I met numerous men, each of whom had written “that beautiful thing” or “this beautiful thing,” each thing according to some authority, being the best thing that had been done since Pope or Dryden or Keats, and the authors designated as the Australian Poe, or Burns or Milton. I was in an uncomfortable predicament owing to my ignorance of all this Australian genius, but I had no difficulty in getting the geniuses on to the subject of their own supremacy5 and thus hiding my own inferiority.
People asked silly questions about myself. I had brought this to pass by pronunciamentos upon the desirability of honesty in egotism. In this way I found a new angle in the workings of egotism. I did not mind what I said about myself as a subject impersonally6, while I stood aloof7 like a scientist in his laboratory, but I resisted when outsiders tried to intrude8 behind my reserve. I developed much ingenuity9 in turning the tables.
One man persisted, “Why, when you speak so frankly10 against humbug11 in egotism, why do I find you the most difficult, the most shrinking, little creature I ever met? Can you explain?”
I couldn’t. I can’t.
Perhaps there are two divisions of egotism, one the absorption in self as self, the other the analysis of self as part of a universal complex force, and I am an analyst12 rather than the normal egotist.
As one of those old professor birds, with less gift for obscurity than usual among the academic, has said, “Criticism means self-consciousness, and self-consciousness means renewed activity on a higher plane. The reflective play of one age becomes the passion of another.”
There was an article about me in a paper that I had not previously13 known of, but it had a big circulation in Sydney by currying14 scandals about people of prominence15. The Editor said that Sydney people showed their general degeneracy in running after each new thing as it was advertised. Sybylla Melvyn’s dreadful book had been written in six weeks, and when he expressed his disapproval16 people said, “Yes, but it was wonderful for a girl of sixteen.” Then he felt as Dr. Johnson towards the difficult musical performance which he wished had been impossible. The Editor asserted that I had begun as a conceited17 and self-assertive hoyden18 and the foolish lionising of Sydney SOCIETY had confirmed and developed me into an obnoxious19 specimen20.
This was interesting and did not hurt like Mrs. Thrumnoddy’s defection towards a fellow guest. I went to Gaddy. He spluttered. “Did that man ever see me?” I inquired. Gaddy said no, that he was the real scum, that his jealousy22 in not being able to get within coo-ee of me had inspired this attack. I said if he had ever met or even seen me he would be entitled to his opinion however harsh or undiscerning, but as he hadn’t, there was the rub, because before I had got into print, I had, like other innocents, depended upon the printed word, and another bulwark23 was going bung. The accusation24 that I advertised myself was particularly unwarranted. I had no acquaintance among newspaper people, and did not give so much as a backward glance to make myself conspicuous25. My strenuous26 endeavour was to be as inconspicuous as possible.
“Is that Sydney SOCIETY I have been meeting?” I asked.
Gad21 said I could bet my sweet life it was; not only the nice old parliamentary people and the University professors but some of the real smart-setters among whom even riches would not always buy an entry. There was disillusionment in finding that I had to reef in my standards to be at home here. It was now that I felt the force of Pa’s tenet that Ma was a wonderful woman. I did not come in contact with anyone of Ma’s ability and appearance.
I had hours to put in while Wheeler dressed Mrs. Crasterton, and I wrote in my diary or pondered discontentedly on the waste it was that Ma could not have a nice town house. It was a heinous27 thing for all Ma’s administrative28 ability to be squeezed into a petty grind of one irreverent urchin29, one rebellious30 girl and one gentle and easily-pleased man. Ma could have managed a grand hotel or some vast institution, and in the place unto which it had pleased God to mis-direct her she had but a poverty-restricted cubby. No doubt she had found the same luny obstructions31 to using her ability as I had run my head into with mine.
I was desperately32 in need of money. If I had had the means I should have been a recluse33, but when you are poor you are helpless to build a barrier to keep people away. I stood it as quietly as I could. I told Mrs. Crasterton that I had imposed upon her hospitality long enough, I would now like to go home.
She positively34 wailed35 that that would make a fool of her. All of Sydney that had not met me was clamoring to do so, including the Admiral; and some of these high official invitations were really commands. I was tired of high officials and longed for young people like Derek and Edmée. I sometimes played the piano while they practised new steps in the hall. If I could play tennis and dance, and have just one evening dress to show my décolleté I was sure I could have some fun coloured by a little of the romance that swirled36 around Edmée. When I went swimming the girls always said that the more clothes I took off the prettier I grew. I wished that Derek would give me a lesson in dancing, but his hopeless passion for Edmée’s fatal beauty so burdened him that he thought of me only to play the piano so that he could “hold her in his arms.”
Mrs. Greville de Vesey put the cap on my society rights regardless of the frock of “some kind of white rag”, and my cotton (cashmere) stockings. Her mother had been born on the station adjoining my mother’s, and knew that Ma was as high as herself. Mrs. de Vesey was the chic1 leader of the younger smart set. People were no longer surprised that I was so properly behaved, my mother being one of the lovely Misses Bossier of Caddagat, which is one of the few original stations entered in the Landholders’ Record. The Melvyns too were among the earliest educated free men to take up stations in the Southern District. It was I who was entitled to look into other people’s pretensions37 to being of the old squattocracy.
Mrs. de Vesey said that banana-barrow and bottle-o commercialism did not yet rule SOCIETY in Sydney though it was going that way. I loved Zo? de Vesey. She reminded me of a cruiser cutting a clean high wave and sending barges38 and lesser39 craft scuttling40 to their lesser ways. With the Governor-General to announce that I was a genius, and Zo? to vouch41 for my antecedents, I was established. Zo? said that I need not be shy about imposing42 on Mrs. Crasterton. Poor old soul had sunk into “innocuous desuetude” following the death of her husband, and this was a happy revival43 for her. She was really of good family, and Gaddy was a bachelor whom all the girls tried to bag.
“Bag Gaddy!!”
“Gaddy is rich. Edmée Actem camps there every now and again, but he hasn’t given in yet. He’d be a fine instrument for an ambitious woman.”
“He’s silly about Edmée,” I said. “But she cannot be bothered with him.”
Zo? laughed her short mocking laugh, “You are taking Edmée at her own valuation.”
Zo? was almost young, not more than twenty-eight and I loved going to her house and talking to her.
My wearing the jewellery of Big Ears brought me fresh attention. He too was rich, though not of high aristocraticness. His father had made his money in mines. Big Ears had been sent to Cambridge to acquire gentility and was to go into Parliament to establish himself. People seemed to gather importance under Zo?‘s classification, though I had discerned nothing much in them when trying to place them by my own INEXPERIENCE. Her estimate of people was out of EXPERIENCE mixed with CONTACT. She summed them up by what they did and had. I could only measure them by what they were. When I saw Mrs. Crasterton booming across a drawing-room I measured that she was of exactly the same proportions and human texture44 as Mrs. McSwat, save that Mrs. Crasterton had had some sort of a tilling and wore expensive stays, whereas Mrs. McSwat’s form was unconfined and her culture had camped out at Barney’s Gap and subsisted45 on bully46 and damper. I saw that the brass47 buttons and uniforms of the Admiral’s staff, which have a dangerous charm for the fair, were worn by boys of helplessly English posture48 and stilted49 speech. Some of them were clean cut and straight of limb, but I could see that there were any number of bullock drivers, shearers and boundary riders of my acquaintance in patched shirts and thrummy moles50 who matched them muscle for muscle and thew for thew.
Soon the people who had predicted that I would be ruined by adulation were croaking51 that there was something the matter with me as I was not impressed by anyone or anything, that I was very difficult, and laughed at the most important people and made friends of those of no substance, just because I liked them. I would never advance by such tactics.
At the end of my first ten days in SOCIETY my true friend hove above the horizon of my bantling career. Ma had warned me that those who flattered me would not be my true friends, they would want only to get something out of me. My true friends would correct me for my good. Mr. Wilting52 so mangled53 the vanity I did not have, that there was no mistaking his good intentions.
He was a pugnacious54 old boy who did a lot of reviewing on the Watchdog, a paper not so long born, with the reputation of possessing the only literary acumen55 in the new Commonwealth56. The sole reason that Mr. Wilting was to be found in the crude wilds of the Antipodes was to better his health. This, I inferred, though exile for him was likely to be the making of Australian literature.
He orated from the hearthrug, standing57. “My dear child, I have read your book and discern in it germs of genius. If fostered and cultivated these may bear fruit in time.”
This was opposed to the point of view that marriage would take literary prankishness58 out of me.
“Of course you are very crude. Your workmanship does not exist. You must start from the a b c. I wish I could have the forming of your style. I don’t know of anyone else in these beastly Cawlonies who wouldn’t ruin you.”
“Do you think women ever could write?” I inquired in a very small voice.
“Madam,” said he, drawing his chest upwards59 and twirling his mustache, “the immortal60 Sappho was a woman.”
“Yes, but Shakespeare is claimed as a man. Men always say there is no female Shakespeare.”
“Humph! You study the fellows who say that, and you’ll see they are a long way from being Shakespeares themselves. Why shouldn’t women have the same privilege?”
Good for the old boy! After that I did not care how he strutted61. He had won my affection.
“You’ll never do work that will live if you listen to your friends—so-called friends. They will gush62 over you and call you a genius. Don’t listen to them; and as for the literary talent of Australia, there is none. Unfortunately the literary men of Sydney are neither literary nor men. Even your University professors are only third-rate fellows—men who could never rise out of the ruck if they remained in England, so they came out here where they can lord it in a tin-pot circle.”
Mr. Wilting had stated that his health was the reason of his own exile.
“The wife of one of our Governors said there is no society in Australia,” I murmured.
“She was right. Neither is there any culture. Neither are there any literati. There is only a set of local cacklers unknown out of their own barn. You will quickly set in the same crude limitations unless you can gain a perspective. You must burst the bonds of your environment. In your childish ignorance you are over-awed by the tinkling63 horse-rhymes and bullock-driving jingles64 of these fellows. They are beneath consideration from a literary point of view. The crudeness of the average Australian is appalling—appalling! And his cocksureness prevents his improvement.”
In many a friendly bush home the more tender of the poems decried65 by this gentleman were copied by girls into their albums and were treasured as the only expression of familiar emotions and scenes, while the more rousing couplets were often on the lips of their brothers and gave a little colour to arid66 monotony as they ploughed, ring-barked, shore, milked and put up the heavy fences. Around the camp fires far out this gentleman could have heard the work of these poets he despised enlivening the bare nights of the unfurnished pioneer life. I plucked up courage to voice my conviction that in another generation or two these Australian ballads67 would be lauded68 as being as typically Colonial as Burns’s were Scottish. I held that our poets were our folklore-ists, and worthy69 of all the affection we gave them. I ventured to suggest that perhaps the English mind, to its loss, did not extract the essence of Australianism.
Oh, my! What I brought upon myself! Mr. Wilting said that what he feared was true. I had the Australian cocksureness, was so crudely self-opinionated that I could never improve. The only thing to save me would be immediate70 transplantation to England, where I would find my level before my mind became set.
“But,” I persisted, becoming possessed71 of a devil, as Ma used to say, “why should everything English be our model just because it is English? Shouldn’t we do something on our own hook?”
“On our own hook!” he repeated with a shudder72. “To quote some of your own doggerel-mongers,
But objects near the vision fill,
When one forgets the things afar;
A jam tin on the nearest hill
When touched by sunlight seems a star.
[Bulletin Verse.]
“But that seems to be on your side,” I suggested.
“He has gropings. He’s not quite so cocksure.”
I had met Mr. Wilting’s mentality73 before. Plenty of it had penetrated74 to ‘Possum Gully. Such people’s families found Australia a handy dumping-ground for their misfits and undesirables75, but the silly dumpedees instead of having the spunk76 to help us natives do something on our own hook in Australianism, thought we should all imitate the English most lickspittlingly. Of course we are proud of our English heritage, than which, sad to say, there is no better. By that I mean that it is depressing that it is the best that man has achieved at present, but hang it all, one is a bit of a crawler not to be something on one’s own hook. It’s a jolly good phrase, and we must achieve something better than servile imitation to be worthy of England and Shakespeare.
Mr. Wilting shook his head at me. Well he might, had he known what I really contained in the way of ideas: but with one part of myself I thought it most kind of him to stoop to me at all. At least he did not want to extirpate77 my idea of writing, he merely wanted to direct it and change its personality. I was grateful for this, but thought him rather a confisticated bore and an obsolete78 frump in his other strains. I ventured to ask if I could earn a few shillings like other people by writing articles. He said to be sure I could, I should write an article about my own views and send it to him. This filled me with hope.
Having eaten all the cakes and sandwiches which Mrs. Crasterton had left me to dispense79 so that this culture-engendering CONTACT might be undiluted, he took up his hat and stick and said, “You know nothing about love. Keep off the subject until you mature; though study will help you a little, and you’ll need practice. I hope to see a great improvement in your love-making next book: it is very crude in this one, very crude indeed.”
“It’s exactly the way men make love,” I maintained.
“That’s the reason it’s a failure as art—mere raw material—crude.” With this puzzling statement he clapped his hat crudely on his head, shook my hand and departed.
If I put down what really happened when men were spoony, why should that be crude? Well, at any rate I had had lots of practice in love—in being loved—since I had perpetrated that fake autobiography80.
To escape Mrs. Crasterton’s sententiousness as to how much I should have learned from a man like that, and to begin on the article, I betook myself to my own room. Gaddy was sitting in his study with the door open as I passed, having just come home by cab. He often called me in to ask what measure I had taken of things. I threw away caution with him as I felt I could trust him. His fatness made him safe and kind, and he was always on my side.
“What kind of an old frogabollow is that?” I demanded.
“He’s one of the geni-asses from HOME. They send us a good supply. They fill the vacancies81 left by our crude youngsters who go to put punch into the effete82 old world.”
Gad emphasised the word crude with a wink83. “The pressure of competition or tippling drives them out to us. We haven’t the population to make an arena84 for our men of art or letters or other kinds of ability, so they go to the central market. This old chap is right in some things, but in others he’s a decadent85 blitherer, and when our young fools try to reflect his point of view it quite breaks ’em up.”
I felt like hugging Gaddy, but refrained because he did not enjoy interruption in the middle of a discourse86.
“I think, meself, there’s something in imagining the greatness of an undeveloped country, but old Wilting measures greatness by the style of clubs and art galleries, and dismisses the menace of the slums as being inevitable87 for the lower orders.”
“He says Australia has no background.”
“And England has so much that she is a museum of what has been, while Australia is an experimental laboratory of what will be. I prefer foreground to background.’
“He says the lovemaking in my book is crude. Miss Elderberry and Mrs. Swift said that too.”
“It’s a fact, me dear. There is the same difference between your idea of love-making and the experience of those old warhorses as there is between an English breakfast and a French dinner. To gain the approval of these destriers you would need to have love made to you by none except those who should not approach you—other women’s husbands for instance.”
“That would be disgusting. I wouldn’t listen.”
Gaddy laughed till he cried, but I could not see why. “You should be able to incite88 amour and extract the erotic excitement from it without running amok of the conventions or the tongues of those experienced in detecting smart love. You’ll find plenty of fellows so skilled in lovemaking that they can put a double end on it, so that if you know how to give experienced encouragement they are prepared to go the whole length; but if you are found to be of honest virtue89 they can take the down off the situation and leave you to feel that you had been the one in the wrong. Thank God you are crude, as crude as your lily and roses complexion90 that can bear the sun’s crude morning glare, and crude may you remain as long as possible, is my prayer.”
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chic
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| n./adj.别致(的)，时髦(的)，讲究的 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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luncheons
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| n.午餐，午宴( luncheon的名词复数 ) | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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impersonally
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| ad.非人称地 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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analyst
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| n.分析家，化验员；心理分析学家 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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currying
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| 加脂操作 | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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hoyden
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| n.野丫头，淘气姑娘 | |
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obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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heinous
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| adj.可憎的，十恶不赦的 | |
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administrative
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| adj.行政的，管理的 | |
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urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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obstructions
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| n.障碍物( obstruction的名词复数 )；阻碍物；阻碍；阻挠 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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scuttling
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| n.船底穿孔，打开通海阀（沉船用）v.使船沉没( scuttle的现在分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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subsisted
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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moles
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| 防波堤( mole的名词复数 )； 鼹鼠； 痣； 间谍 | |
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croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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wilting
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| 萎蔫 | |
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mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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pugnacious
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| adj.好斗的 | |
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acumen
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| n.敏锐，聪明 | |
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commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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prankishness
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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strutted
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| 趾高气扬地走，高视阔步( strut的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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jingles
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| 叮当声( jingle的名词复数 )； 节拍十分规则的简单诗歌 | |
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decried
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| v.公开反对，谴责( decry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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lauded
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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72
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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undesirables
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| 不受欢迎的人，不良分子( undesirable的名词复数 ) | |
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spunk
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| n.勇气，胆量 | |
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extirpate
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| v.除尽，灭绝 | |
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obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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81
vacancies
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| n.空房间( vacancy的名词复数 )；空虚；空白；空缺 | |
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effete
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| adj.无生产力的，虚弱的 | |
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83
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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decadent
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| adj.颓废的，衰落的，堕落的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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incite
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| v.引起，激动，煽动 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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