, the social contacts. That is the main beauty of V.U.C., which too plainly lacks other beauties, especially at present, with a sea of mud in lieu of courts.

A College is the perfect club: you meet numerous people on equal grounds, freed from the slightly harassing situation of ordinary hospitality: attached by no other ties than mutually interesting work or play; the perfect medium for those multitudes of people who are gregariously inclined yet shy at extreme intimacy.

I could at this stage enumerate the types that, with slight variations, people the College down the generations, but that seems superfluous.

Most of one's own friendships are brought about by fortuitous happenings: pre-college acquaintances; hostel groups, faculty or club co-members.

It is chastening to remember how harsh were my publicly expressed judgments of people who are now my best friends; and how tiresome others, at first blush attractive, disclosed themselves. Such reflections should have the dual result of making me (and all those like me) distrust the first judgment, and join the noble army of those who "never say anything against anybody." I rejoice that neither result is manifest yet.

We all forget as quickly as possible the boring drone in which most of our lecturers so imperfectly convey to us their goodwill and information. Some brighter moments where erudition and vitality combined to give us something more than the harvest of books are not so readily forgotten—nor are those who begot them.

The preconceived idea is as prevalent here as anywhere else. Even in a new publication like "Smad" you take tradition holus bolus: it is the thing to spout caustic wit on topical events—this is the province of the intelligentsia. In the editorial there is usually an earnest diatribe against some ancient or Victorian evil that is marring our bright modernity: a few well-licked jibes at the prominent who have any obvious eccentricities—and there is your "Smad," all written in that other language which journalism has made it second nature in us to write.

The English we speak—slangy often, oathy occasionally, slip-shod too frequently, but in the main vivid—is as different from this jargon as the literary Chinese tongue is from the spoken.

Yet the University student who carefully cultivates "good" English is apt to fall into the Scylla of "hay-clawss" accent or the Charybdis of Johnsonian ponderousness. I could but daren't name practitioners of both—look round the debating and dramatic platforms.

And finally we cannot count the excellent misguided ones who ruin themselves (as far as interest and charm goes) in their earnest endeavours to live up to the ideals they set before themselves—these differ widely.

You'll recognise the pathetic figure of the reserved mystic who apes the dashing roue—a moustache the first symptom—or the hearty footballer going mad-dog for the "intelligentsia"—themselves the most obnoxious collection of conscious poseurs that can be found. Broadcast it, for the sake of civilisation, that all rational people use the terms intelligentsia as one of reproach. The pose is easily assumed. If you want the recipe: murmur D. H. Lawrence, James Joyce, Aldous Huxley, with a carefully cultivated sneer at other lesser lights, it is an effective beginning.

The real misfortune is that by championing such as these deities, the highbrow renders them suspect to the honest man.

Finally, the hoydenish brightness so carefully cultivated by that other blameless (and here nameless) tribe, is sufficient to afflict the beholder with nausea. I would jettison all uplift movements in colleges, but for the unalterable fact that they confine the missionary itch to the comparative isolation of their own members.

This is a cathartic summary of my discontents in

The last spot of jollity.

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V.U.C. expressed in the hope that they may fortify those bashful and retiring others and embolden them to observe that many enjoy life with a catholic inclusiveness. apart from schools of thought and art. "College Days" mean for mo several unblemished years of expansive enjoyment at this peculiar banquet. lit by perfect friendships, warmed by an infinity of conversations, some successful, and all in a setting that at least had space, sunshine and serenity. As one justly remarked, "We're fortunate in this world's end to have leisure and peace to grow up in; only the rich can afford these in old countries."

To say more than this—even so much—borders upon reprehensible sentimentality. Wherefore, farewell.

—K.B.