A Certain Style

by Jacqueline Kent

  Beatrice might have felt able to write so freely to him because she knew that the spectacularly self-absorbed Herbert would be unlikely to judge her or to comment on what she chose to tell him about herself. And he was so wonderfully, bombastically over the top about his emotions in his own letters that perhaps she felt free to respond in kind.

  Wanting a second opinion about Of Mars, the Moon and Destiny, Herbert showed the manuscript to Kylie Tennant. He told Beatrice that she strongly disliked it, thinking its publication would ruin him. Beatrice was sympathetic, adding she was glad he hadn’t taken Tennant’s comment too seriously. Meanwhile she worried about Herbert’s health. When he told her he was in great pain with rheumatism, she showed his letter to a Macquarie Street specialist she knew who believed, unusually for the 1950s in Sydney, that this kind of pain was often non-physical in origin. He thought the rheumatism was psy-chosomatic, that Herbert suffered from conflicts based on a sense of guilt, resulting in an unconscious desire for self-punishment. Beatrice relayed this opinion to Herbert, with the qualification that a lot of nonsense was talked about psychiatry, amateur and professional, but that ‘self-knowledge must be a good thing if we can ever come by it’. Herbert told her that his rheumatic trouble had been due to an impacted wisdom tooth that had been poisoning him, and that as soon as it had been extracted he put on weight and became so energetic that he bought himself a set of boxing gloves.

  Early in January 1957 he wrote an aggressive letter to George Ferguson, saying his health had deteriorated over the period of writing Of Mars and because of ‘negative dealings’ with him, and asking for his manuscript back. George Ferguson returned it, no doubt with relief, telling him he was perfectly free to do with it as he liked, but he added that if Herbert decided to divide the work into two novels, or to abridge it in any way, A&R would be happy to discuss it further with him. Herbert then complained to Tom Inglis Moore of the CLF about the treatment he had received from A&R. He accused ‘La Davis’ of ‘silent scheming’ to divide the manuscript into two and to publish it as two books (George Ferguson had merely suggested this). He had now decided that as commercial publishers were so mercenary, such ‘bibliopolic buzzards’, he would try to publish the book himself. Again, nothing came of this, and he seems to have shelved Of Mars, the Moon and Destiny for a while.

  Herbert had told Beatrice that he had sent several short stories, originally published in the Australian Journal, to Walter Cousins some years before; Cousins had put them aside and they were still in A&R’s editorial cupboard. The longest was ‘Seven Emus’ which, at 30 000 words, hardly qualifies as a short story except in Herbert’s terms; however, Beatrice said she was sure A&R would be able to publish it. For this story Herbert decided to use unconventional punctuation: a two-dot ellipsis instead of the semicolon (having sawn the key off his typewriter, he presumably needed to find a substitute). Beatrice was very doubtful about this, but agreed to follow his scheme if it really mattered to him. In fact, Beatrice accepted the piece without substantial editing, which encouraged Herbert immensely. Her faith in him, he said, had inspired him to continue. He was already planning an immense novel which he hoped would take in everything he knew about Australia. Early in 1958 he had a title for it: Poor Fellow My Country.

  A new note was creeping into their correspondence. For the first time Herbert told Beatrice that he recognised the terrible gap between what he wanted to achieve and his capabilities, and he admitted to a deep sense of failure. ‘I’ve just failed to do what I wanted to do in respect of being a big fellow. I’m only a little fellow … I guess I could write only one book, the thing I despise, the old botch of my youth [that is, Capricornia].’16 His life as a human being and a writer, he said, would be worthwhile only if he could produce the work that said everything he wanted to about Australia. Here was the authentic voice of Xavier Herbert the serious and ambitious writer, who had finally gained a measure of self-knowledge in his struggle to write as he wished. In the same letter he acknowledged:

  As you yourself have said, my literary efforts have been voyages of discovery … I’ve only been concerned with the Drama of Life. I see it and feel it very strongly. But I lack the talent to portray it so that my readers will be caught up in it. That’s why I have monkied with style. My normal expression is too turgid to be attractive. I’ve had to fake to attract, it seems. And all fakes fail, of course …

  If his great work were rejected, he said, he would never write another book, ‘nor will I write again to you, except in a tiny business way, because to do so would be too painful. Goodbye, dear Beatrice, and thank you for so much patient endurance of me.’ Distressed that he seemed to have lost so much of his confidence, hoping this was only temporary, Beatrice assured him that she would always believe in him and his talent.

  When Seven Emus was published as a novella in February 1959, it did not find favour. Critics objected to the experimental punctuation (P.R. Stephensen said the book suffered from ‘blockage of the colon’) and considered Herbert’s voice haranguing and ponderous. The book was remaindered within eighteen months of publication. Surprisingly, Herbert was not downhearted. He was very busy, mulling over Poor Fellow My Country, working on a novel called The Little Widow, which he assured Beatrice she would not like, and revising some short stories. Beatrice, who had been amenable to the style of Seven Emus, must have been astonished to be told that he thought its main problem was that he had failed to please his beloved patroness. He had now decided to ditch his ‘affected style’ and return to a simpler narrative. And the first thing he would do, he said, was to rewrite Soldiers’ Women, cutting it to about 200 000 words, so that Angus and Robertson could publish it. He concluded with a flourish: ‘Surely must I fill the whole frontispiece of that copy of yours’ – Beatrice made a practice of asking certain authors, not all, to sign copies of their A&R books – ‘with the inscription To Beatrice, my Beloved patroness!’17

  Beatrice was delighted to hear that he had not only regained his confidence but was determined to revise Soldiers’ Women (she must also have been relieved that it was no longer to be called Of Mars, the Moon and Destiny). She was looking forward, she said, to reading The Little Widow, especially if he intended to present it as ‘a story and not as a saving-of-the-world pronouncement’.

  But when Beatrice did read The Little Widow she most emphatically did not like it – Herbert had been right about that – and she wrote to tell him so immediately. Perhaps because Herbert had more or less apologised for ignoring her reservations about the punctuation of Seven Emus, Beatrice evidently felt she did not need to mince words; indeed, she was devastatingly blunt. Reading the manuscript, she said, had been hard work. The main character she found an egotistical bore, the account of his motivations unconvincing. Further, Herbert’s writing style, with its long sentences and predictable cadences, gave a remoteness, an unreality, to the story. He was also committing his old fault of haranguing the reader. She concluded by asking him to please give the manuscript further thought.18

  This letter plunged Xavier Herbert right back into despondency. Beatrice’s criticism, he said, had convinced him he would have to put the manuscript aside for years. Beatrice then apologised for upsetting him so badly:

  I can’t bear the thought of this humility and sense of failure in you. You must not be so absolute. Surely friends ought to be able to discuss anything at all without such devastating effects. Where has your wonderful confidence gone? … You must not make me terrified to talk to you about your work, which means so much to us both … Please reassure me by saying that you will start on the revision of Soldiers’ Women at once. And do me the honour of discussing with me the ways in which you will go about this. You are too much alone in your writing world; and the taking of advice (if you do agree with it) can be a help – it certainly does not mean that you are relying on anyone else or that the book that results will be anything but your own work … I know enough of your individuality to know that anything you did would be entirely your o
wn: but no one is infallible and discussion of style and treatment can be stimulating even if it ends in entire disagreement of an amiable kind.19

  Herbert did remain in contact with her about the progress of Soldiers’ Women, and by early 1960 the manuscript was ready for editing. Beatrice outlined what she saw as the novel’s problems; her main criticisms were overwriting in the descriptive passages, complex sentences that were difficult to read, and intrusion of authorial opinion. Beatrice also attached three pages of editorial comment. Here it is obvious that her professionalism and critical sense overrode her anxiety not to offend Herbert: when it came to the business of detailed editing she was always less concerned with possible bruised feelings – even for someone whose ego was as fragile as Herbert’s – than with the business of getting the manuscript as good as possible. Typical comments were: ‘You’ve hypnotised yourself with words here – long-winded and mannered … No omelette maker would leave the job even to glance at a newspaper … Narrator too much on the stage … The anticipation spoils sequence and surprise … Don’t anticipate.’ These pages are among Herbert’s papers in the University of Queensland’s Fryer Library, and come in a brown manila envelope marked in Herbert’s writing ‘Beatrice Davis’s suggestions for editing S[oldiers’]. W[omen] (ignored by F[rancis] X[avier Herbert])’. But he clearly went through them, putting a tick beside almost all Beatrice’s comments, which implies that he did at least consider them and more than likely followed most of them.

  Herbert was sufficiently grateful for Beatrice’s work on the manuscript to propose dedicating Soldiers’ Women to his ‘Beloved Patroness’. Beatrice was embarrassed:

  As a private thing between us [the phrase] has always had for me an affectionate personal, whimsical flavour. But to the general public it would suggest wealth or influence or something inappropriate – particularly when I am in loco publisher. G[eorge] F[erguson] rather raised his eyebrows anyhow pointing out, quite rightly, that publishers or editors should never take credit publicly. Perhaps he would not mind the perfectly plain To BD …20

  In the end Herbert dedicated the book ‘To Beatrice Davis’, and she told Herbert that her sense of editorial ethics made her feel uncomfortable about even that.

  Herbert decided to come to Sydney for the launch. This was symbolically important, he said; he felt he had reached ‘the grand climax’ of his career. Not having been ‘south’ for many years, he didn’t know what people wore in polite society. He worried whether to bring a dinner jacket. Some of his friends had assured him this wasn’t necessary, but, as he told Beatrice, he didn’t entirely trust them. He assured her that he did not intend to embarrass her with excessive behaviour. ‘I’ve a feeling you may be a little afraid of that.’ And after his trip to Sydney he would return to Redlynch to write what he called ‘the last opus’, Poor Fellow My Country.21

  But when Herbert came to Sydney he behaved very badly, whether because of shyness, defensiveness or aggression – or perhaps all three. Beatrice found him a room at the Newcastle Hotel in lower George Street, where he slept too little, drank far too much, and picked fights with customers in the bar. He also made a pass at A&R’s publicity manager. At the cocktail party Beatrice organised to launch the book, to which she invited a number of other writers, he gave a very long and boring speech. At a Melbourne gathering shortly afterwards he advanced towards the left-wing Jewish writer Judah Waten in a goosestep.22

  The bad critical reception of Soldiers’ Women, hard on the heels of Herbert’s appalling behaviour, did nothing to diminish his status as a literary celebrity. In 1962 he was invited to the Adelaide Festival of Arts to discuss Capricornia, a request that failed to please him. When Rigby’s publisher Michael Page made the mistake of saying how much he liked the earlier novel, Herbert snapped, ‘Everybody talks to me about that bloody book. Don’t they know I’ve written anything else?’23 And at a literary gathering at Belair in the Adelaide hills he picked a quarrel with Beatrice, probably on the grounds that he suspected A&R were about to allow Soldiers’ Women to go out of print. On the same occasion he threw a punch at the Melbourne critic Stephen Murray-Smith. Of course, this sort of behaviour did not bar him from Adelaide or from any other Australian literary festival. Writers’ bad behaviour was excused – if not actively encouraged – on the grounds that it made such superb gossip fodder.

  Shortly after the Adelaide Festival, Xavier Herbert had yet another fight with A&R. He declared they had taken too long to bring out Soldiers’ Women, which appeared a year after the final editing had been done, and that he no longer had faith in them as publishers. He therefore gave his memoir Disturbing Element to Cheshire, who brought it out in 1963. If Beatrice felt hurt about his defection, she managed to disguise it. ‘I shall not be sorry to relinquish my former editorial role,’ she wrote to him, ‘though I’d always be glad to help in any way you wish me to.’24 A&R retrieved Herbert’s stories from the days of Walter Cousins, traced some others, and published them all as Larger Than Life (1963). Herbert told Beatrice that he did not consider either that book or his memoir to be nearly as important as his ‘Maximum Opus’: Poor Fellow My Country. He worked on it in earnest from about the mid-1960s, while employed part-time as a pharmacist at Atherton District Hospital. ‘I’ve never had such happiness with a book, didn’t think it possible,’ he wrote.25

  By now Herbert had struck up a friendship with Hal Porter. Beatrice probably introduced them at the 1962 Adelaide Festival, where all three became drinking companions. In his search for a new audience Herbert quickly and rather naively decided that Porter was an ally, a friend, confiding to him in 1963 that ‘I still feel very much the bushy pharmacist who fluked literary eminence’. Herbert admired Porter’s writing; Porter’s autobiography The Watcher on the Cast-Iron Balcony had been published to great acclaim, while Disturbing Element had not done nearly as well. The two men shared literary opinions and gossip, including, of course, about Beatrice. Herbert was particularly fascinated by her calm, even under extreme provocation, usually his. ‘Have you ever seen her spitting?’ he asked Porter. ‘I guess not. She has wonderful self-control. I think she smashes things only after one is out of earshot.’26

  Porter cultivated Herbert, sending him autographed copies of his books and praising his talent. At the same time he was laughing at Herbert behind his back, describing him to Beatrice as ‘that poor, sad Xavier’ and to other friends as ‘quel bloody pathetic bore’. Beatrice took this kind of behaviour from Porter in her stride. She could see similarities between them, as she wrote to Xavier: ‘Hal is like you only (as far as I can see) in being dedicated to his writing, and in being completely independent if not isolated from other humans except in detached friendship.’27 Beatrice understood – none better – how treacherous both men could be.

  She and Xavier Herbert continued an occasional friendly correspondence. Late in 1966 he wrote to tell her that he had bought a Land Rover and was thinking of becoming an electrician. Beatrice expressed her admiration; few writers, she said, understood the necessity of having another job for diversion and security. ‘You’re a very clever boy, really, in your own peculiar way,’ she added. 28 He thought he might load up the Land Rover and hawk his wares directly to his public, he said, and perhaps Beatrice could help him. He could dedicate his work to her, calling her the Queen Bee. ‘But perhaps what I really meant by it was Queen of the Buzzards. Please don’t be offended. If you are a buzzard, you are a very lovely one, a beautiful white buzzard.’29 Whatever Beatrice’s feelings about being compared to a bird of prey – the editor as a raptor feeding off the carcass of literature – she decided to consider it a backhanded compliment. ‘I rather like the picture of myself as a white buzzard of kindly mien,’ she told him.30

  Beatrice’s friendship, genuine support and enthusiasm for his work were never enough for Xavier Herbert. Late in 1971 he told her that he had made a new friend – Laurie Hergenhan, a reader in English at the University of Queensland (Hergenhan was about forty, Herbert seventy). />
  Herbert chipped Hergenhan about being ‘an akko’, or academic, a species of human he declared he detested; Hergenhan did not take offence, which impressed Herbert, as did the fact that Hergenhan had read everything Herbert had written. Herbert quickly nominated Hergenhan as his new patron. ‘I’m sure God made him for me, as he did you,’ he wrote to Beatrice, saying kindly that he now thought being his patron might be too tough a job for her.31 Something in him compelled him to reject Beatrice from time to time. As he once confided to Richard Walsh, ‘For some reason I have never been able to accept approval or affection of my fellows without a feeling of phoniness.’32 Before long he was writing to Hergenhan that Beatrice had ‘played him for a sucker right from the beginning’ and that she was ‘a complete cheat’.33

  Xavier Herbert finished writing Poor Fellow My Country at the end of 1973. He had spent nine years on it, though he had mentioned the idea to Beatrice as far back as 1958. Set in northern Australia between 1936 and 1942, the novel explores issues of race, identity and cultural imperialism – all Herbert’s obsessions – and he intended it to be the grand summing-up of his life’s work. He measured its length as 748 387 words – nearly a quarter of a million words longer than War and Peace (in fact, it’s more like 900 000 words long) – and it was marketed as the longest novel ever published.