As usual, after the meal I went to the piano and the others gathered to sing. Theresa Ward has a pleasant contralto voice, without the exaggerated vibrato that so many women singers affect. Seddon was enthusiastically loud, quite overpowering the other two men in one of his favourites, ‘Bringing in the Sheaves’. He is not especially religious, but the tune delights him. Later, when he and I talked a little apart from the rest, he asked me how William had been feeling. He and other friends were worried about him, he said. It was on the tip of my tongue to say that a knighthood would make all fair, but thankfully I did not. Seddon said William didn’t appear himself, was unusually subdued in the House and often sat quite through a full meeting of the Parliamentary Goldfields Committee, or other formal duties, without saying a word.
‘I tried to persuade him to have a full medical examination with Dr Langley in Dunedin,’ I said. ‘But you know how stubborn he can be.’
‘There’s something not right,’ said Seddon. ‘He mustn’t neglect himself. These aren’t easy times for any man of enterprise, but he has an admirable Scottish endurance. Why not ask Thomas Cahill to give him a good checking over?’
‘It’s not always a good thing to have your best friend as your doctor, and I doubt Dr Langley would see it as professional etiquette. Thomas finds William resistant in any discussion of his health.’
‘To hell with etiquette,’ he said. ‘What’s best for him is all that matters.’
William came over with a decanter. ‘We agree you need to take more care of yourself,’ I said. I was aware as the two men stood close, how much smaller William was. The discrepancy seemed greater than in the past.
‘Another jaunt to Queensland, do you think?’ he said. ‘More long nights and heat?’ Was there some special meaning intended in that, or is my anxiety now colouring everything we say? His gaze slid from mine, the droop of his moustache gave that small, characteristic puff, and with one hand he smoothed what thin hair remained on his head.
‘Politics exacts a cost from us all,’ said Seddon. ‘A day in government is more demanding than two on the diggings, eh?’
‘But we were young then,’ said William.
‘You, me and Julius. Who would have thought that we’d be together here so many years later, and that each of us would have done considerable things for our new country? Damn, but it’s a story, old friend.’
When William and the premier reminisce it sometimes seems that the political leadership of New Zealand was decided on the goldfields of Victoria. They are entitled to satisfaction in what talent and energy has brought them, but the element of self-congratulation becomes more obvious each time the tales are heard, and Dougie and I know them almost as well as our own lives. Eventually Seddon began on some other mutual acquaintance who had turned up after many years looking for favours. Normally William would enter fully into such memories, and with sufficient humorous exaggeration to hold his own against his friend, but the bounce and confidence he had when I first met him have gone.
Now he is quick to take offence, impatient and dismissive of others, subject to moods of abstraction or sudden anger. At my suggestion he had asked Basil Sievwright’s daughter, Ella, to paint a portrait of him, and sent her a photograph to aid her accomplishment of it. Ella is a fine girl, if a little flighty, and with a definite talent that William Hodgkins and I have encouraged. She is studying at London’s Slade School of Art, and her father receives good reports of her there. But William was dismayed by the portrait, which arrived yesterday. He claimed it showed him an old man, said he didn’t want it hung, and was reluctant to pay for it. My defence of the painting on the basis of Ella’s skill made him cross, and despite my best efforts I could not dissuade him from expressing his disappointment in a letter to her. In his own wounded vanity he cared little for Ella’s feelings. I will, however, write to her myself, offering the excuse of his poor health and the cares of business and political life.
Thomas Hocken has decided that he will leave his great collection of books and papers to Dunedin. I thought William would be interested to talk about the decision, but he made a brusque reply that Thomas was no doubt wise, because families do not value what is bequeathed to them, and that he would have been better to husband his money earlier in life.
The outward semblance of our lives is often false. My near neighbour Charlotte Charteris was openly admiring and curious that the premier had dined with us, a not unusual occurrence, and the Wards too, who are considered among the best society to be had. The Honourable William Larnach CMG and his wife entertaining the highest in the land. Yet even as she and I talked of it, I felt the emptiness of the evening, the shadow play between husband and wife when real affection is absent. There had seemed a sardonic mockery in the gaslight gleam on the best silverware, the white and yellow flowers given by Annie and Mrs Dallow, the finest claret and champagne from the cellar, the jewels that we three ladies wore, campaign medals from our marriages. I had rather been with Dougie at The Camp, talking of some innocent triviality, while our eyes and hearts met with quite another message. Knowing the truth of my own situation increasingly makes me suspect sham in the carapace that others present. How urgently we work to create an appearance to impress our fellows, while suffering a desperation at the heart of things.
Yet I felt a sad envy of Joseph and Theresa — both younger than the rest of us, he handsome, dapper and charming, and she tall and beautiful. I like her, but in her presence I am aware of my own lack of height. None of that matters, of course: the real cause of my envy is the happiness of their marriage. Neither of them speaks of it, yet it is evident in their easy comradeship, their unaffected smiles and the consideration they show each other.
Towards the end of our evening William and Seddon had a disagreement over the latter’s appointment of Harold Beauchamp to the board of the ailing Bank of New Zealand. William felt that he was being supplanted as Seddon’s adviser by Beauchamp, who is connected to the premier by marriage and is also a personal friend. William had known Harold’s father on the Ararat goldfields, thought him feckless, and considers Harold himself presumptuous. The exchange was smoothed over before Seddon left, but the hackles of both men had been raised. I think Seddon drew back a little because of his concern for William’s state of mind.
Thomas Cahill came yesterday afternoon. The wind was so strong that a gust caught the door as Molly was admitting him and it broke a wall mirror, one of the few remaining possessions of Father’s first wife, and a gift to me from Mother. ‘Ah, seven years bad luck I’m afraid, Conny,’ said Thomas, when I came through after Molly’s shriek. William was not yet back, and we talked of Alfred Hill’s violin concert and the Sydney Bulletin that Thomas always passes on to us. He has recently given a public talk on Irish poet Thomas Davis, and was keen for me to read him. All of this would normally have my full concentration, but most of the time now I am anxious and apprehensive.
I cannot tell if Thomas knows about Dougie and me, if William has said anything of us, but I told him I was concerned for William’s health and disposition. ‘I’ve asked him several times to come to me for examination but he keeps putting it off,’ he said.
‘Insist on it as a physician as well as friend,’ I said. ‘He’s in the dumps most of the time and I can’t seem to rouse him. Something’s amiss. You know him best of all his friends. He needs you more than ever now — needs reassurance from both of us.’
‘Money’s the bugbear, I think. Money, money, how it holds so many in thrall. Worry if without it, worry to get it, worry about losing it,’ he said, and then more firmly, as if making the resolution an impulse, ‘I’ll talk to him this evening when he comes. I was going to urge him again anyway.’
‘He’s sick in some way, but won’t speak of it,’ I said.
‘You’re right. I’ll tackle him again. Something appears to have run down, doesn’t it? Does he sleep soundly?’
‘No. All snores and gasps that wake him up.’
‘And you too, I imagine,�
� he said. ‘You need to look after yourself as well.’ I could have told him I lie awake each night longer than William.
‘I don’t know how best to help him,’ I said, aware of Thomas’s steady gaze.
‘Stand by him as you do, I’m sure. That’s best. That’s what he wants from you.’
What Thomas’s urging might draw from William, who knows. Maybe he will say things to his old friend that he cannot bring himself to say to me. Surely anything, though, is better than the sad tension that is between us. I am doing my best to support William in what ways I can. Rather than spending time in the shops, or with teacup chatter, as so many wives do, or with my music that is my real pleasure and centre, I have more regularly attended the parliamentary debates, sitting in the small gallery reserved for ministers’ wives. He likes me to be there, and it is a public affirmation that I accept my role as wife.
Unspoken between us, I think, is the knowledge that Dougie holds the threat of public calamity. William and I want at all costs to avoid that, even if part of that cost is a sterility at the core of our marriage. Dougie wishes to defy everything and everyone else, in a gamble for our personal happiness. He doesn’t realise that love alone cannot provide all that is necessary.
When in the private gallery I spend more time reading, or with my own thoughts, than listening to the members, or talking to other wives. Most parliamentary speeches are undistinguished, and many tedious. Richard Seddon and his chief backers make the decisions in Cabinet and at private meetings well away from the floor of the House and the sessions there are often just customary exchanges, as dogs yap at each other in passing. William has never been especially noted for oratory in Parliament; he speaks seldom now. John McKenzie is rough but direct. Seddon’s speech in the House has grafted and false flourishes, but on the hustings he exhibits a plebeian forcefulness and element of theatre. Timaru’s William Hall-Jones, minister of justice and public works, is one I pay attention to, and not merely because he supports women’s rights. Such an excellent, concise speaker, and he avoids the personal attacks so often indulged in by others. Seddon considers him the best administrator in the present Cabinet. Alfred says he would have made an excellent judge had he entered the legal profession.
There have been hundreds of bad speeches recently as some in the House attempt to stonewall the Old Age Pensions Bill introduced by the government. Seddon knows he will win in the end, and sleeps through the worst of them, a possum-skin rug over his lap and his head resting on a crimson cushion.
When I’m in the gallery I often think of my father, and how he would come home fatigued from a long sitting, yet still entertain us with tales of the most silly members and their fatuous behaviour. He was a fine, kind man and father, and I wish I had told him so more often. Perhaps, however, it is better that he is not with me. I could tell him nothing of what closes on me now, despite the trust and love we had. Like those who presently hold his place in the affairs of the colony, he will no doubt be forgotten soon enough, but I miss him hugely, especially now that all is so close to disaster. When I recall him, tears come easily. Partly they are from love of him, partly for my present predicament. When he died, it was as if a primary colour was lost to my world, and vividness did not return until I fell in love with Dougie. Annie once said she thought I married William partly to replace our father, but motivations are far more complex than that — often unclear even to ourselves.
William spends a lot of time alone now when he is home, but not in the cheerful industry that marked his time in the crowded library at The Camp, or in the Molesworth study, several years ago. It is instead a sad withdrawal. He will sit with a book, or his papers, before him, but pay them no attention. He talks mainly of the past when he does seek conversation, and I think he goes there in his mind while sitting by himself for hours. He rebuffs me if I show concern, and will no longer share with me the closest things.
The generosity of spirit he once had has largely left him and he takes others’ achievements as a reflection on his own misfortunes.
Edward Cargill is a most popular choice of Dunedin mayor for this, its jubilee year, not just because his father helped to found the colony, but also because of the contribution he himself has made and the esteem in which he is held. William, who measures himself against all other men of note, begrudges him the success and claims it is due to the family name rather than talent or any conspicuous service.
The memory of Kate seems very strong in William again, almost as affecting as when we took her casket home seven years ago. He talks of her, and to her as well. One evening as I passed the study I heard him repeating her name and when I stopped at the partly open doorway, I saw him standing at the mantelpiece. He had taken her photograph down and held it close to his face, as if to kiss it, and he spoke her name over and over in the gentle voice I have not heard for a long time. The voice he used when we were first married: a voice of trust and love and promise. I did not feel able to go in to him, for that would have been hypocrisy. This is where my love for Dougie has taken me — a marriage in which my husband pours out his heart to a daughter in the grave while I stand mute and unobserved in the hall.
Even when we are together in society, William now withdraws the small attentions that used to mark his affection for me. At the John McGlashan Caledonian Concert he managed an animated voice for those of his acquaintances we met, but had in his brief replies to me only a flat, offhand tone, and when we met Cecilia he barely listened to what she and I were saying, looking past us to watch others. His marked indifference spoiled the whole evening for me, though it was largely for his pleasure that we attended. McGlashan, whom we have visited in Wellington Terrace, is originally from Elgin, and enthusiastic for Scottish music and songs, as is William. His songs, ‘The Lad that Comes at E’en’ and ‘Ken ye the Glen’, are popular here, but William was not roused by them.
In one’s unhappiness the least attractive aspects of any scene, or experience, crowd to the fore, and I was conscious of the unpleasant compound smell from gas lights, face powder and the stale air of the large, insufficiently ventilated building. The potted palms in the foyer were sickly, the carpet threadbare on the stair cusps, and there seemed a vacuous silliness to people’s laughter. As we were coming out of the theatre, I asked William if he had enjoyed the evening. ‘No better and no worse than most I’ve sat through,’ he said. ‘At least you’ll have the satisfaction of being seen to support the thing that gives you the greatest pleasure.’
‘I hoped you would enjoy it. It’s more your taste than mine,’ I said.
‘Well, it’s kind of you to consider my feelings, but maybe a little late in the piece, don’t you think.’ The sarcasm was marked and he fidgeted with the brim of his hat.
‘But I do consider you.’
‘Oh, don’t put yourself out. We’ll rub along as well as most, I dare say,’ and he went off after a cab.
His place was taken almost immediately by the clergyman who had once been my suitor. He wrinkled his face in an awkward smile, asked my opinion of the evening’s entertainment and introduced me to his fiancée, a gauche, large-nosed woman obviously older than either of us. Perhaps he wished me to see that, despite my refusal of him, he had achieved someone’s love. He was not to know how little feeling of superiority I feel towards anyone at this time. I was close to tears and gave way to them when later by myself at home.
My music is increasingly a refuge. Even my reading at present has that bent: a book on the life of Mendelssohn. While the colony’s legislators argue about introducing a pension for the destitute, and Kruger’s insolence in the Transvaal, I sit in the wives’ gallery, but inhabit the halls of Leipzig and hear the string section of that orchestra.
Young Fanny Neubridge is to give private and public concerts in Auckland next month and asked me to be her accompanist. I said I could not be away for so long, but I have been playing for her in practice until she finds a suitable pianist to travel and perform with her. She sings lighter songs, rathe
r in the manner of French soprano Antoinette Trebelli, who visited here two years ago, and whose ‘Penso’ from Tosti, and ‘Song of Solveig’ by Greig, were wonderfully rendered. Fanny has given recitals in Melbourne and Sydney as well as here. Her soprano is true, but she will benefit from further tuition if the right teacher can be found. It is to her advantage, also, that she is an attractive woman not yet thirty, and married to a husband of means who is quite easy that their small son is given over to the nursemaid.
Because Fanny knows little of my circumstances, I find her company a relief from politics and family concerns. Her confidences are so free and innocent, her life so lacking in complication, her marriage so straightforward and her interest so centred on herself that I find myself almost relaxed during the two mornings each week she comes to sing.
I hear little except formalities from my Dunedin friends. Bessie allows long interludes before she answers my letters, and when she does reply there is scant of the old warmth and humour. She must know the situation, and is silently alarmed and disapproving. I miss our closeness a great deal, for I have few such friends, but I understand the cause. Ethel Morley continues to correspond in her typically flippant and wry manner. As her own marriage is unhappy, perhaps she has a greater feeling for what has happened to me, but I cannot broach it with her, or even Annie.
William Hodgkins died just a few months ago, and that has added to the gloom I feel. I am unhappy here, yet strangely not eager to return to The Camp, even to my own dearest Dougie. Nowhere is there solace, or escape.
Two days ago I received a letter postmarked from the south. It was a most unpleasant shock to read, as it damned me for things that are true, and for incest and unnaturalness that are not. ‘God will not be mocked,’ it said. ‘Wanton pleasures of the flesh lead to a moral pigsty, no matter how grand and superior you like to think yourself.’ It was signed, ‘An honest Presbyterian’, and must have been written by someone known to me, because there was mention of two functions we attended, and the hotel in Palmerston where Dougie and I once met was also named. I must face now the realisation that rumour and slander are abroad concerning us. Almost as painful is the self-righteous glee apparent in those who have found us out. Such people will never be persuaded of the purity of our feelings. I burnt the letter immediately after reading it, and will say nothing of it to Dougie, but the taint of it seems with me still.
The Larnachs Page 19