by Wendy James
Harriet
Yes – thank you Vida. I think we may be straying a little from Dr Strong’s original question.
Mrs Norton
(Sipping delicately) Ah’d like to say that if there’s drink involved – and I believe you’ve suggested there is, sir – that we need look no further for an answer. For it’s drink that starts these men on their downward descent, leads them from the path of righteousness—
Mr Stratford
(Pale and passionate) You’re all looking at this the wrong way round, apart from you, Miss Goldstein. It’s not this fellow, your Mr Y. It’s nothing to do with him. You’re all so quick to lay the blame at his feet, and yet the fault is not with him – it’s with us! If we were to educate people, give them an environment where they have all their needs provided for; where they don’t need to look to drink or to crime, but can lead lives as fulfilled and meaningful as ours—
Harriet
Oh Mr Stratford, it would be wonderful to think so. But I’ve a vast experience of these types of people and there’s no point talking about them as if underneath they’re just like you and me. Believe me, we do give some of them wonderful opportunities. Why, both Vida and I teach at the Try Society – lessons in literature, in French, even some Latin – but these people simply aren’t capable, my dear sir. Even with the opportunity and all the best intentions, not to mention fine teaching, they just don’t have it in them – they’re naturally dull-witted. Of course it goes without saying that there are, occasionally, exceptions. But it must be said that we have a far greater success with our practical lessons in cooking and sewing, and so on.
James
You really must read Galton, Stratford. Extremely interesting stuff – inheritance of intelligence and all that.
Mr Stratford
Inheritance of intelligence! Can’t you see, man, that such ideas ultimately provide an intellectual defence of poverty and misery. If you can blame it on breeding you can ignore – and justify! – the terrible conditions that the poor are forced to exist under.
James
Well, there’s that aspect, certainly. But surely such knowledge could just as easily provide us with a weapon against poverty. If we can breed certain characteristics in dogs and horses, why not humans? Perhaps, if criminal behaviour, imbecility and so forth could be bred out, perhaps poverty itself could be eradicated.
Jessie Strong
These theories are all very interesting, I suppose, but I can’t see how any of this is going to be of assistance to poor George. Yes, yes, I’m sorry, Charles – Mr X! Or was it Y?
Vida
(Laughing) Oh dear. Poor Mr Y – he’s been sadly forgotten in our pursuit of ideas, hasn’t he? I’m afraid that’s probably always been his greatest plight and perhaps always will be – to be forgotten …
Mrs Norton was quite merry by the end of the evening – it seems these temperance people are not always interested in tempering their own habits. She wanted to walk (stagger!) back to her lodgings, but was eventually persuaded to share a cab with Mr Stratford.
So, dear Robbie, when one is not too involved in others’ lives, when one is able to stand back a little, what a wonderful narrative it all seems to make. So much clearer than one’s own piteously tangled life. Even those lives that are on the surface inconsequential: do you recall, Robbie, that day we hid outside the drawing-room window, scribbling down every word of a terribly dull conversation between Mother and old Mrs Macintosh (the topic was Mr Mac’s lumbago, I think, and culminated in an elaborate explanation of how the weather did not have any effect on his lumbago at all – tediously illustrated by instances of this non-effect!) And then we served the whole thing up as a ‘theatrical’ that evening. How something so inane and pointless could be rendered so exquisitely hilarious is still something of a mystery.
The conversations here are neither hilarious, nor are they dull, but lively & engaging & with a great deal to say – I think, anyway – about the temperament of the participants and, to a lesser extent, the very particular complexion of the times. There are occasions, it must be said, when it’s far more interesting to observe than to participate.
Elizabeth Hamilton’s diary
31 October
Mr Stratford visited again this evening – said he wanted to ask Vida some questions about the suffrage movement for an article he is writing. Vida and Harriet were at Try Society classes and James at the hospital, so left to me to entertain. Seemed very disappointed by Vida’s absence, but rallied well.
He’s an interesting man. His views and James’s almost diametrically opposed – he is all for the working man and is a mine of information on unions and working conditions and the like. Was extremely eager to learn more about Vida’s teaching project. Wanted to know exactly what subjects the society’s classes teach, how many young women are involved and of what sort. Says there is a vast difference between Melbourne’s poorest citizens and those in London – conditions here are nothing like the slums of that city and the poor here are physically superior – on account of the abundant food and fresh air. He believes that in the colonies the possibility of a sort of working men’s utopia is not so far-fetched.
I asked about his own background. His parents were poor – his father a mill worker in the North, his mother took in washing. He was an exceedingly bright boy, became a protégé of the local Anglican minister, who essentially adopted him as his own and sent him to schools and university, and then left him a small competence. When his parents died there was nothing to keep him in England – he’d grown very apart from his brothers and sisters – so Australia seemed the place to come. He is convinced that a fresh start can be made in the colonies that would be impossible at home, and that the attitude here is quite different. Though there is a certain snobbery, it’s not necessarily rife amongst the educated classes. He says he has noticed how rarely his own antecedents are enquired into, other than out of genuine interest, and how rarely his accent provokes any comment. He wants badly to give back – feels that he owes it to his class. He was given an opportunity and it is only opportunity – not breeding – that the poor require, he says. Opportunity and expectations.
He is right, it does seem that here in this new world anything is possible. Even in my narrow experience this is evident. Take the young girls that I am teaching: I cannot help feeling that the world they are entering will not be remotely like the world they will leave. Is it just that this land is so newly civilised? That so many of the patterns of life that I am accustomed to are here being displaced, disjointed, made irrelevant? Here, nobody knows where others are from, their history isn’t at all significant. It is only where they are going that matters. Perhaps it is not confined to this new world – it may be that the world is on the cusp of great changes. Whether for good or ill, we cannot know.
Extract of letter from Elizabeth Hamilton to her brother Robert
9 November
… I’ve had my senior class, who are currently engaged in creating their own ‘literary journal’, reading some of our ‘native’ writers. Several poets, novels by our most successful lady novelists (of whom there are a surprising number) and the stories of Henry Lawson. I had suggested that they might like to include in their first edition discussions and reviews of some of these works. Most of the girls, however, are very scathing and not at all enthusiastic – they think it all tedious & of no consequence, & certainly not worthy of any scholarly ‘attention’. When I ask them why they think it is of no consequence they have no real answer, save along the lines of, ‘My father says there will never be an Australian Shakespeare’ or when discussing, for instance, the stories of Mr Lawson, ‘Why would we want to read about such dreadful people and places?’ But I think some of this work is wonderful – indeed, I think Mr Lawson’s work in particular is of the highest order. He is possessed of a remarkable simplicity and is yet able to make one feel … If you cannot find a volume of his stories I will send one from here, though I believe the value of his narrat
ive abilities has been recognised even by worthies in your new country and his work is perhaps available …
In any case, even if they do complain I am glad to see the girls diverted from their usual melancholy favourites. I would die a happy woman were I never to hear another recitation of Christina Rossetti:
When I am dead, my dearest,
sing no sad songs for me,
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress trees, etcetera
Perhaps I should introduce them to Amy Levy, though I fear they will only be interested in her tragic end and will completely ignore the whimsical nature of her best work. Ah well, ‘I’ll not complain’, as Miss Levy herself once observed, ‘Could one expect/So dull a world to know?’
Elizabeth Hamilton’s diary
19 November
Vida in a rare moment of idleness asked me today of my life before I came here. Was it very different? She knows, she said, she has been lax in properly talking to me, but, ‘You’ve come at such a strange, busy time. There is quite a little revolution taking place and I have found myself in the middle of it.’ We were sitting on Cousin Harriet’s verandah on a warm day with cups of tea and biscuits, Clio purring in Vida’s lap. So rare to see Vida at all idle. We have not had many moments together to become intimate; are still on terms of greatest politeness and formality. Regardless of our domestic proximity and our cousins in common, I am, after all, still her employee.
‘It’s fortunate,’ she said, ‘that you have all the skills you do. You need never worry about the future with such a comprehensive education as you’ve had – your accomplishments will always guarantee you decent employment. It’s what all women should have: the ability to be independent when they need, or indeed, when they choose. To not have to rely on anyone else, just as a man needn’t. You are lucky that your father thought that you should learn. You need never marry, and surely that should be every woman’s option. Not to marry, not to raise children. Though with all your proficiencies you should be able to take on specialised work in a law firm or a bank as a man would do. You are fortunate, too,’ she added, ‘in your temperament: to be willing to take the risk of emigrating. So many woman stay and lead such dreadful impoverished lives, when they need not.
‘Yes, you’re one of the lucky ones,’ she said again. Lucky.
Would I could tell her the truth: that given my choice, given better luck, I would be married. To point out that my life once held greater promise than that of using my skills to make barely enough money to survive. That it once held the promise of the fulfilment and contentment and happiness that for me only marriage can provide … That this life I am living now is nothing but a half life. I know that she has heard the sorry tale – of Davey’s accident, the bitter end to all our plans. I am sure that she would be kindly and sensitive were I to remind her of my misfortune, that she would murmur gently that she has heard of the tragedy, that she has heard that he was surgeon of exceptional promise, that the world had surely lost one of its true brave souls.
And what could I do but agree? For it is a terrible thing – a wonderful life snuffed out and that the world is the worse for Davey’s absence there’s no doubt. But what I’m certain Vida does not recognise is that there was another life lost – the small domestic life that none but Davey and I had ever discussed. And that it is for the loss of this – this long dreamt-of future (where I have home, family, companionship; where I am first and foremost in another’s eyes) that I still grieve. Perhaps as much as I grieve for Davey himself. And my other secret loss.
Davey himself has become a ghost. I can barely remember his face, I need the prompting of a photograph, where he is forever twenty-four, forever my sunshiny boy, no crease on his brow, never anxious, never old and grey and sad. Never burdened with life’s inevitable hardships, but hopeful, looking ever forward.
Only with my eyes closed can I recall the reality, the heat and pulse of him: hands, fingers, heart, breath. That is the Davey I can recall and the Davey I miss. And ever will.
Of course, I did not say any of this. ‘Yes indeed, Vida,’ I said. ‘In my education and in my temperament, I have been exceptionally lucky.’
29 November
Walked through the Botanic Gardens with Vida and Mr Stratford this afternoon. He’s a very pleasant companion and, though he has been here such a short time, knowledgeable about trees and birds and fauna, as well as the state of mankind. His attachment to Vida so very obvious – he defers to her opinion in every conversation.
The park is quite magnificent at this time of year with its English oaks and elms and planes, the native eucalypts, jacarandas, and the extraordinary flame trees with their deep red flowers – each like an inverted elfin cap. This odd combination of the familiar and the new, the exotic and the ordinary, should produce a feeling of discordancy, a jarring – yet the strange, beautiful native birds seem happy to alight beside a homely starling. And the lovely sunshine … Whatever else one thinks, the relaxed state produced by the constant sunshine is a heart-lifting and wonderful thing. It is good to be alive in this place – there’s a feeling that no matter the circumstances the sunshine will always cheer you.
I know that isn’t true; that of course it’s not that simple and that people do live in terrible misery – Mr Stratford’s conversation, when he’s not pointing out the wonders of nature, is a constant reminder of this. Still, an optimistic temperament would, I think, be rewarded here.
Extract of letter from Elizabeth Hamilton to her brother Robert
3 December
… And it is not just at our grand luncheons that the great questions of the day are raised, Rob, but sometimes even at breakfast …
Vida: I met one of your colleagues yesterday, James, at Lady Clark’s luncheon.
James: Lunch with Lady Clark? You do mix in elevated circles Vi. Who was it? I’m intrigued – very few of us lowly physicians are likely to secure such an invitation.
Vida: Dr Sexton. Just back from Glasgow.
James: Sexton. Can’t say I’ve heard of him. Is he practising here?
Vida: He’s a she, James. Dr Eleanor Sexton. She’s going to be joining you at the Women’s I believe, though she said there’s been some resistance to her appointment.
James: As there should be. For heaven’s sake, Vida, the medical profession’s no place for a woman. The work is too intense, too vigorous. I admire her persistence and her capabilities, but studying medicine’s one thing, the practice is quite another. I doubt she’ll see out the year, my dear.
Elizabeth: But surely James, working with mothers and babies – that’s been women’s work for ever. In our village, my father deferred always to the local midwives—
James: The sooner we can get rid of midwives and their superstitious nonsense and unhygienic practices, the better. And you of all people, Eliza, should know that there’s a vast difference between what a midwife – even the best, most experienced – can possibly know and the knowledge and expertise of a scientifically trained physician. There’s no comparison. They’re a dying breed, midwives. In twenty years’ time, all women will give birth in hospitals attended by a properly trained specialist with all the latest equipment.
Harriet: Equipment, James? What equipment? At the risk of being coarse, I must say that I managed to give birth perfectly well all on my own without any scientific knowledge, and certainly without any equipment!
James: Yes, but Mother, you’re obviously of good stock, a strong constitution. Some other women are not so lucky. For instance—
Harriet: James, please. No examples at the breakfast table!
James: But surely the possibility of a painless delivery, with every risk reduced as far as possible, has some attraction for all women. And we’re moving in that direction.
Vida: But we’re off the track of my original question, James: what can a male doctor do that a female doctor can’t? You realise that female doctors are the majority at the Queen Vic, and you can’t deny that they’re d
oing a fine job?
James: There’s hardly been time to judge. In the short term, yes, but the years and years of unrelenting hard work will prove too much. You’re just not constitutionally up to it, Vida. You know there’s some evidence that studying leads to barrenness. I’m sure your Doctor Sexton will be a fine doctor, while she lasts!
Vida: Oh, what nonsense! But you will be kind to her, James, won’t you? You won’t persecute her, will you? You must be kind – she is something of a pioneer.
James: Well, if she’s a pioneer, my dear, no doubt she’ll be very tough and won’t require our kindness.
Sometimes, and particularly before ten in the morning, a conversation about the price of a side of beef, the length of skirts, the weather, even Mr Mac’s lumbago, would be a great relief.
Last Sunday, this particular conversational thread was reprised during a luncheon with the aforementioned Dr Sexton herself – whereat James, though as argumentative as ever, was not once observed to be unkind, though had he been, I have no doubt Dr Sexton would have survived unscathed. Indeed, I think that in Dr Sexton James has met his match! She is a very engaging woman — a little like I imagine Dr Prance in Mr James’s Bostonians — small, sturdy, brisk, but unlike Dr P., Dr S. never needs reminding that she is a woman. (And I cannot help hoping that James, too, will eventually notice her womanliness. It would be good for him to notice the womanliness of some woman other than Vida, and Dr Sexton is very appealing – lively, full of humour – for all she is not a beauty.)