The Profilist

by Adrian Mitchell

  Besides, it also afforded an opportunity of seeing what the community of German migrants had been achieving in their new location, and it allowed me to range freely about that part of the province, across the low range of hills for example, and back on to the lower northern plains, where numbers of farms and a few small villages were being established. It is a pretty countryside, with delicate changing lights across the folds of the hills and the wide grasslands.

  In the opposite direction, towards the great river, are the lands where the native tribes live and thrive, unhindered so far by the coming of the white man. I delighted in observing what seemed to me their whimsical but nevertheless effective manner of scampering up gum trees, to smoke possums out of their hollows. They likewise have an extraordinary way of chasing after the native honeybees to find their hidden nests—they attach a white feather to a bee, in a manner best not detailed too precisely, and setting it free they run as best they can after it, hurdling over low bushes and fallen trees and all the time keeping their eye fixed on the retreating insect until it betrays its home.

  The native children seem to pass an endlessly delightful round of days leaping into waterholes or streams, and running around after each other and shouting with merriment, their splendid white teeth and shining eyes gleaming in their dark faces. Sometimes on the trunks of the larger trees I have found huge ancient scars in the bark, which has been cut to make canoes or shields or shelters. And sometimes, a more sombre detail, old mounds in amongst the trees, or on occasion a raised platform on which rests the remains of a fallen warrior or elder tribesman, and where the forlorn cry of the crows serves only to emphasise the wearisome silence all around.

  Mr Eyre, who entertained Captain Strutt and his company on their way to the interior, has been given leave to return to England. He intends to prepare his journals for publication and has been so kind as to ask if he may insert some of my aboriginal sketches into the projected work. He particularly likes my sketch of the native tomb.

  The subject which most attracts European interest is, without doubt, the native corroborees. From time to time we have been permitted to witness these eerie but exciting dances, though only if we are attended by one of their sentries, and then only at a distance. It makes an extraordinary impression, the aborigines in moonlight, their dark bodies agitated in front of the firelight, their long shadows like inverted mirror images of themselves. For a moment it is like being back in the silhouette studio in Portsmouth, only with animated figures, a live gallanty show. Others have noticed how the white paint on their bodies suggests a dance of skeletons, an odd combination of frantic leaping and chanting, combined with these suggestions of the dead.

  Strangely, as much in this country proves strange, the effect is not of contradiction but of something we are only slowly coming to recognise, a different kind of energy here. We do not as yet have a language to say just what that is, and will not until we have come to understand it more fully. But it has something to do with the singular light of the moon shining through and across all this darkness, and the blaze of stars that becomes more visible when the moon makes its way to another quarter of the sky. It is not truly dark at night, when you take the patience to wait for this other light. There is contrast enough for you to be able to see your way, a patterning of dark in the night light.

  There is much yet to discover.

  The urge that drags the rambling painter ever onward to find new and unsuspected views, another kind of exploring if the truth be told, can lead to dire consequences. Mr Hailes told me of one such misfortune that befell a modest but no less driven artist, a young man called Pratt, whose body was found along the banks of the Gawler River and whose unmarked grave was the first to be dug in that part of the country. He had sat down at an advantageous point to study the prospect before him, and there he had died, and was not found for several days. He had his sketchbook with him, and the first lines of a pencil study of a great gum tree across the river. His sandwich was untouched; the crows had not found that.

  While I was making my rounds of the countryside, Mr Flute the older had returned from New Zealand, timing his arrival to perfection. He floated in, as was his wont, just in time to join the Governor’s party on an expedition to the southeast of the province, with all the conveniences and assurances which that entails. His role is to sketch examples of native life and artefacts.

  It makes little difference that I was out in the field. I cannot pretend to the sort of connection he has been courting there. At least I am not be expected to attend one of those awful dances with which the returning heroes celebrate their eventual homecoming; and at which Flute no doubt pirouetted and bowed with aplomb. Twisting and turning comes naturally to such as he.

  The upshot is that he has sufficiently ingratiated himself to win the Governor’s favour. Under Captain Grey’s patronage, and on his order, Flute has been invited to display his work in the foyer of the recently completed Legislative Chamber. Notices of the forthcoming exhibition are posted in every shop window. Everybody who pretends to be somebody is of course required to make an appearance. Anybody else can gain admission for a shilling, and a catalogue for sixpence more, the proceeds all going to the unctuous and irritating Mr Flute, to assist him with the expenses of publishing a collection of his paintings. Ye very gods, the boundless vanity of the man.

  My astonishment is not jealousy—well, it is a little—but because of the work itself, as displayed. It goes without saying that I have been very careful in my inspection of his paintings. Let me acknowledge that they are fastidious to a fault. What Flute paints is a world that has been scrubbed and polished to within an inch of its life. If he were to sit down in one of his landscapes, you may be sure not a mark would leave itself on his meticulously clean white inexpressibles. It is as though there were never any dirt or dust, or mud. It is a cleanliness fit for a Sunday School.

  And as I looked further into his paintings, I have reflected that he is of that school of painters such as accompanied Captain Cook on his famous voyages, who inserted one of everything into their scenes, with the result that what they painted never existed in nature. Flute’s work is like that. It is all lifeless. Nothing moves, everything is arrested, taken out of time. It is tranced, fixed. I remember again that the French call the painting of still life nature morte. Flute is the mortician of nature. I do not think he is a true artist, though some of his fine drawings are clever enough. The newspaper critics have not been convinced, and carefully withdraw. I quote from just one of these reviews, in the Adelaide Observer, 21 June 1845:

  We admire the industry and perseverance of an amateur who has accomplished so much in such a short time. There is a combination of artistic like skill, with spirited execution which surprises us.

  On the back of his assumed success here, Flute is taking himself off to Sydney, to collect another purse of admission money. Governor Grey is to take up a new appointment in New Zealand, and South Australia is to enjoy yet another governor. If there is ever any progress made in this colony, it can only be by way of swings and roundabouts.

  Another imminent departure is of more interest to me. A gentleman who has recently sold his interest in one of the leading newspapers—which is of course an estimation limited by the quality of the competition—is to return to England, and proposes to promote the attractions of the colony through a series of illustrated lectures, so as to encourage more immigration. He has commissioned from me a number of pictures showing the province and the establishment that had already taken place. This is a work very much to my liking; it allows me to revisit some of my earlier views, drawing to attention the accomplishments as well as the quirks of the settlement. The streets are now much more street-like, and not so many stray pigs wander about any more. But vagabond dogs still claim the freedom of the city. The roadways have been evened out, though the heavy drays constantly cut up that surface. Footpaths to each side are sorely wanting, and pedestrians cannot always remove themselves from the passing traffic,
though occasional posts set into the earth suggest a refuge. The newly acquired angles of some of these suggest that refuge is not guaranteed.

  The gentry stop and touch their hats to the ladies they pass in the street. The business men are intent on looking busy, and do not stop for anyone; unless, of course, another in the same line of business. The working men and drivers are impatient of the leisurely style and the self-important bustling style, and so make a show of ignoring them all together. They no longer doff their hat to those they decline any longer to accept as their betters. It is not unmannerliness towards the ladies, but they have a point to make. It asks too much to have to set down a barrow so as to touch your great straw hat, and then heave up again and resume the heavy trundling. Or if you happen to be deep in the midst of an earnest conversation with a fellow bullock driver, you can hardly be blamed for not observing what is off to one side of your road. So they either keep doggedly on, or they lean on their long whips and with one boot crossed over the other they share a yarn and a smoke on their clay pipes and pass the time of day, knowing their own worth in their own trade.

  The streets are lined with splendid-looking buildings, with remarkably elegant stonework. But these are mostly façades, and the other sides of the buildings are of brick; or buildings with brick façades have local bluestone walls once around the corner; and houses and offices with bluestone façades have limestone sides, and so forth. Limestone cottages have brick cornices and windows, much like the flint cottages in the South Downs. There is a whole tell-tale scale of buildings here. I do not forget the rudimentary bark shelters of the natives. So that once again, my pictures tell more than they show.

  And I have just learned that some of my watercolours, including of a night corroboree, have been shown in Glasgow. I am not reduced to Pratt’s last supper just yet.

  Sketch 6

  In which I venture into the wilderness

  WHEN COPIES of Mr Eyre’s book reached Adelaide, I was pleased to see that he had indeed included two of my sketches, of the native tomb and of the natives’ method of hunting possums; though he had not remembered my name well enough to get it right. Perhaps that is the way of gentlemen.

  I had greater hopes of my new acquaintance from the Dry Creek, Mr H. as I call him, another intent on making his mark on the geography, if not the history, of this country. He is very fond of the formal prefix, though it makes him sound like a character from one of Samuel Richardson’s novels. I should guess he is very much my own age. He is as I have said, pleasant and well-mannered, but he lets you know your place. While he is not aloof as such, he makes it clear that he assumes it is his birthright to be ahead of others. Lofty in that sense. Not everyone here appreciates his self-conviction.

  He does not know how to relax into his drink, as we more experienced old hands; he prefers to hold himself in check. He has come from a Baptist background, as have so many here, but as has also proved so commonly the case, he has undergone something of a sea change. Much like myself, for one. In my judgement he esteems the respectability of being attached to the Church of England, which is to say he enjoys the social advantage of it. I do not think doctrinal preferences are of great moment with him. Or if so, he keeps such issues to himself, and that is tactful given that he has one or two Irishmen working for him. His conversation is mainly of his merino rams, his flocks both actual and intended, the goodness of the land, and the peculiarities of the country. But he has read widely, and it is pleasant to have a thoughtful conversation with him.

  Mr H. is both restless and ambitious for adventure. Recently he offered to conduct a party to explore more of the northern country abandoned by Mr Eyre, fully hoping this proposal would be supported by the Governor, Governor Grey that is. Not the desolate dry salt lake country which blocked Eyre’s way, but pushing out short of that wretched land and further to the west.

  That design failed. Indeed, the Governor had not been well disposed to Captain Strutt’s expedition either, which turned out a disaster all round, the poor man returning all but blind from excess of light, having found no inland sea, no productive land, and his second in command dead. Although nothing was said officially, it appears Captain Grey was not especially surprised. He had no great respect for a man whose discovery of the Murray required as little effort as sitting in a boat and drifting downstream; and then, still sitting in the stern of the boat, drawing maps and sketches while the men strained through the summer heat to row all those hundreds and hundreds of miles upstream again.

  Grey wanted Strutt well out of the way, for the older man had in his vanity put himself forward as a rival for the role of governor. What a goose. Anyone could see that would not endear him to the successful place holder. Strutt failed in his ambition, and as was only too foreseeable given the temperament of his rival, he was promptly reassigned to lesser positions, with lesser salary attached. Whatever one might think of Captain Strutt, he obviously lacks astuteness. His mild blue eyes do not signal depth. Perhaps I am thinking of those big foolish Russian ducks.

  Mr H. had blue eyes too, but darker and very penetrating. He was a determined young man. With the Governor declining to promote even a modest new venture, he appealed to the public, and funds for a small exploration party were raised by subscription, though with Mr H. contributing substantially from his own pocket. Through my acquaintance with him, I was invited to join the party at my own expense if I would like. Which is how I came to ride my pony up to his property, one of the northernmost in the settlement, in the midst of winter; not the most congenial conditions in which to set forth, but of course sensible given the unthinkable conditions that could be expected in the summer months.

  I farewelled my companions from the Exchange Hotel at a small gathering vaguely reminiscent of evenings with my frolicsome friends at Portsmouth, though I never knew any of them decline to sing a song as happened on this occasion. But sufficiently enthusiastic toasts were proposed through the course of our dinner for me to become a little more sentimental in my reply than I would normally have shown myself. Indeed, by the end of the evening I had got myself well beyond sentiment, and may even have helped repair the insufficiency of choral entertainment. Which, after all, is what these dinners are for, to inspire each other with courage and good cheer. I never felt so brave, so valiant, so heroic. Yet, bit by bit, the arrangement, that I should have to pay my own way, bore down upon me too, and by the end of the evening I am not altogether sure just what my friends must have thought of me, or my reasons for going.

  Mr H.’s homestead encouraged a more sober mood. The journey up to his place was unremarkable, with squally showers limiting one’s inclination to take in the view. I made camp four times on my way, taking the time to sketch views which caught my eye, and making notes of places I might want to come back to, for example the new copper diggings at Kapunda. The day before I arrived at my destination, a man—Fred Wood’s the name, says he—was frying a pan of lamb chops and invited me to join him. Would I! Which he, misunderstanding, seemed to assume I might be some kind of distant relative. Ridiculous as this was, it was the sole memorable incident on that pleasantly winding track. The chops were delicious, and if I had my way I would meet with a Fred Wood at every stop I make.

  It occurred to me after the event that the meat was very fresh, and as Mr H. was the chief flock owner in this region I thought it probably more tactful not to mention anything about my choice repast.

  All was a bustle at the homestead. Mr H. was not one for standing about. He had his men loading supplies on the dray, and checking the gear and the horses’ hooves. I took in two details of approximately comparable interest. The cook’s name was, of all improbabilities, Garlick. Life had played its joke upon him, but he did not see the comedy in it. And Mr H. had somehow acquired a camel, which I truly never expected to see, and certainly not in this country.

  It was I believe the first ever to step out on to this continent. It was a great brute of a beast, haughty and bad-tempered. One of the Irishmen claime
d to know how to handle him, but I for one was not convinced. Neither was Goliath, as he was called. The camel, that is. The Irishman could more aptly be thought of as a tin-pot Paddy. Goliath snapped his wicked long stained teeth at anyone who came too close, and at the dogs barking around his legs. He bit Garlick on the head and cheek, but apparently did not relish the taste; and he broke the back of a goat. Jacky, a native who did odd jobs about the property, was in great fear of him. Mr H. claimed that camels can carry enormous loads, which is why he had gone to the expense of acquiring this one, and he would prove of great service to us as we headed out into the unvisited lands of the far northwest. They were likely to be desert enough for Goliath to feel quite at home, he said. But that gave rise to a puzzle as to why we would want to go exploring there. Never mind. My task was to record what we saw.

  So it was that at the end of August our little party set out westwards to the distant ranges, hoping for an early spring. Once more it seemed to me that I had made a stuttering start, first from my friends in Adelaide, then when I joined the party at the homestead, and yet a third time when the party at last set out for the ranges. It was just like when I came to Port Misery, all over again. Only this time I was departing, you might say, setting out, not arriving.

  The ranges were starkly beautiful at a distance, bathed in soft tones, and delicately beautiful in their muted blues and violets and lavenders against the glorious sunset, becoming more and more stark and rugged as we progressed towards them. There was rather too much water close to the foothills, and we had a task of it in cutting a way for the dray down and then up the banks of the creeks we came across. And starting into rough stony country did not improve Goliath’s temper. We had to find a way through or across the range, and while Mr H. cast about for a likely route, Jacky came with me on a sketching tour—not in order to improve his appreciation of landscape painting, but in case of game and, though I did not put this thought into words, to ensure that I did not become lost.