








    SQUARE PEGS

    A RHYMED FANTASY FOR
    TWO GIRLS

    _By Clifford Bax_




_By the Same Author_


Poems Dramatic and Lyrical, 1911. A few remaining copies can be had
from Hendersons

  The Poetasters of Ispahan. A Comedy in Verse 1912. (_Out of print._)
                                                                 Goschen

  A House of Words (Poems)                                Blackwell 5_s_

        Here is a house of words
        Built for the maker's mind.
    Enter: and, if you will, stay with me long.
        But, if you like it not,
        Go with good grace. The man
    Who builds his own house builds to please himself.

  Twenty-five Chinese Poems, _paraphrased by Clifford Bax_. Second
  Edition Revised and Enlarged                           Hendersons 1_s_

  Friendship (An Essay)                                    Batsford 3_s_

  Antique Pageantry: Four Plays in verse (including The Poetasters).
                                                        (_In the Press_)




SQUARE PEGS


[Illustration]




    SQUARE PEGS

    _A Rhymed Fantasy for Two Girls_


    BY

    CLIFFORD BAX


    LONDON: HENDERSONS

    66 CHARING CROSS ROAD, W.C.

    1920




    _To_

    H. F. RUBINSTEIN




_This play was first performed at Farthingstone on June 19th, 1919, by
Phyllis Reid (Hilda Gray) and Margot Sieveking (Gioconda), having been
written at their request._




SQUARE PEGS


CHARACTERS.

    HILDA          A MODERN GIRL.

    GIOCONDA       A FIFTEENTH CENTURY VENETIAN.


SCENE.

_A Garden. Entrance right and left. Left, a table and two chairs. (The
general effect should suggest a little lawn which leads outward in
several directions.)_

_The arrival of a taxicab is heard, off. Enter left_, HILDA _in
summer hat and dress and with a light cloak on her arm. She carries a
folding-map and a small book._

HILDA (_speaking off, left_).

    What's that? As certain as your name's Joe Billings
    The taximeter points at fifteen shillings.
    Well, and you've had a pound. What? Made a slip?
    _I_ thought five shillings was a handsome tip.
    You want my father's home-address? 'The Haven,
    Chad Crescent, Baystead, North-West 57.'
    He'll write you out a cheque--I'm sure he will.

                               [_Sound of a motor-horn growing fainter._

    The creature's gone. These taxi-men! But still--
    At last I've found the Enchanted Garden... Wait:
    Suppose that isn't really Merlin's Gate,
    Nor this the garden where a girl who loathes
    Our Twentieth Century (all except its clothes)
    May turn the Book of Time to any page
    And find herself back in a lovelier age?
    The map will show. Yes, there's the gate, and there's
    That wall, that table, these two empty chairs...
    Everything's right. How wonderful, how splendid,
    To know that here the roar of time has ended!
    Now, let me see...                            [_Consulting her map._

                       If I should take that road
    What century should I have for my abode?
    'To Ancient Rome.' Lovely!

                             [_She starts to go out, right. Then stops._

                               It might be serious,
    Though, if I chanced on Nero or Tiberius.
    The Romans had no manners... This way here--
    So the map says--would lead me to the year
    Ten-sixty-six. I won't be such a fool
    As go back where I stuck so long at school.
    William the First was always dull. I know
    He'd make me listen to him--standing so,
    With Bayeux hands, knee crookèd, and neck bowed--
    While he read all the Domesday Book aloud.
    I shan't go there... Now, that's a pretty view!

                                                [_Referring to the map._

    'The Eighteenth Century: Boswell Avenue.'
    I might try that. But no--that won't do either.
    I'd have to wear a wig or tell them why there,
    Love coffee-houses more than trees and birds
    And talk in such tremendously long words.
    I know, I know! If I can find the way
    I'll wander back into the sumptuous day
    When, in his gardens near the warm lagoon,
    Titian gave feasts under the stars and moon.
    That would be heavenly! Those were noble times.
    There was a grandeur even about the crimes
    Of people like the Borgias ... and their dresses,
    And the sweet way they wore their hair in tresses,
    And--oh, and everything! What was Titian's date?
    I mustn't err into a time too late;
    But how to make quite sure? I'll take a look
    In this adorable fire-coloured book--
    Addington Symonds... Oh, that I knew more!
    Was it in fifteen-sixty or before?

           [_Settling herself in one of the chairs, she becomes absorbed
               in her book. Enter, right_, GIOCONDA _carrying two or
               three modern novels_.

GIOCONDA (_speaking off, right_).

    I thank you, gondolier. You drowned my nurse
    With true dramatic finish. Take this purse.
    So--I am in that Garden where time speeds
    Backward or forward as our fancy needs.
    How sick I am of cloaks and ambuscades,
    Of poison, daggers, moonlight serenades,
    Of those dull dances that are all _I_ get--
    Pavane, gavotte, forlana, minuet--
    And the long pageant of our life at Venice!
    Now, in the Twentieth Century there is tennis,
    With cream and strawberries round a chestnut-tree,
    And day-long idling in the June-blue sea,
    And soda-fountains, too, and motor-cars,
    And Henley Weeks and Russian Ballet 'stars.'
    Oh, what a wealth of joy that century has!
    To think that I myself may learn to jazz!
    Truly, I judge it has no slightest flaw--
    The glorious age of Bennett, Wells, and Shaw.

                [_She sets her books on the table and curtsies to them._

    Gramercy now--Shaw, Bennett, Wells, and Co.--
    Since you have shown me what I longed to know,
    How to behave, talk, smoke, and bob my hair
    In nineteen-twenty, when at last I'm there.
    Could I but find a guide! How shall I tell
    Which road to follow? If I listen well
    I ought to hear the roaring of their trains,
    Their motor-horns, their humming monoplanes...

                                   [_She listens intently for a moment._

    The very bees are silent...                         [_Seeing_ HILDA.

                                Who is that?
    Surely, unless the books have lied, her hat
    Came from 'Roulette's,' in Portman Square, West One!
    A Twentieth-Century girl! The thing is done--
    I need but ask her which way London lies.

                                             [_Kissing her hand, right._

    Farewell, Rialto! Farewell, Bridge of Sighs!

                   [_She goes up to_ HILDA _and curtsies ceremoniously_.

    Dear Signorina ... Signorina ... Deep
    In Bennett's fragrant works, or can she sleep?
    Could _The Five Towns_ have bored her? Let me try
    Once more. Most noble Signorina...

HILDA (_starting up_).

                                       Why,
    Who are you, lady? By your dress and ways
    I think you must have come from Titian's days.

GIOCONDA.

    Indeed, I do. Old Titian! How he talks!
    He did my portrait last July in chalks.
    But grant me the great liberty, I pray,
    Of asking what your name is...

HILDA.

                                   Hilda Gray.

GIOCONDA.

    How sweet and to the point!

HILDA.

                                And yours?

GIOCONDA.

                                           Gioconda
    Francesca Violante Giulia della Bionda.

HILDA.

    It is a poem in itself! It shines
    Like the soft sheen on Tasso's velvet lines.
    What can have led you to forego an age
    When life was an illuminated page
    From some superb romance?

GIOCONDA.

                              And what, I wonder,
    Can have torn you and your rich time asunder?

HILDA.

    I'll tell you, for I'm sure you'll sympathise.
    I have a lover...

GIOCONDA.

                      That is no surprise.

HILDA.

    And by the post this morning came a letter--

GIOCONDA.

    From him?

HILDA.

              From him.

GIOCONDA.

                        What could have happened better?

HILDA.

    Ah! naturally you think that Harry writes
    Of longing, suicide, and sleepless nights.
    Did he, I'd read his letters ten times over--
    But you don't know the Twentieth Century lover.
    Oh, for a man who'd write through tears, all swimmily,
    And woo me with grand metaphor and simile!
    I couldn't bear the slang that Harry used
    In asking for my hand.

GIOCONDA.

                  So you refused!

HILDA.

    Yes, and came here to seek a braver time.

GIOCONDA.

    How odd! _I_ had a letter, all in rhyme,
    Brought by a lackey to my father's gate
    Just when dawn broke. As if I couldn't wait!
    He dashed up, panting; and his horse's mouth
    Was flecked with blood and foam...

HILDA (_clasping her hands_).

                                      The passionate South!

GIOCONDA.

    The fellow gave the letter, gasped, went red,
    And straightway horse and lackey fell down dead.
    I scanned the note, observed the flowery phrases
    In which the writer smothered me with praises;
    Compared them with the style of Bernard Shaw,
    And told him briskly that he might withdraw.

HILDA.

    If I could see that letter!

GIOCONDA.

                                So you shall,
    Sweet friend--or, rather, right you are, old pal.
    I'll read it.

                [_She produces a letter tied with rose-coloured ribbon._

HILDA.

                  Do!... I see his passion's flood
    Demands red ink.

GIOCONDA.

                     Oh dear, no--that's his blood.
        Now, listen. Did you ever hear a style
        Quite so absurd? I call it simply vile.              [_Reading._
          'Adored Gioconda--glittering star
            Unsullied by the dusty world,
            Rich rose with leaves but half uncurled,
          New Venus in thy dove-drawn car--
          Have pity: drive thy wrath afar.
            Let Cupid's war-flag be upfurled,
            Lest by thy gentle hand be hurled
        The mortal bolt that leaves no scar.

        'So prays upon his aching knee
          Thy humble vassal, once the fear
        Of Christendom, but now--woe's me!--
          One whose wild prayers Love will not hear,
        Who treads the earth and has no home--
        Giulio Pandolfo, Duke of Rome.'

HILDA.

    Gioconda, what a lover!

GIOCONDA.

                            So _I_ think--
    His brain a dictionary, his blood mere ink.

HILDA.

    Oh, but _I_ mean how fine a lover! Would
    That mine could pen a letter half so good!

GIOCONDA.

    How does he write?

HILDA.

                       Write! Would you deign to call
    _That_ 'writing'--this illiterate blotted scrawl?

                                                             [_Reading._

        'Dear Hilda, if you buy _The Star_
          To-night, you mustn't for the world
          Suppose he got my hair uncurled--
        That blighter who kyboshed the car.
        He had the worst of it by far
          Because the hood on mine was furled.
          Good Lord! what steep abuse he hurled!
        Yours, Harry--with a nasty scar.

        'P.S.--The cut's above the knee,
          And won't be right just yet, I fear
        Oh, and what price you marrying me?
          Anything doing? Let me hear.
        Ring up to-morrow, if you're home.
        Where shall we do our bunk? To Rome?'

    Now, wasn't that enough to make me mad?
    It is a shame! It really is too bad!
    'Dear Hilda'--plain 'dear'! And what girl could marry
    A man who, when proposing, ends 'yours, Harry'?

GIOCONDA.

    I love his downright manner. In my mind
    I see him, a tall figure; and, behind,
    His old two-seater. Yes, I see him plainly--
    Close-cropped--

HILDA.

                    Half bald.

GIOCONDA.

                               Slow-moving--

HILDA.

                                             And ungainly.

GIOCONDA.

    A brow like H. G. Wells' my fancy draws,
    An eye like Bennett's and a beard like Shaw's.
    I know your Harry--just the English type,
    A silent strong man married to his pipe,
    With so few words, except about machines,
    That he can never tell you what he means:
    But were _I_ his, and we two went a-walking,
    What should that matter? _I_ could do the talking.

HILDA.

    Surely you see, Gioconda, I require
    A lover who can make love with some fire.

GIOCONDA.

    And I a lover so much overcome
    By deep emotion that it leaves him dumb.

HILDA.

    No poetry? Then, so far as I can tell,
    The Twentieth Century ought to suit you well...
    I've an idea!

GIOCONDA.

                  What is it?

HILDA.

                              This: that you
    Show me how best you'd like a man to woo.

GIOCONDA.

    I will, I will!

HILDA.

                    Imagine, then, that I
    Am she for whom you say you'd gladly die.
    This is my room at Baystead: that's the street:
    You must come in from there--                  [_Leading her, left._
                                  and then we meet.

GIOCONDA.

    By Holy Church, a pretty sport to play!
    God shield you, Signorina Hilda Grey!                  [_Exit left._

HILDA.

    Now--what's the time? It must be half-past four.
    It is. I'll give him just one minute more.

          [_Looking at herself in a pocket-mirror, and making a toilet._

    Goodness! I do look horrid... Will he bring
    An emerald or a pearl engagement-ring?
    He comes! I'll take pearls as a last resort.

_Enter, left_, GIOCONDA (_carrying a pipe and a walking-stick_).

GIOCONDA.

    Well, and how _are_ you? In the pink, old sport?

HILDA.

    I'm glad to see you, Harry. Do sit down.

GIOCONDA.

    'Some' heat to-day, what? Even here. In town
    Perfectly awful. Got a match?

           [_She tries in vain to light the pipe from a match struck by_
               HILDA.

                                  I say,
    Old thing--you really look top-hole to-day.

HILDA.

    Well, naturally: I knew that you were coming.

           [GIOCONDA _pulls at her pipe in silence, pokes the floor with
               her stick, and shifts it from hand to hand._

    You're very quiet.

GIOCONDA (_with a start_).

                       Oh! what's that you're thumbing?

                    [_Goes over to_ HILDA _and looks over her shoulder._

HILDA.

    Addington Symonds.

GIOCONDA.

                       Any good?

HILDA.

                                 Why--gorgeous!
    You ought to read it--all about the Borgias.

GIOCONDA.

    What are they? Oh, I see! I had enough
    Up at the 'Varsity of that sort of stuff.
    I say--oh, blast the thing, this pipe's a dud!

                                      [_She puts the pipe on the table._

HILDA.

    You smoke too much. They say it slows the blood,
    And _that_ you simply can't afford.                        [_Pause._

GIOCONDA.

                                        I say--

HILDA.

    Well, what?

GIOCONDA.

                You really look top-hole to-day.

HILDA.

    How nice! But flattery always was your wont.               [_Pause._

GIOCONDA.

    I say--

HILDA.

            That's just it, Harry dear--you don't.

GIOCONDA.

    I came to ask you something...                  [_Producing a ring._
                                   Ever seen
    A ring like this? Not a bad sort of green.

HILDA (_taking it_).

    Emeralds! I worship emeralds. They enthrone
    All the luxuriant summer in a stone.
    Do let me just see how it looks! The third
    Finger, I think, is generally preferred?
    How splendid! Won't she be delighted?

GIOCONDA.

                                          Who?

HILDA.

    Your dear Aunt Kate.

GIOCONDA.

                         I bought the thing for you.

HILDA.

    Harry!

GIOCONDA.

           _You_ know--a what-d'you-call-it ring.

HILDA.

    Engagement?

GIOCONDA.

                That's the goods. And in the Spring
    The parson gets our guinea. What about it?

HILDA.

    See, how it fits! I couldn't do without it.

GIOCONDA.

    Right-o! Then, that's that: good. But if you carry
    A diary, jot down, 'Next Spring, marry Harry'--
    You might forget. You've got a diary?

HILDA (_bringing a small diary from her bag_).

                                          Look--
    I did blush--buying an engagement-book!

GIOCONDA.

    Well, how's the enemy? Good Lord! what a shock!
    D'you know, old bean, it's more than five o'clock?

HILDA.

    You'll have some tea?

GIOCONDA.

                          Can't. Sorry. Told two men
    I'd play a foursome with them at 5.10.
    You'd better make the fourth.

HILDA.

                                  I really can't.
    I've got some new delphiniums I _must_ plant.

GIOCONDA (_going out, left_).

    See you to-morrow, then.

HILDA.

                             You'll drive me frantic
    If you're not just the teeniest bit romantic!

GIOCONDA.

    It isn't done. You're absolutely wrong
    In asking me to do that stunt. So long!

                             [_She tosses the pipe and stick off, left._

    There! Did I play it well? You'd be my wife?

HILDA (_sighing_).

    My dear, you played old Harry to the life--
    His gaucherie...

GIOCONDA.

                     His noble self-command...

HILDA.

    The way he shifts his cane from hand to hand...

GIOCONDA.

    A nervous trick that shows how much he feels...

HILDA.

    All I know is--I'd have a man who kneels
    And pours out passion in a style as rippling
    As the best Swinburne--or at least as Kipling.

GIOCONDA.

    Then I'll now be _your_ lady. To your part--
    Woo me as you'd be wooed!

HILDA.

                              With all my heart!

              [_Catching up her cloak, she flings it over her shoulder._

    Last Miracle of the World, sainted, adored,
    Divine Gioconda--hear me, I beg!

GIOCONDA.

                                     My lord!

HILDA.

    Dost know of passion? Is that heart so pure
    As not to guess what torments I endure
    Who for so long have sighed for thee in vain?
    And wilt thou have no pity on my pain?
    Wilt thou still spurn me as a thing abhorred
    Whose only crime is to love thee?

GIOCONDA.

                                      My lord--

HILDA.

    Stay! I will brook no answer. For thy sake
    Did I not paint the town in crimson-lake?
    Have I not wrenched thee through thy nunnery-bars?
    And bear I not some ninety-seven scars
    Taken as I fought my way to thy fair feet?
    Think how thy relatives rushed into the street
    To save thee--how I put them to the sword
    And left them strewn about in heaps!

GIOCONDA.

                                         My lord--

HILDA.

    Had I a boy's light love when I, to win
    Thy favour, cut off all thy kith and kin?
    Run through the list! Measure my love by that!
    Two great-grandfathers (one, I own, was fat);
    Five brothers; fourteen uncles; half a score
    Of nephews (and I dare say even more);
    A brace of maiden-aunts; a second-cousin;
    And family connections by the dozen.
    Does it not melt that pitiless heart of ice
    To see thyself secured at such a price?

GIOCONDA.

    My lord--

HILDA.

              Or if indeed thy heart requires
    Flame fiercer than my love's Etnaean fires--
    Ask what thou wilt, but do not ask that I
    Live on. Command me, rather, how to die.
    Say in what style thou'dst have me perish here,
    So that at least my ardour win one tear!
    Choose what thou wilt--I'll execute thy charge--
    Nor fear to speak: my repertoire is large.
    I can suspend myself upon a rafter;
    Fall on my blade, and die with horrid laughter;
    Leap from a height; read Bennett's books; or swallow
    Poison--and, mark you, with no sweet to follow.

GIOCONDA.

    My lord--

HILDA.

              Thy choice is made?

GIOCONDA.

                                  My lord--

HILDA.

                                            Alack!

GIOCONDA.

    I have accepted thee ten minutes back.

HILDA.

    Then--I will deign to live. My castle stands
    Four-towered among its olive-silvered lands.
    Away! Away! Thou art all heaven to me!

                            [_She drags_ GIOCONDA _right_. _They break._

GIOCONDA.

    Wonderful! That's Pandolfo to a tee!

HILDA.

    I should adore him!

GIOCONDA.

                        And I Harry, too...
    If only you were I and I were you!
    But soft! since here we stand beyond the range
    Of Time, why don't we swop?

HILDA.

                                You mean 'exchange'?
    Why not? We will!                          [_Moving quickly, right._
                      May Titian's age enfold me!

GIOCONDA.

    Stop! Stop! You can't go yet. You haven't told me
    Where I can find the Twentieth Century.

HILDA (_leading her front, and pointing to the audience_).

                                            Then,
    Behold its ladies and its gentlemen.

GIOCONDA.

    What lovely people!... All the same, you know,
    They're not as I have pictured them.

HILDA.

                                         How so?

GIOCONDA.

    They're all so still... And then--my fancy boggles
    To see not one who's wearing motor-goggles!
    How can I get among them?

HILDA.

                              You must jump
    Down there.

GIOCONDA.

                But that would mean a dreadful bump!

HILDA.

    You want to go from fifteen-sixty sheer
    To nineteen-twenty. 'Tis a jump, my dear...
    And so--farewell! I come, I come at last--
    O fire and sound and perfumes of the Past!

                                         [_She goes out quickly, right._

GIOCONDA.

    Her eyes were green. However hard he tries,
    Pandolfo never can resist green eyes.
    I know he'll die for her and not for me.
    Why did I let her go? It shall not be!

                                                 [HILDA _enters, right._

HILDA.

    It shall not be! Why did I let her go?
    Harry will love her more than me, I know.
    Gioconda!

GIOCONDA.

              Hilda!

HILDA.

                     Somehow, after all,
    I can't let Harry go beyond recall.
    I think of his good heart: I know how proud
    I'll be to watch him through a dusty cloud
    When his new car, balanced upon one tire,
    Rolls roistering through the lanes of Devonshire.

GIOCONDA.

    I too, fair friend, perceive with sudden terror
    The greatness of my momentary error.
    I mustn't let you risk the enterprise...
    Pandolfo never could endure green eyes!

HILDA.

    Let us each make the best of her own age!

GIOCONDA.

    But sometimes you will write me--just a page?

HILDA.

    I will indeed. And you?

GIOCONDA.

                            And so will I.
    Hilda--farewell!

HILDA.

    Gioconda, dear--good-bye!

        [_Standing in the middle of the stage, they take hands and kiss.
            Then they come to the front, left and right._

    So ends our fantasy--the slight design
      Arisen and gone like sound in summer trees,

GIOCONDA.

      The burden such as every mind may seize--
    That in all centuries life is goodly wine!

HILDA.

    Which has the more of joy, her age or mine,
      We leave you to determine as you please.

GIOCONDA.

      Mine has the painting-schools--the Sienese,
    Venetian and unchallenged Florentine.

HILDA.

    Mine has the knowledge that our mortal pains
      Are fleeing from the skilled physician's arts.

GIOCONDA.

    Mine the delight of unspoiled hills and plains,
      Fair speech, adventure, and romantic hearts.

HILDA.

    And mine a sense that, by the single sun
    That all men share, the world for man is one.




LONDON: STRANGEWAYS, PRINTERS.




_AT THE BOMB SHOP_

HENDERSONS

66 Charing Cross Road


PLAYS

    By JOSIP KOSOR                                           POST PAID
                                                               _s_ _d_
    People of the Universe                                      7   6
        Four Serbo-Croatian Plays: The Woman, Passion's
        Furnace, Reconciliation, The Invincible Ship

    By AUGUST STRINDBERG
        Advent. A Mystery Play                                  1   2
        Julie. A Play in One Act                                1   2
        The Creditor. A Play in One Act                         1   2
        Paria, Simoon. Two One Act Plays                        1   2

    By LEONID ANDREYEV
        The Dear Departing. A Frivolous Performance in
            One Act                                             1   2

    By ANTON CHEKHOV
        The Seagull. A Play in Four Acts                        1   2

    By MILES MALLESON
        Youth. A Play in Three Acts                             1   8
        The Little White Thought. A Fantastic Scrap             1   2
        Paddly Pools. A Little Fairy Play                       1   2
        Maurice's Own Idea. A Little Dream Play                 1   2

    By E. S. P. HAYNES
        A Study in Bereavement. A Play in One Act               1   2

    By JOHN BURLEY
        Tom Trouble. A Play in Four Acts                        1   8

    By GEORG KAISER
        From Morn to Midnight. A Play in Seven Scenes           2   3

    By HERMAN HEIJERMANS
        The Good Hope. A Play in Four Acts. (_In the Press._)
        The Rising Sun. A Play in Four Acts. (_In the Press._)

    By CLIFFORD BAX
        Square Pegs. A Rhymed Fantasy for Two Girls             1   2
        Antique Pageantry. Four Plays in verse (including
          The Poetasters). (_In the Press._)

    By N. EVREINOF
        The Theatre of the Soul. A Monodrama in One Act         1   2
          (_2nd Edition in the Press._)


  COTERIE _A Quarterly_
  ART, PROSE AND POETRY

  _Edited by Chaman Lall                                   Contributors_

T. W. Earp, Wilfred Rowland Childe, R. C. Trevelyan, L. A. G. Strong,
A. E. Coppard, Aldous Huxley, Eric C. Dickinson, Harold J. Massingham,
Chaman Lall, Russell Green, T. S. Eliot, Conrad Aiken, Richard
Aldington, Henri Gaudier-Brzeska, John Gould Fletcher, Cora Gordon,
Helen Rootham, Edith Sitwell, Walter Sickert, W. Rothenstein, Lawrence
Atkinson, Nina Hamnett, A. Odle, A. Allinson, E. R. Brown, William
Roberts, Edward Wadsworth, E. H. W. Meyerstein, Herbert Read, Babette
Deutsch, E. Crawshay Williams, Turnbull, John Flanagan, Modigliani,
Edward J. O'Brien, Wilfred Owen, Thomas Moult, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson,
Douglas Goldring, E. R. Dodds, Sacheverell Sitwell, E. C. Blunden,
Harold Monro, Robert Nicholls, F. S. Flint, Osbert Sitwell, John J.
Adams, Frederick Manning, Charles Beadle, Royston Dunnachie Campbell,
John Cournos, Henry J. Felton, H. D., Gerald Gould, C. B. Kitchin,
Amy Lowell, Paul Selver, Iris Tree, Zadkine, E. M. O'R. Dickie, André
Derain, David Bomberg, Otakar Brezina, E. Powys Mathers, 'Michal,'
Raymond Pierpoint, Benjamin Gilbert Brooks, Frank Golding, Archipenko,
René Durey, Mary Stella Edwards.


LONDON: _HENDERSONS_ 66 CHARING CROSS ROAD




Transcriber's Note: The book's use of 3-dot ellipses has been retained.






