Locating Australian Literary Memory 1785271075, 9781785271076

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Locating Australian Literary Memory

ANTHEM STUDIES IN AUSTRALIAN LITERATURE AND CULTURE Anthem Studies in Australian Literature and Culture Anthem Studies in Australian Literature and Culture specializes in quality, innovative research in Australian literary studies. The series publishes work that advances contemporary scholarship on Australian literature conceived historically, thematically and/​or conceptually. We welcome well-​researched and incisive analyses on a broad range of topics: from individual authors or texts to considerations of the field as a whole, including in comparative or transnational frames. Series Editors Katherine Bode –​Australian National University, Australia Nicole Moore –​University of New South Wales, Australia

Locating Australian Literary Memory

Brigid Magner

Anthem Press An imprint of Wimbledon Publishing Company www.anthempress.com This edition first published in UK and USA 2020 by ANTHEM PRESS 75–​76 Blackfriars Road, London SE1 8HA, UK or PO Box 9779, London SW19 7ZG, UK and 244 Madison Ave #116, New York, NY 10016, USA Copyright © Brigid Magner 2020 The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. British Library Cataloguing-​in-​Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN-​13: 978-​1-​78527-​107-​6  (Hbk) ISBN-​10: 1-​78527-​107-​5  (Hbk) This title is also available as an e-​book.

CONTENTS List of Illustrations

vii

Acknowledgements

ix

Introduction: Remembering Absent Authors

1

Chapter One

Adam Lindsay Gordon’s Grave

17

Chapter Two

Joseph Furphy in the Riverina

35

Chapter Three

Henry Handel Richardson and the Haunting of Lake View

55

Chapter Four

Henry Lawson Country

71

Chapter Five

The Multiple Birthplaces of A. B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson

91

Chapter Six

Nan Chauncy’s Sanctuary

113

Chapter Seven

Living Memorials:  The Houses of Katharine Susannah Prichard and Eleanor Dark

127

Statue Mania: P. L. Travers and the Appeal of Mary Poppins

153

Chapter Nine

Kylie Tennant’s Hut

173

Chapter Ten

The David Unaipon Monument at Raukkan

189

Chapter Eight

Conclusion: Towards an Expanded Repertoire of Literary Commemorations

213

Notes

219

Index

259

ILLUSTRATIONS 1.1 Still from The Life's Romance of Adam Lindsay Gordon (1916). Reproduced with permission of the National Film and Sound Archive, Title no. 6497 1.2 10 Lewis Street Brighton, Adam Lindsay Gordon’s home at the time of his death (1933). Reproduced with permission of the State Library of Victoria, PCLTA 771 1.3 Third-​form students from Brighton Grammar School conducting a poetry reading at the grave of Adam Lindsay Gordon on the centenary of his death. Photograph by Maggie Diaz (1970). Reproduced with permission of the State Library of Victoria, PCLTFBN 309 2.1 Residence of Joseph Furphy at Shepparton. Photograph by John Kinmont Moir (1938). Reproduced with permission of the State Library of Victoria, PCLTA 2222 F.2642 2.2 Unveiling tablet to Joseph Furphy (in garden of his home): guests listening to address (27 September 1947). Reproduced with permission of the Royal Historical Society of Victoria, MSPH-0001.2 2.3 Joseph Furphy statue, Welsford Street, Shepparton. Photograph by Susan Lever 2.4 Letter from A. G. Stephens to Joseph Furphy, 26 June 1903. Permission granted by the National Library of Australia, MS 2022 3.1 Social Function at Lake View Homestead, Chiltern. Photograph by Le Dawn Studios. Reproduced with the permission of the State Library of Victoria, PCLTFBN 214 3.2 Re-​enactment of Laura’s journey to school in The Getting of Wisdom, Maldon (2009). Courtesy of Janey Runci 4.1 Henry Lawson’s home at Eurunderee (1948). Reproduced with permission of the State Library of New South Wales, FL 2004622 4.2 Opening of Henry Lawson’s Home at Eurunderee, near Mudgee (1949). Reproduced with permission of the State Library of New South Wales, FL1745226 5.1 Emmaville Cottage, Orange. Photograph by Brigid Magner 5.2 Jack Thompson addressing a crowd at the Buckinbah ruins, 2009. Photograph courtesy of Sharon and Alf Cantrell, Banjo Paterson Museum, Yeoval

23

27

32

40

42 44 50

63 66 73

75 96

104

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6.1 Nan Chauncy outside Day Dawn with dogs. Reproduced with the permission of the State Library of Tasmania, PH 30/1/7536 6.2 Nan Chauncy’s typewriter ‘George’ at Day Dawn. Photograph by Sophie Underwood 7.1 Katharine Susannah Prichard with Eleanor Dark on the verandah at Greenmount (1948), Western Australia. Reproduced with permission of the National Library of Australia, PIC/8840 7.2 Katharine Susannah Prichard’s work room (circa 1930s). Courtesy of the Katharine Susannah Prichard Foundation 7.3 Inside Eleanor Dark's work room at Varuna. Photograph by Brigid Magner 7.4 Jerrekellimi, Blue Mountains, New South Wales. Photograph by Brigid Magner 8.1 Mary Poppins statue outside the Birthplace Museum, Maryborough Queensland. Reproduced with the permission of Joy Newman 8.2 Sean Crampton’s rough for a statue of Mary Poppins in Central Park (1966). Reproduced with the permission of Harriet Crampton and the State Library of New South Wales, MLMSS5341 8.3 Mary Poppins statue, Bowral, NSW. Reproduced with the permission of John Huth 9.1 Kylie’s Hut, post-​restoration. Photograph from the personal collection of Benison Rodd 9.2 Cleaning up Kylie's Hut. Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Australia, MS10043 9.3 Sign at the site of Ernie's Metcalfe's old house, Diamond Head. Reproduced with permission of the National Library of Australia, MS10043 9.4 Ruins of Eve Langley’s hut, 2018. Photograph by Brigid Magner 10.1 Raukkan church, South Australia. Photograph by Brigid Magner 10.2 David Uniapon monument, Raukkan, South Australia. Photograph by Brigid Magner

117 120

128 130 139 146 158

164 165 177 178

181 186 203 206

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS This book has my name on the cover, but it is the result of a collective effort. In the following list, I will attempt to mention the people and organisations who have helped me bring it to completion. Thanks to the Fellowship of Australian Writers (NSW) for access to their records; Trish Kotai-Ewers and Peter Bibby of FAW (WA) for their hospitality at the Tom Collins and Mattie Furphy houses in Perth; Shannon Coyle at the Katherine Susannah Prichard Writing Centre and Barbara Palmer at Varuna; Henry Lawson Society members particularly Kevin Robson, James Howard, Tony Lambides Turner; John Adams and Allan Childs of the Adam Lindsay Gordon Commemorative Committee; Janey Runci and Helen McCrae, Di Parsons, Graeme and Dot Charles, Clive and Meg Probyn and Beryl Pickering of the Henry Handel Richardson Society; Alf and Sharon Cantrell from the Banjo Paterson Museum, Yeoval; Mick Doyle from Rotary in Orange; Bill Boyd and Phillip Bowman of the Camden Haven Historical Society; Andrew Marshall from the NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service and Karen Hughes of Swinburne University. I am indebted to the State Library of Victoria for a Creative Fellowship in 2015 and for publishing an article on Adam Lindsay Gordon in the La Trobe Journal. Extra thanks to Fiona Jeffery for her assistance with images from the Pictures collection. I would like to acknowledge the role of the ASAL Vets in my thinking –​particularly the efforts of Susan Lever who published a version of the Furphy chapter in JASAL and encouraged me to join literary outings even though I’m not yet retired. Roger Osbourne has also been very generous with sharing his theories about Furphy’s typewriter. Special appreciation to John Arnold and the late Peter Pierce for answering my endless questions and to Robin Gerster for title suggestions. I express gratitude to my colleagues at RMIT University, especially Linda Daley, David Carlin, Lucinda Strahan, Laurene Vaughan, Tracy O’Shaughnessy and other members of the non/​fictionLab for reading early drafts of essays on Henry Lawson and Nan Chauncy. Also to Vern Field and Jacinda Woodhead for publishing them in Island and Overland and Sheila Hones of Literary Geographies journal for giving me insightful feedback on my article about Henry Handel Richardson’s house. Huge appreciation to Kai Jensen for his brilliant editing and to Janet Hope for coaching me to believe I could do it in the first place. And to my dear friends Emily Potter, Tessa Laird, Hester Joyce, Abigail Dent and my sister Tui for keeping my spirits up. Finally, I offer immense gratitude to my family - Brett, Augie, Griffin and Violet -- for their love and willingness to accompany me on trips to literary locations scattered around the country.

INTRODUCTION: REMEMBERING ABSENT AUTHORS Such monuments, alas, too often are a saving of face by the living in regard to the neglected dead. –​Miles Franklin (1942)1

The language of literary commemoration is shot through with references to memory. The word ‘monument’ is derived from the Latin word ‘monere’, to name. ‘Memorial’ comes directly from ‘memorialis’, meaning ‘of or belonging to memory’. Monuments are structures which usually refer to something other than themselves, recalling people or events from the past. A  memorial or monument exists both in physical space, as a ‘landmark’, and in historical space as a ‘historic site’, the commemoration of an event or person in history.2 Literary memorials or commemorations function as portals for remembrance or bulwarks against forgetting. In this book, I attempt to ‘read’ places imbued with literary memory around Australia, connecting the practice of reading with the material reality of location.3 I  define ‘literary memory’ as the remembrance of particular figures, works or characters which are associated with a place or a ‘country’. I am concerned with the ways in which literary memory is located or ‘fixed’ in the form of certain tributes or artefacts and the ceremonies practiced in relation to them. Whereas some forms of literary memory gain authority and are legitimised through organisations or institutions, others remain marginal. Pierre Nora has famously argued that the development of modern memory culture, especially the rise of specific sites of memory, is in inverse proportion to the demise of traditional societies in which people were connected to the past through practices such as oral storytelling. He contends that our contemporary preoccupation with lieux de memoire or ‘places of memory’ derives from the disappearance of milieu de memoire or ‘real environments of memory’. For Nora ‘memory is life, borne by living societies founded in its name’ while history is ‘the reconstruction, always problematic and incomplete, of what is no longer’.4 Francois Hartog claims that Nora misunderstands collective memory, regarding it as a vivid recognition and a faithful reproduction in opposition to history, which is regarded as external and detached. Hartog contends that we should talk about a change of regimes of memory:  oral societies are ruled by the regime of the transmission of memory, whereas today we are ruled by a memory obliterated by the written word.5 In this formulation, authors might be seen as complicit in the privileging of the written over the oral, yet their work can also be at least partly driven by a desire to collect memories before they disappear.

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Locating Australian Literary Memory

In the Australian context, Indigenous memory reaches back into deep time despite being violently interrupted by colonisation. By contrast, memories of the most cherished icons of settler-​colonial culture need to be reinforced by monumental forms to ameliorate forgetfulness. Following Nora, we might ask, whose will to remember do Australian literary monuments ultimately reflect?6 Monuments can be read as ‘texts’ to be decoded. Howard Williams suggests that they are texts with iconographic programmes or constellations of allusions and metaphors, which can be seen as sensitive indicators of shifting ideologies.7 As ‘external deposits of memory’8 located in public space, literary memorials are an index of the popularity, or cultural significance of an author at a particular moment in time. Arguably the prevalence of traditional monuments to Anglo-​Australian (often male) writers serves to a reinforce myths about Australian identity while excluding many authors who are equally worthy of public remembrance. This could partly explain the more ambivalent approach to the preservation of houses associated with transnational expatriate literary figures such as Christina Stead and Patrick White. Inevitably, sites associated with iconic authors who have contributed to a shared sense of national identity will be more popular than those who have been critical of this project, such as Stead, White and P. L. Travers, the creator of Mary Poppins.9 Practices of tangible commemoration, such as museum making and the preservation of writers’ houses, rarely begin while authors are alive.10 Often there is a long period after the author’s death in which nothing much happens and then there may be an upsurge in popularity. Naturally, dead authors are easier to manage, without their cantankerous personalities, radical beliefs and drinking habits to interfere with processes of reification. Purged of their uncomfortable political views or aberrant behaviour, literary figures of the past can be offered in ‘newly inclusive ceremonies of collective identification’.11 A certain amount of ‘whitewashing’ often occurs after a writer’s death, focusing on the positive, ‘uplifting’ qualities of a writer’s work and ignoring their less palatable pronouncements. Authors may be explicitly connected with specific places or regions. I  argue that literary places are locations which people have made meaningful through a range of practices, primarily writing, reading, collecting and commemorating. ‘Literary place’ can cover a whole range of locations, both ‘real’ and ‘imagined’. Real-​life places can be connected to various stages in the author’s life such as their birth, literary production and death. Imagined places might be completely invented or may be composites of verifiable topographies featured in author’s fictions. Places that are imagined –​or re-​imagined –​by authors are sometimes sought by literary tourists who wish to connect a favourite fiction with an identifiable location. The places discussed in this book can be defined as ‘heritage’ sites but they are not all officially designated or protected as such. As Richard Prentice observes, the word ‘heritage’ means an inheritance or legacy; things of value which have been passed from one generation to the next.12 In this sense, cultural heritage is cultural property, and in extreme cases may be fought over or otherwise physically appropriated.13 This is why literary commemorations can involve conflict with authors’ families and communities, with debates arising about the authenticity and ownership of these tributes.14

Introduction

3

In The Uses of Heritage (2006), Laurajane Smith proposes that there is a hegemonic discourse about heritage, which acts to constitute the way we think, talk and write about it. The ‘heritage’ discourse therefore naturalises the practice of ‘founding fathers’ rounding up the usual suspects to conserve their memory and transmit their importance to future generations, and in so doing promotes a certain set of Western elite cultural values as being universally applicable, undermining alternative and subaltern heritage practices.15 Chris Healy characterises heritage as a ‘constitutive and organizing rhetoric across the field of cultural institutions and practices’.16 In Australia, many heritage sites and related artefacts have been assembled by State17 and national bodies and listed by the now defunct Register for the National Estate,18 the National Trust and the Australian Heritage Commission, now known as the Australian Heritage Council. Like museums and galleries, these are institutions that articulate inherited customs and beliefs through heritage collections which are designed to stand for the nation as a whole. In the British context, Patrick Wright has argued that traditional heritage features ‘represent a unitary image of a privileged national identity which has been raised to the level of exclusive and normative essence’.19 An official appreciation of heritage arrived later in Australia than in the ‘mother country’. In Britain, the National Trust was established in 1895; a similar national organisation did not exist in Australia until the Australian National Trust movement begun in New South Wales in 1945. It was rapidly embraced by other states with multiple offices set up in the 1950s and 1960s and the establishment of the Australian Council of National Trusts in 1965.20 Before 1965, state organisations such the Bread and Cheese Club and the Victorian Trust in Melbourne sought to document and potentially protect heritage sites.21 The concerns of these smaller, local organisations, which often had a focus on arts heritage, did not always coincide with those of the National Trust. By the time the Federal Government Committee of Inquiry into the National Estate was formed in 1973, the conservation movement already had a constituency of considerable size.22 Overall, literary heritage activity has occurred sporadically -​the 1920s, 1940s and 1970s were notable high points. It has been more prevalent post-​war and during periods of resurgent literary nationalism, and eras characterised by greater support of the arts, as under the Whitlam government in the 1970s. Following the Committee of Inquiry into the National Estate, the Whitlam government rejected the widely accepted notion that the protection of the environment has a socio-​economic basis, that conservation is a ‘middle-​ class issue’. The Prime Minister stated strongly that ‘the pillage and neglect of the National Estate diminishes us all in equal measure’.23 The 1980s ushered in a more neo-​liberal approach to public heritage and accompanying divestment and ‘taken-​for-​grantedness’24 of heritage across many countries including Australia. The 1988 Australian Bicentennial celebrations, which were boycotted by Indigenous people, involved a re-​evaluation of singular and exclusionary notions of Australian national heritage but was unable to replace them with a coherent vision for the future. After 1988, Indigenous people and their allies have contributed powerfully to the revisioning of Australian heritage. It should be remembered that literary heritage is merely a small subset within the wider field of Australian heritage. Yet there are certain common tendencies  –​just as heritage properties or tributes have traditionally been associated with the elite, literary

4

Locating Australian Literary Memory

heritage in Australia has tended to validate canonical authors at the expense of others. Expatriate, international or multicultural authors have been left out of national myth-​ making and until recently Indigenous storytellers were almost routinely excluded. In their study of Australian literary commemoration, Toby Davidson and Donna Houston have identified a skewing towards the first half rather than the second half of the twentieth century which effectively disenfranchises Indigenous and multicultural authors, who are predominantly found in the latter.25 The ensuing chapters are organised around eleven authors who have been celebrated through material forms of remembrance: Adam Lindsay Gordon, Henry Lawson, A. B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson, Joseph Furphy, Henry Handel Richardson, Nan Chauncy, Katharine Susannah Pritchard, Eleanor Dark, P. L. Travers, Kylie Tennant and David Unaipon. Although some of these authors might be regarded as ‘the usual suspects’, each one tells us something different about the conventions of literary commemoration in Australia from the nineteenth century onwards. My focus is on places associated with these authors –​their birthplaces, sites of death, dwellings and the objects contained therein. This book necessarily involves an exploration of the more ephemeral practices enacted through places, houses and artefacts imbued with literary significance.26

Second-​Hand Traditions In order to understand why Australian literary heritage has been largely dependent on imported models, it is necessary to return to eighteenth-​century Britain where the cult of the picturesque set the stage for literary tourism, granting to domestic sites and authors the kinds of homage previously reserved for classical ones. A similar movement in taste occurred in Australia, with migrants initially seeking scenes and views familiar from the Old World. After initially resisting the attributes of the ‘new’ country, they began to endow Australian places with similar associations, and then started to appreciate the unique qualities of their new country. Modes of associationism were inevitably inherited from Britain as part of the colonisation of Australia. William Godwin’s Essay on Sepulchres (1809)  –​which proposes to mark the burial places of notable men –​explores the emotional resonances of historic places by calling on the psychological doctrine of association. For Godwin, the psychology of association is active in producing feelings of patriotism and reverence for antiquity. This essay, largely ignored when it was published, suggested a growing interest in the cultivation of an ‘inward’, subjective response to sites and scenes of historical importance.27 Unlike many of his contemporaries, who tended to be preoccupied with classical antiquity, Godwin saw Britain as a landscape of history, worthy of domestic tourism. Paul Readman notes that the Lake District, a popular site for literary tourism, was ‘storied ground’ offering a collection of various historical associations which could be read as a coherent, continuous narrative.28 Associationism allowed settlers in Australia to find connections between the landscapes they had left behind and the new country they encountered. The central feature of associationism is the idea that material objects appear sublime or beautiful because the spectator connects them with sentiments associated with other scenes and places stored

Introduction

5

in the memory, or with works of art or literature.29 In other words, the scene in front of the spectator triggers off a train of associated images and emotions, usually derived from their home country. Robert Dixon has argued that particularly in the English-​like landscapes of Tasmania, associationist theory provided a ‘fundamental mechanism of psychological transition and accommodation for British immigrants in the early part of the nineteenth century’.30 Arriving in Hobart in 1829, Augustus Prinsep noted in his letters that the scenery appeared both ‘picturesque’ and ‘suggestive of a thousand English associations’.31 Louisa Meredith applied medieval and Gothic associations to the Tasmanian landscape. In ‘The Chapelle of Clematis in the Forest Abbaye’, her memories of Tintern Abbey transform native clematis into an imaginary cathedral. Here Meredith demonstrates the way in which associations can actually serve to enhance our joy in natural scenery; for this reason it is a ‘complicated joy’.32 In 1867, Henry Gyles Turner expressed the view that Australians were a ‘new community’ living in conditions which did not enable the flourishing of literary genius. The Classical and the Romantic die in the garish light of a country whose first civilized inhabitant still walks her streets, and where the moss-​grown ruined Abbey, or crumbling ivy-​ covered castle, are only emblemed by the falling log cabin, or tenantless slab hut of some deserted goldfield.33

Turner implies that the ruins of huts and goldfields are not fertile ground for the production of writing equal to those of the canonical authors of the old world. Ian D. Clark contends that new world tourism in Australia in the nineteenth century is rendered in old world paradigms. The tourist gaze in colonial Victoria was essentially mediated by Old World paradigms such as the picturesque and the panoramic. These sensibilities were shaping the gaze of British colonists and travellers and the Victorian landscape was seen through an Old World lens.34

In the early days of the colonial project, there was a perception that the country was too young to harbour any literary sites of interest, overlooking at least 60,000 years of prior inhabitation by Indigenous people. Explorers, like their contemporaries, adapted the newly fashionable language of Romantic poetry and Romantic tourism –​the sublime, the picturesque, the grand, the awe-​inspiring –​to their observations. These were useful modes through which to express their sense of wonder and trepidation in response to a radically new landscape however unfitted for the task. Julia Horne observes that a major aim of much early colonial travel was to ‘discover’ land with economic potential, but even when these journeys were unsuccessful, journals were still published to provide accounts of the journey and the Australian countryside and its curiosities.35 Inevitably, early observers characterised the ‘foreign’ landscape in negative terms. Judge and literary critic Barron Field’s poem ‘On Reading the Controversy between Lord Byron and Mr Bowles’ (1823) begins with this line:  ‘Anticipation is to a young country what antiquity is to an old.’ Field’s book First Fruits of Australian Poetry was printed

6

Locating Australian Literary Memory

for private circulation in 1819. In his new country, Field saw ‘a land without antiquities’ where, instead: Of heart communings with ancestral relicks, Which purge the pride while they exalt the mind, We’ve nothing left us but anticipation36

Within the English literary tradition, ruins have traditionally acted as obvious ‘collecting points’ for historical sentiment.37 Field saw a land bereft of the ‘relicks’ which might provide a sense of meaning and belonging. Despite the fact that the continent was already covered with ruins by the mid-​nineteenth century, including gold-​mining ghost towns, few were considered worthy of poetic appreciation.38 For Marcus Clarke, the Australian landscape was characterised by a ‘Weird Melancholy’ as expressed in his well-​known preface to Poems of the Late Adam Lindsay Gordon (1876). The Australian mountain forests are funereal, secret, stern. Their solitude is desolation. They seem to stifle in their black gorges a story of sullen despair. No tender sentiment is nourished in their shade.39

Literary critic Ken Gelder argues that Clarke’s account of ‘weird melancholy’ evokes spectral Aboriginal presences linked to the Lemurian novel in Australia, a popular version of the post-​frontier Gothic.40 As a historian, especially in his Old Tales for a Young Country (1871), Clarke helped to create the romance of the Australian past, as had Cooper and Hawthorne for American literature and Scott for English literature.41 Caroline Leakey’s The Broad Arrow:  Being Passages from the History of Maida Gwynnham, a Lifer (1859) was a major influence on Clarke. His novel His Natural Life (1874) was the second text to endow the Port Arthur penal colony with literary associations that attracted visitors. Before Port Arthur was abandoned as a prison in 1877, David Burn, who visited the site in 1842, was awed by the peninsula’s beauty and believed that many would come to visit it.42 Conversely, novelist Anthony Trollope declared in 1872 that no man desired to see the ‘strange ruins’ of Port Arthur.43 By the late 1880s, it was falling into further decrepitude. As the Hobart Mercury proclaimed, ‘the buildings themselves are fast going to decay, and in a few years will attract nobody; for they will be ruins without anything to make them worthy of respect, or even remembrance’.44 In Sacred Places: War Memorials in the Australian Landscape (1998), K. S. Inglis discusses Henry Parkes’s call for a ‘national shrine’ during debate in the New South Wales parliament, noting that the proposal for a national shrine attracted few votes. Edward O’Sullivan countered:  ‘We have not advanced to that stage of our national life when we have any great heroes to offer.’45 As Inglis puts it, Parkes’s idea for a State House was scuttled by ridicule […] There was a prevailing conviction that Australian history did not yet warrant such a monument,’ echoing Field’s lament about the lack of ‘ancestral relicks’.46

Introduction

7

In the late nineteenth century, a number of voices began to call for the preservation of sites of literary significance, possibly responding to the establishment of the National Trust in Britain in 1895. Parkes had been unsuccessful with his call for a ‘National Shrine’ but he was able to erect a statue of English author Charles Dickens in Centennial Park, Sydney, in 1891, disregarding the stipulation in Dickens’s will: ‘I conjure my friends on no account to make me the subject of any monument, memorial, or testimonial whatever. I rest my claims to the remembrance of my country upon my published works, and to the remembrance of my friends upon their experience of me.’47 At this distance in time, it’s difficult to know whether Parkes commissioned it before he knew of Dickens’s request, or whether he merely ignored it.48 Originally sited at the junction of Parkes and Hamilton Drives, the Dickens statue was later relocated to the junction of Dickens Drive and Loch Avenue in 1897, to make way for a statue of Parkes himself.49 One of only two known life-​size representations of Charles Dickens in the world, the statue went missing for over forty years, until it was located in storage at the Royal Botanical Gardens in 2007 after agitations by the New South Wales Dickens Society and the Melbourne Dickens Fellowship. The restored statue, unveiled on the author’s 199th birthday,50 has become a ‘huge drawcard for Dickensians’.51 One of the first local literary memorials was to the poet Henry Kendall whose headstone was erected in Sydney’s Waverley Cemetery in 1886, four years after his death in 1882. The campaign was led by Louisa Lawson and the dedication of the memorial was attended by the young Henry Lawson –​who had been named after Kendall –​and was later buried in the same grave. In the late 1880s, there were requests for ‘unofficial’ Australian poet laureate Adam Lindsay Gordon –​a close friend of Kendall’s52 –​ who committed suicide in 1870, to be commemorated more fully. Gordon admirer George Forbes published a letter in the Argus (Melbourne) on 26 August 1889 suggesting that his grave in Brighton General Cemetery be fenced, to allow for the planting of greenery. He refers to the fact that ‘foreigners’ have often initiated tributes to Australians, as when ‘the people of Sydney were put to the blush by the praiseworthy action of a foreign violinist’ who raised sufficient money to place a monument over Kendall’s grave in Waverley Cemetery. Unfortunately, the proclivities of Australians for money-​getting and money-​spending leave little time for the admiration of poetic genius or the finer arts, but it will be a blot on our escutcheon If we allow some outsider to do what devolves upon us as a duty.53

For Forbes, Australians were not sufficiently engaged with the finer arts due to their obsession with money. In Britain, the turn of the nineteenth century brought the development of literary geography and the invention of the idea of the literary ‘land’ or ‘country’. Certain authors such as William Shakespeare, Walter Scott, Thomas Hardy and Jane Austen were designated their own territory which was celebrated and reimagined in their writing. In this conception of ‘author country’ or ‘writer country’, Nicola Watson argues, the author and characters from discrete works were thought to exist in magical and documentary simultaneity.54 Although this development took longer to reach Australia,

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Locating Australian Literary Memory

it had a distinct influence on the ways in which literary inheritance was understood and charted.55 As Tom Griffiths has argued, the creation of memorials can be viewed as a way of ‘inscribing the settler presence on a land that was seen as devoid of any antiquity’56 wilfully disregarding millenia of Indigenous habitation. In 1925, the educationalist Charles R. Long emphasised the importance of recognising early pioneers through tangible memorials in order to pass on knowledge. It is incumbent on each generation to preserve for its successors a knowledge of the happenings of its own time, and to hand on a knowledge of the things that mattered in the times of the predecessors. The most important means of doing this lies in the making of records, the erecting of monuments and the holding of commemorative services.57

Long was deeply involved with commemorations for the poet Adam Lindsay Gordon and the genocidal Gippsland pioneer Angus McMillan, whose monuments remain standing to this day, to the distress of the Gunai (sometimes referred to as the Gunaikurnai) people. In Long’s mind, pioneers and poets were both worthy of generous stone monuments in order to ‘hand on knowledge of things that happened’; yet this learning is necessarily selective. Robert Darby observes that in the 1930s there was a fascination with memorials and a general concern that writers of the past were being forgotten and ought to be commemorated. However, not everyone agreed with the memorialisation of local writers. In an article published in the Age in 1935, Professor George Cowling of Melbourne University denied the very possibility of Australian literature, arguing: I cannot help feeling that our countryside is ‘thin’ and lacking in tradition […] there are no ancient churches, castles, ruins  –​the memorials of generations departed. You need no Baedecker in Australia. I am not concerned with the political aspect of this, but from the point of view of literature it means that we can never hope to have a Scott, a Balzac, a Dumas or a Konrad Ferdinand Meyer, nor a poetry which reflects past glories. From a literary point of view, Australia lacks the richness of age and tradition.58

One correspondent jokingly retorted that perhaps Australian authors should be banished to Europe, where ‘their flagging invention and prosaic imagination might be stimulated by the constant contemplation of castles, ruins and ancient churches’.59 In a subsequent letter to the Age, Frederick Macartney wrote that other countries would take Australian literature seriously only ‘when we take it seriously ourselves’.60 P.  R. Stephensen’s The Foundations of Culture in Australia: An Essay towards National Self-​Respect (1935) was written as a retort to Cowling’s article. Stephensen offers a spirited summary of Australian literary achievement, arguing that a long line of melancholics, including Marcus Clarke, Rolf Boldrewood, A. L. Gordon and Henry Kendall, had deferred to the idea of Australia as a ‘permanent colony’ but were succeeded by writers who are ‘optimistic and humorous about Australia’, figures such as A. B. Paterson, Henry Lawson, Joseph Furphy, Miles Franklin and Steele Rudd.61

Introduction

9

In the 1930s, there was a feeling among intellectuals that Australia’s authors had been forgotten and neglected. Victor Kennedy remarked in 1937 that it was ‘an age of memorials’ in which people were doing what ‘should have been done long years ago’ for local writers.62 Miles Franklin’s speech at Henry Lawson’s statue in the Sydney Domain in 1942 argued that memorials were essentially a way for the living to save face after neglecting the dead. In her view, their function was compensatory, rather than life-​giving. In 1931, the editor of the Shepparton News suggested that the town should erect a memorial to Joseph Furphy, ‘a genius that once tabernacled within our gates’, but this was not achieved until 1947. A pilgrimage to Joseph Furphy’s birthplace at Yarra Glen was instituted in 1934 through the efforts of his friend Kate Baker. J. K. Ewers wrote in 1935 that it was to become an annual event marking Furphy’s entry to the select company of Australian writers –​Lawson, Kendall, Gordon –​whose names are honoured by annual pilgrimages.63 After an initial burst of enthusiasm, these pilgrimages dwindled and the practice lapsed two years later. In 1935, the Melbourne patron J. K. Moir came up with the idea of planting groves of native trees near Warrandyte, each one named after a significant writer: Lawson, Furphy, Kendall, Gordon and others but it became overgrown and the individual groves can no longer be distinguished.64 Between the wars, literary places were identified, nominated and preserved as ­evidence of an emerging cultural nationalism. Literary critics Vance and Nettie Palmer felt a need to respond to public and professional perceptions that Australia lacked the ­historical traditions required to sustain a sophisticated ‘indigenous’ culture, observing that there were many sites worth protecting.65 Frank Dalby Davidson, then the president of the Fellowship of Australian Writers, insisted upon the importance of the preservation of the Lawson family home (in Eurunderee) if Australia were to develop the rich historical environment required for cultural inspiration.66 In other words, the celebration of the homes and haunts of Lawson was seen as a necessary part of the national project. As it happened, the house was not saved from demolition but it was later ‘opened’ as a memorial site in 1949. As I discuss in Chapter Four, the discovery and designation of ‘Lawson country’ was part of a process of commemoration which continued throughout the twentieth century. Australian ‘heroes’ have tended to be explorers, soldiers and bushrangers rather than authors, nevertheless figures such as Henry Lawson and A.  B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson have become enduring icons of national pride, generating a wide range of tributes. Lawson and Paterson were just two of the authors who have been identified, nominated and commemorated as a side effect of an emerging cultural nationalism. Yet this project of literary mapping has not been comprehensive, with many significant writers given scant attention or ignored completely.

A Memorialising Nation In a largely secular settler-​colonial society, Australians tend to seek equivalents to the shrines and idols of religious culture. Settlers almost immediately constructed cadastral boundaries and fences for control of territory, followed by the erection of countless

10

Locating Australian Literary Memory

monuments to people who contributed to this ‘settlement’ process. Tracy Banivanua Mar observes that ‘Australia is a memorializing nation and historical metanarratives of pioneers, wars and great men are marked explicitly throughout the landscape in memorials, cairns, plaques and other physical markers.’67 Classic examples of this tendency are the multiple cairns marking the routes of the explorers Thomas Mitchell and Charles Sturt who might be seen as early Australian authors since they produced texts about their travels around the country. Chris Healy and others have identified the ways in which colonial monuments, and the monumental forms of history from which they emerge, have served to obscure Indigenous presence in place before and after colonisation.68 Indeed, this lack of monumental representation might be seen as symptomatic of a wider amnesia about the historical and contemporary presence of Indigenous people. In 1968, W.  E. H.  Stanner identified amnesia as one of the distinctive attributes of non-​Indigenous Australians.69 There have been a handful of memorials to First Nations people, with even fewer dedicated to Indigenous authors. In Sacred Places, Inglis expresses consternation that Aborigines ‘raised no legible monuments to either their own traditional civil wars or their resistance against invaders’.70 This may be due to the bad consciences of white Australians who chose not to recognise the achievements of Indigenous people because it would draw attention to the violence with which they were dispossessed.71 Some colonists certainly felt that it was pointless to build memorials to people whose country had been taken and who would soon conveniently disappear. This is now slowly changing with more memorials to Indigenous people being initiated and produced. There is an often unacknowledged clash between imported modes of literary commemoration and the unceded Indigenous country into which they have been introduced. The designation of ‘author country’ is especially problematic in a post-​colonial context because it is overlaid upon Indigenous heritage, obscuring it from the view of white Australians. Kylie Tennant’s hut in Crowdy Bay, New South Wales, and Nan Chauncy’s house ‘Day Dawn’ located in the Chauncy Vale sanctuary in Tasmania are ‘protected’ territories which are associated with white Australian women writers. Crowdy Bay National Park and Chauncy Vale sanctuary might be seen, less positively, as examples of ‘suffocating heritage’72 in which one form of heritage protection elides another, in this case Indigenous history.

The Role of Literary Organisations In Traumascapes: The Power and Fate of Places Transformed by Tragedy, Maria Tumarkin has argued that there is labour involved in keeping memory undiminished ‘both within our souls and across generations’.73 This work is sometimes done by the relatives of authors, as is the case with Joseph Furphy and David Unaipon whose families have directly advocated for commemorations, but often it has fallen to literary organisations to keep the memory of writers alive in the collective imagination. Before homegrown literary societies became commonplace, commemorations were usually in honour of writers from the Old World. In the period between the wars, Martyn Lyons writes, literary milestones including the Robbie Burns anniversary, the Charles

Introduction

11

Dickens Centenary, Shakespeare Day, the Goethe Centenary and the bi-​millenary of the birth of Virgil were marked by meetings, pageants, the erection of statues, recitals, lectures, masked balls and other social occasions which were extensively reported in the daily press.74 Shakespeare’s birthday was celebrated energetically, becoming part of a pattern of commemoration which included St George’s Day and Anzac Day.75 The Anzac Festival held at the Sydney Conservatorium in 1938 featured a ‘Pageant of April’ that referred to all these dates along with Cook’s ‘discovery’ of Australia, unproblematically conflating Englishness with an emergent Australian nationalism.76 Alongside the celebration of high literary Western culture by the Anglophile elite, there was some interest in local authors, albeit on a smaller scale. In practice however, the two did not always combine well. The 1913 Shakespeare Day was notable for the gaffe made by Mr Carmichael, NSW Minister for Public Instruction who reminded his incredulous audience of Australia’s own poets, especially the neglected Kendall.77 The Fellowship of Australian Writers (FAW) performed a crucial role in raising the profile of homegrown writers through public acts of remembrance, particularly in Western Australia and New South Wales. As mentioned earlier, the Bread and Cheese Club in Melbourne (active 1938–​58) played a major part in literary and artistic circles in Victoria. It produced several works  –​including A.  Lee Archer’s Tom Collins (Joseph Furphy) as I knew him (1941) and An English Wreath for Gordon’s Grave (1947) by Anon –​and a number of other publications which aimed to rejuvenate the reputations of the writers concerned. A monthly journal Bohemia ran for 16 months altogether,78 performing a valuable function by bringing together reports from different literary societies, reporting on pilgrimages, lectures and literary evenings. In Chapter Two, I discuss the influence of the Victorian-​based Australasian Literary Commemorative Association (ALCA) which began in 1947 as a ‘Remembrance Fund for Victorian Pioneer Writers’ suggested by Kate Baker, who is best known for her promotion of her friend Joseph Furphy. It was a relatively short-​lived association, driven primarily by Baker’s efforts, which sought to promote Australian writers. With the help of the Gordon Lovers’ Society, Baker organised a memorial plaque for Ada Cambridge in the foyer of the Williamstown Town Hall.79 In addition, she promoted John Shaw Neilson, introducing him to literary people in Melbourne and later agitating for a memorial at the Footscray library. Baker’s unpublished book ‘Silhouettes’ (1942), a series of biographical notes on figures including J. K. Ewers, Mary Gilmore and Joseph Furphy, demonstrates her passionate reverence for Australian authors as well as her inability to write critically about them. Unfortunately Baker’s energetic campaigning was not enough to sustain the association longer than three years. Given that there were already many established societies, Baker encountered some territorial attitudes from other societies which deflected her efforts to celebrate their own icon. The Adam Lindsay Gordon Commemorative Committee put a halt to Baker’s plans to institute an additional pilgrimage to Gordon’s gravesite, claiming that they had already decided to hold it every five years and her suggestion would interfere with this plan.80 The ALCA was in a difficult position given that societies like the Australian Natives’ Association (ANA) were already active in this area. This could partially explain the ALCA’s failure to survive in the longer term.

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Locating Australian Literary Memory

While researching this book, I have been assisted by members of literary societies –​ such as the Henry Lawson Literary and Memorial Society, The Adam Lindsay Gordon Commemorative Committee and the Henry Handel Richardson Society –​which concern themselves not only with celebration of their authors but also with the preservation and display of literary sites. The dedicated people connected with these societies are largely responsible for political agitating and fundraising in order to establish and perpetuate literary memorials. Usually society members are more interested in their favourite author than in considering the history of literary places and practices of commemoration more widely. In my role as researcher at selected events, I  have been able to make comparisons between the practices of different organisations. Forms of collaboration are evident among these groups which tend to advertise each other’s events in newsletters and respectfully recognise members of other societies when they are in attendance.81 In Melbourne there is overlapping membership between Henry Lawson Literary and Memorial Society, the John Shaw Neilson Society and the ANA (now known as Australian Unity). With an ageing demographic and dwindling memberships across the board, this form of collaboration might be seen as a matter of survival. Undoubtedly these societies have been the unofficial collectors and guardians of documents and ephemera related to their authors, creating valuable archives for writers and scholars.

Modes of Celebration The chapters that follow provide the first extended examination of literary commemorations in Australia.82 The discussion is partly informed by material history, considering monumental commemorations such as statues, cairns and obelisks, as well as objects associated with the authorial body like desks, pens, typewriters and other domestic items. It explores a diverse range of texts including the author’s own writings, subsequent works of criticism and biography, elegies, tribute poems along with documents and reports relating to the construction of literary memorials. These texts, ranging from the literary to the ‘ephemeral’ –​and even the ‘non-​literary’ –​attest to the importation of modes of memorialisation from Europe but also register the evolution of local forms of celebration in an Australian context. My focus is on the exploration of existing literary sites containing tangible memorials but it necessarily involves a consideration of amateur reading pleasures and how these are extended by embodied practices such as collecting, pilgrimage and the production of a range of performative homages.83 All of the sites I discuss in this book have been shaped by the conditions of their creation. Each of them interprets the connection between an author and a particular place. Invariably there are many ways of interpreting ‘the past’. As Tony Bennett observes, ‘the past, as embodied in historic sites and museums, while existing in a frame which separates it from the present, is entirely the product of the present practices which organize and maintain that frame’.84 Bennett argues that its existence as ‘the past’ is paradoxical. For that existence is secured only through the forms in which ‘the past’ is publicly demarcated and represented as such, with the obvious consequence that it inevitably bears the cultural

Introduction

13

marks of the present from which it is purportedly distinguished.85 Therefore any efforts to preserve sites with literary significance will inevitably be marked by the concerns of the time in which they are produced. Literary places are almost always enabled by the sustained efforts of enthusiasts and volunteers. Occasionally writers may work towards this end during their lifetimes  –​ although this is rare –​in most cases local groups or organisations such as the National Trust or the Australian Heritage Council may intervene posthumously. What supporters choose to remember –​and how they wish to commemorate it –​determines the meanings that these places may convey. As I show in Chapter Three, the guides at Henry Handel Richardson’s house ‘Lake View’ in Chiltern, Victoria, reinforce the connections between the house and its fictional representation in Richardson’s novel Ultima Thule, the third volume of the Fortunes of Richard Mahony trilogy, contributing to a slippage between the ‘real’ narrative of the Richardsons and the partially invented story of the Mahonys. The experience of Lake View for the visitor then becomes overlaid by a narrative of trauma and disgrace, of which some people would have been previously unaware. This is by no means unusual, since guides tend to embellish the facts and add their own interpretations for greater entertainment value, often dwelling on the tragic or salacious dimensions of a literary site. Of all the figures I examine in this book, Adam Lindsay Gordon has attracted the most tributes since his suicide in 1870. Although he was impoverished at the time of his death, Gordon’s memory has been perpetuated through ‘external deposits’86 – such as his ornate grave at Brighton Cemetery and a statue in Spring Street, Melbourne –​which were designed to anchor collective remembering. In Chapter One, I consider the intense outpourings of emotion at Gordon’s grave which lasted from the late nineteenth century until the Second World War. These large-​scale public displays of devotion were partly enabled by the publication of his poems in paperback once copyright had expired. Even though Gordon admirers were predominantly members of the elite, his work achieved popular acclaim, with soldiers taking his poems away to the First World War. After 1945, his following dwindled, with many followers shifting their focus to the Shrine of Remembrance. The narrative appeal of many Australian literary places derives partly from the humble circumstances of the author’s birth and early life.87 And in many cases, the authors continued to live in impoverished conditions. The sites in New South Wales associated with Henry Lawson’s birth and youth famously demonstrate this quality of privation. The basic nature of most Australian literary memorials may be due to a preference for austerity, but it could also be the result of a lack of funds for supporting literary commemoration. At first glimpse, Kylie Tennant’s humble hut in Crowdy Bay, New South Wales, might be read as an artefact of an impoverished ‘old Australia’, yet close inspection reveals a more complex provenance. This rough-​hewn hut was built for Tennant by a bushman friend Ernie Metcalfe who she wrote about in her book Man on the Headland (1971). Open to the elements, in the middle of a campground, this hut is undeniably basic, yet appropriate for a writer who was always concerned with social justice and the plight of working

14

Locating Australian Literary Memory

people. Yet the presence of Kylie’s Hut, the surrounding Kylie’s Beach campground and the Metcalfe walking track serves to valorise the memory of Kylie and Ernie while obscuring the Indigenous presence around Diamond Head. My travels around Australia have shown me that not all sites of literary memory are tangibly preserved or reconstructed, nor should they be. Through my study of the selected authors and the places associated with them, a number of questions about methods of commemoration have arisen. Is it preferable to let writers’ former dwellings erode, or should they be restored or rebuilt entirely? In most cases, buildings with literary connections have either been almost entirely demolished or restored; very few have been left to decay naturally. In Chapter Five, I  look at Emmaville Cottage located in Orange, New South Wales, which is a restored building associated with the birth of A. B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson that raises questions about the desire for ‘authentic’ literary memorials. Emmaville Cottage is rumoured to be Paterson’s birthplace but it still represents a ‘fantastic mystery’.88 Mick Doyle, who was involved with the restoration of the cottage, has observed that rumours ‘go hand in glove with Banjo, he was a pretty mysterious man’.89 The four-​room cottage is a rare, early, timber building constructed from materials imported from North America possibly in a ready-​cut form. For this reason, it is designated as historically ‘significant’. The cottage was taken from Narrambla, the property where Paterson was born in 1864, to the Botanical Gardens precinct in 2013. The house has been neatly and expertly refurbished to the point where its original character is difficult to discern. By contrast, the Buckinbah homestead in Yeoval, New South Wales, where Paterson spent part of his childhood, is now little more than a mound of stones, located on private land and inaccessible to the public. There are ongoing debates within the heritage industry about whether decay should be arrested, slowed down or simply ignored. Caitlin DeSilvey writes provocatively that ruination can be seen as a ‘recovery of memory’.90 Although decay is usually regarded negatively, things can release meaning through deterioration. Eve Langley’s final residence, a ruined hut in the Blue Mountains, has almost fully disintegrated into disparate parts scattered through the bush. Langley’s hut has been respectfully left as it is, with no effort to restore it; nevertheless this dispersed debris has curious power that ‘restored’ properties may lack. Commemorations, and the forms they might take, can often prompt disagreement, with different towns, or groups within regions, competing for the greatest intimacy with a dead author. Since the plan to ‘save’ Emmaville was initiated, there have been ongoing arguments within the Orange community about whether the house is actually Paterson’s birthplace or whether other buildings and locations are more appropriate. The competition between the towns of Grenfell and Gulgong is evident in my discussion of Henry Lawson in Chapter Four. A similar situation has arisen with regard to the expatriate P. L. Travers’s famous character Mary Poppins. After the release of the Hollywood film Saving Mr. Banks (2013) which drew attention to P. L. Travers’s Australian origins, competition intensified between the towns where she lived as a child. As I discuss in Chapter Eight,

Introduction

15

each town has a claim on her –​as her birthplace, the birthplace of Mary Poppins, or the site of her schooling and young adulthood. The choice of these places to erect statues of Mary Poppins –​rather than explicitly celebrating the author herself –​goes against trends in commemorative practice which have largely moved away from the production of bronze edifices. Chapter Seven considers the ‘living’ memorial in the form of a writer’s house, as in the case of Katharine Susannah Prichard’s Writers Centre in Western Australia and Eleanor Dark’s ‘Varuna’ in the Blue Mountains of New South Wales. These former dwellings are material tributes which in themselves generate textual tributes through the encouragement of emerging and established authors. This support takes a number of forms including fellowships, residencies, publication and the incorporation of writers’ work in anthologies and festival programmes. Australian literary commemorations are almost always derived from imported forms and initiated by privileged groups with the power and money to establish them. Unfortunately ‘the usual suspects’ have remained dominant to this day, at the expense of Indigenous, multicultural and transnational authors.91 At the time of writing, material commemorations of Indigenous writers and storytellers are almost non-​existent.92 This book deals directly with just one monument to an Indigenous author. At the Indigenous community of Raukkan in South Australia –​formerly known as Point McLeay –​there’s a modest monument dedicated to the Ngarrindjeri man David Unaipon which was initiated in response to his appearance on the 50-​dollar note. A discussion of Unaipon’s one existing memorial is saved until Chapter Ten because the material commemoration of Indigenous literary figures did not begin until the 1990s –​and still has a long way to go. I consider the Unaipon monument in relation to the entrenched ambivalence on the part of Anglo-​Australians about the establishment of commemorations to Indigenous figures. For Indigenous people, imported modes have often been out of reach, due to cost and lack of access to public space. In addition, settler-​colonial forms of remembrance may not be the ideal way to commemorate their heroes. The traditional forms of memorialising may need to be reconsidered and reconfigured when Indigenous authors are acknowledged in future. As Anoma Pieris et al. argue: The commemoration of Indigenous places using traditional European forms and structures (memorials, plaques, statues etc) is significant, as it accords Indigenous places the same or similar status as European places in the minds of settlers/​Europeans. However, such practices are also problematic, in that they tend to elide important differences.93

The authors note that performative and creative interventions offer greater scope for the incorporation of Indigenous traditions and designs in contemporary Indigenous placemaking efforts.94 Nonetheless, literary commemoration cannot be said to be equitable and inclusive until the contribution of Indigenous storytellers and authors have been more comprehensively realised through material interventions located in public space.

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Locating Australian Literary Memory

Rather than explicitly arguing for the creation of more literary commemorations, or the further preservation of memorials that currently exist, this book seeks to reveal the cultural meanings suffusing them. Although I  recognise the cultural value of tangible memorials –​and the voluntary labour that has produced them –​I am not necessarily advocating for their restoration since some sites might be more informative and engaging if they were allowed the opportunity to quietly decay without intervention. The following chapters explore the many blindspots, contradictions, challenges and eccentricities of literary commemoration in Australia.

Chapter One ADAM LINDSAY GORDON’S GRAVE Anglo-Australian poet Adam Lindsay Gordon attracted a cult following from his death in 1870 up until the mid-twentieth century.1 Until Henry Lawson’s death, in 1922, the extensive number of monuments and memorials to Gordon was without parallel in Australian literary history. A  dashing figure and accomplished horseman, Gordon provided a bridge between Romantic poetry and local bush poetry, demonstrating the right combination of grand lineage, sophistication and derring-​do to be celebrated as an Australian icon. This chapter will consider the role played by Gordon’s grave at Brighton General Cemetery in the development of Australian literary commemoration since the late nineteenth century. Gordon’s physicality has been widely remarked upon and reproduced in a series of portraits. He was tall but his posture was stooped, possibly due to his poor eyesight. Gordon sported a full russet beard and moustache, thick overhanging eyebrows, a wrinkled forehead and crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes. He usually dressed without affectation –​spurred boots, ‘cord’ trousers, spare-​tailed black velvet coat and dark ‘wide-​ awake’ hat. These qualities were not always captured by the paintings and portraits of Gordon, according to those who knew him personally.2 His appearance seems to vary considerably from image to image, further contributing to his mystique. Gordon was a resident of Brighton for only 18 months before he committed suicide there in 1870. It became the final resting place for the peripatetic poet, where his body and a range of artefacts relating to him were preserved. The following discussion explores the practices associated with Gordon’s commemoration, especially the pilgrimages to his grave at the Brighton General Cemetery. Despite his English origins, Gordon’s grave took on a symbolic function, serving to to sanctify native soil and to confirm the existence of an ‘authentic’, identifiable Australian literature. The terms ‘pilgrim’ and ‘pilgrimage’ are part of the common language of literary tourism, established in medieval Europe. As Ian Ousby has noted, since the Reformation writers have attracted pilgrims because they proved to be the ideal heroes for secular culture and the most satisfying objects of national pride.3 The practices of literary pilgrimage are almost always belated, occurring after the death of the author, representing a desire to keep their memory alive. Inherited from the United Kingdom, literary pilgrimage in Australia has taken on local inflections, as evidenced by the practices associated with Gordon. The term ‘pilgrimage’ is used loosely in relation to Gordon, encompassing a range of commemorative activities, from poetic recitations to graveside tributes.

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Locating Australian Literary Memory

Gordon’s popularity in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries is illustrated by the pilgrimage of thousands to his grave on the anniversary of his death in the 1920s and 1930s. At a time when Australian literature was considered inferior to literature imported from the Old World, Gordon’s dual identity allowed for the possibility of a nascent Australian literature without the rejection of English literary tradition. The pilgrimages were both celebratory and generative, prompting the establishment of a range of other commemorations including two house museums –​Dingley Dell4 in South Australia and the Ballarat Craft Cottage –​a bust in Poet’s Corner in Westminster Abbey, a statue in Spring Street, Melbourne, and a suburb named Gordon in Canberra among many others. Book collector and Gordon bibliographer Ian McLaren claimed that the gatherings at Gordon’s grave produced great outpourings of feeling and were without literary precedent in Australia.5 Melissa Bellanta notes that members of the cult of Gordon were overwhelmingly male, as demonstrated by footage of a pilgrimage to his grave that was screened in Australian cinemas in the mid-​1920s.6 However, the first pilgrimage in 1892 was made up mostly of women, possibly due to the romance associated with the laying of a wreath made by Gordon’s lost love. In England, it was fairly common for visits to famous gravesides be marked by poetic reflections. William Howitt’s famous collection Homes and Haunts of the Most Eminent British Poets catalogues the final resting places of writers and notable personages who visited them and wrote about their experiences.7 Gordon’s grave inspired many poetic tributes, indicating its sacred nature and ongoing resonance for fellow poets. Half in love with the idea of death, Gordon pre-​emptively imagined his own tributes in his famous poem ‘The Sick Stockrider’: Let me slumber in the hollow where the wattle blossoms wave With never stone or rail to fence my bed; Should the sturdy station children pull the bush-​flowers on my grave, I may chance to hear them romping overhead.

Beach Suicide Gordon’s dramatic death by suicide at the age of 37 almost certainly contributed to his canonisation and the subsequent construction of a number of ‘shrines’, including his grave at Brighton General Cemetery. The public interest in accounts of his final hours indicates that devotees sought to cultivate intimacy with him even –​or especially –​in death. Gordon’s fateful walk from his house in Lewis Street to Picnic Point has been recounted many times, cementing his connection to Brighton.8 Accounts were published in his obituary and after the inquest, which was held on 25 June 1870, the same day as his burial.9 On the morning of his death, he kissed his sleeping wife Maggie and set off towards the Marine Hotel, on New Street, which would have taken him around twenty minutes to reach. At around 7:30 a.m., upon reaching the hotel, he asked for the proprietor, Mr Prendergast, and was told by his son that he was not yet up. On being asked if he



Adam Lindsay Gordon’s Grave

19

should be woken, Gordon said it was ‘of no great consequence’.10 He took a shot of brandy and walked off in the direction of the beach. Soon after, a fisherman named William Harrison nodded to him but Gordon apparently took no notice. Harrison testified at the inquest that Gordon had borne ‘a curious look, as though he was vexed’.11 Gordon shot himself on the beach at the end of Park Street, near Picnic Point, where he was later found by William Petterfor Allen, a storekeeper, who was chasing his cow through the tea-​tree scrub nearby. Gordon’s body was then taken to the Marine Hotel, which he had visited earlier in the morning, where it remained until the burial. As the site where Gordon’s body lay, the Marine Hotel has played a special part in Gordon commemorations. There was a proposal to preserve the outbuilding  –​as was the case with the outbuildings of Craig’s Hotel in Ballarat where Gordon’s livery stables were located –​but this proved unsuccessful.12 More than six decades after Gordon’s death, the stretcher used to carry his body from the beach to the Marine Hotel was presented to J. K. Moir, the ‘Knight Grand Cheese’ of the Bread and Cheese Club art and literary society, for preservation.13 The fact that it had been carefully kept and then passed on demonstrates the urge to collect Gordon relics and to circulate them among like-​minded admirers. Gordon’s suicide seems particularly tragic to his followers since he appeared to be on the cusp of greater success, with the publication of Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes the day before his suicide. This collection is considered to represent his most valuable contribution to Australian literature.14 As with other suicides, the cause is ultimately unknowable, yet devotees have collectively dedicated their energies to exploring possible reasons. A  mistake-​ridden obituary in the Argus states that Gordon was ‘a fatalist in the fullest sense of the word’ and that he had frequently said that more than once he had put a pistol to his temple with suicidal intent, but was restrained by thought of his wife, to whom he was devotedly attached.15 A widespread understanding of Gordon as the originator of the Australian ‘fatalist school of poetry’ is intimately bound up with the story of his suicide. Reporting on the 1913 grave pilgrimage, the Brighton Southern Cross noted that Gordon ‘founded Australia’s school of grim fatalism and he voiced Australia’s code of honour’.16 This account reiterates his personal integrity and suggests a melancholy strand in his psychological make-​up. One of findings of the inquest was that Gordon’s riding injuries had contributed to his ill health: He had sustained several falls in steeplechase riding and hunting. His skull had been fractured on one occasion, and his brain was much affected by these falls. He had himself said that he was mad. The brain of deceased was injured to that extent […] that be might be subject to delusions, and to attacks of melancholy at all times.17

Due to his straitened circumstances, funds were raised by his close friends for a proper gravestone, and in October 1870, the stone was erected by admirers including Marcus Clarke and Gordon’s publisher A. H. Massina.18 People who knew Gordon personally felt a special responsibility to contribute to the establishment and upkeep of his grave. As the Australasian reported: The monument raised in memory of the late Adam Lindsay Gordon is now finished. It is erected over his remains in the picturesque cemetery of Brighton, and is placed in a

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Locating Australian Literary Memory

conspicuous position by the main avenue, on a gently sloping rise, fanned by the sea breeze, and looking towards the setting sun. The monument, although unpretentious is a handsome one, consisting of a massive bluestone base, diamond-​hammered on all faces with boldly tooled margin drafts, and chamfer. Upon this base rests a finely-​rubbed bluestone pedestal, with handsomely moulded plinth. Upon each face of the pedestal, a polished white marble tablet is affixed.19

Elizabeth Lauder, a friend from South Australia, initially funded the upkeep of the grave and regularly contributed floral tributes, as this letter of 23 June 1884 attests: Sir Many thanks for your kind answer enclosed £1 for the Sexton and I would like above all others one Wattle Tree with the beautiful yellow blossoms and a few Snowflakes, I have sent by train some Violets from my own garden (not for the value of them but simply because I have grown them) […] Hoping the Sexton will plant the grave nicely with a few Simple flowers Forget me not, etc.20

Gordon’s ‘Especial’ Flower Wattle blossoms feature prominently in Gordon’s imagining of the stockrider’s grave in his famous poem. Although he includes native flora in his poetry, he does not always depict them in an accurate or lifelike way. In lands where bright blossoms are scentless, And songless bright birds; Where, with fire and fierce drought on her tresses, Insatiable Summer oppresses Sere woodlands and sad wildernesses, And faint flocks and herds.

As Libby Robin observes, Gordon was known for his view of Australia as a land of ‘scentless blossoms’ and ‘songless birds’.21 By the 1920s, C. J. Dennis was writing poems that critiqued this view. Golden minstrel, justly framed, Greeted ere with grateful words Long ere this my song has shamed Him who fatuously named This a land of songless birds Seek you solace, seek you balm, Hearken to my golden psalm.22

Given his reference to ‘scentless blossoms’, which appears to be a critique of new world flora and its insipid qualities, or a sign of ignorance, it seems ironic that Gordon should be consistently honoured through commemorations involving wattle flowers until the present day.



Adam Lindsay Gordon’s Grave

21

The first substantial gathering at Gordon’s grave, on 27 June 1892, involved the laying of a floral tribute from the ‘old country’ rather than Australian flora. A love interest of Gordon’s, Jane Bridges –​who had turned down his marriage proposal before he came out to Australia  –​had given elocutionist John Howlett Ross a handmade wreath of wildflowers to be placed on his grave. It was made up of cotton grasses from Dean Forest in Gloucestershire, wild geranium leaves from Wivelsfield in Sussex, the feathery sumach growing in Cradley Herefordshire, buttercups from Worcester, bits of fern from other counties and slips from Bridges’s own garden.23 Through the making of this wreath, Bridges sought to connect Gordon’s body to the country of his youth. In this way, a private tryst became part of a public commemoration ceremony. A reporter from the Argus sent to cover the event commented on this touching scene: The days of romance cannot have passed away from this busy work-​a-​day world, else there would have been fewer faces at the strangely romantic episode enacted on Saturday afternoon around the monument in a quiet burial-​ground at Brighton which marks the resting-​place of Adam Lindsay Gordon.24

This ‘romantic’ event was effectively the first organised pilgrimage to Gordon’s grave. Howlett Ross wrote a suitably florid poem to celebrate the laying of the wreath: Oh! Poet dead, I bring to thee (Oh! Poet dead), From one who knew thee over sea, A tribute to the memory, Still cherishéd Though years have fled.25

After the symbolic wreath-​laying, members of the Gordon Lovers felt it should be protected in a glass case, yet little is known about how it was subsequently stored. In 1926 it was displayed in a shop window on Elizabeth Street. The wreath was not seen publicly until its remains were put into cellophane sachets to be placed inside copies of the limited edition titled Adam Lindsay Gordon memorial volume (1926) published by the Gordon Memorial Committee in association with the Lothian Publishing Company. As Francesco Orlando argues in Obsolete Objects in the Literary Imagination (2006), aged floral tributes may sometimes have greater symbolic resonance than fresh flowers. The dried flower hasn’t been preserved by chance among the yellowed leaves of a book, if it serves from time to time as a moving memento of a person who has passed away and of a bygone day. But only a little vegetal cadaver, liable to crumble between one’s fingers, can bear this commemorative function […] necromantic relics are those parts of dead human or non human bodies that are technically necessary for calling up the incorporeal whole that is called a ghost.26

The efforts made by Gordon devotees to preserve this wreath suggest that it was seen as a sacred relic –​which through its proximity to Jane Bridges, and Gordon’s body, had the power to summon up his ghost.

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Fresh flowers were an indispensable part of the first official mass pilgrimage to Gordon’s grave in 1910, with wattle playing a leading role. Sprigs of wattle were laid on the grave inaugurating the September Wattle Day celebrations in Victoria. In September 1910, an old friend of Gordon’s  –​Elizabeth Lauder –​sent black wattle seeds of her own and also from Gordon’s grave to the mayor of Ballarat to be planted over his infant daughter Annie’s grave, thereby connecting them. Lauder also planted a wattle in her own garden that was transplanted from Gordon’s grave when it was a seedling. Alongside this wattle was a weeping willow from which she wove a wreath to place on Gordon’s grave on each anniversary of his death.27 In October 1915, there was a ceremony to plant a shrub from Gordon’s grave in Vansittart Park, Mount Gambier in recognition of his ties with South Australia.28 Notably, it was a South Australian newspaper, the Border Watch, which published Gordon’s first poem in 1864.29 The Adam Lindsay Gordon Wattle League also initiated a plan to distribute seeds from the poet’s grave for planting throughout the world. ‘To snatch sprigs of a poet’s hedge or to replant an offshoot of his fallen tree’, Alison Booth argues, ‘is to replace a tangible part for something once alive and whole, a metonymy’.30 The yellow wattle flower is associated not just with Gordon but has long been associated with literature in Australia, as exemplified by the establishment of an Australian ‘Poet’s Corner’ or ‘Nature’s Cathedral’ at Wattle Park in Melbourne by the Wattle League. The corner was originally proposed by J. K. Moir and then bought by the Hawthorn Tramways Trust, which allotted a portion of parkland to the Australian Literature Society, for the purpose of commemorating departed Australian poets by planting wattle trees in their honour. On 25 October 1930, a ceremony was carried out by about 60 people, including members of the Henry Lawson Literary and Memorial Society and the Australian Literary Society. They met on the hillside, from where they could see ‘one of the finest views out of the city’. The poets chosen were those who had ‘sung memorably’ of wattle blossom, and included Adam Lindsay Gordon, Henry Kendall, Henry Lawson, Victor Daley and Jennings Carmichael. Selections from the poems of each poet were delivered by well-​known elocutionists along with speeches on several of them.31 The Wattle Park Poets’ Corner can no longer be located because it became overgrown over time, as wattle is prone to do.32

Grave Pilgrimages As mentioned earlier, the first organised gathering at Gordon’s grave was on 25 June 1892, and was organised by Howlett Ross. The 1916 pilgrimage was immortalised in an early film The Life’s Romance of Adam Lindsay Gordon (1916). While only reels 1, 3 and 5 of a five-​reel film survive in the National Sound and Film archive, the footage shows several incidents in the life of Gordon, with intertitles taken from his poems. Gordon is played by the poet Hugh McCrae, who was distantly related and bore a strong physical resemblance to Gordon. The film ends with a memorial pilgrimage to Gordon’s grave shot on Sunday, 3 September 1916. A review in the Adelaide Register praised the directors for the film’s ‘realistic representation of the romantic life’ of Australia’s most popular poet.



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Figure 1.1  Still from The Life's Romance of Adam Lindsay Gordon (1916). Reproduced with permission of the National Film and Sound Archive, Title no. 6497 Gordon’s versatility was one of the most charming features of his life, the various phases of which were realistically portrayed on screen. Careful attention was paid to the selection of appropriate scenery, and this, combined with capable and sympathetic acting, made the picture a strong attraction. There are many who have derived considerable pleasure from reading his charming lines, and to see the various incidents which inspired them faithfully acted by capable artists was an additional enjoyment. Apart from its historical interest, the film has a decidedly romantic attraction.33

At the 1917 pilgrimage, 4,000 people passed round the grave, which was covered with wreaths sent by various societies, and with bunches of wattle, the offerings of admirers. The Port Macquarie News and Hastings River Advocate observed: ‘Although it is 47 years since Gordon died several who knew him well were present.’34 In February of the following year, Gordon’s grave was badly damaged by a storm –​the column was blown down and the laurel wreath (made of stone) was violently thrown aside, requiring substantial repair before the 1918 pilgrimage.35 The 1919 pilgrimage was enhanced by the presence of Gordon’s former wife Maggie Park Low with William Low, one of her four children. The remains of baby Annie were brought from Ballarat by the Australian Natives’ Association (ANA) to be laid to rest with her father in Brighton. This was Park Low’s final appearance at a Gordon pilgrimage as she died later in the year. At the height of Gordon’s popularity in the 1920s, numbers of pilgrims surged to around 5,000. In 1924, there was a record crowd and two lorries were used as platforms

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at a new location at the corner of North Road and Hawthorn Roads in Brighton, on the edge of the Brighton General Cemetery. This had been proposed to prevent damage to graves, which had occurred due to overcrowding at earlier pilgrimages. The flourishing of Gordon’s appeal appeal can be partly attributed to the release of paperback versions of Gordon’s poetry which were taken away to the First World War by soldiers. After his death, Maggie Park Low gave the copyright of Gordon’s books to A.  H. Massina & Co. in return for a small fee over three years, a deal which she came to regret. In an interview with the Adelaide Advertiser on 23 March 1912, she explained: I had the copyright of all the books, but I sold them about thirty [sic] years ago for a very small sum, much less than they were worth, and since then I have had no advantage from the sale of the books. I have often regretted parting with the rights.36

For over forty years Massina published Gordon’s Poems. Writing to A. G. Stephens, editor of the Bulletin, Massina claimed that Poems ‘had the largest number of copies sold of any book of that description, totalling over 40,000 copies of all parts’.37 Due to the monetary value of the copyright, Massina refused permission for Douglas Sladen to publish the best of Gordon’s poems, which meant that Sladen could include only minor ones in Australian Ballads and Rhymes (1888).38 McLaren’s bibliography indicates that sales of Gordon’s works, in variant editions, were very successful.39 The first decade of the twentieth century saw burgeoning sales of the Poems in Australia, England and the United States, along with a massive growth in sales of postcards depicting Gordon and his works. Gordon’s writing also rated highly in a string of polls conducted in 1910 by the Sydney Bulletin.40 In 1912, the year that the copyright on Poems ended, the market was flooded with seven Massina editions. With Edith Humphris, Sladen produced Adam Lindsay Gordon and His Friends in England and Australia41 which related the story of Gordon’s youth in minute detail, and over 10,000 copies were sold in the first year of publication. The volume contributed to the growing interest in the details of Gordon’s life in England, before his migration to Australia, including his acquaintance with Jane Lees (née Bridges). In September 1909, Thomas C. Lothian, who was also Henry Lawson’s Melbourne publisher, took advantage of the expiry of copyright to print a cheap edition of Sea Spray and Smoke Drift in Melbourne. When the copyright of Galloping Rhymes expired on 25 June 1912, Frank Maldon Robb published an edition in London almost immediately.42 The production of cheap pocket editions greatly increased the availability of Gordon’s works, encouraging a wider readership.

Rituals in Transition The volume of visitors to Gordon’s grave spiked in the 1920s and mid-​1930s. In 1932, the year before the centenary of his birth, a bronze statue was erected in Spring Street, Melbourne, near Parliament House. The statue depicts Gordon as a horseman-​ poet, sitting with a pen and book in hand and a saddle beneath his chair. Two quotations from his works and from the verse of his friend Henry Kendall are carved into the freestone



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pedestal. Created by sculptor Paul Montford, the monument was the result of two decades of fundraising. In 1911, a public meeting had been held to consider erecting a memorial to Gordon. The first subscription predated this meeting, with the Earl of Dudley donating £60 in 1910. A second meeting, held in 1912, was not well attended, and the fund was still £1,000 short. It was another 20 years before the memorial was finally erected. In the presence of over 2,000 people, Premier Argyle unveiled the statue on 30 October 1932.43 An equestrian statue had been considered for St Kilda Road but it was left to supporters to erect one in Sturt Street, Ballarat, in 1969. Mounted on Warrenheip granite, it is in the form of a horse cast in bronze to memorialise Gordon along with horses and mules killed in the First World War.44 Funds for this equestrian statue were provided by visitors to the Ballarat Memorial Cottage (now known as the Adam Lindsay Gordon Craft Cottage). Martin Lyons argues that ‘the cult of sporting masculinity’45 is symbolised by the unrealised proposal to display Gordon’s riding whip46 behind unbreakable glass within a cavity in the base of the Spring St statue, along with a volume of his poems and a brief history of his life.47 The centenary of Gordon’s birth in 1933 saw further expressions of devotion, with the publication of Edith Humphris’s biography The Life of Adam Lindsay Gordon, celebrations in Cheltenham, England, and the formation of the Gordon Lovers Society.48 After the erection of the Spring Street statue and the unveiling of the bust at Poet’s Corner in Westminster Abbey, Gordon celebrations began to lose their momentum in the late 1930s and early 1940s, with the last ‘official’ mass pilgrimage occurring in June 1947. The establishment of the Shrine of Remembrance in 1932 and the outbreak of the Second World War played a part in the diminishing popularity of the pilgrimages.49 The deaths of people who knew Gordon personally also had a discernible effect on the size of these gatherings. Ardent supporters and organisers also began to disappear, including Charles R. Long, founder of the Australian Literature Society and core member of the Gordon Memorial Committee, who died in December 1944,50 and Douglas Sladen, a passionate Gordon supporter and author of Adam Lindsay Gordon and His Friends in England and Australia (with Edith Humphris), who died in February 1947. Howlett Ross, who initiated the first mass pilgrimage, died in April 1953 at the age of  96. Once the original cemetery pilgrimages ceased, other rituals emerged to take their place; yet none had the same level of popularity and longevity. In 1950, a wreath-​laying ceremony was inaugurated at the Gordon statue in Spring Street. According to a report in the Age in 1950, this gathering was also framed as a ‘pilgrimage’ sponsored by the Bread and Cheese Club and the Australian Literature Society.51 Ex-​president of the Bread and Cheese Club and literary patron J. K. Moir observed at the ceremony that ‘poets and soldiers are the only ones honoured with statues and pilgrimages.’52 Here, Moir reflects on the limited nature of commemoration practices in a settler-​colonial nation. In the same year, pilgrimages to the Ballarat house were ‘revived’ by the new president and officers of the Gordon Memorial Cottage. A piece in the Bohemia magazine noted that supporters planned to run these pilgrimages on a larger scale, but evidence suggests that the proposed expansion of the practice failed to eventuate.53 After 1950, there were sporadic attempts to keep the Gordon spirit alive but celebrations failed to reach the heights of the 1920s and 1930s. An article in the Sun

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in June 1969 entitled ‘Fewer Still Will Care’ reported on the very small turnout to a commemorative ceremony on Brighton Beach, where Gordon committed suicide. The accompanying photo shows 13 people assembled, including the bush poet Mike Brady reading Gordon’s verses, while another man records the proceedings with a microphone. The article notes that there was nobody at Gordon’s grave or at the Marine Hotel while people ‘scurried past’ the statue in the city, inferring that he had been largely forgotten.54 In 1970, the year of the centenary of Gordon’s death, it was decided to revive the Gordon pilgrimages but with a ‘new look’. The celebration was held at the Marine Hotel –​often called ‘Gordon’s Pub’ –​on 24 June, around the anniversary of his death. A new tradition was begun with a wreath of golden wattle being laid on the hitching post Gordon was known to use outside the Marine Hotel. The plaque on the hitching post details Gordon’s connection with the hotel. The inscription reads: Adam Lindsay Gordon Poet and Horseman tethered his horse to this hitching post during his residence in Brighton 1869–​70. A shining soul with syllables of fire who sang the first great songs these lands can claim (Kendall). Preserved and dedicated to his memory by the United Licensed Victuallers Association 20th October 1945.55

This was one of many gestures made towards Gordon’s memory around the Brighton area in the late twentieth century. On 24 June 1990, Gordon followers gathered at the commemorative ‘Gordon stones’ in the Brighton Town Hall Gardens. Decorated with a relief portrait of Gordon and the crests of the Gordon family and the City of Brighton, these ‘stones’ could more realistically be described as rocks. The event, organised by the Brighton Historical Society, featured speeches and readings dedicated to the suburb’s ‘pioneer’ poet, but it was never repeated. It was not until the 2000s that Gordon celebrations were renewed in a consistent manner. With the establishment of the Adam Lindsay Gordon Commemorative Committee in 2006, attention turned to the restoration of Gordon’s grave, which badly needed repair, including the resealing of plaques on the monument. Cemetery tours are now conducted annually by the Adam Lindsay Gordon Commemorative Committee and the Brighton Cemetorians, a group which has close ties to the Brighton Historical Society. Wattle is laid by admirers on the Spring Street statue of Gordon every year in mid-​ June, around the anniversary of his death. The wattle is procured from gardens around Brighton and given out to participants during the ceremony. This ritual is accompanied by bubble-​blowing, a gesture which refers to Gordon’s famous phrase ‘life is just froth and bubble’ from ‘Ye Wearie Wayfarer’. Question not, but live and labour Till yon goal be won, Helping every feeble neighbour, Seeking help from none; Life is mostly froth and bubble, Two things stand like stone, Kindness in another’s trouble, Courage in your own.



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Figure  1.2  10 Lewis Street Brighton, Adam Lindsay Gordon’s home at the time of his death (1933). Reproduced with permission of the State Library of Victoria, PCLTA 771

Gordon Houses: Brighton, Ballarat, Port MacDonnell Even though there are two surviving Gordon houses –​a creditable number for any dead author –​admirers still mourn the failure to preserve his last home. Gordon’s one-​time residence at 10 Lewis Street has been the subject of passionate appropriation, contentious debate and extreme disappointment. The cottage was demolished in 1949 but the poet Cyril Goode harboured a dream to one day rebuild it. Goode salvaged the 25,000 bricks from Lewis Street and transported them to his home at Newport in 1946, brick by numbered brick. He campaigned in vain for the resurrection of the house. Goode’s obsession with Gordon began as a boy when he first took part in a pilgrimage to the grave. Later, he was reprimanded at the local church for having attended. As Goode observed, ‘they saw him as a “drinking man” and a “racehorse man” instead of a poetic genius equal to Byron’.56 In a diary entry of 30 March 1946, Goode wrote about meeting with the Brighton mayor to try to persuade him to support his scheme to reconstruct the house and relocate it to the Botanical Gardens. The mayor tried to show how much he knew about Aus literature and how little we owe to Gordon. I more than held my own –​even surprised myself, as I thought I might be nervous. When he disparaged Gordon (though only slightly) it roused me […] ‘He Didn’t Pay His rent!’ They are like parrots with this catch cry. I replied ‘Do you think that an author must be successful enough to hold the title to a house before it is worth preserving? What

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about Robbie Burns? You know he had the bailiff in –​yet the Scotch people never pulled his place down.57

The local criticism of Gordon’s impecuniousness is reminiscent of the attitude expressed towards Percy Shelley when William Howitt visited his home town of Marlowe. An ‘old gentleman’ tells Howitt that he is a tradesman whose bill was never paid by Shelley. Howitt tells his driver to leave in haste, exclaiming ‘Shelley is remembered in Marlowe because there was one bill left unpaid!’58 As Howitt defended Shelley, so Goode chose to refute the view held by many bourgeois Brighton citizens of Gordon as a debtor and rent defaulter. Despite some resistance, the Brighton City Council and the Brighton Historical Society with the support of the National Trust cooperated in an unsuccessful project to reconstruct Gordon’s Lewis Street house in Dendy Park. It would be renamed as a folk museum, ‘making a link with Australia’s pioneer beginnings’.59 It was proposed that this museum would house ephemera relating to Gordon and an ‘old-​fashioned’ shop. The Adam Lindsay Gordon Commemorative Committee was unable, however, to raise the funds to restore the Lewis Street house despite an extensive campaign. In 1982, after Goode’s death, all the bricks from the Lewis Street house were trucked to the late Ron Rado’s amusement park Gumbaya Park (now Gumbaya World), where they remain to this day. The management has announced its intention to use them at the park and incorporate a plaque to Gordon, but this has not yet happened.60 There are inherent problems with preserving more than one property associated with an author since they must all compete for a small pool of resources. Then there is the struggle over which location is the most ‘important’ and which has the greatest claim to the author. In A Skeptic’s Guide to Writers’ Houses (2011), Anne Trubek argues that sometimes acts of ‘nonpreservation’ are intentional, political or appropriate. ‘Nonhouses’, or failed house projects, can induce a sense of longing, which the best writers’ houses can also encourage in the visitor.61 For me, the lost Lewis Street house and Cyril Goode’s efforts to rebuild it are as significant as if the property had been kept as it was. In other words, this ‘nonhouse’ tells a compelling story of its own. In 1933–​34, there was a successful attempt to move a cottage associated with Gordon from the stables of Craig’s Hotel, Ballarat. Gordon arrived in Ballarat in November 1867. On 22 November, he leased a livery stable business from Walter Craig, which was conducted from the stables at the rear of Craig’s Hotel. While in Ballarat, his 11 month old daughter Annie died from an infection and was buried in the Ballarat Old Cemetery.62 In October 1868, the Gordons left Ballarat after the failure of the livery stables. In 1933, the centenary of Gordon’s birth, F. J. Martell suggested that the cottage be moved from Bath Street to the Ballarat Botanical Gardens. The building firm of A. and G. Quayle won the tender to dismantle the cottage in numbered sections and fit them back together next to the fernery at the gardens (as Goode had planned for the Lewis Street house). The memorial project was made possible by a large donation by Colonel R. A. Crouch, which covered the whole cost of the transfer of the cottage and its replacement by another building in the hotel yard.



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The Ballarat Cottage was formally opened by State Governor Lord Huntingfield on 15 August 1934. Lord Huntingfield unveiled a plaque in the foyer of Craig’s Hotel following the transfer of the Gordon Memorial Cottage from the hotel yard to a site in the Botanical Gardens. Lord Huntingfield was given a gold-​mounted walking stick, made from one of the rafters of the cottage. Expressing his thanks, Lord Huntingfield said that the care and preservation of the cottage was ‘one more proof of the patriotism and public spirit of the citizens of Ballarat’.63 In this way, the care of the poet’s home is equated with a concern for the city of Ballarat and the nation as a whole. Local historian Helen Dehn has contended that the cottage which was moved to the Botanical Gardens was used only as a ‘doss’ and/​or for storage. Dehn argues that ‘it has been widely assumed that Gordon lived in this cottage, but available evidence indicates that Gordon and his wife and daughter lived in a six roomed weatherboard house on the shores of Lake Wendouree’.64 This highlights the arbitrary nature of literary commemoration –​it’s not always the buildings that are most consistently inhabited by the author which are kept for posterity. The Ballarat Cottage stood in the gardens for 50 years or so, but during the 1980s it fell into disuse and disrepair. It was restored in the early 1990s and in 1992 the Ballarat Crafts Council opened it to the public. It serves the purpose of remembering Gordon while functioning as an outlet for locally produced crafts. The profits from the shop go into the running of the cottage, neatly solving a problem that besets many literary house properties without funds for maintenance. Both the Ballarat Cottage and Gordon’s former home Dingley Dell in Port MacDonnell in South Australia have attracted pilgrimages though not on the scale of the Brighton grave pilgrimages in the 1920s and 1930s. At the fourth pilgrimage to the Dingley Dell cottage –​which occurred the day after the unveiling of Gordon’s Spring Street statue –​200 people were in attendance. Mr J. Fletcher Junior said in his address that on such an occasion ‘one’s thoughts naturally turned to the old fig tree hard by the cottage’. It was under this tree, on 5 September 1931, that the plot to save the cottage was hatched. ‘I do not know whether the day was wet or dry, but that was the beginning of the Restoration Committee, and from that small gathering originated these annual pilgrimages to Gordon’s old home, which has been so well re-​stored.’65 ‘The Pilgrimage to Dingley Dell’, a ditty written by pilgrim Marcus Tozer, was included in the same article in the Border Watch which might be read as a parody of tribute poems of the nineteenth century. A little story I would like to tell, About the pilgrimage to Dingley Dell, If I may be allowed. Our pilgrimage was done the modern way, By motor, over rock and sodden clay And bitumen. The crowd Arrived noon after the city band; The p’lice were also there to lend a hand66

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The reference to a police presence indicates that the crowd was substantial enough to warrant supervision. The Dingley Dell Museum is one of a number of commemorations around South Australia including an obelisk at Mt Gambier, erected in 1887, which stands near the spot where Gordon jumped a fence and landed on a narrow ledge for a bet, reinforcing his reputation as a reckless horseman.67 There’s a marble tablet in Vansittart Park, Mt Gambier, in the place where a shrub was planted in honour of Gordon;68 a replica bust at Penola;69 and a plaque that marked his residence at Penzance Street.70 In an address to the 1932 pilgrims, Dingley Dell is positioned as the residence in which he wrote most of his famous works,71 even though many of the poems were written on horseback or while sitting in trees. Writing in the Adelaide Advertiser, Max Lamshed argued that the Dingley Dell days, ‘with their inspiration of seacoast and woodland’, belong to many of the poems of Sea Spray and Smoke Drift and many poems ‘bear the impress’ of the bushland around Dingley Dell ‘even if they were not written there’.72 Dingley Dell was supported as a South Australian treasure and the source of potential tourism. As the director of the South Australian Tourist Bureau, Victor H. Ryan, observed at the pilgrimage of 1932: We are a young country and it is sometimes charged against us that our Australian history is lacking in interest; that we have no great traditions behind us, no memorable battlefields, no ancient or buried cities, no stately cathedrals, no Westminster Abbey, with its ancient hallowed memories […] And because we are a young country it surely is a good thing to keep alive what may be termed red Letter events in our history –​to honor and revere the memory of distinguished men and women who have proceeded [sic] us.73

Ryan aligns Gordon with the ‘unfolding romance’ which ‘does infinite credit to our people’. In the eyes of some, he notes, Gordon might be seen as a failure. ‘True he lacked the capacity either to make or keep money, but he made friends and he gripped the love and fired the imagination of succeeding generations […] Can such a life be regarded as a failure? No, a thousand times, No.’74 This contrasts strongly with the view of some prominent Brighton residents who considered Gordon’s poverty to invalidate commemorative efforts. The house is situated within the Dingley Dell Conservation Park, which had protected status as a ‘national pleasure resort’ under the National Pleasure Resorts Act 1914. Dingley Dell was fairly neglected for almost half a century from Gordon’s departure until restoration began in 1922. Visitors scribbled their names on its walls in a similar way to pilgrims to Shakespeare’s house in Stratford-​Upon-​Avon.75 It became a refuge for vagrants and a haven for rabbits. Max Lamshed, writing in 1947, reports that visitors from 30 years ago found snakes under the floor, bees cosily established in the walls and rabbits playing hopscotch through the hall.76 Local residents and the Dingley Dell Restoration Committee appealed to the government to purchase the cottage and a few acres in 1922. This was achieved through collaborative working bees organised by the committee and the ANA.77 With its mission to push for Australian independence and to celebrate pioneers in various fields, the ANA played a



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pivotal role in restoring the cottage from its former dereliction, along with raising money for the Spring Street statue in Melbourne. In 1972, the Dingley Dell National Pleasure Resort was renamed the Dingley Dell Conservation Park upon the proclamation of the National Parks and Wildlife Act 1972, which repealed the former act along with other statutes concerned with conservation. In 1980, the conservation park was listed on the Register of the National Estate. The decision to extend the grounds to provide a habitat for native fauna is reminiscent of the wildlife reserve initiated by Tasmanian children’s author Nan Chauncy. Allan and Jenny Childs took over the property in the 1990s and are responsible for restoring it to pristine condition. For many years, animals sought shelter in the house, according to Allan Childs. The windows had fallen out, the floors were made of dirt and sheepskins were stored in the rear kitchen. Hives of bees were removed when the iron roof was restored in 1922.78 Dingley Dell has been curated to emphasise Gordon’s literary production at the house, along with his horse riding exploits. One front room contains his writing desk and a display of early and more recent volumes of his work. Among the many items of memorabilia are the handcuffs, baton and leggings Gordon used as a police mounted trooper in South Australia, as well as enlargements of some of his drawings and his wife Maggie’s saddle. The other front room contains photographs of aspects of his life, extracts from his letters, parliamentary speeches and a display of personal effects. The middle room records the history of Dingley Dell, with photographs of the cottage taken at different times and a history of its preservation. The remaining room, located at the rear of the house is the kitchen, furnished in period style. At the time of my visit to Dingley Dell, Allan Childs was an entertaining and enthusiastic host who punctuated the tour with recitations from Gordon’s poetry. I  was encouraged to handle some of the relics, particularly Gordon’s riding gear, which is stored in a wooden box, in a manner that is not possible in more formal museum contexts. The distance from metropolitan centres and the tranquil bush setting give a sense of the remoteness of the house in Gordon’s day, before the invention of automobiles. One of the striking characteristics of the various Gordon organisations has been their willingness to collaborate on commemorative projects, rather than competing with one another. This generous spirit is illustrated by the wreath sent by airmail to Gordon’s grave by the Dingley Dell Restoration Committee for the 1936 grave pilgrimage in Brighton.79 Eileen O’Neill, secretary of the Gordon Lovers Society of South Australia, said on this occasion: ‘I have here a collection of flowers culled from the garden at Dingley Dell and the surrounding bushland made so famous by Gordon in his works.’80 The sharing of plants and seeds from Gordon’s grave with other sites around Australia underscores this desire to spread living tributes to his memory far and wide.

Conclusion Edward S. Casey observes in his book Getting Back Into Place: Toward a Renewed Under­ standing of the Place-world (1993) that ‘persons who live in places  –​who inhabit or re-​ inhabit them  –​come to share features with the local landscape; but equally so, they

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Figure 1.3  Third-​form students from Brighton Grammar School conducting a poetry reading at the grave of Adam Lindsay Gordon on the centenary of his death. Photograph by Maggie Diaz (1970). Reproduced with permission of the State Library of Victoria, PCLTFBN 309

make a difference to, perhaps indelibly mark, the land in which they dwell’.81 Gordon’s habitation and death, as well as the practices associated with his grave, have indelibly marked Brighton, even if he only lived there for 18 months of his short life. As this chapter has shown, visitors to Brighton General Cemetery have persistently communed with Gordon’s ghost during the 149 years since his burial. Gordon’s grave has provided a focal point for all kinds of remembrance, both collective and solitary. A photograph of Brighton Grammar School students at Gordon’s grave taken in 1970 suggests that they were taken to the cemetery to be introduced to the local celebrity who had died 100 years earlier.82 Journalist and memoirist Ross Fitzgerald has written about how he would lie next to Gordon’s grave as a drunken adolescent and soak up his poetic genius. My idea of a good Saturday night was to go to Melbourne’s Brighton Cemetery with a flagon and sit drinking in front of Adam Lindsay Gordon’s obelisk. It read: ‘Life is only froth and bubble, Two things stand like stone, Kindness in another’s trouble, Courage in your own.’ I now think it significant that, instead of being attracted to the grave of gangster Squizzy Taylor or bent Victorian politician Thomas Bent, I  found myself in front of Gordon, the



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alcoholic poet, who killed himself on the beach near Park Street, Brighton, where I  often used to drink myself.83

Fitzgerald mistakenly describes the Corinthian column as an obelisk and believes Gordon to be an alcoholic when many sources report that he was merely a moderate drinker. Nevertheless, Fitzgerald’s communion with Gordon’s spirit tells us something about the psychic significance of his grave for the suburb of Brighton. Gordon was a figure who roamed widely  –​a ‘wayfarer’  –​but it is his final resting place which has the greatest pre-​eminence.

Chapter Two JOSEPH FURPHY IN THE RIVERINA Memorials, by revivifying the man, indirectly strengthen and perpetuate also his creative contributions to our culture. The pilgrim cannot depart without some insight and appreciation of what the memorial stands for. –​Barbara York Main1

Joseph Furphy, considered to be ‘the father of the Australian novel’, is best known for Such Is Life, a little-​read and often baffling novel about life in rural Australia. In 1981, Manning Clark claimed that Furphy is ‘the author of a classic which few were to read and no one was ever to establish clearly what it was all about’.2 Julian Croft observes that Such Is Life is a ‘cultural monument’ which is ‘more often referred to than read for pleasure’ since it ‘tests the skill, patience and endurance of those who attempt it’.3 The demanding nature of the novel, with its unusually complex narrative structure, inter-​textual references and playful use of language, can be off-​putting to many readers but it has attracted a small number of dedicated followers who have been largely responsible for the efforts to memorialise Furphy and his contribution to Australian literary culture. This chapter considers various sites associated with Furphy, arguing that they offer tourists opportunities to engage imaginatively with aspects of Australia’s frontier past. Literary tourism, which involves the interconnected practices of visiting and marking sites associated with writers and their work, has been evolving in Anglophone countries since the nineteenth century. Various systems of memorialisation have been developed, ranging from the official and topographical such as the setting up of memorials and plaques, to more intimate rituals such as following in the footsteps of writers or their characters.4 While literary tourists may seek out the settings of their favourite fiction, some writers choose settings which have ‘real world’ counterparts that may not be reproduced realistically. As Barbara Piatti et al. observe, settings can be completely invented; a cross-​ fading of two spaces, an existing region with fictitious elements, a likely place with an invented name, or an existing region remodelled, like Furphy’s Riverina in Such Is Life.5 The business of literary tourism in Australia is underdeveloped compared to the thriving heritage industries of Britain and America, but there is increasing interest in tracking places that are connected with local authors and their work. The sites associated with Furphy, including the Tom Collins and Mattie Furphy houses in Perth and the Furphy menhir and sculpture in Shepparton, are still in the early stages of their evolution as cultural tourism locations, and consequently there is little research to indicate what these places represent to visitors. This chapter necessarily relies on my own impressions along with first person accounts from a handful of scholarly tourists.

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Kate Baker: Standard-​Bearer, Grave Watcher To understand the origins of the Furphy commemorations, it is essential to acknowledge the part Kate Baker played by bringing her friend more fully into the public eye. Sandra Burt argues that Baker is now an almost forgotten figure in the history of Australian literature; yet, in 1937 her tireless promotion of Australian literature in general and Joseph Furphy in particular earned her the OBE.6 ‘Silhouettes’, her unpublished collection of biographical sketches of local authors, including J.  K. Ewers, Mary Gilmore, Dowell O’Reilly (Eleanor Dark’s father), John Shaw Neilson, Miles Franklin, J.  K. Moir and Nettie & Vance Palmer, demonstrates her dedication to Australian literary culture. The publisher’s rejection of ‘Silhouettes’ was softened by the suggestion that she place the manuscript in the Commonwealth National Library, which was her original intention. The manuscript was preserved and is now among Baker’s papers in the National Library.7 Baker had migrated from Ireland to Williamstown in the late 1860s and trained as a primary school teacher. It was when she was posted to the country that she met Furphy’s brother Isaac and his wife, becoming part of the extended family. In another posting near Ruthworth (in central Victoria), she lived with Furphy’s parents, where she first met him when he visited in 1886. They became firm friends, albeit mostly by correspondence, until his death in 1912. According to John Barnes, Furphy’s death precipitated a breakdown for Baker.8 On his side, his relationship with Baker was probably not a romantic one, but it does seem that –​at least in the early days of their acquaintance –​she admired Furphy to the point of being in love with him. She said: ‘Knowing Joseph Furphy, other men, especially younger ones, seemed rather stupid and unstimulating.’9 Furphy confided to his friend Mollie Winter that his wife never spoke to him directly therefore he sought conversations elsewhere.10 Baker relied on the verbal permission of Furphy’s sons after his death to take care of his writings, which led to her assumption of copyright for 30 years. When Miles Franklin was reading the Furphy papers in 1939, she found that he had actually signed over his entire copyright in Such Is Life in an agreement with the Bulletin in 1899. Surprisingly, this was never called out by the Bulletin itself, which had either forgotten or decided to overlook the matter.11 Baker’s role as nominal literary executor placed her in an awkward position at times. The controversial Vance Palmer abridgement of Such Is Life was of great embarrassment to Baker given her unstinting dedication to memorialising Furphy. There were many angry responses to this edition, and she regretted approving it.12 Nonetheless, she recognised that ‘no two people in Australia, singly or in conjunction, have done more for literature in general; foreign and indigenous, or for that “mammoth” work, Joseph Furphy’s “Such is Life” in particular, especially in the initial stage that means so much to causes, than Vance and Nettie Palmer.13 She notes that Nettie Palmer would regularly refer to Such Is Life in her literary journalism, consistently reminding the public of its existence.14 As Burt observes, Baker’s relentless dedication to Furphy was criticised by some, most notably Franklin, who remarked upon Baker’s ‘illusion that she created Furphy’ and referred unfavourably to her ‘mania’ in a letter to J. K. Moir.15 Despite the awkwardness



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between them, Franklin and Baker collaborated on the Prior Prize–​winning essay Who Was Joseph Furphy? (1939), which was originally attributed to ‘Glow-​worm’,16 and the subsequent Joseph Furphy: The Legend of the Man and His Book (1944). During this collaboration, Franklin was creatively hampered by Baker’s intense loyalty and wilful blindness to Furphy’s faults. Baker felt Franklin failed to acknowledge her sufficiently and complained to Victor Kennedy of the ‘stab’ she received by Franklin’s hand.17 A. G.  Stephens called Baker ‘Furphy’s standard-​bearer’, a self-​chosen advocate, driven by her own inner vision. With the zeal of a literary conservationist, Baker unobtrusively and persistently organised memorial events and publications related to Furphy and to a range of other writers, including Ada Cambridge and John Shaw Nielson. The creation of the short-​lived ALCA was largely due to Baker and it was kept afloat though her efforts, as evidenced by the voluminous mass of letters she left behind. Roy Duncan argues that Baker’s impact was ‘by grace alone’ given that she had ‘no official standing, no money to speak of, no qualification as a writer, no legal prerogatives’. She was, he argues, ‘a grave watcher’.18 Franklin, less flatteringly, called her a ‘worshipping Suttee widow’.19 Whatever her motivations, Baker is to be applauded for being the only person truly dedicated to perpetuating Furphy’s memory from his death in 1912 until Franklin returned from the United States in 1932. Even though other literati made fun of her passion, it seems that her uncritical admiration was necessary to sustain her lifelong dedication to Furphy’s memory. Literary enthusiasts can be easily mocked for the lengths they go to –​the classic example being Cyril Goode’s collection and cataloguing of bricks from Adam Lindsay Gordon’s demolished house –​but without them Australian literary culture would be considerably poorer.

Yarra Glen Birthplace Memorial Furphy was born on 26 September 1843, about two years after his parents Samuel and Judith migrated from Northern Ireland to Port Phillip. Back then, Yarra Glen was known as Yarra Flats and its first white settlers were the Ryrie brothers, who had arrived overland from New South Wales with stock just six years previously and established their vast property at Yering. Furphy Senior was employed by the Ryries at their outstation on the west side of the river where the township of Yarra Glen now stands.20 Samuel planted an acre of vines for Ryrie which was the nucleus of the present-​day Chateau Yering.21 At the 1927 Melbourne Book Week, Baker suggested that a tablet or other memorial to Furphy should be instituted at Shepparton, but there was no response from the locals. Four years later, in a speech given at a Henry Lawson Literary and Memorial Society meeting, she mentioned that Such Is Life had been written in Shepparton. This address was later published in the Shepparton News and a subscription list was begun, however funds raised were insufficient for a monument. Baker then focussed her energies on Yarra Glen, where Furphy was reputed to have been born in a ‘wattle and daub shack’. Wallace Anderson was subsequently commissioned to make a bronze portrait of Furphy with an inscription.22 On 29 September 1934, a ‘portrait plaque’ (also described as a ‘tablet’) to the memory of Furphy was unveiled by Vance Palmer at the Yarra Glen State School, which was built near the site of Furphy’s birthplace. The Argus reported that there were 200 people in

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attendance including Furphy’s only surviving sister Annie Stewart of Corop. Furphy’s ‘A Christmas Hymn’ (with music by Arthur Canter) was sung and there was a recitation of his poem ‘Breaking the News’. Tribute was duly paid to Baker as part of the proceedings.23 In a subsequent public presentation, Baker reported that there was a pilgrimage in the afternoon to the area which used to be called ‘Upper Yering’ at the time of Furphy’s birth, to gain a sense of his father’s contribution to the region.24 Franklin also contributed a written appreciation of Tom Collins to mark the celebration of what would have been his 91st birthday at Yarra Glen. In her biography of Furphy, Franklin imagines that if Furphy had been there he would have chuckled, remembering his long, unrewarded struggles in literature: The shade of A. G. S. appearing beside his would have been cynical, remembering that in all probability but for himself Such Is Life would still be unprinted. Furphy would have smiled with more tolerant and humorous understanding of what was happening in the schoolhouse on the hill.25

A fragment of a letter he wrote to his mother, cited in Franklin and Baker’s biography, probably written in 1889 (part of the date is missing), reveals Furphy’s sense of connection to the place of his birth. Since the family moved to Kangaroo Flat when he was seven, Yarra Glen alone was associated with his early childhood. I send you samples of vegetation from the banks of the Yarra –​I got part of them where our old garden joined the river, and part on the opposite bank. Everything seems just the same as 30 years ago except that there is a little State school on the very spot where our house stood.26

This school was removed a few years before Franklin and Baker’s biography was published in 1944. In fact, the Yarra Glen State School –​which was chosen as the public building nearest to the place of Furphy’s birth –​is most likely at some distance from the exact spot, as is common with literary memorials purporting to be on the precise site of birth.27 The same could be said for the obelisk marking the spot where Henry Lawson was supposedly born in Grenfell as discussed in Chapter Four. There is evidence that admirers came to see the plaque fairly regularly. The Yarra Glen Historical Society newsletter records one such visit. On Sunday last, Mr Wallace, head teacher of Yarra Glen State School, obligingly allowed visitors to inspect the Joseph Furphy (Tom Collins, author of “Such is Life”, “Rigby’s Romance”, etc.) memorial plaque, which was unveiled at a ceremony held in the school on September 29th, 1934 […] Besides the bronze memorial plaque, which hangs on the wall in a corner of the main classroom, Yarra Glen school has a handsome inscribed box in which is treasured a set of Furphy’s books, music, a photo, and interesting correspondence (including letters from well-​ known Australian authors) relating to the occasion when the plaque was unveiled.28

The State Library of Victoria holds a box of deteriorating memorabilia relating to the Yarra Glen ceremony –​responses to invitations, photographs, commemorative verse and tributes to Furphy. For many years this box rested on the high mantelpiece above the



Joseph Furphy in the Riverina

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school’s open fireplace. It was given to the State Library some time before 1986, when the old school was demolished.29 This ceremony, one of the most significant in the inter-​war period, may have been the inspiration for M. Barnard Eldershaw’s novel Plaque with Laurel (1937), which is set in Canberra. At the time, Marjorie Barnard had written to Nettie Palmer: ‘Your unveiling ceremony seems to have been amazingly complete –​impressed professor and all. What a one act play it would make  –​or perhaps the third act in the dramatisation of an Australian author’s life’.30 So closely was the novel felt to parallel the activities of the contemporary literary scene, complete with recognisable characters, that Eldershaw’s London publishers, fearing a lawsuit might ensue, insisted on seeking a legal opinion prior to publication.31

Shepparton, the Birthplace of Such Is Life Local historian Barry Watts argues for the central importance of Yarra Glen as a Furphy commemorative site: Kangaroo Ground, Kyneton, Shepparton, Hay, and Swanbourne (WA) can correctly lay some claim to Joseph Furphy, but none can challenge Yarra Glen’s right to be known as his birthplace.32

Nevertheless, Shepparton, the town where Such Is Life was written  –​and where the Furphy Foundry and extended family remain –​has a strong claim for Furphy commemoration. This, despite the fact that Furphy never depicted Shepparton itself –​the place where he lived and worked for 21 years –​and the two decades he spent there are not directly reflected in Such Is Life. Furphy built an office space or den for himself at the rear of his cottage. Franklin provides an evocative description of the cottage in her account of Furphy’s life: Furphy’s cottage in Shepparton faced Welsford St. It backed on to the Goulburn River, which here runs into an eroded channel yards wide and deep. Holding the lower banks are noble river gums. To one side is the bridge, directly across the stream is the untouched bush. Up-​ stream the river comes round a sharp bend and has a spit of low bank to make an ideal base for swimming, squealing, gambolling boys in summer. In wet seasons the roaring floods would be grand. The sanctum that Furphy built behind the cottage was right on the edge of the chasm.33

Franklin emphasises the picturesque environment surrounding the writer’s house, with the ‘untouched bush’, the river as a site of children’s play and the steep ‘chasm’ immediately behind the sanctum. The description allows the reader to imagine Furphy’s writing room in a natural setting; a far cry from its current, concrete-​bound location. Furphy’s ‘skillion’ had just enough room for a stretcher bed, table and a chair. Furphy retired there every evening from six till ten to work on his ‘magnum opus’. He was 50 when he began writing the sketches that would become the first version of Such Is Life, a

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Figure  2.1 Residence of Joseph Furphy at Shepparton. Photograph by John Kinmont Moir (1938). Reproduced with permission of the State Library of Victoria, PCLTA 2222 F.2642

lost manuscript completed sometime in 1895.34 In a paper read before the Gordon Lovers Society in Melbourne on 18 March 1941, A. Lee Archer recalls visiting Furphy there: I spent many delightful hours with him in his den. Here he practically lived. It was a small lean-​to room at the back of his cottage, built at a right angle on the left hand side, looking from the street, almost upon the bank of the river Goulburn. There he had his writing table, his books and his stretcher. With the advent of even one visitor, it was practically crowded out.35

Furphy is often depicted as an outsider, seeking solitude and revelation outside the mainstream. There is a tendency to depict Furphy’s nocturnal writing in his skillion as a romantic pursuit, in opposition to his work at John Furphy’s foundry. In fact, his employment at the foundry seems to have been part of his composition process to some extent. His former workmate Frank Attwood remembered that he would often be engrossed in his thoughts: What he was writing then I don’t know. But sometimes when we were working I would see his lips move. I’d think he was calling me over for something. But no –​he’d just be working out the words aloud for what he was going to write.36

Arguably his building work, which was undertaken in various forms throughout his life, was related to the construction (and reassemblage) of his Such Is Life manuscript. After



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Stephens asked him to edit the manuscript down in length, he told Harry Baker that he was ‘desperately employed in cutting up my book to suit the Bulletin Co.; and though I am always most content when rushed with mental work, I find this job too much like pulling down a house and rebuilding a skillion’.37 Outside of the rhythms of the foundry, writing fiction and letters to correspondents, Furphy was fairly isolated, without a literary community nearby. He was only able to make a single trip to his publisher at the Bulletin office in Sydney. During this visit, he met literary luminaries such as Norman Lindsay, Victor Daley, Edward Dyson and Steele Rudd. Furphy remarked of this encounter: ‘Nothing could exceed the cordiality of the Bulletin men […] Archibald invited me to lunch, and was polite enough to say more of my writing than I  would like to repeat […] Also I  had tea with Stephens, and a long evening with some boys invited to meet me –​Albert Dorrington, Norman Lindsay (artist), Victor J. Daly, and a bright young journalist named Clarke. Also I fraternised with Alex Montgomery.’38 A. G. Stephens created the Australian Society of the Irresponsibles (ASOI), which aimed to ‘abolish formality and stiffness’.39 There were about a dozen members in touch with each other from 1901 to 1902. It probably included the Bulletin group mentioned in this letter to Baker, along with Edmund Fisher, Edward Dyson and Steve O’Brien, editor of the Eagle weekly. The ASOI, with its ‘irresponsible’ tag, might be read as a parody of other literary societies, like the Gordon Lovers, which practised formal rituals like the wearing of Gordon tartan by office-​bearers. Despite these affirming connections with metropolitan writers, Furphy often felt misunderstood by those immediately around him, seeking solace in letter-​writing with sympathetic friends such as William Cathels, an auto-​didact like himself whom he often addressed as ‘My dear fellow pilgrim’.40 Barnes and Hoffmann comment:  ‘Within his circle of friends at Shepparton Furphy was often called “Shakespeare”, a reference to his love and detailed knowledge of the plays; […] Furphy was recognised by his fellow workers as “of us, but not one of us”.’41 Furphy’s original cottage, including the lean-​to where he worked, was demolished in 1940 by Tom Fawcett, the owner of the property. Some of the bricks were used in a subsequent house that was occupied by Fawcetts until 1955 before being torn down in the 1960s. According to Judith Powell, Fawcett’s daughter, Furphy was known as the previous owner but there was little interest in preserving the house at the time. During the 1940s, however, the ALCA made inquiries about the site of Furphy’s residence and raised money by public subscription for a bronze tablet. In 1947, it organised a special ceremony to place the tablet on the Wilga tree originally planted by Furphy which stood near the house where he wrote Such Is Life.42 The tablet placed on the enormous tree read: Joseph Furphy 1843–​1912 The Illustrious Author OF “Such Is Life” Planted This Tree

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Figure 2.2  Unveiling tablet to Joseph Furphy (in garden of his home): guests listening to address (27 September 1947). Reproduced with permission of the Royal Historical Society of Victoria, MSPH-0001.2

This was the first official function of the newly established ALCA which was largely driven by Baker. Beginning with the national anthem, the ceremony featured speeches from Tom Fawcett, Lee Archer and the poet Rex Ingamells, editor of Jindyworobak magazine.43 H. C. E. Stewart, vice president of the ALCA, remembered that the Wilga tree was in bloom and a pair of spinebills flitted in and out of branches during the ceremony.44 Tributes from American, English and Australian writers were read by the Chief Librarian of the Public Library of Victoria, C. A. McCallum. Miles Franklin delivered a message to be read at the ceremony, in which she envisaged pilgrimages to the site in the twenty-​first century.45 Western Australian writer J. K. Ewers, in a tribute written in Perth on 17 July 1947, claimed: This is a hallowed place, for here Joseph Furphy planned and wrote a book that was to do honour not only to himself but also to the country which he loved so well. Australia owes to Joseph Furphy a great debt of gratitude.46

Nettie and Vance Palmer sent a message reflecting that in general ‘Victoria has seemed to lack such memorials: young Victorians have not been enabled to praise the deeds of their fathers before them. But from now on there will exist a reminder in Shepparton, of the man who not only lived long in the town, but who from its base, recorded his exploration of the Australian mind and spirit.’47



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The tablet was draped with the Australian flag before being revealed to the audience, emphasising Furphy’s value to the national literature (although belatedly recognised). In Eldershaw’s Plaque with Laurel (1937) there is a hotly contested debate about whether or not flags should be included in the ceremony for the late author Richard Crale, with Victor Bemerton arguing that ‘flags are going to give the affair a wrong flavour. We aren’t honouring Crale because he was an Australian, but because he was a great writer. Race consciousness has been the bane of our literature. Really to admire work because it’s Australian is a form of inferiority complex. It’s a weak argument that tries to bolster itself with patriotism.’48 In spite of his marginal status within the literary sphere, Furphy was inevitably aligned with Australian nationalism in this memorialising ritual at the site of his old home. During his address ‘The Victorian Naturalist. A New National Monument’, H. C. E. Stewart celebrated Furphy as a naturalist arguing that the planting of trees from the Riverina in his Shepparton garden reflected his interest in horticulture. Stewart argued that the Wilga tree ‘can be taken as expressive of Joseph Furphy’s sound knowledge and intense regard for the Australian flora’.49 Near the Wilga stood a Kurrajong tree which spread its seeds far and wide. The Fawcett family collected these and would distribute them to Furphians, in a practice reminiscent of the dissemination of wattle seeds by admirers of Adam Lindsay Gordon. This Kurrajong mirrored an identical specimen that was dedicated to Furphy by Kate Baker at the Melbourne Botanic Gardens in 1942.50 Graeme Kinross-​Smith has noted that Furphy was a ‘man with green fingers’ who also grew moss roses, tree-​ferns and fuchsias. On a visit to Corop in the 1970s, Kinross-​Smith found Kurrajongs and pear trees that Furphy had planted while farming there.51 The Furphy family updated the original 1947 memorial in Welsford Street on 12 March 2005. Andrew Furphy, Joseph’s great-​grandnephew, says he commissioned the memorial and the play, The Order of Things(2005),52 by local director Matt Scholten on the life of Furphy, because for a long time he had been feeling ‘pretty guilty’ about the neglected birthplace of Such Is Life.53 Crouched the front of the Welsford Street site, a statue of Furphy stirs a billy can with a stick. Designed by Castlemaine artist Phil Mune, the sculpture’s natural posture arrests the gaze of the viewer. Instead of being up on a pedestal Furphy’s likeness is at street level, looking out between buildings. What was once a fairly open space, large enough to accommodate a big crowd, is now a narrow strip, hemmed in by development. Behind the statue is a menhir –​an upright monumental stone –​engraved by Ian Marr of Orange, NSW, which tells the story of how Such Is Life came to be written. During the 2012 centenary celebrations in Shepparton, which included a Furphy conference and associated activities, a plaque was added to the memorial tablet, echoing the 1947 ceremony. A related event on the centenary programme was a visit to the Furphy Foundry in Hoskin Street.54 As the home of the famous Furphy water tanks, used in the First World War, the foundry has long been the subject of public curiosity. In March 1973, the foundry held its centenary celebrations, welcoming back former employees. Its walls were lined with old memorabilia including a photograph of the writer wearing an apron standing at a workbench.55 In 2014, a dedicated Furphy Museum opened as part

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Figure 2.3  Joseph Furphy statue, Welsford Street, Shepparton. Photograph by Susan Lever

of Shepparton Motor Museum, allowing visitors more regular access than the Furphy Foundry could previously provide.

The Riverina: Real and Imagined Geographies After leaving school, taking up land and marrying his wife Leonie at the age of 23, Furphy took up bullock driving, which was the nineteenth-​century equivalent of modern semi-​trailers for land transport. The family moved to the Riverina (the area between and around the Murray and Murrumbidgee rivers), where there was work to do carrying stores to the farms and bringing back wool to the railheads.56 ‘For seven or eight years’, Furphy said, ‘I followed this adventurous and profane occupation, partly on the Victorian border, but chiefly in Northern Riverina where I saw all that was to be seen.’57 Furphy later drew on his close acquaintance with the Riverina in Such Is Life. David Herbert argues that ‘great works of imaginative literature are often set in the real world of the writer’s experience: there is an interaction of real and imagined worlds which is of central importance’.58 This mixture of fact and fiction, of the real and the imagined, finds its expression in Furphy’s slightly unreliable treatment of the Riverina. This is



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reminiscent of Thomas Hardy’s ‘Wessex’, which he described as a ‘part real, part dream country’.59 He rooted his fictions in a verifiable topography and made this topography fictive by extensively renaming it; in the case of The Mayor of Casterbridge (1885) overlaying the physical reality of Dorchester with the parallel imagined reality of Casterbridge. Hardy created his own geography for his fictions, which was a mixture of the real and the imagined, launching Wessex as a prime destination in tourist itineraries from the 1890s onwards.60 As with Hardy’s Wessex, scholars have attempted to determine the relationship between Furphy’s places and ‘real’ locations in the Riverina. John Barnes notes that the boundaries of the Riverina have shifted since the nineteenth century  –​today the name Riverina is usually applied to the country between the Lachlan and the Murray, extending east to Condobolin in the north and Albury in the south. In Furphy’s time, it was a much more substantial region, including all the country between the Darling and the Murray.61 In a 1978 issue of Notes and Furphies, Michael Sharkey reports that an investigation into Furphy’s placenames in Such Is Life, Rigby’s Romance and The Buln-​Buln and the Brolga turned up unexpected findings. Comparison of Department of Lands survey maps for 1884 did not show any clear correspondences with Goolumbulla, Runnymede and other stations recalled in Such Is Life.62 Sharkey’s scrutiny of these maps revealed that the fictional stations cannot be perfectly mapped onto existing ‘real life’ locations. Julian Croft has argued that the setting of Such Is Life is actually quite compact and easily visualised once the reader has a map to consult. He claims that the action occurs in the territory bounded by the Lachlan River at Booligal in the South, Ivanhoe in the West, Cobar/​Nyngan in the North, and Hillston to the east. He notes that Chapter III is an anomaly as it is set in the Echuca/​Barmah area on the Murray River, 350–​400 kilometres due south of the main area.63 Nevertheless, Croft recognises that there are some difficulties in making precise identifications with the real world of the Riverina. ‘Often the descriptions and directions given by Tom […] have little bearing on what is really there on the maps.’64 He claims that the confusion and contradiction may have been part of Furphy’s intention to disguise real people and places, or the result of carelessness when making the 1901 revisions. A third possibility is that Furphy wanted us to be aware of the elaborate joke of Such Is Life, ‘that for any writing, such is not life’.65 Furphy describes the novel in a letter to Cathels as ‘one long involved lie in seven chapters’, which serves to distance the author from any autobiographical elements in the text.66 The haziness of the landscape described by Tom Collins and the inability of the ‘ignorant’ reader to pinpoint exact places may reflect some of the deeper themes within the book, namely the permeable boundaries between fact and fiction and the unknowable nature of human relations.

From Swanbourne to Karrakatta The Furphy houses in Swanbourne offer the visitor an opportunity for engagement with spaces that Furphy himself constructed, but they are located a long way from the site of

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the writing of Such Is Life, his most famous work. Furphy was ambivalent about leaving Victoria, saying in a letter to his mother in 1910: ‘However we may flourish or wither here, our rootlets are still in the soil of Vic, and cannot be eradicated.’67 Mike Robinson and Hans Christian Andersen observe that writers’ houses as focal destinations ‘provide tangible connections between the created and the creator, allowing people to engage in a variety of emotional experiences and activities. For literary pilgrims […] here lies the potential for intimacy, authenticity.’68 Although Furphy’s Shepparton cottage with lean-​to ‘sanctum’ no longer exists, the Furphy houses remain standing, testifying to his expertise as a builder. In an article in the West Australian Mail, the author reflects on the craftsmanship evident in the making of Tom Collins House. ‘It is impossible to enter the house without feeling at once a sense of meticulous attention to detail, the reflection of a mind confident that, if a job’s worth doing at all, it’s worth doing well.’69 There is a comparison between the labour of writing and the hard graft of building, with the suggestion that Furphy’s book –​‘the fruit of his nightshifts’ –​becomes ‘yearly more likely to stamp him […] as a “literary cove” for ever’.70 Although he was still working at manual labour in Perth  –​and not writing much prose  –​Furphy continued to write vivid letters back to Victoria. A  move that might have seemed like literary exile at the time was ultimately positive for Furphy’s status as a writer. Delys Bird argues that Furphy’s literary reputation was actually recovered in Western Australia some years after his death, then preserved and memorialised there, through the agency of several local writers including J. K. Ewers and Henrietta Drake-​Brockman.71 His son Sam Furphy enabled this process of ‘recovery’ through his generous gift to the Federation of Australian Writers West Australian branch (FAWWA). In 1939, Sam and his wife Mattie moved to live in what is now known as Tom Collins House and remained there until Mattie died suddenly. Sam then established a Deed of Trust between himself and the University of Western Australia (UWA) to found both an annual literary prize and to purchase works of Australian art, both in the name of Tom Collins. Those bequests were later amplified by Sam Furphy’s will, which left his modest estate to UWA for those original purposes. The Tom Collins and Mattie Furphy houses now residing in Allen Park, are used and maintained by the FAWWA for fellowship meetings, arts events and writers residencies. The houses almost fell prey to developers when the last of the Furphy family moved out. Tom Collins House was relocated in 1996 from its original location in Servetus Street to make way for the West Coast highway. The official opening of the Tom Collins House Writers’ Centre was performed by Professor John Barnes in 1998 and it was entered into the Register of Heritage Places. The Heritage Council records for the two houses reveal that there was considerable anxiety about their separate transportation from Sevetus Street to Allen Park. A similar anxiety beset the Orange City Council when it moved Emmaville Cottage –​associated with Banjo Paterson  –​from its original Narrambla property, as discussed in Chapter Five. The attempts to re-​establish the Furphy garden with cuttings from the original fig and mulberry trees from Servetus Street and the addition of a Furphy water tank and sun dial have helped make it feel more ‘authentic’. Although certain elements are



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always lost when a house is uprooted from its original location, this is usually preferable to demolition. The Heritage Council record notes that since the bushland setting of Allen Park is closer to the original nature of the Servetus Street site where Furphy built and lived in the house, the relocation gives a ‘truer’ sense of the ambience of the place as it used to be. Furphy described the Clement Street area where he first lived as a ‘wild bush spot’ and the Servetus Street site would have been similar. Of course both places had to be cleared of bush before he could build his homes.72 The most substantial difference is that the houses are now located in a public park with continuous flows of people through it, as I found when I was woken by passing walkers and joggers during an overnight stay in Tom Collins House. Being the last remaining Furphy properties, aside from the Foundry, the Tom Collins and Mattie Furphy houses have attracted memorabilia that have not been incorporated into institutional collections. Tom Collins House holds a curious and chaotic but fascinating museum of Furphy memorabilia, including his typewriter, a couple of pieces of packing case furniture said to have come from the original dwelling, the Furphy family bible, and other items, comprising quite poignant reminders of Furphy’s last years in Western Australia.73

Here Bird observes that Furphy’s original New Franklin typewriter with its unusual circular shape is housed at the Tom Collins House. As the machine that produced the typescript of Such Is Life, the typewriter provides a link to Furphy’s creative production. It also has novelty value as the writing instrument that superseded the cork-​handled pen with which he wrote the original version of the manuscript in long hand.74 While it is often claimed that Mark Twain’s  The Adventures of Tom Sawyer  (1876) or Life on the Mississippi (1883) were the first books written on a typewriter, Roger Osbourne argues, Twain did not do the typing himself. Furphy  typed out  Such is Life  on the typewriter  he purchased in 1897. Because he submitted the typescript to the Bulletin Publishing Company in 1898, Osbourne contends, he has a stronger claim, as an author, to having written the first novel on a typewriter.75  This makes the survival and display of Furphy’s New Franklin in the Tom Collins House even more noteworthy for typewriter enthusiasts, scholars of the history of the book and literary tourists alike. Other significant objects in and around the houses include the Furphy water tank (1942) made in Shepparton, a whittled stock whip handle made by Furphy for his brother-​ in-​law Alexander Stewart, a pipe reputed to be Furphy’s and a copperplate copy of his boyhood poem ‘Childe Booth’s Pilgrimage and other Poems’ by Josephus Australianicus, B.  D. As Barbara York Main has observed, visual and physical contact with tangible things can give people an impressionistic appreciation of a writer. Physical objects, she argues, ‘all impose the man on the visitor’.76 Trisha Kotai-​Ewers has argued that the Furphy houses in Western Australia are integral to his legacy. Yet their location at such a distance from the location of the writing of Such Is Life, and its Riverina setting, means that they are sometimes overlooked by literary tourists.

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The naming of Furphy’s Perth house as ‘Tom Collins House’ could be considered problematic in terms of the memorialisation of Furphy as an Australian author. The pseudonym ‘Tom Collins’ may have allowed Furphy greater freedom to express himself, but it also served to shift the focus from Furphy, the author, to a fictitious, unreliable narrator. His adoption of Tom Collins as his pseudonym, and the naming of his house by this pseudonym, has made it more difficult to officially celebrate him as a person of literary significance, and his house as associated with the man rather than his narrator. If writer’s houses are tangible evidence of a literary person’s embodied presence in the world, their graves are markers of their ‘absent-​presence’; writers’ graves, along with their birthplaces, are crucial elements in the construction of literary trails. In the future, Furphy’s grave at Karrakatta Cemetery, along with the Mattie Furphy and Tom Collins houses, could conceivably form focal points along a heritage trail devoted to the memory of Furphy’s final years in Perth.

Scripting Tourist Routes Tourists might be intrigued by Furphy’s notoriously difficult novel, desiring to locate sites that are mentioned within it, such as the Goolumbulla and Runnymede Stations where much of the action happens, or entirely discouraged by the complex interaction between fictional and ‘real’ landscapes. For tourists wishing to follow in the footsteps of Furphy, the journey is liable to be as circuitous as the text of Such Is Life itself. Given the picaresque qualities of the book, perhaps the most ‘authentic’ way to engage with the text and its author is by travelling the routes mentioned in the novel. One way of communing with ‘Furphy country’ is to follow old travelling stock routes that head in the same direction as the present-​day Cobb Highway from Hay across the One Tree Plain to Booligal, where the stock route once crossed the Lachlan River and then on to Mossgiel. From Mossgiel the stock route goes due north for the town of Cobar, connecting with the present road which skirts the Neckarboo Range.77 To date, most Furphy tourists have chosen a few of these locations rather than religiously following the stock routes, which are challenging in terms of distance even for the modern traveller using a car. Booligal, for instance is not a favoured destination and never has been, judging by Banjo Paterson’s damning poem ‘Hay and Hell and Booligal’.78 Susan K.  Martin argues that Such Is Life’s plot of following tracks and trails forces the reader self-​consciously to enact the act of reading. To the extent that the novel is produced and accepted as a national fiction, Martin observes, one outcome of such an act of successful narrative tracking would be to locate at the end, the self as a national subject. However, Tom Collins is a singularly poor tracker at significant moments, and offers no point of identification for a unified, stable national subjectivity.79 Such Is Life offers readers the opportunity to ‘choose their own adventure’ along myriad trails which are often sketchily marked. Furphy’s text frustrates readers with its problematisation of the novel form, making the tracing of ‘real’ routes taken by the narrator (and possibly Furphy himself) difficult indeed. Literary tourists must decide which of the places mentioned in the novel are most intriguing and then build their own itinerary around these sites –​if they can identify them.



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Tom Collins and the Picaresque Such Is Life is a generically eclectic novel that draws on the picaresque, literature of dissent and the romance mode, although it also works to subvert these classifications. For Dennis Douglas, Tom Collins might be described as a ‘rogue’ of the picaresque mode and a ‘fool’ of Shakespearean comedy combined in the same character. These qualities of the narrator allow Furphy to play with the artificially ordered conventions of genre, attempting to ‘mirror’ life complete with its imperfections.80 Bush courtesy, as described by Collins, relies heavily on subterfuge. Theft and deception are basic elements of the picaresque tradition, which feature trickster protagonists practising their skills on the people they meet during their travels. At the time he is ‘writing’ Such Is Life, Collins is unemployed, yet when readers first encounter him in the narrative he is an employee of the New South Wales civil service, working as a Deputy Assistant Sub-​Inspector. He spends his time travelling around the district ‘touting a certain form K for various persons to fill out’, which begins to sound Kafkaesque, as Rodney Hall comments.81 The term ‘literary tourist’ is used twice by Collins, but not in the contemporary sense. In Chapter VI, Collins characterises the ‘literary tourist’ as being of higher status than the one he currently occupies as a public servant visiting Runnymede Station: ‘If my social evolution had continued  –​if I  had expanded into a literary tourist, of sound Conservative principles –​I would have seen the inside of the boss’s house before I had done.’82 His reception at Runnymede has improved since his first visit seven years earlier while tracking a steer, when he was treated with disgust and relegated to camping out in a paddock, but he is still not at the exalted level of the ‘literary tourist’, who might be imagined as a sophisticated  –​and conservative  –​ gentleman of letters. Another reference to the literary tourist occurs in Chapter III when Collins meets up with Dick L., Mrs. B—​’s brother, who was ‘a mine of rare information and queer experiences’ after his itinerant life on ‘the extended wallaby’. An ex-​lawyer who is always (mistakenly) in trouble with the police, ‘he enjoyed (or otherwise) opportunities of seeing things that the literary tourist never sees’.83 Here Furphy seems to be valuing the experience of the swagman on the lam over the monied gentleman seeing the sights for his own edification. His deployment of the term differs from the more straightforward contemporary meaning that denotes a tourist who goes to sites of cultural interest. Instead, it seems that Collins is referring to the literary tourist as a travelling man who reads, such as Furphy was himself, albeit as a working man. Barnes and Hoffmann note that Furphy was a ‘bushman who carried his pocket Shakespeare for reading at night by the light of the campfire, or talked about books with a casual acquaintance for most of the night on the plains of the Riverina’.84

The Afterlife of Such Is Life Among Furphy’s juvenilia is a work named ‘Childe Booth’s Pilgrimage’ dated 1858, when Furphy was an apprentice bullock driver aged 15. This early work shows his interest

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Figure 2.4  Letter from A. G. Stephens to Joseph Furphy, 26 June 1903. Permission granted by the National Library of Australia, MS 2022

in literary pilgrimage as celebrated in Byron’s more famous Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage (1812–​18). A. G.  Stephens predicted that dedicated readers would be drawn to visit Furphy sites, in a letter of 26 June 1903 accompanied by a drawing of a stall and books by Furphy, a drinking trough and a stream of pilgrims to where Furphy’s heart is buried.85 This is a reference to Hardy’s heart, which resides in the St Michael’s churchyard in Stanford, Dorset, while the rest of his remains are interred in Poet’s Corner in Westminster Abbey.



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Even before the publication of Such Is Life, Stephens anticipates a cult of Furphy, involving a pilgrimage to sacred sites. Furphy’s ‘buried heart’ takes on a saintly aura, like a relic worshipped by Christian pilgrims. In this letter, Stephens recognises Furphy’s significance to Australian culture, while acknowledging that the book may be a financial liability: ‘Your whole affair is a curious instance of that dead and gone thing conscience. The book’s so good that it has got itself printed against foreknowledge and predestination absolute that it’ll have a darned slow sale.’86 In 1944, Franklin claimed that Stephens’s prediction of pilgrims ‘is being fulfilled by an increasing number of visitors to the site where Such Is Life was written’.87 There were also annual pilgrimages to Furphy’s birthplace in Yarra Glen from 1933, organised by the Joseph Furphy Memorial Committee.88 These rituals of remembrance were important precursors to contemporary memorials such as the Welsford Street menhir and sculpture and the Tom Collins and Mattie Furphy houses. The Riverina may not contain a tangible monument to Furphy yet it is arguably the most representative territory in terms of his writing, and it seems appropriate for reader-​ tourists to retrace his steps, or close approximations of them. As Andrew Furphy has suggested, from his experience of leading tours of the area, it is difficult to get the route exactly right but the major locations have been confirmed and the rest can be ‘left to the imagination’.89 Andrew Furphy’s tours of his antecedent’s ‘country’ offer a striking precedent within Australian literary commemoration. While family members –​such as Adam Lindsay Gordon’s and Henry Lawson’s widows –​may attend posthumous ceremonies, memorial events are not usually organised and led by family members. This practice testifies to the Furphy family’s ongoing commitment to keeping his writing alive. Roger Osborne has provided a major resource for reader-​tourists by documenting the relevant sites, using Google Maps technology and adding detailed information that is largely drawn from previous scholarship.90 The Google map pinpoints the localities described by Furphy in Such Is Life, Rigby’s Romance and The Buln-​Buln and the Brolga, the three novels that emerged out of the one typescript he completed in 1898. This mapping project is groundbreaking in terms of Australian literary tourism, enabling greater numbers of visitors to access locations associated with the novel and potentially encouraging others to add detail or to create interactive maps of other literary sites. Another guide to Furphy tourism is provided by Susan Lever’s article ‘In Furphy’s Footsteps’ in the Canberra Times, which describes a pilgrimage in March 2012 by Furphy admirers from the Association for the Study of Australian Literature.91 Their attempt to visit the settings of Such Is Life was disrupted by flooding, which thwarted their intention to stay at Willandra Station, by rendering the roads impassable. The travelling party evidently enjoyed their experience of ‘Furphy country’, complete with the same sort of freakish weather conditions that Furphy almost certainly endured while driving his bullock team over 120 years earlier. For these scholar-​tourists, intimate knowledge of Such Is Life offered a frame through which to see the Riverina landscape.92 I was able to visit Willandra Station a few months after the previous group’s failed attempt to make it there through flooding. The landscape of the Riverina on the way to the station seems relatively timeless to the untrained eye. The presence of ancient telegraph poles following the road suggests the early colonial past. I tried to imagine the

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efforts of bullock drivers like Furphy traversing the immense flat expanses, with very few oases such as Willandra Station to sustain them. In this era of plane and car travel, it is difficult to fathom the slowness and precariousness of the bullock driver’s existence. One way to get even closer to Furphy’s experience would be to cover the route on horseback, or with a horse-​drawn vehicle –​as Lawson devotees do between Grenfell and Gulgong every June. Osborne has observed that the hardships for bullock drivers like Furphy were extreme: When one considers that a bullock team travelled at a speed of only three miles an hour (at best), the distances between localities become even more considerable. Add to this the scarcity of food and water for team and driver, one can start to imagine the challenges and loneliness of anyone travelling through Furphy’s Riverina in the nineteenth century.93

Furphy speculated about the future of ‘Our Virgin Continent’ and mocked ideas of the ‘Coming Australian’. Lever has argued that ‘there’s a certain poignancy in looking backwards and assessing how right, and sometimes wrong, he was about the future’.94 He could never have imagined that people would be retracing his steps through the Riverina more than a hundred years later.

Conclusion Hall describes Such Is Life as a ‘great ruin of a novel,’95 following the massive cuts recommended by the editor to reduce its bulk. The complexity of Furphy’s novel has contributed to its failure to connect with a wide readership and lessened its chances of being commemorated through tourism. Instead, the practice of visiting Furphy sites remains the province of a small group of readers. By contrast, Furphy’s contemporary Henry Lawson enjoys much greater public recognition in the form of commemorations. Commentators have noted the immense disparity between the national reputations of Furphy and Lawson. Barnes claims that the contrast with Lawson could ‘hardly be more complete’.96 In City Bushman: Henry Lawson and the Australian Imagination (2004), Christopher Lee argues that various versions of Lawson exist simultaneously, with several groups using him as a vehicle to express their own ideals. This was made vividly apparent at the time of his funeral when politicians and newspapers reified him as a ‘true Australian’. Lee observes that Lawson ‘became a repository of national value because he was seen to express an authentic local Australian experience’.97 As I  discuss in the following chapter, the towns of Grenfell, Mudgee, Eurunderee and Gulgong, located in the area of New South Wales where Lawson grew up, all make claims for connection with Lawson’s legend, with Eurunderee claiming to be ‘The Real Henry Lawson Country’.98 When we compare the number of sites devoted to Lawson’s memory, it seems evident that the Furphy heritage industry is still in its infancy. The annual Lawson festivals in Grenfell and Gulgong, along with many monuments to his memory scattered across the country, testify to the greater resonance of Lawson in the popular imagination. Whereas Lawson attained a public reputation quickly, Furphy experienced



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great delays with the reception and publication of Such Is Life, and his fame was largely posthumous. When Such Is Life was published, there was no ready audience for it as there was for While the Billy Boils (1908) or for A. B. Paterson’s The Man from Snowy River (1895) or Steele Rudd’s On Our Selection (1899); instead it had a small circulation among literary people. Lawson is more easily recuperated as an icon of Australianness because his writing is relatively accessible. This is also reflected in the number of memorials and events to remember Lawson, with myriad statues and likenesses along with two literary festivals and a centre dedicated to him. Given that Furphy makes explicit connections between tracking and writing in Such Is Life, the novel lends itself to the scripting of multiple touristic practices. Even if his masterpiece is not being much read, it seems fitting that Furphy should continue to be remembered through various forms of literary pilgrimage. The sites associated with Furphy’s literary legacy may appeal to reader-​tourists’ sense of nostalgia for an Australia that is long gone. Such Is Life represents a historical and genealogical anchor with preindustrial, rural Australia. Robinson and Andersen suggest that ‘literary tourism increasingly plays to an audience that wishes to travel in time as well as space’99 –​the Furphy tourist sites, in their different ways, appeal to the tourist in search of ‘pastness’. In particular, the figure of Furphy may be symbolically appropriated by tourists to stand for old-​fashioned virtues such as hard work, endurance and mateship. Curiously, even at the time of its publication Such Is Life was valued by critics ‘for its record of a dying age and as a literary achievement of an ordinary worker’.100 It is a text written by a man who was captivated by a now-​distant time in his own personal history. It is intriguing to consider what Furphy would make of his afterlife as an Australian literary icon, particularly since the road to publication of his writing was strewn with obstacles. In many instances, it is easier to celebrate literary figures when they are dead than during their lifetime. An author may be more easily ‘contained’ within dedicated spaces such as their ‘birthplace’ or ‘gravesite’; problematic aspects of the life and work can be elided in favour of elements that are more appealing for a general audience. The recuperation of Lawson’s damaged reputation is a case in point. According to Hall, ‘Lawson was the true star in the firmament, accorded a State funeral even though he had fallen from grace with his alcoholism and turncoat toadying to England.’101 The evident flaws in his character were conveniently overlooked in order to transform him into a national hero. Furphy would certainly need to be ‘made over’ in order to appeal to a wider public. This might involve a focus on the proletarian elements of his storytelling and the elision of the more avant garde qualities of Such Is Life. With his hard life on the bullock trails in the Riverina, Furphy might be seen as a representative figure who symbolises the determination and sheer toughness of nineteenth-​century Australians. Literary tourism is both supply-​led (what places are available for preservation) and demand-​led (what actually interests the literary tourist). Generally speaking, a writer’s popularity propels tourism, whether they are highbrow or lowbrow, whether they can attract substantial numbers of visitors, or whether their life story is compelling enough. Reader demand overrides critical acclaim in many cases. Such Is Life is considered a classic but few people read it, therefore the numbers of tourists attracted to Furphy sites

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are predicted to be modest until interest in the book is reawakened through other means. Croft refers to the ‘dedicated band of Furphyites around Australia (and perhaps beyond)’ who would be a ready-​made audience for Furphy tourist attractions.102 This small, but devoted readership may not be substantial enough to generate ‘mass-​market’ tourism around Furphy; yet their patronage of Furphy sites may enhance his cultural recognition within Australia. As Barnes argues, Such Is Life is, in many ways, a work that was written out of time. Its ‘difficult’ reputation need not get in the way of touristic adventures, however. Potentially Such Is Life tours could take place involving participants who haven’t even opened the book. The act of travelling to Furphy sites could serve to generate more readers, rather than the tourists being created by a taste for the book, which is the expected order of things. Literature can act as an intensifier of the tourist experience, but literary tourism can be undertaken without a participant having read the text closely; in some cases, the tourist may need only a passing knowledge of an author’s biography to find certain sites engaging. Literary tourism is a medium that allows people to live out certain fantasies revising reality and modifying the present in the guise of the past.103 Furphy trails, especially the routes through the Riverina, might act as portals to outback experience in a similar way to re-​enactments of Lawson’s tramp from Bourke to Hungerford. Although familiarity with Such Is Life might increase the chances of being psychically transported by the journey, touristic pursuits may be undertaken without direct reference to this infinitely perplexing text.

Chapter Three HENRY HANDEL RICHARDSON AND THE HAUNTING OF LAKE VIEW HHR is something of a legend, but a legend which will bring no crowds of demonstrators into the streets and stimulate no HHR societies to pore with loving absorption over the minutiae of her life. –​Vincent Buckley 1

Ethel Robertson, better known as Henry Handel Richardson (HHR), was born in Melbourne, living briefly in four Victorian towns in 1870, before moving to Europe in her early twenties. Her father’s dramatic final illness drove the Richardson family to move around frequently, from Hawthorn to Chiltern, Queenscliff to Koroit, then to Maldon and finally back to Melbourne. These places are renamed yet recognisable in HHR’s novel Ultima Thule, the third volume of her Fortunes of Richard Mahony trilogy. Chiltern is perhaps the best known of the HHR sites since her former home Lake View has been preserved in her honour, despite the fact that she lived there for only a few months. In this chapter, I will discuss the potential for imaginative time travel in these four towns through various practices which seek to invoke the spirit of the dead author. Scholars have identified time travel as a significant element of the practice of visiting literary sites. As Alison Booth argues, ‘preserved sites, testimonials of haunting and encounter, and the practices of re-​enactment seem to share the common impulse to deter the decay of time, to shore fragments against our ruin’.2 Paul Westover observes that pilgrims often describe their experience at literary sites in terms of time travel, ‘as if a ruin or artifact were a portal to a vanished past’.3 Through their preservation, literary sites allow visitors to apprehend the ‘absent-​presence’ of the vanished author, or to imagine the author inhabiting the same space in which they temporarily stand. They may also mentally conjure up the characters and scenes that the author has created. In this way, the author’s ‘real life’ and the world he or she has produced may coexist in the mind of the literary tourist. Helen Garner has spoken about a visit to Lake View in the 1990s, en route from Sydney to Melbourne, with her friend Axel Clark, who was then writing the second volume of his biography of HHR. I forget the season, but I remember the weather as dull and clouded, with a cool wind. We had come on the wrong day. The house was not open to visitors. We stood in front of it and looked out over the grey lake in silence. Then in a low voice he said, ‘Bleak, isn’t it’ […] And outside that closed, locked old house I had my first sharp physical sense of HHR’s childhood,

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how anxious and difficult it must have been, and what she had to fight free of. Very soberly we drove on.4

Lake View’s inaccessibility on the day of their visit accentuated its gloominess for Garner, allowing her to perceive the trauma and desire for escape that it must have engendered in HHR. Gerald Murnane has also written about a visit to Lake View on a day when it was locked and unattended. In his poem ‘The Richardson House at Chiltern’, he writes that the people who drove him there wanted to show him the whole town:  ‘The historic buildings /​bored me but I made polite /​sounds in front of them until, at last, we got /​to “Lake View”.’5 He is suddenly engaged by his surroundings, while conceding that Lake View is ‘nothing like the house-​in-​the-​book’, a common disappointment for literary tourists. Murnane claims categorically that he has ‘never been a tourist’ but finds himself riveted by the thought of Mahony’s madness: Walking round it I couldn’t believe     a man could go crazy in that pleasant setting until I pressed my right palm, for some reason,     on a brick and, finding it warm, remembered the night when I arrived too late in the palliative care ward to help my wife die and when I touched the hands on the bed. They were disconcertingly warm     Like Mahony, she had gone crazy once6

The warm brick under his palm acts as a trigger for his own memory of insanity and death. His visit to Chiltern, initially undertaken through a sense of social obligation, opens up a wormhole, catapulting him back to a highly emotional time in his own life. The ‘pleasant setting’ belies the darkness of Dr Richardson’s madness and its fictionalisation in Ultima Thule. The visits of Garner and Murnane to Lake View demonstrate the potential of a book –​and a place associated with it –​to evoke memories which are located powerfully in the body.

Chiltern or ‘Barambogie’ HHR spent precisely 11 months of her life from the ages of six to seven in Chiltern, Victoria, in two periods from 26 July 1876 to 26 January 1877 (the next three months were spent in the seaside town of Queenscliff), then back to Chiltern until her departure in the last week of September 1877. Chiltern was a booming gold town in the 1870s with a population of approximately 22,000 and 45 hotels to quench the thirsts of miners. At the tail end of the boom, Walter Richardson went to Chiltern seeking work as a doctor after a failed practice in Hawthorn, Melbourne, and a decline in his fortunes due to the embezzlement of his once lucrative mining shares. This involved significant downsizing for the family, which had previously inhabited a mansion; yet the children immediately embraced the pleasures of rural life.



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Ghosts and spectres are a ubiquitous aspect of the presentation of literary houses. Indeed, promotional materials for most literary houses encourage the idea that the writer’s home is haunted by their spirit. Ghosts, as readily imagined manifestations of the past, can help visitors to connect with the layers of history in a particular heritage site. Framed by HHR’s writing as well as the storytelling of guides and visitors, Lake View is a house full of psychic activity. In her unfinished memoir Myself When Young (1948), HHR draws on childhood memories of the Chiltern house: Of the place itself I remember chiefly its heat […] the small red-​brick one-​storeyed house […] is clear in every detail. I liked it because all its windows were French windows and usually stood wide open, which gave one a sense of freedom, and because it had a verandah running round three sides of  it.7

Cuffy Mahony in Ultima Thule (1929), who is partly based on HHR herself, initially has a delighted response to the house on the first morning after the family’s arrival in Barambogie. For oh! what a lovely house this was! –​long before anyone else was astir, Cuffy had pattered out barefoot to explore; and all his life after, he loved an empty house for its sake. It had nothing but doors; which spelt freedom: even the windows were doors. There were no stairs. A passage went right down the middle, with a door at each end, which always stood open, and three room-​doors on each side. You could run out of any of the windows and tear round the verandah, to play Hide-​and-​Seek or Hi-​spy-​hi.8

In this passage, the reader can detect connections between HHR’s memories of Lake View and its depiction in Ultima Thule, through the eyes of Cuffy. His mother Mary’s attitude towards the house is less positive, particularly on the morning she is first introduced to it by her husband: When he led her round house and garden: he skimmed airily over the drawbacks –​the distance of the kitchen from the house; the poor water-​supply; the wretched little box of a surgery; the great heat of even this late autumn day –​to belaud the house’s privacy, separated as it was from the rest of the township by the width of the Lagoon; the thickness of the brick walls; the shade and coolness ensured by an all-​round verandah.9

Cuffy’s mother Mary is dubious about the house but she takes pains not to ‘damp’ her husband by saying what she really thinks. Nonetheless, Cuffy and his twin sisters enjoy the unsupervised freedom the house offers since the maid was busy in the kitchen behind the house for most of the day, leaving them to their own devices. Despite the pleasures afforded by the house, HHR remembers that the mood was tense when she lived at Lake View:  ‘the walls were thin, the doors mostly ajar; and nerves frayed by heat and anxiety often escaped control’.10 Worries about her father’s ill health, dwindling medical practice and the future of the children led to marital disharmony while in Chiltern. The money concerns were real since people were leaving the

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town after the downturn of mining. The mine, which had initially promised well, was delayed by at least six months by the striking of water. This meant that workers were laid off and the town was suddenly depleted, affecting Walter’s business. When Mary was away with the children, Richardson wrote that ‘the practice is gone, & is now a farce [–​] there is no money & no sickness!’11 In this letter, Walter may have been overstating the general situation; there were still sick people in the area but they mostly chose to see other doctors at a greater distance rather than taking a chance on the increasingly eccentric Dr Richardson. In Ultima Thule, Mahony suffers mood swings, headaches, nightmares, giddiness and difficulties with speech and writing. The whistle from the nearby flour mill adds to the underemployed doctor’s torment. The sound is described as ‘a shrill and piercing scream –​a kind of prolonged shriek, that rent and tore at the air’.12 HHR explores the psychic distress of Mahony in considerable detail, based on her experience of her father’s illness, but she adds another tragic event to increase the drama. One of Cuffy’s twin sisters, Lallie, dies from fever during their time at Lake View. This increases Mahony’s sense of impotence and further contributes to the family’s instability. As Mahony’s condition worsens, he feels the need to escape the claustrophobia of the house and to run into the trees for solace. Arrived there, he flung himself at full length on the wet and slimy ground […] And for a time he did no more than lie and exult in the relief this knowledge brought him –​this sense of freedom from all things human […] [Mahony] became suddenly aware of the breaking over him of a great light:  he was lying, he found, in a pool of light; a radiance thick as milk, unearthly as moonlight. And this suffused him, penetrated him, lapped him round. He breathed it in, drew deep breaths of it; and, as he did so, the last vestiges of his old self seemed to fall away.13

Mahony experiences a ‘white ecstasy’ that ‘left mere knowledge far behind’. He believed, as he lay face down in the mud, that he now has access to the ‘Ultimate Plan’. Then suddenly the light was gone and ‘the hideous spectre of his blackest nights took visible form, and persisted, till, for the first time, he dared to look it in the face. –​And death seemed a trifle in comparison.’14 Mahony’s disordered mind sees his madness outwardly manifested as a ‘black spectre’ worse than death. Seen as a failed suicide attempt by the Chiltern community, this incident marks the end of Mahony’s credibility as a doctor and necessitates the family’s immediate departure from the town. Mahony’s long-​suffering wife Mary is resigned to the fact that they must leave Chiltern but her greatest regret is that she will be deserting the spirit of her dead daughter Lallie: Her heart was heavy: no matter how unhappy you had been in it, the dismantling of a home was sorry business, and one to which she never grew accustomed. Besides, this time, one of them had to stay behind. As long as they lived there, her child had not seemed wholly gone; so full was the house of memories of her. To the next, to any other house they occupied, little Lallie would be a stranger.15



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The idea of Lallie inhabiting the house after their departure is deeply distressing to Mary, who wishes to protect her even in death. While Lallie is a fictional character, her ghost coexists with those of ‘real’ former inhabitants.

Revisiting Old Haunts In 1912, when she was 42  years old, HHR returned to Australia from her home in England on a research trip for her projected Fortunes of Richard Mahony trilogy. HHR was already the author of two semi-​autobiographical novels, Maurice Guest (1908) and The Getting of Wisdom (1910). She had planned the plot for her trilogy and she travelled to Victoria with the sole intention of undertaking research. During her tour around the State, accompanied by her husband and nephew, she wrote detailed notes recording views, smells, sounds and sensations. These notes were used to produce Ultima Thule, which centres on Lake View, the house in Chiltern where the Richardson family spent six difficult months. The 1912 notes, which are kept in the National Library of Australia, are the earliest outline of the trilogy. They also give the reader some idea of the people and places she encountered on this trip and the ways in which she recorded them for her fiction. As HHR observed, she used the ‘scaffolding’ of her father’s life in her depiction of Richard Mahony. In order to write the trilogy, which focuses on the character of Richard Mahony, based on the biography of her own father Walter Lindesay Richardson, the author needed to enter imaginatively into her parents’ lives. In his reading of the 1912 notes, Clive Probyn argues that ‘she is both re-​enacting the journey of her parents, and at the same time telling herself about the future novel’.16 Indeed, the notes show that HHR’s research trip encouraged her to imaginatively inhabit her father’s psyche in preparation for fictionalising his life in her Fortunes of Richard Mahony trilogy. HHR spent five full weeks in Victoria. After Melbourne and the Dandenongs, she visited Queenscliff, Koroit and Chiltern in quick succession, ‘completing the stations of her father’s ordeal in less than a week’.17 Michael Ackland is referring to Walter Lindesay Richardson’s devastating illness that eventually led to mental deterioration and collapse. His sickness, which may have been the result of syphilis or arteriosclerosis became pronounced during the family’s time in Chiltern, and cast a shadow over this period of HHR’s life. As Ackland observes, ‘Chiltern marked the end of the family’s hopes.’18 Although it is not mentioned in her notes, HHR actually walked around Lake View taking photographs of the house and its surroundings, conducting a thorough inspection to fill out her already vivid mental images of the place.19 On the back of a photo of Lake View, in her unmistakable handwriting, she notes ‘Mahony’s home Barambogie’. Her notes give no indication of her personal feelings about revisiting the house with its store of memories. Yet there is evidence of strong emotion transmuted into her fiction. HHR’s means of travel differed considerably from that of her parents, since she saw the country from a railway carriage and stayed at good hotels, whereas her parents had travelled by horse and cart or on foot, living under canvas on the way. Despite

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the difference in their modes of travel. Nevertheless HHR faithfully reconstructed her parents’ journey and its travails down to the minutest details. In her 1912 notes, we see a foreshadowing of her dark depiction of Chiltern as Barambogie in Ultima Thule. This name may have been taken from Lake Barambogie, which in turn was named after the Barambogie mining company. After making very detailed notes on the natural environment, particularly the flora, HHR writes: Narrow streets of the township; the crude red of the brick. The great bare green-​bordered roads. All the horrid sticky little-​ness of the place. To think of it going on day after day with no hope of escape. Banksias everywhere (He could not always find his words) The lagoon almost dried up The right-​of-​way beside the house. Flies, blowflies, dust, heat. Blaze of light and sun (October); bare roads. Lilac full out. Figs quite large. Shops shut up. Journey back. The gums grey in the heat; they droop, look withered. Sky grey with heat; trunks grey. Hills full of bare grey trunks.20

Probyn observes that when reading the 1912 notes ‘we are in a creative area where the real and imagined are utterly inseparable’.21 The notes reveal HHR’s imaginative reconstruction of her father’s mental state during the 11 months in Chiltern. When she writes, ‘To think of it going on day after day with no hope of escape,’ she is empathising with his pronounced sense of entrapment and desolation. The repeated references to grey-​ ness –​‘the gums grey in the heat’, ‘Sky grey with heat; trunks grey. Hills full of bare grey trunks’ –​indicate the bleak, depressive mood that the landscape is made to conjure up in the Barambogie scenes of Ultima Thule. To some degree, the oppressive landscape is both the backdrop and the trigger for the doctor’s mental disintegration. Through a close examination of HHR’s notes, the reader may discern that she was focusing her energies on connecting with her father’s ‘spirit’ in order to reanimate him textually. Although he had a huge impact on her life, she claimed that she had few memories of him: ‘Of the many dim shades of the past, his is one of the dimmest. I cannot remember what he looked like, or how he spoke or moved, or, in fact, anything at all about his outward appearance.’22 She had a few fragments of memory and sources such as letters and newspapers from which to resurrect her father in the form of Richard Mahony. She gave Mahony Walter Richardson’s interest in Spiritualism. One line in her 1912 notes confirms this: ‘It would be in Chiltern with nothing to do that he would abandon him[self] to Spiritualism.’23 In this cryptic sentence, HHR enters imaginatively into her father’s attraction to ‘the other side’. In his rural isolation, Walter Lindesay Richardson joined a Spiritualist circle that held regular séances. In fact, he had originally been drawn to the post in Chiltern because the former physician Dr Rohner was well known in Spiritualist circles and wrote articles for the Spiritualist publication The



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Harbinger of Light to which Richardson also contributed. In July 1877, The Harbinger of Light published Richardson’s report on a meeting of the Chiltern Spiritualist circle: I have had the pleasure lately of being present at the above circle by invitation of the spirits themselves; and as I was long convinced by personal investigation of the phenomena, and the causes of the same, I hardly expected to receive such fresh evidence, or to witness anything new. I was, however, agreeably disappointed […] I held conversation with the invisibles. They wished me to come oftener, they said. They were so happy.24

Richardson had long been interested in the intellectual side of Spiritualism, but his time in Chiltern saw an increasing preoccupation with séances and supernatural practices. HHR, like her father before her, was a fervent believer in Spiritualism, subscribing to the existence of human entities beyond death.25 As she wrote to her friend Mary Kernot in October 1931: I do wonder if, like me, you [Kernot] have come to look on death as a simple passing from one room to the next? –​a mere matter of a different rate of vibration. For me, the dead go on existing just as they were, though invisible to us, & only gradually reaching heights from which they are inaccessible. To know this, has certainly made my own life much easier.26

HHR uses the image of the house to explain her Spiritualist belief that loved ones continue to exist ‘invisibly’ in the next room. Arguably, her traumatic childhood experiences at Lake View laid the foundations for her lifelong devotion to Spiritualism. A  replica of HHR’s ouija board in the Lake View collection refers to this passionate, yet hidden, system of belief.

Lake View Reborn Situated in Victoria Street, Chiltern, Lake View was built at the height of the goldrush. The land was purchased from the Crown by Andrew Kilgour in 1869 and was then sold to M. A. M. Hancock in 1870. Mrs Hancock built the house between 1872 and 1874. Local red bricks were used for its construction. It was remarkable for being the only house in the locality with French windows. Lake View still stands in front of Lake Anderson (or the ‘Lagoon’ or ‘swamp’ as it is called in Ultima Thule), which was created by the subsidence of the Alliance gold mine. A small island covered in trees in the middle of the lake began life as a mullock heap. The lake is scenic, especially in the cooler seasons, but the water in the lake can become depleted with the searing temperatures of the Chiltern summer. Bequeathed to the National Trust by the local baker Lily Salmon, Lake View only barely escaped demolition due to its unsound state. Long-​term Chiltern resident and Lake View preservation campaigner Andrew Gilmour suggests that it was more expensive to demolish the house than to give it away, therefore the bequest was less generous than it might seem.27 Some of the domestic items from HHR’s time at Lake View, which were hastily sold off at auction, were Gilmour’s playthings as a child, including a patent lamp and a Dresden tea set.28

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In 1929, the year Ultima Thule was published, a Methodist Minister named Mr Frost was living at Lake View. He wrote to HHR asking whether the house he inhabited was in fact the house in her novel. HHR replied in the affirmative, but this letter is no longer in existence.29 The preservation of Lake View was almost prevented by a Nettie Palmer’s erroneous claim that the house had been pulled down in Henry Handel Richardson: A Study (1950): On her return to Australia in 1912, she visited Chiltern to examine the house in which her father had spent some of his most painful months. It had been pulled down, but she carefully took measurements of the rooms in another house of the same kind and pattern, so that she might more easily visualise Mahony in his little box of a surgery, or the living-​room where the round rosewood table devoured the floor-​space and the Collard took up nearly the whole of one wall.30

Palmer had asserted that this information about HHR’s return to Australia in 1912 was mentioned in a 1919 diary but no diary has ever been found. Whatever the reasons for Palmer’s incorrect assertion –​miscommunication with HHR herself or hearsay –​it had a detrimental effect on the efforts to turn Lake View into a museum, since some people thought it had already been destroyed.31 The first move by a group of locals to preserve the building was made in 1961, after a series of meetings. At this time, doubts about the location of the Richardson’s house were expressed by a number of individuals and organisations. Donald Graham –​an architect and former resident of Chiltern –​wrote many letters to the north-​east branch of the National Trust claiming that the correct house was next door to Lake View.32 Due to various uncertainties, approval was not granted for Lake View’s restoration until 1965. It was officially opened by the Governor of Victoria Sir Rohan Delacombe on 3 January 1970. Professor Manning Clark delivered the first Oration which described HHR as ‘one of the greats of our day’.33 In a demonstration of the ways in which texts may inscribe places, HHR’s descriptions of the Mahony residence in Ultima Thule were used as the basis for the reconstruction of Lake View as a house museum. National Trust conservators took pains to replicate the layout of the house, sourcing period furnishings that aligned closely with their fictional counterparts. A piano in the drawing room reminds the visitor of the major role played by music in HHR’s life, with a musical career in Leipzig before she became a novelist. The house also contains medical equipment, including a birthing chair, which references its former function as a medical practice. Memorabilia such as articles, letters, photos and portraits are also displayed –​including a striking portrait of HHR by Rupert Bunny –​once again reminding the visitor of HHR’s successful career beyond Chiltern. HHR’s first writing desk is in one of the rooms, despite the fact that she was too young to have ever written there. However, her memoir suggests that she was already composing stories in her head at this time. In Myself When Young, HHR reflects on her juvenile storytelling, which arose in response to the lack of reading matter; a symptom of the family’s reduced means: ‘It was here that, no new books coming in, I took to making



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Figure 3.1  Social Function at Lake View Homestead, Chiltern. Photograph by Le Dawn Studios. Reproduced with the permission of the State Library of Victoria, PCLTFBN 214

up stories for myself. To the accompaniment of a ball bounced against a wall.’34 The desk now displayed at Lake View accompanied HHR on moves between Europe and England, enabling the writing of Maurice Guest and The Getting of Wisdom. The presence of this desk, which belongs to HHR’s middle age, represents a departure from strict historical accuracy, indicating that there is no way of going back to the precise time that HHR lived in the house; instead it’s now a surface for the display of artefacts relating to HHR’s literary production. The display of the desk, with its complex material history, brings together multiple times and places in the present of the house, which the perceptive visitor might apprehend on some level. The guides at Lake View emphasise the connections between the house and its fictional representation in Ultima Thule, contributing to a slippage between the ‘real’ narrative of the Richardsons and the partially invented story of the Mahonys. On my first visit, the guide emphasised Richardson’s/​Mahony’s madness, claiming that the cause was syphilis contracted at the Ballarat goldfields, although this has not been definitively proven. As Dorothy Green notes, ‘no proof of the cause of dementia was possible in 1879’, and indeed none is possible now, with a handful of bones over a hundred years old.35 Although the diagnosis of syphilis is not verifiable at this distance in time, the information conveyed by the guide stayed with me, shaping the way I saw the house. Lake View became overlaid by a narrative of trauma and disgrace of which I had been previously unaware. This is by no means unusual, since many guides strive to bring heritage sites alive for visitors, sometimes stretching the truth in the process. The extra-​textual

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information provided by the guide and the elements that they emphasise undoubtedly frame the tourist experience. Guides seek to populate the literary house museum with past inhabitants and explain the significance of objects and events, weaving a narrative that engages the visitor, however ‘truthful’ it may be. Hilary Iris Lowe, in her discussion of Mark Twain’s former residence Quarry Farm, observes that fellows frequently say that the place is ‘haunted’ by the ‘spirit’ of Twain but they hardly ever mean that it is ‘actually haunted’. Instead, they are referring to the mingling of presences at Quarry Farm –​both past and present, real and imaginary.36 Successful preservation practices allow a range of responses from visitors rather than predetermining their experience. There is an intimate quality of the communion (albeit one-​way) between living tourist and dead writer, enabling a temporal shift. Polly Atkin describes this function as ‘co-​presencing’, which does not describe a journey into the past so much as the past continuing to be existent in the present.37 Visitors to Lake View, while still inhabiting the present, can perceive the layers of history at the site, including HHR’s childhood habitation, her 1912 return and the period of residence by others followed by near dereliction and subsequent refurbishment. Celebrations of HHR’s birthday on 3 January at Lake View implicitly recognise the importance of acknowledging the past in the present. At this event, HHR devotees have supper in the garden of Lake View and enjoy speeches, readings, ceremonial cake-​cutting and a rendition of Happy Birthday for the absent author. It was at the birthday party that the decision was made to start the Henry Handel Richardson Society, which has been in existence since 2008. The first society event was a bus trip that started in Chiltern, taking members to Melbourne, Queenscliff and Maldon. This included a tour of HHR’s birthplace Blanche Terrace in Victoria Parade, East Melbourne, led by the current owner and society member John Barkla.38 Graeme Charles of the HHR Society notes that many people, including locals, often ask why Chiltern makes such a ‘fuss’ about HHR, when she was, after all, resident in the town for a relatively short period of her life.39 He emphasises Lake View’s central significance, given that HHR has no burial site since her ashes were scattered on the sea near Hastings in England, where she lived in later years.40 Through the aforementioned rituals at the site of her Chiltern house, the spirit of HHR is summoned to engage with the living. At a birthday celebration in 1977, Joan Palmer sat on the lawn at Lake View listening to HHR’s work being read aloud when she apprehended a presence: ‘It was then I heard the sound of running feet and a childish voice talking to herself as she bounced a ball regularly against the old brick walls.’41 For Palmer, the atmosphere of Lake View is vivid enough to bring the young HHR back to life. The visitor who has read Ultima Thule or Myself When Young, which offer insights into HHR’s childhood, has a greater chance of imaginatively entering the author’s psychic space. Travel journalist Kerrin O’Sullivan reported that the house gave her the opportunity to ‘see’ through time:  ‘It feels a little eerie, as if I’m looking through the great author’s eyes, indeed through time itself.’42 O’Sullivan engaged in imaginative time travel



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to inhabit HHR’s subjectivity, seeing Lake View from the author’s perspective, albeit fleetingly. In their discussion of the use of ghosts in Scottish heritage tourism, David Inglis and Mary Holmes recognise the value of spectres for attracting and entertaining tourists.43 They argue that ‘the places where ghosts are held to live out their spectral non-​lives are constructed as being authentic through the very presence of the ghost, which operates as a hallmark of the archaic nature of the locale in question’.44 Since ghosts do not appear on cue, some tourism operators use actors dressed up as ghosts to frighten tourists as they tour various Scottish houses and castles. Inglis and Holmes observe that ‘the threat of the phantom has been turned into a promise, and fear of the spectral has been transformed into fun’.45 Although Lake View does not feature actors masquerading as ghosts, there are distinct possibilities for communion with the departed presences of the young HHR and her troubled father and assorted others. Beryl Pickering, a guide who has been associated with Lake View for 25 years, claims that the ghosts are not all connected with HHR, but the preservation of the house has allowed them to be apprehended and their existence communicated to a wider audience. Pickering observes that four mediums have come through Lake View at different times and have felt the presence of ghosts in the house, most notably a ‘distressed’ man pacing up and down the hallway and a little old lady sitting on a bed in the children’s nursery. Pickering herself has not seen ghosts but she says that she has had a number of strange experiences, including the unexplained movement of items in the house.46 These spectral phenomena add to the legend of Lake View, giving it a supernatural aura that appeals to many visitors.

Maldon or ‘Warrenega’ Maldon appears in various guises in four of HHR’s works:  The Getting of Wisdom, The Fortunes of Richard Mahony, The End of a Childhood and Myself When Young. In 1883, HHR travelled from Maldon to Melbourne to attend Presbyterian Ladies College as a boarder at the age of 13. HHR’s own experience is mirrored in The Getting of Wisdom when Laura Rambotham leaves her home in Warrenega to go to a boarding school in Melbourne. In her memoir Myself When Young, HHR writes that she spent ‘the happiest days of my childhood in Maldon’. It is of Maldon that she thinks ‘when, of a sleepless night, my thoughts turn homewards’.47 The garden produced huge amounts of fruit including muscatels, nectarines, peaches, apricots, strawberries, raspberries and white-​ heart cherries. Vegetables were provided by ‘John Chinamen’ who ‘trotted from door-​to-​door with their hanging baskets’.48 HHR observes ‘the fact that, physically, I turned out even as well as I did, I believe I owe to this garden […] I throve as never before, and soon grew out of the jumpy overstrung little creature I was when I went there.’49 Probyn argues that HHR’s description develops into a ‘catalogue of raging horticultural fertility’, providing ‘the perfect blueprint’ for a wholesale restoration of the Maldon post-​office garden, should it ever be attempted.50

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Figure 3.2  Re-​enactment of Laura's journey to school in The Getting of Wisdom, Maldon (2009). Courtesy of Janey Runci

In contrast with Chiltern, where there were no ‘suitable’ children to play with, Maldon is remembered by HHR as a very sociable place. Lil and Ettie had their first experience of parties, both as hosts and guests. She speaks of Maldon’s inhabitants as having ‘helped to nourish the imagination of the future storyteller’.51 Although current Maldon residents delight in the depiction of the town in her memoir, Peter Cuffley et al. argue that it is likely that ‘the picture is an idealised one, written as it was from a distance and in hard times for the writer’.52 The first tangible impulse to celebrate HHR in Maldon –​which she called ‘Warrenega’ in The Getting of Wisdom and her Fortunes of Richard Mahony trilogy –​was the placement of a plaque at the post office in the 1970s. This was an energetic decade for HHR commemoration with the opening of Lake View, the production of a postage stamp bearing HHR’s portrait, the release of Bruce Beresford’s film The Getting of Wisdom and the gazetting of the Canberra suburb of Richardson. It was not until the 2000s that these efforts to memorialise HHR were further extended. In 2009, the Henry Handel Richardson Celebration Weekend in Maldon included readings from Myself When Young, a slideshow of the most important people to HHR, a shadow puppet show about her life and an HHR trivia quiz which required participants to write a four-​line poem about the author.53 One of the highlights was the performance of a short play by Janey Runci called ‘Her Daughter’s Hair’ at the post office and a costumed re-​enactment of Richardson’s character Laura from The Getting of Wisdom in a Cobb & Co. coach heading towards



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Castlemaine on her way to school in Melbourne. HHR used specific details of Maldon to depict Laura’s departure, which have since been used to structure contemporary tours of Maldon.54 As long as the coach rolled down the main street Laura sat bolt upright at the window. In fancy she heard people telling one another that this was little Miss Rambotham going to school […] at the National Bank the manager’s wife waved a friendly hand to the children, and at the Royal Mail hotel where they drew up for passengers or commissions, Mrs Paget, the stout landlady, came out, smoothing down her black satin apron.55

This is a salient example of a fictional text being used explicitly to frame tourist ­experience. This carriage ride was not only re-​enacted as a spectacle for the crowd but was also offered to visiting fans as an immersive experience. In 2010, Henry Handel Richardson in Maldon and a franking stamp featuring HHR during her time in Maldon were launched. The illustrated booklet, which won the Best Walk/​Tour category of the Victorian Community History Awards, emerged from the celebratory events of the year before. The book contains three walks around the centre of Maldon, including a detailed map, and features 16 heritage buildings; the cemetery and significant graves; and a guide to places fictionalised in HHR’s The Getting of Wisdom. One walk encourages the tourist to imagine Maldon in the Richardson era. It prompts the walker to see Maldon from the perspective of the post office, HHR’s former home, where Mary Richardson lived and worked as a postmistress. Starting at the post office, the book guides the walker through sites of interest detailing their history and possible connections with the author and her work.56 Given HHR’s references to the abundant gardens of Maldon, it seems appropriate that she was remembered through a garden tour in 2011. HHR enthusiasts from Maldon organised a tour of eight private gardens concluding at the Anglican church vicarage where HHR spent time as a girl. An afternoon tea was given afterwards in the garden at the post office. Although the garden is not as luscious as HHR remembered, and smaller after subdivision, it is still used by the family of the post office manager, in keeping with its earlier habitation by the Richardsons.

Queenscliff or ‘Shortlands’ Queenscliff was the place to which Walter escaped in 1876, after the decline of his medical practice in Chiltern. Mary and the children joined him there in early 1877. Since his mind was already disordered, he could not take up duties of a full doctor and was given the role of Acting Health Officer and then Acting Tide Surveyor as his mental acuity diminished further. HHR remembered that it was the children’s job to bring him back home when he got lost on his erratic walks around the town. In Ultima Thule, Richard’s pace is described as a long springing step with the right, followed by a shorter one with the left:  a gait that had already earned him the nickname in Shortlands of ‘Old Dot-​and-​go-​one’.57 Bruce Steele argues that it’s fairly certain that much of what Cuffy Mahony reports of his father in Queenscliff is based on HHR’s own memories.

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‘Fear and humiliation from the taunts of other children –​“Who’d have a cranky doctor for a father?” –​would have etched the experience indelibly on her mind.’58 Steele notes that he would lurch about the streets, constantly muttering and laughing to himself.59 At one point, he set fire to his documents in his surgery, an event that may have prompted his admission to the Cremorne hospital in September 1878. A subsequent owner of the house at 26 Mercer Street showed biographer Axel Clark evidence of a fire still visible on the walls of the room Walter used as a surgery.60 The departure of Walter to hospital urgently required Mary to make a living: she undertook training as a postmistress, which meant that she was forced to leave Ettie and Lil at home alone for long periods. HHR claims that she ‘fetched out my ball, and lost myself in story-​making’, while her sister ‘had no such refuge’, which caused a ‘constant twitter of nervous anxiety’ that lasted into her young adulthood.61 The Mercer Street house still stands, near St Georges Church, vicarage and the Royal Hotel, where Walter is reputed to have given medical lectures. The house now functions as a bed and breakfast, whose hosts are open to showing tourists around.62 In October 2017, the Queenscliff Historical Society held a re-​enactment of an excerpt from the Richardson family’s life in their time in the Mercer Street house in front of an audience of 50 to 60 people assembled in the front garden. Written by Dorothy Johnston, the playlet was performed twice, at the beginning and end of History Week. It is set during the aforementioned period when Mary had left the girls alone with their father while she was training to be a postmistress. Ettie and Lil were played by local girls wearing nineteenth-​century dresses. Through the playlet, Johnston tried to evoke the ‘true heart of darkness’ in the Mercer Street house at the time when Walter was increasingly unwell, before he was ultimately institutionalised.63 The performance was concluded by a spirited reading from the final portion of Ultima Thule.

Koroit or ‘Gymgurra’ Mary Richardson was posted to Koroit when her training was completed in September 1879. She took the decision to remove Walter from the Yarra Bend Asylum, where he had been sent after the Cremorne hospital once their funds ran out. In Ultima Thule, Mary pleads repeatedly for her husband’s release but the process in real life may have been more straightforward. In February 1879, he was released ‘on leave’ and escorted to Koroit. In Ultima Thule, HHR describes Mahony’s arrival at Burrabool by boat. Details of the town as mentioned in her memoir Myself When Young and in Ultima Thule are readily identifiable, including the post office and the Koroit Hotel (Mickey Bourke’s), where the guards stayed when they brought Walter Richardson home from the asylum to die at the post office with Mary. He died in August 1879 and was buried in the Tower Hill Cemetery –​in the Church of England section –​despite being an avowed Spiritualist. In Myself When Young, HHR observes that as a child of nine years she had felt mostly relief at the death of Walter, but that changed over time:



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Not till many years later when, with the help of old letters and diaries, I began to trace the shifting course of his life and the character behind it, for my work on Richard Mahony, did I  grasp at least something of what he must have suffered, both for himself and for those dependent on him.64

In the final paragraph of his book on Walter, Bruce Steele observes that Mary was not left penniless as was her namesake in The Fortunes of Richard Mahony; in fact Walter left a quite substantial sum behind him, enough for the family to consider relocating to Europe, which they did after the girls finished their secondary education. A tour of Koroit by the HHR Society in 2017 included visits to the post office and a reading from the final scene of Ultima Thule at Walter’s grave. All that was mortal of Richard Mahony has long since crumbled to dust. For a time, fond hands tended his grave, in which in due course a small cross rose, bearing his name, and marking the days and years of his earthly pilgrimage. But, those who had known and loved him passing, scattering, forgetting, rude weeds choked the flowers, the cross toppled over, fell to pieces and was removed, the ivy that entwined it uprooted. And, thereafter, his resting-​ place was indistinguishable from the common ground.65

Unlike his fictional alter-​ego, Walter Richardson’s grave is marked with a memorial tablet erected many years after his death by the Melbourne-​based Bread and Cheese Club. The tablet describes Walter as ‘Father of Henry Handel Richardson famous Australian Authoress’. This retrospective linking of Walter with his more famous daughter demonstrates that the restoration of the grave is largely due to his HHR’s reputation. In contrast with HHR’s expectations, Walter continues to be commemorated, albeit through the society devoted to his daughter’s memory.

Conclusion In the introduction to the Text Publishing edition of Fortunes of Richard Mahony, Peter Craven attempts to account for the relative neglect of HHR’s trilogy: Only Australia could have coughed up The Fortunes of Richard Mahony. A  doctor on the goldfields meets a girl and makes good. He thrives, he fails, he goes off his head. He brings all his bright hopes crashing down around him because he has no capacity for practical life. Call that a national epic. No wonder we settled for the doggerel and the bushrangers.66

He argues that the impulse to create an Australian art of fiction ‘filled with that sense of calamity that can rise to tragedy, an art exalted in its scope however rooted in the notations of naturalism, and open to the way Australia can impose itself on the geography of the imagination as a thing of doom, rather than good fortune, all harks back to Richard Mahony’.67 In other words, The Fortunes of Richard Mahony is a bleak saga, which suggested hitherto unforeseen possibilities to novelists like Patrick White, yet it’s still unpalatable to the wider Australian population who have historically been more interested in ‘doggerel’ and bushrangers. Mahony was a ‘seeker’ –​a restless figure who was always looking for something better, in this world or the next –​who ended up as a ‘failure’. The fictionalised

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story of Walter Ricardson’s life provided the basis for an Australian epic which is as misunderstood and underrated as its protagonist. This chapter has shown that time travel and haunting are important themes within HHR’s fiction, for the author, for readers and for visitors to sites of remembrance. An exploration of Lake View allows a kind of imaginative transport to the ‘actual’ past, through its collection of artefacts both genuine and approximated, as well as the fictionalised past of HHR’s trilogy. Just as HHR reconfigured Lake View  –​and four Victorian towns  –​in her fiction, so literary tourists can visualise the young HHR, or imaginatively ‘become’ her younger self, in the spaces she once inhabited. Another way of entering into HHR’s early world is to walk around Chiltern and Maldon on self-​ guided tours. These former goldfields towns in particular, cherished for their heritage, are more intact than other literary locations, allowing greater imaginative engagement on the part of the HHR enthusiast. Despite the attempts to pin HHR’s childhood to particular Victorian places, using the trilogy and The Getting of Wisdom as textual evidence, HHR always evades such categorisation. She was relentlessly ambivalent about Australia, a country she returned to only once, expressly for the purpose of undertaking literary research. Arguably her spiritual home was England, the country in which she died and where her ashes were scattered over the sea, along with those of her husband. In a letter to her French translator Paul Solanges, HHR wrote about the strange experience of returning to her former haunts in 1912:  ‘It was not the present me I presented to those people out there […] It was the small remainder of memories and common experiences left over from a long-​past day, & these alone.’68 Although HHR disavows any emotional engagement with the sites of her youth, the writing of the trilogy involved a revisiting of scenes burnt indelibly on her mind and a final reckoning with the ‘ghosts’ that haunted her throughout her life.69

Chapter Four HENRY LAWSON COUNTRY Henry Lawson (1867–​1922) is the most celebrated ‘national author’ in Australian history, with many material commemorations, including statues, parks, seats, trees, a fountain and a barbeque.1 With two competing festivals in New South Wales and societies devoted to his memory, the celebration of Lawson easily outstrips all other authors.2 Given the sheer number of monuments to and remembrances of Lawson, this chapter is necessarily selective, focusing on key sites that illustrate his symbolic importance to the nation. In many ways, Lawson was an unfortunate figure whose tragedies have inspired dismissal, disgust, dedication and even obsession. Commemoration of Lawson since his death has been fitful, yet incredibly long-​lived, due to the extraordinary commitment of his admirers. In 1942, American writer and critic Hartley C.  Grattan3 commented that Lawson was the only Australian writer commemorated by annual pilgrimages and public monuments.4 As Robert Darby argues, Grattan grasped Lawson’s central importance in Australian culture, though he might have qualified this statement by referring to other writers who have been treated to the same sort of attention.5 Grattan overlooked the pilgrimages to Adam Lindsay Gordon’s grave which occurred consistently from the late nineteenth century until the Second World War.

Lawson Country Lawson was born on 17 June 1867 at Grenfell, New South Wales, the eldest of four surviving children of Niels Hertzberg (Peter) Larsen, Norwegian-​born miner, and his wife Louisa, née Albury. Peter and Louisa were married in 1866 and Henry was born about a year later. The family surname changed from Larsen to Lawson when Henry’s parents registered his birth. The family moved often as Peter followed the gold but in August 1873, with the birth of their third child imminent, they finally settled back at Pipeclay in the Mudgee region where they had started from. Peter took up a selection which Louisa managed; she also ran a post office in his name while he worked as a building contractor around Mudgee.6 As the site of his youth, this area has been dubbed ‘Lawson country’. Alison Booth describes author country as ‘a shared conception of setting’,7 yet this conception is sometimes contested as well as shared. The notion of ‘author country’ emerged in Britain in the final decades of the nineteenth century. Writers themselves cultivated public recognition of the setting of their work as actual location, most notably Thomas Hardy, who coined the term ‘Wessex’ in the preface to Far From the Madding Crowd (1874). Hardy

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produced maps of Wessex partly because he wanted to foil the beginnings of Hardy tours in the 1890s. These maps were notoriously unreliable due to their combination of real and imagined topographies. A ‘country’ requires a constellation of sites associated with an author, and many Australian authors are not well commemorated, if at all. As I  argue in Chapter Two, Joseph Furphy also has a claim to a country in the Riverina, which he traversed as a bullock driver, providing material for his magnum opus Such Is Life, yet this term is not often applied to the places he experienced and wrote about. It is more readily applied to Lawson country due to his widespread popular appeal, at least in the early to mid-​twentieth century. Lawson country encompasses the Mudgee region of New South Wales and the remains of the Eurunderee homestead, Lawson’s old school, the Henry Lawson Centre and the annual Gulgong Festival. Grenfell, the site of Lawson’s birth, makes a competing claim for pre-​eminence as an alternative Lawson country. Nevertheless, the multiple Lawson sites in the Mudgee region strengthen its claim for country status, despite the obvious power of autochthony. ‘A Fragment of Autobiography’, which Lawson wrote between 1903 and 1908, in the final throes of alcoholism, represented his childhood and formative years as uniformly miserable from the bleak perspective of his destitute present. Brian Matthews argues that during the years when Lawson was writing his ‘Fragment’, he had many and multiplying reasons to see himself as ‘blighted then and blighted always’. Similarly, the stories and poems that feature Grenfell and Gulgong such as ‘Brighten’s Sister In Law’, ‘Water Them Geraniums’ and ‘A Double Buggy at Lahey’s Creek’ are full of sadness and conflict, partly reflecting Lawson’s painful experiences growing up.8 Lawson’s own feelings towards the Eurunderee of his youth were mixed: he described it in his writing as ‘a stony barren ridge’ infested by ‘rank weeds, goats and utter weariness and desolation’ but also as ‘like a gem in the range’.9 Arguably, Eurunderee is the epicentre of Lawson country with the homestead and the school within a few kilometres of each other.10 Lawson’s own willingness to publicly associate himself with the places of his youth is seemingly confirmed by a letter he wrote to the Eurunderee community recalling the community during his school days. Dear Friends, Some of my ‘most happy days’ were spent in Erunderee. They were rich and fulfilling –​as I later related in my poems and stories. It was at ‘The Old Bark School’ on that opening day, October 2, 1876 that John Tierney, the first schoolmaster, began the task of teaching 27 boys and 18 girls. We were a motley band –​the children of farmers, miners, vintners, labourers and store-​keepers. There were Buckholtz’s, Wurth’s, Snelson’s, Roth’s, Roe’s, Bones’, Muller’s, Harvey’s –​and others, as well as the Lawson’s […] Let it be known that I am ‘most happy’ to return as a symbol of the Erunderee, I always loved and understood. Yours truly, Henry Lawson11

Here Lawson names the families that he had known during his youth, cementing his claim of association with Eurunderee and paving the way for a nostalgic visit in his final decade.



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Figure  4.1  Henry Lawson’s home at Eurunderee (1948). Reproduced with permission of the State Library of New South Wales, FL 2004622

Eurunderee Homestead Following his friend Tom Mutch’s advice, Lawson returned to Eurunderee in April 1914. He left for Sydney by the night train and for the first two days stayed at Flanagan’s Victoria Hotel which inspired the poem ‘Flanagan’s Hotel’. He changed the name to ‘Callaghan’s Hotel’ when it was later published in the Bulletin. Norman McVicker notes that on arriving at his old home, occupied since 1883 by Henry O’Brien, he found that it had been altered by the addition of skillions. Yet the front of the home was covered with ivy planted by his mother during his childhood.12 Lawson found this time in Eurunderee very lonely but managed to do some writing while there, publishing his poem ‘Eurunderee’ in the Mudgee Guardian on 23 April 1914 and developing a three-​part sketch called ‘Amongst My Own People’ which was later published in the Bulletin.13 Even though Lawson was only 46 at the time of his return visit to Eurunderee, he already saw himself as elderly: ‘So we old writers go timbering up the walls of our ruined lives, and sinking through the mullock of the Present and bailing out, and delving in the drift and the ash for the gold of human nature and the best part of the Past. And we seldom find them.’14 In 1946, 24  years after Lawson’s death, George Farwell visited the dilapidated Lawson homestead. He described it as ‘a shabby, tin-​roofed slab affair’ that stood in a small garden bare of anything but thistles. Farwell picked the lock of the front door to enter.

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Daylight ebbed through the cracks in the rotting slabs. A few dark shreds of wallpaper hung from the wall beside the fireplace. Hessian strips festooned the ceiling. White ants had played havoc with the stringybark slabs and sheep droppings were everywhere.15

He mentions that ‘vandals, white ants and rats have left their own forms of tribute’, acknowledging the work of the human and non-​human agents in the deterioration of the house.16 ‘Once upon a time the Lawson home might have been renovated, restored’, he wrote, ‘but now it appears to be too late’.17 The house was demolished the same year, despite energetic campaigns by left-​wing intellectuals, the Fellowship of Australian Writers and the Lawson societies. Although the campaign to memorialise Lawson’s old homestead began in 1935, it did not achieve its goal until 1949. In The Necessity for Ruins (1980), John Brinckerhoff Jackson writes about the ‘interval of neglect’ that precedes a ruin’s reclamation as a symbol of a faded golden age.18 Caitlin DeSilvey and Tim Edensor observe that in some places, where economic depression militates against inward investment, ‘ruins may linger for decades; in sites of more dynamic social and economic change, ruined structures are apt to be swiftly razed, reclaimed or restored’.19 The homestead’s location in rural Mudgee allowed it to remain relatively untouched for decades, yet it was not allowed to crumble into ruins ‘naturally’ –​notably, there are few examples of this non-​interventionist attitude to ruins in Australia. Instead, the homestead was demolished and the land it occupied was established as a memorial site. The manner in which the Lawson homestead has been memorialised draws attention to a reluctance to allow ruins to persist –​unruly and decaying structures must be tidied up for public consumption rather than being left alone. In 1949, the Cudgegong Shire Council and the Housing Commission of New South Wales produced what they described as a ‘simple and dignified’ memorial, which was opened with great fanfare. A plaque on the old fireplace and chimney was unveiled at a well-​attended ceremony. The Henry Lawson Memorial on the site of the poet’s boyhood home at Eurunderee, near Mudgee, was unveiled on Friday of last week. Lawson’s widow, Mrs. Bertha Lawson, performed the ceremony. The memorial is in the form of an enclosure about an old chimney stack and corner post –​all that remains of the home. Many Parliamentarians, including the Minister for Housing, Mr. Clive Evatt, attended. Representatives of Australian literary societies were also present. Mr. Evatt formally accepted the deeds of the site in the name of the people of the nation. He later presented a scroll dedicating the site as a national reserve to the Cudgegong Shire Council, in which it will be vested. Friday, 2nd September, 1949, was the 27th anniversary of Lawson’s death.20

The chimneystack and the corner post are remnants of the original that still speak of the distant past, despite efforts to sanitise the site overall. While this memorial might appear to close down certain forms of engagement and experience, it is impossible entirely to constrain a ruin’s potential meanings: an element of unpredictability will always remain.21 Judging by the numbers of tourist photos featuring the Eurunderee homestead memorial, it has been a stopping point, and a site of reflection, for many travellers



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Figure 4.2  Opening of Henry Lawson’s Home at Eurunderee, near Mudgee (1949). Reproduced with permission of the State Library of New South Wales, FL1745226

passing through. One of the ironies of tourism sites in Lawson country is that they commemorate places which were mostly unhappy for him, given his difficult childhood, estrangement from family and the alienation he felt from the natural environment. Yet visitors derive a curious pleasure from going to them and being imaginatively transported back to the late nineteenth century, or ‘ever so far away back there at the other end of the past’ as Lawson might say. Indeed Lawson’s sadness  –​and his internal conflicts –​are a central element of his fascination for admirers and serendipitous tourists alike.

The Old Bark School Lawson eulogised his Eurunderee school in his famous poem ‘The Old Bark School’ and consistently drew on his experiences there in much of his subsequent writing. But the old bark-​school is gone, and the spot it stood upon Is a cattle-​camp in winter where the curlew’s cry is heard; There’s a brick-​school on the flat, but a school mate teaches that, For, about the time they built it, our old master was ‘transferred’22

Established by the Council of Education in 1876, the slab and bark room, a mere 4.5 metres square, took in 40 new pupils of school age. The admission register for the school records Lawson’s admission date as 25 January 1875. This was the place where Lawson

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had his only formal teaching from the ages of nine to thirteen, when he left to work with his father. It was a big day when Lawson was given pen and ink for the first time, but he was always ashamed of his messy penmanship and poor spelling. Although Lawson dreaded school, possibly because he was bullied by other boys, he was regarded as a model scholar. Sadly, his nickname ‘Barmy ’Arry’ stayed with him forever. The schoolmaster, John Tierney, is remembered by Lawson in models like ‘The Master’s Mistake’ (1900), in which a young boy falls down a mineshaft. Henry’s mother Louisa had tirelessly lobbied for the establishment of the school at Eurunderee, since the way to the existing school was perilously littered with old mineshafts. A nine-​year-​old boy named Tom Aspinall had died after falling down a 50-​ foot mine shaft on the Lawson’s land before Henry was born, making it a pressing concern for Louisa in particular. In its lifetime, the Eurunderee school has had three different incarnations; the second one was built by Peter Lawson. The one that stands in its place today is quite different from the original. The school’s preservation was the result of a long campaign by residents of Eurunderee to restore it. A weekly column by Norman McVicker in the Mudgee Guardian called ‘Tales from the Wallaby Track […] In Search of Henry Lawson’s Eurunderee’ regularly reported on the restoration of the Eurunderee school complex, which McVicker led. He established the Eurunderee Provisional School Foundation with Brendan Dunne, Betty McLean, Peter Mansfield and Carl Werchon in 1989. McVicker and his associates sought to ‘establish and document the facts about Henry Lawson’s Erunderee years, the inter-​relationship of the pioneer families and their association with Erunderee as Lawson knew it and wrote about it’.23 Erunderee is full of Lawson associations, its reality reinforced by the stories and poems which he wrote about the little world he knew. ‘Erunderee’, itself is his ‘Memorial’. When our identifying signs are in place, Erunderee will finally be recognised as ‘The Real Henry Lawson Country’.24

Chris Lee notes this shift of emphasis, in which Lawson becomes a monument for Eurunderee rather than the other way around. In this manner, the ‘national celebrity of Henry Lawson and his associated geographies’, Lee argues, ‘are represented in local terms according to local interests’.25 In 1990, the Eurunderee Provisional School Foundation was challenged by a group of Country Press Association members and their wives who explored the Wallaby Track and wondered aloud about the absence of Indigenous references in the Foundation’s tourist narrative.26 In a subsequent column, McVicker reflects on his dissatisfaction with his own lack of knowledge about the Traditional Owners of the region. They were interested because of Erunderee’s rightful place at the start of our literary heritage; for the earthiness of the commentary, and for the little known facts and figures of the past now being unearthed by our research. Luckily, I was able to answer some questions about the Wiradjuri aborigines who lived in Erunderee at the time of the arrival of the first settlers.



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I wasn’t terribly happy with my answers. More research is needed. All the ‘journos’ kept their map of the ‘Wallaby Track’. Hopefully they will write about their Erunderee experience sometime in the future which may bring more tourists to Henry Lawson Country.27

McVicker was evidently concerned with attracting more visitors to visit the old Eurunderee school and sought to redress his oversight by producing a special issue of ‘Tales From Along the Wallaby Track’. The Foundation’s pamphlet The Wiradjuri Story:  Aborigines of Henry Lawson Country attempts, albeit unconvincingly, to add an Indigenous back story to extend Henry Lawson heritage into deep time. McVicker acknowledges past atrocities but fails to recognise the ongoing claims of Wiradjuri people who he describes as ‘completely dispossessed’ and ‘virtually extinct’.28 Given the apparent ‘disappearance’ of the Wiradjuri, the Foundation is free to claim legitimacy for Henry Lawson Country, despite the fact that it was superimposed upon unceded land. Before I visited the school in 2014, volunteers had spent hours cleaning a thick layer of dust and droppings from inside it and had cleared the grounds of overgrown plants in preparation for the Gulgong Festival. In the process, they discovered and identified around 50 trees on the property that were planted in remembrance of former teachers, students and prominent locals when the school was first reopened as a historic site in 1989.29 The Eurunderee school committee aspires eventually to recreate all three schools on the same site as a homage to its evolution over the years. For now, the third incarnation is there for visitors to view during specially organised bus tours and events such as the ‘Billy Tea and Damper Breakfast’ held at the school during the Gulgong Festival. It’s possible that three versions of the school might interfere with the possibility of imagining Lawson inside the schoolhouse as a boy. A single replica, albeit an anachronistic one, is all that is needed to bring the site vividly to life for visitors.

Abbotsford, Site of Death and Final Residence After living in Leeton, where he was employed to write propaganda about the Murrumbidgee irrigation scheme, Lawson returned in 1917 to Sydney, where he lived in Abbotsford with his devoted companion Mrs Byers. He was often seen with his hat out down at Circular Quay, reciting his works, or begging acquaintances for money. He gave away items such as his hat, boots and walking stick, or sold them for money. Many of these items later turned up in institutional collections. Given that Lawson was well known during his lifetime, people must have guessed at the future value of these possessions and kept them for posterity. Hand imprints were made in 1919 when he was still alive and a death mask was taken in 1922, complete with moustache.30 These artefacts, realised in plaster and bronze, continue the European tradition of making death masks of literary figures such as Wolfgang Goethe, Walter Scott, Laurence Sterne and John Keats. It is a testament to Lawson’s perceived importance that even a piece of ‘rubbish’ like an old crumpled tobacco packet he once used is available for viewing at the State Library of

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New South Wales. A Henry Lawson collection, including one of his shirts and a walking stick, was also presented to the State Library of Victoria by the Henry Lawson Memorial and Literary Society in 2003. In June 1921, Lawson suffered the first of a series of strokes which led to repeated hospitalisations. On 2 September 1922, he collapsed after suffering a cerebral haemorrhage outside the Abbotsford cottage. The site of Lawson’s death is also where his last residence once stood. As the modest cottage was demolished by 1926, it was decided the memorial should be erected at the school grounds nearly opposite the location of the house. The Fellowship of Australian Writers collaborated with the Drummoyne Council in its dedication of the Henry Lawson Park at Abbotsford.31 The Abbotsford memorial was unveiled by Tom Mutch, then Minister for Education, in October 1926.32 The memorial, a roughly hewn cairn of Australian trachyte, was placed as close as possible to the spot where Lawson ‘breathed his last’.33 It was subscribed for by the community, indicating that his residence in their community was meaningful to them. There are photos in the Sydney Morning Herald of children from the Abbotsford Public School standing at the memorial on 29 October 1926, the day before it was officially unveiled.34 As I mention in Chapter Two, a plaque to Joseph Furphy was placed at the Yarra Glen School to mark the building where he was born, which no longer exists. Schools often become the repositories of local history, to inform and educate future generations.

A State Funeral Matthews notes that Lawson was something of a legendary figure in his lifetime. Yet he was not embraced by the establishment while he was alive. As dignitaries and others gathered for his State funeral on 4 September 1922, Matthews argues, Lawson’s legend was already beginning to flourish in various exotic ways.35 Lawson’s funeral, held in St Andrew’s Cathedral, was attended by crowds of mourners including dignitaries. People lined the route from the city through Paddington and Bondi Junction to Waverley Cemetery. The Sydney Morning Herald reported: As the cortege moved off with troopers at its head, the Police Band, which preceded the hearse, played the Dead March in Saul […] As it passed through Paddington, Bondi Junction and Waverley people lined both sides of the route almost continuously, and here and there groups of school children on their way home stood bareheaded at the kerb. There were several hundred people waiting at the graveside in Waverley Cemetery.36

The coffin lay under ‘mounds of blossoms’ with Australian wildflowers predominating, including wattle, boronia, dilwinnia and ‘gum tips glowing with crimson and gold’.37 The choice of Australian flora is in keeping with the recognition of Lawson’s worth to the nation, which the State funeral itself demonstrated. Lawson’s brother-​in-​law remarked on the irony of this outpouring of grief: ‘A week before they would have dodged […] to avoid him. Now they wanted to bask in his reflected glory.’38



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At the funeral, Prime Minister Billy Hughes emphasised his importance to the Australian nation: He knew intimately the real Australia, and was its greatest minstrel. He sang of its wide spaces, its dense bush, its droughts, its floods, as a lover sings of his mistress. He loved Australia […] None was his master. He was the poet of Australia, the minstrel of the people. He was a genius and his name will live. Australia’s greatest writer has passed away.39

Lawson’s Grave As Bertha Lawson writes in My Henry Lawson (1943):  ‘the grave he lies in is the one that was made for Henry Kendall.’40 In 1886, Kendall’s remains were disinterred and placed under a substantial monument funded partly by a concert given by Hungarian violinist Edouard Remenyi at Sydney University. Lawson later filled the spot vacated by Kendall.41 This seems fitting given that Lawson was named for Kendall, whom Lawson’s mother Louisa admired. Kendall’s grave monument is much grander than Lawson’s but his memorialisation is limited except for a monument in the town of Kendall in New South Wales. At the Waverley Cemetery, a roughly painted metal sign marks the berm in which Lawson’s grave lies. The sign has an informal DIY feel to it, suggestive of Lawson’s popular appeal. His wife Bertha Lawson is buried in the same grave, a fact that is often forgotten. The inscription is echoed by shells on top of the grave: ‘Love Hangs About Thy Name Like Music Round a Shell /​No Heart Can Take of Thee a Tame Farewell.’

The Lambert Statue The vexed history of the George Lambert statue reveals the tensions involved with publicly representing a national icon like Lawson. Each year after his death, admirers, family members and friends of Lawson would gather in Melbourne and Sydney to give speeches and celebrate his legacy. But the question of where to commemorate him needed to be resolved. The movement to immortalise Henry Lawson in bronze in Sydney’s Domain grew out of the public political turmoil that had characterised his State funeral. The mayor of Sydney called a public meeting in the town hall ‘to launch a movement for the establishment of a lasting memorial to Henry Lawson’. The gathering agreed to the memorial motion, which was put by the Premier and seconded by James Dooley, the leader of the Labor opposition. Sir George Fuller quoted freely from several of Lawson’s poems before exciting the applause of the gathering with an enthusiastic endorsement of Lawson as an imperially loyal chronicler of the nation: No poet had ever expressed Australian sentiment or portrayed Australian life and manners in so natural and effective a manner as the man whose memory we are met to honour and to perpetuate. Twenty years before Gallipoli Henry Lawson foretold in prose and verse how the young men of Australia would rally to the motherland in time of danger. His writings had so inspired the whole continent that they would live in the history of Australia for all time.42

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The opposition leader claimed that by his works Lawson had ‘built a monument that would last as long as Australian history’. Lawson, like Scotland’s Robbie Burns, had ‘lived the life of the people, among the people, […] of the people’. It was therefore appropriate that a statue of the poet be placed opposite the Burns monument near the Art Gallery. While Fuller argued that Lawson’s work is his monument, he also supported the erection of a stone monument to remind people of his value. Even after this meeting, there was debate about what form the memorial should take. A. G.  Stephens wrote a letter about the proposed Lawson statue to the editor of the Telegraph in which he argued that the ‘best way to honour the dead man is in his name to help his living comrades’. He noted that ‘there are three Australian poetical writers of high merit –​Quinn, McCrae, Neilson –​who, in different circumstances, deserve steady aid as Lawson deserved in 1902. Shall we give them their own bread  –​or Lawson’s stone?’43 For Stephens it was more important to support our writers while they are alive than to throw money at public rituals and memorials when they are finally beyond help. He mentions Roderic Quinn, Hugh McCrae and John Shaw Neilson, who were impoverished and needed support that was rarely forthcoming. Rose Scott, writing in the same paper, prefers the idea of a simple memorial on Lawson’s grave with an inscription and an appropriate quotation from his verse. A more important consideration, she went on to argue, was the need to secure an allowance from the Commonwealth to support the poet’s widow. The Telegraph itself proposed an enormous Statue of Liberty–​sized tribute based on Frank Mahony’s sketch of Lawson ‘on the wallaby’ to be placed at Fort Dension.44 As a result of all this discussion, the Sydney-​based Henry Lawson Memorial Fund was established and charged with the fundraising and execution of a statue, to be located in the Sydney Domain.45 In 1927, the renowned local artist George W. Lambert submitted a model for a bronze statue of the author to the Henry Lawson Memorial Committee. Money was raised and the statue commissioned: it shows a lithe Lawson in baggy trousers and rolled-​up sleeves, possibly reciting to an audience, with a swagman sitting on one side and a sheep dog on the other. Lambert struggled with the commission, partly because of ill health but also due to the difficulty of capturing Lawson’s likeness. Amy Lambert, the artist’s wife, explained that the poet her husband remembered conflicted with the recent photographs with which he had been supplied. Lambert also had problems with synthesising the memories of committee members who knew Lawson in different periods of his life. One of Lawson’s suits was given to Lambert to help him represent the author’s typical clothing. It was posted to Mr Ifould, chairman of the Henry Lawson Memorial Fund, by Tom Mutch with a letter dated 17 July 1924 on New South Wales Parliament letterhead. Mary Gilmore had received it from Mrs Byers, Lawson’s companion, who then passed it on. Mutch takes pains to confirm that it really is Lawson’s suit, in case there is any doubt about its provenance: I can personally vouch for the fact that it is a suit of Lawson’s, I not only saw him wear it but I have had it identified by the man who made it –​Mr. C J Catton, cutter of the Adelaide Tailoring Company, George and Market Sts Sydney (Mutch).46



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Lambert worked from Lawson’s last suit, from his death mask, and asked his children to sit for him, to assist with producing a familial resemblance.

Pilgrimages to the Domain The Domain statue was delayed by Lambert’s death and was controversial when it was unveiled in August 1931, due to its ‘feminine’ qualities. Nevertheless, it became the focal point of the annual Lawson pilgrimage from 1939 onwards. In front of a large gathering, Miles Franklin delivered an oration at the statue on 5 September 1942, which was broadcast over the radio and later published in the Meanjin Papers. Franklin took her listeners back to the Lawson of the 1890s and paid tribute to the effect he had on a generation of impressionable ‘adolescents’. (Lawson was 12 years older than Franklin.) He was ‘a hero glamorous with success’, she says, a ‘superman’, the ‘perfect big brother of our dreams’. She talked about the beauty of his eyes, his clothes, his children. She praises him as a writer of the bush who makes Australians see ‘our own sun […] setting red and real and near at hand’. And she celebrates his use of an Australian vernacular, the ‘lingo of the everyday’. We cannot gloze the fact of an element of that in such monuments to Henry Lawson; but with his divine understanding of human frailty, his gentle sympathy for its shortcomings, he would have understood. He would graciously accept our offerings. His spirit would have kindly humour for those imaginary half-​crowns contributed by old mates who never saw him. He would chuckle sardonically about them as a touching, if grotesque, outcropping of that mateship which was the Lawson philosophy, and which has become one of this Commonwealth’s worthiest traditions.47

Franklin argued that monuments were really for the living rather than the dead but given Lawson’s ‘divine understanding of human frailty, his gentle sympathy for its shortcomings, he would have understood’.48 Lawson’s own attitude seemed to be that a writer was best remembered by his writings. This is apparent in his poem ‘Robbie’s statue’, itself memorialising Robbie Burns: And Scottie’s ghost said never mind   The fleas that you inherit; The living bard can flick them off –​   They cannot hurt his spirit. The crawlers round the birdie’s name   Shall crawl through all the ages; His work’s the living thing, and they   Are fly dirt on the pages.49

Burns’s phrase ‘His work’s the living thing’ sums up Lawson’s attitude to commemoration. He echoes a similar sentiment in his poem ‘Archibald’s Monument’. The lines we wrote when our hearts were young, Are Archibald’s Monument.50

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This refers to J. F. Archibald’s editorship and ownership of the Bulletin and his fostering of Australian writing like that of Lawson. These lines suggest that the work written by the writers he supported should be his legacy rather than a bronze monument.51 Nevertheless, the Fellowship of Australian Writers was tireless in its attempts to keep Lawson in the public imagination. In 1939, it unsuccessfully lobbied governments in all States to have 17 June, Lawson’s birthday, recognised as a Day of Literary Appreciation throughout Australia.52 Meanwhile, a number of commentators expressed views that were opposed to the glorification of writers like Lawson through traditional means. A letter from Mr Crockett of Crockett & Co. to Miss Phillis Aylward, the secretary of the Fellowship of Australian Writers, written on 1 May 1950, echoes Franklin’s scepticism about memorials. Thanks for your letter of 27th, but the answer is No. I do not approve of Memorials of the type indicated. There are too many such disfiguring our public places. Besides, posthumous memorials to our neglected dead never have appealed to me. Lawson’s memorial –​the only one that matters –​is his writings. All others are vanity, inflating, not the dead, but the vain living.53

The pilgrimage to the statue in the Domain became an annual event, swelled by numbers of ‘men and women who had fought against fascism keen to know more about what it meant to be Australian’.54 The statue and the rituals associated with it were seen as a way of educating Australians about their literary and cultural heritage. The last remaining Lawson society, originally based in Footscray, still retains this as one of its central goals, especially the enlightenment of coming generations about Lawson’s work. Richard Nile reports that Lawson’s son attended a pilgrimage to the Sydney statue years after his father’s burial and, perhaps afflicted by alcohol, ‘suddenly broke from the ranks and attacked the assembled speakers’. ‘My father seems to have plenty of friends now that he is dead,’ he yelled. ‘He didn’t have many when he was alive.’ This resulted in his removal by police. As Nile observes, the custodianship of his father’s memory had long since passed out of the family.55

The Henry Lawson Memorial and Literary Society of Footscray Even though Lawson had no discernible personal connection with the Melbourne suburb of Footscray during his lifetime, it became the most enduring locus of celebration after his death. The Henry Lawson Memorial and Literary Society of Footscray held its first gathering in 1923. Steve Ford (1868–​1946), a former miner and union leader, requested council permission to ‘occupy for a few hours […] that portion of the People’s Park which has not yet been brought under cultivation, namely east of the Rotunda adjacent to the Punt Hotel’ for the purpose of honouring ‘Australia’s Premier Poet and Writer’.56 John Lack reports that there was heated discussion and then the council passed to the next business. So Ford and A. J. Sullivan of the Gordon Society were free to recite Australian verse to 15 people and a dog on 9 February. During his speech, Ford described Lawson as ‘the Charles Dickens of Australia’.57 In 1924, with the Footscray City band in attendance, 1,000



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people came to the celebration. By 1926, the council declared that ‘the Society Belonged to Footscray’. Advertised as part of Australian Author’s Week in 1927, the gathering was much more formal, with honoured guests such as Maurice Blackburn and E.  J. Brady. During the event, Lawson was hailed as ‘the champion of democracy and poet of the people’. From 1928, Steve Ford was secretary to a council-​led committee which assumed responsibility for perpetuating Lawson’s memory. He wished to bring ‘bush values’ into the city, but the commemorations took on different meanings as they grew in size, becoming a way of enhancing Footscray’s cultural status. Lawson’s widow Bertha lamented that his own city could not do the same, but praised the efforts to ‘keep his memory always living in the hearts of those who loved him’.58 Lack argues that ‘increasingly, the once-​radical and ever-​ wayward spirit of the hard-​drinking Lawson was being made respectable, suburbanised, and incorporated into middle-​ground Australian nationalism’.59 Sculptor Stanley Hammond produced a modest life-​size bust of Lawson which was unveiled at Footscray Park on 7 February 1960. The granite pedestal was fashioned by James Taylor, a Footscray stonemason. To the right of this memorial was an 80-​year-​old sugar gum which was known as ‘the Lawson Tree’ because the society used to meet there. Steve Ford, founder of the Footscray society, had his ashes scattered around this tree in acknowledgement of his total devotion to the cause. The Lawson tree was bulldozed when Ballarat Road was widened. There were two compensatory ceremonies: in 1965, the 43rd annual gathering featured the planting of a seedling tree to replace it.60 In another ritual, turf containing the ashes of Steve Ford was placed around the seedling tree. To mark the occasion, Harry H. Pearce wrote a poem, ‘The Lawson Tree’.61 A section of the original sugar gum was used as a mount for a plaque stating that Steve Ford’s ashes were scattered there. The plaque was later relocated to the Footscray Historical Society where it remains today. The Footscray-​based Lawson society has always been involved with the commemoration of other writers. As Robert Darby notes, with Kate Baker’s residence in nearby Williamstown, some meetings were occasions for exchanges on the life and work of Joseph Furphy.62 Since Australian literature was not taught in universities, these discussions were seen as essential to keeping the memory of local writers alive. Lawson society members traditionally assembled at the bust on the first Sunday of February. These days, due to the uneven terrain and the advancing age of participants, they choose to gather at a nearby gazebo for recitations and remembrance.

Henry Lawson Literary Society, Sydney The Henry Lawson Literary Society was founded in Sydney in 1928, four years after the establishment of the Sydney-​based Henry Lawson Memorial Fund. The nucleus of the society was formed during a pilgrimage to the Waverley Cemetery. The Teacher’s Federation had a strong presence in the society, and it was largely through the schools that money for the Lawson statue in the Domain was raised. Lesley Heath notes that the Henry Lawson Literary Society began two months before the Fellowship of Australian Writers was formed.63 During one of the Waverley pilgrimages, the writer Roderic Quinn observed the need for a regular meeting place, not

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a ‘morgue or a cemetery’, to bring together writers and people interested in literature.64 Mary Gilmore claimed to be the driving force behind the establishment of the Fellowship of Australian Writers –​and her view has been widely confirmed, despite the fact that others were heavily involved as well. To recapitulate: I had begun the work in the time of Henry Lawson, whose approval I had; I was not asked to begin or institute someone else’s society, but to go on with my own; I wrote and was responsible for the notice sent out to call the meeting; I paid all preliminary expenses; I  presided as the responsible person at all the meetings inaugurating the foundation; the constitution was formulated, submitted, shaped, and accepted under my ruling as chair, and which no one disputed as my right.65

Heath observes that the lack of consensus in the accounts of the Fellowship’s beginnings is not resolved by the sketchy and ambiguous records that survive from its early years.66 Although it got off to an enthusiastic start, the Henry Lawson Society did not enjoy the permanence and stability of the Footscray society, which is still active at the time of writing, despite declining numbers. The Sydney society was greatly affected by the withdrawal of support on the part of establishment figures such as George Reeve, a founding office-​bearer who was against the participation of Fellowship of Australian Writers members, which he saw as ‘appropriation’.67 However it is precisely the interrelation and mutual support of literary societies –​like the close relationship between the Footscray society and the Australian Natives Association, now Australian Unity –​which allows them to sustain themselves, albeit marginally, today. Heath notes that it was the Memorial Fund which achieved the most: the monument in the Domain; the introduction of volumes of Lawson’s work into school libraries; the publication of his work in the School Magazine, and a fund at the University of Sydney for two annual literature prizes bearing Lawson’s name. The Henry Lawson Society ‘limped along’ until the 1960s when it finally folded altogether.68

The Mudgee and District Henry Lawson Memorial Society In 1940, following the visit of Frank Dalby Davison from the Federation of Australian Writers to Mudgee, a Mudgee and District Henry Lawson Memorial Society was formed which collected a considerable sum towards a memorial in the town of Mudgee, as did the Fellowship of Australian Writers (NSW). The same year there was a Henry Lawson Memorial Ball in Mudgee which also contributed towards the fund. The local Church of England donated a piece of land and plans were made for the building of a memorial seat. It took so long to get the project moving that the cost doubled, requiring more fundraising. The memorial seat was finally unveiled on Saturday, 12 May 1951. According to Kevin Robson of the Henry Lawson Centre in Gulgong, there were two attempts to start up a local Lawson society in the 1920s, with the second one being registered, but it ‘fizzled out’ after a few meetings. Another Mudgee-​based Lawson society emerged for the purposes of creating the memorial but interest seems to have expired, possibly due to



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the length of time it took to erect the monument.69 Judging by the histories of these three Lawson organisations, it seems that they were founded with the goal of producing a tangible commemoration, like a statue or a seat, but they continued as appreciation societies, whether long-​lived or very short-​lived. Notwithstanding these material commemorations, local ill-​feeling towards Lawson lingered well into the mid-​twentieth century. McVicker remembers that he was admiring the Mudgee Memorial Seat at the Corner of Church and Market Streets one day as congregations streamed out of the St John’s and St Mary’s churches: ‘As I was reading the inscription on the memorial plaque a voice behind me said: “Don’t waste your time reading about Lawson. He was the town drunk.” ’70 This brutal dismissal is reminiscent of the mayor of Brighton claiming that Adam Lindsay Gordon was not worth remembering because he didn’t pay his rent, as discussed in Chapter One.

The Grenfell Festival Lawson has inspired not one but two festivals, in the New South Wales towns of Grenfell and Gulgong. The festivals are run on the same long weekend in June, to celebrate Lawson’s birth on 17 June 1867. A pilgrimage drive between the two festivals, which changes direction each year, is one of the only tangible connections between the two. Usually composed of around ten horse-​drawn vehicles driven by people in period costume, the pilgrimage drive is incorporated into processions through both towns. The slow pace of this horse-powered journey harks back to an older Australia. There is something both foolhardy and admirable about the idea of a group of people setting out to ride 350 kilometres between towns to celebrate a writer. Given the problems besetting regional towns such as Grenfell and Gulgong, especially economic downturn and depopulation, the festivals offer an opportunity to invoke the pioneer past and attract visitors and former residents. Ostensibly organised around Lawson, the festivals serve a wider function. As Timothy Darvill argues, ‘the remains of the past provide a sense of continuity in an uncertain world, a thread of timelessness running through a rapidly changing environment’.71 Originally named after Gold Commissioner John Granville Grenfell, the town of Grenfell owes its origins to gold-​mining. Lawson claimed that he was born in a tent on the Grenfell gold diggings on 17 June 1867 during a storm. Colin Roderick dismisses his story as a ‘concoction’ and places the moment of birth on a more temperate evening in a far less romantic building in what was by then a fairly well-​equipped township. Roderick writes that the story about being born on the goldfields ‘gave credence to his claims of gypsy origins’.72 The Grenfell Henry Lawson Festival of the Arts is one of the longest-​running arts events in New South Wales. The festival started as ‘Back to Grenfell Week’ in 1924, two years after Lawson’s death. Under the guidance of local high school headmaster Harold Goodwin, the annual festival attracted State-wide interest, with cultural competitions, displays, concerts and processions involving adults and schoolchildren.73 Two monuments were unveiled at this festival –​a memorial to the pioneers of the district and an obelisk marking Lawson’s birthplace. Through these ceremonies, Lee argues,

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Grenfell used its pioneering past to write itself into a national history of enlightened and industrious development, which presaged for the place a bright and prosperous future.74 When a visitor enters the town of Grenfell, its designation as the birthplace of Henry Lawson is immediately announced through signage. Walking along the main street they will encounter a Lawson Memorial with a bust of the poet, the Loaded Dog cafe (referring to Lawson’s story of that name) and several murals depicting Lawson, with one depicting his mother Louisa. The Grenfell Historical Museum on Camp Street houses artefacts, photographs and programmes from past festivals. There are photographs of floats from the parades on display, including one with an enormous papier maché head of Lawson which ended up on top of a roundabout in the main street. A replica of the obelisk placed on the site of Lawson’s birth sits alongside festival ephemera on a museum shelf. The 1924 programme shows that a ‘Monster Procession’ featured mounted police and the town band leading returned soldiers, Red Cross workers and schoolchildren in nineteenth-​century costume. The primary products of the district were on display with bullock and horse-​drawn wagons of wheat, chaff, timber and wool. These were followed by representatives of the trades and storekeepers, finishing on a quirky note with the best goat turnout and the best decorated umbrella. The contemporary Grenfell Festival procession includes schoolchildren, street performers, vintage cars, motorbikes, and classic machinery. Parades can tell us about what a place values: cars and children are the most popular participants in this one. In 1924, there was a race meeting under the auspices of the Grenfell Jockey Club, featuring a ‘Henry Lawson Handicap’ and the ‘Back to Grenfell Handicap’. Miners demonstrated the ‘getting and washing of gold, both alluvial and quartz, on the main lead’.75 Many of the miners who participated in nineteenth-​century goldrushes were still alive in the early 1920s and able to showcase their skills. Similarly, the contemporary festival features a range of events completely unrelated to Lawson such as guinea pig races and woodchopping contests. The festival is a pretext for celebrating the town  –​and an opportunity for young people living elsewhere to return. It draws together a range of activities that seem unrelated to Lawson  –​the main intention is to create a party atmosphere. The ambition to attract as many Henrys as possible also suggests a sense of fun and enjoyment. The Henrys are encouraged to get together next to the ‘interactive seat’ in the main street for a group photo. In Maryborough in Queensland, the birthplace of P. L. Travers –​the creator of Mary Poppins –​there is a comparable emphasis on celebrating and recording Marys who came from the town. The festival regularly runs a ‘Campfire, Damper and Billy Tea’ event at Lawson’s birthplace at Henry Lawson Park. The damper, cooked in holes full of hot coals, is served with a topping of golden syrup. Big black kettles are hung above a campfire to provide tea to go with the damper. Local ladies serve the refreshments from a specially erected breakfast marquee while readers, dressed appropriately in bush uniform, read Lawson’s works aloud. The site of Lawson’s birth was arbitrarily nominated in the absence of enough evidence to pinpoint the place where Lawson was born. It has been a locus of commemoration



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since the 1920s. Lawson’s wife Bertha Lawson and their daughter (also named Bertha) attended the unveiling of the obelisk and planted a sugar gum in 1924. These days, 12 interpretive plaques are positioned along the curved walking path around the obelisk which collectively tell the story of Lawson’s life from its beginning in Grenfell in 1867, to his death in 1922. A  public barbeque dedicated to Lawson sits nearby, confirming my impression that almost everything is named after Lawson in Grenfell, from a lowly barbeque to the local high school.

The Gulgong Festival By contrast, the Gulgong Henry Lawson Heritage Festival, as its name suggests, emphasises the town’s past through meticulous costuming and re-​enactment. This is in keeping with its listing by the National Trust in 1975. The Heritage Council of New South Wales gazetted most of the municipality in 1978, and the Heritage Commission placed it on the Register of the National Estate. Gulgong has an advantage over Grenfell because so many of the buildings appear to be authentic and relatively unaltered since the nineteenth century. The Gulgong Festival’s approach is celebratory and redemptive, aiming to resurrect the town in the period of Lawson’s youth –​the late 1860s and 1870s. It is a more immersive experience than the Grenfell Festival, enabling the visitor to visualise the town as it was in the late nineteenth century. The two festivals have a concern with attracting tourists in common, as the Mudgee District History website notes:  ‘Its history was first built on gold, and today, the history itself is gold, with tourism to the Pioneers’ Museum and other historical venues a major economy booster.’76 On a local tourism website, Mudgee is now framed as a ‘perfect escape for wine tasting, delicious food and outdoor adventure’. While the National Trust describes the town of Mudgee as ‘one of the finest groups of townscape in a country area,’ literary heritage is not emphasised, with food and wine tourism taking precedence in promotions.77 During the annual festival, many of the shop windows feature reproductions of photographs from the famous Holtermann collection, originally taken by photographer Beaufoy Merlin in the late nineteenth century and rediscovered in 1951. A  photo of Louisa Lawson shows her with her sister and business partner Phoebe Albury and infant son Charles in front of their business premises on the Gulgong goldfields. Lee argues that the Holtermann collection provided a resource that helped the town capitalise on its Lawson connections. When an image of Lawson, appearing next to Gulgong’s Times Bakery, and other photographs of Gulgong from the Holtermann collection were put on the new 10-​dollar note in 1966, the link between the man and the town was formally cemented. In 1993, when the 10-​dollar note was redesigned, Lawson’s head was replaced by that of his putative rival A.  B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson, whose ‘birthplace’ is explored in Chapter Five. On 14 April 1870, Tom Saunders found gold on Red Hill and the Gulgong rush broke out. Peter Lawson wanted to follow immediately but it was a year before the whole family moved there in late 1871. Lawson remembered the chaotic journey in great detail: ‘In a cart with bedding and a goat and a cat in a basket and fowls in a box’ and accompanied

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by ‘teams with loads of bark and rafters, and tables upside down with bedding and things between the legs, and buckets and pots hanging round, and gold cradles, gold dishes, windlass boles and picks and shovels; and […] drays and carts and children and women and goats […] and men on horses and men walking’.78 At the outset, Lawson prospered and was able to send Louisa and the boys to Sydney for a holiday. They came back to Gulgong for another year which was crowded with memories for Lawson. Roderick notes that Lawson remembered ‘visits to diggers shafts, the rattle of the cradle, the clack of the windlass, walks about the bustling little town, with its shops, the circus, and a garish theatre’.79 All of these elements of the old town are on display in the historical walk which I undertook in June 2014. The tour guide failed to arrive at the Henry Lawson centre so a local named Kevin Robson took us instead, despite an arm injury which he had sustained by falling off a steep quartz gutter. The walk included the Ten Dollar Town Motel, where Lawson would stay and which his aunt Phoebe used to run; the spectacular Prince of Wales opera house, where Lawson saw performances –​which now hosts ghost tours –​and many of the shop fronts which feature in Beaufoy Merlin’s luminous photographs. Kevin, the accidental tour guide, regaled us with stories of hauntings, mentioning that one of the hotels has spirits in residence. This was confirmed by a story told to me by James Howard, a Henry Lawson impersonator, who I spoke to on the streets of Gulgong as he was promenading in costume. He told me that he had arrived in town at 10:30 p.m. on the day before the festival started, went to the hotel where he was to stay but found himself locked out, since a key was not left for him, as arranged. He decided to sleep in the hallway instead but was awoken by strange sounds in the night and was driven outside to walk the streets of Gulgong before dawn. While most Lawson relics have been taken to institutions for safekeeping, the Henry Lawson centre in Gulgong is full of paraphernalia associated with him. The hall used to belong to the Salvation Army and still has the air of a church inside with a kind of holy trinity display of Lawson complete with ‘JESUS LIVES’ on the far wall. The old flour bin built by Peter Lawson, which inspired a poem of the same name, has pride of place in the centre. In the back room of the centre is a section of wallpaper in a picture frame which came from the old Lawson homestead in Eurunderee. Aside from the wallpaper, almost everything on display in the museum is a facsimile, since the authentic items are prone to disintegration and require careful curation. The ongoing efforts by the Lawson societies and dedicated supporters to preserve what has been destroyed or displaced shows the sacredness of Lawson relics.

The Lure of Tragedy ‘That he managed to dredge out of disadvantage, adversity and often appalling hardship so many magnificent stories’, Matthews argues, ‘is testimony to a toughness and determination that he is perhaps not often enough given credit for.’80 Paul Eggert, writing about Lawson’s time in and around Bourke in 1892, notes his reputation as a hard-​ drinking ‘man’s man’ but ‘there was sensitive man and a cultural tourist beneath, able to be touched more deeply by the Far West than, perhaps, he had anticipated’.81



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Lawson’s personal tragedies and his ability to connect with the lives of so-​called ordinary people are dimensions of his personality that seem to appeal most to his admirers. Even his outback walk from Bourke to Hungerford has been re-​enacted by fans. In 2011, Gregory Bryan undertook the 450-​kilometre Bourke to Hungerford return ‘tramp’ with his friend Baz, as an embodied homage to his icon. In To Hell and High Water: Walking in the Footsteps of Henry Lawson (2012), Bryan claims to know Lawson ‘better than any person alive today’. This ‘immodest’ claim is based on his suffering on ‘Henry’s Track’, ‘having felt the blazing sun, having fought with bubbling blisters, having struggled with the long, often tedious miles and, like Henry, having come out the other side at Hungerford’.82 In 1892, Lawson walked more than 200 miles from Bourke to Hungerford in ill-​fitting boots over three weeks, experiencing the full horror of the ‘great grey plain’ in drought, and reflected on the experience in While the Billy Boils. John Barnes argues that what is often overlooked by those who now celebrate ‘Lawson’s trek’ as a feat of physical endurance is that Lawson and Jim Grahame (and possibly Ernest De Guinney), in heading towards Hungerford, were looking for work.83 Bryan’s twenty-​first-​century tramp involved a support team and modern equipment, allowing him to manage the walk in 15 days.84 Nevertheless, he experienced some of Lawson’s travail including incapacitating blisters and extreme fatigue. Lawson himself was far from complimentary about Hungerford though he admired the toughness of the people surviving there. I believe that Bourke and Wills found Hungerford, and it’s a pity they did; but, if I ever stand by the graves of the men who first travelled through this country, when there were neither roads nor stations, nor tanks, nor bores, nor pubs, I’ll –​I’ll take my hat off. There were brave men in the land in those days.85

Bryan’s re-​enactment allowed him to commune with Lawson’s spirit, encouraging him to read his writing more empathetically. A few years ago, John Elder claims, some Bourke enthusiasts decided to recreate the walk but they gave up, realising the task was tough and unforgiving.86 For this reason, Lawson’s trail is mostly followed by people in four-​wheel-​ drive vehicles. In Leaving Home with Henry (2010), Philip Edmonds imagines Lawson escaping from the National Archives in Canberra where he has been ‘trussed up in a national vault, the subject of air-​conditioning and historians’,87 the ‘caretaker of everyone else’s Australian dream’,88 and being driven all around contemporary Australia by a researcher named Trevor, assiduously avoiding his old haunts. Trevor and Lawson part ways after a gruelling road trip, punctuated by Lawson’s disagreeable whining. Lawson visits Sydney where he finds a bronze statue of himself in the Domain: ‘There he was, looking wistful and quite rural to the unreconstructed eye and for a conceited moment, he was pleased, wondering whether he really looked like that.’89 If Lawson returned to Australia in the twenty-​first century, he would be amazed by the number of commemorations in his honour. In December 1902, after he threw himself off the Manly cliffs, Lawson had the uncanny experience of reading his own obituaries. A. B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson asked what Lawson thought of the tributes and he reported

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that ‘after reading them, he was puzzled to think how he had managed to be so hard up all his life’.90 In a typically dry manner, Lawson reflects on the disconnect between this ‘posthumous’ adulation and the paltry income he received for his writing. To see ‘The Death of Henry Lawson’ printed   In letters tall and black and fairly stout; To read he died a hero, hear it hinted   That all his debts were paid –​the Bill Wiped Out!91

Although his writing is not taught as widely as it once was in schools and universities, Lawson remains popular in rural and regional places, especially those connected with his biography. Arguably, the locations connected to his birth and youth have the greatest claim on him, whereas the sites of his later life in Sydney are less intensively commemorated. This may be because the figure of Lawson provides a focus for local identity –​and a reason for celebration –​for towns in decline that need heritage associations to bolster their identities, retain residents and boost visitor numbers. Perhaps it’s an index of the mixed feelings about Lawson  –​the regret and the mourning for the decline of his creativity and for his physical decay –​that there is an over-​compensation for what was not given to him during his life. This chapter has offered a brief overview of the existing places of Lawson remembrance but there are many other connections which are yet to be comprehensively traced.

Chapter Five THE MULTIPLE BIRTHPLACES OF A. B. ‘BANJO’ PATERSON The resonance of the birthplace is demonstrated by the debate over the location of A. B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson’s birth in the New South Wales town of Orange. Emmaville Cottage, as it is now known, is one of a number of key sites around Australia with connections to one of the nation’s best-​known poets. Yeoval, Illalong and Yass, Gladesville, Corryong and Winton are also closely aligned with the peripatetic Paterson’s biography, yet the birthplace stands out due to the debates about authenticity it has ignited. Clement Semmler describes Paterson as ‘the poet of the western plains […] the Australian Plainsman of our literature’. Geographically this area might be regarded as the great hinterland lying between the upper reaches of the Lachlan and the Eumerella; alternatively we might think of it, as Paterson probably did, as the whole of the illimitable outback of the Australia he knew and loved from his own travels: western New South Wales, the Snowy country, the Queensland downs (where he wrote ‘Waltzing Matilda’) and the Northern Territory.1

Paterson’s country is vaguely located where the plains are ‘all awave with grass’ and ‘the skies are deepest blue’.2 Just as Lawson is associated with Gulgong, Grenfell, and Eurunderee and Furphy is aligned with the Riverina, Paterson country is the western plains; yet this is a generalised area according to Semmler, lacking specificity, which allows him to be associated with innumerable plains across the country. Ken Stewart notes that Paterson’s work is no longer in the cultural mainstream yet his influence remains indirectly strong and directly tangible.3 The Man from Snowy River (1895) set a record in Australian publishing, with Angus & Robertson ordering a second edition before they published first edition.4 The film The Man from Snowy River (1982) was one of the most commercially successful Australian productions, until it was trumped by Crocodile Dundee four years later. The Man from Snowy River has since appeared at the 2000 Olympics and at a travelling ‘Arena Spectacular’.5 The words of ‘Waltzing Matilda’ are as well known as, if not better known than, those of the official national anthem.6

The Equestrian-​Pastoral In the preface to the 1913 edition of The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses, Rolf Boldrewood writes: ‘In my opinion this collection comprises the best bush ballads written since the death of Lindsay Gordon.’7 There are obvious resonances between Gordon’s

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and Paterson’s poetry. Paterson’s ‘How the Favourite Beat Us’ speaks back to Gordon’s ‘How We Beat the Favourite’; both are comic poems about a horserace. Paterson’s ‘The Dying Stockrider’ is reminiscent of Gordon’s ‘Sick Stockrider’, as though the texts are in dialogue with each other. As Paterson’s granddaughters Rosamund Campbell and Philippa Harvie note, ‘A Dream of the Melbourne Cup’ (1886) was intended as a racing tip, along the lines of verses by Gordon ‘for whose work Paterson had lifelong admiration’.8 Paterson was excited when he obtained two large watercolours that were part of a set of illustrations for Gordon’s poem ‘The Sick Stockrider’. They illustrate the lines ‘But a steer ripp’d up MacPherson in the Cooraminta yards’ and ‘To wheel the wild scrub cattle at the yard.’ Campbell and Harvie observe that ‘these pictures had special significance for Paterson because he loved Gordon’s poetry’.9 Gordon has been accused of misunderstanding the country he adopted, whereas Paterson was born and bred in country Australia and conversant with classic British literature.10 Brian Elliott has observed that Gordon ‘confused his own powerful gloom with the spirit of the landscape he was imperfectly able to see’.11 Paterson’s work is more upbeat, less prone to melodrama, and he does not make errors with his depiction with flora and fauna as Gordon did in his poetry. Paterson’s contemporary Norman Lindsay, who illustrated some of his works, could see in his ‘rude’ verses a clear reason for his national popularity. ‘Banjo hated sentimentality,’ Lindsay reflected in 1964. ‘He hated emotional poems. He liked the man who stood on his own feet –​ and that of course is the test of a man.’ For Lindsay this was a deliberate strategy on Paterson’s part: ‘I think Banjo hit the very core of the Australian ego, the keynote to all his stuff, because it is hard, it’s resolute. There’s no pandering to self pity.’12 Paterson’s legend, like that of Gordon, has been identified with horses, at least partly due to ‘The Man from Snowy River’, which features a steep descent on a horse similar to the one Gordon achieved in 1864, near the Blue Lake in South Australia, the same year that Paterson was born. Paterson’s first pen-​name, ‘The Banjo’, derived from a racehorse his father once owned. Intending to publish anonymously, so he wouldn’t be associated with a poor quality unpublished pamphlet he had previously written entitled ‘Australia for the Australians’, his identity was finally revealed when The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses became a literary sensation. Nicholas Rothwell argues that something in Paterson ‘was drawn to frontiers, to extremes, and feats of endurance’.13 As with Gordon, he rode several winners over the hurdles at Sydney race meetings, played polo for several Sydney clubs and was a member of the New South Wales polo team. The landscape he was born into may have contributed to his passion for horses. The Narrambla property in Orange, where he was born, was once the site of a race track and was used to hold and break in horses for the military during the Boer War.14 Horse breeding ran in the family, as Paterson himself observed: ‘One of my father’s forbears was John Paterson, of Lochlyoch, who founded the breed of Clydesdale horses.’ In the same article, he refers to his grandfather’s legendary equestrian skills: My grandfather, going out to India to seek his fortune, joined up with John Company’s army, in which his original rank was that of a roughrider. He rode the rough horses so well that he



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afterwards obtained his commission; and it is something of a coincidence that in the Great War more than a hundred years afterwards I, his grandson, was given a command as major in a roughriding unit. This, and my early experiences as a small shepherd, may account for whatever of accuracy there may be in my versified descriptions of bush life and of horses.15

Paterson himself was in charge of selecting replacement horses for Australian mounted soldiers during the First World War. As an honorary vet (with a certificate of competency), he made three voyages with horses to Africa, China and Egypt and on 18 October was commissioned in the 2nd Remount Unit, Australian Imperial Force.16 In his later years, he took over a property of 40,000 acres in Coodra Vale, near Wee Jasper, where he wrote an unpublished treatise ‘Racehorses and Racing’. ‘Coodra’ was not a financial success, prompting Paterson to try wheat farming at Grenfell, where Henry Lawson was born. At the outbreak of the First World War, he abandoned this property to take up war work in France and the Middle East. Paterson’s obituary in the Sydney Morning Herald on 6 February 1941 claimed that the verse which made his name in Australia ‘stirred deeply the imagination of the native born in days gone by, for it was he who for the first time gave the Australian ballad characteristically Australian expression’. Still bracing as the mountain wind, these rhymed stories of small adventure and obscure people reflect the pastoral-​equestrian phase of Australian development with a fidelity of feeling and atmosphere for which generations to come will be grateful.17

Ken Stewart argues that Paterson’s life was a ‘quest’, in terms normally defined as masculine, ‘for the exhilaration that he found chiefly in the Australian bush and through travel in “exotic” and “foreign” countries’.18 A substantial part of his appeal lies in his energetic evocation of the pastoral-​equestrian phase of our history, for which many Australians express nostalgia.

A Staged Debate Paterson and Lawson were writing for the Sydney Bulletin in 1892 when Lawson suggested a ‘duel’ of poetry to increase the number of poems they could sell to the paper. It was entered into in a spirit of fun, with one eye on the profits, although there are reports that Lawson was bitter about it later. Their staged debate revealed the class differences between the two writers. Paterson was the grazier’s son, aligned with the squattocracy, while Lawson was the ‘grouching proletarian’ born into rural poverty.19 Paterson has been characterised as antagonistic to other writers, yet his relationship with Lawson was fairly supportive despite their supposed rivalry. Paterson reflected that his bush upbringing had made him ‘tolerant of the battlers of this world, for, but for the grace of God, I might have been one myself ’.20 Described as a ‘Jekyll-​and-​Hyde’ character, Paterson was characteristically aloof and reticent about his emotions, unlike the Bohemians of his era. ‘He was one of the most sardonically self-​contained men I ever met,’ Norman Lindsay observed: ‘He had more power to put you at a distance by one casual glance than any ostracism by words could

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do.’21 Denton Prout argues that Paterson’s attitude to the Bohemians with their ‘beery good-​fellowship and facile emotionalism’ was ‘almost one of contempt’.22 Roderic Quinn lamented: ‘Banjo was never one of us.’23 By contrast, Lawson was more popular with the Bohemians, as evidenced by their support for his commemoration, though not entirely comfortable as one of them either. In the poems written for the Bulletin debate, Paterson does not ignore the hardships of bush people but emphasises resilience and resourcefulness, while Lawson’s work is more explicit about the crushing toll taken by life in the outback, especially on vulnerable women and children. This was based on their personal experiences, which were inevitably coloured by class differences. Paterson himself recognised this: We were both looking at the same reef –​but I had done my prospecting on horse-​back with my meals cooked for me, while Lawson had done his prospecting on foot and had had to cook for himself.24

Paterson acknowledged his privilege once again, when he remembered a conversation with Lawson’s wife Bertha which illustrated the immense pressures on authors who tried to make a living from their writing. To show how a poet can be without honour (or profit) in his own country, I  remember Lawson’s wife telling me she was quite happy because Henry was ‘working’ again. ‘What’s he working at’, I asked, ‘prose or verse?’ ‘Oh no’, she said. ‘I don’t mean writing, I mean working. He’s gone back to his trade as a house painter.’ And this was the man whose work was afterwards translated into foreign languages!25

Paterson’s recollection of this exchange with Bertha tells us about how writers were viewed and how they continue to be seen by sections of the Australian population. Lawson expressed outrage at the impecunious nature of literary life of in his ‘A Song of Southern Writers’, citing Henry Kendall’s lament for the sorrows of ‘the man of letters here’.26 Paterson, who inhabited a much more comfortable position, expressed greater optimism about the possibilities for their verse. He compares their verse to the imprints left by ‘weird’ animals from earlier eras who happened to pass by at the right moment. Our ‘ruined rhymes’ are not likely to last long, but if there is any hope at all of survival it comes from the fact that such writers as Lawson and myself had the advantage of writing in a new country. In all museums throughout the world one may see plaster casts of the footprints of weird animals, footprints preserved for posterity, not because the animals are particularly good of their sort, but because they had the luck to walk on the lava while it was cooling. There is just a faint hope that something of the same sort may happen to us.27

Paterson gave the impression that he regarded writing as something he did on the side, in a dilettantish manner, since he was also a member of the legal profession whereas the proceeds of his writing were crucial to Lawson’s livelihood. He supplemented his meagre royalties with itinerant labouring when his health was robust enough. Paterson’s writing



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sold in much greater volumes than Lawson’s, as Paul Eggert has shown.28 Eggert’s study of Lawson’s While the Billy Boils has incidentally unearthed information about Paterson’s publication history that has been overlooked for decades. Harry Heseltine has argued that there is a dearth of archival material relating to Paterson, leaving scholars searching in a void. Heseltine suggests that this may be because he was careless of his reputation and never sought to document its genesis and growth, or preserve items that illuminated it.29 In 1983, the publication of the two volumes Singer of the Bush and Song of the Pen, introduced and selected by Paterson’s granddaughters Campbell and Harvie helped to fill this void to some extent, showing the reader the man they knew, whom they characterise as a warm, family man. His memoir ‘Illalong Children’, published in Singer in the Bush, was written for his grandchildren, with a deliberate focus on things children might appreciate like stories of ‘blackfellows’, bushrangers and native animals.

A Birthplace Relocated While writers’ graves have long been sites of pilgrimage, the interest in birthplaces arose more recently. Nicola Watson makes an important distinction between the practices associated with the place of birth and the place of death. It is one thing to pay your respects to the bodily remains of a poet […] It is altogether another thing to make pilgrimage to the place where he or she was born. The grave was already the sort of site upon which memorial was conventional, and which provided physical evidence of the bodily existence of the author outside of the text; but to make a birthplace into a memorial of the author’s physical existence requires a substantial effort of the collective imagination.30

In other words, graves are already set up to serve a memorial function; they are explicitly designed for viewing by posterity in an organised system, whereas birthplaces need to be produced through a kind of collective imagining. The birthplace is all about the emergence of the body, rather than its extinction (except in cases such as Stratford-​upon-​ Avon which is both a birthplace and site of death for Shakespeare). Watson argues that the process of inventing birthplaces involves the production of ‘a dynamic narrative to supplement the finality and stasis of epitaph’.31 The circumstances of an author’s birth play an important part in the decision to mark a building or preserve it through whatever means. Often the birthplace will only be graced with a plaque, or a relatively inexpensive cairn, due to the prohibitive cost of preserving and maintaining buildings. Along with Banjo Paterson Park on Ophir Road, the Emmaville Cottage near the Botanic Gardens in Orange is a tangible link to the period more than 150  years ago when Paterson was born. Emmaville Cottage was one of many dwellings that were on Narrambla Station, which later became the Waratah Sports field, but it is simply not possible to tell definitively whether this house is the one where Paterson was born. For this reason, the Orange City Council has been hesitant to add a plaque which explicitly connects it with Paterson’s birth.

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Figure 5.1  Emmaville Cottage, Orange. Photograph by Brigid Magner

The cottage was moved to its current location near the Orange Botanical Gardens in April 2013 in response to the threat of demolition. The cottage was to be destroyed to make way for new housing developments, but members of the Orange community advocated for its conservation. This involved the problematic process of moving the cottage. There are many issues involved with the relocation of a building, not just logistical problems but also questions of heritage interpretation. Stephen F. Mills asks, ‘Can buildings in their new locations ever retain any of the nuances of time and place, which were embedded in situ, or do such buildings become elements in the ever greater “placelessness” that many argue is so much part of the post-​modern tradition?’32

A Brief History of the Building Surprisingly little is known about the original Narrambla homestead –​no drawing or photograph of Narrambla can be found and its exact whereabouts are a matter for debate. An elderly local, Edward Fuller, recalled the Narrambla homestead in the 1890s as being made of ‘cobble stone’ with ‘walls about 2 ft thick’. It was more likely, however, to have been a weatherboard cottage, as described by Leslie Oakes, who went there as a child.33 In 1948, at the age of 80, Oakes recalled it with affection: ‘The first time I saw Narrambla homestead was in the early 70s. It was a small weatherboard station home not many rooms but it had these wide verandahs at the back and in the front and also in the front was a beautiful flower garden of that old Narrambla home.’34



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At the 149th anniversary celebrations in 2013, local historian Elizabeth Griffin responded to the competition over Paterson by reiterating Orange’s primacy as the birthplace. Different towns around the country say Banjo slept here, Banjo wrote a poem here and it’s all these different claims to fame. But this is where Banjo was born, and you’re only born once, so the fact that he was born here on the Narrambla property is very important to us.35

Emmaville Cottage, as it is now known, is a prefabricated building believed to date from the 1850s. It is one of many cottages that were assembled in Australia using American redwood panels shipped from the United States. It travelled on a ship and was then carted over the Blue Mountains to reach the Narrambla property. The cottage is believed to be one of the last surviving farm buildings from the property –​unfortunately, as it was being moved some outbuildings were sacrificed. Vernacular cottages of the mid-​Victorian era would often have outbuildings to add extra spaces for kitchen, laundry and other indoor work.36 Emmaville Cottage was inhabited from the early twentieth century until the 1980s, then was left empty for many years following the departure of the Farrell family. It was used for short-​term accommodation for farm workers and for the storage of chemicals.37 Elizabeth Love (née Farrell) has said: ‘In 1968 it was just used as storage for chemicals like 245T that had been banned in the United States,’ and ‘no one was allowed to go in there.’38 When it was taken over by the Waratah Sports Club, Emmaville was once again used for storage and was an infrequent location for meetings of the Orange Racing Pigeon Club.39 In addition to possible contamination by chemicals, the cottage became infested by bees which effectively prevented vandalism –​when the council reduced the number of bees, the house was almost immediately attacked. Windows were broken and a door was ripped off and used for a treehouse platform nearby.40 In 2007, the cottage was identified as a significant structure in a study undertaken by Barbara Hickson, a heritage adviser for the Orange City Council. The study examined the building closely with a view to identifying its heritage value. The cottage is an original 4-​room building with an entry area and veranda to the front and rear. It appears to be pre-​cut timber frame, made principally from American redwood, which would have been imported. The construction of the cottage is a light timber with oak posts. Walls and ceiling are lined with dressed boards, similarly for the external walls. Due to the way that the walls are clad, there is a minimum of nails in the structure.41

Hickson’s report contributed to local acknowledgement of Emmaville’s historic value –​ aside from its connection with Narrambla, it’s also an example of a rare kit home from the mid-​nineteenth century.

The Relocation Process Like the Furphy houses discussed in Chapter Two, Emmaville Cottage had to be moved to save it, as development pressed in, threatening its survival. Relocation is usually

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regarded as a last resort, given how intrusive this is –​and how drastically it changes the aspect and setting of the house itself. In his discussion of the movement of heritage buildings, Mills cautions that buildings wrenched out of their context may actually inhibit our understanding of the past. He argues that scholars should recognise hazards involved with using relocated buildings as examples of the past and encourage people to explore the problematic aspects of heritage artefacts and their preservation, ‘not just enjoy the past so easily turned into a themed attraction’.42 William Morris insisted that the restored part of buildings should not be disguised as antique, so that the visitor would be aware that the new sections were not part of the past. In Morris’ formulation, moved buildings should be framed in terms of their relocation, alerting people that it does not look or feel exactly the same as it did in its previous location.43 Mills contends that moved buildings need a health warning: ‘Beware this relocated building can seriously challenge your view of the past.’44 The relocation of Emmaville Cottage was undertaken by the Orange Rotary Club, Orange City Council and other volunteers from the local community. The move of the cottage was well documented by media outlets and featured in an episode of the ABC series Restoration Australia. The cottage has been completely restored, with a repaired corrugated iron roof, new timber work, fresh paint, and landscaped garden beds. A mix of post-​and-​rail and picket fences were also installed around the perimeter. Orange City Council staff landscaped the site and have planted a range of heritage trees and vegetable gardens typical of the period. The project coordinator for the Rotary Club of Orange, Mick Doyle, has estimated that 2,000 hours of voluntary work have gone into the cottage. The work by Rotary volunteers was celebrated on Sunday, 16 February 2014 when former residents of the cottage, including the Farrells, cut a ribbon across the verandah at the same time. The celebration of prior inhabitants is also reflected in the Emmaville learning resources produced by the council, which barely mention Paterson. The focus is firmly on the Farrell family, who lived there from 1908 until 1977, when they sold the cottage to the Waratah Sports Club as part of the grounds. This may be due to heated arguments about the site of Paterson’s birth and the council’s reluctance to make statements about his relation to Emmaville given the conflicting evidence available. The emphasis on the previous residents might also be understood in the light of a trend towards ‘history from below’ in relation to heritage properties, which focuses not just on the rich and famous but also on the ‘ordinary’ people who inhabited them.

Templer’s Mill and the Paterson Obelisk Emmaville Cottage is certainly not the first site of remembrance for Paterson in the Orange region but it may be the most controversial. A  1947 memorial obelisk and a bronze bust completed in 2003 both serve to mark what was believed to be the poet’s approximate birthplace. The movement to commemorate Paterson’s birthplace began when Orange local Dick Sheridan found Paterson’s birth certificate. He coordinated



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a group which later became the Orange and District Historical Society. Largely as a result of Sheridan’s efforts, the memorial was inaugurated by Paterson’s widow in 1947.45 Alice Paterson had conveniently moved to 95 Byng Street in Orange, not far from his birthplace. Paterson died in Sydney only six years before the monument was built, indicating that the two events may be closely linked. Not far from the obelisk is Banjo Paterson Park46, which features a sculpture of Paterson. Anthony Chandler’s bronze bust represents Paterson as a grizzled bushman with a pipe –​his torso sits atop a brick plinth. The bust is located near mature trees –​a Mexican Cypress and a Currajong –​which stand as testimony to the prior presence of a homestead at Narrambla (one of approximately ten dwellings that once existed on the property). The front inscription of the obelisk reads: The Australian Poet Andrew Barton Paterson (Banjo) was born 17 Feby 1864 at the Narrambla Homestead which stood 8 chains north-​east of this memorial. Erected 1947 And He Sees The Vision Splendid Of The Sunlit Plains Extended And At Night The Wondrous Glory Of The Everlasting Stars (Clancy Of The Overflow)

At the unveiling ceremony, attended by a few hundred people, the former State member for Orange Bill Folster made reference to five potential birthplaces. ‘Paterson was one of the most born men of whom I have ever heard,’ he told the 400-​strong crowd.47 Even at this moment of dedication, Folster added uncertainty to the proceedings. The history of scepticism about Paterson’s birth evidently goes right back to the post-​war era, if not earlier. The Paterson memorial was the site of an annual pilgrimage involving a procession of horse-​drawn vehicles at the height of its popularity in the 1960s. Ian Jack notes that the participatory way in which the memorial was conceived and built by volunteer labour contributed to the formation of the Orange and District Historical Society.48 In January 1962, the Canobolas Shire Council took on the role of trustee of the Paterson reserve but councillors became increasingly concerned about the state of Templer’s Mill, which they saw as being potentially dangerous and likely to cause injury. The Templer family built and operated a steam-​powered flour mill in 1848 to process the wheat grown in the surrounding countryside. The three-​storey mill is said to have been state of the art when it was built and hence has historic industrial significance. The mill ceased operation as a flour mill when the Templer family moved to New Zealand in 1869. The building was then used as a shearing shed. In 1966, the Department of Lands refused the request of the council to terminate its trusteeship and to revoke the gazettal of Paterson Memorial Park.49 Alarmed by the council’s attitude to the park, R.  C. Sheridan wrote to the National Trust requesting assistance. In July 1966, the director of the National Trust, R.  N Walker, and the National Trust’s honorary architect came to Orange to inspect the reserve. Walker declared that: ‘It would be a calamity if the historic mill was torn down […] if this should

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happen, at least half the historical significance of the area would be lost.’50 Jack notes that there were suggestions about shoring up the walls and promoting the mill as a tourist attraction, deriving from its supply of flour to early goldminers but Banjo Paterson did not rate a mention.51 The mill was classified by the National Trust late in 1966 but no further action or support was forthcoming despite letters asking the trust for assistance. The Canobolas Shire Council gave the Historical Society four years to raise the funds for repairs, estimated at $10,000. The council waited until the expiry of the four-​year period and then acted quickly. In November 1971, the Health and Building Committee recommended that ‘the mill be demolished forthwith and that a notice be erected in the area prohibiting the public from entering upon that area’. On 30 November 1971, the demolition began, using 79 sticks of gelignite.52 Large heaps of broken bricks remain at the site despite repeated salvage of bluestone for other monuments. As Tim Edensor and Caitlin DeSilvey observe, ‘in conventional urban planning and political discourse, the ruined space or structure is conceived of as a problem, a “locus horribilis” which provides a refuge for undesirable behaviour’.53 Derelict buildings are often seen as ‘blighted’ sites that encourage deviance. This was a factor in the Canobolas Shire Council’s decision to destroy the mill, although the expense of restoring it must have also influenced the outcome. The council’s unwilling custodianship of this area meant that it did not want to participate in any preservation practices related to the mill. This resembles the attitudes towards the Patersons’ Buckinbah Station homestead in Yeoval, which was steadily destroyed by opportunistic thefts of  stone.

Local Dissent Among the current group of dissenters is former Canobolas Shire Council employee Ron Nalder. According to the Central Western Daily, Nalder said definitively that Emmaville Cottage could not have been Paterson’s birthplace. Nalder had salvaged a photo and plaque commemorating the monument’s 1947 unveiling, thrown away in 1977 when Canobolas Council amalgamated with Orange. He believes that the presence of Paterson’s widow at the unveiling of the memorial indicates that it had been placed in the correct location: ‘Paterson’s wife was present at the opening. She would have kicked up a fuss if she thought it wasn’t correct […] It shows she was quite happy. It was the truth printed on the monument.’54 Seventy years after Paterson’s wife unveiled the obelisk in Paterson’s honour, there has been a call by local historian Elizabeth Griffin for a precinct to be built involving the excavation of the foundations of buildings on the property to find out more about what used to be there. Griffin said the foundations of the old mill, stables, two wells, a manager’s house and a shed are still on the site. She believes that Paterson was born in the house of his grandmother’s sister, Mrs Templer, which was just outside the proposed tourist precinct. However, Griffin said she was not calling for Emmaville Cottage to be moved to the monument site from its current position near the Botanic Gardens. ‘I don’t think the poor old house would stand it,’ she claimed. In his report, Jack notes the tenuous historical connection between Paterson and the park:



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Although the precise connection between the present Banjo Paterson Memorial Park and the poet is historically tenuous, the area reserved as a public park has been imbued with strong symbolic value in the popular mind. Its high social value rests in this social significance whereas its direct historical connection might never be proven.55

Photos of the Paterson memorial taken before 1971 show the remains of Templer’s Mill standing in the paddock behind it, like a ghostly trace of the old Narrambla. The viewer cannot help but lament the loss of this magnificent ruin.

Garden Remnants The Narrambla homestead is gone and Templer’s Mill is little more than rubble, but exotic trees provide an enduring link to the early settlement of the site. Trees now stand in for the buildings that used to be on this site. The exotic, romanticised garden of Narrambla was reputed to be highly perfumed. Hickson found little evidence of perennial plants at the Narrambla site, but notes that Margaret Love speaks of an extensive cottage garden in the early part of the twentieth century.56 Narrambla’s garden is registered in Paterson’s work in a shadowy way. Semmler argues that Kuryong in ‘On Kiley’s Run’ (1890) is a combination of Illalong and Narrambla, his two early stations. I see the old bush homestead now    On Kiley’s Run, Just nestled down beneath the brow Of one small ridge above the sweep Of river-​flat, where willows weep And jasmine flowers and roses bloom, The air was laden with perfume    On Kiley’s Run.57

The good times are contrasted with the damage wrought by ‘droughts and losses,’ which end with stock being taken away by the bank and finally ruin. The poem mirrors Paterson’s father’s experience at Buckinbah and later at Illalong. This is a nostalgic recollection of a place, or a composite of two places, which were forever lost to Paterson at the time of writing, The name of Kiley’s Run is changed to an English name, ‘Chandos estate’, which sounds ‘less sweet’ to the narrator.

Restoration Australia An episode of Restoration Australia screened on the ABC in 2015 was devoted to the restoration of Emmaville in time for the opening day. Hosted by Sibella Court who describes herself as a ‘storyteller of spaces’, the programme accentuates the drama involved with the ‘saving’ of Emmaville. Court exclaims optimistically that ‘this house has captured the

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imagination of Orange locals’. She goes on to make a case for the unifying value of the house: We’re not sure if Banjo was born in this house but I  don’t think it matters. It has bound together a community and their ideas and their stories and at the end of the day, preserving a piece of Australian history […] starting a bit of conversation is the most important thing.

Although it initially focuses on the cottage’s ‘unifying’ function, the episode also gives voice to dissenters such as Ron Gander, who believes that Templer lived in a bluestone building made of the same materials as his mill, ‘8 chain’ from the Paterson monument. When asked how he would feel if Emmaville is connected with Paterson’s birth he says, ‘I’ll declare that it’s a lie –​it’s not that simple.’ The episode features footage from the unveiling ceremony of the bust with a brass band on the back of a cart and a large crowd (around 400 people), and a recording of Oakes, who remembers the home from the 1870s. Margaret Love (formerly Farrell), who used to live in the house, offers an irreverent view of Arthur Templer, who is regarded respectfully as one of the great founders of the city, despite his departure following the failure of the mill. ‘Templer was a pompous twit who sent himself dead broke on his wife’s money. He was no farmer, he didn’t have a clue, he was in everything in town, he wasn’t in anything as far as I could see, on his property.’ 58 Love’s belief contrasts with the views of some dissenters who believed that Templer was a ‘hands-​on’ owner who lived right next to his mill, overseeing all its functions. Love offers a counter-​narrative to the masculinist history of Paterson in Orange. Another local historian Heather Nicholls offers her research as evidence of Emmaville being the main homestead of the property (and therefore Paterson’s birth site). The episode features a dispute or duel between two councillors, Chris Gryllas and Reg Kidd, competing ideas about Paterson monuments. Gryllas suggests a giant metal Akubra on legs to be placed near the house as a form of shelter, allowing for congregation.59 The idea was to represent Paterson through a re-creation of the hat that he wears on the 10-​dollar note. Kidd, for his part, proposed a conventional statue to be positioned in the vicinity of Emmaville which would have the effect of explicitly connecting Paterson with it. At a council meeting, which is included in the episode, both propositions were denied. There was to be ‘no hat, no sculpture, no memorial’ at the end of the meeting. Doyle has expressed his disappointment that the council has not been more definitive in its support of the house and the way it is ‘framed’ for the community.60 In its current form, at the time of writing, the house is valued for its associations with previous residents but is not explicitly linked with Banjo. The interpretation panels note that members of the Farrell family who were the last to live in the cottage were invited to cut the ribbon at the official opening ceremony in February 2014. This opening coincided with the Banjo Paterson Australian Poetry Festival of 2014, which marked the 150th anniversary of Paterson’s birth. According to a report in the Port Macquarie News, the presence in the town of an ABC TV film crew there to make the Restoration Australia episode on the Emmaville



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Cottage occasioned a warning from Reg Kidd of the Orange Council, urging his fellow councillors to maintain their dignity. ‘We don’t want to turn it into a shemozzle where we look like hicks,’ he is reported to have said. As Simon Caterson observes in the Guardian, it is ‘not hard to imagine Paterson taking that line as the inspiration for a mock epic celebrating the comic side of Australian rural life’.61 ABC producer Max McKinnon said the makers of the TV show couldn’t resist the interest surrounding the hat pergola versus bronze sculpture debate, but it remained a ‘side thing’ with the one-​hour episode focusing on the community-​driven cottage restoration and ‘mystery’ surrounding Paterson’s birthplace.62 The episode finishes with Sibella Court claiming that she believes Paterson was born in the house. Given that the house is ‘finely finished’ rather than ‘rough hewn’, she argues that it was ‘highly likely it was his birthplace’. This episode is very much on the side of preservation, even if there are some questions about Paterson’s site of birth. In other words, the symbolic importance of a house can encompass mysteries which are all part of its allure.63 The Emmaville controversy might be read as a clash between some forms of folk knowledge, or oral storytelling, and ‘hard evidence’. When asked why people felt so vexed about Emmaville, Doyle observes that these people usually base their resistance on erroneous stories which have been passed down through their families. There’s a tendency to repeat certain ‘facts’, like the idea that the cottage was ‘8 chain’ from Templer’s mill and built of the same materials, rather than exploring all the documentary information available.64 One participant in the Restoration Australia episode alludes to the ambivalence of Australians about their literary heritage: ‘In any other part of the world they would love to claim it, put a stamp on it […] perhaps that’s something we missed out on, Banjo’s probably up there laughing at us.’65 He implies that Paterson would be amused by the ongoing contest over his legacy. Given that his works have taken on larger than life, mythological meanings, it’s not entirely unexpected that the location of his birthplace should attract potent myths of its own.

Yeoval Paterson spent his early childhood, from 1864 to 1870–​71, till the age of seven, on a property near Obley (approximately 19 kilometres from Yeoval) called Buckinbah Station. Paterson’s first home was on three adjoining runs –​Buckinbah, Timnie and Curra Creek, which were part of a vast tract of 86,500 acres.66 As his granddaughters Campbell and Harvie state, his recollections of Buckinbah were ‘slight’.67 His father Andrew and uncle John had bought Buckinbah and Illalong near Yass, and a Queensland place named ‘Stainbourne Downs’. John Paterson went to Illalong and Andrew took over Buckinbah but had to spend most of his time in Queensland where the venture eventually failed, due to drought. On Buckinbah, a stone cottage served as a homestead for the two families once Paterson’s uncle John died.68 There are a number of markers around Yeoval that declare Paterson’s absent-​ presence. In front of a Yeoval street sign is a monument in the form of a page in a book of Paterson’s verse, complete with his signature. The base is made of stones taken from

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Figure 5.2  Jack Thompson addressing a crowd at the Buckinbah ruins, 2009. Photograph courtesy of Sharon and Alf Cantrell, Banjo Paterson Museum, Yeoval

the ruins of his Buckinbah Station homestead. When the railway line came through, locals knocked the shell of the homestead over to obtain rocks and these have also made their way into the memorial.69 A pathway lined with slate seats and etched with Paterson writings has been created to guide the visitor to the ruins of the Buckinbah homestead. A large sandstone picnic seat at the ruins was dedicated to the memory of Paterson by the actor Jack Thompson, who performed readings at the site as part of now defunct Yeoval Mulga Bill Bicycle Festival in 2009. Unfortunately the path is not currently open because the ruins are on private property and two bridges built by Paterson devotee Alf Cantrell have been washed away by the Buckinbah creek, one after the other. Cantrell is quietly exasperated by the inaccessibility of the site and the indifference to literary heritage this symbolises: The ruins of the original homestead are in the middle of a paddock. We fenced it off a few years ago. I said: ‘Let’s let people walk down and have a look’ but the owners of the land and the powers that be in town say ‘it’s only a heap of old stones now’. The heritage that those old stones have is unbelievable!70

The Cantrells run the ‘Banjo Paterson … More than a Poet’ exhibition which is on permanent display at their museum. The museum was opened in February 2014 by former deputy prime minister Tim Fischer, who read ‘Clancy of the Overflow’ while a rider galloped towards him cracking a stockwhip, who turned out to be the Cantrell’s daughter in disguise.71 There is a history of this kind of performative reading with Paterson-​style rider; a similar role-​play was undertaken at the Paterson monument in the 1960s. The exhibition does not contain any genuine personal relics such as Paterson’s hat, cane and coat which are now long gone. Instead, it recognises Paterson’s many skills, occupations, and hobbies, displaying things like pipes, hickory sticks and polo hats, which refer to his leisure activities and sporting prowess. The museum’s collection of photographs and old letters has served to boost visitor numbers to the town and has a flow-​on effect with other businesses registering increased transactions. The Cantrells plan to erect a statue of Paterson outside the museum if a crowdfunding campaign is successful.



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A rock cairn constructed by the schoolchildren remembers Paterson at Yeoval Central School in Obley Road, Yeoval. It is made of rocks collected by children from Carmichael Primary School in South Lanarkshire, a small village in Scotland. Paterson’s parents emigrated from Carmichael to Australia in the 1850s, so this collaborative exercise was an effort to link Paterson to Scotland,72 just as researchers have explored Henry Lawson’s father’s origins in Norway. Cantrell told the Sydney Morning Herald:  ‘Children here collected stones from the Buckinbah farm last week and on the same day the children in Scotland collected their stones.’ This simultaneous collection by children in both hemispheres served to link two towns with Paterson associations (while ignoring the others). The cairn, an ancient Scottish tradition for marking burial sites, was then built using both sets of stones.73 Tom Griffiths has argued that cairns have represented an attempt to create a local geography of the past which bound European traditions to the colonial era and settler society.74 In 2018, the Banjo Paterson Australian Poetry Festival programme featured a ‘Poet’s Brunch and Lunchday at Yeoval’ and a ‘Family Day Market at Emmaville Cottage’, thereby recognising two places of importance to Paterson’s biography. The Emmaville Cottage is now a site which can be incorporated into the cultural events run in Orange, as part of the wider promotion of the region to visitors. And in turn, Yeoval can be included as a venue for events at the Orange-​based Banjo Paterson Australian Poetry Festival, indicating collaboration rather than competition between the two towns.

Illalong The Paterson family moved from Yeoval to Ilalong in the Yass district, when John Paterson died suddenly at the age of 40. When he was old enough to ride unaccompanied, Banjo attended the Binalong bush school, which was four miles there and back. Writing about his school days for the Sydney Morning Herald, he cited Thomas Carlyle, one of his favourite authors:75 Carlyle in his ‘Sartor Resartus’ speaks of his hero, Diogenes Teudelsdrock, as being educated at the Academy of Hinterschlag (stern-​whackers), and there was plenty of Hinterschlag at this little bush school in Binalong. The master, Moore by name, had to meet emergencies of one sort or another every day.76

Paterson does not have the affection for his schoolmaster that Lawson displayed towards John Tierney at the Eurunderee school he attended. Lawson only had a few years at school whereas Paterson left Binalong in 1874 at the age of 10 to attend Sydney Grammar School. Despite the fact that he left after only three years of residence, Illalong and the wider Yass district have strong associations with Paterson. According to an article in the Western Times in 1945, Yass considers itself to be ‘A. B. Paterson country’.77 There was a proposal to restore the Illalong homestead after he died but what remained of the place was seriously decayed and was eventually demolished.78

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Banjo Paterson Park in Yass was acquired in 1944 and in 1948 was renamed in his honour even though he lived in Illalong rather than in Yass. The park is situated next to the Yass river with a grand gateway bearing his name. There’s a strange doubling at work with the Paterson bust standing near the centre of the main entrance to the park. The original plaster cast of the bust was found in a hay shed near Wee Jasper, which was in the area where Paterson had his last rural property before moving back to Sydney. As mentioned earlier, Paterson took over a property of 40,000 acres in Coodra Vale, near Wee Jasper.79 The Yass Council commissioned Mrs Folks, a ‘Sydney sculptress,’ to do the bronze casting from the plaster cast.80 Yet the ‘original’ bronze bust by Mrs Folks is housed in the Yass Information Centre to keep it safe from vandalism. The one on display is actually a replica of the bronze original sculpted by Mrs Folks, which was unveiled in the park on 2 November 1950. The cost of the original, including a granite base, was £68, according to a report in the Canberra Times.81 This practice of making copies of busts is a common one. The bust of Adam Lindsay Gordon housed in Poet’s Corner in Westminster Abbey is replicated in Penola, South Australia, where Gordon once lived. The practice of copying these commemorative artefacts, lessens the chances of their being lost forever. Should the original disappear, simulacra will be available to prove that it once existed. Doyle has commented on the fact that Paterson’s connection with Yass is recognised by commemorative stamps, whereas his ties with the Orange region are not, indicating a well-defined hierarchy of associations. On his anniversary for his 150th the government brought out a commemorative envelope and stamps and so on but it was postmarked from Yass. We asked that Orange could be identified in that publication but we lost that argument. He never lived in Yass.82

Recent tours organised by The National Trust have described the Yass district as ‘Banjo Paterson country’, prompted by the publication of Jennifer Gall’s book about Paterson’s mother, Looking for Rose Paterson (2017). This book has offered insight into the influence of Rose Paterson on her son and in turn illuminated the huge part played by his maternal grandmother Emily Barton, who was an accomplished poet and fine artist.

Waltzing Matilda Centre In 1895, Paterson visited the outback Dagworth Station, 100 kilometres northwest of Winton. It was just 14 weeks after an armed battle at Dagworth woolshed in September 1894 between striking shearers and the station owners, the Macphersons. While staying at Dagworth, Paterson heard Christina Macpherson play the Scottish tune ‘Craiglea’. Impressed with its rhythm, Paterson wrote words to accompany it, basing the verses on a story told locally about the misadventures of a swagman. The collaboration between Paterson and Macpherson led to ‘Waltzing Matilda’ being performed at country gatherings before its first public performance. It was previously believed that this occurred at the North Gregory Hotel on 6 April 189583 but Waltzing



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Matilda  –​Australia’s Accidental Anthem (2019) by W. Benjamin Lindner argues that the song had not yet been written.84 The song and its origins have been an integral element of Winton’s cultural tourism from the early 1970s onwards. The Winton and District Historical Society have operated the Qantilda Museum since 1972. The name comes from a blending of Qantas and Waltzing Matilda, as Winton was the first home of Qantas, the national airline. The members of the society are volunteers who donate their time to help educate people about the pioneers who ‘built the outback’. During the 28-​year existence of the historical society, a huge collection of outback memorabilia and artworks have been accumulated, documented, and exhibited to ‘educate’ people on ‘the livelihood of the aboriginal inhabitants and, the livelihood of the districts [sic] settlers and their descendants’.85 The original Waltzing Matilda Centre was opened in 1998, three years after the centenary celebrations for Paterson’s 1895 song. In June 2015, an electrical fault in a storeroom led to the centre’s destruction by fire. Winton Shire Council Mayor Gavin Baskett commented: ‘It was a bit of a kick in the guts when it burned down –​it was sort of our lifeblood.’86 The centre was entirely rebuilt and reopened in April 2018, at a cost of $22 million. The unusual design, by Cox Architecture, ‘reflects the significance of this iconic song’. The building materials, predominantly concrete and rusted steel, have been ‘crafted to represent the landscapes found in the Winton shire:  the “jump-​up” rock formations, water movement and the billabongs’.87 The new centre was introduced to the public in conjunction with the music and culture festival Way Out West Fest.88 One of the highlights was a short performance from John Williamson, who sang ‘True Blue’ followed by ‘Waltzing Matilda’, and a performance from the AB Paterson College chamber choir from the Gold Coast. An ABC report noted that some locals are sceptical about the design of the building. Some residents were reported as saying that it was an eyesore and ‘waste of taxpayers’ money’. People have called it ‘the ants nest’ and ‘the mud hut’ and ‘a lot of other funny names’. One interviewee said that a projection claimed that a projection from the side of the building looked like the wing of a Qantas plane, thereby linking it to another one of Winton’s claims to fame.89 Compared with the Emmaville restoration project which cost very little and involved many hours of volunteer labour, this architecture project is slick, urban and professional. This may partly account for the mixed responses from Winton residents.

The Banjo Paterson Cottage Restaurant The Banjo Paterson Cottage restaurant sits within ‘Rockend’, the former home of Paterson’s grandmother Emily Barton in Gladesville, where he lived during his school years.90 The restaurant is decked out in faux colonial décor, making it a favoured venue for weddings and other formal events.91 In 1979, ‘Rockend’ was earmarked for demolition following approval of a development on the site. Residents fought the demolition of the cottage because of its historical significance and it stands preserved today through the efforts of campaigners and the

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Ryde Council. The area is now owned by the State government and is permanently reserved as harbourside parkland. Rockend Cottage is classified by the National Trust and protected by the Heritage Council of New South Wales. A photo of Paterson as an infant with a Wuradjuri girl, described as his ‘nurse’, is on display at ‘Rockend’, referring to his days on Buckinbah Station. The girl may be the same nurse known as Fanny or ‘Black Fanny’ who was accused of dropping Paterson, resulting in a fractured right arm. As Campbell and Harvie note: The nurse told no one of the accident and the break was not discovered for some time. He had to undergo a series of most painful operations, which left him with one arm slightly shorter than the other and a certain amount of muscle damage. As a result, he had a very light hand on the rein and he attributed his success as an amateur rider to that fact, together with his ability to ‘stick on’ a horse.92

In a letter to her sister Nora, after the injuries were discovered belatedly, Rose Paterson sounds bitter and angry:  ‘That horrid Black Fanny must have been climbing trees with him or something of that sort and never let on to us for a moment that anything happened to the child.’93 Grantlee Keiza observes that Paterson had a respectful attitude to Australia’s first people but in her distress Rose looked for a scapegoat and accused the nurse of being responsible for the broken arm.94 Alf Cantrell noted that quite a few Indigenous people lived and worked on Buckinbah Station while he was in residence there.95 Although there are stories in ‘Illalong Children’ about the ‘blackfellows’ at Illalong, including a piece named ‘King Billy and his family’, there are only a few, if any, references to the people who knew Paterson on Buckinbah, including Fanny the nurse. Due to his mother’s anger about his injuries, Fanny may have been conveniently erased from his childhood biography. The presence of the photo in this ‘genteel’ restaurant seems incongruous given the associations it has not only with Buckinbah Station but also a vexed situation between the Paterson family and their servant Fanny. Displayed as memorabilia authenticating the restaurant’s relation with Paterson, it offers a portal into another time and place.

Man from Snowy River Country As mentioned earlier, Paterson is a writer who has a number of mysteries swirling around him and his work. There’s still some debate about whether or not Corryong legend Jack Riley was ‘The Man’ in Paterson’s poem. According to the Corryong Museum, Paterson acknowledged that it was a work of fiction that draws on some other mountain cattlemen he met, but that the main story was based on Jack Riley.96 Paterson was reluctant to acknowledge that Riley was the only model for ‘The Man from Snowy River’ possibly because he had spent four years in jail for transporting stolen horses.97 Riley lived in absolute isolation in a rough hut high up in the hills at Tom Groggin. It was the late Walter Mitchell of Towong station who introduced Riley to Paterson when the pair were camping in the Snowy Mountains.98



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In the town of Corryong, Riley’s grave is one of the tourist attractions, with signposts pointing tourists in that direction. Riley’s headstone has ‘In memory of The Man from Snowy River’ is inscribed on his headstone and the there is a Jack Riley Heritage award at the Snowy River Festival. One of the highlights of the festival is ‘Riley’s Ride’, which involves a rugged four-​day trail ride through the country that inspired Paterson’s poem. In this way, riders can ‘bring the poem to life’ through daring feats of their own. The Corryong community has decided definitively that Riley was ‘The Man’ in spite of Paterson’s refusal to be drawn on the subject. This is yet another example of the intense desire to tie a piece of creative writing to specific personalities and exact locations. As suggested previously, Paterson’s reputation as a writer of ‘western plainsmen’ allows him to be easily associated with many rural places in Australia and ‘customised’ to suit the needs of various towns.

Conclusion On 5 February 1941, Paterson died while waiting for his wife Alice to collect him from the hospital. There was no State funeral for him since Australians were preoccupied with the Second World War. Keiza notes that Paterson ‘had never courted publicity and in death it remained so’.99 Rather unkindly, Alec Chisholm argued that Paterson had been washed up as an author and melancholically fixated on the past during his final years. Chisholm cites the last lines in his poem ‘Black Swans’: ‘For our day is dead and has left no traces /​But the thoughts that live in my mind tonight.’100 Chisholm claims that Paterson increasingly harboured those feelings and had become irrelevant in the literary world: He had fallen out of touch with his brother-​writers and with the world at large. He was living again in the days of 30 to 40 years ago, when he was a Sydney newspaper editor and the most popular writer of verse In Australia. He had indeed, become somewhat introspective, a trifle morose. Even those undeniable persons, the autograph-​hunters, could do nothing with him. His day was dead and had left only the thoughts of the spacious years outback.101

On the night of Paterson’s death on 5 February 1941, Vance Palmer broadcast a more sympathetic tribute: He laid hold both of our affections and imaginations; he made himself a vital part of the country we all know and love, and it would not only have been a poorer country but one far less united in bonds of intimate feeling, if he had never lived and written.102

His three most famous works, ‘Waltzing Matilda’, ‘Clancy of the Overflow’ and ‘The Man from Snowy River’ have traditionally been shared through recitation and performance, thereby contributing to a sense of ‘intimate feeling’ that Palmer identifies in his eulogy. Given its status as an informal national anthem, ‘Waltzing Matilda’ may be the one Paterson text that virtually everyone in Australia recognises. After his death, the journalist Alec Chisholm predicted in the Melbourne Herald that ‘this song would be

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an everlasting memorial’.103 Located at the Northern Suburbs Crematorium grounds in Sydney is a large stone with a plaque bearing the lyrics of Waltzing Matilda, which positions this song as Paterson’s greatest achievement.104 After the initial flurry of posthumous commemoration in the 1940s, there have been sporadic efforts to emphasize Paterson’s presence within the collective imagination. In 1968, his portrait was used for a five-​cent stamp. This was followed in 2014 by a series of 70 cent stamps featuring ‘Clancy’, ‘Mulga Bill, ‘Waltzing Matilda’ and Snowy River. In 1993, Paterson bumped Lawson (and Gulgong) off the 10-​dollar bank note. The new polymer $10 banknote, released in 2017, is still shared by Paterson and the lesser-​known author Dame Mary Gilmore. The Reserve Bank of Australia’s website states that the banknote depicts images from the era of Gilmore and Paterson. The homestead used in the design is ‘representative of the type of homestead referenced in Gilmore and Paterson’s works’. The hut on the Gilmore side of the banknote references life in the Australian bushland as described in her poetry. The image of the horseman on the other side of the banknote is the designer’s interpretation of a horseman from the era of Paterson’s writing.105

The microprint also features excerpts from Gilmore and Paterson’s poems ‘No Foe Shall Gather Our Harvest’ and ‘The Man from Snowy River’. To be represented on an Australian banknote is generally regarded as a great privilege which can keep an author in the public eye, even if people do not always look too closely at the figures on their notes. Whenever a new banknote design is released, there is animated discussion about the figures who are honoured. Osman Faruqi has remarked that the new $10 note is a good excuse to talk about Mary Gilmore ‘writer, feminist, utopian, activist, legend’ who is ‘way cooler than Banjo’.106 In Chapter Ten, I discuss the decision to put Indigenous author and inventor David Unaipon on the 50-​dollar note and the ways in which this tribute has prompted further efforts to remember Unaipon in tangible forms. As with Lawson, Paterson’s fan base is stronger in the rural and regional parts of Australia, particularly in the places that he lived in or wrote about. Nicholas Rothwell notes: ‘Like every writer from a century ago, his appeal is now more demotic than academic or high establishment. He is the writer of the two most famous poems in Australian memory, and yet the remainder of his prodigiously varied output is barely known and little regarded in our day.’107 Rothwell may see this situation as lamentable yet it’s not unusual for writers to be best known for one book  –​or one character  –​as with P.  L. Travers and Mary Poppins. This chapter has shown that there are many places with ties to Paterson: Orange, Yeoval, Illalong, Gladesville, Corryong and Winton. Arguably Paterson is associated most strongly with two regions:  the Orange/​Yeoval area in New South Wales and the Snowy Mountains in Victoria. Orange and Yeoval have worked together to draw attention to Paterson’s connections with the area, despite contestation and disagreement on the part of some residents. The fact that the Emmaville Cottage and the Buckinbah homestead ruins have been controversial testifies to Paterson’s enduring cultural value.



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These buildings, one restored and one ruined, can be used to explore not just the world of those who originally built them, but also the concerns of those who have sought to preserve them.108 Ian Ousby reflects on the ways in which the tourism industry exploits ‘our cosy, simplified view of the good old days’109 –​pioneer settlements and gold-​mining theme parks perfectly exemplify this phenomenon. Although Emmaville Cottage is not a major tourist attraction as yet, it may become one in the future. While Emmaville’s link with Paterson’s birth remains disputed, it offers the possibility of communing with a rural idyll. With its pristine white walls, it acts as a screen for whatever pastoral fantasies people wish to project upon it, whether related to Paterson or not.

Chapter Six NAN CHAUNCY’S SANCTUARY Nan Chauncy, an Anglo-Tasmanian writer, began publishing in 1948 with They Found A Cave, which was reissued as part of the Text Classics series in 2013. From the late 1950s until the early 1970s she was one of Australia’s best-​known children’s authors. Today few people know the name Nan Chauncy outside of Tasmania. Her house Day Dawn and the Chauncy Vale wildlife sanctuary are located in Bagdad, 40 kilometres north of Hobart. Despite financial pressures during her lifetime, Chauncy left a material legacy that visitors continue to appreciate. At Chauncy Vale, there is a symbiotic relationship between place and text –​it is the setting for Chauncy’s first novel, with many recognisable elements still in evidence. And in turn Chauncy Vale is now consciously framed by the author’s fiction, adding another layer of signification. Given the details of Chauncy’s biography –​her dedication to one place through most of her adult life (from her late 30s until her death at age 69) –​it is possible to trace connections between the exact location where she wrote her books and their subject matter. And now ‘the Vale’, as some locals call it, is forever associated with the author, even if people do not read the books so much anymore. Day Dawn appears untouched since the Chauncys left it, almost four decades ago. Chauncy and her husband Anton kept their house and environment largely the same, partly through necessity but also through a sense of faithfulness to the past. Chauncy’s connection with the landscape of Chauncy Vale is palpable in her writing, especially in They Found a Cave. The imaginative world she sets up in her writing corresponds closely with the landscape she first met as a migrant child in Bagdad. The shock and awe of this encounter reverberates throughout her books, refracted in direct and less overt ways. Born Nancen Beryl Masterman in 1900 in Middlesex, Chauncy came to Australia from Britain as a 12-​year-​old with her sister and four brothers. Her father, an engineer, bought 90 acres of scrubland near Bagdad. Chauncy, her parents, Lilla and Charles Masterman, and her brothers and sister lived in a three-​roomed bark slab hut called Cherry Tree Cottage near Brown’s Cave Creek. In Chauncy’s later novel Half a World Away (1962), an Edwardian family leave their English home to start a new life in Tasmania as the Mastermans had done. Like Cherry Tree Cottage where the Mastermans initially lived, their home was a basic hut with furniture made from small logs, bags stuffed with bracken for seating and a dining table made from an old crate. When the whole Masterman family was indoors, it was cramped inside Cherry Tree Cottage, but the children’s world centred on the bush, the garden and the abundant wildlife.1 Chauncy remembered stories being told by lamplight in the evenings.

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Incrementally they developed an awareness of previous inhabitants as ‘the ground gave up its relics of Aboriginal tracks and tools’.2 This materially basic but imaginatively rich period may help to explain Chauncy’s choice to abstain from modern conveniences during her married life. Their frugal way of life was due to a lack of financial resources but also to Chauncy’s nostalgia for, and romanticisation of, her unconventional Tasmanian upbringing. In 1923, Chauncy decided to travel to the United Kingdom with a family chaperone, partly in response to her brother Kay’s residence at Oxford University. While there she decided to devote herself to writing, resisting the expectations of her English relatives that she become a ‘secretary companion’ or something similar. On 10 July 1923, she wrote about a conversation with her brother in her diary: ‘Dear old Kay had heart-​to-​ heart re my plans and have decided on literature after all. He is mapping out a course and I intend to work every night at it.’3 Nonetheless, she would serve a long apprenticeship, as it was 11 years before her first book appeared. In 1925, she took up a position as a women’s welfare officer at the Cadbury Fry chocolate factory in Claremont, near Austin’s Ferry, where her parents had moved after leaving Bagdad. She drew on this experience in her unpublished manuscript Comfort Me with Apples, which refers to some of the snobberies, class hierarchies and prejudice she encountered in this position. The Depression of the 1930s brought retrenchment, which came as a relief to Chauncy. She escaped to the United Kingdom in 1931, where she typed out her first manuscript laboriously with two fingers when living on a houseboat with her twin brother Jan, on the River Thames in a reach below Windsor Castle.4 The title comes from a line in the Old Testament’s Song of Solomon: ‘comfort me with apples; for I am sick of love’.5 In common with her central character Seth, Chauncy had some brief relationships in her youth, including a passionate liaison with a much older married man. The eccentric existence on the houseboat suited Chauncy. She wrote to her father in 1936 saying that her idea was to ‘live on houseboats and write books until too decrepit to row a boat’.6 In July 1937, Jan wrote an insensitive note to Chauncy to inform her of his impending marriage, asking her to find other accommodation. This unexpected turn of events led to Chauncy’s boarding of the SS Meliskerk in 1938 and her subsequent romance with Helmut Anton Rosenfeld, who was 12 years her junior. Anton had left his family home in Konigsberg, in what was then German East Prussia, now part of Latvia, early in the 1930s, fleeing to Switzerland and then to England.7 When they returned to Tasmania, Chauncy worked as a freelance scriptwriter for the ABC while Anton worked on the land until the arrival of their daughter Heather, whose presence encouraged her to begin writing for children.

In Chauncy Vale The Chauncy Vale sanctuary, the oldest in the State, might be seen in the context of an established tradition of Tasmanian writers creating their own sanctuaries and reserves. As C. A. Cranston notes, historically Tasmanian writers have forged close connections



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to landscape, donating land for sanctuaries including Nan Chauncy and Chauncy Vale, Mary Wilson and The Steppes, John Skemp and the Skemp Memorial Reserve, and Clive Sansom, patron of the Wilderness Society. This conservationist ethos may have been influenced by the naturalist proclivities of Sir John and Lady Jane Franklin who governed Van Diemen’s Land, as it was then known.8 The sanctuary has been open to the public and welcoming visitors since 1946. It comprises 400 hectares of narrow creeks, secluded valleys, sandstone cliffs and caves, and dry schlerophyl bushland. The Vale is visited by bushwalkers, birdwatchers, field naturalist groups and school parties. There are a few tracks through the sanctuary, which lead to Brown’s Caves, Brown’s Caves Creek and Guvvy’s Lagoon. Brown’s Cave Creek features a number of waterholes, one of the favourite haunts of the Masterman children. Among these is ‘Eve’s bath’, a small pool where Chauncy’s youngest sister Eve would pretend to wash. As well as Brown’s Cave Creek, which fluctuates with the seasons, there are two small spring-​fed lagoons, Guvvy’s Lagoon and another known as The Tarn, on the southern boundary. The Tarn features in They Found a Cave, but is shifted closer to the secret cave inhabited by runaway children to support the narrative. While Guvvy’s Lagoon is shallow and often dries up completely, the Tarn is usually a permanent water supply, except in times of drought.

Day Dawn Day Dawn has evolved from an active living space to one of remembrance, thereby entering into the cultural memory of Bagdad. Chauncy’s house tells us about her as a person but also represents a series of decisions made by the people behind the preservation of the house, notably the Friends of Chauncy Vale and live-​in caretakers. Day Dawn was built during the First World War, between 1916 and 1918, by Chauncy’s father and twin brother Jan, who were engineers specialising in concrete construction. Originally Day Dawn was meant for Kay, who was a prisoner of war, but he gave the house to Chauncy and Anton as a wedding present since he was unable to live there himself due to his academic commitments elsewhere. When Chauncy died of cancer on 1 May in 1970 at Bagdad, just short of her 70th birthday, she was cremated with Anglican rites. Anton bequeathed the sanctuary to the Municipality of Brighton in 1988.9 Subsequently their daughter Heather made a further gift of the house and home paddocks. Since then it has been kept close to its original condition wherever possible. Its basic nature speaks volumes about Chauncy’s values, as expressed in her writing and her way of  life. To the visitor, Day Dawn gives the impression that it has changed little since the Chauncys left it. The front door leads directly into the oak-​panelled sitting room. The 1960s furniture is basic, unadorned, with the exception of an ornate desk from the colonial era which once belonged to a ship’s captain. Next to it is a more modest desk on which Chauncy’s Olympia typewriter –​nicknamed ‘George’ –​sits in front of a window with bright red handmade curtains. The large stone fireplace is the focal point of the room;

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an indispensable part of life during the cooler months. Describing her living conditions, Chauncy wrote:  ‘No electricity, only the soft light of the oil lamp and the sounds of dogs snoring on the skin mat, the iron kettles singing in praise of simple things.’10 The simple life at Chauncy Vale –​isolated, unadorned, spartan –​recurs in various forms in Chauncy’s writing. A laminated photo of Anton remains propped up in his old chair by the fireplace. He is still a quiet presence in the house despite the focus on his famous wife. For Anton, Day Dawn was a sanctuary from the turbulence of the Second World War. His parents fled Germany in 1939 and came to stay at Day Dawn until relations became strained. His sister Marie, a brilliant mathematician, worked as a governess in Melbourne until her suicide in June 1939. The Masterman family was initially against Chauncy’s marriage to Anton, but her brother’s gift of Day Dawn indicated a degree of acceptance. Day Dawn was originally a three-​room, single-​storey cottage with an open north-​ facing verandah, an enclosed side verandah on the east side, and a lean-​to kitchen and scullery on the south side. It has undergone several alterations over the years: the shingle roof was replaced by corrugated iron in the 1920s and the kitchen and scullery was rebuilt in two stages in the 1950s with the addition of a convict brick double chimney and weatherboards of Baltic pine. When the Chauncys lived in it, lighting was provided by hurricane lamps in the sleepout and Heather’s bedroom and Aladdin lamps in other rooms, with candles for emergencies.11 In Chauncy’s bedroom, off the sitting room, some of her clothes are hung up, as if she is expected to return at any moment. Berenice Eastman has described her as a ‘sturdy figure dressed in practical tweeds’ of the kind that are on display in this bedroom.12 Clothes can give us clues about the author’s physical self. The dresses and shoes of the Brontë sisters at the Parsonage at Haworth are impossibly tiny, suggesting birdlike frames. Chauncy’s clothes are roomier, more robust. A Girl Guide belt gestures towards her lifelong involvement with the Guiding movement. In the 1920s, she would bring Guides to Day Dawn for camps before setting up her own troop in Claremont. Her banjo sits on a shelf in her bedroom along with a range of children’s books from all over the world, telling the visitor about the sort of person she was. A tiny bedroom behind the sitting room contains two decrepit single beds that look as if they have not been slept in for half a century. They have been left in an almost fossilised state, rather than being tidied up or replaced. Along one wall is a cabinet full of toys:  tin cars, wooden animals, a tiny tea set, a miniature train, board games and cards. The caretaker explained to me that school parties always closely scrutinise these toys from the ‘olden days’. Children marvel over the toys, unable to conceive of a world without screens, let alone electricity.13 There is an educational emphasis at the property which has been encouraged by the Friends of Chauncy Vale, with school groups allowed to visit free of charge. Historically, the Chauncy family encouraged the use of the land as an outdoor classroom and for purposes of non-​destructive scientific research; this use has continued since it has been managed by the South Midlands Council.14 It is in the kitchen that the present-​day pedagogical function of Day Dawn becomes most apparent. The sitting room and bedrooms feel lived-​in but the kitchen seems more curated, with newspapers and magazines laid



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Figure 6.1  Nan Chauncy outside Day Dawn with dogs. Reproduced with the permission of the State Library of Tasmania, PH 30/1/7536

out on the table. An embroidered copy of the proclamation announcing Chauncy Vale’s protected status as a private sanctuary hangs on the kitchen wall. It was here that Chauncy cooked meals derived from the immediate environment. She would make cakes with emu eggs and regularly serve up rabbit, goat and peacock. From the front verandah the visitor can see native and exotic plants in the garden. It is too dry to maintain a vegetable garden these days. Heather Chauncy explained to me that the animals get so thirsty that they eat all the succulents: ‘Nobody told them that they are not supposed to.’15 Heather speaks of animals respectfully, like her mother, who encouraged their presence around the house. A visitor in 1969 noted that a family of wombats was living noisily beneath the floorboards.16 In the garden Chauncy planted flower bulbs such as iris, lilac and daffodil which continue to bloom year after year. A big pine tree stands at corner of the verandah, commemorating the end of the First World War in 1918. An 80-​year-​old bush with a gnarled trunk and light green leaves is almost unrecognisable as rosemary, doubling as a home for fairies by visiting children. The curation of Day Dawn emphasises the house as the originating location for the books and ensures that it functions as a repository for memories of the author. Inflected with Chauncy’s ethos of frugality and self-​sufficiency, Day Dawn offers the visitor a glimpse of another way of living, far from the metropolis and largely outside the demands of a capitalist economy. Her vision is of wholesome seclusion in a remote place with little or no dealings with busy cities. This could be viewed as isolationist  –​with characters

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using their remoteness as a bulwark against the outside world –​yet there is strength in this single-​minded self-​reliance.

Finding the Secret Cave In the sitting room of Day Dawn a range of items are on display, among them an old invitation to a special event held in 2007. The heading reads: ‘They found a cave, what will you find?’ The invitation promises an afternoon of poetry, music and a guided walk to ‘the Cave’. A number of public events of this sort have been held at Chauncy Vale, usually on the annual Open Day. There are a few caves to choose from on the property, but none of them has the exact properties of the ‘secret cave’ in They Found a Cave. Brown’s Caves in Chauncy Vale are named after the bushranger who holed up in the area. He was one of four bushrangers including Britton, Beaven and Jefkins who terrorised the Tasmanian countryside in 1832–​ 33. According to Bagdad legend, the caves were used by Brown to hide from the authorities. Heather Chauncy claims that the locals knew Brown was hiding there but they were afraid to approach him because he was prone to taking ‘potshots’ across the valley.17 He was reported to swing into a cave by means of a rope, since it was situated high in the rock face. Chauncy’s brothers found a barrel and a rope in this cave that may have belonged to Brown, or so they liked to believe. The association with a bushranger lent the caves a frisson of danger and adventure that all the Masterman children appreciated. In They Found a Cave, Chauncy reimagines her own arrival at Bagdad through the young English war evacuees Nigel, Brick, Nippy and Cherry, who are sent out to Tasmania to stay with their aunt Jandie after their mother’s death. This mirrors the arrival of the six Masterman siblings, who left an affluent existence in Middlesex after their father lost a court case. Charles Masterman wanted to try his hand at apple farming but did not anticipate the tough conditions in the valley. It involved an ‘all-​out family effort’ to clear the land and plant an orchard, which ultimately proved unviable.18 With the failure of the orchard and the outbreak of the First World War, which affected the payments from Lilla’s mother’s family, the Mastermans became poor almost overnight. The English children in They Found a Cave make friends with Tasman or ‘Tas’, the son of Ma and Pa Pinner who work on Aunt Jandie’s property. Tas –​named after Abel Tasman, just as Nan was named after Norwegian explorer Nansen –​is a born-​and-​bred Tasmanian who knows the landscape intimately. It is Tas who alerts the English children to the existence of the caves near the homestead: ‘He jerked his head towards the heights above, where the tranquil afternoon showed up in the high summit with splits and clefts in the rock making dark hollows,’ ‘Caves up there –​lots of them in the sandstone. All sorts of sizes, but a real bushranger lived in one, long time ago.’ Tas takes them to see the Jim the Bushranger’s cave, also known as ‘Capra Cave’, which cannot be seen from the outside; all that is visible is a solid ‘bulge’ of rock and a ledge. Cherry says of the cave: ‘Just what I like, all shut in and secret, yet on top of everything.’19 When their aunt is taken to hospital and they are left in the care of the Pinners –​the scheming, thuggish parents of Tas –​the children seek refuge in the cave. At first they search for barrels of gold coins or relics of the bushranger ‘Old Jim’, but there was ‘nothing to show that a



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man had used the cave before them, except the black stone and the rough fireplace carefully built so that the smoke would escape into the passage and away towards the tarn’.20 The cave in the novel is clearly a composite because none of the real caves has all the features described in the book, such as the even floor, shelves for storing food and the tarn at the rear for ablutions. The children have a herd of goats that roam nearby, conveniently providing milk for butter and cheese. Other supplies are stolen from the homestead in night-​time raids. Cherry is in charge of all the domestic duties, including milking, cooking and looking after her little brother Nippy, reflecting the gender relations of the era. On a bad morning, Cherry feels frozen by winds blowing into the cave, cries over the ashes blown into the goat’s milk she is trying to turn into butter and stubs her toe on the cold stone floor. Nonetheless, she loves this time in the cave and is as upset as the others when it’s time to depart: Never again to smell each day the aromatic scents of the wild flowers of the rocks, nor hear again the scream of the mating hawks high in the air; never again the sensation of living on top of the world. She knew she would miss the little unregarded things: the merry deep-​throated calls of Joe Whitty, the blundering of moths that made for the firelight in the evenings, even the frogs’ clamour from the tarn, and the frightening cries of owls in the night, as well as the cooking and the fun.21

The cave allows the children to feel they are part of the natural world, surrounded with birds, insects and frogs for company. Life in the cave encourages them to tap into their innate wildness, although this never manifests in violent behaviour as in William Golding’s Lord of the Flies (1954). At a celebratory dinner back at the homestead –​after the departure of the dreaded Pinners –​Aunt Jandie has to remind them to behave properly and to remember where they are, when they begin a food fight: ‘You are back in civilisation now. This is the end of the cave stuff, please.’22 Heather Chauncy says that They Found a Cave was her mother’s favourite book because it features so much of her own childhood.23 The Masterman siblings were a little gang like the children in the book, roaming around the property, familiarising themselves with their new country through play. Writing to her publisher, Chauncy recalled the two years of life in the valley. Picture the delight of conventionally brought up children of those days, let loose in this wonderland […] the long twisting valley with its steep tree-​covered walls, its wild mountain creek, and endless sandstone caves […] Naturally the valley, the animals and the adventures have found their way into my books. Animals were our special friends. While the axes rang and the trees fell, the children had to look after the poultry, feed and milk the cows, harness the horses, drive a harrow sometimes and take the buggy ten miles to fetch the mail. We had no other children to play with, and we didn’t need them.24

This is a romantic view of the basic conditions in which the Masterman family initially lived. Heather Chauncy surmises that the family’s migration was especially hard on Lilla, an accomplished pianist from an affluent background.25 The Mastermans led

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Figure  6.2 Nan Chauncy’s typewriter ‘George’ at Day Dawn. Photograph by Sophie Underwood

a prosperous Edwardian existence in London, where the children were attended by nannies and governesses. Formerly the children might only see their parents on Sundays, like the Banks family before the arrival of Mary Poppins.26 Although Lilla was an expert organiser, the labour of looking after six children without servants took its toll. Some days she would swathe her head in scarves in an attempt to counteract her migraines. The children knew not to bother her when she was wearing one of her ‘bonnets’.27 This dramatic change of location took its toll on Lilla but Chauncy herself thrived on the opportunities afforded by remote living. Later Chauncy and her husband deliberately aimed to create their paradise at Chauncy Vale, choosing to be off the grid, producing their own food as much as possible and making do with what they had to hand. Brenda Niall argues that Chauncy’s ideal state was ‘to be as remote from the modern world and as self-​sufficient as Robinson Crusoe’.28 A visit to Day Dawn offers insight into the private sphere of Chauncy’s creativity. After preparing breakfast for the family each morning, she would begin her writing routine at a little table facing the window. As the only breadwinner of the family, she was under pressure to produce her children’s books quickly. In a letter to her brothers and sister six months after she moved into Day Dawn she wrote: We have no rent to pay. No need for new clothes. No electric light bill, or gas, or wages. We are not harrowed by the troubles of the world. Let us end on a very happy note. We are (at the moment) solvent!29



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Chauncy seemed to relish the coziness of a house lit by lamps rather than by electricity. The rejection of the modern convenience of running water in the house also speaks volumes about her Girl Guide ethos of making do with little. It is precisely Nan and Anton’s frugality, along with thoughtful preservation practices, which has allowed the house to retain its ‘authenticity’ to a large extent. The fact that it is located in a low socio-​economic area without significant pressure to develop the property, or to professionalise its curation, has protected Day Dawn from intrusive restoration practices. Homes of children’s authors are often transformed into places that offer ‘enchanted’ entry into the fantastic, emphasising the imaginary elements of the writer’s work. Watson argues that Beatrix Potter’s Hill Top Farm is presented as an enchanted ‘place-​text that pre-​exists or even elides the labour of writing’.30 Designed to be viewed from a miniature animal’s vantage point, the house at Hill Top operates as a text supplementary to Potter’s stories, with details such as Samuel Whiskers’ hole in the floor boards, and Jemima Puddleduck’s egg in the rhubarb patch.31 By contrast, Chauncy Vale has none of the deliberate ‘twee-​ness’ of Beatrix Potter’s Hill Top Farm with its carefully constructed scenes and props. In Chauncy Vale, the animals remain wild, not anthropomorphised. There is a distinct emphasis on the conditions of Chauncy’s literary production and reminders of the sheer labour involved in her writing and her self-​sufficient existence. While her books do have a certain English-​ ness in common with Beatrix Potter, like the quaint names of houses in her fiction such as World’s End, her characters do it tough in remote places, without material comforts, sustained by the love of family and a sense of belonging to place. Despite the fact that Chauncy is not well known by contemporary readers, the singularity of her house, its lack of modern conveniences and its beautiful surroundings may make it more attractive to children (even without a gift shop). Like Potter, Chauncy contributed to her own memorialisation at Chauncy Vale whether consciously or not, as it figures continually throughout her writing in various guises. Her husband and daughter have perpetuated this through their dedication to keeping it just as it was, as far as possible. Expensive preservation practices like those employed by the National Trust at Hill Top Farm, such as replacing wallpaper and reweaving rugs which Watson describes as `the extraordinary trick of conferring perpetual life- in- death’ upon the house. These practices are not an option at Chauncy Vale given the expense involved, therefore the ageing of the house is evident, rather than being carefully hidden or ameliorated.32

Children’s Self-​Determination John Marsden claims that They Found a Cave is radical indeed for a book of the late 1940s. In Australian children’s books, parents were often disposed of by putting kids on to farms, or into the bush where they could have adventures. In They Found a Cave, the children simply walk out on the Pinners and go off into the ‘wilderness’ because they are not satisfied with the level of care provided. ‘The idea of children not being happy with the

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guardianship arrangements made for them, and removing themselves from that guardianship, going off into the bush and living wild on their own for many months, without any adult involvement or supervision, was extraordinary for middle-​class Australia in the post-​war period,’ Marsden argues. He observes that Chauncy obviously approves in every line of the children’s decision; nowhere is the suggestion that other children should not follow their example.33 As Peter Pierce writes in The Country of Lost Children: An Australian Anxiety (1998): ‘The escape of boys and girls from adult persecution in They Found a Cave is reminiscent of many moments from the stories of Enid Blyton.’34 Yet Marsden notes that Chauncy’s narrative is more subversive in its message –​the idea that children can extricate themselves from damaging family environments.35 For these migrant children, the cave is a space of refuge and domestication, as they replicate the rituals of their former family life. Arguably, the time spent in the cave allows them to make the transition into their new identities as Tasmanians. Like caves, hermits are a staple of childrens’ mystery fiction of this era, but Chauncy’s familiarity with real caves raises this fiction above the stock standard. The figures of ‘Mad Dad’ Williams in They Found a Cave and Harry in the Badge Lorenny trilogy both choose to avoid engagement with the outside world, effectively ‘going native’ away from the falseness of ‘civilisation’. Though unreliable in some respects, ‘Mad Dad’ provides the children with useful bush knowledge which is otherwise only available from young Tas. Although Chauncy’s books share similarities with the work of Enid Blyton such as her Smuggler Caves story, Chauncy’s greatest contribution was to ‘indigenise’ her children’s fiction. She sends her characters off into the wilderness to learn about themselves but they are confronted with Australian flora and fauna rather than the animals and plants of the old country. In Chauncy’s series of novels featuring the Lorenny family, Tiger in the Bush (1957), Devils’ Hill (1958) and The Roaring 40 (1963), depictions of the family’s life on their isolated Tasmanian farm are mapped on to settler culture mythologies. Clare Bradford argues that ‘the identity-​formation of Badge Lorenny, the boy protagonist in all three novels, is imbricated with his developing attachment to place –​both the family farm and the wild country which surrounds it’.36 Tiger in the Bush features the rare (now extinct) Tasmanian tiger. As Marsden writes, the Tasmanian tiger ‘slips quietly and elusively through the book in much the same way as he does in the Tasmanian bush’, adding ‘an exotic mysterious and compelling element to the story’.37 Badge decides not to sell the tiger out to the Americans who want to capture it, reaffirming his loyalty to home rather than the ‘Outside’. Badge tricks American visitors into taking a plaster cast of Harry’s wombat instead of the thylacine for which they have been searching. This textual encounter with the tiger may have been prompted by Chauncy’s memories of seeing one of the last specimens at Mrs Roberts’s private zoo in Hobart in 1912.38 The outback country in the Badge Lorenny books was familiar to Chauncy from her hiking days  –​like Badge she learnt to cross a raging river on two wires. On the southwest coast near Port Davey, a trip which inspired Roaring 40, Chauncy skinned a wallaby and cooked it over an open fire.39



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A Deep Sense of  Place A growing concern with the deleterious effects of humans on the environment  –​and extinction specifically  –​recurs throughout Chauncy’s oeuvre. Eastman notes that her concern for now commonly held environmental values put Chauncy ahead of her time: Her best writing conveys a genuine and passionate feeling for the Tasmanian environment. She should be recognised not only as one of Australia’s regional writers but also as a link with the great school of nature writing which has extended from Wordsworth through Thoreau to such contemporary Australian writing as Allan Baillie’s Riverman (1986) to children’s literature, and to Richard Flanagan’s Death of a River Guide (1995) in adult fiction.40

Susan Sheridan and Emma Maguire argue that ‘in retrospect it is possible to discern in her work the effects of an emerging, ecologically sensitive way of seeing human relationships to the environment’ along with a concern for Tasmania’s first people particularly in her subsequent books Tangara (1961) and Mathinna’s People (1967) which was reprinted in the United States as Hunted in Their Own Land (1973).41 In a posthumous tribute, Ivan Southall observed that the ‘Aboriginal theme’ was ‘natural’ for Chauncy given her ‘deep sense of the spirit of place.42 In They Found a Cave, Cherry recognises that the surrounding environment is indifferent to their plight; ‘even the little bush creatures were busy about their own rustling tiny affairs, and the whole vast bush cared nothing for herself and her brothers, for they didn’t really belong to it’.43 When she discovers that a rare species of anaspides lives in the high pools and mountain creeks, Cherry reflects on the ecological consequences of her practices: ‘Had she actually made those frightfully rare creatures drink soapy water for their breakfast every day?’44 From childhood, Chauncy was aware that Aboriginal communities had lived in and around the Chauncy Vale area. A  major route through to the east coast for the Big River tribes was through the East Bagdad and Browns Caves Creek valleys.45 The caves may have also provided shelter for Indigenous groups travelling to and from the East Coast. One Aboriginal heritage site has so far been recorded in the sanctuary. Numerous Indigenous artefacts were located there by Chauncy and her husband; these artefacts were donated to the Tasmanian Museum in the 1980s.46 In They Found a Cave, Nigel finds ‘the bones of a Blackfellow’, a ‘dinkum Tasmanian abo’. The skeleton is described as being complete, with ‘not a bone out of place’.47 The children allow ‘Mad Dad’ Williams, otherwise known as ‘The Uman Compass’ to take the skeleton, for a £500 fee, even though it does not belong to them. This aspect of the plot reminds us powerfully of very different attitudes to Indigenous heritage to those that are prevalent in twenty-first century public discourse. Southall observed that it was ‘natural’ for Chauncy’s ‘deep sense of place’ to result in the adoption of Aboriginal themes in her later writing.48 Like many iconic children’s texts in Australia, Mathinna’s People and Tangara might be seen as appropriating Aboriginality into white literary traditions. These books can be better understood in the context of a number of works such as James Devaney’s The Vanished Tribes (1929), Frank Dalby Davidson’s Children of the Dark People (1936) and Rex Ingamells’s Aranda Boy (1952), which

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are set entirely within Aboriginal culture and focalised through Aboriginal characters.49 These works by non-​Indigenous authors are pervaded by sentimentalised versions of Aboriginality which are often characterised by clichés and stereotypes derived from the early work of anthropologists and historians. Tangara seeks to imagine, however fleetingly, the violent dispossession of Indigenous people through the depiction for a friendship between a living white girl and a ghostly Aboriginal girl whose intimate connection transcends the carnage of the past. The perpetrators of this massacre are depicted as crazed convicts rather than settlers, which makes the massacre seem like an aberration rather than being part of an organised campaign of extermination. In Mathinna’s People, Chauncy ambitiously writes from the perspective of Indigenous Tasmanians, with a romanticisation and fabrication characteristic of this period. Mathinna’s People was produced after the demise of the doomed race theory but is informed by the idea, which Chauncy states in her introduction, that Aboriginal Tasmanians ‘have vanished now from the earth’.50 She spent two years undertaking research for Mathinna’s People which involved going to the Wybalenna mission on Flinders Island.51 Based on her reading of sources such as James Bonwick, Ling Roth and Brian Plomley, she subscribed to the idea that Indigenous people had been driven to extinction, yet we now know that Indigenous communities have sustained strong connections to their ancestral lands despite the organised violence perpetrated against them. Mathinna is ‘the last of the Toogee,’ reflecting the commonly held belief that Indigenous people were ‘dying out’. The same was said of Truganini of the Nuenonne people, wrongly described as ‘the last of the Tasmanian people,’ who accompanied the ‘Protector of Aborigines’ Augustus Robinson to the mainland where two of her companions, Tunnerminnerwait and Mauboyheener, were later hanged.52 With her increasing interest in Indigenous history, Chauncy wanted to write Mathinna’s People with an older readership in mind. Unfortunately, Oxford University Press arranged for the book to be presented in the usual children’s format.53 As a result, Mathinna’s People has a curious, hybrid quality which is not easily categorised. Eastman notes that there is ‘slippage between a semi-fictional and historical presentation’.54 Cast as a children’s writer from the beginning of her career, her freedom to write what she wanted was seriously constrained by publisher expectations and the need to be the family breadwinner. Through her connection with the land she occupied, Chauncy became preoccupied with trying to understand it as a site of dispossession and violence. Sheridan and Maguire argue that Chauncy effected a transition in her writing from the love of a particular ‘landscape’ to a regard for ‘country’, in something approaching the Indigenous Australian sense of custodianship.55 However well intentioned, the Chauncy novels with Aboriginal themes starkly demonstrate the changing attitudes to representations of First Nations people by non-​Indigenous authors. The very qualities that were considered radical in her time are now offensive or cringe-​inducing for many contemporary readers. Tangara and Mathinna’s People, however, show that she was thinking deeply about the brutal history of Tasmania and interrogating her own relation to this bloody legacy.



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Chauncy on Screen The film version of They Found a Cave (1962), produced by Columbia Pictures, has served to keep the story alive for future generations. Directed by Charles Wolnizer, the film featured an all-​Tasmanian cast, along with five children from Tasmanian schools, including the author Peter Conrad. The children acted in the film but their voices were later overdubbed by adult actors, as was standard in the early 1960s. The shooting of the film involved many substitutions. They Found a Cave was not filmed at the Chauncy Vale because there was no electricity there (and its introduction might have interrupted the working of the sanctuary). Instead, the film crew measured an equivalent cave and reconstructed it in the Agricultural Hall in the Hobart Showgrounds. The unit also travelled hundreds of miles to find a ‘photogenic farmhouse tarn and old tree’.56 Conrad, who played Brick, recounts how the production borrowed a ‘tumbledown farmhouse off the Huon road, reached across a bridge of rickety planks’ to stand in for Jandie’s farmhouse. The impoverished farmer, his depressed wife and their squalling babies stood aside as we briefly occupied their domain and transformed it into the happy valley. Instead of the caves near Day Dawn, ledges on the lower slopes of Mount Direction became a sheer cliff face where the children clambered in search of a cave.

The whole experience was uncanny for Conrad who lived near the showgrounds. Three minutes after leaving his own home, he was inside the cave, ‘having prised open the concealed, overgrown door of a dream, which admits you to a secret recess inside yourself ’.57 The film version of They Found a Cave was highly celebrated at a time when the Australian film industry was experiencing a lull, receiving the prize for best children’s film at the Venice Film Festival. There was not another screen adaptation of a Chauncy text until the Australian Bicentenary in the late 1988. Devil’s Hill, part of the Badge Lorenny trilogy, was selected to be part of a series of stories produced by the ABC that celebrated the nation, indicating its iconic status.

Conclusion In an autobiographical sketch, Chauncy quoted Colonel P.  H. Fawcett:  ‘A man who has once sampled extreme simplicity of existence will seldom return to the artificial life of civilization. The burden of it is not realized until it has been laid aside.’ She added, ‘Come to think of it, this is all my books for children are about.’58 Most of Chauncy’s characters learn about themselves through living a simple life far from ‘civilisation’. The time she spent at Cherry Tree Cottage as a child, which was so crucial for her development as a writer, is recounted in her most autobiographical book, Half a World Away (1962), which features an Edwardian family who move to the wilds of Tasmania. Before the publication of this novel, Chauncy’s real-​life experience had been altered significantly in her fiction, as in They Found a Cave. Reflecting on Half a World Away as a less successful work, Niall suggests that ‘perhaps it hampered Nan Chauncy to write so directly from life’.59

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There are elements of sadness in her life story –​the xenophobia of some Tasmanians towards Chauncy at boarding school, where she was called ‘Chinky’ or ‘Queen Hayseed Pommy,’60 and later the vilification of her Jewish/​German husband during the war years, forcing him to change his name to Peter Chauncy.61 The lack of success of her first book manuscript, Comfort Me with Apples, which was rejected by all readers,62 must have been a blow to Chauncy. If published, it might have contributed to boarding school literature, joining works such as Henry Handel Richardson’s The Getting of Wisdom. She was unable to make the move from children’s fiction to adult fiction as she wished, and received no financial support from the Commonwealth Literary Fund despite applying four times,63 yet Chauncy was not one to complain –​she always made the best of what was to hand. Her financial situation as the sole breadwinner never let her rest for long. Although she cherished her privacy, Chauncy was an ardent supporter of other writers, serving as a member of the Australian Society of Authors and as President (1958–​59) of the Tasmanian branch of the Fellowship of Australian Writers. The Children’s Book Council’s biennial Nan Chauncy award commemorates her, but it is her writing and the sanctuary which are the most enduring elements of her legacy.64 Harald Hendrix argues that writer’s houses have meaning even beyond their obvious documentary value as elements in the author’s biography: ‘They are a medium of expression and remembrance.’65 Day Dawn works as a useful counterpart to Chauncy’s texts largely because it expresses the same sensibility, a faithfulness to the past and a carefully cultivated sense of remoteness. With its regular flow of visitors, the sanctuary supports the upkeep of the Day Dawn. On its own, it would be hard to justify the expense of maintaining the house, including the employment of a live-​in caretaker. The sanctuary is a destination for bushwalkers and picnickers while the house regularly hosts school excursions and occasional visits from literary tourists. Heather Chauncy has observed that there’s a connection between her mother’s ongoing readership and the continuing existence of her house. ‘I think one of the reasons her books have stayed in print so long is because of the public presence at Chauncy Vale where the cottage is still furnished with Nan’s things.’66 Day Dawn and the Chauncy Vale sanctuary are intimately interrelated; it’s hard to imagine one without the other, as with the Brontës and the Yorkshire moors. Hugh Anderson has argued that Chauncy’s ‘love for the Tasmanian landscape is similar to Emily Brontë’s love of the Yorkshire moors, no matter how violent the weather’.67 The Tasmanian poet Vivian Smith wrote a valediction, ‘For Nan Chauncy 1900–​ 1970’, which recognises the symbiotic relationship between Chauncy and her environment. The poem infers that her warm, generous demeanour belied her literary ambition: ‘I love the word professional you know /​I want to be a writer to the core.’ Smith reflects on the uncanny feeling produced by seeing Chauncy’s portrait smiling on a library wall during Children’s Book Week which she can no longer attend. ‘My daughters ask did she write all those books? /​Looking for your secrets in your non-​committal looks.’68

Chapter Seven LIVING MEMORIALS: THE HOUSES OF KATHARINE SUSANNAH PRICHARD AND ELEANOR DARK Writers’ houses are sites that are invariably associated with the production of literature. Besides being a product of a writer’s imagination or ambition, the house may also be a source of inspiration in its own right, or a material frame for the generation of writing. Just as these houses are shaped by writers, they in turn shape the writers dwelling in them. Harald Hendrix suggests that a writer’s house might be seen as an ‘archive’ which documents a person’s intellectual and emotional biography.1 A writer’s house may become a ‘machine’ to remember the former literary resident but also to generate new imaginings. It can tell us about the now absent writer and the intentions of those who have turned it into a living memorial. Writers are rarely in a position to begin this process themselves, aside from rare exceptions therefore it is usually other agents who intervene. Inevitably, the aspects of the author’s biography that commemorators wish to emphasise go a long way towards determining the meanings these houses may convey to those who visit them. Alison Booth observes, ‘The very openness of the author’s house to the public is a proof of that author’s absence’.2 In this chapter, I will consider the preserved houses of Katharine Susannah Prichard in Greenmount Western Australia and Eleanor Dark in the Blue Mountains of New South Wales. Through their operation as writers’ centres, the former homes of Prichard and Dark now encourage ongoing literary creativity. Dark would probably not have allowed tourists to come through their house while she was in residence but many writers and artists visited Prichard at Greenmount. Nevertheless, both writers were very vocal in their support of fellow authors, as evidenced by their membership of the Fellowship of Australian Writers. Prichard and Dark knew each other and were colleagues and correspondents: a photo from the collection of the National Library of Australia shows them sitting on the front verandah of Prichard’s Greenmount house together. Both women have been commemorated through ‘living memorials’, which are houses where writers may pursue their writing in a supportive environment away from the demands of domestic life. Mark O’Flynn has described Varuna as a ‘living, breathing home’ (which implies that some houses are ‘dead’).3 Australia has only a few official residency programmes for writers including KSP Writers’ Centre (WA), Varuna: The Writer’s House (NSW), and Peter Cowan Writers’ Centre (WA). There are two residency programmes for artists in Australia that include

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Figure  7.1 Katharine Susannah Prichard with Eleanor Dark on the verandah at Greenmount, Western Australia (1948). Reproduced with permission of the National Library of Australia, PIC/8840

writers:  Bundanon (NSW) and Bilpin (NSW). However, smaller scale programmes like the May Gibbs residency (QLD) are being run and developed across the country. Arguably, the KSP Centre and Varuna have the advantage of being the former residences of notable women writers:  their ‘authenticity’ gives them an aura that cannot be matched by properties which are not directly connected with an author’s biography.4



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Greenmount In Child of the Hurricane, Prichard observes that ‘the happiest years of my life were spent in our home at Greenmount in the West. My best literary work was done there.’5 In 1920, Prichard moved from Melbourne to Greenmount with her husband Hugo Throssell, also known as Jim. As she puts it: ‘Hugo liked to be called Jim, so that’s what he was to me.’6 They initially took up an old ‘ramshackle’ house named ‘Wandu’ with 10 rooms and a ‘wild garden’ screening the house off from the road. As Prichard writes: ‘We lived in only two or three rooms, and on hot summer evenings we disported ourselves like Adam and Eve in the garden.’7 When they moved to a ‘stark weatherboard shack’ at 11 York Road, Jim bought 300 acres opposite and grazed cattle there. Prichard and Jim transferred their lovemaking habits to the garden of 11 Old York Road which became a site of intimate remembrance for Prichard after Jim’s death. Prichard lived at 11 Old York Road for much of the rest of her life, except for short periods of travelling and a stint in Sydney. Built in 1896, the cottage was made of jarrah weatherboard and had four rooms coming off a central passageway. Prichard’s son Ric Throssell describes it as a square, two-​bedroomed, weather-​board house with a narrow apron of veranda perched on naked jarrah posts […] there was a sweeping panorama for thirteen miles over the coastal plain to Perth. Verandas were added later, dressing the place with a show of spaciousness. Climbing roses, wisteria, jasmine, honey-​suckle and grapevines grew, softening its bare symmetry.8

In Throssell’s memory of childhood, Prichard woke early in the morning and wrote propped up in the high double bed scrawling her notes. Or she would sit in the mornings with her notebooks and paper at the end of the wide verandah that surrounded the old house. ‘When the gully winds roared, hot and dry through the gum-​trees, she retreated to the polished, jarrah table in the dining room: far away; writing, writing.’9 In 1920, a summer house was built in the garden which had a tropical quality, with thatched palm roof, reminiscent of Fijian huts that Prichard knew from her early years in the Pacific. This summer house was later replaced by a workroom10 built with the proceeds of her successful novel Coonardoo in 1930. It was positioned about 50 yards from the house: a one-​roomed, oiled weather-​board cottage with ceiling-​high cupboards for her manuscripts, lined with bookshelves and warmed in winter by a huge stone fireplace. There was a jarrah writing table, a bit uneven and rickety on its pins, strewn with her papers in the ordered disarray that only Katharine herself understood; a couch covered by a possum skin rug and a couple of saffron cushions […] The double casement window looked over the rose garden and a summerhouse, thatched with the fronds of zamia palm, and overgrown with morning glory and ferns.11

She used her 1924 Remington model 1 portable typewriter to write Intimate Strangers in the workroom, which she had finished by 1933 but didn’t publish until 1937. Among other books

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Figure 7.2  Katharine Susannah Prichard’s work room (circa 1930s). Courtesy of the Katharine Susannah Prichard Foundation

she would go on to write there were the novels of her Goldfields trilogy and her autobiography Child of the Hurricane. Being uninsulated, it would get unbearably hot in summer, forcing Prichard to retreat to her bedroom, ‘dressed in the flimsiest underthings she could find’.12 As Prichard’s biographer Nathan Hobby observes, Isla Marsh claimed that the workroom had been ‘brought down from the old Throssell place at Northampton’, but he has found no other evidence for this and it is at odds with Prichard’s statement when writing to her friend Hugh McCrae that it was ‘being built’ for her.13 The shelves for her papers remain, still labelled, though the papers are no longer there: the surviving ones are held in the National Library of Australia.14 The visitor might expect Prichard’s Remington typewriter to be on display in her workroom, instead it’s resident at Tom Collins house in Swanbourne alongside Joseph Furphy’s New Franklin machine after being donated to the Fellowship of Australian Writers (WA) by her friend Annette Cameron in 1973.15 Prichard’s short story ‘The Grey Horse’, first published in Art & Australia, was almost certainly written in the workroom and is set in ‘Black Swan’ (which might be read as Greenmount). Towards the end of Child of the Hurricane, the family’s various horses are introduced and described in detail, indicating their importance to the household, as a shared interest between Prichard and Jim: ‘I was never as good a horsewoman as I would have liked to be, but Jim [was] a wonderful horseman: understood horses and had worked with them all his life.’16 Prichard remembered the happy days when the three of them would go riding through the hills together, rounding up cattle in the paddocks, driving them to the saleyards in Midland, ‘following little paths through the bush on spring days when the wildflowers flung vivid patches of colour about us, or over to Rocky Pool for a dip at sunset on summer evenings!’17



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In The Grey Horse, Old Gourlay, who owns ‘The Ganger’, a magnificent grey stallion, lives in ‘a bare-​faced wooden box of a house beside the road, where it loped over the mountain to Perth’. This description aligns with Prichard’s Greenmount house. The horse is more beautiful than the yellow and blue wildflowers, the ledges of the road and the ‘tall white gums gleaming through the dark of the bush from among thronging red barked gums and jarrah’.18 Prichard’s love for this landscape comes through in this description of the thinly fictionalised Black Swan. Prichard remembered that a grey horse ‘used to gambol in his stable yard below our orchard’.19 She had written to Harley C.  Grattan about the horse they had watched together when he had visited Greenmount:  ‘The grey horse lived in the yard below our verandah. You know where you stood with me, and I  told you a fire had burnt down all the wattles. I watched the grey horse at his gambols for a year or so –​and was always afraid the old couple who lived there would sue me for libel!’ After the story was published, the neighbours recognised themselves; subsequent neighbours worried that she would put them into her writing.20 In her later years, Prichard tended to depict Greenmount nostalgically. Throssell comments that ‘Katharine remembered only the “halcyon days” in Greenmount before anxiety and stifling domestic triviality settled about her’.21 Domestic life was negatively affected by Jim’s inability to find fulfilling and financially rewarding work after coming back from the war. He accrued debts through various moneymaking schemes including breeding trotting horses, setting up a ‘dude ranch’ and working in real estate. The failure of his plans, and his employment problems, in combination with his war trauma, led to serious depression and finally suicide while Prichard was travelling in 1933. In the original version of Prichard’s novel Intimate Strangers (1937), Elodie’s husband Greg kills himself with a revolver when all his attempts to support the family fail. Prichard left the manuscript behind while she was travelling in the Soviet Union, leading her to wonder afterwards whether the novel had contributed to Jim’s black state of mind. Prichard’s niece K.  B. (Thea) Headlam observes that ‘when the same terrible ending happened to her own marriage in real life people insisted that she could not leave the original ending’, so she decided to change the ending before publication, reconciling Greg and Elodie through their work in the Socialist Party. Headlam notes:  ‘Perhaps that is the way things should have been in real life but that is not the way that book should end.’22 The shadowy connection between Jim’s suicide and Intimate Strangers was publically reiterated with the broadcast of the two-​part miniseries adaptation in July 1981. In his introduction to the 1990 edition of Intimate Strangers, Throssell notes that an article published at this time blamed the novel for his father’s suicide.23 Following Jim’s death, Prichard managed to sell off the remaining land to make ends meet, until only the house and garden remained. She was not able to properly maintain the entire property due to lack of resources. When Jim was alive, a number of improvements and additions had been made to the house. In My Father’s Son, a book about his father, Ric Throssell dates the construction of the verandah to about 1930, but the 1927 letter from Prichard suggests it was built earlier.24 Hugo (Jim) ‘got a couple of Italian quarrymen from the old Boya quarry to put up a wide verandah made from solid jarrah beams resting on a colonnade of six columns of local rock. When the climbing

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‘blackboy’ roses, wisteria, and currants grew, sheltering the house from the late afternoon sun, it was a place where Jim [Hugo] and Katharine could drink their evening sherry, as the first cool whisper of the southerly stirred the leaves.’25 Throssell comments that Prichard’s distinctive garden was associated in the public imagination with her controversial left-​wing views: Katharine’s old ‘humpy’ in Greenmount, surrounded by black wattles and white-​flowering gum-​trees, half hidden among the grape-​vines, climbing roses, honeysuckle, wisteria and a wild struggle of garden, was pointed out as the place where ‘the red witch, the Throssell woman’ lived.26

Headlam tells of her experience of living with Jim and Prichard at Greenmount while her own parents were in Ceylon.27 The house at Greenmount was an old cottage built by convicts and originally comprising only four rooms. Later Katharine and Unc opened up one of the rooms and built a broad verandah in timber. When Katharine’s writing made enough money she added another verandah in stone on the other side. It was a large, broad open terrace which acted as a kind of pergola for climbing plants. Near the house was a small orchard with figs, apricots, quinces, grapes and the passionfruit which climbed on the back verandah making a lovely enclosed shade.28

According to Headlam, Prichard loved flowers and the front fence soon became a hedge of tiny pink geraniums and pale blue plumbago. She had some carefully tended violets in a special place under the verandah, and there were always red roses in the garden.29 These roses reminded Prichard of Jim, along with the wisteria on the verandah which he had planted. As Katie Holmes notes, the garden was a ‘frequent spur to memory’. A  place of untamed beauty, it was ‘very wild and neglected’, like her passion itself.30 Holmes describes it as a garden of ‘memory and consolation’.31 Volunteer gardener Fern Pendragon is striving to restore the property to its former glory, recreating many of its original plantings including a violet patch, fruit trees, jasmine, muscat grapes, wildflowers and wisteria. Pam Portman and Sally Clarke observe that some plants in the garden were gifts from other writers who visited.32 The grounds are often used as a memorial garden; people with some connection to the place might donate a special plant like a rose to honour a recently departed loved one. Fern takes great care of these donations, given their emotional resonance. The plumbago hedge in the Greenmount garden has been heritage listed because it played a brief but exciting role in Prichard’s Communist activities. When there was a crackdown on known communists around Western Australia, newspapers were banned and party offices raided. Returning to Greenmount one weekend, Throssell found Prichard absorbed in her work, unprepared for police attention. Together we filled an old trunk with her most precious books and magazines and all the copies of the Workers Star that we could find. That night I hauled the trunk out of the house



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and hid it as well as I could in the middle of a thicket of plumbago and the bougainvillias that smothered the old outdoor dunny. In the morning the police arrived.33

The old dunny in the garden was still in existence in 1994. It was described in the Register of Heritage Places interim entry as ‘a separate W.C. now collapsing under the pine tree and its vines’; it was also mentioned a year later in the permanent entry. In 1998, the bougainvillea was trimmed and fell onto the dunny causing it to collapse completely.34 This is unfortunate as it might have been one of the only writers’ toilets to be heritage listed in the world. Prichard’s garden appears in much of her writing, both published and unpublished. Her poem ‘For Jimmy’ helps to explain the connection between the plants in Prichard’s garden and her interior life: The loquat blooms: Its perfume wafts my senses To their wild spate –​ And you’re not here, my dear, To make its warmth & mystery our own For one lost hour.35

Here Prichard is referring to the loquat that bloomed by the door in spring. Holmes observes that the loquat represents sexual pleasure in her 1926 novel Working Bullocks. Holmes argues that the experiences of her characters Red and Deb mirror those of Prichard and Hugo (Jim). Musky fragrance of the loquat was all about them; warmth and stillness of the night and the smell of milk. Red put his teeth in the loquat. He felt as if it were Deb he was eating as she stood there in the dark of the trees. She was luscious, as fragrant, her skin was the same colour as the ripe flesh of the peeled loquat.36

Holmes notes that in this passage, the eroticism of the shared loquat takes the place of sex itself. For Prichard, the garden acted as a kind of memento mori, hence her immense unhappiness when plants inevitably declined. While it might seem that traces of D. H. Lawrence’s writing can be found in Prichard’s work, especially the relation between sexuality and nature (in this case, the loquat), she disavowed the connection, especially after the publication of Lawrence’s Kangaroo (1923) which she disliked. For Prichard, their ‘philosophies were too far apart for my mind to be influenced by his style and outlook as has sometimes been suggested’.37 In her published letters to Throssell, Prichard frets about the wisteria, which was originally planted by Jim. The death of the wisteria is unthinkable, given its passionate provenance. When he suggests a replacement, she writes in a letter of 11 December 1950: Darling […] your thought about another wisteria for me was as lovely as the new shoot that’s appeared at the base of the old vine […] hoping that one day it will show the beauty of the plant that Daddy put there by my window.38

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As Prichard discovered, a living ‘green’ memorial can cause pain, since plants and trees may not survive changes in climate, damage or periods of neglect.39 The replacement trees for Furphy and Lawson (as discussed in Chapters Two and Four) are mnemonic symbols standing for the writer in the public domain, whereas Prichard’s garden had private meanings. For her, it truly mattered whether the original wisteria or red rose survived, as it was planted by a husband whose memory she fiercely cherished. Booth claims that ‘often at an author’s home, something in the garden or landscape, a plant or tree, is honored as a survivor from that day to this’.40 The intimate meanings of Prichard’s garden cannot and possibly should not be conveyed through memorial plaques as they were shared between Prichard, Jim and, perhaps inappropriately, with their son. However unreliable and prone to decay the actual plants might be, Prichard’s writing about the garden could always serve to immortalise it. This writing provides contemporary gardeners with a guide to recreating its former glory. Although Prichard was resident at the house for much of her life, there were periods when she reluctantly left it. She departed Greenmount in October 1942 when Ric was in the RAF, because she was finding the isolation too much to bear. She moved to Sydney and became a member of the central committee, the Communist Party’s main policy body. It was the threat of foreclosure that sent her back to Western Australia. She thought that she would need to put the house on the market due to debts previously racked up by Jim, but a donor stepped in and solved this problem. She sold some of the surrounding land to make ends meet. She may not have intended to stay for the rest of her life, but she remained in the house until the age of 85. She died at home on 2 October 1969, one hour before her son’s visit. Her ashes were scattered on the surrounding hills. ‘Good to think of becoming part of the earth, and perhaps nourishing a wild flower’,41 she wrote. Given her close and enduring relationship with her garden, the idea of eventually becoming part of it and providing nourishment pleased Prichard.

Posthumous Preservation Following Prichard’s death, Throssell chose to sell the Greenmount house and land. He believed this to be in line with his mother’s wishes, as Prichard always insisted that she did not want the house to become a museum or be retained as a monument to her life and work.42 In a letter, Prichard instructed him not to be sentimental and to sell the house as he saw fit. Throssell, writing to Glen Phillips who was involved with establishing the KSP Centre, believed that the workroom should not be kept in frozen animation. It would do Katharine more honour if her workroom too, like the rest of Katharine’s Place, were used as a place where the writer-​in-​residence could write, rather than being a museum filled with KSP relics.43

Throssell sold the property to Sandy and Patricia Lewis, who named the property ‘Megalong’ (an Aboriginal word for ‘hillside’). They in turn sold it to Michael and Agnes O’Kane in 1980. The O’Kanes enclosed the back porch area, which doubled as the kitchen area. During their time in the house, the O’Kanes received many visits from local



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writers and school groups, feminists and academics, trade unionists, members of the British D. H. Lawrence Society and two Russian professors. The frequency of these visits led the O’Kanes to realise that there was still considerable interest in Prichard, and they contacted various groups to generate interest in preserving the place.44 In a sense it was the popularity of Prichard’s legend which came before the efforts to preserve the house: in other words, it was the visits that showed the potential for it to become a living memorial. ‘Katharine’s Place’, also known as the Katharine Susannah Prichard Writers’ Centre, was established in 1985 to promote humanitarianism and the study of Prichard, and to encourage writing in Western Australia. The buildings and garden were classified by the National Trust of Australia in 1983 and entered into the Register of the National Estate in 1991. The first steps towards the establishment of the centre began when a subcommittee of the Fellowship of Australian Writers (FAWWA) was formed, with Phillips as chair. He was given the task of asking the State government to save the house and to set up a writers’ centre. In association with the Friends of Katharine organisation, the subcommittee successfully lobbied the State government to purchase the house and land. Ownership was vested in the Shire of Mundaring, which then leased the property to the Katharine Susannah Prichard Foundation for 21 years at a peppercorn rent, under special conditions. Among these conditions which the Foundation agreed to adhere to was ‘to do anything that might be necessary to encourage the residents of Western Australia in the craft of writing’ and ‘to encourage the study of literature, in particular, the works of Western Australian authors’.45 These conditions required that the house be used to promote creative writing and the appreciation of literature by Western Australian authors. This emphasis on supporting Western Australian authors is interesting given that Western Australia ignored her totally during her lifetime, according to Headlam.46 Yet the FAWWA did nominate her for the Nobel Prize for literature and she was highly regarded in Perth literary circles, as illustrated by her friendship with Henrietta Drake-​ Brockman, a member of the conservative establishment. Phillips has commented that the Shire of Mundaring initially baulked at the responsibility, declaring: ‘Not one penny of the ratepayers’ money will ever be spent on that house.’47 Over time the Shire became supportive of the centre, recognising its immense cultural value. The Foundation received $5,000 from Instant Lottery grants for initial development of the property, which it used to build public toilets and an ablution area.48 Initially there was a plan to have a resident tenant/​caretaker in the newer addition to the house. This was trialled initially, but the committee decided that a coordinator would be a better option given the preciousness of the property.

Resident Writers In the early days of the centre, writers would work in KSP’s workroom in the garden. In 2007, three cabins for writers-​in-​residence in the back garden were opened by the Minister for Regional Development. This allows for a higher number of fellowships to be granted every year.

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The house is almost constantly full, with writing and community groups coming and going all week. Visiting writers sleep in the cabins and come up to the house to make meals and participate in workshops and meetings. Phillips says that the high volume of activities can be a problem because the house gets ‘worn out’ and so do the centre coordinators.49 Alice Pung wrote about her residency at the KSP Centre in The Monthly in 2008. She reports that she was told by a volunteer at the house that sometimes you can hear the footsteps of Hugo Throssell walking through the house but that he was a ‘benign ghost’. Pung heard footsteps and shufflings but tried not to be alarmed because she felt the ghosts were benevolent. She notes that there was a writer at Katharine’s Place in the early nineties who needed to bring in an exorcist to deal with spectral activity.50 I admit to feeling unsettled there myself, during a residency in 2016. I  was not staying in the house but in a cabin out in the garden near Prichard’s workroom. The same volunteer who spoke to Pung about ghosts had pointed out the place where Jim had shot himself, which prompted me to dwell on this violent act whenever I entered the kitchen next door. The KSP Trust seems to have an ‘open-​door’ policy, welcoming community participation in a variety ways, through the gardening project, writing and social history groups and annual Open Days. The centre has tried hard to incorporate locals’ stories in relation to Prichard into the very fabric of the house. In May 2018, the centre hosted an Open Day51 as part of the National Trust Heritage Festival. The theme was ‘My Culture, My Story, My KSP’ and featured stories of KSP members, addressing the question: ‘What does KSP mean to me or what am I grateful to KSP for?’ These were displayed across lines of rope from tree to tree in the front yard with a stream of pegged quotes from members. There was also a guided tour designed to teach participants ‘about the secrets, scandals and sweet tales of this renowned Perth hills property and its former owners’.52 The sheer busy-​ness of the KSP House is closer to what Prichard herself would have wanted than a ‘dusty museum’.

Varuna Everything about me is in my work.53

Eleanor Dark’s house, known as Varuna, is now synonymous with the writing residencies it offers to new and emerging authors. It was the site of the bulk of Dark’s writing except for Lantana Lane (1959), which was partly written in Montville, Queensland. She had the luxury of designing the house from scratch to suit her needs as a writer and those of her family. Aside from some sporadic domestic help, Dark was largely responsible for the upkeep of the house and gardens, which created an ongoing tension between her writing and her domestic duties. Arguably, Dark’s friend Jean Devanny was the first writer-​in-​residence at Varuna. She set up her typewriter in the dining room in 1943 to write a book about Australians and the war. Devanny had contacted Eric Dark asking for an interview, as he was a doctor with a ‘progressive outlook’. According to Barbara Brooks, Varuna impressed Devanny –​ the way it was comfortable but not luxurious, the way everything about it ‘fitted’. For



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her it was ‘the citadel of civilised living’. Devanny described the visit in a letter to their mutual friend, the poet Karl Shapiro. Never in my life did I encounter such domestic harmony. Eleanor is still doing her own work, she thinks, falsely I am sure, that two adults should be able to look after themselves in wartime, and that the domestic help should go to women and children. It goes to the worthless laywomen of the rich while she, a veritable national treasure, neglects her writing for chores.54

Dark was undeniably privileged, compared to other women writers who were her friends and associates. After a turbulent childhood, the permanence of Varuna –​and her relationship with Eric  –​allowed her to find enough stability to flourish as a writer. This did not go unnoticed by her female friends. As Brooks notes:  ‘Marjorie Barnard, not so fortunate, imagined Eric standing behind Dark’s chair, urging her on –​Write, darling, write.’55 Single women like Miles Franklin and Marjorie Barnard were constrained by their duty of care towards their elderly parents. Franklin acknowledged the difficulty of combining writing and marriage unless the husband was sympathetic like Eric Dark. For her, marriage was ‘rabbit work’: she didn’t believe she could combine writing and marriage in ‘the nation of charwomen’ as she put it.56 In spite of her relative privilege, Dark struggled with finding and keeping maids, answering the doctor’s phone at night and mothering Mick and John. Dark and Prichard both wrestled with the pressures of domestic work and sought paid help around the house, with mixed results. Prichard’s niece Thea Headlam claims that she was ‘always calm and sensible about the home, and never seemed hurried or distraught although there was a great deal to do. I think she always had a lady in to do the washing.’ Later, she ‘had a girl in to help with the housework and cooking’.57 In 1924, Prichard wrote to Vance Palmer, just before she came down with typhoid, saying, ‘the domestic affairs [are] overwhelming. I barely have a minute to think much less talk. And now the aged virgin who does my chores has sprained her wrist & the book has had to be set aside again.’58 In a letter to Franklin, Dark refers to having jitters after ‘three months of maidlessness’ which interrupted her writing: Nearly half-​way through a new novel, I had had to shut it away in a drawer and grapple with brooms and pots and pans –​but yesterday a henchwench (as my husband always calls them) arrived and all today my lips have been seen moving in silent prayer, because if she doesn’t (a) get married (b) succumb to homesickness and rush back to mother (c) develop some highly infectious illness –​I think she will do!59

This sounds slightly superior on Dark’s (and Eric’s) part, especially the term ‘henchwench’. One of the conditions of their marriage was that Dark would have household help to enable her to write, given that Eric worked long hours as a doctor. Dark was unable to achieve sustained household support, possibly because she didn’t get along with the people who applied for the jobs. Marty in The Little Company (1945) finds that her writing is ‘endlessly halted by the demands of her own stove and vacuum cleaner’. She thinks to herself: ‘I’m getting too old […] with sudden despondency, to cope with this splitting

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of my energies.’60 She experiences depression and frustration ‘born of conflict between what she wanted to do and what she must do’.61 Complaints about the hired help are a common theme in her correspondence, but perhaps this was code for a different kind of dissatisfaction. These gripes were acceptable while the expressions of other kinds of anxiety might have been less well understood. Prichard could relate to this, with patchy domestic help over the years. When she was very elderly, a Yugoslav cleaner would come regularly and was allowed to use modern appliances, which Prichard usually disapproved of, preferring a ‘simple’ mode of living. (She even liked to do what she called ‘gin cooking’ over an open fire until quite late in life.)

Demolishing, Rebuilding Eric and Dark’s first house in Katoomba was ‘Glenairlie’ in Katoomba Street. Then they moved to Cascade Street, to an old weatherboard cottage with an overgrown garden, located near a ridge that runs down through Katoomba. The old house featured a step down into the kitchen with a pantry and an old Kooka stove, bathroom, laundry, toilet and woodshed in the backyard. It had a verandah running all the way around. There was a dining room and a living room they called ‘The Piggery’. The first house was much more modest in scale and was demolished in the same year as the building of Varuna began. Named after the ancient Indian god of the heavens and the waters, Varuna is a yellow house with modernist stucco exterior, set on two acres of land. It has been described by Dark’s biographer Barbara Brooks as ‘a bit of a monument’.62 A sign out the front says: SHHH, QUIET ZONE, WRITERS AT WORK. Inside, the interior has been kept close to its original condition, with a few added comforts such as improved plumbing and furnishings for resident writers. Dark’s studio in the garden was the envy of other women writers at the time it was built. The desk is marked by cigarette burns, as she often smoked while she wrote. It also contains a custom built cabinet with a separate drawer for each developing chapter.63 These drawers are now full of manuscripts of works by other authors that were written there. Varuna has a number of informal traditions such as leaving samples of writing and books behind, along with entries in the visitors book which functions as a kind of writerly communication system across time.

Becoming a Writer’s Centre When the Darks died in the 1980s, the future of the house was uncertain, until their son Mick Dark attended a seminar held at the Katoomba Library towards the end of 1987. During the seminar, the idea of creating a writer’s centre at Varuna was floated. ‘We practically formed the steering committee on the spot,’ Mick Dark remembered.64 A written proposal for the conversion of the house into a writers’ centre states that the central aim is to preserve Varuna ‘not merely as a sterilized literary landmark but in a living way as a place where selected writers could take up periods of residence and where literary, historical, environmental etc seminars and workshops could be held’.65



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Figure 7.3  Inside Eleanor Dark's work room at Varuna. Photograph by Brigid Magner

In April 1988, Friends of Varuna was established at another public gathering. Members met for the first time at Varuna, where Mick Dark took them on a tour of the premises. Eighteen months later, this group was transformed into the Eleanor Dark Foundation and Mick Dark was made the ‘life president’. A management committee to oversee day-​to-​day details was set up, indicating a shift from an informal group to legally recognised organisation. At first Dark offered the house to the New South Wales government, but it was ultimately not interested. In the late 1980s, there was great competition for arts money, leading to a rancorous debate carried out in the pages of the Sydney Morning Herald. The Varuna camp wrote that too much attention was being given to a possible State purchase of ‘Wyewurk’, the house in Thirroul where D. H. Lawrence had stayed for a few months in the 1920s. A letter from Varuna director Rhonda Flottmann to the Sydney Morning Herald asked: ‘Why should the briefly rented dwelling (decades earlier) of a foreign writer be recognised over a house which was designed and lived in for more than sixty years by a great Australian novelist?’66 Dark might have been amused by this connection with Lawrence’s former house in Thirroul. She had expressed strong feelings about Lawrence’s depiction of Australia in Kangaroo. She argued that the book ‘suggests one long, tormented effort to see’ and she describes Lawrence as wandering through the pages of the book like a man ‘half-​blind’ who says he can feel, but cannot see, Australia because it is ‘beyond the range of our white

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vision’.67 Continuing the discourse of an ‘imagined’ country, she described Lawrence’s experiences of Australia in similar terms as those of a man ‘almost frantic with irritation because the beauty of other lands which he has seen hangs like a veil between him and a beauty which, here, he can only feel’.68 Given Dark’s observations about the oddness of Lawrence’s Kangaroo, it would have been especially galling if his house was restored at the expense of her own. Prichard also had a connection with Lawrence, having almost met him in Western Australia. According to Nathan Hobby, the night Prichard went into labour, Jim had read in the newspaper that Lawrence was staying in Darlington, just a few kilometres away. ‘I explained to Jim that D. H. Lawrence was the most brilliant of modern English writers and that I would like very much to meet him. Jim promised to drive me over to Darlington the next day.’ Hugo called and wrote after Ric was born, but when Lawrence eventually wrote back he was in New South Wales and said he had already left Western Australia by the time the letter came. Prichard and Lawrence exchanged books and several letters, with Prichard telling him she thought her baby had arrived early in order to meet him.69 She begged him not to look for Sicily in Australia, which prompted him to tell her what he was feeling about the country: ‘For some things too I  love Australia, its weird, far-​away natural beauty and its remote, almost coal-​age pristine quality. Only it’s too far away for me. I can’t reach so awfully far.’ Lawrence writes about his failure to grasp a place which appears mysterious and elusive. Prichard found Kangaroo disappointing, ‘despite lovely descriptive passages’, precisely because she expected so much.70 Both Dark and Prichard would have undoubtedly supported the establishment of their houses as writers’ centres over Lawrence’s temporary residence, despite their evident admiration for him. At the time of writing, the Lawrence house in Thirroul is the subject of an ongoing campaign by the D. H. Lawrence Society of Australia. Before Varuna could be inhabited by visiting writers, basic, down-​to-​earth tasks were undertaken. A conservation plan was developed by heritage expert Chris Pratten, and photographer Max Hill documented the entire house and its contents before Dark family members removed precious personal items. The Heritage council provided $60,000, and half of this was used for renovations. The New South Wales Arts Ministry also contributed a capital grant of $70,000 towards renovations. Members of the Eleanor Dark Foundation realised that they could not rely completely on public funding and would need to generate income in others ways. In 1992, an auction was held in the garden to sell off memorabilia such as signed manuscripts and Dark’s fur coat (which failed to sell and still hangs in an upstairs cupboard at Varuna).71 There were some voices of dissent in relation to the establishment of Varuna, especially from people living in the area. In a letter in the Echo, Mrs R. Jensen from Wentworth Falls argued that ‘sincerity and propriety should be demonstrated by voluntary return of Varuna money –​if not, the Government must recover it!’ She makes the assumption that Varuna will become ‘the commune of Cascade Street, to house a culture-​cult collective which would “pick the public pocket to exist” ’.72 She is of the opinion that the ‘tried-​and-​ true’ conservationist/​heritage technique is ‘first wangle a hand-​out from the State, which thus qualifies for a Federal hand out’.73



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Local resistance was not an uncommon experience for the Darks while they lived at Katoomba. Their left-​wing sympathies meant that they were often the subject of gossip. As Marivic Wyndham pointed out in a letter to the editor, in the late 1930s and 1940s ‘Dark would amuse herself by recounting the family and friends the latest rumours circulating around Katoomba concerning her and her husband’s “suspicious” activities […] How poetically fitting it was that Varuna should continue to be plagued by the same kind of obstructionism and negativism’ which the Darks experienced in life.74 An article in the Blue Mountains Gazette noted that ‘the building is hoped to be used as a living memorial, where writers can take up periods of residence and workshops, readings and other community events can be held’.75 One hundred people attended the opening of the house in March 1991. Minister for Health and the Arts Peter Collins arrived by helicopter to perform the ceremony.76 In his address, Collins described Varuna as ‘exactly what a writers’ centre should be’.77 There was a crowd of around 250 people including friends, family, locals and sponsors. The writers Richard Neville, Dorothy Hewitt and biographer Judith Clark gave presentations about the Darks’ legacy and Varuna’s future. As Inez Brewer notes, the recent name change from ‘Writers’ Centre’ to ‘The Writers’ House’, reflects the fact that it is the only place in Australia that is wholly dedicated to providing space and time for established writers, as well as a wide range of professional development programmes for new and emerging writers.78 It has also been described as the ‘first’ residential writers’ centre, whereas, as Cassandra Pybus has noted, the Kelly Steps Cottage on the Hobart waterfront was actually the first. The cottage was established without any government money, unlike Varuna.79 Since its opening in 1990, Varuna has offered an average of 24 residential fellowships a year to Australian writers of demonstrated ability and commitment. As Brewer observes, ‘space and time have always been the gifts Varuna is able to offer writers, and the writers who come through on fellowships work independently and are “free to use these gifts in their own ways” ’.80

Productive Hauntings Gerry Turcotte’s Hauntings: The ‘Varuna’ Poems (2003), written during a stay in the house, registers the imagined presence of Dark’s ghost and the strange experience for all the writers of being watched by the many tourists who wander through the centre’s grounds, peering in the windows at all hours of the day.81 Ghost stories have proliferated since the centre’s opening, possibly because the temporary inhabitants are people prone to flights of fancy. There is a story of one writer, alone in the rambling, creaky house, who was told to expect the arrival of a second writer-​in-​residence later that night. Eventually there were late-​night noises of arrival, followed by the sound of the distant bathroom door closing, the toilet flushing, the door reopening. Half an hour later, there was the same sequence of noises. And later again, the same, repeated over and over until after about five or six times the first writer thought ‘that poor person is sick’. Yet in the morning no second writer had arrived at all.82

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Kate Cole-​Adams observes that she has never stayed at Varuna without the shared evening conversation drifting into talk of ghosts. One resident claimed to have looked out of her bedroom window on a moonlit evening to see a woman standing below in the garden looking back at her. Another described a hand pressed against her shoulder. Midnight visitations, groaning bedsprings, baleful shapes in the corners.83

Robin Hemley, an American writer who was there at the same time as Cole-​Adams, reported seeing what appeared to be a sleeping form beneath the quilt in the Darks’ marital bed. On another night, Cole-​Adams recounts, he woke in the same bed to see a figure standing against the curtains and asked, ‘Who are you?’84 These hauntings have not been confined to authors either. O’Flynn reports that one writer asked Mick Dark if he had ever seen his mother at Varuna. He replied, ‘Yes, but it was a long time ago.’85 Elizabeth Webby jokingly referred to a new genre in Australian literature, that of the ‘Varuna book’, which suggests the extent of its influence.86 Numerous works of literature were written at least partly while at Varuna, but not all of them show traces of the author’s residency. Brenda Walker’s Poe’s cat (1999) was quite obviously influenced by her stay at Varuna (and by Edgar Allen Poe’s life story). In Walker’s narrative, the house inhabited by Finn and Thea has a number of spectral visitors both inside and outside. The ‘Ladder Room’, which used to be Mick Dark’s childhood bedroom and has a ladder leading to the roof, is featured in Walker’s book. Today I opened the ladder room because I wanted to climb up through the roof and look down on the northern garden. Nobody ever wanted to sleep in the ladder room except the big cousins with the ouja board.87

At Varuna, it used to be possible to climb on to the roof, but it has been blocked off after misbehaviour by visiting poets, or so the rumour goes. In Turcotte’s book of Varuna poems, which was reputedly written in a single day, the narrator claims that ‘the ghost of Eleanor is always here’: At first she was reluctant to accept me. She sent hayfever like a plague of locusts and cut me down to size. She tested me, until at last, I seemed to surface from the haze.88

Dark is credited with ‘doors opening and closing /​at all hours /​strange rumblings in the night /​a flash of light’.89 Her haunting can take a ‘delicious’ form, through the free flowing of words. Turcotte refers to the many ghost stories he and other Varuna fellows told about Dark.90 The concept of haunting is deployed as a way of depicting the intense experience of a writing residency which has its ups and downs, its moments of despair and epiphany. Ghost stories also function as a form of entertainment, passed on from resident to resident through writing and hearsay. An anonymous entry in the visitors book from



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25 July 2016 records one encounter with a ‘presence’: ‘If you’re staying in the Maid’s Room, be sure to lock the door at night. I heard something.’ In an article in the Sydney Morning Herald, Jane Sullivan talks about the ‘productivity’ of these hauntings: ‘Stories abound of ghostly happenings in Dark’s old bedroom, or in her writing studio in the gardens; but far from inspiring fear, these manifestations seem more often than not to lead to ideas and breakthroughs.’91 Arguably, Dark was already haunting the house before death, having begun to retreat from the world in her final illness. Giulia Giuffrè interviewed Eric at the age of 95 when Dark was upstairs resting in her bedroom. ‘Eleanor was present in every way she could be present –​she was above us –​she punctuated our discussion by banging on the ceiling and summoning Eric and I couldn’t work out whether it was an editorial summons […] so it was quite surreal. It’s quite remarkable from someone so completely articulate that it should be a bang.’92 On this particular day, Dark said, via Eric, that she wished she had never written any of the books; a view which may be attributed to the depression she suffered from in later years.

The Desire to Capture Creativity As I have discussed elsewhere, the practices of literary commemoration are often driven by the desire to ‘pin down’ creative production, an alchemical process which is essentially intangible. Dark charted her own creative dramas in letters to her friends and in her novels, especially The Little Company, which was written haltingly after, and punctuated by, bouts of writer’s block. The Second World War had a marked effect on Dark, in common with her contemporaries, making her feel as though writing was redundant at such a tense time. Gilbert experiences writer’s block for almost the entire duration of The Little Company but finally feels a ‘to-​hell-​with-​it intoxication’ when his subject at last becomes clear.93 As Brooks notes, the experience of Gilbert Massey mirrors Dark’s own frustrations to some extent. He sat down and waited for the dynamo to switch itself on. He lit a cigarette and stared out through the panes of glass at the glimpse of blue valley framed in trees […] observing how dramatically the cobalt of the distant valleys contrasted with the fresh green of the maples in the garden […] all the time he was thinking: ‘How do you begin? Damn it, the others began themselves!

Here the author pauses, hoping for his ‘dynamo’ to switch on. The process of beginning is prolonged, painful, self-​conscious when other beginnings have seemed almost automatic. In a letter to Molly, her stepmother, Dark reflects on her own writer’s block with The Little Company: ‘I realise I must now make a determined effort to start writing again –​ it is hard to combat the “what’s the good?” feeling!’94 For people who are not practising writers, it can be a mysterious vocation. Dark saw it as tough work which required stamina rather than any kind of magic. Since her father Dowell O’Reilly had been a writer, Dark was familiar with the profession from

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childhood. Her acquaintance with Dowell’s literary friends may have influenced her literary aspirations and provided her with material for novels. The fact that her early novel Prelude to Christopher (1934) has a central character modelled on Dowell’s friend Christopher Brennan tends to support this view. Dark may have been ambivalent about her father and his behaviour, especially his treatment of her mother,95 but she shared his interest in literature and attended meetings of authors (like Fellowship of Australian Writers gatherings) as O’Reilly did, albeit occasionally.96

Writing, Stitching, Quilting A series of visitors books in the house chart the responses of the many fellows who have stayed since 1991. Varuna is occasionally open to the public for writers festival events and Open Days but it is usually kept tranquil for the sake of resident writers. O’Flynn has discussed the events held there over the years, notably some raucous and rambunctious curry nights. One memorable event featured Dorothy Hewett holding court in the lounge room, while her husband Merv Lilley dispensed mulled wine from a tureen in the boot of his car outside. O’Flynn argues that ‘these sumptuous communal feasts allowed Varuna to play a galvanising role for visiting and local writers, something that Mick Dark loved’.97 In a poem called ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’ which was published in the Weekend Australian, Yasmine Gooneratne frames a writing residence as involving a kind of pilgrimage to a shrine. Varuna! Home of inspiration Sapphic, Set amidst the mountains, sacred to the Muse! Escaping from TV, the city’s traffic And that Satanic mill, the Evening News They come, a little company of scribes, Pilgrims to this reconstructed shrine! Their souls respond in gladness to thy vibes Whether they sing in Sanskrit or in Strine.98

Goonertane’s ‘A Change of Skies’ was the first published work to have been assisted by a stay at Varuna. The ‘little company’ references Dark’s novel The Little Company and the ‘reconstructed shrine’ implies that Varuna was already a shrine to Dark well before it was restored as a writers’ house. The poem suggests a kind of religiosity in the behaviour of the pilgrims, no matter what their ethnicity or mother tongue might be. There is a certain reverence for writing behind the Varuna Quilt Project which started almost a decade after the house opened, when a sewing basket of fabrics, along with paper piecing for a child’s quilt, were found in the cupboard of Dark’s old sewing room. These items were given to Ruth Buchanan, a board member of the Eleanor Dark Foundation, who decided to honour Dark’s spirit by making quilts for the house. The quilting project involved the making of 12 quilts for Varuna, to be used by writers working there. Over one hundred quilters volunteered enough traditional 12-​inch blocks to make 12 quilts



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in colour palettes influenced by Dark’s fabric stash.99 The quilts are named after Dark’s books and stories, with names including ‘Timeless Land’ and ‘No Barrier’. Since there have been a few spots of ink spilt on the quilts, the quilters have discovered how to fix any accidental ink blotches, which are inevitable given their proximity to writers. Quilter and writer Carolynne Gordon describes her stay in the upstairs sewing room which is now a space for writing. Once I  faced and accepted the stillness of writing, the walls began to whisper phrases I hadn’t heard before. The words came with ease –​each like a single stitch connecting one to the other; a sentence a seam, a paragraph a block, a chapter a whole liberated section of comforting, stimulating and nurturing thought which formed the foundation chapters of my book.100

Gordon compares the practice of quilting to that of writing; an intensive, intricate pursuit which requires stamina. The Varuna Quilt Project illuminates the ways in which people have engaged reverently with this literary site, cherishing the fellows who pass through it. Although the quilts do not use Dark’s actual fabric, the materials used are remarkably similar, as if Dark’s ghost is tucking the writers into bed with a handmade quilt.

Dark the Gardener From the early days at Cascade Street, Dark planted a lot of native plants and trees, at a time when few people did, combining them with exotics. As Brooks notes, ‘there were flowering bulbs, wisteria, broom alongside banksias and grass-​trees; there were oaks and maples as well as gums, two cypress pines they called Lo and Behold, and the sycamores –​Sycamore, Sycaless, and Sycaleast’.101 The Darks also grew edible fruits and vegetables: apples, pears, plums, berries and vegetables.102 A journalist wrote of her: ‘The authoress feels that in such work as gardening she can get into close contact with the earth and thus freshen herself for her work.’103 The garden was inhabited by satin bower birds, kookaburras, and magpies. There were real connections between Dark’s writing and her landscaping activities. She and Eric made their tennis courts by hand and Dark constructed the stone walls in the garden. As Devanny notes: ‘Eleanor at her household chores […] fitted as perfectly into the pattern as when seated at her typewriter in her detached workroom in the garden. It was part of her simplicity, a part of her plain, utilitarian outlook on life.’104 Although Dark often complained about chores, especially domestic ones, Devanny saw them as part of the pattern of her life. She often used the proceeds of her writing to effect small improvements to her physical environment. Payment for a poem was about the price of a bag of manure for the garden.105 In a letter to her stepmother Molly, possibly written around 1939, she says that she decided to use the proceeds of Prelude to Christopher for a fence. I thought I might as well at least have something to show for it. Eric dislikes it because it does shut out the pretty little view of the bush track which we used to have from our front verandah –​and in a way I regret that too.106

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Figure 7.4  Jerrekellimi, Blue Mountains, New South Wales. Photograph by Brigid Magner

She added that the fence might act as a psychological barrier to ‘pilfering’, as people had taken plants and timber from the grounds previously.107 The family tradition of gardening has continued long after Dark’s death. The Varuna garden was maintained by Mick Dark for many years, and now by his son Rod Dark. The fruit trees have declined in most cases so there is little trace of the small orchard of stonefruit and strawberries which once flourished. It is more an ornamental garden than one full of edible fruits and vegetables as it once was.

Jerrekellimi Dark had mixed feelings about living in the Blue Mountains, a tourism mecca since the nineteenth century. She disliked packaged tourist attractions and theme parks which are part of the Blue Mountains experience for visitors, now present in the form of a centre called ‘Scenic World’. She and Eric appreciated the environment around them and understood its dangers. ‘Give me a blue view without a railing’, one of her characters says.108 The bustle of the Blue Mountains, which is consistently swamped by tourists especially at the weekends, could sometimes be at odds with Dark’s need for privacy. In a letter she notes that tourists walk down Cascade Street and sometimes come on to the property for a look around. In part, the planting of trees around the house were to thwart prying eyes.



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Dark found it difficult to maintain the solitude needed for writing, given the demands made on her by various admirers of her work. As she said to Devanny: One often finds that it is just those people who like and appreciate one’s books the most, who make the demands that split one’s energies and thus detract from the value of one’s work. If these people understood that writing is a chore, that writers have to sweat and struggle, like miners and bush-​whackers, this would not happen.109

In fact, bush-​whacking, walking and rock climbing were solutions to the unwelcome sensation of crowdedness at Varuna, satisfying Dark’s intense desire for isolation, at least temporarily. In January 1937, Eric and Dark discovered a cave north-​east of Katoomba which they decided to use for day trips or weekend camps. They called it ‘Jerrekellimi’, which came from a combination of their names –​John, Eric, Eleanor, Mike. To make the floor, they carried the clay of an old termitarium up from the creek and packed it down. Then they decided how they would inhabit the space: We divided the cave into two rooms, a lounge room and a bedroom. We built fireplaces, took out some tools and hessian and made chairs and beds. For a table we used a slab of rock. We dammed the creek and made a fine swimming pool plugging the dam with a removable plug so that we could release the water when we liked.110

Mick Dark guided several walks to the Darks’ cave over the early years of Varuna. The visitors book from 1995 contains an entry from Hazel Edwards recounting a pilgrimage to the Darks’ cave guided by Mick and Jill Dark. ‘All who went felt a sense of achievement, an affinity for the landscape and a better understanding of the inspiration which Eleanor Dark drew from her mountains.’111 The historian Tom Griffiths visited the cave in 2014: It felt immense, remote and in a world of its own, and even on a day of swirling mists, it was infused with a great sense of space and light. It is an exhilarating setting, enfolded within the range and also a lookout. The descent to the cave is steep and still little known, but it has become a site of quiet pilgrimage. A collection of old boots and billies from Eleanor’s time is respectfully tucked away on a natural shelf above the sleeping platform in the waterfall cave, and an old meat safe is still suspended between boulders.112

I undertook the pilgrimage to the cave myself and was surprised to find that it was a arduous journey down a winding steep track, involving some minor rock climbing and scrambling over obstacles. There’s a sense of suspense if you haven’t been there before, as you keep thinking that the cave will be coming up soon but it takes its time to be found. You certainly know the cave when you eventually see it, due to the panoramic view of the gorge and the sound of running water (which made the Dark’s residence there possible). This elaborate set-​up is reminiscent of the children’s cave hideout in Nan Chauncy’s They Found a Cave. This urge to ‘domesticate’ the cave in such a way for short camps tells of the Darks’ strong desire to impose order. The whole family travelled out there

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on weekends to work on it; this included damming the creek and blowing up a boulder in the middle of the cave with gelignite, which further alarmed locals who thought they were creating a Communist camp or commune. Writing to her stepmother Molly, Dark tells her about the local stories about the Darks and their cave. The latest rumour about us […] is that we have a year’s supply food hidden in our cave!!! By now, no doubt, we are also supposed to have machine guns and bombs and a radio transmitter, and perhaps it is also the headquarters of the Fifth Column!!113

Local folklore declared that Dark wrote The Timeless Land in the cave. She would sometimes take work with her, but didn’t write novels there.114 Jerrekellimi was a place for the Darks to take their friends such as Brian Fitzpatrick, the Evatts, Eric Lowe and Osmar White. They left a poem in the cave with a visitors book in a metal biscuit tin, essentially asking that other visitors should respect ‘their’ place or be cursed: If you should in passing by Come on Jerrekellimi Very welcome you would be, Boil your billy, make your tea. By the fireplace drink and eat Dry your shoes and warm your feet But Oh gentle stranger pray These polite requests obey Break no bottles, chop no trees, Tins in the fireplace if you please If you these requests fulfil May good luck attend you still May you hear the lyrebird’s song Echo from Werringerong. But if not may all your packs Make blue bruises on your backs May you for your many sins Bang your heads and bark your shins And at last in sorry plight Be chased by bunyips through the night115

Although the poem has a tongue-​in-​cheek tone, it conveys a proprietorial attitude towards the cave as well as a concern for the environment (through the exhortations not to litter or chop trees). The appropriation and domestication of a cave within what is now a national park seems alien at this distance in time. The desire to convert a cave to a hideaway retreat for regular weekend visits indicates their need for privacy and peace, away from the rigours of social life. That the cave remains relatively untouched, with a number of old objects still in place, demonstrates either indifference or ongoing respect for the Darks.116 The fireplace



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shows signs of use with tin foil and cutlery tucked away in an upper shelf suggesting ritualised visits by certain parties. Going there in person certainly gave me a different view of the Darks, underlining their stoicism and sense of adventure.

Conclusion In The Little Company, Dark’s most extended study of the role of writers in Australia –​ and the conditions necessary for writing –​an American soldier named John Grover proposes that all old buildings should be destroyed after 100 years. ‘I don’t mean we should build so our houses fall down on us. I mean we should take ’em down before they lay hold of our imaginations  –​before they set us going all misty-​eyed over the glorious past. The past was never so glorious.’117 Gilbert responds that Australia is not old enough to have many truly old houses: ‘When a country gets to be a museum of old buildings, I guess the people are likely to develop a museum mentality […] haunted houses aren’t a superstition, the way I see it –​they’re a fact. Every old building’s full of the ghosts of everything that happened in it.’118 The houses of Prichard and Dark have been seen as haunted by their spirits and those of unidentified others, prompting writing from sensitive resident writers. As I  discuss in relation to Henry Handel Richardson in Chapter Three, ghosts are one way for people to make traces of literary habitation palpable. Cole-​Adams writes that the ghosts seen at Varuna are usually not of the house –​instead they arrive with their owners and wait until their owners (the writers) are soft and receptive before beginning to stir.119 In this view, the house allows authors to explore their own reveries and hallucinations, which sometimes take the form of phantoms. Katharine’s Place and Varuna have survived lengthy periods of neglect and decline. A book of photographs of Varuna taken by Max Hill just after Eric Dark’s death attests to its rough state, with one photo showing mould on the walls, a marked contrast with its original –​and current –​condition. Since it didn’t leave the family until it was gifted to the Eleanor Dark Foundation, the physical structure of Varuna is fairly ‘authentic’, whereas Greenmount was substantially altered by subsequent tenants. Greenmount was almost lost during Prichard’s lifetime due to Hugo’s debts which didn’t recede until extra land was sold and a gift was given by a friend. The Darks’ more comfortable financial situation ensured that they never faced the prospect of losing Varuna. However, Mick Dark’s generous gift to the Foundation meant that the house was not passed on to the family, a loss that must be felt by their descendants. This is an issue which affects those who gift a writers’ house –​in many cases the house is bought by a not-​for-​profit organisation with a view to perpetuating the writers’ memory, so the family is not out of pocket. Prichard’s house, as mentioned earlier, was sold, in line with Prichard’s explicit intention that it not be preserved as a ‘shrine’. Just as Dark and Prichard were friends in life, their respective foundations have operated in a mutually supportive manner. Letters between representatives indicate that there was communication and moral support extended in the late 1980s. On 31 April 1988, Barbara Brandt, the secretary of the KSP Foundation, wrote to John Apthorp to say that she was delighted to hear that the former home of Eleanor Dark was to become

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a ‘Writers’ Retreat’. She enclosed the KSP constitution and other background material to help the Eleanor Dark Foundation with the early stages of its development.120 Dark and Prichard still reside in living memory but most writers who take up a residency in their former houses will have virtually no connection with them. The pressures on such houses mean that financial stability must take precedence over heritage concerns in order to stay open. The paid residencies work to balance the books, along with other fundraising exercises. Within Australian literary culture, Varuna has a higher profile than the KSP Centre even though the KSP Centre was started earlier. Arguably, Varuna has a national rather than a local focus. By contrast, many of the activities at Greenmount are local, everyday group interactions which take place in the house with the residents accommodated in cabins behind. Whereas the Varuna model involves writers taking up almost every part of the house all year round, except for the occasional housekeeping and maintenance period, which means that it cannot easily welcome other groups at the same time.121 Both women had devoted only sons (although Dark also had a stepson from whom she later became estranged) who contributed substantially to their legacies. However Throssell’s dedicated oversight of the KSP House was cut short by his suicide in 1999. The KSP organisation lost Throssell as an adviser, but he has left an impressive range of published writing and personal papers including letters kept the National Library of Australia. Scholars are still very much reliant on Throssell’s version of events, as a crucial witness to significant aspects of Prichard’s life. Given that Dark ‘loathed’ publicity by all accounts, we may ask whether she would have approved of any traditional commemorations such as statues or stone monuments. The fact that she was involved with the FAW suggests that she supported the cause of writerly commemoration, which was one of the central missions of the organisation, along with supporting living writers. Prichard also had a ‘rage for privacy’ which led her to destroy most of her personal papers before her death. She asked Ric to complete the burning, which he did, but he preserved her weekly letters to him.122 There are a thousand of these weekly letters in the Throssell collection in the National Library of Australia. Some of her letters to other people are preserved in separate collections, but many of her other letters are gone. Earlier in this chapter, I argued that a writer’s house can be more than a static commemoration, frozen in time. Instead it can provide a locus for the production of new writing by others, serving to extend the departed writer’s legacy into the present and future. In many writers’ houses around the world, resident writers and artists use the author’s work as a starting point for their own writing, thereby keeping the work alive and in the public eye. The houses of Dark and Prichard are both located in elevated places which allowed them a degree of seclusion for undertaking their writing. In The Little Company, Gilbert Massey is accused of being ‘all shut up’ and ‘isolated’ in a kind of ‘world-​proof life’ in his house in the mountains. He argues that ‘no life is world-​proof now’, in the context of the Second World War.123 Like her character Gilbert, Dark was seen as isolated and somehow separate in her house in the Blue Mountains. Many of her female contemporaries were struggling to make ends meet; often their literary production was deformed,



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stalled or even silenced by their unstable living conditions and the demands being made on their time and resources. By contrast Dark was more privileged, nonetheless her life had tensions that are readily apparent in her writing, such as the constraints of marriage, the vexed relations between men and women, motherhood and vocation, mental illness and the burden of inheritance. Devanny noted that Dark was overlaid with ‘the mystery and glamour of the imaginative writer’.124 Arguably this mystique was maintained by her separateness, her dislike of publicity and the lack of photographs of her after 1941. Prichard too had mystique, whether as the ‘witch of Greenmount’, ‘lady authoress’ or infamous Communist. It is this ‘mystery and glamour’ that Devanny identifies which prompts people to visit Varuna and Greenmount, in an effort to connect with their distant energies. For many visiting writers, the benign ghosts of Dark and Prichard are regarded as muses who encourage rather than block literary activity. It’s impossible to know whether the two writers would have approved of their posthumous commemorations; nevertheless, there are hints in their writing both published and unpublished. Marty in The Little Company loathes symbols, as did Dark herself. Her husband Richard says to her: ‘you dislike the kink in human nature that makes a plain idea seem intolerable till it’s decked out in some kind of ritual. But –​let’s face it –​people like ritual, and adore symbols.’125 Richard has a rosier view deriving from his acknowledgement that ritual and symbols perform a necessary social function. By contrast, Marty regards them as dishonest, disingenuous and even dangerous. As Dark recognised, there is always a degree of distortion at work with any process of restoration and preservation, when the writer moves from being a living, speaking subject to a person who is spoken for, and represented by others, including people with whom they might not have agreed in life. Literary commemorations have a tendency to smooth out the sharp edges of the writers they celebrate. Politically engaged literary figures such as Prichard and Dark might have been ‘reified’ at the expense of their activism, but their houses can offer nuanced interpretations of their beliefs, and their activism, rather than conveniently eliding these qualities in retrospect. As a true believer in communism, Prichard was possibly less concerned with the celebration of individuals like herself than about collective mobilisation and radical change. Throssell notes that Prichard liked to think that the place could grow old with her: ‘I feel it would be a mistake to try to keep the place as a memorial –​or museum –​anything of that sort […] We must not be sentimental about the old place.’126 Nevertheless, she surely would have appreciated the support given to writers in her name, as well as the myriad activities taking place in the house, which continue to bring people together in constructive and creative ways.

Chapter Eight STATUE MANIA: P. L. TRAVERS AND THE APPEAL OF MARY POPPINS It’s difficult to imagine a character more English than Mary Poppins, yet her creator originated from Australia. Widespread recognition of Pamela Travers (Helen Lyndon Goff) as an Australian writer has occurred only since her death in 1996. An expatriate from her 20s, Travers obfuscated the details of her childhood  –​or embroidered the truth –​until later in life when she was more forthcoming about her formative years in Australia. It was in her final decade that Travers would discuss these matters openly with friends, but she usually offered an edited, or embroidered, version of events.1 Four towns  –​Allora, Maryborough, Bowral and Ashfield  –​now claim connections with Travers, in the form of Mary Poppins statues, preserved dwellings and the Mary Poppins Festival.2 This chapter explores the ways in which Travers’s own identity is overshadowed by her character, who has enduring iconic appeal due to the success of the books and the Disney movies Mary Poppins (1964) and Mary Poppins Returns (2018). Born on 9 August 1899 in Maryborough, Queensland, Helen Lyndon Goff moved with her family to another Queensland town, Allora, when she was three. After the death of her father at home in Allora in 1907, the family –​her mother and two sisters –​moved to a cottage rented for them by a wealthy aunt in Bowral, New South Wales. The Goffs lived there until 1917, though Lyndon attended boarding school in Normanhurst, a suburb of Sydney, from 1912 until 1916, returning to Bowral for the holidays. The family then moved to Ashfield in Sydney in 1917. Travers left Australia in 1924, for a career in Britain and the United States, to return only once in her life. She began her literary career as a journalist and poet, turning to children’s writing with her first Mary Poppins short story in 1926. Travers’s second book, Mary Poppins (1934), about a supernatural nanny who arrives on the wind to take charge of the Banks children, was an immediate international success. The further adventures of Poppins and her charges were related in Mary Poppins Comes Back (1935), Mary Poppins Opens the Door (1943), Mary Poppins in the Park (1952), Mary Poppins in Cherry Tree Lane (1982) and Mary Poppins and the House Next Door (1988). Poppins also appeared in Mary Poppins from A to Z (1962), which was later translated into Latin, and Mary Poppins in the Kitchen: A Cookery Book with a Story (1975). Travers spent her last years near the Kings Road in Chelsea, in a Georgian house with a pink door and a sideboard full of pottery hens.3 She died in 1996 and is buried in St Marys Churchyard Twickenham, London Borough of Richmond upon Thames, Greater London. Aside from the appearance of many Mary Poppinses in the British Olympics opening ceremony, a blue plaque at 50 Smith St Chelsea where she lived from

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1946–62 and Mary Poppins walking tours around London,4 the greatest competition for the ‘ownership’ of Travers’s creation is now in Australia, her forsaken birthplace. Travers used many elements of her Australian childhood life in her fiction. Valerie Lawson explores this creative deployment in her biography Out of the Sky She Came: The Extraordinary Life of P.L. Travers, Creator of Mary Poppins (1999). Characters from her early experience turn up in her books –​for example, Nellie Rubina and Uncle Dodger from Bowral feature in Mary Poppins Comes Back as a couple who live in an ark. Miss Quigley, the sad woman with a music box in Bowral, was written into Mary Poppins Comes Back as a piano-​playing governess who arrives and departs quickly after Mary Poppins’s first disappearance.5 Travers took her father’s first name as her invented surname when she began her career as an actor, using the name Pamela Travers (instead of Helen). Travers was expert at self-​fashioning, telling fanciful stories about her origins throughout her life. In interviews, Travers often described an idyllic childhood on a sugar plantation. Her training as an actor and performer contributed considerably to her self-fashioning as an author. It is relatively uncommon, though not unknown, for commemorations to be centred on a character rather than the author responsible for its inception. A similar example is the celebration of Anne of Green Gables in place of her creator Lucy Maud Montgomery (1874–​1942). Tourists trek to Prince Edward Island in Canada to locate ‘Anne’s land’, an invented territory that roughly correlates with the real-​life place. As Kathleen A. Miller observes: Anne of Green Gables continues to draw new generations of readers and new visitors to Prince Edward Island. Just when they need it, they encounter a heroine who embodies the spiritedness, passion, and creativity of the woman who invented her. And that is something you cannot get from a tea towel or a potato-​chip bag.6

Miller is referring to the commodification associated with Anne of Green Gables and the ways in which it has obscured Montgomery as the author. Nevertheless, she also recognises what these visitors might gain from such a pilgrimage to ‘Anne’s land’. Anglo-​Australian author and illustrator May Gibbs is often remembered through sculptures of her most famous characters, the bush babies Snugglepot and Cuddlepie. A sculpture of a young May Gibbs sitting under a tree reading a book is an interesting exception. Designed to capture the moment when Gibbs first sees the little creatures which populate her books, the pose of the sculpture is based on a portrait by her father Herbert Gibbs in 1879, 11 years before the family migrated to Australia.7 Like Montgomery and Gibbs, P. L. Travers may have been eclipsed by her more famous creation, yet there is growing recognition of her Australian beginnings and efforts to commemorate them.

Long-​Lost Origins At the time she left Australia, Travers was fairly well known among the literati  –​ newspapers reports show that her career continued to be traced for a number of years



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afterwards. Three years after her migration northward, Travers was featured in an article in the Sunday Mail called ‘Australian Girl Gaining Fame in London’, which romanticises her quest for literary fame. Pamela Travers originally started on a stage career in Australia, which lasted about two and a half years, during which her leisured hours were spent in writing poems. After the experience she came to the conclusion that a literary career would suit her better, and with higher hopes than finances, set out to force the literary door of London.8

The author notes that she lives at a ‘picturesque’ address at Old Square, Lincoln’s Inn, which should be a perfect place to draw inspiration from.9 She declares that she arrived in London with less than £10, but recognition soon came her way. She commenced by writing a series of articles on and interviews with the celebrities of the hour, under the heading of ‘Pamela Passes’, and this proved as useful work giving her an excellent introduction and bringing her into close contact with ‘the most interesting brains of the country’.10 Another article in the Telegraph (Brisbane) in April 1933 also plays on the romance of this Australian writer living in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, which she describes as ‘quiet as a desert island and yet in the very heart of the city, but protected by the huge blocks of Law Court buildings’.11 As this shows, Travers told colourful stories about her adopted home, adding to her own personal myth-making. Nettie Palmer wrote a column for the Bulletin Red Page in June 1934, a decade after Travers’s move to London, charting her achievements. ‘In her youth here she was versatile and skilful and the overshrewd suggested she was just another pen-​name for Frank Morton. Steadily, through the last ten years, Pamela Travers has been proving that she is nobody’s pen-​name.’12 Morton was the editor of the Triad in New Zealand which published much of Travers’s early work when she was living in Sydney (and he was fond of pseudonyms). In relation to her verse, Palmer claims that Travers is her own ‘severest publisher’s reader, rejecting and postponing’ and that the first book of selected poems will be ‘important’.13 The Maryborough Chronicle Wide Bay and Burnett Advertiser published an article on Travers in 1945 indicating that she was not forgotten in her birthplace even two decades later. ‘Though I love England, where I’ve spent a good part of my life, I’ve always missed the great stretches of land I came to know as a girl in Australia,’ Travers explains. ‘I’ve found these great stretches once more in America.’14 In this interview, she draws many comparisons between Australia and America and there is no evident subterfuge or obfuscation about her formative years in Australia. Interestingly the article emphasises her ‘goodness’ with an anecdote about how she took in child evacuees at her Sussex house when the Second World War broke out. It ends with a summary of what her two sisters are doing, to underline her continuing connections to Australia (linking her through family to Maryborough, however indirectly). The Australian Woman’s Weekly interviewed her in 1982, when Travers remembered a childhood spent in Australia. She admits to her Australian background in this article but it did not become common knowledge until the 1990s. John Moran observes in

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the article ‘ “Mary Poppins” Reveals Herself ’ that for 60 years, ‘Helen Lyndon Goff, of Maryborough, has hidden behind the pseudonym Dr. P. L. Travers.’15 Travers emphasises her distance from her country of birth: ‘I think I would like Australia. I have become something of an invalid and am not likely to travel there again, but I will not forget it, nor the way the stars shone […] so close and so bright.’16 In a follow-​up article for the Women’s Weekly, Moran reports that ‘no literary guides refer to P. L. Travers as Australian –​the great granddaughter, in fact, of cattle king Robert Archibald Morehead, founder of Bowen Downs, the biggest pastoral empire of the mid-​1880s.17 Here he attempts to tie Travers’s genealogy firmly to Queensland, reinforcing the links which have weakened over time. However he acknowledges that his interview subject is slippery and hard to pin down; a quality which has actively contributed to the widespread amnesia about her Australian origins. Moran reflects on the difficulties of getting a straight answer from Travers, noting that he ‘set out to lift the veil on the author of Mary Poppins’ but he quickly found himself in an ‘interesting, but at times confusing, adventure’.18 For Moran, ‘the intriguing picture that emerged contained many images and facts ‘hidden behind the trees’ or ‘in the background’.19 An article called ‘It’s Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious: The Return of Mary Poppins’ published in the Australian Women’s Weekly in April 1990 argues that much of the ‘blame’ for this lack of notice can be laid at the door of the enigmatic Travers herself. ‘World traveller, mystic and companion to literary greats, she refuses steadfastly to talk of her personal life.’20 Given her reputation as a ‘difficult’ woman, fans of the Mary Poppins books and films tend to focus on Travers’s famous nanny instead of her own biography. Although there were some reports in the media before P. L. Travers’s biography came out, Tim Barlass notes that it was Lawson’s book which alerted Australia to the ‘accolade’, and ‘potential tourism dollar, of claiming a link to the nanny and her parrot-​ headed umbrella’.21

Ashfield Travers lived at 17 Pembroke Road between 1918 and 1924, with her sisters and mother in a house overlooking Ashfield Park. Lawson notes that the number 17 was significant to Travers, perhaps due to this Ashfield address: ‘The east wind blew the nanny into 17 Cherry Tree Lane, London, where she worked her charms on a dysfunctional family.’22 While living there, Travers attended Normanhurst School, a place where she was able to read and learn, ‘a preparation for the life of a writer and actress’.23 After leaving school, she was sent to work as a secretary in the cashier’s office at the Australian Gaslight Company. When working as a typist she memorised lines, took dancing lessons and wrote verse, in anticipation of a life on the stage. Summer Hill schoolgirl Gracie Drew was behind the first major Poppins memorial in Australia. At the age of nine, Gracie discovered that the author of the Poppins books had lived near her home in Ashfield, after her mother read Lawson’s biography. This prompted her to go and find Travers’s old house at 17 Pembroke Road. This was not straightforward, as they discovered that 17 had become 40 when the council renumbering some of Ashfield’s streets.



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With her mother, Gracie campaigned for four years to have Travers honoured in that suburb.24 A bronze Poppins statue, funded by Ashfield Municipal Council and the Ashfield Returned Services League, was unveiled on 13 March 2004, a year before Maryborough did the same. After numerous committee meetings and delays, the $9,000 statue, made by Sydney firm Florentine Figures, was unveiled by Monica Trapaga and the mayor of Ashfield. The inscription records that the statue was ‘inspired by the original illustrations for Mary Poppins by Mary Shepard, English illustrator’. All of the Australian Poppins statues remain true to Shephard’s version of Mary Poppins, thereby making a link to the original books, which were produced before the Disney movie (and the inevitable movie tie-​in covers).

Maryborough An article in the Brisbane Times about the former home of Travers being put up for sale notes that Travers hid her Australian heritage yet ‘she has been embraced as Maryborough’s favourite daughter’.25 In front of the Maryborough courthouse, there is a plaque for P.  L. Travers on the pavement, as part of the Maryborough Walk of Achievers, along with plaques for other Maryborough notables.26 Four sets of Mary Poppins–​themed traffic lights were installed in June 2017, replacing the usual symbols of red and green men.27 Mary Poppins celebrations in Maryborough officially began in 1999 and then were cemented in 2005 by the introduction of a statue to the cityscape. The Proud Marys Association, a group of Maryborough ‘ladies’ (preferably with Mary in their names) was formed on 10 September 1999, the day after Travers’s 100th birthday. The Proud Marys group has been the driving force behind the commemoration of Poppins in Maryborough. Their aim is to ‘encourage the creative talents of the youth of the Fraser Coast region’ through annual literary competitions. They also administer the ‘Mary Register’  –​a register of local, national and international women whose name is Mary or a derivative of Mary, who have registered with the association.28 The connection of the name Mary with the town’s name and history also provides a neat link with the character invented by Travers. The first Mary Poppins street markets began on 23 September 1999, featuring the launch of Lawson’s biography. In the same year, a plaque was placed on the bank recording Travers’s birth in that building. The Proud Marys morning tea event morphed into the Mary Poppins Festival, which is held each year in July. The Mary Poppins Festival website claims that ‘Maryborough’s statue of the famous nanny is believed to be Australia [sic] main attraction to acknowledge the literary skills of P. L. Travers and the amazing worldwide success of the series of Mary Poppins novels.’29 The Great Nanny Race is run along Cherry Tree Lane with local celebrities and assorted children dressed up in period costumes pushing prams at speed. Other related events include the Proud Mary’s Morning Tea, ‘A Spoonful of Circus’ workshops, the Poppin’ Street Party, Mary’s River Cruise Singalong, Maryborough Story Trails and the Heritage City Quilt and Craft extravaganza.30

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Figure  8.1  Mary Poppins statue outside the Birthplace Museum, Maryborough Queensland. Reproduced with the permission of Joy Newman

The Maryborough Mary Poppins statue located in Cherry Tree Lane was initiated by the Proud Marys, which raised $65,000 by public donation in six weeks. Unveiled on the anniversary of Travers’s birthday, 9 August 2005, the statue was the second to be erected after Ashfield’s tribute. The Proud Marys have worked with the Fraser Coast Regional Council and arts and cultural groups to establish the Story Bank. This is the name of the heritage-​listed former Australian Joint Stock Bank (AJS) where Travers was born in 1899.



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The bank was originally designed by Francis Drummond Greville Stanley, who trained as an architect in Edinburgh before migrating to Queensland in the early 1860s. The grandeur of the bank demonstrates the prosperity that came to Maryborough in the wake of the Gympie Gold Rush.31 The building was bought by the Fraser Coast District Council in 2015 and has undergone structural restoration in order to house an interpretive centre. The Story Bank aims to explore the life of Travers and her writing, and uncover the ‘magic of storytelling’ through interaction, displays and involved activities. The room where it is believed she was born is decorated as a family room complete with a cot to elicit visions of Travers as a baby. Life-​like sculptures of characters from the Poppins stories populate various parts of the building –​Mary is perched on the stair rail leading to the upper story and the ‘Bird Woman’ sits on a park bench in front of a mural of St Pauls Cathedral. There are miniature items for children to find, such as a series of mice scattered throughout the centre, and a cabinet of curiosities full of little scenes and figures derived from Maryborough.32 Visitors are also encouraged to use online resources and deposit their own story ‘creations’. The Story Bank contains a large room that centres around a yarning circle, which was inspired by the stories of the local Butchulla people. It is themed around the children’s book The Legends of Moonie Jarl (1964) by Butchulla authors Olga Miller and Wilf Reeves. Resident storyteller Ian Brown observes that this book told in this book presages the storytelling tradition of the region. There is a tradition of storytelling here in Maryborough, our people are artisans of this ancient craft. All of the yarns, the tall tales and true, we keep within our Story Bank. For these words are our bond with this place; and the landscape, the town around us, is latticed with stories, a web of words, of people, of place.33

The idea of the yarning circle is to ‘meld together’ the stories of Moonie Jarl with those of Mary Poppins.34 The impulse to recognise and celebrate the stories of First Nations peoples is commendable yet the conflation of these sacred stories with P. L. Travers’s fictions comes across as a weird, unsettling postcolonial juxtaposition. To place these stories alongside one another as if they are of equivalent importance seems inappropriate especially because Mary Poppins is an Edwardian nanny, albeit a magical one, who upholds notions of English respectability which are antithetical to the recognition of Indigenous sovereignty. The Story Bank might be seen as a tangible expression of Maryborough’s current emphasis on storytelling and a clever way of boosting cultural tourism in the Fraser Coast region. The Story Trail, ‘a delightful trail of public art and memorials,’ has been created as part of the Mary Poppins Festival to bring Maryborough’s ‘characters and stories to life’.35 Although there’s an effort to refer to other place-​based stories from the area, Mary Poppins takes precedence. Arguably, much of the celebration is based on nostalgia for the Mary Poppins stories, rather than on the interests of contemporary children. As discussed in Chapter Six, Shelagh J. Squire’s investigation of Beatrix Potter’s ‘Hill Top Farm’ located in the famous Lake District identified a similar phenomenon.

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And as I  watched the visitors, it was clear that adults, and middle-​aged women in particular, were more concerned with connecting the characters and the settings in the books with the house and garden than were children. At best, children were keen to find the characters, but more typically they wanted to visit the shop, finding little else to interest them at Potter’s home.36

In an interview with the Australian Woman’s Weekly in June 1982, Travers talked about how she used to have a magical view of books as a child, using Beatrix Potter’s work as an example: ‘I never had any idea that this conglomeration of cloth and print had a person behind it.’ The Potter books were on the Goff family bookshelves in Allora. In Potter later became her literary heroine whom Travers regarded Potter as a literary heroine, ‘one of the archangels’.37 Her favoured element of Potter’s style was the ‘non explaining’. When she heard of the death of Beatrix Potter, she was shocked: ‘I never thought she had been alive.’38 One of the biggest influences on Travers was Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland (1866), which set an important precedent. As she wrote in New Triad’s ‘London Letter’ in 1928, ‘Before Alice came […] literature for the young was sentimental and unreal. It needed the cold philosophical thought of Alice to put things right.’39 Peter Pan was published as a play in 1904 and as a story in 1911. Both these texts gave the child reader agency that was unimaginable before. However, she disliked it when Mary Poppins was described as a descendant of Peter Pan. As Feenie Ziner writes, after meeting her at the New York Public Library in 1972: ‘She is an arbitrary and spontaneous individual who never explains anything –​but who comprehends form and fitness, who is self contained, fiercely independent, unpredictable, the very essence of the creative spirit.’40

Allora Lawson calls P. L. Travers’s time in Allora ‘the most critical of her early life’. Lawson told the Courier Mail that ‘Allora had left its mark on her, because it was where she lost her father, and where her imagination really took flight.’41 An article in the Warwick Daily News notes that ‘Travers spent two years in the small community of Allora, and yet her connection to the town has stayed surprisingly quiet’.42 That was until the release of Saving Mr. Banks, which drew more attention to the town even though it was not shot there. The film foregrounds the close relationship between Travers and her father. According to Travers’s memories, he told her stories from the ‘Celtic Twilight’, and they’d sit in the backyard on the grass under the stars at night.43 Near her home at 61 Herbert Street, Allora, Travers made miniature parks for poor people, just as Jane Banks makes a tiny park for poor people in Mary Poppins in the Park. Jane, the well-​behaved eldest child of the Banks family, says ‘everybody is happy’ in her park where ‘nobody ever quarrels’. Travers now has her own park in the town of Allora, over a century after she left. As mentioned before, Travers Goff was a shiftless alcoholic who claimed to have Irish ancestry (when he was actually from Deptford, England). The move to Allora represented



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a demotion for him, after poor performance at the bank due to excessive drinking. In 1907, Goff caught pneumonia while out horse riding in the rain. He died three days later of influenza and was buried in the Allora Cemetery. The Allora Guardian newspaper carried an advertisement selling the contents of the family home on the same day it published his funeral notice. Margaret and her daughters moved the next day and were dependent thereafter on the generosity of Aunt Ellie. Allora, now marketed as ‘the best little town on the Darling Downs’, is a two-​hour drive from Brisbane. Built in 1879, the ‘Mary Poppins House’ at 61 Herbert Street was the original bank and residence for AJS, which opened in 1880. In an article in the Times, Lawson reflects on the Travers’s legacy in Allora: Almost 100  years after Goff’s death, there is a chill inside the high-​ceilinged Allora house where the front room still contains a bank vault, and a sign on the door spells out ‘Manager’ in gold letters. On the veranda lies a misshapen doll, scarecrow size, made by local schoolchildren to honour Mary Poppins.44

The Struthers family, who now own the house, live mostly at Bribie Island and spend much of their time restoring it and improving the gardens. Any interested passers-​by are welcome to wander in the gardens or make an appointment for a guided tour. When they bought it in 2007, Les Struthers and his wife had little knowledge of the Travers link; in fact its unique design was of more interest. We noticed it was very interesting architecturally, and falling down a bit. At that stage we knew nothing about the connection with Pamela Travers. We found newspaper clippings here and there, and as we were restoring the house we started to do a bit of research.45

The Travers home was recreated in Los Angeles for Saving Mr. Banks with the help of Les Struthers, the architect owner who collaborated with the set designer.46 The Struthers’ experience with the film began when a location scout knocked on their door. Les Struthers said after seeing Travers and Goff brought to life in Saving Mr. Banks, their connection to their home’s previous occupants was even stronger. ‘A lot of people would go out there and recognise it […] but it meant a lot more to us –​I mean (Goff) was in our house, he died in our house.’47 In 2011, Struthers remarked: ‘It’s true that the doors here open and close by themselves all the time. If it is a ghost, and the locals seem to think it is, I’d say it feels masculine, and I think it is somehow related to the father. It’s not frightening at all, it’s a friendly sort of ghost, I’d say, just wanting some company.’48 In 2018, Struthers reiterated this attitude to haunting: ‘There’s certainly no ill feeling in the house’.49 When visiting Herbert Street, journalist Frances Whiting visualised the young proto-​ author inhabiting the house: Here in the residence –​with its soaring 4m-​high ceilings and fires crackling in the bedrooms, sending ashes dancing up the chimneys –​it’s easy to imagine a young P. L. Travers. There she is, feet tucked under her, reading her books from the family’s library by the fire –​Beatrix Potter, the Brothers Grimm, Alice disappearing into Wonderland. You can picture her lying

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on the cool, green grass in the back yard, hands clasped and stargazing with her father, as he points out Venus, Orion and the seven sisters of Pleiades.50

Once again the image of Travers staring at the stars with her father occurs, showing the visitor’s imaginative engagement with this site of childhood of reading and dreaming, if not writing.51 In 2014, a monument with a line drawing of Mary Poppins engraved into it was relocated from the intersection of the New England Highway and South Street. It is now on the corner of Herbert and Drayton Streets, near her old house. This decision implies that the monument was overlooked on the highway and needed to have its own space created around it, to be fully appreciated. The PL Travers Park, of which this monument is a part, was completed using a $200,000 grant through the Works for Queensland Federal Government funding. This included work on a rotunda, footpath and black lamp posts to fit the Mary Poppins theme. It is interesting that the park combines the author’s name with elements of her famous books (as Poppins usually takes precedence). At the opening of the PL Travers Park, the Assistant Minister for Veterans Affairs Jennifer Howard said she was aware that Maryborough tried to claim the title as the home of Mary Poppins, but she would be advocating for recognition for Allora: ‘It’s those early childhood years when a writer’s imagination is formed and when Helen lived here that’s when Mary Poppins was (probably) born.’52 The Allora Cemetery, Goff’s final resting place, lies nearby. Whiting describes it as a ‘bleak sigh of a graveyard’. When the director and location scout for Saving Mr. Banks visited Allora, they went to the gravesite with Struthers but had great difficulty finding it. The gravestone was extremely weathered, partly sunk into the ground, and some of the lettering had disappeared. Since then locals have raised money for restoration, including a considerable donation from Colin Farrell, who played Goff in the film.53 The inscription on the gravestone reads: ‘In Most Loving Memory Travers Robert Goff, Beloved Husband of Margaret Died February 8, 1907, Aged 43.’ It does not mention his daughters but this is likely to be due to the cost of further engraving at a time of financial hardship for the Goff family.

A Craze for Statues After a flurry of commemorations in the late 1990s and early to mid-​2000s, it is possible to undertake a Mary Poppins tour around sites in Queensland and New South Wales, taking in a park, museum and a festival in Maryborough along the way. Statues are the predominant form of commemoration in these places, which is surprising given the diminishing popularity of this form of memorial.54 Erica Doss has used the term ‘statue mania’ to describe the craze for statues which gripped nineteenth-​and early twentieth-​century Americans and Europeans. The parallel processes of forging the modern nation-​state and raising statues were seen as one and the same. Statues not only embellished the public landscape but encouraged passionate and consensual understandings of nationhood.55 Towns would vie for statues



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which encouraged shared understandings of nationhood. In Australia, as in the United States and Europe, likenesses of ‘great men’ were commissioned during this phase but these so-​called timeless vessels of values and beliefs became increasingly obsolete as time passed  –​‘defeated by the temporal politics of memory’, as Doss puts it.56 Given the old-​fashioned nature of this medium of commemoration, it’s curious that P. L. Travers should be celebrated indirectly through a series of Mary Poppins statues situated in towns where she used to live. In order to explore the origins of this trend, we need to turn to Travers herself. In her later years, Travers had actively worked towards a statue of Mary Poppins in New York’s Central Park, which never eventuated. It was Travers’s own suggestion, which is an uncommon beginning for a literary statue –​usually this happens after the author’s death and is initiated by other people. Travers reflected that New York was her ‘spiritual home’; yet she had also described herself as a ‘homing pigeon’, returning to the city she felt was her ‘birthplace’: London.57 In a letter to the Parks Commissioner of the City of New York in March 1966, Travers said that that statue would be ‘a lovely thing’ for the park, ‘if the money can be found’.58 Travers had posed on tiptoe for sculptor T.  B. Huxley-​Jones, who prepared some pen and ink sketches of Mary Poppins which looked more like Julie Andrews than a Mary Shepard drawing. It is not standard practice for an author to pose for a statue of one of their characters –​death masks and portraits of their own likeness are more common. These sketches of Travers may represent an effort to incorporate Travers’s own physicality into the monument so it would bear traces of her embodied form. The recommended design for the Mary Poppins statue is based on two sketches done by British sculptor Sean Crampton in 1966, which in turn were derived from sculptor T.  B. Huxley-​Jones’s original drawings for which P.  L. Travers posed. The Huxley-​Jones/​Crampton design was originally proposed for a statue in Central Park in New York. The plan was to erect the statue near Alice in Wonderland and Hans Christian Andersen in the Conservatory lake area of the park, near 72nd Street. Lawson reports that Travers told the New York Times her statue should not be climbed on like the Alice statue: ‘Mary Poppins is not someone you climb on. Statues have their own kind of dignity too.’59 Internal parks memos show that the project failed through lack of interest, and the small amount of funding, of which $2,000 was contributed by Travers herself, was tactfully returned to donors. Travers stuck to the same story, saying that ‘the park people’ decided against the statue because ‘a non climbable statue would not blend in’.60 In recognition of her spiritual connection to New York, Travers donated a bunch of precious items to the Central Children’s Room at the New  York Public Library, where they sit alongside the original toys from the Winnie the Pooh stories.61 This legacy lives on, even if the Central Park statue never became a reality, in New York at least. Although Travers endeavoured to realise this statue during her lifetime, she was nevertheless still subject to the vagaries of political will, as with other figures discussed in this book.

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Figure  8.2 Sean Crampton’s rough for a statue of Mary Poppins in Central Park (1966). Reproduced with the permission of Harriet Crampton and the State Library of New South Wales, MLMSS5341

Bowral The town of Bowral in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales was the third town to erect a statue to honour Travers, behind Ashfield and Maryborough. Bowral made a commitment to produce the New York statue which never eventuated. The fact that these abandoned plans then went on to have another life in Australia is noteworthy. Literary commemorations often involve the recuperation of earlier efforts, as with Adam Lindsay Gordon’s funereal wreath or the re-​deployment of William Barak’s monument as a tombstone which is discussed in Chapter 10. Brazenly, Bowral has claimed that it is the birthplace of Mary Poppins because Travers’s first remembered storytelling episode occurred in Bowral. When their mother left the house in a hysterical state, to drown herself, Travers kept her younger sisters distracted by telling a story. She told the story of a little white horse that could gallop over



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Figure 8.3  Mary Poppins statue, Bowral, NSW. Reproduced with the permission of John Huth

the sea like a shimmering comet, its hooves flicking the foam. Years later, Travers wrote that the horse ran underground ‘and came up eventually as Mary Poppins’.62 Celebrating both the Bowral sesquicentenary and a century since the author lived in the town, sculptor Tanya Bartlett’s design was a combination of 1966 preliminary sketches by sculptor T. B. Huxley-​Jones and drawn up by Sean Crampton.63 Located in Glebe Park, adjacent to the Bradman International Cricket Hall of Fame and Museum, the statue is a block from the cottage in Holly Street where Travers family lived from 1907 to 1917. It was unveiled by New South Wales Governor Marie Bashir, who gave the signal by raising an umbrella, upon which three groups of supporters and schoolchildren pulled ‘tug-​o-​war’ ropes to remove the drapes covering it. The sculptor Tanya Bartlett told the crowd that she had tried to incorporate author P. L. Travers’s disdain for the magical nanny’s portrayal in Hollywood productions, in preference for a ‘no-​nonsense’ character. The commissioning committee had wanted

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a figure that would appeal to tourists and above all to children of all ages.64 In her speech, Bartlett acknowledges that the disagreement between Travers and Disney was part of the thinking behind the statue. After the release of Saving Mr. Banks, Travers’s ‘crankiness’ has become part of her legend. It was a 12-​year-​old girl, Melissa McShane, who originally suggested the statue for Bowral in 2004 and campaigned for it, in partnership with her father, for almost a decade. Melissa was given the honour of officially cutting the ribbon around the black calico covering the sheet before the unveiling with the help of sculptor Bartlett and Rose Treadwell, the granddaughter of the late Sean Crampton.65 The inclusion of former plans for the statue and the incorporation of Crampton’s granddaughter into the festivities refer back to the long history of Poppins statues, whether completed or only in the planning stage. The blog coordinated by the McShanes claims that the Bowral statue was indeed partly inspired by the Ashfield example but ‘the provenance of our statue’s design, the fact it was life-​ size and that a national competition was held with an independent panel that eventually selected one of Australia’s finest sculptors, Tanya Bartlett, to undertake the commission puts this Bowral project in a whole different league from Ashfield’. The implication is that Ashfield’s statue is inferior: ‘It cost a tenth of the one in Bowral and was mostly paid for by the municipal council but its quality is not high.’66 This kind of criticism is not unknown in exchanges between rival towns vying for the closest ties with a literary figure. Bowral has differentiated itself from the other towns through a series of performative events, including a well publicised prank. In 2013, a total of 2,115 volunteers gathered on Bradman Oval to break the Guinness World Record for the Largest Umbrella Mosaic in the ‘Welcome Home Mary Poppins’ event. An aerial photo of the event went round the world, reminding people that her creator had antipodean origins.67 Locals have observed the statue has changed direction from west to east since it was installed.68 Observations by a number of commentators imply that the statue has a life of its own.69 Myths may spring up around certain effigies, as with stories of the Virgin Mary weeping blood. The McShane family, who are behind the Bowral-​based Mary Poppins birthplace project, have been engaged in active myth-​making for years through their blog and local media. In March 2018, the Southern Highland News reported that Mary Poppins had gone missing from her Glebe Park ‘perch’: ‘The community knows all too well how restless Mary is, taking a few spins a couple of times a year. People were quite shocked to see Mary missing from her spot, but upon closer inspection, it appears something sinister may have happened.70 A poster, styled like a ransom note, was attached to the fencing around the site of the missing statue: ‘Mary Poppins is safe in our custody. She is just taking a jolly holiday. Yours faithfully, The Neleus Guild.’71 The spoof article claims that the Poppins statue had been spotted by eye witnesses in the Melbourne and Mittagong and encourages people to check out her holiday photos on Facebook. Despite the statue’s mobility, Bowral residents were still been concerned with its apparent rough treatment by families playing cricket in the park, as this comment in a blog post suggests. My wife & I walked through the park, last Thursday and noticed a family playing cricket, all were dotted around Mary Poppins, and the base Mary stands on was their stumps, next



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minute one of the children climbed to the top of Mary’s head & photos were taken, this caught the attention of others who wanted their photo with Mary. I thought they shouldn’t do that, Mary Poppins stands on one foot to the base, it is dangerous to be climbing all over it. Maybe Mary needs to have an old English fence around the circle.72

The ‘old English fence’ is an interesting suggestion in the context. This example shows that Poppins is part of the community to the extent that she is incorporated into cricket matches.73 This indicates that her location at ground level –​not up on a high pedestal –​ means that children can interact with her, contributing to the social relevance of the statue. Given her comments about how she didn’t want her proposed New York statue to be climbed on, Travers might have taken a dim view of the Bowral sculpture being part of a cricket game or used as a jungle gym. Given the mischievous nature of Mary Poppins as a character, the tone of the reporting on Travers/​Poppins commemorations tends to be playful and light-​hearted; newspapers cannot resist Poppins puns in their coverage. The celebratory practices around Mary Poppins draw in a wider demographic than most literary events because they are family-​ friendly –​if rather quaint and old-​fashioned –​and can draw on the popularity of the Disney movies. Almost everyone knows who Mary Poppins is, unlike more obscure literary figures from Australia’s distant past whose names are no longer remembered except by a select few.

The Site of Writing A blog published in 2014 claims that Christchurch in New Zealand is actually the real birthplace of Mary Poppins. Travers’s first acquaintance with the city began in September 1922 when she toured New Zealand with the Allan Wilkie Shakespearean Company. After a night on the town, she was seen running barefoot, playing leapfrog in the Square. Travers had a passionate affair with a journalist from the Christchurch Sun who encouraged Travers to write and submit articles to the paper. This lead to regular features in the women’s section of the Sun, and continued when she returned to Sydney after the tour.74 She wrote a regular column in the Christchurch Sun’s ‘Women’s World’ section and freelance articles in the Shakespearean Quarterly, Vision, and The Green Room. On 20 March 1923, her first poem, ‘Keening’, was published in the Sydney Bulletin, to be followed by ‘The Nurse’s Lullaby’ on 5 July 1923, which prefigured Mary Poppins. It was at this point that Morton offered Travers four pages an issue in the Triad under the headline ‘A Woman Hits Back’. She could range through verse, satire, journalism and fantasy. According to Lawson, it was on 13 November 1926, in a short story called ‘Mary Poppins and the Match-​Man’ that Travers gave birth to her famous nanny.75 This is how a short story about the day out of a 17 year old ‘underneath nurse’ and her beau Bert, called Mary Poppins and the Match-​Man, came to be published for the first time, here in Christchurch. A story of what would become the most famous nanny in the world.76

While Bowral claims to be the birthplace of Mary Poppins, it was at Pound cottage in Sussex that Travers first began to turn the ‘Mary Poppins and the Match-​Man’ story into

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a book. In 1931, Travers and Madge Burnand set up house together in a cottage without electricity which dated back to 1632.77 Madge did the cooking while Travers wrote poems for the Irish Statesman and essays for the New English Weekly. It was there, in the winter of 1933, that she succumbed to a bout of pleurisy, took to her bed and began to write. Travers’s great friend and mentor George Russell, known as A. E., had suggested that she write a story about a witch. Then she went back through all her published stories and decided to build on one about a comical nanny named Mary Poppins. She decided to make Mary Poppins into a shape-​ shifter.78 Travers claimed that she scribbled the Mary Poppins stories on any bits of paper that came to hand at Pound cottage, but Lawson thinks it’s more likely that she showed Madge her old stories pasted into scrapbooks and Madge encouraged her to expand them into a book of short stories that she could sell to publishers.79 The illustrator of the Poppins books, Mary Shepard, was the daughter of Winnie the Pooh illustrator Ernest Shepard and his artist wife Florence, which connects the Poppins series to an impressive lineage. Originally Travers had wanted the author of the first Poppins book to be called ‘Anon’, but ‘the publisher disagreed and put her name on it. ‘I signed my name P. L. Travers originally because it seemed to me at that time that all children’s books were written by women and I didn’t want to feel that there was a woman or man behind it, but a human being.’80 An article in the New York Times records her belief: ‘A writer is, after all, only half his book. The other half is the reader and from the reader the writer learns.’81 Travers also recognised that children’s literature, especially by women, was not accorded the respect it deserved. She always maintained that Mary Poppins was not written for children, saying, ‘I never know why Mary Poppins is thought of as a children’s book.’82 Travers always maintained that she didn’t invent Poppins, she simply arrived on her own. The character came from something that she didn’t identify with personally. It is paradoxical that an author who hesitated to ‘own’ her fictional creation has in turn been claimed by all the Australian towns she once inhabited.

The Saving Mr. Banks Effect With the release of Saving Mr. Banks, Travers has a higher profile and there is increased awareness of her supposedly ‘difficult’ and ‘prickly’ personality. The movie had an undeniable effect on the commemoration of Travers and Poppins in Australia, even though it emphasised her less likeable qualities, with the plot essentially revolving around the obstructions she put in the way of the Disney film in 1964 (which is still the highest-​ grossing Disney movie of all time). It also served to dramatise the relationship between Travers and her father, which was a crucial part of her closely guarded inner life. Saving Mr. Banks revolves around Disney’s protracted negotiations with Travers over his planned adaptation. Disney had made a pledge to his children to bring Travers’s novel to the big screen, and spent the best part of 20 years convincing its author of the merits of the Disney treatment. The film draws attention to the conflict between the respective visions of Travers and Disney.



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There are marked differences between Travers’s character and the one played by Julie Andrews in the original Disney movie. Andrews was sweet-​faced and exuded charm whereas the Mary Poppins in the books was never charming. Her appearance was based on a Dutch doll or peg doll that Travers had owned as a child. The doll had shiny, painted coal-​black hair. Travers’s version of Mary had rosy cheeks, big hands and feet, and a bony frame. Her accessories were also very important, especially her gloves, Mary Jane shoes and business-​like handbag. She is plain but vain, always fixing her hat, pleased with her reflection and keen to go shopping for new clothes. Disney took a small, difficult book –​not yet a classic in the way that Winnie the Pooh or Peter Pan were when he got his hands on them –​and he stripped it down to its component parts and reimagined it.83 This involved a degree of violence as far as Travers’s original text was concerned, which prompted her tears at the premiere of the film. In a letter to her lawyer, Travers described her horror over what she had seen on screen: ‘As chalk is to cheese, so is the film to the book. Tears ran down my cheeks because it was all so distorted. I was so shocked I felt that I would never write –​let alone smile –​again!’84 Disney understood that Mr Banks was crucial to the story: this is enacted in a scene in Saving Mr. Banks when Disney tells Travers about his harsh childhood and his own struggling father. Disney says: ‘That’s what we do, we storytellers. We restore order with imagination. We instill hope, again and again and again.’85 As Richard Brody argues, ‘where Travers attempts to restore to history the virtues of an apparent ne’er-​do-​well, Disney lets her know that his artistic drive is to create, in fiction, the kind of childhood that he never had in life’.86 Caitlin Flanagan observes that Travers’s reverence for the delights of family life was perhaps as intense as Disney’s, but her opinion about the shape such a life might assume was far more nuanced.87 As a bisexual unmarried woman with an adopted Irish son (one of a pair of twins which she separated), Travers was far from conventional in her own family unit. It’s worth pausing to consider what damage Saving Mr. Banks might have done to the ‘real’ story of Disney and Travers. As one reviewer notes, it’s discomfiting to feel that you’re watching Disney propaganda: Of course Disney –​the man and the corporation –​will prevail! But it could have been a fairer fight in the movie, and what was presented as a joyless, loveless pedant finally giving herself over to the delight and imagination of the Wonderful World of Disney could just as easily been presented as a creative, passionate person, with dignity and real emotions, getting steamrolled by one of the most powerful companies in the world.88

Saving Mr. Banks shows us a glimpse of a fairly short-​lived disagreement between Travers and Disney over the Mary Poppins film but its repercussions continued throughout her long life. After the release of the movie, Travers became a cottage industry, something she loved and chafed against in equal measure.89 Travers’s dreams of becoming an internationally acclaimed writer were realised because of Disney’s movie, but its scope eclipsed everything else that she had achieve. She spent the rest of her long life linked artistically and personally to Mary Poppins even though she didn’t actually see herself as a children’s writer.90 Saving Mr. Banks was officially embraced by Maryborough at its first

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public screening at her birthplace on 3 January 2014, six days before it was released elsewhere. As part of the event, Mary Poppins-​themed characters and vintage cars parade down the street outside her bank-​birthplace.91

The Mitchell Collection as Legacy Travers refused to have a biography written in her lifetime but she sold 28 boxes of letters, photographs and manuscripts to the Mitchell Library in Sydney. Lawson saw these as ‘signposts’ or a ‘roadmap’ to her whole life and mined them extensively for her biography.92 The boxes of documents at the Mitchell Library tell a slightly different story to the one told by Saving Mr. Banks, showing that the transatlantic agreement was signed without the two parties meeting face to face.93 In a telegram to Walt Disney contained in the Mitchell collection, Travers is effusive in her congratulations after the movie’s first night. She writes, ‘From my point of view [the movie] keeps contact with the spirit of Mary Poppins […] and for your faithfulness my thanks and affection. Pamela Travers.’ According to Sibley, she spent her 80s (which coincided with the 1980s) working on a treatment for a movie sequel. In 1989, she decided to sell her meticulously preserved and organised papers, including a file of annotated carbons of letters she had written to Walt Disney. She had hoped to place the archive with a major American collection, where the curious could, at last, learn her genuine response to the film. But the papers did not find a buyer, and the offering was eventually repackaged as a collection belonging to ‘the best-​known and best-​selling Australian author’, and sold to the Mitchell Library.94 As Barlass notes in the Sydney Morning Herald, there is a small grey feather among a bundle of documents in the Mitchell Library. The caption alongside reads: ‘Feather that fell at my feet from a flying bird in Pitt Street, Sydney –​a few days before I sailed for England on Feb 9th 1924.’95 He suggests that the feather was the inspiration for the song in the Disney movie ‘Feed the Birds’. Artefacts such as these can provide vital connections between Travers’s life and her work. These boxes effectively enabled Lawson’s biography which has become the central source for all commemorative activities: arguably the Mitchell Library’s Travers collection is her most abundant legacy apart from her published works.

Conclusion Curiously, P. L. Travers is now energetically celebrated in parts of Australia, a country she largely disliked, and is barely commemorated in the United Kingdom, where she lived for most of her very long life. This tells us something about the enduring resonance of autochthony –​the place where an author is born continues to be an important element of remembrance. In a recording from 1988 cited in the documentary The Shadow of Mary Poppins, Travers said: ‘I was born saying –​I think –​get me out of here, because I knew from the beginning that I was not going to stay there.’96 Like fellow expatriates Christina Stead, Patrick White



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and Henry Handel Richardson, Travers made critical pronouncements about Australia which did not endear her to locals. As Lawson puts it, she ‘showed more contempt than compassion for her countrymen’.97 She thought Australians ‘were too intolerant of tradition to have any “legendary lore” of their own’, a comment that ignores Australia’s First Nations people and their ancient storytelling traditions.98 Although Travers partially concealed her origins from the time of leaving in the mid-​1920s until the 1990s, her ‘colonial’ status was never likely to threaten the reputation of her books. Angela Woolacott has argued that Mary Poppins became ‘one of the more recognised icons of twentieth century Englishness, circulated both domestically and globally’, but that the author’s ‘colonialness’ did not ‘impinge in the slightest on the success of Mary Poppins or undermine her recognition as English’.99 The flying Mary Poppinses at the 2012 British Olympics opening ceremony testify to her ongoing symbolic importance to the English despite the lack of tangible commemorations in the United Kingdom. In an age of ‘monument saturation’, with ongoing debate about the changing nature of memorials,100 it is striking that statues have been the dominant medium for commemorating Mary Poppins. The four towns in which Travers resided are aware of each other and yet they have replicated the same sorts of commemorations, with slight variations. This tells us something about the limited repertoire of acceptable memorials, even in the twenty-first century. All of the statues have been made in the image of the original Mary Shepard drawings rather than trying to replicate the Disney version. Arguably, this could be said to elevate the text over the film, emphasising ‘authenticity’ over Disneyfication but the reasons may be more prosaic. Travers herself advocated for a statue in Central Park, in her ‘spiritual home’ of New York, not Australia, but this dream never came to fruition. Bowral –​as the supposed ‘birthplace’ of Mary Poppins, not the birthplace of Travers herself –​has now erected the statue New York could have had, but failed to achieve. It is notable that two of the Poppins statues –​in Ashfield and Bowral –​are the result of campaigning by girls and their parents. This phenomenon indicates that she is important to some young people, while many of the fans are older women (such as the members of the Proud Marys). Without denying their sincerity, it is possible that these young girls have acted as the ‘front people’ for Poppins campaigns, as appeals begun by children generally have wider appeal. Bruce Bennett and Anne Pender observe that Travers’s most famous creation has prompted numerous territorial disputes, raising questions such as the following: Is Mary Poppins English? Did Walt Disney Americanise her? Are her Australian origins as described by Valerie Lawson and others important? Or is she truly the ‘cosmic’ nanny?101

Set in a made-up street – in a stylised version of London – the Poppins books have inspired questions about their location.102 The Banks family residence is located in Cherry Tree Lane, which could be in Kensington or Chelsea but not in the most fashionable precinct of either suburb.103 Travers liked to tantalise her readers by not telling them too much: ‘You will find it hard to find Cherry Tree Lane, exactly.’104

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Despite her eclectic provenance, the figure of Mary Poppins has played a part in regional regeneration around Australia since the 1990s, bringing tourists to see statues and participate in Poppins-​related events such as the Maryborough Festival and the ‘Welcome Home Mary Poppins’ gathering in Bowral. The tussles over where Poppins truly belongs are very much grounded in place. Admirers attempt to trace the specifics of the author’s habitation and literary production to prove her connection to their own particular locality. Mary Poppins is an incredibly mysterious character who never explains anything, certainly not her origins, like the author herself. It is oddly contradictory, then, that there have been such strenuous efforts to tie both the author and her character to place in such literal-​minded ways.105

Chapter Nine KYLIE TENNANT’S HUT Kylie’s Hut in Diamond Head, New South Wales, is an appropriately eccentric literary memorial for an unconventional person. Kylie Tennant’s semi-​biographical work The Man on the Headland (1971) centres around Ernie Metcalfe, the bushman who built the hut which she used as a writing retreat. Tennant donated the hut and the surrounding land to Crowdy Bay National Park in 1976. The hut is now part of the Kylie’s Hut walk-​in campground, near Kylie’s Beach and Metcalfe’s Track. This chapter will discuss the history of the hut, its representation in Tennant’s writing, the circumstances surrounding its restoration and continued maintenance, and the ways in which the renaming of places after Tennant and Metcalfe serves to obscure the long, continuous presence of Traditional Owners. Tennant (1912–​1988) was the author of nine novels as well as short stories, plays, journal articles, critiques and biographies, in addition to writing for children. She is noted for her social realist studies of urban and rural working-​class life from the 1930s, which began with Tiburon (1935) and included Foveaux (1939), named after a street in the slums of Surry Hills. Tennant’s Depression novels The Battlers (1941) and Ride on Stranger (1943) won her the most attention, mostly because of her unusual method research. For The Battlers, she lived the life of an itinerant looking for work, jumping trains and hitching rides all over the outback, enduring hardships on meagre rations. For Foveaux she spent a year living in a Surry Hills slum in Sydney, sleeping in rooms lined with newspapers and infested with bugs as she gathered background material. In the early 1950s, she dressed up in shabby clothes, had herself arrested for drunken disorderly behaviour and was sent to Long Bay Gaol, as research for her book Tell Morning This (1967), which was first published in abridged form as The Joyful Condemned in 1953.1 Tennant even worked for a time at shipbuilding so that the tools and terms of the craft would be familiar when she wrote Lost Haven, and travelled with beekeepers as research for The Honey Flow. This lived research demonstrates her intense commitment to understanding the lives of working-​class people and her ongoing concern for social justice. Tennant wrote fast-​paced journalistic novels that didn’t focus on feelings, unlike her contemporary Eve Langley (1904–​1974), author of The Pea Pickers with whom she shared the S.H. Prior Memorial Prize in 1940.2. Jane Grant suggests that Tennant felt Langley was intruding on her territory. I admit that the general tone of it is not to my taste […] Eve Langley and I differ on the importance of the subjective as against the objective facts. I have always avoided subjective writing like debt or scandal. Eve Langley quite obviously thinks that the personal reactions

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to a situation are what count. She may be right. It is very interesting to read someone else dealing with the same subject as yourself.

Both were picaresque novels; Langley’s novel The Pea Pickers focussed on Gippsland while Tennant’s Tiburon explored the area around Canowindra, New South Wales. It was written in the Canowindra Hotel, looking out at the backyard and wheat silos of the railway. In The Missing Heir (1986) she ties specific places in Tiburon to sites experienced in real life. ‘The places that went to the making of my Warning Hill were the travellers on the Timor Road by the Castlereagh in Coonabarabran, the camp across the river on the Gunnedah Road where we had our old farm house, “The Travellers Rest”, where the travellers came to ask for food and water or a paddock for the horse.’3 The arduous process of researching Tiburon set the scene for her later engagements with the lives of the underprivileged, as Peter Pierce maintains. Her long walk through Depression-​wasted rural Australia, with its chance for her to ‘find out about the men on the track’, fuelled Tennant’s socialist principles and an indignation at injustice that never abated.4

Tennant’s style has often been considered ‘light’ because she didn’t want to bore the reader; consequently, her novels tend to be packed with characters and incidents, making them quite busy. This led to a lack of serious critical attention. In a review of Margaret Dick’s The Novels of Kylie Tennant (1966) Tom Inglis Moore notes: Kylie Tennant has received only two special critical assessments, and one suspects that this is because she has consistently committed the crime of being richly entertaining. The very liveliness that has delighted her readers has infected the critics in general with the idea that she is not ‘serious’ enough to merit their ministrations.5

Given the hardships in her life –​the mental illness of her husband and son, and poor health of her parents, not to mention her own serious health complaints  –​she was remarkably productive. One of the ways she found to keep her writing going was to create a number of hideaways, including one in the Blue Mountains that she owned with Elizabeth Harrower; another of these was the hut built by Metcalfe at Diamond Head on the South Coast of New South Wales.

The Man on the Headland During the Second World War, Tennant moved to Laurieton with Rodd and their daughter Benison (who was named after her character Benison O’Shea), and lived there from 1941 to 1953.6 It had been recommended to the Rodds by a school inspector as an ideal place to teach and write. The school had its own oyster lease on the estuary of the Camden Haven River on which Henry Kendall had lived and written years before.7 Lost Haven (1946) is based closely on characters she observed in Laurieton, much to the consternation of locals. It was in Laurieton that Tennant met the reclusive Ernie Metcalfe, a farmer who grazed cattle on Diamond Head. Metcalfe reportedly inspired characters



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in two of Tennant’s books Lost Haven and The Honey Flow (1956). She later wrote The Man on the Headland (1971) about Metcalfe and Diamond Head, which was originally titled ‘Portrait of a Gentleman’.8 Tennant wanted to spend weekends at Diamond Head which is now around 7.6 kilometres by car from Laurieton but at that time it was only accessible by a notoriously poor road, described as ‘a sand track at the back of the dunes’.9 In The Man on the Headland, Tennant tells of Metcalfe’s decision to build a hut and her insistence that they pay him for his labour and materials. We bought the gyprock and timber for the flooring, and my father, with great craft, for building materials were still on some kind of wartime ration, procured me some second-​grade ironroofing. The great mahogany slabs, two inches thick, which formed the outer walls Ernie brought from the old barn. He began to chop down the tall paperbarks and dynamite out those that resisted. As a miner he loved dynamite. He had a bushman’s fear of trees about a house. Every time he cut down a tree there was a dramatic scene with myself as prima donna and Roddy and the baby as appreciative audience. Ernie took no notice. He went on clearing. The first summer, as though Dimandead had made a sudden bid against this new invasion, a fire leapt the creek and came so close to the house that one window cracked in the heat. Ernie fought the fire single-​handed and when we arrived he was standing sooty with ash in his beard in a blackened desert with the house safe in the middle.10

Bill Boyd remembers that Metcalfe felt that Tennant had paid him too much for the land she bought from him which was why he offered to build the hut: ‘Kylie would insist on paying him […] she only paid him about 25 pounds which was a lot of money in that time. She insisted he take it. Then he said he’d make a hut to make up for the money she paid him.’11 Metcalfe and the Rodds shared left-​wing beliefs, but had markedly different views of land ownership. ‘The Rodds believed that nobody should be able to own land outright, but only be able to lease it for a lifetime’ which helps to explain her decision to later donate the land for public use. Meanwhile Metcalfe ‘claimed that a feller wasn’t going to do much to a property unless he owed it lock, stock and barrel’.12 In other words, development of land was predicated on full ownership. In spite of Tennant’s left-​wing views about property ownership, the prior occupation of the Birpai peoples was never mentioned except in the opening pages of The Man on the Headland. She imagines Captain Cook sailing past with his crew of ‘constipated heroes’ and looking through his spyglass at ‘the black stick figures of aborigines on our headland’, logging it as Indian Head.13 The way Tennant says ‘our headland’ suggests a proprietorial attitude towards the area even though she visited there only sporadically. She makes an odd connection between Metcalfe’s relatives from Wales and local Indigenous people:  ‘I see aborigines running like shadows and a line of Metcalfe’s running like deer before the men who hunt down men.’14 The implication is that they shared a history of being pursued and persecuted, however she fails to address the dispossession of Birpai peoples directly. Being such a distinctive character, Metcalfe appeared in two of Tennant’s novels before Man on the Headland. In her autobiography The Missing Heir, Tennant writes: ‘This latter book was in amends to Ernie Metcalfe who was sensitive about the portrait of him

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in another novel I wrote, The Honey Flow.’15 The character of Matt in The Honey Flow, a novel about itinerant beekeepers, was based on Metcalfe who was not pleased by this exposure. Grant notes in her biography that when Metcalfe died, Tennant felt ‘strongly that she had never done justice to him and was now determined to do so in a non-​fiction book’.16 In order to write and research the book, she divided her time between the shack at Diamond Head and her farm ‘Hillside’ in Blackheath.17 In a contemporaneous review in The Canberra Times, W. S. Ramson is frustrated by the ill-​defined nature of the book. Although it purports to be a biography of Metcalfe, ‘the mad hermit of Diamond Head’, Ramson argues that it might be read as implicit autobiography. Ernie himself is, again, neither one thing nor the other. At times no more than a line-​drawing of an amiable old eccentric, at times a symbol for an idealised but undefined Great Australian Past; at times, by a slight shift, a symbol for the natural environment, linked with the headland he occupies in futile opposition to the eroding rutile mines, at times the trigger that releases a welter of anecdotal memories which tell more of the Rodd family than they do of Ernie and yet never enough.18

Ramson is critical of the undefined nature of the book and its attendant nostalgia for a vaguely identified Australian ‘golden age’ but he recognises that Tennant is trying to evoke ‘the sense of the association of a generation or generations with the land itself ’19 A generically ambiguous work like The Man on the Headland might be better understood if it was released in the 2000s, yet the engagement with land –​and the lack of recognition of Indigenous people –​would be an obvious target for criticism.

Activism, Conservation It is rare for the authors themselves to be involved actively in Australian literary commemorations, as these practices are usually posthumous. Tennant fought for Diamond Head to become a National Park and she offered her land and her hut for that purpose. I would argue that this gift was prompted largely by a sense of concern for the land, which was being despoiled by rutile mining, rather than by a desire for self-​aggrandisement. A notice attached to the hut reveals that it was gifted along with Tennant’s land to Crowdy Bay National Park in 1976 and that the hut was restored around 1980. In successive conservation plans for Crowdy Bay, Kylie’s Hut has been described as a ‘significant European cultural site’.20 The NSW Office of Environment & Heritage manages over one hundred huts and cabins across the State. They range from single rooms with dirt floors, to neat little houses with several rooms. Some huts were used by the same families for many years. But most cabins and huts are associated with pastoralists, miners and, to a lesser extent, holidaymakers.21 Kylie’s Hut is the only one managed by this government body that has explicit literary associations. The hut is in an unusual position due to its status as the protected asset of a National Park, surrounded by campsites, walking tracks and beaches.



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Figure  9.1 Kylie’s Hut, post-​ restoration. Photograph from the personal collection of Benison Rodd

At roughly four metres by three metres, with one door, two windows, a fireplace and porch, Kylie’s Hut is a modest vernacular dwelling. It displays minimal curation, with just three small signs in the vicinity. A wooden sign affixed to the hut itself says ‘For communal day use.’ A sunny track named ‘Metcalfe’s Walk’ leads down through the dunes to another namesake spot, Kylie’s Beach, tucked in the southern lee of the headland. Another sign refers to James Cook’s journey north along this coast in May 1770, when he named the nearby craggy point ‘Indian Head’. Later, because of the plentiful quartz in its rock outcrops, it became better known as Diamond Head. The restoration of buildings such as Kylie’s Hut is often described as ‘consolidation’, which refers to the stabilisation of physical structures. The hut was substantially refurbished in the early 1980s. Some of the original building fabrics were replaced, due to weather and insect damage. Boyd, of the New South Wales Parks Wildlife Service led the refurbishment. Originally from a timber getters family from the Heron’s Creek area, Boyd is a master of old forestry and timber working tools, and used the refurbishment of Kylie’s Hut as a way to share his knowledge of the uses of broad-​axe and adze. He also trained staff in these techniques during the refurbishment of many of the High Country huts in the Snowy Mountains.22 Boyd recalls that he undertook five sessions restoring the hut at Crowdy Bay, using all the traditional old tools. It wasn’t a big job to do it up. It was still standing. I did tighten up the slabs. I put in new slabs. Probably wanted one slab each side so I pulled the cleats off and put new timber on […] Took all the rubbish away. A couple of fires went through and we were lucky it never burned.23

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Figure 9.2  Cleaning up Kylie's Hut. Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Australia, MS10043

When Graeme Kinross-​Smith wrote about the hut in 1975, he noted that it was built ‘only a hundred yards from the thunder of the ocean, among the paperbarks’.24 A photo of the hut shows a ­figure –​possibly a friend of the Rodd family –​meditating in the lotus position on the wide verandah which no longer exists. When Boyd began the restoration job, he claims that he tried to return it to its original state which involved dismantling this verandah and steps. ‘I more or less went down and pulled off what they had put onto it in the last instance, pulled all that off and put it back to what it was. It was what they wanted.’25 Here he is referring the New South Wales Parks Wildlife Service that asked him to take on the restoration. However, he was aware that the restoration did not adhere to the Burra Charter (1979) which defines the basic principles and procedures to be followed in the conservation of Australian heritage places.26 As Boyd commented: ‘if you find something that’s heritage you have to leave it as it was and write up what you done on it afterwards.’27 The Burra Charter identifies three levels of repair for heritage structures:  preservation, restoration and reconstruction. According to the charter, Boyd’s actions would be categorised as ‘reconstruction’ because he aimed to return the place to a known earlier state (minus the additions such as the verandah and steps) through the introduction of new material. Yet he undertook the task using authentic tools and materials with the intention of making it look exactly as it was when Tennant stayed there. The restoration of Kylie’s Hut has temporarily delayed its decay but forces of nature cannot be kept at



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bay altogether. Due to its rough and ready appearance, the hut’s inevitable weathering and warping over time can be easily accommodated as part of its character.

Hut Literature John Borthwick, who once received a lift from Tennant when he was hitchhiking, visited her hut in Crowdy Bay in 2012 and wrote about the experience for the Australian newspaper. Except for the mowed grass around it, this close cousin of the old bark hut could be the bolthole of some 19th-​century bush poet. I half expect a whiskered, pipe-​smoking Henry –​say, Lawson or Kendall –​to clomp out on to its porch.28

In this excerpt, the ‘old bark hut’ –​the retreat of the nineteenth-​century writer named Henry  –​emerges as an almost clichéd feature of Australian cultural heritage. Both Lawson and Kendall wrote about huts, and inhabited them, given their lifelong poverty. Lawson lived in a tent, followed by a succession of slab or bark huts during his childhood in New South Wales.29 Lawson’s poem ‘The Old Bark School’ is a homage to the humble building where he was schooled in Eurunderee while Kendall’s ‘The Hut By the Black Swamp’30 envisions a deserted hut overrun by ‘nettles’ and ‘livid adders’ which is now ‘dank’ and ‘foetid’. At the end of the poem, the reader discovers the reason for this total neglect: For on this Hut hath Murder writ,   With bloody fingers hellish things; And God will never visit it   With flower or leaf or sweet faced Springs, Or gentle wings.31

Kendall may be referring obliquely to the murder of Indigenous people that early colonial huts helped to enable.32 Settlers huts were often ‘small forts on the frontier, armed and defended’33 as in Horace Earle’s ‘Ned White; or The Shepherd’s Hut’ and Mary Gaunt’s ‘Dick Stanesby’s Hutkeeper’.34 In these texts, the hut is figured as a building from which settlers dispense violence, enabling the ‘opening up’ of the country for settlement. Kylie’s Hut might appear to fit into a common colonial ‘way of life’ ideology which implies rustic colonial values yet these values are at least partly at odds with the views held by Tennant herself. Borthwick recognises his erroneous assumption when he writes, ‘I’m on the right occupational track, but a century and a gender off the identity of the hut’s former scribbler-​in-​residence.’35 With her concern for the plight of the so-​called common people, Tennant’s writing bears comparison with Lawson if not Kendall. A novel like The Battlers belongs to a group of lesser-​known works from the 1930s and 1940s, but also shares concerns with works such as Henry Lawson’s While the Billy Boils and Joseph Furphy’s Such Is Life. Brian Matthews argues that what these works have in common is not ‘simple, broad social

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realism’ but a documentary base that profoundly shapes and dictates the nature and direction of the work while partaking to a greater or lesser degree (depending on the book) of fictional form and convention.36 Grant notes that Tennant originally disliked Such Is Life for its ‘pompous and over-​ inflated literary style’, although she later revised her opinion of the book.37 After the publication of The Battlers, she was invited by Clem Christesen to contribute to the Meanjin Papers series of ‘Tom Collins’ letters. She used the opportunity to shoot back at communist Jean Devanny, who claimed that Tennant was not a real ‘proletarian’ writer. Tennant lost favour with former friends Jean Devanny and Katharine Susannah Prichard because of her outspoken views about the corruption of the Communist Party after a brief flirtation with it. Even though she didn’t consider herself to be a proletarian writer, Grant observes that Tennant was ‘always at the forefront of socially progressive movements’.38 In fact, she wrote her final words as an activist advocating voluntary euthanasia, while dying of cancer.39 Tennant’s hut was still littered with bottles at the time of its restoration indicating that it was a place of writing as well as a site for entertainment and relaxation.40 She did not usually write there alone  –​her family joined her on weekend outings to Diamond Head  –​a practice that contradicts the myth of the solitary genius writing in an isolated location. Out of necessity, Tennant wrote where and when she could, often at the kitchen table at home, largely unperturbed by noise and activity around her.41

Spirits of Dimandead Although Kylie’s Hut has been restored, nothing is left of Metcalfe’s own house, which was already derelict and occupied by a menagerie of wild birds and animals when he lived in it. A wooden sign was affixed to the site in the early 1980s, which reads: ERNIE METCALFE LIVED HERE AT DIAMOND HEAD FOR MOST OF HIS LIFE PROTECTING THE BEAUTIFUL AREA AND ASSISTING THOSE IN NEED. ERNIE’S ASSOCIATION WITH ‘DIMANDEAD’ HAS BEEN IMMORTALISED BY KYLIE TENNANT IN HER BOOK THE MAN ON THE HEADLAND

Tennant’s vernacular spelling of ‘Dimandead’ has been adopted in the sign’s text, which also connects Metcalfe’s biography with her creative version of him (which he may not have approved of). The unearthly, spectral qualities of Dimandead are discussed in detail in The Man on the Headland. Tennant’s ambivalent relationship with the place comes through strongly. Both Metcalfe and Tennant agreed that Dimandead was ‘a state of mind’.42 It depended on your own disposition how Dimandead affected you, and only Ernie could live there permanently because he had grown close to the hidden and awful character of Dimandead, an old bushman solitary but never lonely.43

As Tennant observed, ‘no two people ever have the same experience of Dimandead because they take their own events with them.’44 Tennant talks about the misfortunes



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Figure 9.3  Sign at the site of Ernie’s Metcalfe’s old house, Diamond Head. Reproduced with permission of the National Library of Australia, MS10043

which befell people who moved there, with one couple in particular who were completely defeated by it –​the wife became ill and the man spent less and less time there until natural forces entirely reclaimed their dwelling. In fact, this theme recurs in Tennant’s writing, which features many stories of places which defeat the arrogance of humans. In The Man on the Headland, Tennant refers to the tendency for Dimandead to attack ‘invaders’, rendering human plans ineffectual.45 Tennant’s belief was that the land would always win out over human hubris. To the contemporary reader, this might be regarded as a veiled allusion to the predicament of settlers attempting to cultivate a land they fail to understand. Tennant believed that Dimandead ‘always offered what a man thought he wanted most. This was one of its grandest illusions.’46 She believed it was a powerful place that would reclaim buildings after a short time; this makes the continued existence of Kylie’s Hut even more remarkable. The key to survival, according to Tennant, was not to commit fully to Diamond Head. Arguably, this was what she herself did, as an occasional visitor rather than permanent resident of the place. She felt guilty for not seeing Metcalfe often in his final years while she was writing her biography of Herbert Vere (Bert) Evatt (1894–​1965), politician and judge.47 Man on the Headland was at least partly driven by her bad conscience about neglecting Metcalfe. She writes about the persistence of his memory everywhere she looked: But when we tried to remember Ernie had died there was no absence of Ernie. It was as though he was just coming into the clearing. He would always be standing, just out of range

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of your eyes in the shadows of the paper-​barks, silent-​footed, bare-​headed, his beard, his old grey flannel undershirt tucked into the harness trap that held up the greenish corduroys. He had simply not gone away. He had not gone anywhere at all. He was still there and we, as usual, came back, went away, and returned again.48

In Tennant’s view, the place and the man had become irrevocably fused with one another:  ‘Dimandead shines now with more splendid light. It is not every day that a headland takes to itself the soul of a man.’49 In this passage, there is a sense of loss and regret for the dead bushman. As a no-​nonsense man of the land with a ‘heart of gold’, Metcalfe might be seen to represent the basic decency of blokes who inhabit the pages of colonial fiction.50 In The Honey Flow, Tennant offers portraits of good mates Matt, Blaze and Mongo who live in relative harmony with Mallee, a reluctant radio scriptwriter and trainee beekeeper. Tennant explores the relation of the female author to male mates in more depth, albeit in her semi-​humorous manner. Although Mallee has her ups and downs with these mates –​including a thwarted romance with Blaze –​Matt is a loyal, reliable presence throughout. The Honey Flow was partly written during Tennant’s time in Laurieton and Crowdy Bay and the location almost certainly influenced the characterisation of Matt, who is based on Metcalfe. In her memoir The Missing Heir, Tennant says that The Man on the Headland was written as a way of making amends to Metcalfe who was ‘sensitive’ about the portrait of him in The Honey Flow.51 Tennant’s alignment of Metcalfe with the landscape he inhabited is elegiac and mournful, but also celebrates his quiet achievement as a bushman who could survive the rigours of a dangerous place. The sense of dread and foreboding that Dimandead could inspire is constant motif throughout The Man on the Headland suggesting that unstable nature of white occupation and an almost wilful denial of the black history of the land. As Jane Jacobs and Ken Gelder note in the conclusion to Uncanny Australia: Sacredness and Identity in a Postcolonial Nation (1998): ‘One’s place is always already another’s place and the issue of possession is never complete, never entirely settled’.52 Tennant could have intuited this unsettlement in relation to Dimandead but it is never fully expressed in her published writing. The spirits that she sensed may not have belonged to Metcalfe alone –​ given her close attachment to the place, she may have felt haunted by those who had inhabited it originally.

Campers and Holidaymakers There are very few accounts about Kylie’s Hut written by literary tourists yet there is a fair amount of commentary online in the form of blogs and travel recommendations. A  few travellers have done some basic research into the history of Kylie’s Hut. One blogger writes: Tennant’s book The Man on the Headland (published in 1971) was set at this very spot and tells the story of eccentric local Ernie Metcalfe who grazed his cattle and goats on Diamond Head and who built a small hut there for Tennant, as a place for her to write. The damp headland lookout, from where I spied the sea eagle and the dolphin, was the very spot where Tennant



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was most inspired; describing the remarkable golden cliffs found on this undeveloped stretch of  coast.

This blogger experiences the same lookout as Tennant, imagining that Tennant’s inspiration has its origins precisely here. She goes on to discuss the fantasies offered by sitting on the porch of Tennant’s hut. We sat for a long time on its humble wooden veranda quietly egging each other on with daydreams of our own wilderness retreat and the life we could live in such a simple hut in the bush.53

In this passage, the hut gives rise to fantasies of escape from fast-​paced modern life. Another blogger known as ‘Baz’ aka ‘Landy’ on the ExplorOz website sums up the appeal of Tennant succinctly: Many of Kylie’s novels bordered on documentaries and she wrote in a way that sought to bring attention to her readers about poverty and disadvantage. Something that resonates well with many Australian’s [sic].54

While many bloggers merely repeat the information on the Parks NSW website, some add their independent research. A  travel blogger registers the breadth of Tennant’s achievements: Australian author, journalist, editor, union organiser, playwright, critic, biographer and historian Kylie Tennant wrote realistic, positive portrayals of underprivileged Australians.55

These travellers’ responses to Kylie’s Hut indicate the potential of a literary memorial, located in an accessible place like a camp ground, for stimulating awareness of a writer’s achievements which might otherwise remain almost completely unknown.

A Symbol of ‘Old Australia’? Since it was built by a farmer-​bushman as a gift to Tennant, there’s a danger of reading Kylie’s Hut simply as a symbol of ‘another Australia’, the existence of which historian Manning Clark identified in 1978. On a journey round the inhabited parts of Australia today the eye of the traveller is rarely given respite from the monuments of the age of the motor car and the jet engine. The motel, the used car lot, the petrol bowser, the fast food dispenser and the bottle shop have become the main features of the scenery in which we live our lives […] Yet from time to time […] the traveller or local inhabitant is immediately aware of another Australia, remote from the Australia of the skyscraper and conspicuous waste: there is also an old Australia.56

This ‘old Australia’ can function as modernity’s imaginary other; a world to which we can retreat in search of our ‘true’ identity. Yet the history of huts in Australia in less than

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romantic when examined more closely. Kylie’s Hut can be considered in relation to the many remote shearer’s, shepherd’s and settler’s dwellings which might be seen as outposts of the colonial project. To regard Kylie’s Hut as merely representing an unproblematic vision of ‘old Australia’ also effaces her left-​wing activism, enfolding it into a unifying national story. In tourism promotions, the past is consistently represented as precisely something to ‘get away to’ –​the location of Kylie’s Hut in a campground increases the tendency to treat it as a portal for revisiting our shared national past. On the other hand, it allows a literary heritage site to quietly coexist with holidaymakers in a National Park rather than relegating it to specially demarcated, curated spaces which are less accessible to the public. Artefacts such as Kylie’s Hut can be decontextualised, serving as a symbol of the cohesiveness of the nation, instead of representing the qualities of the person they are meant to commemorate. As I  have argued, the tendency to celebrate the ‘success of failure’ is exemplified by many literary commemorations: Australians seem to appreciate the humble beginnings of their writers, partly because it accords with our conceptions of ourselves as ‘battlers’. Literary heritage sites present opportunities for casting a critical light on the glorification of some historical artefacts –​particularly those associated with the lives of pioneers, settlers, explorers and goldminers  –​and the neglect of others. Kylie’s Hut has been largely overlooked, compared with the commemorations associated with Henry Lawson, A. B.  ‘Banjo’ Paterson or Adam Lindsay Gordon, figures who can be unproblematically associated with myths of pioneer settlement. Tennant’s presence in Crowdy Bay is known to local and holidaymakers rather than the wider literary community, despite occasional newspaper articles. The hut’s low-​key presence has had a pervasive effect on the Diamond Head area nonetheless. Jack Latimore, a Birpai man, argues convincingly that the focus on Tennant and Metcalfe detracts from an understanding of the longer history of the place. He observes that Tennant’s treatment of Indigenous people in The Man on the Headland has contributed to this erasure: The resilience of our culture would have surprised Tennant. Like many white Australians before her, and since, she possessed a tendency to minimise and conveniently erase our presence in the landscape, writing in the book’s opening chapter that Diamond Head’s ‘aborigines were gone, all gone, like the smoke blown from their fires’. The ‘weakness that Diamond Head finds in man’ which Tennant identified is essentially this lack of regard.57

Tennant’s focus on the uncanniness of Diamond Head could be read as a subconscious acknowledgement of the dispossession of Indigenous people by a procession of ‘local pioneers’. The memorialisation of Kylie’s Hut, which began in the 1980s as a response to her account of the headland, rendered black history peripheral to the central story of domestication of the area by bushmen like Metcalfe.58 National Parks are usually viewed as being national monuments or wildlife reserves. As Tracey Banivanua Mar contends, they are not considered explicitly as part of the settler-​colonial project. The creation of the Crowdy Bay National Park, which was partly



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facilitated by Tennant’s gift but also by the earlier dispossession of the Birpai peoples and the re-​zoning of their land.59 Similarly, Tennant ‘escape’ to the wilderness in order to write, like many literary figures before her, was effectively enabled by the displacement and disavowal of Indigenous presence.60

Iona Lympus At first glance, Tennant’s hut could be read as a typical bushman’s hut, given that it was built by a man who appeared to be a stereotypical bushman. Both Tennant and her contemporary Langley wrote about huts as the dwellings of the bushmen who they were interested in writing about –​and even imitating –​particularly in Langley’s case.61 Langley spent much of her life inhabiting a series of shacks, huts and hovels.62 Her final hut was grandly named ‘Iona Lympus’. Located at the end of Denison Road in Leura in the Blue Mountains, Iona Lympus was where she died in June 1974, after suffering serious mental illness and poverty for almost three decades. The bush hut, or rustic hut, recurs throughout Langley’s novels. In Langley’s best-​ known novel The Pea Pickers (1989), the narrator describes her dwelling as a ‘two-​roomed lean-​to of inch-​thick bark that smelt like seed potatoes’: Within the hut was an empty fireplace of tin; to the right, a log seat was bound to the bark wall by thick fencing-​wire. In the bedroom stood a bark table and two bark beds; there was a small window, too, with a fantastic pane of wire-​netting stretched across it.63

This is reminiscent of Iona Lympus which was originally purchased for Langley by editors at Angus & Robertson to whom she repeatedly sent unpublishable manuscripts in later years. Mark O’Flynn has described the contents of her hut with all of its obsessively assembled artefacts. In her hut […] apart from the manuscripts on pink paper, she kept paintings on cardboard cereal boxes and dolls. She also kept several cats and pet rats, named Achilles and Apollo. There was also the shell of an old bus in which she stored her precious things, including the hundreds of mysterious parcels containing nothing but chicken wire, or feathers, or stones.64

After her death, Langley’s son Karl Marx went carefully through her papers and treasures, salvaging her bullet belt, his stockwhip and clothes. Joy L. Thwaite notes that he sat down in the hut to read her diaries, poetry and notes and then went to her unmarked grave and made a cairn with a rough plank marked with the name ‘Eve’.65 In 2000, 26  years after her death, O’Flynn souvenired a pair of red and green mismatched thongs from underneath a piece of fibro at the site of Iona Lympus, assuming that they had belonged to Langley. O’Flynn notes that the State Member for Parliament suggested that the hut should be preserved but nothing came of it. He offered the thongs to the local historical society but the society questioned their provenance and turned them down. O’Flynn put the thongs on display in an exhibition, and ‘for a moment they rose above the state in which I originally found them, that is, effectively

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Figure 9.4  Ruins of Eve Langley’s hut, 2018. Photograph by Brigid Magner

rubbish’.66 He intends to return them to the ruins one day, recognising the sacredness of this place, even if many others do not. On my visit to the site of Iona Lympus, I struggled to find the exact location because it is not marked on any map. After ascertaining the rough area I should search, I blundered though the bush in various directions. There was no signage or markings at all, so I was dependent on descriptions from visitors who had been before me. Eventually, I  came across a clearing with corrugated iron, bricks and rubble strewn across the ground. Without any external support, nature had taken its course, reducing the hut to its component parts. Leaf litter covers the loose mortar, while piles of bricks and sheets of corrugated iron lie in a seemingly chaotic configuration. Only through an act of imagination can you see it as the remains of  a hut. On the spectrum of heritage practices that extends from total restoration to a complete withdrawal of care, Langley’s hut is almost as ruined as a building can be before complete disappearance. There is a beauty to this decline which is difficult to articulate. In fact, the feelings produced by seeing this site are arguably more compelling than those experienced when looking at a carefully preserved dwelling which is smooth and neat, without any sign of distress or decay. Visiting the ruined hut by car, I was struck by how far it was from town, a distance that Langley would have covered on foot, emphasising her utter solitude and lack of support. I took away a small shard of crockery from the ground, not knowing if it was originally



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connected with the hut, or not. In this, I am just one in a long line of literary scavengers who have ‘rescued’ items for scholarly scrutiny.67

Conclusion While Langley and Tennant both inhabited huts at different times, it should be noted that their motivations were subtly different. Lucy Treep argues that Langley’s insistence on living in huts suggests a turning from the claims of others, a retreat from the community.68 Langley’s desire for rural isolation was exacerbated by mental illness which formed a barrier between her and others in the neighbourhood. Tennant chose to visit the hut at Diamond Head in order to work, whereas Langley was socially isolated without such options at her disposal. Yet both used their huts as sites of literary production, whether published or not. Langley is now a literary cult figure, after a series of works about her life, notably Lucy Frost’s Wilde Eve: Eve Langley’s Story (1999) and Mark O’Flynn’s novel The Last Days of Ava Langdon (2016) and innumerable academic articles; yet this does not necessarily translate into visits to her grave site and former home. To date, Tennant has not received the same level of scholarly attention as Langley, despite having a memorial dwelling in her name. Kylie’s Hut is not a popular site of pilgrimage for dedicated literary tourists either  –​ at least there’s no evidence to suggest this; instead it is four-​wheel-​drivers, campers, backpackers who publicise it online through travel websites and blogs. The decision to ‘consolidate’ Kylie’s Hut indicates a concern for its preservation; however, the intervention is fairly minimal, allowing natural processes to take their course. This commemoration links Tennant to her beloved landscape, without the elaborate rituals and ceremonies that other literary celebrations have inspired. By contrast, the bush has largely reclaimed Langley’s hut, producing a ruin of quiet beauty.

Chapter Ten THE DAVID UNAIPON MONUMENT AT RAUKKAN David Ngungaiponi (later Anglicized to Unaipon), a Ngarrindjeri man of the Coorong region of South Australia is commonly known as the ‘first’ published Aboriginal author. In fact, Unaipon might be more accurately described as the first Aboriginal author to write from within the contact zone between Indigenous and British colonial cultures.1 Now featured on the Australian 50-​dollar note, Unaipon did not achieve widespread fame as an author in his lifetime but was better known as a scientist, inventor and public speaker. This chapter will consider his reputation as the author of Aboriginal myths and legends and the material ways in which his writing has been both appropriated and celebrated. Unaipon was born in a bark wurly in 1872 on the banks of the Murray River at Tailem Bend. He spent much of his life at the Point McLeay Mission on the shores of Lake Alexandrina, where the freshwater meets the saltwater near the mouth of the Murray in South Australia’s Lower Lakes. The site for the mission was originally chosen by Reverend George Taplin because it was a traditional camping ground called ‘Raukkan’. The mission was taken over from the Australian Friends Association (AFA) in 1916 by the South Australian State government which then assumed full control. It was known as Point McLeay Aboriginal Reserve and over the years it acquired some additional land but it was never sufficient for a good income. In 1974, the Raukkan lands were handed over to the Ngarrindjeri people and they changed the name to Raukkan Aboriginal Community in 1982. Unaipon was the fourth of nine children born to Nymbulda and James Ngungaiponi. His father James was ‘the first Aboriginal convert’ and a lay preacher. Unaipon was educated at the mission school till the age of 13 and also learnt traditional stories and skills. After this time, he was largely self-​taught but through the support of his first employer and the AFA he was able to extend his thinking into various fields including literature, science and even ancient Greek. He became a Renaissance man, an all-​rounder who excelled in sciences and the arts and was dubbed ‘the Australian Da Vinci’ or ‘Black Leonardo’, along with less palatable titles such as ‘The Cleverest Aborigine’ and ‘Australia’s Cleverest Darkie’. From a young age, Unaipon collected subscription money for the AFA, which brought him into contact with well-​educated settlers, allowing him the opportunity to discuss Aboriginal spirituality, culture and the need for rights and equality for Aboriginal people. It was during this time that he took on the public role of an exceptional, educated Indigenous man which he was obliged to perform for the rest of his life.2

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Unaipon became a celebrity in the late nineteenth century. Steamer-​loads of tourists visited Point McLeay Mission to see the ‘natives’ but were often unexpectedly met with lectures on Aboriginal astronomy, botany and bushcraft and demonstrations of Unaipon’s prototype ‘perpetual motion machine’. Unaipon was keen to demonstrate the ‘advancement’ of Indigenous people and the ways in which they could be taught to adopt European ways. He demonstrated his inventions, delivered talks about them and called for donations.3 As he writes in ‘Leaves of Memory’: ‘We had, beside members of the Committee, many visitors at the Mission –​among them several governors, numerous legislators, and government officials, and ministers of religion and laymen. Consequently, the needs and achievements of the mission became known far and wide.’4 Irene Howe observes that Unaipon was exposed in the media as a brilliant Aboriginal person at a time when the printed media had the power to shape the notion that Aborigines had ‘inferior’ intelligence. Through a study of clippings about Unaipon from South Australian and regional newspapers, Howe discovered that he was objectified as an outstanding example of what education could do for an Aborigine. Unaipon was held up as an exceptional man who had risen above the ‘unfortunate’ circumstances of his race.5 Despite being in demand as a public speaker beyond the mission, Unaipon was often refused accommodation and refreshments and treated patronisingly in shops and other establishments because of his race. Due to his ‘full-​blood’ status –​and his special achievements –​Unaipon was granted an exemption by the authorities which created difficulties for him because exempted Aboriginal people were prohibited from entering Point McLeay without permission. According to informants, on at least one occasion he was prosecuted for entering the mission and ‘consorting with Aborigines’, who were his own relatives. In this way, his success effectively created a painful divide with his people.

Unaipon’s Authorship As Penny Van Toorn notes, it is generally agreed that David Unaipon is the first Indigenous Australian author yet the history of writing in Australia might be said to have various beginnings, depending on how we answer questions such as ‘What counts as writing? What counts as authorship? And who counts as Aboriginal?’ By adjusting the theoretical lens through which writing is perceived, Van Toorn argues, a new history of Aboriginal writing comes into view.6 It becomes possible to see that when Unaipon wrote his first book in 1929, Koori peoples in the Sydney region had been reading and authoring written texts for 140 years. Van Toorn shows that Pallawah people in Van Diemen’s land (Tasmania) were generating subversive readings of the Bible, writing sermons and producing a community newspaper, letters to colonial government authorities and a petition to Queen Victoria. In the 1830s, Indigenous men under the ‘care’ of Augustus Robinson, the Protector of Aborigines, printed the Flinders Islands Chronicle on a weekly basis.7 In the later nineteenth century, members of the Kulin confederacy and other nations were producing political documents, often in the form of letters and petitions which adhered to rules of oral communication.8 Indigenous people usually did not have the leisure time



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to read novels or other book-​length literary texts but they did correspond with friends, wrote to newspapers and prepared petitions and submissions to official inquiries.9 Early Indigenous authors used their storytelling skills in short-​form genres to skilfully mount arguments in an effort to improve their living conditions. Even before the British invaded, Indigenous people had already been engaged in complex reading and writing practices. Therefore, ‘settlement’ marked the beginning of an entanglement between two sets of reading and writing practices. For Eurocentric literary history, published works –​preferably in the form of a codex book or periodical –​ are what count as literature. Unaipon is retrospectively seen as the first Aboriginal author now that his ownership of the Native Legends manuscript (1929) and his ownership of Legendary Tales of the Australian Aborigines (2001) has been authenticated, yet this excludes all the other forms of written communication with which Indigenous people were engaged before Unaipon’s publications. From the early 1920s, Unaipon studied Aboriginal mythology and compiled his versions of legends; he was influenced by the classics and by his researches into Egyptology at the South Australian Museum. According to Philip Jones, the AFA funded the publication of Hungarrda (1927), Kinie Ger –​The Native Cat (1928) and Native Legends (1929). Unaipon sold these and other booklets while employed by the AFA.10 But documentation in the South Australian government archives and AFA records show that Unaipon actually borrowed money for printing –​and reprinting –​of his pamphlets.11 From 1924 onwards, he also wrote numerous articles for the Sydney Daily Telegraph. He published three short booklets of Aboriginal stories in 1927, 1928 and 1929. He also wrote ‘My Life Story’ (1951) and ‘Leaves of Memory’12 (1953), two short autobiographical works which were written as addresses to the AFA and published in the organisation’s reports. His work Native Legends could more accurately be described as a pamphlet given that it was only 15 pages long. The pamphlets he produced can be compared to chapbooks which were cheap to produce and were commonly sold on the street. Chapbooks were small, affordable forms of literature for children and adults that covered a range of subjects from fairy tales to ghost stories. As a way of increasing people’s interest in his work, Unaipon decided to ‘take up a course of lecturing on the aborigines’ and selling related literature around the country. I wrote up some legends for this purpose, and this Association bore the cost of printing them. Armed with these legends and some other literature provided by the Association, I have travelled over most of Victoria and South Australia, and had the opportunity of speaking in the various churches and schools.13

Unaipon observes that this was how he met his expenses, along with donations from churches and other supporters.14 Given his work selling AFA publications door to door throughout his life, this mode of distribution would have been a way of life to Unaipon. In order to survive, he needed to receive cash in hand for his work rather than waiting for royalties from a publisher, which might never arrive. Since the concept of Indigenous authorship was underdeveloped if not non-​existent among non-​Indigenous people in this

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era, Unaipon must have decided to primarily engage in direct transactions rather than the more onerous and complex process of working via publishers. When he eventually did enter into negotiations with Angus & Robertson over his Legendary Tales manuscript, the ultimate outcome was far from satisfactory. As the ‘first’ Aboriginal writer to publish Dreaming narratives, he had no previous Indigenous models to follow.15 His primary goal was to foster harmony between black and white which involved the adjustment of traditional Creation stories to connect with a predominantly white readership. Up until he began writing and publishing these stories, Indigenous texts had all been represented by white mediators and/​or appropriators. These often tended to be patronising –​or just plain wrong. Often they were presented as universal fables which were disconnected from the places and people from which they originated. Jones notes that Unaipon began gathering Aboriginal legends during his work as an ‘itinerant pedlar’ for the AFA.16 This practice continued throughout his life, except when he was in advanced years and could no longer travel far. Gale claims that Unaipon was ‘notorious’ for recreating hybrid and epic narratives from material provided by Aboriginal people from all over Southern Australia17. However, the word notorious suggests that he was doing something inappropriate. As Stephen Muecke and Adam Shoemaker note, working in conjunction with others was not at all unusual for Unaipon. He worked whenever necessary with an interpreter, people traded stories with him and he eventually sold his manuscripts. Unaipon saw himself as a scientist, utilising ethnographic methods to compile many of the narratives. This work also included the collecting of sacred items for study, as reported by the Register-​News Pictorial (Adelaide). It reported that Unaipon ‘is at present on the Murray collecting blackfellows’ skulls, nardoo stones and other stone implements for Dr. Angas Johnson’.18 Unaipon also volunteered himself to be the subject of a full-​face mask used as part of a touring exhibition about ‘man and his ancestors’ which was displayed the Melbourne Museum, along with other South Australian ‘exhibits’.19 From the 1920s, his fame increased through his publications on Aboriginal culture and mythology. By 1922, already a ‘rising star’, he was interviewed by the Spiritualist Horace Leaf who was on a world tour, following in the wake of fellow Spiritualist Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in 1920.20 Unaipon’s first piece titled ‘Aboriginals: Their Traditions and Customs’ was published in the Daily Telegraph on 2 August 1924. His first Indigenous Creation narrative ‘The Story of the Mungingee’ appeared in the middle-​class The Home (Sydney) magazine in February 1925.21 It was through Unaipon’s publications and attendant media coverage that Indigenous stories became more accessible to a wider public. His travels around the country as a public speaker enhanced his reputation as an author; a term that had not been applied to Indigenous people before. Anthropologists working with Indigenous people had recorded stories before Unaipon’s work appeared in print but the storytellers were seen as ‘native informants’ rather than credited as authors. Historically, Michele Grossman notes, ‘editorial strategies have diminished or denied the role of Indigenous authors in the production of their stories as texts’.22 After hopeful beginnings, Unaipon was eventually written out of Legendary Tales altogether.



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As mentioned earlier, Unaipon wrote ‘Leaves of Memory’ in 1951; a short autobiographical work which he had initially related to the President of the AFA who read it aloud at the annual meeting in March of that year. Two years later, he spoke directly to the annual meeting and produced a second iteration called ‘My Life Story’ (1953). This piece offers more personal memories of his childhood growing up near the Lower Murray, tracking animals, collecting food and swimming and boating. He describes the arrival of ‘Mr Taplin’, who was the first missionary to the Murray Tribes and his collaboration with his father James Unaipon, who preached at native camps using translated Scriptures. Unaipon describes his father as ‘a good liaison officer between the white and black races’ who ‘used his influence to persuade others to accept the gospel’.23 Unaipon located stories in the Bible which ‘found the blackfellow playing a part in life’s programme’.24 These stories, he observes, helped Unaipon many times when he was turned away when travelling because of his colour and race.25 In ‘Leaves of Memory’, Unaipon talks about his restlessness and desire to explore the wider world beyond the mission. Efforts were made to detain me at the Mission. I was put in the cobbler’s shop to learn shoemaking, and when I grew tired of this, became an assistant in the mission store, but my desire persisted for a walkabout among the white race.26

This speaks to the immense restrictions Unaipon lived under. Even in his autobiographical narratives, he seems unable to be completely frank about his feelings but there are textual traces that may be detected when read closely. Susan Hosking observes that the life that emerges from these two texts is fascinating and problematic.27 The two pieces are certainly constrained by Unaipon’s need to be ‘grateful’ to the assistance of the AFA which partly funded many of his endeavours. He characterises the AFA as a ‘refuge in every time of trouble’, noting that he himself is a ‘product of missionary work’, to which he owes every advance he has made, therefore he feels it is his duty to testify to its value in advancing the welfare of the aborigines.28 While acknowledging the damage done by colonisation, he regards the missionary enterprise as a way to give Aboriginal people ‘the inner power to reconstruct their lives which have become shattered by contact with white civilization’.29 Unaipon is never openly critical of the mission enterprise, seemingly viewing it as a safe harbour for his people –​and preferable to the alternatives available at that time.

Ramsay Smith’s Appropriation The volume by Unaipon which is now titled Legendary Tales of the Australian Aborigines has a complicated and tortuous publication history which I will describe briefly here in order to explain how his authorship was disavowed and then belatedly reinstated through the efforts of non-​Indigenous editors. Unaipon was commissioned in the early 1920s by William Ramsay Smith to assemble a book on Aboriginal legends, which he had been asked to produce by George G. Harrap & Co. (London) for its international series of ‘Myths and Legends’. Ramsay Smith was

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a Scottish born, Adelaide-​based physician and a fellow of the Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland. In Adelaide, he operated as a coroner and amateur anthropologist. Ramsay Smith was arrested in 1903 for the trafficking of Aboriginal and European remains to overseas universities. As Mary-​Anne Gale argues, he must have learnt little from this ordeal, because he ‘failed to completely cover his tracks of deception when he appropriated and published Unaipon’s manuscript in 1930’.30 Ramsay Smith appropriated Unaipon’s manuscript after an unexplained gap in the correspondence between Unaipon and his publisher George Robertson of the firm Angus & Robertson.31 In a groundbreaking move, Robertson had been planning to publish Unaipon’s Legendary Tales under his own name. It’s believed that a crucial letter never found its way to Unaipon, who had been travelling around collecting more stories, unintentionally putting his publishing contract into jeopardy. This gap in the correspondence allowed Ramsay Smith to step into the breach and publish Unaipon’s collection as his own with Harrap. Part of his strategy was to discredit Unaipon in the eyes of George Robertson. Ramsay Smith wrote to Robertson about Unaipon in 1926: ‘Though in some, if not in most ways he is a bad egg, he is “good in parts” or rather there is corn among the chaff if one knows how to winnow.’32 As Muecke and Shoemaker surmise: ‘Had Unaipon received the letter, he could have been reinspired with enthusiasm for his project, Angus & Robertson might have completed its work on the manuscript and the first book by an Australian Aborigine could well have been published in 1926.’33 This letter reveals Ramsay Smith’s strategy of smearing Unaipon’s reputation to Robertson, characterising him unfairly as a ‘bad egg’ in order to take credit for his work. It shows the calculating way in which Ramsay Smith interacted with both Unaipon and Robertson for his own gain. His purloining of Unaipon’s writing is not unlike the trafficking of Indigenous bones and artefacts that he was charged with in 1903. When Ramsay Smith was sold Unaipon’s manuscript for ‘editing’, he wrote back to Robertson, delighted that he now had ‘a clear field for operations’.34 To begin with, he admits that he is essentially compiling somebody else’s work for publication but over time all references to Unaipon disappear from the correspondence with Robertson. As Muecke and Shoemaker note, between March and September 1927, he seems to convince himself that the manuscript has become his property.35 The original title of Unaipon’s manuscript was ‘Legendary Tales of the Australian Aborigines told by David Unaipon’ which emphasises its oral beginnings.36 It was an attempt to write down narratives which had been passed on for generations but the physical, embodied context was difficult, or impossible to create in its entirety. Unaipon creatively translated these stories into a form which was readable and palatable to a primarily white audience. The manuscript was mostly handwritten in pencil, and was still in draft form, evidenced by the notes to himself in brackets on the manuscript which is held at the State Library of New South Wales.37 The manuscript is made up of two volumes of handwritten and typescript drafts, including a magazine published version of ‘How Teddy Lost His Tail’, which has been pasted in.38 Myths and Legends of the Australian Aboriginals was published under Ramsay Smith’s name by George G. Harrap & Co. in 1930. Unaipon is not acknowledged anywhere in the book,



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indicating that its theft was complete. Gale concludes that not only did William Ramsay Smith appropriate Unaipon but his texts were also plagiarised by A. W. Reed, who had a reputation for lifting New Zealand Maori narratives and publishing them under his own name. Reed’s ‘authorial practice’ was always to write from a distance in a universalising way, never ever meeting the storytellers in person. All the texts Reed appropriated were acquired from secondary sources then rewritten with little concern for authenticity.39 Seen in this context, Ramsay Smith’s actions seem to be part of a widespread pattern of appropriation of Indigenous stories from the late nineteenth to mid-​twentieth centuries. Since there was no tradition of Indigenous people operating as authors, in the Western sense, Unaipon’s activities were not clearly identified as those of an author at the time he was compiling his first pamphlet Native Legends which left him more vulnerable to exploitation. As Muecke has argued: Authorship is a predominantly Western category which orients criticism of literature toward the subjectivity of the individual creator. But in Aboriginal Australia, it is the case that custodianship displaces ownership of stories and songs toward a collective ownership […] They are then not so much the creators of traditions, but they are repeaters.40

Not only was Unaipon’s style of authorship not recognised as such in the 1920s and 1930s, he was also hampered by not being a full Australian citizen. This meant that he did not have the rights of a citizen which allowed his writing to be more easily appropriated. David Malangi, whose artwork was shamelessly copied for the first Australian one-​dollar note, was in a similarly disempowered position. In 1989, Philip Jones of the South Australian Museum publicly announced in the Adelaide Review that Unaipon’s manuscript had been appropriated by Ramsay Smith.41 Muecke and Shoemaker contend that according to expert advice from the Australian Copyright Council, a ‘substantial portion’ of Unaipon’s manuscript was reproduced by Ramsay Smith and that intellectual and moral rights reside with the Unaipon estate. These rights were reinstated after the republication of Legendary Tales edited by Muecke and Shoemaker in 2001.42 They describe their edition as a literary ‘repatriation’, yet this term has been critiqued by Gale and Jones who contend that a number of Unaipon’s narratives and ethnographic texts lie well beyond the Ngarrindjeri nation, in Yorta Yorta and Kokatha country among others.43 Unaipon had originally listed his informants in the State Library of New South Wales manuscript but these are not all legible in the 2001 edition according to Gale. She argues that the most ‘beautiful’ of the stories in his collection are those that are drawn from his own detailed knowledge of his own people while his ‘most syncretic and fanciful narratives’ were taken from the cultural knowledge of ‘distant groups’.44 When it came to the republication of the Ngarrindjeri-​derived pieces under Unaipon’s name in 2001, his family was concerned about the level of cultural detail in some texts such as ‘Witchcraft’.45 There were no cultural sensitivity guidelines for what should be published at the time Unaipon was compiling his collection –​it is only with hindsight that it’s possible to establish which elements of his stories might be considered sacred and especially worthy of protection. The elements that may be problematic to contemporary readers

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at this distance in time were not of pressing concern to Unaipon who was passionate about improving the lot of his people through communication of their special stories. His approach tended to be conciliatory, inclusive and hopeful for the possibilities of cross-​ cultural relations despite the many slights he had personally suffered.

Monumental Legitimacy Any consideration of Unaipon’s writing and its legacy must confront the stark realisation that he was publicly uncommemorated for over half a century, at least in tangible form. This is symptomatic of widespread reluctance to recognise Australia’s First Peoples through monuments. Kirk Savage has thoughtfully reflected on the lack of monuments to black people who were involved with the American Civil War. He argues that ‘blacks did not have the cultural privilege to seek this form of legitimacy, and whites did not care to give it to them’.46 While Savage is writing about a different context, there are obvious parallels to be drawn with the Australian scene. Tom Griffiths argues that monuments to white philanthropy entered white consciousness as ‘historic sites’ and milestone of ‘progress’. They could be seen as evidence of benevolence and sympathy of people who had ‘smoothed the dying pillow’ and mourned the decline of another race.47 It’s notable that non-​Indigenous figures who ‘helped’ Indigenous people were more likely to be commemorated than notable Indigenous people themselves. The Daisy Bates Memorial is a monument to a self-​taught anthropologist who lived among Aboriginal people at Ooldea and wrote the error-​ridden and inflammatory work The Passing of the Aborigines (1938).48 In the same year, A.  P. Elkin published The Australian Aborigines: How to Understand Them, providing a counterbalance to Bates’s book, and moving many readers some way towards a sympathetic appreciation of Aborigines as fellow human beings.49 The dearth of monuments to Indigenous authors can be seen in the context of a wider lack of representation. One exception to this is the monument to Wombeetch Puyuun (known to White Australian locals as ‘Camperdown George’) who was the only member of the Lawira Gunditj to be still living near his country. The monument was erected by his close friend James Dawson at the Camperdown Cemetery in Victoria. In 1882, Dawson returned from a trip home to Scotland to find that Wombeetch Puyuun had died and was buried in boggy ground outside the Camperdown Cemetery. Dawson appealed for public support to finance a memorial in the cemetery, but very few supported him. One of the Western District squatters he approached for support is quoted as saying: ‘I decline to assist in erecting a monument to a race of men we have robbed of their country.’50 This comment speaks volumes about the bad conscience of settlers who were complicit with the dispossession of the Lawira Gunditj people. In the end, Dawson paid for a 20-​metre granite obelisk with his own money. As the Sydney Mail and New South Wales Advertiser reported in December 1885: Mr. Dawson made a formal application to the Attorney General and received his permission to have the body of ‘Old George’ removed from the ‘bog-​hole’ and placed in a space at the base of the obelisk and he performed that duty with his own hand.51



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Rather than focussing on Wombeetch Puyuun’s admirable qualities, this article reifies the generosity of Dawson. Chilla Bulbeck observes that early memorials assessed Aborigines as either ‘faithful helpers’ of white settlers and explorers, or as ‘treacherous’ and ‘ferocious’: ‘The fame of these early Aborigines rested as much on belonging to a famous white as on their fidelity to that white.’52 Three Indigenous men –​Jackey Jackey, Yuranigh and Tommy Windich –​have found their way into Australian monumental history as the guides of the explorers Edmund Kennedy, Thomas Mitchell and Alexander Forrest.53 The grave of Mitchell’s guide Yuranigh has a European style marble headstone but there is also an Indigenous tribute nearby, in the form of a carved tree. William Barak, or ‘Beruk’ in his Woiwurrung language, was the probable author of numerous letters and petitions from the Coranderrk people to the colonial government and to the Aborigines Protection Board and newspaper editors. Barak was commemorated through a public monument made from a large stone of Italian marble donated by his friend Ann Fraser Bon which had formerly been inscribed with the names of her husband and son. This intimate gesture, like the carrying of Wombeetch Puyuun’s body in Dawson’s arms, indicates the strength of affection for Barak felt by his friend. The Australian Native’s Association (ANA) had planned to put the reinscribed stone at his grave, with a medallion by sculptor Paul Montfort but this did not eventuate. Instead, it was placed in Healesville’s main street in the winter of 1934. The Barak memorial was removed after being vandalised and kept in storage until the 1950s. The Melbourne literary society The Bread and Cheese Club, which was responsible for a number of memorials to white Australian authors, revived the ANA’s original idea and placed the stone over Barak’s grave at Coranderrk.54 In addition, Barak is now commemorated by the William Barak pedestrian bridge55 and by a 32-​storey residential building in Melbourne’s CBD with a large portrait created by using shadows from negative spaces carved into the balconies. The building, named ‘Portrait’, was designed for Grocon by the Melbourne architectural firm Ashton Raggatt McDougall, with the worthy intention of raising ‘the profile of the Wurundjeri people and culture’.56 This building, intended as a tribute, has been controversial, with Christine Hansen describing it as a ‘cruel juxtaposition’.57 To place high-​end CBD real estate and an image of the most famous of nineteenth-​century land rights activists in the same frame, Hansen argues, exposes our blindness not just to history but to its contemporary consequences in institutionalised racism and unequal power relations. This high-​end building is out of reach and out of bounds for most Indigenous people. David Hansen, writing in the Griffith Review, shows how the image on Barak’s face was intentionally absent from the marketing materials produced for potential apartment buyers. Hansen sees this as evidence of an attempt to ‘claim the history and deny it at the same time’.58 For Hansen, Portrait is not a commemoration of any kind: No, this is brand reconciliation, in which a literally superficial image of Aboriginality serves to mask the profit motive, with corporation and government colluding in a chorus of political correctness, and in which the particular and painful truths of Indigenous and settler history are glossed over in favour of a warm and fuzzy notion of communal inheritance […] Beruk

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deserves better than to stand on his country as a giant concrete Aborigine for the Garden State.59

Aunty Margaret Gardiner and Janet McGaw argue that Portrait cannot be seen as a gesture that encourages Indigenous engagement: ‘Grand architectural gestures such as these on strategic surfaces of Melbourne’s urban fabric are somewhat deceptive. They might “mark” or acknowledge Indigenous place, but they do not “make” place if Indigenous people cannot use it.’60 Aside from Barak’s multiple memorials, which recognise his many talents and pursuits, there are very few that acknowledge Indigenous Australian literary figures. Oodgeroo Noonuccal and Jack Davis are giants of Indigenous literature, yet there are few tributes that register their influence. Davis is not directly commemorated in a material form but his poem ‘John Pat’ (1988), dedicated to a 16-​year-​old boy who died in custody at Roebourne Police Station in Western Australia in 1983, is inscribed on a marble tablet in the shape of a book located at the historical Fremantle Prison.61 The John Pat Memorial Day for Deaths in Custody is observed each year, calling for justice for all those who have died in custody. Both Davis and Noonuccal skillfully deployed their considerable skill with language and storytelling in their activism. For her part, Noonuccal has been remembered through the Noonuccal-​Nughie Education and Cultural Centre which she founded to support young people, despite meagre financial resources. Although there may be few full-​scale monuments to Indigenous people, there have been recent efforts to incorporate language and writing into public places. A poem named ‘Kaya’ by Noongar writer Kim Scott has been included in the design of the Perth stadium. Kaya means ‘hello’ or ‘yes’ in the Noongar language. It is etched into 68 pre-​cast concrete panels that circle the perimeter of the podium level of the stadium, at the eastern entrance. The 17-​verse poem weaves together 11 verses of Noongar with 6 verses of English. When interviewed, Scott has said that the poem tells of the importance of Noongar language and culture to identity and belonging, and of voices joining together.62 ‘Kaya’ concludes with the words: Our old people rise from graves of ash, they delight again in contest and in challenge. Shoulder to shoulder we stand, the ancestors and us; We stamp our feet, we beat our palms, we voice a sound that lives; a crowd, reborn. You are welcome on Whadjuk country.

The poem names the location where the stadium stands as Whadjuk country; a place where Indigenous people have enjoyed ‘contest’ and ‘challenge’ for thousands of years. The engraving of this poem into the stadium itself might be read as a form of placemaking; a way of acknowledging Indigenous presence in a public space which is not usually associated with literature. Across the continent, visual artists have responded to the lack of memorials commemorating Indigenous individuals, or monuments that remember inter-​cultural relations and events. In 2008, Tom Nicholson began to develop an as-​yet-​unrealised public artwork:  a monument to John Batman’s Treaty, the conflicted document that lies at the



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origins of Melbourne’s foundation. This public monument is to consist of an obelisk-​ like freestanding chimney covered by an array of different plaques, suggesting various meanings for this simple vertical form. Taking as its starting point Melbourne’s first chimney, built for John Batman by William Buckley,63 the work engages the contradictory meanings of the treaty that Batman claimed he signed with Wurundjeri people in 1835. Nicholson’s installation ‘Towards a monument to Batman’s Treaty, 2013’ is made up of the exact number of bricks required to construct the chimney64 and the texts for the multiple plaques that would encase it. It is a proposition towards the future realisation of the chimney monument, as well as the suggestion of the appearance of its own ruin.65 As Helen Walter argues in a review of an earlier iteration at Federation Square in 2012, the plaque’s text emphasises the monumentality of chimneys, describing them as ‘reaching for the sky’ and as ‘obelisks’. Nicholson’s hypothetical plans simultaneously imagine the building of the monument as well as its eventual destruction at an indefinite point in time. Nicholson followed this up with a collaborative project, ‘seven untitled monuments’, with Aunty Joy Murphy Wandin (Wurundjeri) and Jonathan Jones (Wiradjuri/​Kamilaroi). It is a series of artworks in the form of monuments which mark the historical boundary of Coranderrk Aboriginal Station. Each marker is an upturned flagpole topped by a brick footing, with a plaque on each face, surrounded by Coranderrk or ‘Christmas bush’. The artists invite viewers to look after the monuments when visiting by clearing any weeds and watering the Coranderrk bush. The artworks use traditional memorial forms –​the flagpole and the plaque –​inverting their meanings and redeploying them to recognise the cultural importance of Corranderrk and its people.

The ‘Iconic’ 50-​Dollar Note This book largely confines its scope to material artefacts which commemorate authors. Even though bank notes are real items that can be touched, stored and exchanged, they are different to most of the monuments, plaques, statues and other artefacts that I have explored in previous chapters. Bank notes circulate through commonplace interactions –​ as currency –​in this way; bank notes are an ever-​present medium for retaining social memory, at least until they are redesigned and updated. It’s not unusual for writers to be featured on banknotes –​in Australia there are four authors represented, although Henry Lawson is no longer on the 10-​dollar note, having been trumped by his putative rival A.  B. Banjo Paterson. In this way, authors seem to be over-​represented, compared with people from other fields. However, the figures represented on bank notes do not tend to be First Nations peoples, and women are less well represented than men. Recently there has been an increasing recognition that women are traditionally under-​ represented on banknotes. Jane Austen was included in the all-​male line-​up in English bank notes after a sustained campaign in 2013. Eve Livingston has argued persuasively, in relation to women on bank notes: ‘Those at the sharp end of inequality might be forgiven for failing to see how a caricature on money they don’t have will help’.66 Given the widespread financial disadvantage of Indigenous people, the appearance of Unaipon on

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the 50-​dollar bank note might seem like an ironic gesture nevertheless it is meaningful to members of the Ngarrindjeri nation. Ngarrinjderi Regional Authority chair Derek Walker says it is a source of great pride to his community that a man from Raukkan was on the nation’s currency: ‘It’s immeasurable, some of that positive-​ness that comes out of acknowledging a man of his capacity and the fact he’s Ngarrindjeri.’67 Nat Cromb, writing for IndigenousX, surmises that if Unaipon had been white he would undoubtedly have been hailed as Australia’s own DaVinci and ‘we would all be learning about him in school and conducting science experiments based on his work’. Instead, Cromb notes, his face is on the 50-​dollar note, ‘which I think we are supposed to believe is an honour’. He argues that the priorities of Indigenous people differ from that of the government and that an ‘exhibition on his work, and contribution to engineering and science more broadly, would have been the honour he would have wanted’.68 The first 50-​dollar note was introduced into circulation in 1973. Unaipon was first depicted on the Australian 50-​dollar note in 1995, along with symbols representing his inventions, one of his manuscripts and the church at Raukkan where he and his father preached. The old note depicts Clarence Long, known as ‘Milerum’, along with his wife, in the bottom right corner. Milerum was a Ngarrindjeri man who collaborated closely with the anthropologist Norman Tindale, forming a partnership which produced many valuable records of disappearing customs and stories. Along with Unaipon and other Ngarrindjeri people, Milerum was crucial to the recording and documentation of Ngarrindjeri traditions for future generations. The new generation 50-​dollar note was released in 2018 after being meticulously researched by Ngarrindjeri scholar Karen Hughes. An image of the Raukkan church still features on the note, but the blueprints of the shearing mechanism he invented are absent. The new note’s design also includes native wattle flowers, a black swan  –​Unaipon’s ‘ngaitji’ or totem animal69 –​eighteenth-​century Ngarrindjeri shields representing technologies that inspired his inventions and an image of miwi, the Ngarrindjeri people’s spiritual connection to country and waters, and navel cord exchange by artist Muriel Van Der Byl.70 For the Ngarrindjeri, the miwi is located in or behind the stomach and they regard it ‘as the source of all emotions, as an eternal part of men and women through which all important feelings, experiences and thoughts were expressed’.71 Unaipon himself said that it was where the ‘impulses’ of the body comes from, where all feelings come from.72 Unaipon now takes up more space in the clear top-​to-​bottom window of the next generation bank note than he did on the earlier incarnation. The symbols relating to him can now be seen when looking at the other side of the note which features Edith Cowan, the first woman parliamentarian. The microprint also includes excerpts from Legendary Tales of the Australian Aborigines reminding the viewer of Unaipon’s authorship. Speaking in relation to Unaipon’s representation on the 50-​dollar note, Bruce Pascoe emphasises the power of his unique legacy. David Unaipon first of all, forced Australians to accept Aboriginal intelligence then he forced them to consider the scientific knowledge of the world’s oldest culture. His legacy paves the



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way for younger Aboriginal people to unearth the Indigenous science Australia has buried beneath a ton of denial.73

Pascoe highlights Unaipon’s significance for generations of Aboriginal people in the face of efforts to downplay or even erase his achievements. Ngarrindjeri responses to the 50-​dollar note have been positive, at least publicly, yet Benjamin Miller has problematised the way in which the bank note is represented on the Reserve Bank of Australia’s website. Stamped across this picture (as it is across all images of notes on the website) is the word in capitals:  SPECIMEN. The word resonates uncomfortably with Australia’s colonial history of collecting Aboriginal people and things for scientific observation. But the word is perhaps even more disturbing to those of us who study Unaipon; as he becomes an object under discussion in academic work, his own words challenge any discourse that attempts to pin him down as a specimen for study.74

Although Unaipon was the first identifiable Indigenous figure to be printed on a bank note, Aboriginal culture was previously represented through various artworks which were sometimes procured in dubious circumstances. The old one-​dollar bank note –​issued between 14 February 1966 and May 1984 when it was replaced by the one-​dollar coin –​ features an Aboriginal design which is a line interpretation by Gordon Andrews of an Aboriginal bark painting by David Malangi. In February 1966, Adelaide’s Advertiser newspaper revealed that the Reserve Bank had not sought permission from Malangi when it reproduced his work on the one-​dollar note. Subsequently, the 39-​year-​old man from Arnhem Land was paid $1,000, presented with a medal of appreciation and given a fully equipped fishing box for his contribution to the note.75 This note was symbolically important given that it was part of the Australian transition to decimal currency. Stephen Gray argues that the ‘C’ in Changeover day might equally stand for Copyright day, for it marks the first Aboriginal copyright dispute.76 The now defunct 10-​dollar banknote released to celebrate Australia’s bicentenary depicts the ship HMS Supply and a group of people against a view of the early British settlement at Sydney Cove. The other side of the note represents elements of Aboriginal culture, including ancient rock painting, an Aboriginal youth and a ceremonial Morning Star Pole. Background patterns were taken from designs commissioned from Aboriginal artists.77 The one-​and ten-​dollar bank notes, which are no longer in circulation, are arguably more ‘specimen-​like’ than the two iterations of the 50-​dollar note featuring Unaipon. Nevertheless, Miller’s and Cromb’s trenchant criticism raises the question:  is it an unalloyed honour, or is it potentially ‘de-​sacralising’ to feature a person such as Unaipon on a bank note? He was a man who was rich in terms of intelligence, culture and learning yet he was never comfortable financially, living in poverty all his life. It’s ironic that Unaipon’s image is printed on a symbolic object that is so closely aligned with the capitalist economy which relentlessly exploited his writings and his inventions. Ryan Presley, an Indigenous artist whose father is from the Marri Ngarr people of the Northern Territory, has produced a series of artworks called ‘Blood Money’ since 2010. It presents Australian banknotes featuring Aboriginal historical figures such as Fanny

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Balbuk, an early Aboriginal land rights leader in Perth. Presley explains his interest in creating imaginary bank notes. Australian banknotes’ colouration and design don’t particularly strike me as culturally British or Anglo-​Saxon looking. The use of colour, line and tone and in particular the prominent pattern look more like a grasping at cultural identity. And I think the grasping is chiefly at cultural properties of Aboriginal Australia. Beneath the colourful veneer (which I think functions more as a clue than a veneer) there is much to be said about the operations of colonialism, dispossession and possession that function in the everyday Australian economy and the visible depiction and presence of money.78

In terms of ‘real’ bank notes, Unaipon is the only Indigenous figure currently depicted but Presley offers some future possibilities for the representation of people other than the usual settler-​Australian figures.

Raukkan Commemorations If you look at a street map of the small Indigenous community of Raukkan (formerly Point McLeay),79 you will notice that there is a Unaipon Street, a Unaipon Square and a Taplin Street, names which recognise the local author and the founder of the Point McLeay Mission respectively. For a settlement of around 150 people, there are numerous memorials, reflecting its palimpsestic history. There are four official monuments in Raukkan dedicated to David Unaipon, Reverend Taplin, Charles Sturt and a war memorial remembering Aboriginal servicemen. Taplin’s cottage from the 1860s is now the Raukkan Gallery and museum which houses photographs and artefacts relating to the history of the community. It stands near the Raukkan church which was renovated from its ruined state in preparation for 150th celebrations of Raukkan/​Point McLeay in 2009. It is especially treasured for its beautiful stained glass windows and the fact that it does not have a central church aisle. In an ABC report, Nan Haxton describes it as a ‘living monument for the local Aboriginal people’.80 A plaque dedicated to Taplin was originally set into the remains of a tree where the mission was first built while the explorer Charles Sturt is remembered through a much taller memorial cairn in an elevated position. By contrast, Unaipon’s modest monument consists of a plaque mounted on a small granite boulder. The differing modes of commemoration in this one site tell us about the modes through which the three figures have been officially valued. In 1859, Taplin was appointed by the AFA as their first missionary-​teacher at a salary of £200 to work in the lower Murray districts.81 At the beginning of 1860, Taplin taught his first class under a tree near the current council offices in Raukkan. A photo held in the State Library of South Australia’s collection shows the Raukkan community under the tree after he died in 1879.82 Margaret Simons reports that Taplin died largely from the stress associated with allegations that his son, Frederick, had raped an Aboriginal girl on the mission.83 The story, which Unaipon never told, has been documented by the historian Graham Jenkin.84 The Taplin monument –​minus its original tree –​now



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Figure 10.1  Raukkan church, South Australia. Photograph by Brigid Magner

sits out the front of the Raukkan General Store, looking cracked, ancient and slightly incongruous. Taplin was responsible for Unaipon’s education up until the age of 13, providing access to the English language, which became his literary medium. In turn, Taplin learnt Unaipon’s language in order to be able to communicate the Gospel more effectively to him and the other schoolchildren. He also compiled a dictionary, based on the study of Ngarrindjeri dialects by Lutheran missionary H. A. E. Meyer in 1843. Taplin gathered many more words from several dialects, including Yaraldi and Portawalun, from the people who gathered around the mission. Taplin recognised that the Ngarrindjeri were not one homogeneous people, identifying 18 territorial clans or ‘lakalinyeri’ that constituted the Ngarrindjeri confederacy or Nation, each of which was administered by about a dozen elders ‘tendi’. His work was later built upon by A. W. Howitt, the son of William Howitt, the author of Home and Haunts of the Most Eminent British Poets. Taplin’s works of anthropology, ethnology and philology were acclaimed in Australia and overseas,85 introducing the Ngarrindjeri Nation and its languages and customs to the wider world.86 Regardless of Taplin’s dedication to the ‘betterment’ of the Ngarrindjeri people, his influence had negative repercussions on local culture. According to Berndt et al.: By inciting young boys and girls to flout the authority of their parents and elders, he caused trouble and dissension in the camps […] His influence, combined with external pressures, meant the destruction of traditional life.87

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While Unaipon respected the mission in his public writings and statements, he must have quietly acknowledged the immense tensions it brought to the Ngarrindjeri nation. Seventy years after the first monument to Taplin was built, on the occasion of the centenary of Point McLeay Mission, a plaque was added to the Raukkan church, dedicating pews to Taplin’s memory. A quotation in the inscription reads: ‘They that turn many to righteousness shall shine as the stars forever.’88 The most substantial monument at Raukkan is the Sturt memorial cairn which was unveiled to great fanfare in 1930. It commemorates the centenary of the voyage of Sturt down the Murray River in February 1830. McLeay was the second in charge of the 1830 Sturt expedition along the Murray  –​in this way the expedition and the mission were connected through the process of naming. Built by Indigenous people at Point McLeay, the cairn was sponsored by the historical memorials committee of the South Australian branch of the Royal Geographical Society of Australasia. The front inscription reads: Charles Sturt 1830 Erected by descendants of the Lower Murray tribes 1930

It was unveiled by the governor, Sir Alexander Hore-​Ruthven. Part of the ceremony was a ‘demonstration by the aborigines’, according to a newspaper report. Dr. C. E. Fenher, who with Mr. F. L. Parker is honorary secretary, of the society, stated today that Sturt had written in his journal that without the help of the aborigines he would not have been able to accomplish the feat of sailing down the River Murray in 1830. They had helped the party to obtain food supplies. At the junction of the Darling and the Murray the expedition was surrounded by hundreds of hostile natives. They were saved by the arrival of a friendly aborigine. A  legend is told at Point McLeay of a pelican coming down the river into the lake. As it came nearer it turned into a boat containing white men. It was in the early morning of February 10, 1830, that Sturt passed Point McLeay. He did not land there. The point was named after George (afterward Sir George) McLeay, who was second in command.89

At the ceremony, Governor Hore-​Ruthven commented that many similar monuments had been erected in New South Wales, Victoria and in South Australia, yet ‘this one is the most notable because it is the last, and because it was built by aborigines, some of whom are direct descendants of those who met Sturt’.90 It took another 67  years before a monument to Unaipon was actively discussed. Ironically, given his criticism of the carnage wrought by white settlement, Unaipon was recognised through a star-​shaped plaque to mark the 150th anniversary of the colonisation of South Australia in 1986. To celebrate the sesquicentenary, the Jubilee 150 Board decided to honour a selection of people who had made a significant contribution, including Unaipon. The text on the star plaque acknowledges both his leadership and authorship: ‘David Unaipon (1872–​1967) Aboriginal leader and Writer’.



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A dedicated monument was first proposed in 1997 by Noel Taplin, the great grandson of Reverend George Taplin and friend of the AFA. Taplin suggested that the AFA make an offer to Point McLeay Community Council to provide and mount a plaque in their village as a memorial to Unaipon. The annual newsletter for the AFA called ‘Action Review’ reported that the following wording had been agreed upon: David Unaipon (1872–​1967) is the first Aboriginal person to feature on an Australian bank note ($50). He was born a member of the Ngarrindjeri people at Raukkan (Point McLeay). Also shown on the bank note is the chapel built in 1868 under the guidance of Rev. George Taplin.

The newsletter notes that progress on ‘negotiating with council’ about the mounting and the placement of the plaque had been ‘slow’ but that it was hoped it would be in position by early in the new year (1999). AFA records at the State Library of South Australia show that there were a number of ideas for the monument, including square and tablet shapes. One of the original designs was a reproduction of the 50-​dollar bank note which was removed from the later designs and merely mentioned in the monument text instead. The attached plaque on the completed monument says that Unaipon is the first Aboriginal person to feature on a banknote, which indicates that the banknote effectively prompted the monument. When considering the monument from the perspective of literary commemoration, it seems curious that the Unaipon’s authorship is not mentioned until the end of the plaque text. Looking at the monument in person, the viewer might be perplexed by an empty recessed area on the plaque which looks like a frame. This was originally filled with a photograph but this image is now missing. The AFA file relating to the monument records that it cost $750 in total, a miniscule amount for a public monument. Silvio Apponyi, the Adelaide-​based sculptor who produced the monument, felt that he was effectively ‘giving it away’ at that price but was happy to commemorate Unaipon through his labours. He delivered the monument to Raukkan and attended a ‘small-​scale’ ceremony at Raukkan at the time of its installation.91

Unaipon Cottage The only surviving building to be associated with Unaipon, aside from the Raukkan church, is his cottage at the Kanmantoo estate. In 1885, with his parents’ permission, he was taken into the Kanmantoo home of Charles Burney Young, patron of the Aborigines’ Friends’ Association. Young was a well-​known pastoralist who established Kanmantoo in the Adelaide Hills established several others including a large station near Port Pirie, Mount Templeton Station and others. In this way, he was complicit in the dispossession of Indigenous people, yet he was a founding Secretary of the AFA and was closely associated with the Point McLeay mission. Charles Burney Young and his son Harry Dove Young employed Unaipon as a servant in 1885 and built him a cottage at their Kanmantoo Pastoral Company homestead, ‘Holmesdale’. The Youngs had a well-​established British literary lineage. Charles Burney had married Nora Creina, daughter of Lady Charlotte Bacon, the ‘Ianthe’ in

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Figure  10.2 David Uniapon monument, Raukkan, South Australia. Photograph by Brigid Magner

Lord Byron’s poem Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage –​it was commonly rumoured that Byron was Charles Burney’s illegitimate father-​in-​law. By all accounts, Harry Dove bore a striking resemblance to Byron.92 In 1887, Young visited the Point McLeay Mission and brought back the young Unaipon. A single room studio was constructed for Unaipon on a hill near the homestead ‘Holmesdale’. When he was not working as a servant, Unaipon would ride to the Callington Railway Station to catch a train to the city, where, under Young’s encouragement at the big house in Walkerville, he studied anthropology, science, literature and music. It was during this time that he was also introduced to classical literature and became proficient in Greek and Latin. Philip White has recently argued that Unaipon deserves to be acknowledged as a winemaker, despite being a lifelong teetotaller himself.93 White’s research has shown that Unaipon worked on the production of many vintages in the Kanmantoo cellars –​his signature is in the cellarhands’ paybooks; it appears by the names listed there that the harvest was picked (into kerosene tins) by other Ngarrindjeri people under his supervision. White argues that ‘the bookwork shows he was hands-​on’.94 After spending time working and studying in Adelaide, Unaipon moved back to the Point McLeay Mission where he worked in the store. But his relations with the mission authorities were strained, largely due to the tight restrictions placed on his movements. On 4 January 1902, Unaipon married Catherine Carter (née Sumner), a Tangani woman. A son was born to them later in the year but Unaipon’s marriage was not happy



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and his mission home served mainly as a base for his frequent travels.95 Arguably, the formative years he spent at the Kanmantoo estate set the scene for further travels around Australia, collecting stories and artefacts and delivering lectures. In recognition of its importance to the State’s history, the Kanmantoo Homestead and Winery Complex was entered into the South Australian Heritage Register on 23 August 2013, preserving Unaipon’s cottage –​and evidence of his labours at the winery –​ for future visitors.

Tailem Bend Commemorative Sculpture Unaipon was born ‘on the banks on the Murray River’ near Tailem Bend. He also died there, at Tailem Bend Hospital on 7 February 1967 and was buried at Point McLeay (Raukkan). As this book shows, birthplaces and final resting places  –​or graves  –​are potent sites for literary commemoration. A  half century on from his death, there are plans to finally celebrate Unaipon in the place of his birth. The Coorong District Council reports that there are plans for a ‘David Unaipon Commemorative’ sculpture installation at Tailem Bend. In 2018, the Coorong District Council was approached by the family of Unaipon about developing a public artwork that celebrates his life and achievements. In November 2018, council staff and family met with sculptor Silvio Apponyi, who had produced the original Unaipon monument located at Raukkan. Apponyi proposed to mentor local Ngarrindjeri sculptor Robert Wuldi who is the great grandson of Milerum (Clarence Long). The proposed location for the artwork is Railway Terrace, opposite a popular local café.96 This collaboration between artists Silvio Apponyi and Robert Wuldi is an example of an inclusive, Indigenous-​driven commemoration. The fact that it was initiated by Unaipon’s descendents, rather than imposed by well-​meaning white supporters, means that they have a say in what form it will take. The installation is envisaged as a series of engraved boulders –​one of them will weigh around 10 tonnes –​with a very large portrait of Unaipon carved into the granite at face level. Apponyi has reflected on the importance of producing artworks such as this to fill a gap in representation. I think places for Indigenous people where they feel respected, they feel valued and honoured are sadly lacking. There are many of these places for the people who arrived in Australia but there are not many for the actual locals. So I try and do my little bit to achieve that.97

This proposed artwork can be seen as a positive development, in light of the vexed history of memorials initiated on behalf of Aboriginal people. Given the marked differences between settler-​colonial memorials and Indigenous ways of memorialising, it’s not surprising that many extant commemorations have been inappropriate or ineffective. As Sue-​Anne Ware observes, Indigenous modes of memorialising have traditionally been diverse, often relying on traditions such as oral storytelling or dance, face-​painting or ceremony. ‘They are highly contextual, varying with each performance, and rely on connections with the land.’98 This is not to suggest that Indigenous memorials should

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be developed using pre-​colonial forms of expression. As Aunty Margaret Gardiner and Janet McGaw point out, placemaking scholarship has described the wholly different epistemologies of place between traditional Indigenous societies and settler societies but they caution that contemporary Indigenous place values should not be held in a pre-​colonial moment. Placemaking must respond to the current environment rather than trying to evoke the past.99 Often public forms of placemaking are ephemeral or transient given that Indigenous people do not tend to own, or have much control over public space. To date, Indigenous placemakers in Australia –​and other settler societies –​have made fleeting occupations and installations but they would generally prefer more permanent interventions wherever possible.100

Conclusion Shoemaker has argued that Unaipon’s work was almost completely ignored until the 1980s.101 It was not until the revelation of Unaipon’s appropriated text in the late 1980s that attention turned to his expanded literary output. At the turn of the century, the Muecke and Shoemaker’s edited edition finally reinstated the original title Legendary Tales and affirmed Unaipon’s authorship. As Billy Griffiths argues: ‘It is one of the great tragedies of Australian literature that the book was not published under Unaipon’s name until 2001, three-​quarters of a century after it was written.’102 Muecke and Shoemaker suggest that the act of collecting and writing the book of legends allowed Unaipon to escape the constraints of missionary and State authorities and gain a taste of freedom.103 Although he is often seen as a ‘collector’ of Indigenous stories, there is a self-​conscious literariness in much of his work. Gale observes that Unaipon adopted poetic language reminiscent of Bunyan and Milton.104 His style is idiosyncratic, multi-​generic and ambitious in its scope. As Diane Bell writes, ‘it was unusual to find an Indigenous person writing of religion, using a theological vocabulary, and struggling to explicate the metaphysical bases of Aboriginal religion’.105 He made the case for tribal laws and customs of his people to be recognised as part of world literature just like Roman, Greek, Norse and Arthurian legends. Even though he might be regarded as a ‘collector’, or ‘repeater’ of stories, there is a passionate literariness evident to the attentive reader. In ‘My Life Story’, Unaipon quotes some lines from Longfellow which have ‘guided and directed’ his steps through the years and has enabled him to continue his advocacy of the rights of the Aborigines ‘to occupy a more worthy place in the life of the nation’.106 That in even savage bosoms There are longings, yearnings, strivings, For the good they comprehend not. That the feeble hands and helpless, Groping blindly in the darkness, Touch God’s right hand in the darkness, And are lifted up, and strengthened.



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Benjamin Miller argues strenuously that Unaipon has not been granted enough agency as an author in the existing readings of his work.107 His career also draws attention to the narrowness of the Western definition of authorship. There were many contradictions in his life –​for example, his collecting of Indigenous artefacts (and even human remains) for investigation by white ‘scientists’. He supported the mission enterprise but argued against the State-​sanctioned segregation of Indigenous people as a ‘bush museum’ for the scientific determination of Aboriginality.108 Miller recognises Unaipon’s own voice coming through in his narration of the story ‘Gool Lun Naga’, a green frog who came into existence from the Spirit of Water. Miller identifies a desire for freedom expressed via the Water Spirit who transforms into a green frog109: ‘Oh what a wonderful life to live, to go where you will and come back in your own approved time.’110 He refers to his restlessness as a young man and his powerful urge to leave the mission in ‘Leaves of Memory’: ‘Speaking now about myself as one who is a product of the Pt McLeay Mission I would like to say that as time advanced I began to feel that I should like to move about in the white man’s world.’111 Miller points towards the colonial record of his life and the ways in which ‘it has failed to capture and define Unaipon’.112 It seems that Unaipon sought to find some kind of freedom, in order to evade definition, yet this is precisely the business of commemoration; a person has to be definitively categorised to celebrate them through monumental structures and tributes. To date, commemorations have not been able to fully express his extraordinary literary vision. Unaipon was ahead of his time, working as an author and collaborator when Indigenous people were not recognised as such. Arguably, it was not until the 1970s that new forms of agency were articulated in Aboriginal social and political life and new categories of authorship were explored and invented.113 In 1972, Kath Walker changed her name to the traditional name in her language, ‘Noonuccal’114 being her people and adopting ‘Oodgeroo’ which means ‘paperbark’, as her first name. Noonuccal, who had been hugely successful with her book of poetry We Are Going in the 1964, was a key participant in the campaign for the Indigenous citizenship referendum in 1967 which Unaipon missed because he died on 7 February of the same year. In 1987, Noonuccal returned the MBE she had been awarded in 1970 to Queen Elizabeth II in protest about the bicentennial celebrations which were boycotted by many Indigenous people. As Clare Land observes, Noonuccal originally accepted the nomination as MBE after discussing the honour with members of the Brisbane Aboriginal community who felt that acceptance of the honour could ‘open doors that were still closed to the Aborigines’ but she reconsidered this decision 17 years later.115 Since 1970 I have lived in the hope that the parliaments of England and Australia would confer and attempt to rectify the terrible damage done to the Australian Aborigines. The forbidding us our tribal language, the murders, the poisoning, the scalping, the denial of land custodianship, especially our spiritual sacred sites, the destruction of our sacred places especially our Bora Grounds […] Next year, 1988, to me marks 200 years of rape and carnage, all these terrible things that the Aboriginal tribes of Australia have suffered without any recognition even of admitted guilt from the parliaments of England […] From the Aboriginal

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point of view, what is there to celebrate? […] I  have therefore decided that as a protest against what the Bicentenary ‘Celebrations’ stand for, I  can no longer, with a clear conscience, accept the English honour of the MBE and will be returning it to her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II of England, through her representative, the Queensland State Governor, Sir Walter Campbell.116

In fact, Unaipon had been awarded a Coronation medal from the Queen in 1953 but the time was not yet right for protest of the sort that Noonuccal initiated. Facing ill health, she withdrew from active involvement in political organisations to live on Minjerribah (North Stradbroke island). Near One Mile, she assembled a gunyah  –​a traditional shelter –​on negotiated leasehold land, the beginnings of a learning facility, and named it Moongalba (‘the sitting-​down place’). This was the start of the Noonuccal-​Nughie Education and Cultural Centre, where she regularly conducted programmes for groups of school students and visitors.117 Michele Grossman identifies a diminished visibility of Noonuccal’s work in school and university syllabi which says a great deal about ‘the inordinate length of time during which her writing was the sole  –​and hence obdurately tokenistic  –​representative of Aboriginal women’s writing to circulate in mainstream academic and popular readership domains’.118 Both Noonuccal and Unaipon suffered from the pressure of ‘being exceptional and being first’ to use Karen Fox’s phrase.119 The emphasis on their being ‘first’ draws our attention to the ways in which Indigenous people are often characterised. The ‘last full-​ blooded Aborigine’ of the ‘the last of his or her tribe’ were common labels attached by white Australians. As A. L. McCann argues, there was a desperation to the elegiac evocations of Aboriginal vanishing in the nineteenth century. McCann points to the Aboriginal death songs of Charles Harpur and Henry Kendall, the Indigenous-​themed poems of George Gordon McCrae, poems on the death of Truganini and the recurrence of references to ‘last’ of his or her tribe and the ‘dying chieftain’ in colonial writing.120 Just as settler-​Australians fetishised the ‘last’, groundbreaking writers needed to be categorised as the ‘first’ even if this was not entirely correct. Given the widespread racism of the era, Unaipon was also in the difficult position of being ‘a human contradiction in terms’, a figure who would speak for his race; a seemingly unbearable burden for anyone to shoulder.121 Fittingly, Unaipon and Noonuccal are remembered through writing awards.122 Queensland Poetry Festival initiated the Oodgeroo Noonuccal Indigenous Poetry Prize in 2016 which was named in honour of the poet. Noonuccal herself was a judge for the inaugural David Unaipon Award presented to an unpublished Aboriginal writer in 1989; an award which continues to be presented this day. Jeanine Leane argues that ‘its establishment went beyond repatriating Unaipon to literary culture, to recognising “living literature” in its own time.’123 In other words, it was not just about recognising Unaipon’s past contribution to Australian literature and culture but also to support living Indigenous writers into the future. The University of Queensland Press’s Black Australian Writers Series launched in 1990, evolving out of the David Unaipon Award. This has been a vehicle through which many otherwise unpublished Indigenous authors’ work have come



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into print.124 Awards such as this –​like the fellowships in memory of Eleanor Dark and Katharine Susannah Prichard mentioned in Chapter Seven –​serve to link a ‘heritage author’ to the literary production of a new generation, thereby keeping their names and works in circulation more effectively than a physical monument ever could.125 Further scholarly debate about the value of Unaipon’s work is required if he is to be granted the credit he deserves as one of the most inventive writers in the history of Australian literature. This chapter suggests that while imported modes of monumental commemoration may not be entirely appropriate for remembering Unaipon, placemaking practices offer creative alternatives for keeping him in the public eye, to remind people of his literary legacy. If the Unaipon installation at Tailem Bend creates a place that actively welcomes Indigenous people, it will be one of very few Australian commemorations to achieve this goal.

CONCLUSION: TOWARDS AN EXPANDED REPERTOIRE OF LITERARY COMMEMORATIONS Most monuments cannot survive the decay of their cultural matrix. –​ Yi-​Fu  Tuan1

We are living in an era in which earlier commemorations are being questioned and even removed, as with statues of Robert E.  Lee in Texas and Cecil Rhodes in Cape Town. The statue of Captain Cook in Hyde Park, Sydney, has been vandalised, revealing dissent about what he represents to the nation. To date, literary commemorations have not tended to receive the same treatment, but there is increasing discussion about the lack of representation of Indigenous authors, women writers and authors from non-​Anglo backgrounds.2 The Australian terrain has been thoroughly mapped by nationalist heritage practices which may no longer relate to contemporary values. As elsewhere, the focus has moved to accommodating and recognising those who have been excluded. But the problem of what to do with old, irrelevant relics remains:  should they be removed, annotated or otherwise modified? Just because they are monumental in form, it does not mean that they must remain on display in perpetuity. Monuments usually have quite clear messages inscribed upon them, but their meanings can subsequently be altered or reinterpreted by changing their framing. There are memorial texts which are offensive, or no longer meaningful, that might be edited out of the national story by being recycled, put into storage or even destroyed. John R. Gillis observes that the old monuments ‘have lost much of their power to commemorate, to forge and sustain a single vision of the past, but they remain useful as times and places where groups with very different memories of the same events can communicate, appreciate, and negotiate their respective differences’.3 Up until the 2000s, literary memorials to ‘great’ white men have dominated. Sue-​ Anne Ware argues that Australia’s memorial landscape is developing away from formal, official sites and objects of memory, which are separate from people’s daily lives. She draws attention to the creation of ‘anti-​memorials’ which force people to question the rationale behind traditional memorial designs, especially the ways in which they reflect collective public memory.4 Chris Healy has proposed a shift towards ‘vernacular’ heritage which is ‘particular and lived’ rather than ‘general and abstract’.5 In a post-​pluralist era in which multiple identities have slowly been granted representation, we need a more

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diverse range of commemorations in public spaces as focal points for discussion and debate about the ‘past’. There are myriad reasons for establishing literary memorials, but they usually rely on Federal and State government support which requires something in return –​in other words, the memorial object must ‘raise the profile’ of the place, effectively enhancing its ‘brand’.6 These bodies make decisions based on what ‘value’ new monuments might have for the community, deploying literary artefacts to reassert cultural identity and to halt the process of population drift in region areas. Inevitably, there is a pragmatic and even cynical dimension to this process at times. As M. Barnard Eldershaw’s Plaque with Laurel (1947) shows, this is a far from recent phenomenon. In Eldershaw’s novel, the deceased writer Richard Crale is commemorated with a memorial in Canberra bedecked with flags. His wife is bemused by the unveiling ceremony for a man who distrusted such honours. It was as if his life, that had been so turbulent, unhappy and unfinished, had solidified into a sculptured oval surrounded by a laurel wreath in bronze. The plaque, so formal, so correct, would remain on the wall till it crumbled, and even if it fell the more enduring bronze would still persist, a pin-​point of immortality for Richard. All she could say was ‘Just odd that Dick should have a monument in Canberra. It’s all so unlike him. He’d think it very queer himself.’7

Crale’s friend Jim smiles politely during the ceremony but reflects ‘how unappeasing a crumb it was to offer that memory’.8 Crale’s memorial ceremony is a pretext for the government to demonstrate publicly its support for the arts, rather than a heartfelt gesture. The minister, Mr Bunce, says, ‘I’m not a bookish man, and I don’t pretend to be […] Ladies and gentleman, never has Australia had a government more anxious to foster national culture by every means within its power […] Culture is the nation’s crown, and in that crown literature is the brightest jewel.’9 Although Bunce claims that literature is the nation’s ‘brightest jewel’, it has not always been cherished in Australia. As this satirical account suggests, literary commemoration has been used shamelessly for nation-​building purposes, in ways that the authors concerned would not have appreciated. Crale’s plaque is located in Canberra, far from the places that were most meaningful to him, while many commemorative practices are tied –​albeit tenuously –​to sites connected with the dead author’s biography. Plaque with Laurel was inspired by the ceremony for Joseph Furphy held at Yarra Glen in 1934, which was driven by the efforts of the indefatigable Kate Baker. Individuals have begun many campaigns for commemoration around Australia, with the support of literary associations and other small community organisations. Unfortunately, the members of many literary societies are ageing, leading to diminishing numbers, as they have limited appeal for younger people. Societies are increasingly working together, pooling their energies as a matter of survival.10 During my research, I  have identified predictable patterns of commemorative activity, especially for pre–​Second World War writers. Botanical tributes are

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common  –​like the emphasis on wattle, Gordon’s ‘especial flower’  –​yet these living things are fragile and prone to extinction, such as the ill-​fated Lawson sugar gum in Footscray Park and Furphy’s Mulga tree in Shepparton. Informative cairns are an ever-​present form of tribute, almost invisible in their ubiquity. Usually presented with embedded plaques, cairns may be understood as a kind of default commemoration to be used when supporters cannot think of an alternative or afford anything more substantial. The unpretentious nature of the cairn may itself be part of its popularity. Indeed, as Peter Conrad notes, ‘stones, because they mark graves, are the most ancient symbols of memory’.11 The narrative appeal of many Australian literary places derives partly from the austere circumstances of the author’s birth and early life. And in many cases, the authors continued to live in impoverished conditions due to unstable employment. The John Shaw Neilson National Memorial Cottage in Nhill pays tribute to a poet who worked as an itinerant labourer for most of his life. The tiny rough-​hewn cottage originally stood in Racecourse Road, near Penola in South Australia, and was re-​erected in Nhill after a local campaign in 1972. The sites in New South Wales associated with Lawson’s birth and youth famously demonstrate this quality of privation. Robert Darby argues that the decay of Lawson’s old home in Eurunderee became a bitter symbol of all the frustrated efforts of his fellow writers to develop a national literature and earn a living by their pen. He notes that George Farwell drew wider conclusions from this neglect, linking it with the Australian public’s apathy towards native literature. ‘Yet, perhaps, after all, the atmosphere is true. It stands as a memorial to a creative artist Australia neglected in his lifetime.’12 Indeed, the demolition of the remains of the original house and its transformation into a more acceptable (though less resonant) public site is typical of traditional commemorative practices in Australia. Peter Pierce has identified the ‘success of failure’ paradigm in relation to Australian authors.13 At literary sites, misfortune and suffering tend to strike a chord with visitors who wish to imagine the author’s impoverishment. Instead of being seen as an indictment of the widespread ambivalence towards local authors and the lack of will to support them, modest writers’ dwellings are often read as symbols of the ‘pioneering days’. Efforts to commemorate authors may be a form of belated compensation for hardship and tragedy in the writer’s life, which is later romanticised at a safe distance from the ‘real’ person concerned. When researching this book, I have reflected on the fact that Australian authors often live and work in inconvenient and hard-​ to-​ reach places, with vast spaces between them, not in ‘straight lines and rows’.14 Most of the literary places that I have investigated are located in rural or regional areas where heritage property is perhaps more easily kept intact due to factors such as lower real estate prices and slower rates of change. Artefacts like Kylie’s Hut, in Crowdy Bay, New South Wales, which seem to refer to Australia’s ‘simpler’ rural past, are in danger of being seen through a nostalgic lens. It would be misleading for Kylie’s Hut to be read as a tribute to a bush writer in the mode of Paterson and Lawson when she was a strident advocate for marginalised

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voices, especially those of women, while overlooking the Indigenous heritage that surrounded her. Nevertheless, the creation of the Crowdy Bay National Park –​and the Chauncy Vale sanctuary in Tasmania –​were predicated on the dispossession of Indigenous people. The restoration of literary properties raises questions about the methods by which they should be preserved or enhanced. Writers’ houses are discussed often in this book –​ including at least one ‘non-​house’ in the case of Gordon’s Brighton cottage  –​some that have been fully ‘restored’ and others that are in varying states of decay. Ruins like Paterson’s Buckinbah homestead in Yeoval and Eve Langley’s shack in Leura in the Blue Mountains tend not to be in the public eye, sometimes due to indifference, or disputes, but also partly because of official concern about public health and safety. The caves of Dark and Chauncy –​in the Blue Mountains and Bagdad, respectively –​require an eneregtic scramble through bushland to reach.15 Restoration can irrevocably alter a building’s ambiance, as in the case of Emmaville Cottage in Orange. Compared with Kylie’s Hut, which has been left to weather the elements, Emmaville seems blank; yet this potential for mutability may be part of its appeal. Although it serves a useful purpose as a hub for Paterson-​related activities, and to encourage cultural tourism, its original character is hard to perceive, except in old photos of the cottage pre-​restoration. The houses of Eleanor Dark and Katharine Susannah Prichard function both as writers’ homes and as centres where living writers can stay and work. Prichard’s and Dark’s names remain in circulation partly due to the efforts of staff and through the fellowships offered to writers. Their influence can continue through the writing produced in situ, which is often subtly shaped by the writer’s house and everything it contains, including the writer’s relics. Resident authors, being imaginative people, commune with the ghosts of the houses and use these encounters in their own work, powerfully revivifying the host writer. Authorial relics  –​often stored in writers’ houses or museums  –​serve to mediate between the author’s everyday life and the literary tourist who arrives belatedly. Objects offer possibilities for enlivening interest in an author’s biography, and their writing, given their ability to be scrutinised by anyone, even non-​readers. But they are not always recognised as precious unless the author has achieved substantial fame in their lifetime. There’s a dangerous interval between the author’s death and their commemoration during which precious items can be discarded or destroyed, sometimes at the author’s insistence. As Alison Booth argues, ‘the death of an author, like a bankruptcy, threatens to demote possessions to junk’.16 Although traditional modes of commemoration have been challenged by the anti-​ memorial movement and subverted by vernacular heritage and visual art practices, when it comes to certain prominent writers, conventional choices are more likely. Naturally it also depends on the ambitions of the entities organising them. The decisions of four Australian towns to construct Mary Poppins statues shows that this traditional medium has not gone out of favour altogether, despite changing fashions of memorialisation.

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The competition between Maryborough, Allora, Ashfield and Bowral might be partly attributed to economic competition for the tourist dollar, given the global popularity of Mary Poppins. Bowral’s vehement efforts to show that their town was the birthplace of Mary Poppins, and therefore more important than other places, indicates a degree of  ­parochialism but also, paradoxically, show a preference for a mythical nanny over genuinely home-​grown figures. As I have observed in relation to Henry Lawson and Joseph Furphy, the imported notion of the ‘author country’ requires rich literary investment in one region, rendering many authors ineligible, especially minority figures. It is most applicable to authors such as Furphy, Lawson and Paterson whose fictions rely on close textual engagement with areas associated with their biographies, but this opportunity has been extended only to white male writers. Instead, Anglo-​Australian women writers have been allocated houses and gardens rather than wider ‘countries’, indicating some residual ambivalence about women’s authorship.17 Furthermore, the notion of author country would seem to be anathema to Indigenous commemoration given that it tends to ‘overwrite’ histories which are already embedded in place. ‘Author country’ is orientated around the individual, and for this reason it does not sit well with the Indigenous concept of Country that emphasises belonging and caretaking rather than ownership in the Western sense. Country is also multidimensional, taking in people, animals, plants, Dreamings, underground, earth, soils, minerals and waters, surface water and air.18 ‘Author countries’ are usually named after male writers from the late nineteenth or early twentieth centuries whereas ‘Country’ has origins and a future; it exists both in and through time.19 Ideally the idea of ‘author country’ could coexist respectfully with acknowledgement of the sovereignty of the land which it traverses. Instead of obscuring the heritage and ongoing habitation of Indigenous people, author country might be just one of many layers of meaning associated with a place or region. To date there have been few Indigenous memorials, with an even smaller number of commemorations to Indigenous authors. This may be partly due to the fact that the energies of First Nations people have inevitably been diverted to more immediate concerns. Jack Latimore has argued that there are more pressing issues in Australian history than who gets their own statue:  ‘The return of sacred and significant landmarks to their traditional names and the care of local mob is more important than any manufactured edifices.’20 As I  discussed in Chapter Ten, this limited repertoire of literary memorials might be enhanced or even transformed through the adoption of placemaking practices to celebrate Indigenous individuals and groups. These practices involve a complex interplay between both the interiorities of traditional and contemporary Indigenous cultural practices and the exteriorities of Western value systems that vary enormously across nations and between individuals.21 In future these practices should be driven by First Nations people themselves in order to produce authentic –​and imaginative –​tributes. Indeed this has exciting implications for the entire field of literary commemoration.

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Instead of merely adding an Indigenous component to Australian heritage, the inclusion of Aboriginal perspectives and practices has the potential to transform the category of Australian heritage. Ideally this should be initiated by Indigenous people or result from close collaboration rather than replicating practices of the past which have often involved white Australians imposing Western modes of commemoration. As I have argued in this book, there is a limited repertoire of modes which have been employed in Australian literary memorialisation –​with a surfeit of plaques, cairns and statues –​indicating that the field of commemoration is in need of creative reinvigoration.

NOTES Introduction: Remembering Absent Authors 1 Miles Franklin, Address delivered at the Lawson statue, Outer Domain, Sydney, on 5 September 1942, at the annual ceremony arranged by the Fellowship of Australian Writers in commemoration of Henry Lawson. This tribute was first published in Meanjin Papers 1, no. 12 (Christmas 1942). 2 Chilla Bulbeck, The Stone Laurel:  Of Race, Gender and Class in Australian Memorials (Nathan, Queensland: Institute for Cultural Policy Studies, Division of Humanities, Griffith University, 1988), 1. 3 Nicola Watson (ed.), The Literary Tourist:  Readers and Places in Romantic and Victorian Britain (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), 5. 4 Pierre Nora, ‘Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Memoire’, Representations 26 (1989), 8. 5 Francis Hartog, cited by Anita Kasabova, ‘Memory, Memorials and Commemoration’, History and Theory 47, no. 3 (October 2008), 331–​50. 6 Nora, ‘Between Memory and History’, 14. 7 Howard Williams, ‘Depicting the Dead: Commemoration through Cists, Cairns and Symbols in Early Medieval Britain’, Cambridge Archaeological Journal 17, no. 2 (2007), 145–​64 (145). 8 Kirk Savage, ‘The Politics of Memory: Black Emancipation and the Civil War Monument’, in Commemorations: The Politics of National Identity, edited by John R. Gillis (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994), 130. 9 P. L. Travers was not recognised as an Australian author until the late 1990s. Her character Mary Poppins is explicitly celebrated by towns associated with Travers’s biography rather than the author herself. 10 Kylie Tennant donated her hut and land to be turned into a National Park in response to the rutile mining which was occurring in and around Diamond Head, New South Wales. 11 Patrick Wright, On Living in an Old Country (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 232. 12 Richard Prentice, ‘Heritage:  A Key Sector in the “New” Tourism’, in Heritage, Museums and Galleries: An Introductory Reader, edited by Richard Corsane (Abingdon: Routledge, 2005), 244. 13 Keith W. Eirinberg, ‘Culture under Fire’, Geographical Magazine 64, no. 12 (1992), 24–​28. 14 Towns may be possessive over their association with a certain author, as in the case of the New South Wales towns of Grenfell and Gulgong and their simultaneous Henry Lawson festivals or the competition between Bowral, Maryborough and Allora over the provenance of P. L. Travers’s famous character Mary Poppins. Other towns agree to ‘share’ their association with a writer and celebrate them together, as Yeoval and Orange have done in to the case of A. B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson. 15 Laurajane Smith, Uses of Heritage (London: Routledge, 2006), 11. 16 Chris Healy, Forgetting Aborigines (Sydney: University of New South Wales Press, 2008), 102. 17 State government heritage bodies such as the Victorian Historic Buildings Preservation Council, the New South Wales Heritage Council and the South Australian Heritage Committee have made statutory lists mainly of historic buildings and sites. 18 The Register of the National Estate (RNE) was wound down after 2003 and frozen on 19 February 2007 and is no longer a statutory list. All references to the Register of the National

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Estate were removed from the Environment Protection, and Biodiversity Conservation Act 1999 on 19 February and from 2012 it became an inert archive. 19 Wright, On Living in an Old Country, 236. 20 Tony Bennett, The Birth of the Museum: History, Theory, Politics (Milton Park, Abingdon: Routledge, 1995), 136. 21 Maie Casey’s Early Melbourne Architecture (1953), which she co-​authored with Joan Lindsay and others, formed the basis for the Victorian Trust’s first classification list which took shape in the late 1950s. James Lesh and David Nichols argue that Bread and Cheese Club members were networked into the Victorian Trust’s body and leadership, influencing their activities and involved in their own activism. (See James Lesh and David Nichols, ‘The Ruins Caused a Catch in the Throat as Memories Came Flooding In: Melbourne’s Bread and Cheese Club and Postwar Literary Urban Conservationism’, Remaking Cities Conference Proceedings, Melbourne 2018, retrieved 16 Aug 2018 from: https://​apo.org.au/​node/​212611.) 22 The Heritage of Australia: The Illustrated Register of the National Estate (The Macmillan Company of Australia in association with the Australian Heritage Commission supported by H. C. Sleigh Limited, 1981), 12. 23 Gough Whitlam, ‘National Estate Report’, Prime Minister Press statement no. 237, 27 April 1974, retrieved 21 March 2019 from: http://​pmtranscripts.pmc.gov.au/​sites/​default/​files/​original/​00003221.pdf. 24 This is Chris Healy’s term –​see Forgetting Aborigines (Sydney: University of New South Wales Press, 2008), 101. 25 Wright, On Living in an Old Country, 236. 26 There are numerous writerly commemorations which could not be included such as C.  J. Dennis’s Singing Gardens at Toolangi, Victoria; John Shaw Neilson’s cottage which was relocated from Penola to Nhill; Joan and Daryl Lindsay’s house Mulberry Hill at Langwarrin; the Carringbush Hotel named after the suburb in Frank Hardy’s novel Power Without Glory and many others. 27 Mark Salber Phillips, ‘William Godwin and the Idea of Historical Commemoration: History as Public Memory and Private Sentiment’, in Shifting the Boundaries: Languages of Public and Private in the Eighteenth Century, edited by Dario Castiglione and Lesley Sharpe (Exeter, Devon: University of Exeter Press, 1995), 197. 28 Paul Readman, Storied Ground: Landscape and the Shaping of English National Identity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 134 29 Robert Dixon, ‘A “Complicated Joy”: The Aesthetic Theory of Associationism and Its Influence in Early Tasmanian Culture’, in The Flow of Culture: Tasmanian Studies, edited by Michael Roe (Canberra: Australian Academy of the Humanities, 1987), 122. 30 Ibid. 31 Ibid. 32 This phrase is taken from Mark Akenside’s The Pleasures of the Imagination (1744). 33 Henry Gyles Turner review of George Gordon McCrae’s Balladeadro which he published in the Spectator in 1867, cited by A. L. McCann in The Literature of Extinction, Meanjin Papers 65, no. 1 (2006), 48–​54. 34 Ian D.  Clark, ‘An Historical Geography of Tourism in Victoria, Australia  –​Case Studies’, retrieved 15 April 2017 from: https://​www.degruyter.com/​view/​product/​430898 35 Julia Horne, The Pursuit of Wonder: How Australia’s Landscape Was Explored, Nature Discovered and Tourism Unleashed (Carlton, Victoria: Miegunyah Press, 2005), 31–​32. 36 Barron Field, ‘On Reading the Controversy between Lord Byron and Mr Bowles’, First Fruits of Australian Poetry (Sydney: R. Howe, 1823), reprinted in Macmillan Anthology of Australian Literature, edited by Ken Goodwin and Alan Lawson (South Melbourne: Macmillan, 1990), 314. 37 Phillips, ‘William Godwin and the Idea of Historical Commemoration’, 208. 38 While many mining towns suffered decline in the 1880s and 1890s, others like Portland in Victoria were showing signs of decline in the 1840s. See Helen Doyle, ‘Local History and

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Decline in Country Victoria’, in Struggle Country:  The Rural Ideal in Twentieth Century Australia, edited by Graeme Davison and Marc Brodie (Melbourne: Monash University ePress, 2005), 2. 39 Marcus Clarke, Preface to Adam Lindsay Gordon’s Poems, retrieved 5 June 2017 from University of Adelaide ebooks:  https://​ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/​g/​gordon/​adam_​lindsay/​ poems/​preface.html. 40 Ken Gelder, ‘Colonial Australian Gothic Literature’, Literature Oxford Research Encyclopaedia, retrieved 10 March 2018 from:  http://​oxfordre.com/​literature/​view/​10.1093/​acrefore/​ 9780190201098.001.0001/​acrefore-​9780190201098-​e-​143 . 41 W. H. Wilde, Joy W. Hooton and Barry G. Andrews, Oxford Companion to Australian Literature, 2nd Revised Edition (Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1994), 170. 42 Jim Davidson, ‘Port Arthur: A Tourist History’, Australian Historical Studies 26, no. 105 (1995), 653–​65. 43 Ibid. 44 Ibid. 45 K. S. Inglis, Sacred Places: War Memorials in the Australian Landscape (Carlton, Victoria: Miegunyah Press, 1998), 32. 46 Ibid. 47 Charles Dickens Will, ‘Charles Dickens Statue’, retrieved from Centennial Parklands website: www.centennialparklands.com.au. 48 The Guardian, retrieved 10 April 2017 from: https://​www.theguardian.com/​books/​2018/​feb/​ 07/​miss-​havisham-​a-​sydneysider-​dickens-​australian-​links-​get-​an-​airing. 49 The Guardian, retrieved 10 April 2017 from: https://​www.theguardian.com/​books/​2018/​feb/​ 07/​miss-​havisham-​a-​sydneysider-​dickens-​australian-​links-​get-​an-​airing. 50 ‘Charles Dickens Statue’, retrieved from Centennial Parklands website:  www. centennialparklands.com.au. 51 The Guardian, retrieved 10 April 2017 from: https://​www.theguardian.com/​books/​2018/​feb/​ 07/​miss-​havisham-​a-​sydneysider-​dickens-​australian-​links-​get-​an-​airing. 52 Gordon addresses Kendall as ‘Dr K’ in correspondence kept at the State Library of Victoria. See Facsimile of a letter from A.  L. Gordon to ‘Dr K’, [19-​-?​] MS Sequence (Australian Box  2/​9). 53 George Forbes, Letter to the Editor, The Argus (Melbourne), 26 August 1889, n.p. 54 Watson, The Literary Tourist, 11. 55 Ian M. Matly suggests that a new type of literary geography, which included the concept of a writer’s ‘country’ as the region, place or city most closely identifiable with the writer’s life and works emerged in the work of William Sharp, Archibald Geikie, Edward Thomas and Margaret Drabble. See ‘Literary Geography and the Writer’s Country’, Scottish Geographical Magazine 103, no. 3 (1987), 122–​31. 56 Tom Griffiths, Hunters and Collectors: The Antiquarian Imagination in Australia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 159. 57 Charles R. Long, ‘Monuments, Local Histories and Commemoration Days’, in Save Australia: A Plea for the Right Use of Our Flora and Fauna, edited by Sir James Barrett (Melbourne: Macmillan, 1925), 25, 34. 58 Professor G. H. Cowling, ‘The Future of Australian literature’, Age, 16 February 1935, n.p., cited by P.  R. Stephensen in The Foundations of Culture in Australia:  An Essay towards National Self-​Respect, retrieved 3 September 2017 from:  http://​home.alphalink.com.au/​~radnat/​ stephensen/​prs4.html. 59 The Age (Melbourne), 23 February 1935, 4, cited by Craig Munro, Inky Stephensen: Wild Man of Letters (St Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 1993), 151–​2. 60 The Age (Melbourne), 23 February 1935, 4 61 Munro, Inky Stephensen,  156–​7. 62 Victor Kennedy to Kate Baker, 16 August 1937, Victor Kennedy papers, State Library of Victoria, MS 9419/​2745.

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63 J. K. Ewers, broadcast, n.d. [1935], copy in Kate Baker’s papers, National Library of Australia, MS 2022/​8/​11. 64 Kate Baker to Victor Kennedy, 19 January 1935, Victor Kennedy papers, State Library of Victoria, MS 9419/​2466. 65 Robert Darby, ‘ “A National Literary Shrine”:  Attempts to Save the Henry Lawson Family Home, 1935–​46’, Journal of the Royal Australian Historical Society 74, no. 3 (1988), 244. 66 Christopher Lee, The City Bushman:  Henry Lawson and the Australian Imagination (Perth:  Curtin University Books, 2004), 206. 67 Tracy Banivanua Mar, ‘Settler-​Colonial Landscapes and Narratives of Possession’, Arena, no. 37/​38 (2012), 194. 68 See Chris Healy, From the Ruins of Colonialism: History as Social Memory (Melbourne: Cambridge University Press, 1997); Tom Griffiths, ‘Past Silences: Aborigines and Convicts in Our History-​ Making’, Australian Cultural History 6 (1987), 18–​32; Chilla Bulbeck, ‘Aborigines, Memorial and the History of the Frontier’, in Packaging the Past? Public Histories, edited by John Rickard and Peter Spearitt (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1991), 168–​78; Bruce Scates and Rae Frances, ‘Honouring the Aboriginal Dead’, Arena 86 (1989), 72–​80. 69 W. E. H. Stanner, After the Dreaming: Black and White Australians –​An Anthropologist’s View, The Boyer Lectures (Sydney: Australian Broadcasting Corporation, 1968). 70 Inglis, Sacred Places, 21. 71 Settlers in the Western District were unwilling to contribute funds to the building of a monument to Wombeech Puyuun by James Dawson in 1885. 72 Susan O. Keitumetse and Arpakwa O. Sikorei refer to the suffocation and ‘breathing’ potential of cultural resources in their article ‘Sub Saharan Africa:  Protected Landscapes and International Policy’, in The Oxford Handbook of Public Heritage Theory and Practice, edited by Angela M. Labrador and Neil Asher Silberman (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018), 36–​50. They describe the ‘suffocation factor’ as being the exclusion of Indigenous peoples’ heritage from protected areas (see page 38). 73 Maria Tumarkin, Traumascapes:  The Power and Fate of Places Transformed by Tragedy (Carlton: Melbourne University Publishing, 2005), 202. 74 Martyn Lyons, ‘Literary Anniversaries:  Commemorating Shakespeare and Others, 1900-​ 1940’ A History of the Book in Australia 1891-​1945: A National Culture in a Colonised Market (eds) Martyn Lyons and John Arnold, (St. Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 2001), 389. 75 Like many details of Shakespeare’s life, the exact dates of his birth and death are debated but his birthday has been nominated as 23 April. 76 Ibid, 390. 77 Ibid 391. 78 Harry Malloch, A Brief History of the Bread & Cheese Club, issued as a souvenir of the Club’s Art and Literature exhibition, November 1940, 2. 79 Sandra Burt, ‘Kate Baker and a “matter of national importance” ’, La Trobe Journal, no.  58 (Spring 1996), 38. 80 G. J.  MacKay of the ALG Commemorative Committee to Kate Baker of the ALCA, 21 September 1948, Royal Historical Society of Victoria. 81 In Melbourne, there is an overlapping membership of the Adam Lindsay Gordon Commemorative Committee, the Henry Lawson Literary and Memorial Society, the John Shaw Neilson Society and Australian Unity (formerly the Australian Natives’ Association). 82 There are some important precursors to this book, namely Australia’s Writers: An Illustrated Guide to Their Lives and Work (1980); Tasmanian Literary Landmarks (1984); The Oxford Literary Guide to Australia (1987). 83 Heritage might be seen as a material legacy of the past but also as a performative practice. See Gregory Ashworth, Brian Graham and John Tunbridge (eds), Pluralising Pasts: Heritage, Identity and Place in Multicultural Societies (London: Pluto Press, 2007), 2.

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84 Tony Bennett, The Birth of the Museum:  History, Politics, Theory (London:  Routledge, 1995), 130. 85 Ibid. 86 Kirk Savage, ‘The Politics of Memory: Black Emancipation and the Civil War Monument’, in Commemorations: The Politics of National Identity, edited by John R. Gillis (New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1994), 130. 87 The Australian scene is notable for the relative absence of the lavish literary houses and properties to be found in Europe and America. This is not to say that all overseas literary properties are ‘grand’:  the very basic houses in which Edgar Allan Poe lived are a case in point. There are a few properties in Australia which are exceptions such as Mulberry Hill, Joan Lindsay’s well-​appointed house in Langwarrin, Melbourne, administered by the National Trust. 88 Alexandra King, ‘Emmaville Cottage in the Spotlight on ABC’s Restoration Australia’, Central Western Daily, 5 September 2015, retrieved from:  http://​www.centralwesterndaily.com.au/​ story/​3328171/​emmaville-​cottage-​in-​the-​spotlight-​on-​abcs-​restoration-​australia/​. 89 Ibid. 90 Caitlin DeSilvey (2006), cited by Bjørnar Olsen, In Defense of Things: Archaeology and the Ontology (Plymouth: AltaMira Press, 2010), 170. 91 Nevertheless, the fact that these figures are not yet celebrated in tangible, material forms means that there are fewer examples to examine in this book. 92 The Words in Place cartography project found no Indigenous representation beyond Canberra street names and the Writers’ Walk at Circular Quay in Sydney. (See Toby Davidson and Donna Houston, ‘Mapping Australian Literary Commemoration in Sydney, Melbourne and Canberra: Problems and Prospects’, Journal of the Association for the Study of Australian Literature 1, no. 18 (2018) [online].) 93 Anoma Pieris, Naomi Tootell, Fiona Johnson, Janet McGaw and Reuben Berg, Indigenous Place: Contemporary Buildings, Landmarks and Places of Significance in South East Australia and Beyond (Melbourne: School of Design, Faculty of Architecture Building and Planning, the University of Melbourne, 2014), 126. 94 Ibid.

Chapter One  Adam Lindsay Gordon’s Grave 1 Ken Stewart, ‘The Australian Literature Society, 1899–​1979’, Notes & Furphies, no.  4 (April 1980), 3–​5. Stewart notes that ‘the Adam Lindsay Gordon cult of previous decades of this century was reflected in an annual commemorative “Gordon evening”, frequently held on the poet’s birthday; it continued from 1903 until at least the 1920s’. 2 Introduction to The Last Letters 1868–​1870: Adam Lindsay Gordon to John Riddoch, edited with an introduction by Hugh Anderson (Melbourne: Hawthorn Press, 1970), 14. 3 Ian Ousby, The Englishman’s England: Taste, Travel and the Rise of Tourism (Cambridge: Pimlico, 2002), 19. 4 The name of the Dingley Dell Museum refers to the Dingley Dell from Charles Dickens’s The Pickwick Papers (1836–​37). 5 Ian F. McLaren, Adam Lindsay Gordon: A Comprehensive Bibliography (Parkville, Victoria: University of Melbourne Library, 1986), xx. 6 Melissa Bellanta, ‘Poor Gordon: What the Australian Cult of Adam Lindsay Gordon Tells Us about Turn-​of-​the-​Century Masculine Sentimentality’, Gender & History 28, no. 2 (2016), 408–​9. 7 William Howitt, Homes and Haunts of the Most Eminent British Poets (London: R. Bentley, 1847). 8 Gay Lynch has written about her re-​enactment of Gordon’s final walk: ‘I run along the sea path and foreshore at the end of Park Street, site of Gordon’s suicide, where, despite clearings on

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both sides, the gnarly tea-​tree scrub and seascape remains.’ (See ‘Towards Nailing Ghosts for Creative Purpose: The Suicide of Adam Lindsay Gordon’, Writing the Ghost Train: Refereed conference papers of the 20th Annual AAWP Conference, 2015, retrieved 10 August 2018 from: http://​www.aawp.org.au/​wp-​content/​uploads/​2016/​02/​Lynch.pdf.) 9 ‘The Suicide of Mr A. L. Gordon’, The Argus (Melbourne), 25 June 1870, 5. 10 ‘Gordon, Adam Lindsay (1830–​1870)’, Obituaries Australia, retrieved 12 August 2016 from: oa. anu.edu.au/​obituary/​Gordon-​adam-​lindsay-​3635. 11 ‘The Suicide of Mr A. L. Gordon’, 6. 12 Michael Wilding, Wild Bleak Bohemia:  Marcus Clarke, Adam Lindsay Gordon and Henry Kendall; A Documentary (North Melbourne: Australian Scholarly Publishing, 2014), 331. 13 The Bread and Cheese Club was a Melbourne-​based literary society with a creed of ‘mateship and letters’ founded in 1938 and disbanded in 1988. Its ‘knight grand cheese’ was J. K. Moir, a well-​known literary patron and book collector. The club published Bohemia: The All-​Australian Literary Magazine and a number of other pamphlets, including the anonymously authored An English Wreath for Gordon’s Grave in 1947. 14 Douglas Sladen claimed that ‘he was the poet of the horse. No other poet ever understood horses so well. He made them live in his poems. The rhythm in his poems was the rhythm of riding. But they contained also such lofty philosophy of manhood as only such a hero could have penned.’ ‘Quotes on Gordon’, The Adam Lindsay Gordon Commemorative Committee Inc., 2012, retrieved 5 August 2017 from: adamlindsay Gordon.org/​quotes.htm. 15 ‘The Suicide of Mr A. L. Gordon’, 5. 16 Brighton Southern Cross, 6 September 1913, 6. 17 ‘The Suicide of Mr A. L. Gordon’, 6. 18 ‘The Late Mr. A. L. Gordon’, Australasian (Melbourne), 15 October 1870, 10. 19 Ibid., 10. 20 Elizabeth Lauder, letter to the Brighton Cemetery Sexton, 23 June 1884, from ‘Timeline of Adam Lindsay Gordon’, retrieved 15 June 2018 from: adamlindsaygordon.com/​6.-​the-​legacy. html. 21 Libby Robin, How a Continent Created a Nation (Sydney: University of New South Wales Press, 2007), 16. 22 C. J. Dennis, ‘The Golden Whistler’, Herald, 18 March 1933, 8. 23 John Howlett Ross, ‘Gordon’s English Sweetheart’, The Adam Lindsay Gordon Memorial Volume, edited by Edward A. Vidler (Melbourne: Lothian Publishing Company, 1926), xl. 24 John Howlett Ross, ‘At Gordon’s Grave’, Argus, 27 June 1892, republished in An English Wreath for Gordon’s Grave (1947). 25 ‘The Austral’ (John Howlett Ross), ‘At the Grave of Adam Lindsay Gordon’, Border Watch, 29 October 1890, 4. 26 Francesco Orlando, Obsolete Objects in the Literary Imagination:  Ruins, Relics, Rarities, Rubbish, Uninhabited Places, and Hidden Treasures (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2006), 9. 27 A. J. H. C. in ‘The Leader’, in ‘Some Personal Reminiscences of Gordon’, Border Watch, 15 January 1910, 1, retrieved from: https://​trove.nla.gov.au/​newspaper/​article/​77468395. 28 Argus, 21 October 1915. 29 The Border Watch continued to follow his career and to report faithfully on posthumous commemorations. 30 Howitt, Homes and Haunts, 62. 31 Southern Cross (Adelaide), 7 November 1930, 4; Northern Star (Lismore, NSW), 3 November 1930, 11. 32 The Wayfarer, no. 41, March 2017. 33 ‘Adam Lindsay Gordon’s Pictures’, Register, 29 January 1917, 7. 34 ‘Adam Lindsay Gordon’s Memory’, The Port Macquarie and Hastings River Advocate, 15 September 1917, 1.

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3 5 The Bendigonian (Bendigo, Victoria, 1914–​1918), 14 February 1918, 27. 36 McLaren, Adam Lindsay Gordon, xviii. 37 Ibid., xx. 38 Ibid., xix. 39 According to McLaren, A. H. Massina printed editions with the colophon for E. W. Cole in 1891, 1897, 1905 and 1911, while Longman, Green & Co. published Racing Rhymes in 1901. McLaren, Adam Lindsay Gordon, xx. 40 Ibid. 41 Douglas Sladen and Edith Humphris, Adam Lindsay Gordon and His Friends in England and Australia (London: Constable, 1921). 42 Border Watch (Mount Gambier, South Australia, 1861–​1954), 29 June 1912, 4.  The Sydney Morning Herald (1842–​1954), 7 December 1912, 6. 43 The Age, 31 October 1932. 44 ‘The Equestrian Statue Sturt St Ballarat’, The Wayfarer, 21 March 2012, 2. 45 Martin Lyons, ‘Literary Anniversaries:  Commemorating Shakespeare and Others, 1900–​ 1940’, in A History of the Book in Australia 1891-​1945: A National Culture in a Colonised Market, edited by Martyn Lyons and John Arnold (St Lucia: University of Queensalnd Press, 2001), 399. 46 The riding whip was given to the committee of the Adam Lindsay Gordon statue fund by Julius Grant of King’s Theatre who had been bequeathed it by a friend. It was reputed to be the whip Gordon used to win three races in one day at Flemungton racecourse. See ‘Literary Notes’, The Australasian, 20 October 1928, 8. 47 The Argus, 4 December 1928, 11. 48 The Gordon Lovers Society was broadly interested in literary commemoration and was known to visit the graves of people associated with Gordon such as Araluen Kendall (the poet Henry Kendall’s infant child) in 1936 and Marcus Clarke in 1937 among other ‘good works’. 49 Carolyn Webb, ‘To Some, Gordon Legend Stands Like Stone’, The Age, 24 June 2006, retrieved 10 May 2017 from:  http://​www.theage.com.au/​news/​national/​to-​some-​gordon-​legend-​ stands-​like-​stone/​2006/​06/​23/​1150845378137.html. 50 Charles Long also supported other ‘pioneering’ figures. In 1913, he stood up in front of the Royal Historical Society and urged the commemoration of Angus McMillan, a pioneer of Gippsland who is known to have participated in at least four massacres of local Kurnai people. He said: ‘Surely it is time Gippsland folk awoke to the privilege they posses (sic) to recognise worthily the work of their energetic pioneer.’ 51 ‘Pilgrimage to Gordon’s Statue’, Age, 27 November 1950, 4. 52 Ibid. 53 Bohemia (Melbourne), 1 February 1950, 31. 54 John Murphy, ‘Fewer Still Will Care’, Sun, 25 June 1969, 3. The title of the article is taken from Gordon’s poem ‘To My Sister’: ‘Across the trackless seas I go /​No matter when or where /​And few my future lot will know /​And fewer still will care.’ 55 Wilding, Wild Bleak Bohemia, 331. 56 Cyril Goode Diary, Papers, [not after 1982] [manuscript], State Library of Victoria, accession no: MSMCFB 1. 57 Ibid. 58 William Howitt, ‘Percy Bysshe Shelley’, Homes and Haunts of the Most Eminent British Poets (London: Routledge, Warne, & Routledge, 1847), reprinted by Nabu Press, 315. 59 Wallace Charles Landells, Adam Lindsay Gordon Cottage Folk Museum, (North Brighton: Adam Lindsay Gordon Cottage Folk Museum Trust, 1969). 60 John Adams, Adam Lindsay Gordon Commemorative Committee, email to the author, 2 February 2017. 61 Anne Trubek, A Skeptic’s Guide to Writers’ Houses (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011), 142.

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62 In 1919, her body was exhumed and moved to the cemetery in Brighton, to share her father’s plot. 63 ‘Tribute to Gordon. Ceremony at Ballarat. Memorial Cottage Opened’, Argus, 16 August 1934, 13. 64 Helen Dehn (no title) in The Wayfarer, no. 42, June 2017, 4–​6. 65 ‘200 Pay Homage to Gordon’ (no byline), Border Watch, 1 November 1932, 5. 66 Ibid. 67 The inscription of the obelisk reads: This obelisk was erected as a memorial to the famous australian poet. from near this spot in july, 1864 gordon made his famed leap on horseback over an old post and rail guard fence onto a narrow ledge overlooking the blue lake and jumped back again onto the roadway. 68 On 17 October 1915, a Laurustinus shrub taken from Gordon’s grave was planted in Vansittart Park, Mount Gambier, by John Livingston MHR. This shrub died and was replaced by a golden wattle from the Brighton grave in July 1916. Gordon’s friend George Riddoch promised to erect a marble tablet beside it, which he unveiled on 9 December 1916. Chronicle (Adelaide), 23 December 1916, 11. 69 This Penola bust of Gordon is a replica of the one that resides in Poets Corner at Westminster Abbey. 70 The house where the Gordons lived no longer exists but there is a plaque at no. 58 recognising the site. While Gordon lived there he was an elected member of the South Australian parliament. 71 ‘200 Pay Homage to Gordon’, 2. 72 Max Lamshed, ‘Adam Lindsay Gordon’s Days at Dingley Dell’, Advertiser, 15 January 1947, 7. 73 ‘200 Pay Homage to Gordon’. 74 Ibid. 75 Lamshed records this practice in ‘Adam Lindsay Gordon’s Days at Dingley Dell’. 76 Ibid. 77 The Australian Natives’ Association was a mutual society founded in Melbourne, Australia, in April 1871 as the Victorian Natives’ Association. Its membership was restricted to white men born in Australia. 78 Allan Childs, email conversation with the author, 24 April 2018. 79 ‘A. L.  Gordon Pilgrimage. Mount Gambier Wreath Placed on Grave’, Border Watch, 29 September 1936, 2. 80 Ibid. 81 Edward S.  Casey, Getting Back into Place:  Toward a Renewed Understanding of the Place-​World (Bloomington & Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1993), 305. 82 Maggie Diaz, Third form students from Brighton Grammar School conducting a poetry reading on the centenary of his death, Brighton General Cemetery, photograph, June 1970, State Library of Victoria, Pictures collection H2013.258/​98. 83 Ross Fitzgerald, ‘AA Knows the Sobering Truth about Alcoholism’, The Australian, 22 June 2013, retrieved 1 June 2018 from:  http://​www.theaustralian.com.au/​opinion/​columnists/​ aa-​knows-​the-​sobering-​truth-a​ bout-a​ lcoholism/​news-​story/​9b56dcf38c3d6dc2db79b1d14acc 2ce7.

Chapter Two  Joseph Furphy in the Riverina 1 Barbara York Main, ‘Possessions’, in Tom Collins & His House, edited by Justina Williams (Perth: Fellowship of Australian Writers: Tom Collins Press, 1973), 62. 2 Manning Clark, ‘Furphy, Joseph (1843–​1912)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography, retrieved 15 June 2016 from: http://​adb.anu.edu.au/​biography/​furphy-​joseph-​6261

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3 Julian Croft, The Life and Opinions of Tom Collins: A Study of the Works of Joseph Furphy (St Lucia, Queensland: University of Queensland Press, 1991), 275. 4 Nicola Watson, The Literary Tourist (Hampshire, NY: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), 2–​3. 5 Barbara Piatti, Hans Rudolf Bär, Anne-​ Kathrin Reuschel, Lorenz Hurni and William Cartwright, ‘Mapping Literature:  Towards a Geography of Fiction’, in Cartography and Art, edited by William Cartwright, Georg Gartner, and Antje Lehn (Berlin: Springer, 2009), 180. 6 Sandra Burt, ‘Kate Baker and “A Matter of National Importance” ’, La Trobe Journal, no. 58 (1996), 34. 7 Ibid., 26. 8 John Barnes, The Order of Things: A Life of Joseph Furphy (Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1990), 384. 9 Tom Sigley, Writing across the Continent:  A Reference Book on Australian Prose Writing, ­chapter  8, Austlit database, retrieved from:  http://​pandora.nla.gov.au/​pan/​99124/​20090605-​1239/​ www.ab.auone-​net.jp/​_​oz.lit/​pdf/​Ch.08.Joseph%20Furphy.pdf. 10 Ibid. 11 Roy Duncan, ‘Kate Baker, “Standard-​Bearer” ’, Australian Literary Studies 9, no. 3 (May 1980), 384. 12 Ibid. 13 ‘Silhouettes’, unpublished MS by Kate Baker (n.d.), Kate Baker’s papers, National Library of Australia, MS 2022, Series 8, Box 6. Also kept at the State Library of Victoria, Papers of Kate Baker, MS 13172, Box 3861/​4. 14 Ibid. 15 Burt, ‘Kate Baker and “A Matter of National Importance” ’, 34. 16 This unpublished 1939 manuscript is kept at the State Library of New South Wales State Library of NSW, ML MSS 6035/​24. 17 Kate Baker to Victor Kennedy, 23 June 1940, MS 9419/​2471, Victor Kennedy papers, Box 1900, State Library of Victoria. 18 Duncan, ‘Kate Baker, “Standard-​Bearer” ’, 385. 19 Ibid. 20 Barry Watts, ‘At Home in the Yarra Valley: Melba, Furphy, Dennis and Boyd’, Yarra Glen & District Historical Society Newsletter no. 41 (November 2011), 2. 21 Unpublished presentation by Kate Baker (n.d.), Kate Baker’s papers, National Library of Australia, MS 2022, Series 8, Box 6. 22 Anderson also made a plaque likeness of Baker’s head which was presented to her by Bernard O’Dowd at a reception given in her honour in 1936 at the Wentworth Cafe in Melbourne. Baker later presented the plaque to the North Williamstown State School. O’Dowd remarked that Baker had ‘helped to place and keep Tom Collins on the literary map, and that out of the native kindness of her heart and her nun-​like devotion to the high Australian literary ideal, and without any looked-​for reward or desire for present or posthumous praise’. Bernard O’Dowd, Presentation Address, MS 1317, Box 3826/​3, State Library of Victoria. 23 ‘Joseph Furphy Memorial’ (no byline), Argus, 1 October 1934, 3. For many years afterwards, a Tom Collins memorial pilgrimage to the Yarra Glen was undertaken. 24 Unpublished presentation by Kate Baker (n.d.), Kate Baker’s papers, National Library of Australia, MS 2022, Series 8, Box 6. 25 Miles Franklin with Kate Baker, Joseph Furphy: The Legend of a Man and His Book (Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1944), 138. 26 Furphy, letter to his mother written from Shepparton 31 December (no year) cited in Franklin with Baker, Joseph Furphy, 138–​39. 27 Local historians have speculated about Furphy’s Yarra Valley geography as revealed in this letter. Ultimately they conclude that Joseph was mistaken, at least in part, between his childhood recollections and what he saw a third of a century later. See Yarra Glen & District Historical Society Newsletter no. 41 (November 2011).

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2 8 Ibid., 6. 29 Watts, ‘At Home in the Yarra Valley’, 2. 30 Maryanne Dever and Ann Vickery, Australian Women Writers 1900–​1950, Exhibition Catalogue, Monash University Library, 2007, 30. 31 Ibid. 32 Watts, ‘At Home in the Yarra Valley’, 2. 33 Franklin with Baker, Joseph Furphy, 59. 34 John Barnes and Lois Hoffmann (eds.), Bushman and Bookworm:  Letters of Joseph Furphy (Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1995), 24. 35 A. Lee Archer, (Joseph Furphy) As I Knew Him (Melbourne: Bread And Cheese Club, 1941?). This book is based on a paper read before the Lindsay Gordon Lovers Society, Melbourne, 18 March 1941. 36 Graeme Kinross-​Smith, ‘Joseph Furphy’, Westerly no. 4 (December 1975), 49. 37 Barnes and Hoffmann, Bushman and Bookworm, 65. 38 Furphy to Baker, Shepparton, 29 April 1901, Australian National Library, MS 2022/​1/​4. 39 Duncan, ‘Kate Baker, Standard-​Bearer’, 382. 40 An example of this address can be found in a letter to Cathels which was republished in Joseph Furphy, ‘A Discovery of Christmas Reef ’, Southerly 6, no. 3 (1945), 41–​42. 41 Barnes and Hoffmann, Bushman and Bookworm, 8. 42 Judith Powell, ‘Memory of Judith Powell (nee Fawcett) of Welsford St’, Papers from Andrew Furphy’s private collection. 43 Many of the speeches by those present and messages from absent correspondents are collected in a specially made ceremonial book entitled Joseph Furphy ‘Tom Collins’ World-​Wide Tributes, kept at the State Library of Victoria, MS 5615, Box 498/​13. 44 H. C. E. Stewart, ‘Victorian Naturalist. A New National Monument’, Papers of Kate Baker, Victorian Historical Society. 45 Jill Roe, Stella Miles Franklin: A Biography (Sydney: Fourth Estate, 2008), 456. 46 J. K. Ewers, Tribute in the Papers of the Australasian Literary Commemorative Association 1946–​1949, Royal Historical Society of Victoria Library. 47 Vance Palmer and Nettie Palmer, ‘Joseph Furphy memorial, Shepparton 27/​9/​47’, in World-​ Wide Tributes (n.p.), State Library of Victoria. 48 M. Barnard Eldershaw, Plaque with Laurel, essays, reviews and correspondence, edited by Maryanne Dever (St Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 1995), 259. 49 H. C. E. Stewart, ‘The Victorian Naturalist. A New National Monument’, Address delivered at the Shepparton ceremony, Kate Baker’s papers, National Library of Australia MS 2022, Series 8, Box 6. 50 It is a Brachychiton rupestris (Queensland Bottle Tree) and is located on Eastern Lawn of the Botanic Gardens in Melbourne. The tree was planted on 2 October 1942 by Kate Baker, in memory of Furphy. 51 Kinross-​Smith, ‘Joseph Furphy’, 43. 52 Commissioned by the Furphy family, ‘The Order of Things’ written and directed by Matt Scholten at the Shepparton festival in March 2005. The previous year Scholten staged a play at the same festival entitled ‘Son of the South: The Life of Henry Lawson’. 53 Jane Sullivan, ‘New Generation Finds Joseph Furphy’, Age, 12 March 2005, retrieved 1 September 2012 from:  http://​www.theage.com.au/​news/​Books/​New-​generation-​finds-​ Joseph-​Furphy/​2005/​03/​11/​1110417688940.html. 54 The foundry was moved from the original Wyndham Street site in 1906. 55 Kinross-​Smith, ‘Joseph Furphy’, 69. 56 Tom Sigley, Writing across the Continent: A Reference Book on Australian Prose Writing, ­chapter 8, Austlit database, retrieved from:  http://​pandora.nla.gov.au/​pan/​99124/​20090605-​1239/​www. ab.auone-​net.jp/​_​oz.lit/​pdf/​Ch.08.Joseph%20Furphy.pdf.

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5 7 Kinross-​Smith, ‘Joseph Furphy’, 43. 58 David T. Herbert, ‘Heritage as Literary Place’, in Heritage, Tourism and Society, edited by David T. Herbert (London, New York: Mansell, 1995), 33. 59 Watson, The Literary Tourist, 178. 60 Ibid., 174–​200. 61 John Barnes, Portable Australian Authors: Joseph Furphy (St Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 1981), xxvi. 62 Michael Sharkey, ‘The Echuca Coffee Palace’ and ‘The Farmers Arms’, Notes and Furphies, no. 1 (1978), 12. 63 Croft, The Life and Opinions of Tom Collins, 791. 64 Ibid. 65 Ibid. 66 Barnes and Hoffmann, Bushman and Bookworm, 36. 67 Furphy to his mother (1910) (n.d.), cited in Franklin with Baker, Joseph Furphy,  108–​9. 68 Mike Robinson and Hans Christian Andersen, ‘Reading between the Lines: Literature and the Creation of Touristic Spaces’, in Literature and Tourism: Essays in the Reading and Writing of Tourism, edited by Robinson and Andersen (London: Thomson, 2002), 15. 69 Clipping from the West Australian Mail (no byline, date, or page number), Joseph Furphy Collection, Box 498/​11, State Library of Victoria. 70 Ibid. 71 Delys Bird, ‘The End of the Road:  Joseph Furphy and Tom Collins in Western Australia’, Journal of the Association for the Study of Australian Literature 13, no.  1 (2013), retrieved 22 November 2017 from: http://​pandora.nla.gov.au/​pan/​63067/​20140122-​0000/​www.nla.gov. au/​openpublish/​index.php/​jasal/​article/​view/​2593/​3551.html. 72 Tom Collins House, Allen Park, Heritage Council, State Heritage Office, retrieved 14 March 2017 from:  http://​inherit.stateheritage.wa.gov.au/​Public/​Inventory/​Details/​ df7eff7d-​c389-​4fe4-​99f8-​838bd74f05c3. 73 Bird, ‘The End of the Road’, 14. 74 In a recent conference presentation Roger Osbourne claimed that Furphy may have been the first author to use a typewriter to produce their own literary manuscript. Roger Osbourne ‘Religion, and Pigs, and Sociology, and Dirt:  Joseph Furphy’s Philosophical Digressions in Such is Life’, ASAL conference, University of Western Australia, 3 July 2019. 75 Email correspondence with Roger Osbourne, 14 August 2019. 76 York Main, ‘Possessions’, 61–​62. 77 Croft, The Life and Opinions of Tom Collins,  77–​78. 78 ‘We’d have to stop! With bated breath /​We prayed that both in life and death /​Our fate in other lines might fall: /​Oh, send us to our just reward /​In Hay or Hell, but, gracious Lord, /​Deliver us from Booligal!’. Banjo Paterson, ‘Hay and Hell and Booligal’, in Rio Grande’s Last Race and Other Verses (Melbourne: Angus & Robertson, 1902). 79 Susan K. Martin, ‘ “Us Circling Round and Round”: The Track of Narrative and the Ghosts of Lost Children in Such Is Life’, Journal of the Association for the Study of Australian Literature (2 April 2007), 87. 80 Dennis Douglas, ‘Joseph Furphy and the Picaresque: A Generic Re-​appraisal of Such Is Life’, Overland 73 (1978), 24. 81 Rodney Hall, ‘Such Is Life: The Masterpiece That Might Have Changed Our Literature’, in Storykeepers, edited by Marion Halligan (Potts Point, New South Wales:  Duffy & Snellgrove, 2001), 113. 82 Joseph Furphy, Such Is Life: Being Certain Extracts from the Diary of Tom Collins, Annotated Edition, edited by Frances Devlin-​Glass, Robin Eaden, G.  W. Turner and Lois Hoffman (Braddon, ACT: Halstead Press, 1999), 206. 83 Ibid., 97.

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Barnes and Hoffmann, Bushman and Bookworm, xiv. Franklin with Baker, Joseph Furphy,  90–​93. Ibid., 90. Ibid., 59. Anon., ‘Joseph Furphy Memorial Pilgrimage’, All about Books 8, no. 9 (12 September 1936), 148. Andrew Furphy, personal communication with the author, 10 September 2012. The advisory group for this mapping project includes accomplished Furphy scholars such as Frances Devlin-​Glass, John Barnes, Julian Croft and Susan Lever. 91 Susan Lever, ‘In Furphy’s Footsteps’, Canberra Times, 21 April 2012, 23. 92 Ibid. 93 Roger Osbourne, ‘Mapping Joseph Furphy’s Riverina’, The Joseph Furphy Digital Archive, Austlit database, retrieved 5 January 2017 from:  https://​www.austlit.edu.au/​austlit/​page/​ 8603215. 94 Lever, ‘In Furphy’s Footsteps’, 23. 95 Hall, ‘Such Is Life: The Masterpiece That Might Have Changed Our Literature’, 100. 96 Barnes, Portable Australian Authors, xiv. 97 Christopher Lee, City Bushman: Henry Lawson and the Australian Imagination (Fremantle: Fremantle Arts Centre Press, 2004), 232. 98 Ibid., 52. 99 Robinson and Andersen, ‘Reading between the Lines’, 26–​27. 100 Robert Darby, ‘A National Literary Shrine:  Attempts to Save the Henry Lawson Family Home, 1935–​46’, Journal of the Royal Australian Historical Society 74, no. 3 (1988), 212. 101 Hall, ‘Such Is Life: The Masterpiece That Might Have Changed Our Literature’, 110. 102 Croft, The Life and Opinions of Tom Collins, 1. 103 Sheilagh J. Squire, ‘The Cultural Values of Literary Tourism’, Annals of Tourism Research 21 (1994), 116. 84 85 86 87 88 89 90

Chapter Three  Henry Handel Richardson and the Haunting of Lake View 1 Vincent Buckley, cited in HHR Society newsletter January 2018. The quotation is from a short profile on HHR in the Australian Writers and Their Work series, retrieved 30 January 2018 from:  https://​www.henryhandelrichardsonsociety.org.au/​documents/​ HHRNewsletterJan2018.pdf. 2 Alison Booth, ‘Time-​Travel in Dickens’ World’, in Literary Tourism and Nineteenth Century Culture, edited by N. Watson (Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 151. 3 Paul Westover, Necromanticism:  Traveling to Meet the Dead 1750–​1860 (New  York:  Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 6. 4 Helen Garner, HHR Short Story Award Presentation speech, The Wheeler Centre, 9 November 2014, retrieved 14 August 2017 from HHR Society website:  https://​www. henryhandelrichardsonsociety.org.au/ ​ d ocuments/​ H HR- ​ S ociety- ​ S hort- ​ S tory- ​ Award-​ Presentation.pdf. 5 Gerald Murnane, Green Shadows and Other Poems (NSW: Giramondo Press, 2019), 25. 6 Ibid. 7 HHR, Myself When Young (London: William Heinemann, 1948), 17. 8 Ibid., 66. 9 Ibid., 65. 10 Ibid., 20. 11 Walter Richardson, cited in Bruce Steele, Walter Lindesay Richardson MD:  A Victorian Seeker (North Melbourne: Australian Scholarly Publishing, 2013), 119. 12 HHR, Ultima Thule (London: William Heinemann, 1929), 65.

Notes

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1 3 Ibid., 214–​18. 14 Ibid., 218–​19. 15 Ibid., 221. 16 Clive Probyn, ‘The Return of the Native:  Henry Handel Richardson’s Visit to Australia in 1912’, talk given at HHR’s birthday celebrations in 2012, retrieved from HHR Society website: http://​www.henryhandelrichardsonsociety.org.au/​member_​contributions.html. 17 Michael Ackland, Henry Handel Richardson: A Life (Port Melbourne: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 200. 18 Ibid., 38. 19 These photos were later used to help establish that Lake View was indeed HHR’s former house. 20 HHR, notes for Fortunes of Richard Mahony trilogy (unpublished manuscripts, No. G77732, National Library of Australia), 20. 21 Probyn, ‘The Return of the Native’, 4. 22 HHR, cited in Steele, Walter Lindesay Richardson, xiii. 23 HHR, notes for Fortunes of Richard Mahony trilogy, 20. 24 Cited in Steele, Walter Lindesay Richardson, 124. 25 Ackland, Henry Handel Richardson, 240. 26 HHR to Kernot, cited in Ackland, Henry Handel Richardson, 239. 27 Andrew Gilmour, personal communication, 10 July 2018. 28 Ibid. 29 This information is taken from a document called ‘How “Lake View” Was Saved’, Lake View Archive, Chiltern. 30 J. Palmer, ‘A Little Girl Who Loved Wattle Blossom: Memories of Henry Handel Richardson’, Australian Women’s Weekly, 16 March 1977, 49. 31 A letter written by Mr J Vaughan, who was born in Chiltern, claimed: ‘I always understood that the Richardson family lived in Wills St, Chiltern, opposite the home of my parents.’ He thought this house was burned down around 1910. Another story was that a storm had blown the house down. See ‘How “Lake View” Was Saved’, Lake View Archive, Chiltern. 32 A recent letter from Donald Graham to the Secretary of the National Trust reiterates his claim that the correct house is the one next door. ‘With the passage of time the difference between one lot and the next adjoining could easily morf (sic) into “Ultima Thule” when published in 1929 and establish herself as a convenient truth.’ He recounts a visit to Nettie Palmer at 7 Ridgeway Avenue in Kew in 1962, when Palmer assures him that ‘she would not have dreamt it up’. This letter is kept in Lake View Archive. 33 ‘How “Lake View” Was Saved’, Lake View Archive, Chiltern. 34 HHR, Myself When Young, 18. 35 Dorothy Green cited by Steele, Walter Lindesay Richardson, xi. 36 H. I.  Lowe, Mark Twains’ Homes and Literary Tourism (Missouri:  University of Missouri Press, 2012), 153. 37 Polly Atkin, ‘Ghosting Grasmere:  The Musealisation of Dove Cottage’, in Literary Tourism and Nineteenth-​ Century Culture, edited by Nicola Watson (Hampshire:  Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 87. 38 This expedition to Blanche Terrace was marred by the stealing of the tourists’ valuable belongings from the mini bus. 39 Graeme Charles, ‘Chiltern Remembers Henry Handel Richardson’, HHR Society Birthday Address, retrieved 3 February 2017 from HHR Society website:  https://​www. henryhandelrichardsonsociety.org.au/​documents/​Chiltern_​Remembers_​Henry_​Handel_​ Richardson-​GC.pdf. 40 Ibid. 41 J. Palmer, ‘A Little Girl Who Loved Wattle Blossom: Memories of Henry Handel Richardson’, Australian Women’s Weekly, 16 March 1977, 49.

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42 K. O’Sullivan, ‘An Afternoon at the Lake House’, The Australian, 14 January 2012, retrieved from:  http://​www.theaustralian.com.au/​travel/​indulgence/​an-​afternoon-​at-​the-​lake-​house/​ story-​e6frgfk6-​1226241931506. 43 David Inglis and Mary Holmes, ‘Highland and Other Haunts –​Ghosts in Scottish Tourism’, Annals of Tourism Research 30 (2003), 56. 44 Ibid., 56. 45 Ibid., 57 46 Beryl Pickering, conversation with the author, 15 November 2014. 47 HHR, Myself When Young, 36. 48 Ibid. 49 Ibid. 50 Clive Probyn, ‘Maldon and the Getting of Wisdom’, talk given at the Henry Handel Richardson Celebration Weekend, Maldon on Saturday, 10 October 2009, retrieved 4 August 2017 from the HHR Society website:  https://​www.henryhandelrichardsonsociety.org.au/​documents/​ maldon_​and_​the_​getting_​of_​wisdom.pdf. 51 Peter Cuffley, Helen McBurney, Janey Runci and Geoff Palmer, Henry Handel Richardson in Maldon (Victoria: HHR Society, 2010), 19. 52 Late in 1943, HHR was living in Hastings in straitened financial circumstances, surrounded by the Second World War bombing raids and experiencing extreme ill health which ultimately meant that she was unable to complete her memoir. 53 Lisa Hill recounts these activities in ‘Maldon 1880 and Henry Handel Richardson’, in her blog ANZ LitLovers Litblog, retrieved 5 September 2017 from: https://​anzlitlovers.com/​2009/​10/​ 10/​maldon-​1880-​and-​henry-​handel-​richardson/​. 54 Ibid., 74. 55 HHR, The Getting of Wisdom, (Port Melbourne: Minerva , 1977), 18. 56 A one-​off event, a guided walk through ‘the Chiltern of the Richardson Era’, followed the annual birthday celebrations in 2010. 57 HHR, Ultima Thule, 237. 58 Steele, Walter Lindesay Richardson, 134–​35. 59 Ibid., 133. 60 Ibid., 134–​35. 61 HHR, Myself When Young, 25–​26, cited by Steele, Walter Lindesay Richardson, m136. 62 The HHR Society committee stayed at the Mercer Street house in 2018 and intend to do so again in future. It makes a more appealing venue for overnight stays than the ghost-​ridden Lake View. 63 Dorothy Johnston, personal communication with the author, 16 August 2018. 64 HHR, Myself When Young, 24. 65 HHR, Ultima Thule, 345. 66 Peter Craven, ‘No Success Like Failure’, Introduction to Fortunes of Richard Mahony (Melbourne: Text Publishing, 2012), vii. 67 Ibid., vii. 68 HHR, cited in Ackland, Henry Handel Richardson, 201. 69 Ackland, Henry Handel Richardson, 260.

Chapter Four  Henry Lawson Country 1 At last count, there are 25 formal monuments to Lawson. There are also many memorials that contain Lawson’s words –​too many to discuss here. 2 Only the Melbourne-based Lawson Society is still in existence. 3 Hartley C. Grattan began writing newspaper and magazine articles on Australia during his 1927 visit. His first book-​length study, Introducing Australia (New York: John Day, 1942), became a standard work.

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4 Grattan, Introducing Australia, 173. 5 Robert Darby, ‘ “A National Literary Shrine”:  Attempts to Save the Henry Lawson Family Home, 1935–​46’, Journal of the Royal Australian Historical Society 74, no. 3 (1988), 244. 6 Brian Matthews, ‘Lawson, Henry (1867–​ 1922)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Vol. 10 (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1986), retrieved from: http://​adb.anu.edu.au/​biography/​lawson-​henry-​7118. 7 Alison Booth, ‘Tours, Texts, Houses, and Things’, in Homes and Haunts: Touring Writers Shrines and Countries (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 49–​50. 8 Brian Matthews, Louisa (Ringwood, Victoria: Penguin, 1987), 125–​54. 9 ‘Remembering Lawson’, in Dream at a Graveside: The History of the Fellowship of Australian Writers, 1928–​1988, edited by Len Fox (Sydney: Fellowship of Australian Writers, 1989), 113. 10 Locals were aware of the area’s potential, describing it as ‘The Real Henry Lawson Country’. 11 ‘Along the Wallaby Track’, Special Coloured Liftout, Mudgee Guardian, 29 September 1989, 15. 12 Norman McVicker, ‘Henry Lawson in Mudgee’, Tales from the Wallaby Track (Mudgee: Norman McVicker, 2009), 70. 13 Ibid. 14 Ibid., 81. 15 George Farwell, ‘Lawson’s Old Home Is Memorial of Neglect’, Fellowship, November 1946, 2. 16 Ibid. 17 Ibid. 18 Jackson, cited in Caitlin DeSilvey and Tim Edensor, ‘Reckoning with Ruins’, Progress in Human Geography 37, no. 4 (2012), 472. 19 Ibid. 20 Wingham Chronicle and Manning River Observer, 9 September 1949. 21 DeSilvey and Edensor, ‘Reckoning with Ruins’, 473. 22 Henry Lawson, ‘The Old Bark School’, Macmillan Anthology of Australian Literature, edited by Ken Goodwin and Alan Lawson (South Melbourne: Macmillan, 1990), 260. 23 Norman McVicker, ‘Tales from the Wallaby Track: The Erunderee Years’, Mudgee Guardian, 1 December 1989, ‘Tales From the Wallaby Track’ Clippings, Mudgee Municipal Library, cited by Chris Lee in ‘Settling in the Land of Wine and Honey: Cultural Tourism, Local History and Some Australian Legends’, Journal of Australian Studies 86 (2005), 8. 24 Ibid. 25 Ibid. 26 Christopher Lee, ‘Settling in the Land of Wine and Honey: Cultural Tourism, Local History and Some Australian Legends’, Journal of Australian Studies 29, no. 86 (2006), 10. 27 Norman McVicker, ‘Tales from the Wallaby Track:  Tourist Lesson’, Mudgee Guardian, 2 November 1990, ‘Tales from the Wallaby Track’ Clippings, Mudgee Municipal Library, cited by Lee, ‘Settling in the Land of Wine and Honey’, 10. 28 Norman McVicker, The Wiradjuri Story: Aborigines of Henry Lawson Country, Tales from Along the Wallaby Track (Mudgee: Eurunderee Provisional School Foundation, 1991). 29 Sam Paine, ‘Volunteers Show Off Result of Efforts to Restore Site of Henry Lawson’s School’, Mudgee Guardian, 9 June 2014, retrieved 1 September 2018 from: https://​www.mudgeeguardian. com.au/​story/​2337286/​volunteers-​show-​off-​result-​of-​efforts-​to-​restore-​site-​of-​henry-​lawsons-​ school/​. 30 Cast of Henry Lawson’s Hand (1919) nla.gov.au/​nla.cat-​vn1139561; Henry Lawson’s death mask (1922), kept at the State Library of New South Wales, Accession no: R 774. 31 Fox, Dream at a Graveside, 111–​12. 32 National Advocate, 28 October 1926, cited by Monument Australia website, retrieved 10 February 2018 from:  http://​pandora.nla.gov.au/​pan/​133629/​20161123-​1047/​monumentaustralia. org.au/​themes/​people/​arts/​display/​20002-​henry-​lawson.html. 33 Ibid. 34 ‘Memorial to Henry Lawson’, 29 October 1926, Lawson papers at the Mitchell Library.

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3 5 Matthews, ‘Lawson, Henry (1867–​1922)’. 36 Cited in Waverley Cemetery Who’s Who: Pen and Paper, edited by Marion Corry (NSW: Waverley Library, Bondi Junction, 1997), 18. 37 ‘Henry Lawson’s Funeral’, The Australasian, 9 September 1922, 42. 38 J. T. Lang, I Remember (Sydney: Invincible, 1956), 191–​92. 39 Billy Hughes cited in Waverley Cemetery Who’s Who: Pen and Paper, 18. 40 Bertha Lawson, My Henry Lawson (Sydney: F. Johnson, 1943), 140. 41 Corry in Waverley Cemetery Who’s Who: Pen and Paper states that Lawson’s remains are interred in the grave next to the one vacated by Kendall. If Kendall had not been disinterred, the book reports, they would be lying side by side. 42 ‘Henry Lawson Memorial Proposed’, Sydney Morning Herald, 22 September 1922, clipping in the ‘Henry Lawson File’ of the Premier’s Department, Mutch papers, MSS 426/​24, Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales. 43 A. G.  Stephens, ‘Lawson’s Memorial’, Letter to the Editor, Telegraph, 21 September 1926, Federation of Australian Writers papers, Mitchell Library. 44 Chris Lee, ‘Bronzed Aussie: The Memorialisation of Henry Lawson’, Journal of the Association for the Study of Australian Literature (1997), 202–​8 (203). 45 Lesley Heath, ‘Sydney Literary Societies of the Nineteen Twenties: Cultural Nationalism and the Promotion of Australian Literature’, PhD dissertation, University of New South Wales, Sydney, 1996, 198. 46 Letter from T. D. Mutch to Mr Ifould, 17 July 1924, Henry Lawson Memorial Fund –​records, 1922–​32, MLMSS 3588, correspondence with and about George Lambert, 1922–​30, State Library of New South Wales. 47 This text is based on an address delivered at the Lawson statue, Outer Domain, Sydney, on 5 September 1942, at the annual ceremony arranged by the Fellowship of Australian Writers, in commemoration of Lawson. It was first published in Meanjin Papers, no. 12, Christmas 1942 and was republished by the Meanjin website, retrieved 10 February 2018 from: https://​meanjin. com.au/​essays/​henry-​lawson-​lighted-​lamps-​for-​us-​in-​a-​vast-​and-​lonely-​habitat/​. 48 Miles Franklin, ‘Henry Lawson’, Meanjin Papers. 49 First published in The Bulletin, 23 February 1905. 50 First published in The Bulletin, 18 September 1919. 51 There is a monument to Archibald, however, to mark his birth in Geelong in 1856. The Archibald Prize for portraiture and the Archibald fountain were outcomes of his bequest. 52 Fox, Dream at a Graveside, 116. 53 Letter from Mr Crockett to Miss Aylward, Fellowship of Australian Writers records, 1928–​ 72, Files regarding the Henry Lawson memorial fund, MLMSS 2008, Box K22114, Mitchell Library. 54 Ibid., 113. 55 Richard Nile, The Making of the Australian Literary Imagination (St Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 2002), 53. 56 John Lack, A History of Footscray (North Melbourne: John Hargreen Publishing, 1991), 269–​70. 57 Ibid., 270. 58 Ibid. 59 Ibid. 60 ‘Seedling Replaces Lawson Memorial’, The Mail, 28 January 1965. 61 Henry Lives newsletter, 4, no. 36, March 2017. 62 Darby, ‘ “A National Literary Shrine” ’, 241. 63 Heath, ‘Sydney Literary Societies of the Nineteen Twenties’, 251. 64 Ibid. 65 Letter, Mary Gilmore to George Mackaness, 22 May 1935, W. H. Wilde and T. Inglis Moore, Letters of Mary Gilmore (Carlton, Victoria: Melbourne University Press, 1980), 113–​17, cited in Lesley Heath dissertation, 252.

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66 Held in the Special Collections of the State Library of New South Wales, these records, especially the minute books, are sketchy and ambiguous, possibly written cryptically to preserve privacy about sensitive matters: they do not offer scholars enough information about the history of the Fellowship. 67 Heath, ‘Sydney Literary Societies of the Nineteen Twenties’, 199. 68 Ibid., 198–​99. 69 Personal communication with Kevin Robson of the Henry Lawson Centre, Gulgong, 21 April 2018. 70 Norman McVicker, ‘Henry Lawson in Mudgee’, Tales From Along the Wallaby Track (Mudgee: Norman McVicker (self-​published), 2009), 69. 71 Timothy Darvill, Ancient Monuments in the Countryside (London: English Heritage, 1987), 167 72 McVicker cites Roderick in ‘Henry Lawson in Mudgee’, 69. 73 Fox, Dream at a Graveside, 114. 74 Christopher Lee. ‘Uses of the Past: Settler Culture, Regional Identity and the Modern Nation’, Australian Studies 13, no. 2 (1988), 55–​69. 75 Back to Grenfell Week Programme (1924) on display at the Grenfell Historical Museum. 76 Retrieved 10 February 2018 from Mudgee District History website: http://​www.mudgeehistory. com.au/​gulgong/​gulgong1.html. 77 Retrieved 1 September from visitnsw.com website:  https://​www.visitnsw.com/​destinations/​ country-​nsw/​mudgee-​area/​mudgee. 78 Matthews, ‘Lawson, Henry (1867–​1922)’, 94. 79 Colin Roderick, The Real Henry Lawson (Adelaide: Rigby, 1982), 13 80 Ibid. 81 Paul Eggert, Biography of a Book: Henry Lawson’s While the Billy Boils (Sydney: Sydney University Press, 2013), 43. 82 Gregory Bryan, To Hell and High Water: Walking in the Footsteps of Henry Lawson (NSW: Blue Sky, 2012), 172. 83 John Barnes, ‘The Making of a Legend: Henry Lawson at Bourke’, La Trobe Journal, no. 99 (2017), 42. 84 Bryan has subsequently completed yet another walk from Bourke to Toorale woolshed and back to Bourke, a distance of 300 kilometres. According to Bryan, this adventure saw him slogging through freezing swamps and fighting off wild boars. 85 Henry Lawson, ‘Hungerford’, While the Billy Boils, retrieved 1 September 2018 from University of Sydney digital editions: https://​ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/​l/​lawson/​henry/​while_​the_​billy_​ boils/​book1.6.html. 86 Bruce Elder, ‘Lawson’s Long Walk’, retrieved 1 September 2018 from Traveller website: http://​ www.traveller.com.au/​lawsons-​long-​walk-​aup2. 87 Phillip Edmonds, Leaving Home with Henry (North Melbourne: Press On –​Arcadia, 2010), 20. 88 Ibid., 61. 89 Ibid., 89. 90 A. B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson, cited by Bryan in To Hell and High Water, 237. 91 Henry Lawson’s response to reports of his death, cited by Bryan, To Hell and High Water, 309.

Chapter Five  The Multiple Birthplaces of A. B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson 1 Clement Semmler, A. B. (Banjo) Paterson, Australian Writers and Their Work series, edited by Geoffrey Dutton (Melbourne: Lansdowne Press, 1965), 7–​8. 2 Ibid., 8. 3 Ken Stewart entry on ‘A.B. “Banjo” Paterson’, Australian Literature, 1788–​1914, edited by Selina Samuels, Vol. 230 (Detroit: Gale, 2001), 285–​300; Dictionary of Literary Biography, Vol. 230. 4 Song of the Pen, A.B. (Banjo) Paterson:  Complete Works 1901–​1941, collected and introduced by Rosamund Campbell and Philippa Harvie (Sydney: Lansdowne Press, 1993), xii.

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5 Peter Kirkpatrick, ‘Australian Bush Ballads Keep Galloping On’, The Conversation, 14 January 2015, retrieved 15 October 2017 from:  https://​theconversation.com/​australianbush-​ballads-​keep-​galloping-​on-​35955. 6 Ken Stewart entry on ‘A.B. “Banjo” Paterson’. 7 Project Gutenberg, retrieved from:  https://​www.gutenberg.org/​files/​213/​213-​h/​213-​h.htm. The 1913 printing (Sydney: Fifty-​Third Thousand) of the second edition (first published in 1902) was used in the preparation of this e-​text. The first edition was first published in 1895. 8 Campbell and Harvie, Song of the Pen, xxi. 9 Ibid., xx. 10 While at Sydney Grammar School he received third place in the Junior Knox Prize and was awarded a handsomely bound set of Thackeray’s works (see Singer of the Bush, A.  B. (Banjo) Paterson:  Complete Works 1885–​1900, collected and introduced by Rosamund Campbell and Philippa Harvie (Sydney: Lansdowne Press, 1983), xi. 11 Elliot, cited by Semmler, A. B. (Banjo) Paterson, 35. 12 Norman Lindsay, quoted by Keiren McLeonard, Bush Telegraph, ABC Radio National transcript, retrieved 5 October 2017 from:  http://​www.abc.net.au/​radionational/​programs/​ archived/​bushtelegraph/​banjo-​150/​5238260. 13 Nicholas Rothwell, ‘Balladeer Banjo Paterson Painted the Bush in Words’, The Australian, 15 October 2012, retrieved 16 November 2017 from:  https://​www.theaustralian.com.au/​arts/​ books/​balladeer-​painted-​the-​bush-​in-​words/​news-​story/​deac0ba524adaf866cafe3f90d45661e. 14 Barbara Hickson, Waratah Sports Club (‘Emmaville cottage’) Heritage Assessment, January 2007, 12. 15 A. B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson, ‘Banjo Tells His Own Story –​1. In the Days of the Gold Escorts’, Sydney Morning Herald, 4 February 1939, 21. 16 Clement Semmler, entry on A. B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson in Australian Dictionary of Biography, retrieved 2 June 2017 from: http://​adb.anu.edu.au/​biography/​paterson-​andrew-​barton-​banjo-​7972 17 ‘ “Banjo” Paterson Dead’ (no byline), Sydney Morning Herald, 6 February 1941, 9. 18 Stewart, ‘A. B. “Banjo” Paterson’, 299. 19 Semmler, A. B. (Banjo) Paterson, 17. 20 A. B. Paterson, ‘Banjo Paterson Tells His Own Story –​IV. An Execution and a Royal Pardon’, Sydney Morning Herald, 25 February 1939, 21. 21 Cited by Denton Prout in Henry Lawson: The Grey Dreamer (Adelaide: Rigby (Griffin), 1963), 99. 22 Prout, Henry Lawson, 99. 23 Cited by Prout, Henry Lawson, 100. 24 ‘Banjo Paterson Tells His Own Story –​2, Giants of the Paddle, Pen, and Pencil’, Sydney Morning Herald, 11 February 1939. 25 Ibid. 26 ‘And his wail of “O, My Brother!” came again to one who went /​To his grave before “his brothers” mocked him with a monument’, in Henry Lawson, ‘A Song of Southern Writers’, The Bulletin 12, no. 641 (28 May 1892), 24. 27 A. B. (Banjo) Paterson, Sydney Mail, 21 December 1938, reprinted in Campbell and Harvie, Song of the Pen, 759. 28 Eggert calculates that Lawson’s lifetime earnings from book sales totaled around £550 from Angus & Robertson, of which £108 was for While the Billy Boils. Paterson did better from Angus & Robertson than Lawson because he did not immediately sell his copyrights and instead continued to enjoy half profits from The Man from Snowy River and other titles for many years. See Paul Eggert, Biography of a Book: Henry Lawson’s While the Bill Boils (Sydney: Sydney University Press, 2013), 21. 29 H. P.  Heseltine, ‘ “Banjo” Paterson:  A Poet Nearly Anonymous’, Meanjin, December 1964, 309. 30 Nicola Watson, The Literary Tourist (Hampshire, NY: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), 57.

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3 1 Ibid., 57. 32 Stephen F.  Mills, ‘Moving Buildings and Changing History’, in Heritage, Memory and the Politics of Identity: New Perspectives on the Cultural Landscape, edited by Niamh Moore and Yvonne Whelan (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), 109. Mills refers to Edward Relph’s Place and Placelessness (London: Routledge, 1976). 33 Ian Jack Heritage Consulting, ‘Paterson Memorial Park, Narrambla, Orange Conservationist Management Plan’, April 2004, 12. 34 Leslie Oakes, recorded in 1948 by the ABC, cited by the Restoration Australia episode on ‘Emmaville’ screened in 2015. 35 Elizabeth Griffin, The World Today segment, ABC Radio National, 18 February 2013, retrieved 28 November 2017 from: http://​www.abc.net.au/​worldtoday/​content/​2013/​s3692546.htm? searchTerm=banjo+paterson+orange. 36 Barbara Hickson, ‘Waratah Sports Club (“Emmaville cottage”) Heritage Assessment’, 2007, 13. 37 Ibid., 11. 38 Mark Logan, ‘Rhyme and Reason on Banjo’s Birthplace’, Central Western Daily, 13 February 2012, retrieved 5 November 2017 from:  https://​www.centralwesterndaily.com.au/​story/​ 794235/​rhyme-​and-​reason-​on-​banjos-​birthplace/​. 39 Hickson, ‘Waratah Sports Club (“Emmaville cottage”) Heritage Assessment’, 2. 40 Max McKinnon (producer), ‘Emmaville’, Restoration Australia Series 1, episode 5, ABC, screened in 2015. 41 Hickson, ‘Waratah Sports Club (“Emmaville cottage”) Heritage Assessment’, 13. 42 Mills, ‘Moving Buildings and Changing History’, 118. 43 Ibid. 44 Ibid. 45 The memorial is a Schedule 8 Heritage Item of State Significance in the Orange Local Environment Plan 2000. 46 Banjo Paterson parks can be found in Lynbrook, Ipswich, Gladesville, Jindabyne and Yass. 47 Bill Folster quoted by ‘Debate Reignited over Paterson’s Birthplace’ (no byline), Wellington Times, 17 May 2013, retrieved 7 August 2017 from:  https://​www.wellingtontimes.com.au/​ story/​1508702/​debate-​reignited-​over-​patersons-​birthplace/​. 48 Ian Jack Heritage Consulting, ‘Paterson Memorial Park, Narrambla, Orange Conservationist Management Plan’, 24. 49 Ibid. 50 Ibid. 51 Ibid. 52 Ibid., 26. 53 Tim Edensor and Caitlin DeSilvey, ‘Reckoning with Ruins’, Journal of Material Culture 11, no. 3 (2013), 474. 54 Clare Colley, ‘Alice Holds Key to Banjo’s Birthplace’, Central West Daily, 18 June 2013, retrieved from:  https://​www.centralwesterndaily.com.au/​story/​1578292/​alice-​holds-​key-​to-​banjos-​ birthplace/​. 55 Ian Jack Heritage Consulting, ‘Paterson Memorial Park, Narrambla, Orange Conservationist Management Plan’, 41. 56 Hickson, ‘Waratah Sports Club (“Emmaville cottage”) Heritage Assessment’, 12. 57 ‘On Kiley’s Run’ was first published in The Bulletin (X’mas edition)  11, no. 566 (20 December, 1890). 58 Max McKinnon and Susan Redden (producers/​directors) ‘Emmaville’ Restoration Australia Series 1, episode 5, Australian Broadcasting Corporation, 2015. 59 This Akubra hat now resides in a sculpture park near the Banjo Paterson museum in Yeoval. 60 Mick Doyle, conversation with the author, 5 May 2018.

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61 Clare Colley, ‘Fears Banjo Documentary Will Make Councillors Look Like “hicks” ’, Port Macquarie News, 9 December 2013, retrieved from:  https://​www.portnews.com.au/​story/​ 1959968/​fears-​banjo-​documentary-​will-​make-​councillors-​look-​like-​hicks/​. 62 Ibid. 63 Graeme Blundell describes Restoration Australia as an example of ‘aspirational property evangelism’ which represents a ‘highly cinematic aesthetic for property TV’ in ‘Restoration Australia:  Little Shop of Horrors’, The Australian, retrieved 4 June 2018 from:  http://​ www.theaustralian.com.au/​arts/​television/​restoration-​australia-​little-​shop-​of-​horrors/​ story-​fn9d34el-​1227526699300 64 Mick Doyle, conversation with the author, 5 May 2018. 65 McKinnon, ‘Emmaville’ Restoration Australia Series 1. 66 Grantlee Keiza, Banjo (Sydney: ABC Books, 2018), 33–​34. 67 Campbell and Harvie, Song of the Pen, xi. 68 Colin Roderick, Rose Paterson’s Illalong Letters 1873–​1888 (New South Wales: Kangaroo Press, 2000), 13. 69 Alf Cantrell, conversation with the author, 10 October 2018. 70 Ibid. 71 ‘Banjo Paterson Museum, ‘Yeoval’ (no byline), Wellington Times, 19 February 2014, retrieved 23 August 2018 from:  https://​www.wellingtontimes.com.au/​story/​2098888/​banjo-​paterson-​ museum-​yeoval/​undefined/​. 72 Scottish influences are evident in Paterson’s literary output, particularly ‘Waltzing Matilda’, which is set to music based on the Scottish song ‘Thou Bonnie Wood of Craigielea’. 73 Sydney Morning Herald, 10 February 2008, retrieved from Monument Australia website: http://​ monumentaustralia.org.au/​themes/​people/​arts/​display/​23920-​banjo-​paterson. 74 Tom Griffiths, Hunters and Collectors, Hunters and Collectors: The Antiquarian Imagination in Australia (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 1996), 159, cited by Rula Paterson, ‘History in Stone:  The Work of the Victorian Historical Memorials Committee’, Melbourne Historical Journal 43, no. 1 (2015), 67. 75 Carlyle’s house in Cheyne Row in Chelsea has attracted many literary figures including Virginia Woolf who wrote about it in ‘Great Men’s Houses’ (1932). She observed that that visiting the house of a ‘great man’ reveals more than any biography possibly can. 76 Paterson, ‘Banjo Tells His Own Story –​1. In the Days of the Gold Escorts’. 77 Western Times article referenced by the Yass Tribune-​Courier (no byline), November 1945, 2. 78 Grantlee Keiza notes that the wisteria that Rose planted ‘remains as an outdoor shade area for the Grogan family’, the current owners. (See Banjo, 493) This is reminiscent of Katharine Susannah Prichard’s fondness for wisteria as a reminder of her late husband as discussed in Chapter Seven. 79 Semmler, entry on A.B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson. 80 ‘Bust of “Banjo” Paterson for Yass Park’, Canberra Times (no byline), 27 December 1949, 2. 81 Ibid. 82 Mick Doyle, conversation with the author, 5 May 2018. 83 Retrieved 22 June 2017 from Queensland Places website:  http://​www.queenslandplaces. com.au/​winton. 84 W. Benjamin Lindner, Waltzing Matilda –​Australia’s Accidental Anthem (Tingalpa, Qld: Boolarong Press, 2019). 85 Qantilda Museum, Collections Australia Network, retrieved 10 February 2017 from: https://​ trove.nla.gov.au/​people/​1461324?q=banjo+paterson+birthplace&c=people. 86 Aneeta Bhole, ‘Iconic Waltzing Matilda Centre Rebuilt in Winton in outback Queensland’, ABC News, 20 April 2018, retrieved from: http://​www.abc.net.au/​news/​2018-​04-​20/​rebuilt-​ waltzing-​matilda-​centre-​opens-​winton-​qld/​9676146. 87 Retrieved 3 March 2017 from Cox Architecture website: http://​www.coxarchitecture.com. au/​project/​waltzing-​matilda-​centre/​.

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88 The Way Out West Fest was mostly music but also featured a ‘Bush Balladeer Showcase’ on the centre stage. 89 Bhole, ‘Iconic Waltzing Matilda Centre Rebuilt’. 90 The Gladesville Mental Hospital was nearby, where Paterson recalled attending a dance for the amusement of inmates. Henry Lawson’s mother Louisa spent her final days there. Paterson recalls the dance in ‘Banjo Paterson Tells His Own Story –​2, Giants of the Paddle, Pen, and Pencil’, 21. 91 There are a number of literary-​themed restaurants around New South Wales, including the Loaded Dog Restaurant and the Furphy Brasserie. 92 Campbell and Harvie, Singer of the Bush, xi. 93 Rose Paterson letters written between 1873 and 1888, National Library, Canberra, NLA MS 9423 and Rose Paterson’s Illalong Letters (1873–​1888) (Kangaroo Press, Sydney, 2000), 38. Letter to sister Nora, 20 February 1875. 94 Keiza, Banjo, 39. 95 Alf Cantrell, conversation with the author, 9 October 2018. 96 Retrieved 11 February 2017 from: The Man from Snowy River Museum website: http://​ manfromsnowyrivermuseum.com.au/​jack-​riley-​the-​man-​from-​snowy-​river/​. 97 Mike Pritchard ‘Why Bush Poet Harold Briggs Thinks Jack Riley is “The Man from Snowy River” ’, ABC Rural, 4 August 2014, retrieved 3 November 2017 from: http://​www.abc.net. au/​news/​rural/​2014-​08-​04/​jack-​riley/​5645980. 98 ‘Tales from the Life of Riley Proves He’s The Man’ (no byline), The Weekly Times, 15 February 2014, retrieved 5 August 2018 from: https://​www.weeklytimesnow.com.au/​country-​living/​ tales-​from-​the-​life-​of-​riley-​proves-​hes-​the-​man/​news-​story/​7293558a3605413454a95ed08d 29e42d. 99 Keiza, Banjo, 490. 100 ‘Black Swans’, in Singer of the Bush, 193–​94. 101 A. H.  Chisholm, ‘ “Waltzing Matilda” Will Be Banjo Paterson’s Memorial’, The Herald, 6 February 1941, 6. 102 Semmler, entry on A.B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson. 103 Chisholm, ‘ “Waltzing Matilda” ’, 6. 104 In 1974, ‘Waltzing Matilda’ finished second to ‘Advance Australia Fair’ in a poll to choose a new national anthem. 105 ‘$10 Banknote’, retrieved 5 February 2019 from Reserve Bank of Australia website:  https://​banknotes.rba.gov.au/​australias-​banknotes/​banknotes-​in-​circulation/​ten-​ dollar/​. 106 Osman Faruqi ‘The New $10 Note Is a Great Excuse to Talk about Mary Gilmore, the Cool Woman Featured on It’, Junkee, 17 February 2017, retrieved 10 March 2019 from:  https://​junkee.com/​new-​10-​note-​g reat-​excuse-​talk-​mary-​gilmore-​cool-​woman-​ featured/​96238. 107 Rothwell, ‘Balladeer Banjo Paterson Painted the Bush in Words’. 108 Mills, ‘Moving Buildings and Changing History’, 118. 109 Ian Ousby, The Englishman’s England:  Taste, Travel and the Rise of Tourism (London:  Pimlico, 1990), 7.

Chapter Six  Nan Chauncy’s Sanctuary 1 Friends of Chauncy Vale, Day Dawn: Nan Chauncy’s Home, pamphlet produced by Creative Topographics Pty Ltd, West Hobart; photographs by David Walker; pamphlet bought at Day Dawn by the author. 2 Berenice Eastman, Nan Chauncy: A Writer’s Life (Bagdad, Tasmania: Friends of Chauncy Vale, 2000), 23.

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3 Nan Chauncy papers, cited in Nan Chauncy: A Writer’s Life, 37. 4 Her experience of living on a houseboat was drawn upon for her book Fortune for the Brave (1954). 5 There may be a connection between this apple theme and her failed family apple farm in Tasmania. 6 Eastman, Nan Chauncy, 47. 7 Friends of Chauncy Vale, Day Dawn, x. 8 C. A.  Cranston, ‘Tasmanian Nature Writing and Ecocriticism’, Australian Literary Studies in the 21st Century, Proceedings of the 2000 ASAL Conference (Hobart:  Association for the Study of Australian Literature, 2001), 59. See also Wirrimbirra sanctuary, which commemorates David Stead (by his wife Thistle). David Stead was novelist Christina Stead’s environmentalist father, demonised in Stead’s novel The Man Who Loved Children. 9 As a result of municipal council amalgamations, the land is now owned by the Southern Midlands Council. 10 Nan Chauncy, ‘Nan Chauncy May 28 1900–​May 1 1970’, Autobiographical Sketch of Nan Masterman Chauncy in Nan Chauncy papers, University of Canberra. 64–​65. 11 Friends of Chauncy Vale, Day Dawn. 12 Berenice Eastman, ‘Chauncy, Nancen Beryl (Nan) (1900–​ 1970)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Vol. 13 (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1993), retrieved 10 February 2016 from: http://​adb.anu.edu.au/​biography/​chauncy-​nancen-​beryl-​nan-​9735. 13 Conversation with the author, October 2015. 14 Chauncy Vale Wildlife Sanctuary and Flat Rock Reserve Bagda, Joint Management Plan March 2010, 1, retrieved 10 August 2017 from:  https://​tasland.org.au/​content/​uploads/​ 2015/​06/​Chauncy-​Vale-​and-​F lat-​Rock-​Management-​Plan-​2010.pdf. 15 Heather Chauncy, personal communication to the author, April 2015. 16 Harrington, ‘World’s End Is Home for Nan Chauncy’, 441–​45. 17 Heather Chauncy, personal communication with the author, 15 October 2015. 18 Eastman notes that the failure of the orchard was due at least in part to the loss of shipping outlets when apple trading boats became troop carriers in the war years. The decline of the Bagdad area in favour of the Huon for orcharding was a further blow to the Masterman family plans. See Nan Chauncy, 30. 19 Nan Chauncy, They Found a Cave (Melbourne: Text Publishing, 2013), 34. 20 Ibid.,  38–​39. 21 Ibid. 22 Ibid., 301. 23 Heather Chauncy, personal communication to the author, October 2015. 24 Kay Masterman, ‘Nan Chauncy, 1900–​1970’, Reading Time, July 1975, 35–​42. 25 Heather Chauncy, personal communication to the author, April 2015. 26 Eastman, Nan Chauncy, 16. 27 Ibid., 30. 28 Brenda Niall, assisted by Frances O’Neill, Australia through the Looking Glass:  Children’s Fiction 1830–​1980 (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1984), 216. 29 Nan Chauncy papers, cited by Eastman, Nan Chauncy, 54. 30 Nicola Watson, The Literary Tourist (Hampshire, NY: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), 202. 31 Sheilagh J. Squire, ‘Meanings, Myth and Memories: Literary Tourism as Public Discourse in Beatrix Potter’s Lake District’, unpublished PhD thesis, University of London, 1991, 146–​47. 32 Watson, The Literary Tourist, 203. 33 John Marsden, Introduction to They Found a Cave, xi. 34 Peter Pierce, The Country of Lost Children: An Australian Anxiety (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 165. 35 Marsden, Introduction to They Found a Cave, xi.

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36 Clare Bradford, ‘Australian Children’s Literature’, Cambridge History of Australian Literature, edited by Peter Pierce (Port Melbourne, Victoria: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 282–​302. 37 John Marsden, ‘Nan Chauncy: Centenary Celebrations’, essay, 4, from Children’s Literature file, University of Canberra. 38 Kay C. Masterman, ‘Nan Chauncy 1900–​1970’, address to the Children’s Book Council of Australia (Canberra Branch) 1975, 2–​3. 39 Lyn Harrington, ‘World’s End Is Home for Nan Chauncy’, The Horn Book Magazine (August 1969), 441– 45, in Nan Chauncy papers, National Centre for Australian Children’s Literature, University of Canberra. 40 Eastman, Nan Chauncy, 76. 41 Susan Sheridan and Emma Maguire, ‘Relationships to the Bush in Nan Chauncy’s Early Novels for Children’, Journal of the Association for the Study of Australian Literature 14, no. 3 (2014), 9. 42 Ivan Southall, ‘The Legacy of Nan Chauncy’, 11 June 1970, from Children’s Literature file, University of Canberra. 43 Chauncy, They Found a Cave,  44–​45. 44 Ibid. 45 The Chauncy Vale area is thought to have been used extensively by Indigenous people. See the Chauncy Vale Wildlife Sanctuary and Flat Rock Reserve Bagdad Joint Management Plan, March 2010. 46 Ibid. 47 Chauncy, They Found a Cave, 173. 48 Southall, ‘The Legacy of Nan Chauncy’. 49 Clare Bradford, Reading Race:  Aboriginality in Australian Children’s Literature (Carlton South: Melbourne University Press, 2001), 64. 50 Chauncy, cited in ibid. 51 Wybalenna was established as the so-​called Aboriginal Settlement in 1834 and when it opened it housed 134 Aborigines, placed there for the purpose of being ‘Civilised and Christianised’. A historic church sits on a site where hundreds of Tasmanian Aborigines died while waiting to return to their traditional country on the mainland of Tasmania as promised by George Augustus Robinson as part of his ‘Friendly Mission’. 52 Robinson is implicated in the deaths that occurred at Wybalenna when the assembled people were neglected and mistreated by subsequent commissioners. Few survivors were transferred to Oyster Cove south of Hobart in 1847. 53 Eastman, Nan Chauncy, 66. 54 Ibid. 55 Sheridan and Maguire, ‘Relationships to the Bush’, 9. 56 ‘They Built a Cave for a Location’, Herald, 22 November 1962 (n.p.). 57 Peter Conrad, Down Home: Revisiting Tasmania (London: Chatto & Windus, 1988), 193. 58 Chauncy, ‘Nan Chauncy May 28 1900-​May 1 1970’, 64–​65. 59 Niall, Australia through the Looking Glass, 223. 60 Eastman refers to Chauncy’s teasing at school in Nan Chauncy, 25. 61 In an interview in May 1969, Harrington refers to him as Peter Chauncy without mentioning his original name. See ‘World’s End Is Home for Nan Chauncy’, 441–​45. 62 See Eastman, Nan Chauncy, 48. 63 Chauncy applied for a grant in 1957, 1958, 1964 and 1966 without success, indicating that children’s book authors were not readily funded in this era. 64 Eastman, ‘Chauncy, Nancen Beryl (Nan) (1900–​1970)’. 65 Harald Hendrix (ed.), Writers’ Houses and the Making of Memory (Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge, 2008), 1. 66 Gill Vowles, ‘In the Words of Nan Chauncy’, The Mercury, 12 July 2015, retrieved from: https://​ www.themercury.com.au/​lifestyle/​tasweekend-​in-​the-​words-​of-​nan-​chauncy/​news-​story/​ 1cc1cc6fef4475909ec25522fd6e020c.

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67 Hugh Anderson, The Singing Roads: A Guide to Australian Children’s Authors and Illustrators (Surry Hills, New South Wales: Wentworth Books, 1970–​1972), 25. 68 Vivian Smith, ‘For Nan Chauncy: 1900–​1970’, in Eastman, Nan Chauncy, 71–​72. First published in The Australian, 20 May 1970, reprinted in Tide Country (Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1982), 53.

Chapter Seven  Living Memorials: The Houses of Katharine Susannah Prichard and Eleanor Dark 1 Harald Hendrix, Writers’ Houses and the Making of Memory (New York: Routledge, 2012), 5. 2 Alison Booth, ‘Time-​Travel in Dickens’ World’, in Literary Tourism and Nineteenth-​Century Culture, edited by Nicola J. Watson (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 151. 3 Mark O’Flynn, ‘Varuna’, retrieved 10 February 2018 from The Dictionary of Sydney website: https://​dictionaryofsydney.org/​entry/​varuna. 4 The May Gibbs Trust offers one month Creative Time Fellowships at three properties in Brisbane, Adelaide and Canberra in apartments which are not connected with Gibbs’s biography; however Nutcote, her former home in Sydney, is open to the public. 5 KSP’s Child of the Hurricane, cited by Alice Pung, ‘Katharine’s Place’, July 2008, retrieved 9 August 2017 from The Monthly website:  https://​www.themonthly.com.au/​issue/​2008/​july/​ 1272508977/​alice-​pung/​katharine-​s-​place. 6 KSP, Child of the Hurricane (Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1974), 254. 7 Ibid. 8 Ric Throssell, Wild Weeds and Windflowers:  The Life and Letters of Katharine Susannah Prichard (Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1990), 39. 9 Ibid., 47. 10 The workroom was not positioned in exactly the same spot as the summer house. 11 Ibid., 47. 12 Ibid., 148. 13 Nathan Hobby, ‘KSP Heritage #1:  Katharine’s Workroom’, Part of KSP Heritage Trail, retrieved 10 April 2018 from KSP website:  http://​www.kspwriterscentre.com/​single-​post/​ 2018/​02/​01/​KSP-​Heritage-​Trail-​1-​Katharines-​Workroom; KSP’s letter to Hugh McCrae is quoted in Carole Ferrier (ed.), As Good as a Yarn with You (Melbourne: Cambridge, 1992), 27. 14 Hobby, ‘KSP Heritage #1’. 15 It was restored in 2014 by Robert Messenger of owner of the  Australian Typewriter Museum in Canberra who commented on the damage done by being on open display, with its right side exposed to a window however it is still in working order. For more details see Robert Messenger’s Oz Typewriter blog:  https://​oztypewriter.blogspot.com/​2014/​09/​katharine-​ susannah-​prichards-​remington.html 16 KSP, Child of the Hurricane, 258. 17 Ibid.,  257–​8. 18 KSP, ‘The Grey Horse’, Art & Australia, no. 10, 1 September 1924, retrieved from: http://​nla. gov.au/​nla.obj-​352254314/​view?partId=nla.obj-​352311443#page/​n16/​mode/​1up. 19 Nathan Hobby, ‘Your KS # 23: The Grey Horse’, retrieved from: http://​www.kspwriterscentre. com/​single-​post/​2017/​07/​01/​Your-​KS-​23-​The-​Grey-​Horse. 20 Nathan Hobby, Katharine Susannah Prichard: A Life, shared privately with the author, 8. 21 Throssell, Wild Weeds, 64. 22 K. B.  (Thea) Headlam, ‘My Aunt  –​Katharine Susannah Prichard’, tape-​recorded by Mrs Headlam at Saunders Beach, North Queensland, October 1983, and edited by Elizabeth Perkins. 23 Throssell’s Introduction to Intimate Strangers (1990 edition) quoted by Nathan Hobby, retrieved 4 August 2017 from the Biographer in Perth website: https://b ​ iographerinperth.wordpress.com/​2014/​ 09/​25/​anguished-​portrait-​of-​marriage-​katharine-​susannah-​prichards-​intimate-​strangers/​.

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24 Throssell thought that, like the workroom, it was paid for with The Bulletin’s prize money for Prichard’s novel Coonardoo. 25 Ric Throssell, My Father’s Son (Melbourne: Heinemann, 1989), 97. 26 Throssell, Wild Weeds, 156. 27 Headlam, ‘My Aunt –​Katharine Susannah Prichard’. 28 Ibid. 29 Ibid. 30 Katie Holmes, Between the Leaves: Stories of Australian Women, Writing and Gardens (Perth: University of Western Australia Publishing, 2011), 189. 31 Ibid., 193. 32 Pam Portman and Sally Clarke, Katharine Susannah Prichard: Her Place (Perth: Gooseberry Hill Press, Katharine Susannah Prichard Writers Centre 25th anniversary publication, 2010), 25. 33 Throssell, My Father’s Son, 156. 34 Portman and Clarke, Katharine Susannah Prichard, 25. 35 KSP’s poem ‘For Jimmy’, cited in Holmes, Between the Leaves, 187. 36 KSP, Working Bullocks, cited in Holmes, Between the Leaves. 37 KSP, Child of the Hurricane, 257. 38 KSP to Ric Throssell, cited in Holmes, Between the Leaves,  181. 39 A mulga tree planted by Joseph Furphy in Shepparton and a gum tree in honour of Henry Lawson in Footscray Park have both died and been replaced, severing ties with the original act of planting but perpetuating the symbolism of the trees. 40 Alison Booth, Homes and Haunts: Touring Writers Shrines and Countries (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 68. 41 KSP cited in Holmes, Between the Leaves, 201. 42 Portman and Clarke, Katharine Susannah Prichard,  20–​21. 43 Ric Throssell to Glen Phillips, 16 October 1990, KSP papers, National Library of Australia. 44 Portman and Clarke, Katharine Susannah Prichard, 20. 45 ‘Statement of Significance’ from Architectural Evaluation for the Western Australian Heritage Committee No 36/​87, April 1987, KSPWC archive. 46 Headlam, ‘My Aunt –​Katharine Susannah Prichard’. 47 Glen Phillips, conversation with the author, 15 June 2018. 48 Letter from the Katharine Susannah Prichard Foundation to the chairman, WA Heritage Committee, 1 May 1987, KSPWC archive. 49 Glen Phillips, conversation with the author, 15 June 2018. 50 Pung, ‘Katharine’s Place’. 51 Open Days are an opportunity to showcase the various groups that use the house including: the Past Tense (Social History) Group, Poets @ KSP, Fantasy Sci-​Fic & Horror Group (FiSH), Non Fiction Group, the Writefree Women’s Writing Group and the Thursday Night Group (TNG). 52 Retrieved 2 February 2017 from the Katharine Susannah Prichard Centre website:  http://​ www.kspwriterscentre.com/​history-​1. 53 Susan Wyndham, ‘Abuse as a Muse’, Sydney Morning Herald, 6 June 2009, retrieved from: http://​ blogs.smh.com.au/​entertainment/​archives/​undercover/​021769.html. 54 Jean Devanny to Karl Shapiro, 19 December 1943, in Ferrier (ed.), As Good as a Yarn with You, 13. 55 Barbara Brooks with Judith Clark, Eleanor Dark:  A Writers’ Life (Sydney:  Pan Macmillan, 1998), 215. 56 Ibid. 57 Headlam, ‘My Aunt –​Katharine Susannah Prichard’. 58 KSP to Vance Palmer, November 1924, PP, 1174/​1/​2630, cited in Nathan Hobby’s forthcoming biography Katharine Susannah Prichard: A Life. 59 Dark to Franklin, 19 September 1936, in Ferrier (ed.), As Good As A Yarn with You,  33–​35.

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60 Eleanor Dark, The Little Company (Sydney: Collins Bros, 1945), 252. 61 Ibid., 312 62 Brooks, cited by Mark O’Flynn in ‘Varuna’ entry in the Dictionary of Sydney, retrieved from: https://​dictionaryofsydney.org/​node/​19524. 63 Ibid. 64 Sian Powell, ‘In the Dark Tradition’, Sydney Morning Herald, 16 June 1990, 74. 65 No author, ‘Varuna: A Writers Retreat’ proposal, KSPWC archive. 66 Italics added; Letter from Rhonda Flottmann to the Sydney Morning Herald, 12 May 1988. 67 Eleanor Dark, ‘Australia and the Australians’, in The Australian Week-​end Book, edited by Sydney Ure Smith and Gwen Morton Spencer (Sydney: Ure Smith, 1944?), 13. 68 Susan Carson, ‘Conversations with the Land:  Environmental Questions and Eleanor Dark’, Land and Identity: Proceedings of the 1997 Association for the Study of Australian Literature Conference held at the University of New England Armidale New South Wales, 27–​30 September 1997, Armidale: Association for the Study of Australian Literature, 1998, 191–​96. 69 Hobby, Katharine Susannah Prichard: A Life (forthcoming) 70 KSP, Child of the Hurricane, 257. 71 This auction, run by the writer Richard Neville, made $5,000, enough to fund 10 weeks of fellowships. Money for fellowships was given precedence over the preservation of manuscripts and other ephemera. 72 ‘Sincerity, Propriety’, Echo, 27 September 1988. 73 Ibid. 74 Wyndham, ‘Abuse as a Muse’. 75 No author, ‘Govt Donates $60,000 to “Living Memorial” ’, Blue Mountains Gazette, 7 December 1988. 76 No author, ‘Writers Centre Opened’, Blue Mountains Gazette, 20 March 1991. 77 Cited in The Weekend Australian, 19–​20 May 1990. 78 Inez Brewer, ‘Varuna’s Writing Program’, TEXT 5, no. 2 (2001), retrieved from: http://​www. textjournal.com.au/​oct01/​brewer.htm. 79 Cassandra Pybus, Letter to the Editor, Sydney Morning Herald, 20 November 1989. 80 Brewer, ‘Varuna’s Writing Program’. 81 Gerry Turcotte, Hauntings: The ‘Varuna’ Poems (Wollongong, NSW: Five Islands Press, 2003). 82 O’Flynn, ‘Varuna’ entry in the Dictionary of Sydney. 83 Kate Cole-​Adams, Anaesthesia: The Gift of Oblivion and the Mystery of Consciousness (Melbourne: Text Publishing, 2017), 211. 84 Ibid., 211. 85 O’Flynn, ‘Varuna’ entry in the Dictionary of Sydney. 86 Ibid. 87 Brenda Walker, Poe’s Cat (Victoria: Viking, 1999), 51. 88 Turcotte, Hauntings, 11. 89 Ibid. 90 Ibid., 8. 91 Jane Sullivan, ‘Turning Pages: The Lure of Sleeping Where Great Writers Once Slept’, 26 June 2017, retrieved from: https://​www.smh.com.au/​entertainment/​books/​turning-​pages-​ the-​lure-​of-​sleeping-​where-​great-​writers-​once-​slept-​20170622-​gwwoez.html. 92 ABC Radio National Books and Arts podcast discussing The Timeless Land, guests Barbara Brooks, Guila Giuffrè and Becky Chapman. Giuffrè refers to the ‘Eleanor Dark’ interview with Eric Dark in Southerly 47, no. 1 (March 1987), 83–​93. 93 Dark, The Little Company, 217. 94 Eleanor Dark to Molly O’Reilly, 14 January 1941, Varuna archive. 95 Marivic Wyndham argues that Dowell O’Reilly that inflicted considerable psychological violence on his first wife, and indirectly on his daughter. She found that the nature and

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scale of that violence to be a primary force in the shaping of Eleanor’s literary impulses. See Marivic Wyndham, A World-​Proof Life: Eleanor Dark, a Writer in Her Times (Sydney: UTS ePress, 2007). 96 Incidentally, an address on Dowell O’Reilly’s writing was delivered by Kate Baker at a Henry Lawson Literary and Memorial Society event on 10 March 1938. 97 O’Flynn, ‘Varuna’ entry in the Dictionary of Sydney. 98 Yasmine Gooneratne, ‘Pilgrims’ Progress’, The Weekend Australian, 16–​17 March 1991. 99 Monica Flynn, ‘Varuna Quilt’, March 2017, retrieved 3 December 2017 from Varuna website: http://​www.varuna.com.au/​varuna/​index.php/​supporters/​item/​106-​varuna-​quilt. 100 Carolynne Gordon, ‘Varuna Quilt Project’, March 2017, retrieved 3 December 2017 from Varuna website:  http://​www.varuna.com.au/​varuna/​index.php/​supporters/​item/​ 106-​varuna-​quilt. 101 Brooks, A Writer’s Life, 68. 102 The State Library of New South Wales holds gardening notebooks with the heading ‘Where Is It?’, which Dark filled up with notes of the locations of plantings in her garden, along with clippings and other related inscriptions. One of these garden books contains a list of family birthdays handwritten inside the front cover, showing how her feelings for family and garden intertwined. 103 G. M. M., ‘A Novelist at Home’, Sydney Morning Herald, Women’s Supplement 23 May 1935, 17, cited in Brooks, A Writer’s Life, 68. 104 Jean Devanny, Bird of Paradise (Sydney: Simmons, 1945), 245. 105 Barbara Brooks essay, retrieved from Varuna website: http://​www.varuna.com.au/​varuna/​ index.php/​component/​k2/​item/​116-​eleanor-​dark-​brooks-​essay. 106 Eleanor Dark to Molly, 13 June (maybe 1939 –​undated), letters kept at Varuna. 107 Ibid. 108 Brooks essay, Varuna website. 109 Eleanor Dark to JD in ‘Writers At Home. Eleanor and Eric Dark’, Bird of Paradise, 251; italics added. 110 Eleanor Dark in A. Grove Day, Eleanor Dark, 24–​25, cited in Brooks, A Writer’s Life, 341. 111 Hazel Edwards, entry in 1995 Visitors Book, 30 January 1995. 112 Tom Griffiths, The Art of Time Travel: Historians and Their Craft (Melbourne: Black Inc Books, 2016). 113 Eleanor Dark to Molly O’Reilly, July 1940, MLMSS 4545 15/​2/​6/​289 cited in Brooks, A Writer’s Life, 342. 114 Brooks, A Writer’s Life, 342. 115 This poem was given to Barbara Brooks by Michael Dark and published in A Writer’s Life (page 343), and is displayed in a frame in Eleanor’s writing room. 116 Photographs of the Darks at Jerrkellimi can be found on Flickr, retrieved 22 October 2018 from:  https://​www.flickr.com/​photos/​blue_​mountains_​library_​-​_​local_​studies/​ 31055950187/​in/​photostream/​ 117 Dark, The Little Company, 212. 118 Ibid. 119 Cole-​Adams, Anaesthesia, 211. 120 Letter from Barbara Brandt to John Apthorp, 31 April 1988, KSPWC archive. 121 There are plans for a separate building to accommodate disabled writers that will make it more accessible for people who are less mobile. At present the stairs in the house are a major barrier to accessibility. 122 Holmes, ‘Katharine Susannah Prichard: Garden of Consolation’, Between the Leaves, 184. 123 Dark, The Little Company, 10. 124 Devanny, Bird of Paradise, 246. 125 Dark, The Little Company, 210. 126 Throssell, Wild Weeds, 220.

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Chapter Eight  Statue Mania: P. L. Travers and the Appeal of Mary Poppins 1 In the Shadow of Mary Poppins (documentary), directed Lisa Matthews, 2002; screened on ABC Television, 28 April 2004. 2 Only the Story Bank is consistently open to the public, but the others can be viewed from outside or by appointment. 3 Valerie Lawson, ‘Into the Mystic:  The Mary Poppins Enigma’, Sunday Times, 13 December 2004, retrieved from:  https://​www.thetimes.co.uk/​article/​into-​the-mystic-​themary-​poppins-​enigma-​5sbssgbdb6x. 4 The film was shot in the United States but Mary Poppins walking tours of London are popular nevertheless. 5 Valerie Lawson, Out of the Sky She Came:  The Extraordinary Life of P.L. Travers, Creator of Mary Poppins (Sydney: Hodder Headline, 1999), 150. 6 Kathleen A.  Miller, ‘Revisiting Anne of Green Gables and Her Creator’, Jabberwocky 13, no.  2 (2009), retrieved 2 October 2016 from:  https://​www.lib.latrobe.edu.au/​ojs/​index.php/​tlg/​ article/​view/​142/​141. 7 ‘May Gibbs’, retrieved 7 December 2017 from the Monument Australia website:  http://​ monumentaustralia.org.au/​themes/​people/​arts/​display/​93378-​may-​gibbs-​. 8 C. H. D. D. (initials only –​hard to read), ‘Australian Girl Gaining Fame in London’, Sunday Mail (Brisbane, Queensland: 1926–​1954), 27 November 1927, 2. 9 Ibid. 10 Ibid. 11 ‘Peter Pan’ (pseudonym), ‘Actress and Writer’, The Telegraph (Brisbane), 1 April 1933, 8. 12 Nettie Palmer, The Bulletin 55, no. 2837 (27 June 1934), 5. 13 Ibid. 14 ‘P. L. Travers, Aust. Woman Writer, Views America’, Maryborough Chronicle, Wide Bay and Burnett Advertiser (Qld.: 1860–​1947), Wednesday 18 April 1945, n.p. 15 John Moran, ‘ “Mary Poppins” Reveals Herself ’, Australian Women’s Weekly (n.d.), clipping from the P. L. Travers collection at the Maryborough District Family History Society. 16 Ibid. 17 John Moran, ‘Poppins Exposed: Mary Was Dinky-​Di! (And She Was a Queenslander)’, Australian Women’s Weekly (n.d.), 66, clipping from the P. L. Travers collection at the Maryborough District Family History Society. 18 Moran notes that the Sunday Mail reported in March the same year that the author had been ‘hiding in anonymity’. 19 Moran, ‘Poppins Exposed’. 20 No author, ‘It’s Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious:  The Return of Mary Poppins’, published in the Australian Women’s Weekly in April 1990, clipping from the P. L. Travers collection at the Maryborough District Family History Society. 21 Tim Barlass, ‘The Truth behind Mary Poppins Creator P.L Travers:  The Creator of Mary Poppins Was Practically Imperfect’, Sydney Morning Herald, 5 January 2014, retrieved 11 November 2017 from:  https://​www.smh.com.au/​entertainment/​movies/​the-​truth-​behind-​ mary-​poppins-​creator-​pl-​travers-​20140104-​30akz.html. 22 Valerie Lawson, ‘Poppins Memorial Lands in Park’, Sydney Morning Herald, 13 March 2004, retrieved from:  https://​www.smh.com.au/​articles/​2004/​03/​12/​1078594569427. html?oneclick=true. 23 Lawson, Out of the Sky She Came, 47. 24 Lawson, ‘Poppins Memorial Lands in Park’. 25 Kim Stephens, ‘The Birthplace of Mary Poppins Author Up for Sale’, Brisbane Times, 1 September 2014, retrieved from:  https://​www.brisbanetimes.com.au/​national/​queensland/​ birthplace-​of-​mary-​poppins-​author-​up-​for-​sale-​20140901-​10axoe.html.

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26 In fact, she did not initially hide her Australian origins and she was followed by the press until she had been away for 20 years or so and most locals had forgotten about her. 27 Blake Antrobus, ‘Maryborough Flicks Switch on Mary Poppins Traffic Lights’, 16 June 2017, retrieved 10 March 2018 from:  https://​www.news.com.au/​national/​queensland/​ maryborough-​flicks-​switch-​on-​mary-​poppins-​traffic-​lights/​news-​story/​2e32da53eca4a0e5f22 b5a38882e2790. 28 This practice has similarities to the Henrys events at the Grenfell Lawson Festival. 29 Retrieved from Mary Poppins Festival website:  http://​www.marypoppinsfestival.com.au/​ More-​Mary-​Fun/​Mary-​Poppins-​Statue. 30 I have already touched upon the kinship between womens’ literary authorship and the practice of craft in my discussion of Eleanor Dark and the Varuna Quilt Project. 31 Councillor George Seymour, cited by Carlie Walker in the Fraser Coast Chronicle, 4 December 2017, retrieved from:  https://​www.frasercoastchronicle.com.au/​news/​take-​peek-​inside-​ mboro-​birthplace-​mary-​poppins-​aut/​3281249/​. 32 If these activities are not enough to amuse children, they can check out the gift shop. On the Story Bank website, visitors are encouraged to find unique gifts and books in the ‘retail cottage’. 33 Ibid. 34 Brad Marcellos, ‘Bank Invests in Stories to Celebrate Mary Poppins Author in Regional Queensland’, ABC News, 7 July 2019, retrieved from:  https://​www.abc.net.au/​news/​2019-​ 07-​07/​bank-​invests-​in-​stories-​to-​celebrate-​mary-​poppins-​author/​11281884 35 Maryborough Story Trails, retrieved 15 March 2018 from Mary Poppins Festival website: https://​www.marypoppinsfestival.com.au/​Storytelling. 36 Shelagh Squire, ‘Meanings, Myths and Memories: Literary Tourism as Cultural Discourse in Beatrix Potter’s Lake District’, Unpublished PhD thesis, University of London 1991, 146–​7. 37 Lawson, Out of the Sky She Came, 147. 38 Janet Watts, ‘The Weekly Presents Extracts from a Great New Book. P.L. Travers Brings Back the Indomitable Mary Poppins’, Australian Woman’s Weekly, 2 June 1982, 51. 39 Lawson, Out of the Sky She Came, 145. 40 Feenie Ziner, ‘Mary Poppins as a Zen Monk’, New York Times archive, 7 May 1972, retrieved 16 May 2017 from:  https://​www.nytimes.com/​1972/​05/​07/​archives/​mary-​poppins-​as-​a-​zen-​ monk-​mary-​poppins.html. 41 Valerie Lawson, cited by Frances Whiting, The Courier Mail, 22 October 2011, retrieved 3 October 2018 from:  https://​www.couriermail.com.au/​ipad/​theres-​something-​about-​mary/​news-​story/​ 01dd85c88b820128a97ba509b9db4085?sv=cbc5f55b0a231116507bed12d027bfc8. 42 G. Kennedy, ‘Allora’s Magical Link to Mary Poppins’, Warwick Daily News, 7 January 2014, retrieved 2 September 2018 from:  https://​www.warwickdailynews.com.au/​news/​Our-​ magical-​link-​to-​Mary-​Poppins/​2132213/​. 43 Ibid. 44 Valerie Lawson, ‘Into the Mystic: The Mary Poppins Enigma’, The Times, retrieved from: https://​ www.thetimes.co.uk/​article/​into-​the-​mystic-​the-​mary-​poppins-​enigma-​5sbssgbdb6x. 45 Kennedy, ‘Allora’s Magical Link to Marry Poppins’. 46 The Mary Poppins House, retrieved 5 September 2018 from Visit Darling Downs website: https://​visitdarlingdowns.com.au/​listing/​the-​mary-​poppins-​house/​. 47 Peter Gunder, ‘Saving Mr Banks’ Bank’, ABC Southern Queensland, 9 January 2014, retrieved 15 August 2018 from: http://​www.abc.net.au/​local/​stories/​2013/​12/​12/​3910318.htm. 48 Les Struthers, cited by Frances Whiting, The Courier Mail, 22 October 2011, retrieved 3 October 2018 from: https://​www.couriermail.com.au/​ipad/​theres-​something-​about-​mary/​news-​story/​ 01dd85c88b820128a97ba509b9db4085?sv=cbc5f55b0a231116507bed12d027bfc8. 49 Gunder, ‘Saving Mr Banks’ Bank’. 50 Whiting, The Courier Mail, 22 October 2011.

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51 Frances Whiting takes up the ‘Curious Case of the Parrot’s Head Umbrella’ through interviewing people in Allora. She was shown a photograph of a parrot-​ headed umbrella  but couldn’t verify that it was the same one which inspired Poppins’ famous accoutrement. 52 Elyse Wurm, ‘Minister Dubs Town Official Home of Mary Poppins’, Warwick Daily News, 23 April 2018, retrieved 2 August 2018 from:  https://​www.warwickdailynews.com.au/​news/​ minister-​dubs-​town-​official-​home-​of-​mary-​poppins/​3394977/​. 53 Gunder, ‘Saving Mr Banks’ Bank’. 54 Statues still spring up in various places including a 182-​metre sculpture of Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel erected in a remote part of the Gujarat state in 2018, known as the Statue of Unity to commemorate his efforts to corral hundreds of princely states into the Indian union after independence. 55 Erika Doss, Memorial Mania: Public Feeling in America (Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 2010), 20. 56 Ibid., 30. 57 Bruce Bennett and Anne Pender, From a Distant Shore:  Australian Writers in Britain 1820–​2012 (Clayton, Victoria: Monash University Publishing, 2013), 54. 58 Letter from Travers to the Parks Commissioner, March 1966, cited by Lawson, Out of the Sky She Came, 299. 59 Lawson, Out of the Sky She Came, 300. 60 Ibid. 61 Ziner, ‘Mary Poppins as a Zen Monk’, 7. 62 Valerie Lawson, The Times, retrieved from: https://​www.thetimes.co.uk/​article/​into-​the-​mystic-​ the-​mary-​poppins-​enigma-​5sbssgbdb6x. 63 Sean Crampton was a former Professor of Sculpture at the Anglo-​French Art Centre in St John’s Wood, London. 64 Marie Hobson, ‘Tanya Unveils Mary Poppins at Bowral’, Namoi Valley Independent, 12 December 2013, retrieved 10 November 2017 from:  http://​www.nvi.com.au/​story/​1968740/​tanya-​ unveils-​mary-​poppins-​at-​bowral/​. 65 ‘Bowral’s Mary Poppins Birthplace Statue Is Now Unveiled!’, retrieved 15 April 2017 from the Mary Poppins Birthplace  –​Bowral website:  http://​mary-​poppins-​birthplace.net/​tag/​sean-​ crampton/​. 66 ‘The Centre for Independent Studies takes a Jolly Holiday … from the Facts’ retrieved from the Mary Poppins Birthplace  –​Bowral website:  http://​mary-​poppins-​birthplace.net/​category/​ mary-​poppins-​birthplace-​statue/​. 67 Image of the mass Mary Poppins umbrella display in Bowral, retrieved 5 December 2017 from:  http://​mary-​poppins-​birthplace.net/​wordpress/​wp-​content/​uploads/​2013/​11/​DSC_​ 0037_​LR.jpg. 68 Southern Highlands News, April 2014, retrieved from: http://​www.southernhighlandnews.com. au/​story/​2233091/​a-​spoonful-​of-​magic/​?cs=262. 69 This is reminiscent of the commonly reported ‘haunting’ of literary properties, especially houses. 70 Madeline Crittenden, ‘Mary Poppins Has Gone Missing from Her Glebe Park Perch’, Southern Highland News, 2 March 2018, retrieved 3 August 2018 from:  https://​www. southernhighlandnews.com.au/​ s tory/​ 5 260961/​ t he- ​ mysterious- ​ c ase- ​ o f- ​ m issing- ​ m ary-​ poppins/​. 71 Ibid. 72 Retrieved 18 November 2017 from the Mary Poppins Birthplace –​Bowral website: http://​ mary-​poppins-​birthplace.net/​2014/​05/​theories-​offered-​for-​mary-​poppins-​statue-​mystery- ​ movement/​. 73 Given that Sir Donald Bradman was from Bowral, frequent cricket games are to be expected.

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74 ‘Was Christchurch the Birthplace of Mary Poppins?’, posted by Wendy on 14 December 2014, retrieved 10 August 2018 from Lost Christchurch Remembering Our Lost Heritage website: https://​lostchristchurch.wordpress.com/​2016/​12/​14/​was-​christchurch-​the-​birthplaceof-​mary-​poppins/​. 75 Valerie Lawson, cited by Lost Christchurch website, retrieved 2 October 2017 from: https://​ lostchristchurch.wordpress.com/​2016/​12/​14/​was-​christchurch-​the-​birthplace-​of-​mary-​ poppins/​. 76 Ibid. 77 Locals told them that the cottage had been listed in the Doomsday Book: see Lawson, Out of the Sky She Came, 113. 78 Caitlin Flanagan, The New Yorker, 19 December 2005, retrieved from: https://​www.newyorker. com/​magazine/​2005/​12/​19/​becoming-​mary-​poppins. 79 Lawson, Out of the Sky She Came, 151. 80 Ibid., 152. 81 P. L. Travers, ‘I Never Wrote for Children’, New York Times, 2 July 1978, retrieved 10 November 2018 from: https://www.nytimes.com/1978/07/02/archives/i-never-wrote-for-children.html. 82 Travers, cited by Lawson, Out of the Sky She Came, 155. 83 Kathryn Hughes, ‘What Saving Mr Banks Tells Us about the Original Mary Poppins’, The Guardian, 7 December 2013, retrieved 5 July 2017 from:  https://​www.theguardian.com/​ books/​2013/​dec/​07/​pl-​travers-​saving-​mr-​banks-​original-​mary-​poppins. 84 The Secret Life of Mary Poppinsm, cited by the History vs Hollywood website, retrieved 22 September 208 from: http://​www.historyvshollywood.com/​reelfaces/​saving-​mr-​banks.php. 85 Richard Brody, ‘What Would Have Saved “Saving Mr Banks” ’, New  Yorker, retrieved 10 March 2018 from:  https://​www.newyorker.com/​culture/​richard-​brody/​what-​would-​have-​ saved-​saving-​mr-​banks. 86 Ibid. 87 Caitlin Flanagan, ‘Becoming Mary Poppins: P. L. Travers, Walt Disney, and the Making of a Myth’, New Yorker, 19 December 2005, retrieved from: https://​www.newyorker.com/​magazine/​2005/​12/​19/​becoming-​mary-​poppins. 88 Margaret Lyons, ‘Saving Mr Banks Left Out an Awful Lot about P. L. Travers’, retrieved 15 August 2018 from Vulture website:  http://​www.vulture.com/​2013/​12/​saving-​mr-​banks-​ pl-​travers-​fact-​check-​mary-​poppins.html. 89 Flanagan ‘Becoming Mary Poppins’. 90 Ibid. 91 Frances Adcock, ‘Film about Mary Poppins Author Has Early Screening in Her Home Town of Maryborough’, ABC News (online), 3 January 2014, retrieved from:  https://​www.abc. net.au/​news/​2014-​01-​03/​film-​about-​mary-​poppins-​author-​to-​premiere-​in-​maryborough/​ 5183304. 92 In the Shadow of Mary Poppins documentary. 93 Barlass, ‘The Truth behind Mary Poppins Creator P.L. Travers’. 94 Flanagan, ‘Becoming Mary Poppins’. 95 Barlass, ‘The Truth behind Mary Poppins Creator P.L. Travers’. 96 In the Shadow of Mary Poppins documentary. 97 Lawson, Out of the Sky She Came, 68. 98 Ibid., 68. 99 Angela Woolacott, To Try Her Fortune in London:  Australian Women, Colonialism, and Modernity (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 145–​46. 100 Julian Baggini, ‘Statues Have Had Their Day. Let’s Make Our Monuments Memorable’, The Guardian, 20 January 2018, retrieved 10 March 2018 from: https://​www.theguardian.com/​ commentisfree/​2018/​jan/​19/​statues-​day-​monuments-​memorable-​women-​westminster. 101 Bennett and Pender, From a Distant Shore, 55.

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102 In a marginal note on a manuscript, Travers wrote that Cherry Tree Lane was one of those byways not important enough to show up on a map. 103 Lawson, Out of the Sky She Came, 136–​37. 104 Ibid., 136. 105 There are tours in London of the settings of the film, Mary Poppins, despite the fact that the film was made entirely in the United States.

Chapter Nine  Kylie Tennant’s Hut 1 Susan Drury, Writers and Writing (West Melbourne: Thomas Nelson, 1979), 55–​57. 2 Tennant’s text was originally called The Brown Van but published as The Battlers in 1941. 3 Kylie Tennant, The Missing Heir: The Autobiography of Kylie Tennant (South Melbourne: Macmillan Company, 1986), 99–​100. 4 Peter Pierce, ‘Kylie Tennant’, The Age, 24 June 2006, retrieved 10 April 2017 from: https://​ www.theage.com.au/​entertainment/​books/​kylie-​tennant-​20060624-​ge2kyb.html. 5 Tom Inglis Moore, ‘A Key to Kylie Tennant’, Canberra Times, 30 July 1966, 13. 6 B. W. M., ‘Australia’s Steinbeck: The Work of Kylie Tennant’, The Age, 10 March 1951, 8. 7 Graeme Kinross-​Smith, Australia’s Writers: An Illustrated Guide to Their Lives and Their Work (West Melbourne: Thomas Nelson, 1980), 266–​67. 8 Draft versions of The Man on the Headland held in the National Library of Australia carry the title ‘Portrait of a Gentleman’. 9 Bill Boyd, conversation with the author, 14 April 2019. 10 Kylie Tennant, The Man on the Headland, 83. 11 Bill Boyd, conversation with the author, 14 April 2019. 12 Ibid., 101. 13 Ibid., 2. 14 Ibid., 3. 15 Tennant, The Missing Heir, 124. 16 Jane Grant, Kylie Tennant: A Life (Canberra: National Library of Australia, 2006), 108. 17 Ibid., 109. 18 W. S. Ramson, ‘Of a Cliffside Idyll’, Canberra Times, 16 October 1971, 14. 19 Ibid., 14. 20 Retrieved from:  http://​www.environment.nsw.gov.au/​resources/​parks/​pomFinalCrowdy Bay.pdf. 21 NSW Government Office of the Environment & Heritage, retrieved 10 August 2018 from: https://​www.environment.nsw.gov.au/​nswcultureheritage/​CabinsAndHuts.htm. 22 Andrew Marshall, Hastings-​Macleay Area, North Coast Branch NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service, email communication with author, 28 November 2018. 23 Bill Boyd, conversation with the author, 14 April 2019. 24 Graeme Kinross-​Smith, ‘Kylie Tennant’, Westerly, no. 1 (March 1975), 40. 25 Bill Boyd, conversation with the author, 14 April 2019. 26 In 1979, the Australia ICOMOS Charter for the Conservation of Places of Cultural Significance was adopted at a meeting of Australia ICOMOS (International Council on Monuments and Sites) at the historic mining town of Burra, South Australia. It was given the shorter title of The Burra Charter. 27 Bill Boyd, conversation with the author, 14 April 2019. 28 John Borthwick, ‘A Writer’s Hut among the Gum Trees’, The Australian, 12 May 2012, retrieved from:  http://​www.theaustralian.com.au/​life/​travel/​a-​writers-​hut-​among-​the-​old-​ gum-​trees/​news-​story/​18eb6942f157bf1fc2086d10a5d87808. 29 Norman McVicker, ‘The Lawsons:  Places They Lived’, Tales from Along the Wallaby Track (Mudgee: Norman McVicker, 2009), 68. 30 Kendall’s poem was first published in the Australasian, 21 August 1869, 7.

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31 Henry Kendall sent this poem to A. L. Gordon for his thoughts, as evidenced by a facsimile version of their correspondence at the State Library of Victoria. See Facsimile of a letter from A. L. Gordon to ‘Dr K’, [19-​-​?] MS Sequence (Australian Box 2/​9). 32 Incidentally, the town of Kendall (named after Henry Kendall) is 36 kilometres from Crowdy Bay. Kendall is commemorated by a sculpture by artist Dee Davis rather than a hut. The front inscription reads: ‘He lived here from 1875 to 1881 when he was appointed the First Forest Inspector for New South Wales. The village of Kendall, which took his name in 1891, is proud of its long association with the timber industry. Erected by the Kendall Heritage Society with assistance from the Kendall Community and Forests NSW.’ Bill Boyd, who restored Kylie’s Hut, was a driving force behind the campaign for Kendall’s monument. 33 Ken Gelder and Rachael Weaver, Colonial Australian Fiction: Character Types, Social Formations and the Colonial Economy (Sydney: Sydney University Press, 2017), 98. 34 Horace Earle, Ups and Downs, or, Incidents of Australian Life (London: A. W. Bennett, 1861), 217–​29; Mary Gaunt, ‘Dick Stanesby’s Hutkeeper’, The Moving Finger (London: Methuen, 1895), 165–​225. 35 Borthwick, ‘A Writer’s Hut among the Gum Trees’. 36 Brian Matthews, ‘ “A Kind of Semi-​Sociological Literary Criticism”:  George Orwell, Kylie Tennant and Others’, Westerly, no. 2 (June 1981). 37 Grant, Kylie Tennant, 56. 38 Jane Grant, ‘Tennant, Kathleen (Kylie) (1912–​1988)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography (Canberra: National Centre of Biography, Australian National University, 2012), retrieved 30 November 2017 from: http://​adb.anu.edu.au/​biography/​tennant-​kathleen-​kylie-​15669/​text26865. 39 Ibid. 40 Bill Boyd claims that he cleared up a lot of ‘plonk bottles’ and that Tennant was a ‘party lady’ when at Diamond Head, conversation with the author, 14 April 2019. 41 Kinross-​Smith, Australia’s Writers, 265. 42 Ibid., 102. 43 Ibid., 103. 44 Ibid., 142. 45 Tennant, The Man on the Headland, 83. 46 Ibid., 116. 47 Kylie Tennant, Evatt: Politics and Justice (Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1970). 48 Tennant, The Man on the Headland, 147. 49 Ibid., 147 50 A. B. Paterson’s immortalisation of the stockman Jack Riley in ‘The Man from Snowy River’ is a classic example. Riley lived in isolation in a hut high up in the hills at Tom Groggin in Snowy River country for over 30 years. He is commemorated every year in a Remembrance service at the Man from Snowy River bush Festival in Corryong. 51 Kylie Tennant, The Missing Heir, 124. 52 Ken Gelder and Jane M. Jacobs, Uncanny Australia: Sacredness and Identity in a Postcolonial Nation (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1998), 138. 53 Retrieved from:  https://​awildland.blogspot.com.au/​2014/​06/​diamond-​head-​crowdy-​bay-​ national-​park.html. 54 ‘A Writers Retreat  –​Crowdy Bay’, retrieved from ExplorOz Blogs website:  https://​www. exploroz.com/​members/​33714.000/​8/​2014/​a_​writer_​s_​retreat_​-​_​crowdy_​bay.aspx. 55 Retrieved from GoSeeAustralia website:  https://​www.goseeaustralia.com.au/​blog/​diverse-​ natural- ​ b eauty- ​ m anning- ​ valley- ​ h allmark- ​ i n- ​ n sw- ​ m id- ​ n orth- ​ c oast- ​ f ascinating- ​ world- ​ o f-​ difference. 56 Manning Clark, Australian Council of National Trusts, 1978 cited by Bennett, 161. 57 Jack Latimore, ‘Diamond Head Beach:  A Paradise Where I  Lost All Sense of Space and Time’, The Guardian, 16 January 2019, retrieved 10 March 2019 from:  https://​ www.theguardian.com/ ​ a ustralia- ​ n ews/ ​ 2 019/ ​ j an/ ​ 1 6/ ​ d iamond- ​ h ead- ​ b each- ​ a paradise-​where-​i-​lost-​all-​sense-​of-​time-​and-​space.

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5 8 Ibid. 59 Tracey Banivanua Mar, ‘Carving Wilderness: Queensland’s National Parks and the Unsettling of Emptied Lands, 1890–​1910’, Making Settler Colonial Space: Perspectives on Race, Place and Identity (Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), 75. 60 See Mark Rivkin, ‘Settler Common Sense’, Settler Colonial Studies, 3–​4 (2013). 322–​40. 61 In The Pea Pickers, Langley depicts cross-​dressing young women ‘Steve’ and ‘Blue’, whose adventures mirrored those of Langley and her sister June when they travelled around Gippsland in their youth thinly disguised as itinerant (male) labourers. 62 Lucy Treep, ‘Outsider Architecture: The Literary Constructions of Eve Langley’, Journal of the Association for the Study of Australian Literature 13, no. 2 (2013), n.p., retrieved from: https://​ openjournals.library.sydney.edu.au/​index.php/​JASAL/​article/​view/​9864/​9753. 63 Eve Langley, The Pea Pickers (North Ryde and London: Angus & Robertson, 1989), 115–​16. 64 Mark O’Flynn, illustrated by Judith Martinez, ‘Eve Langley’s Thongs’, Blume Illustrated, no. 1 (2017), retrieved 10 August 2018 from:  https://​www.ozarts.net.au/​images/​oz-​arts/​2017-​ winter/​eve-​langley.pdf. 65 Joy L.  Thwaite, The Importance of Being Eve Langley (Sydney:  Angus & Robertson, 1989), 497–​98. 66 O’Flynn, ‘Eve Langley’s Thongs’. 67 There is a large collection of Eve Langley’s manuscripts and ephemera in the State Library of New South Wales largely thanks to these ‘scavengers’. 68 Treep, ‘Outsider Architecture’.

Chapter Ten  The David Unaipon Monument at Raukkan 1 Mary Louise Pratt describes the term ‘contact zone’ as ‘the space of colonial encounters, the space in which people geographically and historically separated come into contact with each other and establish ongoing relations.’ Mary Louise Pratt, Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation (London: Routledge, 1992), 6–​7. The term is also used in relation to Unaipon by Susan Hosking in ‘David Unaipon: His Story’, Southwords: Essays on South Australian Writing (Kent Town, South Australia: Wakefield Press, 1995), 85. 2 See Jeanine Leane, ‘Biography: David Unaipon’, Australian Quarterly 86, no. 1 (January–​March 2015),  28–​30. 3 Philip Jones, ‘David Unaipon’, SA History Hub, retrieved 25 February 2019 from History Trust of South Australia website: http://​sahistoryhub.com.au/​people/​david-​unaipon. 4 David Unaipon, ‘Leaves of Memory’, The A F.A. Annual Report, 1953, 8. 5 Irene Howe, ‘The Uniqueness of the BlackWords Resource: Memoir of an Indexer’, Journal of the Association for the Study of Australian Literature 14, no. 3 (2014). 6 Penny Van Toorn, Writing Never Arrives Naked:  Early Aboriginal Cultures of Writing in Australia (Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press, 2006), 2. 7 Michael Rose, ‘Aboriginal Print Journalism and the Koori Mail Newspaper’, MA Thesis, Wollongong, University of Wollongong, 1994 cited in Mary-​ Anne Gale, ‘Poor Bugger Whitefella Got No Dreaming: The Representation & Appropriation of Published Dreaming Narratives with Special Reference to David Unaipon’s Writings’, unpublished PhD thesis, Adelaide University, 2000, 141. 8 Van Toorn, Writing Never Arrives Naked, 3. 9 Ibid. 10 Philip Jones, ‘David Unaipon (1872–​ 1967)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography Vol. 12 (Melbourne: MUP, 1990), retrieved from:  http://​adb.anu.edu.au/​biography/​unaipondavid-​8898. 11 Mary-​Anne Gale, ‘Giving Credit Where Credit Is Due:  The Writings of David Unaipon’, Sharing Spaces:  Indigenous and Non-​Indigenous Responses to Story, Country and Rights (Perth:  API Network; Curtin University of Technology, Australia Research Institute, 2006), 54.

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1 2 Unaipon, ‘Leaves of Memory’, 6–​9. 13 Ibid., 9. 14 Ibid. 15 Gale, ‘Poor Bugger Whitefella Got No Dreaming’, 228. 16 Jones, ‘David Unaipon (1872–​1967)’. 17 Gale, ‘Poor Bugger Whitefella Got No Dreaming’, 91. 18 Register-​News Pictorial (Adelaide), 30 July 1930. 19 Angus Kidman, ‘The Australian Da Vinci:  How David Unaipon (Almost) Changed Our Nation’, Gizmodo, retrieved 4 March 2019 from: https://​www.gizmodo.com.au/​2014/​03/​the-​ australian-​da-​vinci-​how-​david-​unaipon-​almost-​changed-​our-​nation/​. 20 Niel Gunson, ‘An Interview with David Unaipon’, Aboriginal History 23 (1999), 111–​12. 21 The Home magazine was a middle-​class Australian quarterly published by Art in Australia Ltd. Mary-​Anne Gale suggests that this narrative appears on pages 42–​43. 22 Michele Grossman, ‘Beyond Orality and Literacy: Textuality, Modernity and Representation in Gularabulu: Stories from the West Kimberley’, Journal of Australian Studies 28, no. 81 (2004), 59. 23 David Unaipon, ‘My Life Story’, The A F.A Annual Report, 1951, 12–​13 24 Ibid., 13. 25 Ibid. 26 Unaipon, ‘Leaves of Memory’, 8. 27 Susan Hosking, ‘David Unaipon:  His Story’,  Southwords:  Essays on South Australian Writing (1995), 86. 28 Unaipon, ‘My Life Story’, 13–​14. 29 Ibid., 14. 30 Gale, ‘Poor Bugger Whitefella Got No Dreaming’, 212. 31 Ibid.; Stephen Muecke and Adam Shoemaker (eds), Legendary Tales of the Australian Aborigines (Carlton, Victoria: Miegunyah Press at Melbourne University Press, 2001); Benjamin Miller, ‘The Fantasy of Whiteness: Blackness and Aboriginality in American and Australian Culture’, unpublished PhD thesis, University of New South Wales, 2009, 190. 32 Ramsay Smith to George Robertson, 1926, State Library of New South Wales MSS 314/​76, cited by Gale, ‘Poor Bugger Whitefella Got No Dreaming’, 85. 33 Muecke and Shoemaker (eds), Legendary Tales of the Australian Aborigines, xxxiv. 34 Ibid., xxxvii. 35 Ibid., xxxv. 36 Ibid., xlv. 37 Ibid. 38 Ibid., xlvi. 39 Gale, ‘Poor Bugger Whitefella Got No Dreaming’, 118. 40 Stephen Muecke, Textual Spaces:  Aboriginality and Cultural Studies (Sydney:  University of NSW Press, 1992), 44–​46, cited by Muecke and Shoemaker (eds), Legendary Tales of the Australian Aborigines, xvii. 41 Philip Jones, ‘ “A Curve Is a Line and a Line Is a Curve”: Some of the Truth about David Unaipon’, The Adelaide Review (1989), 10–​11. 42 Philip Jones considers the recent publication of Unaipon’s work ‘far from satisfactory’ while Sue Hosking sees the editors’ ‘self-​congratulatory Introduction’ as ‘compromising Unaipon’s agency as author’. (See Gale, ‘Giving Credit Where Credit Is Due’.) It is beyond the scope of this chapter to analyse the editorial style of Muecke and Shoemaker. 43 Gale, ‘Giving Credit Where Credit Is Due’, 50–​51. 44 Ibid.,  51–​52. 45 Anne-​Marie Gale spoke to Adam Shoemaker about this issue in early 2000, see Gale, ‘Giving Credit Where Credit Is Due’, 53. 46 Kirk Savage, ‘The Politics of Memory: Black Emancipation and the Civil War Monument’, Commemorations, 136.

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47 Tom Griffiths, Hunters and Collectors:  The Antiquarian Imagination in Australia (Oakleigh, Melbourne: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 112. 48 The Passing of the Aborigines (1938) was an influential international bestseller, but it was based on the idea of a doomed Aboriginal people. It made disreputable claims about cannibalism and infanticide amongst Indigenous communities, which were very damaging. 49 Tigger Wise, ‘Elkin, Adolphus Peter (1891–​1979)’, Dictionary of Australian Biography, retrieved 15 March 2019 from: http://​adb.anu.edu.au/​biography/​elkin-​adolphus-​peter-​10109. 50 David Hansen, ‘Headstone: A Portrait of the Aboriginal Leader as Kitsch Icon’, Griffith Review, no. 36 (Winter 2012), retrieved 5 March 2019 from: https://​griffithreview.com/​articles/​headstone/​. 51 Sydney Mail and New South Wales Advertiser, 12 December 1885, cited by Monument Australia entry for Wombeech Puyuum, retrieved 6 March 2019 from: http://​monumentaustralia.org. au/​themes/​people/​indigenous/​display/​30611-​wombeetch-​puyuum-​. 52 Chilla Bulbeck, The Stone Laurel: Race, Gender and Class in Australian Memorials, Cultural Policy Studies:  Occasional Paper No. 5, Institute for Cultural policy Studies, Griffith University, 1988, 4. 53 Ibid. 54 Hansen, ‘Headstone’. 55 ‘William Barak Bridge’ was constructed in 2005 and stretches from Birrarung Marr to the MCG. In 2006, a permanent sound installation called ‘Proximities’ was installed on the bridge. It was designed by David Chesworth and Sonia Leber. Its central section features a welcome song sung in Woiwurrung by Wurundjeri Elder, and Barak’s descendant, Joy Murphy Wandin. 56 Christine Hansen, ‘Melbourne’s New William Barak Building Is a Cruel Juxtaposition’, The Conversation, 18 March 2015, retrieved 5 March 2019 from:  https://​theconversation.com/​ melbournes-​new-​william-​barak-​building-​is-​a-​cruel-​juxtaposition-​38983. 57 Ibid. 58 Hansen, ‘Headstone’. 59 Ibid. 60 Aunty Margaret Gardiner and Janet McGaw, ‘Indigenous Placemaking in Urban Melbourne: A Dialogue between a Wurundjeri Elder and a Non-​Indigenous Architect and Academic’, in The Handbook of Contemporary Indigenous Architecture, edited by Elizabeth Grant, Kelly Greenop, Albert L. Refiti and Daniel J. Glenn (Singapore: Springer Verlag, 2018), 600. 61 John Peter Pat (1966–​1983), was born on 31 October 1966. On 28 September 1983, Pat died after being was kicked in the head by a police officer as he lay on the road during a brawl. Pat was arrested and taken to prison where he died that night. The circumstances of Pat’s death were investigated by the royal commission into Aboriginal deaths in custody, established in 1987. Pat’s death became for Aboriginal people a symbol of injustice and oppression. See Noel Olive, Indigenous Australia, retrieved 5 March 2019 from:  http://​ia.anu.edu.au/​biography/​ pat-​john-​peter-​15031. 62 Malcolm Quekett, ‘The Inspiring Poetry Set to Lift Perth’s Footy Crowd’, The West Australian, 8 September 2016, retrieved 5 March 2019 from:  https://​thewest.com.au/​news/​wa/​ the-​inspiring-​poetry-​set-​to-​lift-​perths-​footy-​crowd-​ng-​ya-​264300. 63 William Buckley was an escaped convict who famously spent 32 years living with the Indigenous people of the Bellarine Peninsula. Buckley’s encounter with Batman’s camp in 1835 instigated his return to European society after three decades living as a Wathaurung man. Batman’s Treaty marked the beginning of Melbourne and settlement commenced with the construction of Batman’s own house –​Melbourne’s first permanent European dwelling. Buckley, a trained bricklayer before his conviction and transportation, built its chimney. See Helen Walter, ‘Wall/​ wall, chimney/​chimney’, 13 July 2012, retrieved 11 March 2019 from: https://​architectureau. com/​articles/​wallwall-​chimneychimney/​.

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6 4 The installation features 3,520 bricks collected from citizens in and around Healesville. 65 Tom Nicholson, ‘Towards a Monument to Batman’s Treaty’, 2013, retrieved 23 March 2019 from: http://​www.tomn.net/​projects/​2013_​02/​. 66 Eve Livingston, ‘Why Putting Women on Banknotes Should Make Us Feel Uneasy’, The Guardian, 26 April 2016. 67 Peri Strathearn, ‘Note-​Able Figure:  David Unaipon, the Ngarrindjeri Man on the $50’, Murray Valley Standard, 17 October 2018, retrieved 1 March 2019 from:  https://​www. murrayvalleystandard.com.au/​ s tory/​ 5 708117/​ n ote- ​ a ble- ​ f igure- ​ d avid- ​ u naipon- ​ t he-​ ngarrindjeri-​man-​on-​the-​50/​. 68 Nat Cromb, ‘What Do You Think You Know about David Unaipon?’, IndigenousX, 28 September 2017, retrieved 5 March 2019 from:  https://​indigenousx.com.au/​nat-​cromb-​ what-​do-​you-​think-​you-​know-​about-​david-​unaipon/​. 69 In Ngarrindjeri culture, your ngaitji, or totem, is your closest relation, friend and protector through life. This can be an animal or other animate being, or an element, such as the wind or rain. See Karen Hughes on note design: http://​www.swinburne.edu.au/​news/​latest-​news/​ 2018/​10/​swinburne-​researcher-​contributes-​to-​the-​development-​of-​new-​50-​dollar-​note.php. 70 Strathearn, ‘Note-​Able Figure’. 71 Ronald Murray Berndt, Ronald M. Berndt, Catherine Helen Berndt and John E. Stanton, A World That was: The Yaraldi of the Murray River and the Lakes, South Australia (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1993), 133. 72 David Unaipon told this to Elaine Treagus in 1966, cited by Bell in Ngarrindjeri Wurruwarrin, 218. Berndt et al. (1993) located miwi as part of the ‘psychic life’ but Bell sees miwi as the basis of a way of knowing, as a central component of an epistemology that relies on numerous oral traditions of elders as the authoritative texts within which to interpret signs and feelings (Diane Bell, Ngarrindjeri Wurruwarrin:  A World That Is, Was, and Will Be (North Melbourne:  Spinifex Press, 1998; 2014 edition), 224. 73 Bruce Pascoe cited in ‘Remembering David Unaipon:  The Man on the Fifty Dollar Note’, retrieved 10 March 2019 from:  https://​www.sbs.com.au/​nitv/​article/​2016/​09/​28/​ remembering-​david-​unaipon-​man-​fifty-​dollar-​note. 74 Benjamin Miller, ‘David Unaipon’s Style of Subversion:  Performativity and Becoming in “Gool Lun Naga (Green Frog)” ’, Journal of the Association for the Study of Australian Literature, Special Issue (2008), 77. 75 The Australian Coin Collecting Blog, retrieved 20 February 2019 from:  https://​www. australian-​coins.com/​banknotes/​australian-​paper-​1-​dollar-​note-​value/​. 76 Stephen Gray, ‘ “Dollar Dave” and the Reserve Bank:  A Tale of Art, Theft and Human Rights’, The Conversation, 22 March 2016, retrieved from:  https://​theconversation.com/​ dollar-​dave-​and-​the-​reserve-​bank-​a-​tale-​of-​art-​theft-​and-​human-​rights-​56593. 77 ‘1988 Bicentennial Commemorative Banknote’, Objects through Time, retrieved 10 January 2019 from archived website:  http://​www.migrationheritage.nsw.gov.au/​exhibition/​ objectsthroughtime/​commemorative-​banknote/​index.html. 78 ‘Blood Money:  Ryan Presley and Tess Maunder in Conversation’, retrieved 22 February 2019 from Art and Australia website:  http://​www.artandaustralia.com/​online/​discussions/​ blood-​money-​ryan-​presley-​and-​tess-​maunder-​conversation. 79 Point McLeay was renamed Raukkan Aboriginal Community in 1982 but the name still appears on maps, possibly to show the prior position of the now defunct mission. 80 Nan Haxton, ‘Ngarrindjeri Enjoys Revival’, The World Today, ABC Radio National, 29 January 2009, retrieved 24 February 2019 from: http://​www.abc.net.au/​worldtoday/​content/​2008/​ s2477358.htm?searchTerm=david+unaipon+monument+raukkan. 81 G. K.  Jenkin, ‘Taplin, George (1831–​ 1879)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography, originally published in Australian Dictionary of Biography, Vol. 6 (Melbourne:  MUP, 1976), retrieved 10 March 2019 from: http://​adb.anu.edu.au/​biography/​taplin-​george-​4687.

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82 Memorial to Reverend G. Taplin at an old tree [PRG 1258/​2/​1979]. Photograph approx 1879 (Godson number 29A/​4), State Library of South Australia, retrieved 10 March 2019 from: https://​collections.slsa.sa.gov.au/​resource/​PRG+1258/​2/​1979/​continue. 83 Margaret Simons, ‘The “Smart Black” Is Nobody’s Hero’, The Canberra Times (ACT: 1926–​1995),  50. 84 Graham Jenkin, Conquest of the Ngarrindjeri (Adelaide : Rigby, 1979), republished 1995. 85 Jenkin, ‘Taplin, George (1831–​1879)’. 86 His most important works are The Narrinyeri (Adelaide, 1874), with a second, enlarged edition in 1878 and included next year in Native Tribes of South Australia, edited by J. D. Woods; and The Folklore, Manners, Customs, and Languages of the South Australian Aborigines (1879), which he edited. 87 Berndt et al. (1993: 294–​95). 88 The plaque was added on 4 October 1959. 89 News (Adelaide), 10 October 1930, retrieved from Monument Australia website:  http://​ monumentaustralia.org.au/​themes/​landscape/​exploration/​display/​51467-​charles-​sturtexpediation. 90 ‘Sturt Memorial. Governor at Point McLeay. Aborigines in Spectacular Ceremony’, Advertiser (Adelaide, SA: 1889–​1931), Monday, 20 October 1930, 8. 91 Silvio Apponyi, conversation with the author, 28 February 2019. 92 Philip White, ‘South Australia’s Unsung Hero of Wine’, InDaily, 27 January 2015, retrieved 24 February 2018 from:  https://​indaily.com.au/​opinion/​2015/​01/​27/​south-​australias-​ unsung-​hero-​wine/​. 93 Ironically, the sponsor of Unaipon plaque on North Terrace Adelaide is the Grosvenor Hotel –​another connection with the alcohol industry. 94 White, ‘South Australia’s Unsung Hero of  Wine’. 95 Jones, ‘David Unaipon’. 96 Coorong District Council Information Document, 20 November 2018, 13, retrieved 16 February 2019 from: https://​www.coorong.sa.gov.au/​webdata/​resources/​minutesAgendas/​ Information%20Document,%2020-​11-​2018.pdf. 97 Silvio Apponyi, conversation with the author, 28 February 2019. 98 Sue-​Anne Ware, ‘Contemporary Anti-​Memorials and National Identity in the Victorian landscape’, Journal of Australian Studies 28, no. 81 (2004), 122. 99 Gardiner and McGaw, ‘Indigenous Placemaking in Urban Melbourne’, 601. 100 Ibid. 101 Adam Shoemaker, ‘Popular Perceptions of an Unpopular People, 1929–​1945’, Black Words, White Page:  Aboriginal Literature 1929–​ 1988 (St Lucia:  University of Queensland Press, 1989),  39–​62. 102 Billy Griffiths, online. 103 Ibid. 104 Gale, ‘Poor Bugger Whitefella Got No Dreaming’, 82. 105 Bell, Ngarrindjeri Wurruwarrin, 126. 106 Unaipon, ‘My Life Story’, 14. 107 Miller, ‘The Fantasy of Whiteness’, 190. 108 ‘There have been enough scientific investigations already, and no new facts have come to light, and yet there is still a plea to segregate the natives, keeping them practically in bush museums for scientific purposes’ (cited in Andrew Markus, Blood from a Stone: William Cooper and the Australian Aborigines League (Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 1988), 79). 109 Cited in Miller, ‘David Unaipon’s Style of Subversion’. 110 David Unaipon, ‘Gool Lun Naga’, in Muecke and Shoemaker (eds), Legendary Tales of the Australian Aborigines, 5. 111 Unaipon, ‘Leaves of Memory’, 8.

Notes

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1 12 Miller, ‘The Fantasy of Whiteness’, 197. 113 Anita Heiss and Peter Minter (eds), Macquarie PEN Anthology of Aboriginal Literature (Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 2008). 114 There are different spellings in usage, Noonuckle, Nunukul and Nunuccal. 115 ‘Why I  Am Now Oodgeroo Noonuccal’, Age, 1987, cited by Clare Land in The Australian Women’s Register, retrieved 15 January 2019 from:  http://​www.womenaustralia.info/​biogs/​ IMP0082b.htm. 116 Clare Land, ‘Oodgeroo Noonuccal (1920–​1993)’, The Australian Women’s Register, retrieved 15 January 2019 from: http://​www.womenaustralia.info/​biogs/​IMP0082b.htm. 117 ‘The Oodgeroo Nunnuccal Story’, retrieved 5 January 2019 from Queensland University of Technology website: https://​www.qut.edu.au/​about/​oodgeroo/​oodgeroo-​noonuccal. 118 Michele Grossman, ‘Out of the Salon and into the Streets:  Contextualising Australian Indigenous Women’s Writing’, Women’s Writing 5, no. 2 (1998), 171. 119 Karen Fox, Maori and Aboriginal Women in the Public Eye:  Representing Difference, 1950–​2000 (Canberra: ANU ePress, 2011), 109. 120 A. L. McCann, ‘The Literature of Extinction’, Meanjin 65, no. 1 (2006), 51. 121 Phillip Jones, ‘David Unaipon’, in Australian Dictionary of Biography, Vol. 12, edited by J. Ritchie (Melbourne: MUP, 1990), 304. 122 In 1985, Unaipon was posthumously awarded the FAW Patricia Weickhardt Award for Aboriginal writers demonstrating a reawakening of interest in his oeuvre. 123 Jeanine Leane, ‘Biography: David Unaipon’, Australian Quarterly (January–​March 2015), 29. 124 Maggie Nolan, ‘ “Bitin’ Back”: Indigenous Writing in Queensland’, in By the Book: A Literary History of Queensland, edited by Patrick Buckridge and Belinda McKay (St Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 2007), 263. 125 In 1996, the University of South Australia named the Unaipon School within the Indigenous College of Education and Research in honour of David Unaipon and his father James Unaipon, the first Aboriginal teacher in South Australia. Another site named in his honour is the David Unaipon College of Indigenous Education on North Terrace in Adelaide.

Conclusion: Towards an Expanded Repertoire of Literary Commemorations 1 Yi-​Fu Tuan, Space and Place: The Perspective of Experience (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1977), 164. 2 See Toby Davidson and Donna Houston, ‘Mapping Australian Literary Commemoration in Sydney, Melbourne and Canberra: Problems and Prospects’, Journal of Australian Studies and Australian Literature 1, no. 18 (2018) [online]. 3 John R. Gillis, ‘Memory and Identity: The History of a Relationship’, in Commemorations: The Politics of National Identity, edited by John R. Gillis (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994), 20. 4 Sue-​Anne Ware, ‘Contemporary Anti-Memorials and National Identity in the Victorian landscape’, Journal of Australian Studies 28, no. 81 (2004), 132. 5 Healy, Forgetting Aborigines,  104–​5. 6 Currently, the role of government in conserving heritage is divided between various departments and agencies which include the Department of Environment and Conservation, Department of Indigenous Affairs, Department for Planning and Infrastructure, Heritage Council and Local Governments. While each brings particular expertise, experience and perspective to heritage issues, to create greater effectiveness and efficiency, processes need to be more streamlined and better coordinated.

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7 M. Barnard Eldershaw, Plaque with Laurel (London: Harrap, 1937), 69. 8 Ibid., 69. 9 Ibid., 268–​69. 10 More recent literary societies such as the Henry Handel Richardson Society and the Proud Marys (who celebrate the Poppins books of P.  L. Travers) are not connected to each other as are the Henry Lawson Literary and Memorial Society, the Adam Lindsay Gordon Commemorative Committee, the John Shaw Neilson Society, and the Australian Natives Association for example. 11 Peter Conrad, ‘A History of Memory’, Memory, Monuments and Museums: The Past in the Present (Carlton, Victoria: Melbourne University Press, 2006), 25. 12 Robert Darby, ‘ “A National Literary Shrine”:  Attempts to Save the Henry Lawson Family Home, 1935–​46’, Journal of the Royal Australian Historical Society 74, no. 3 (1988), 240–​58. 13 Pierce, ‘No Success Like Failure’. 14 In Homes and Haunts, Willaim Howitt wrote: ‘Amongst both past and present poets there are some whose residences are little known; others whose residences, when known, have little of picturesque about them, or which are attended by circumstances out of the ordinary routine […] Unfortunately for the inquirer, poets do not happen to have been born, or to have lived, just where it was most convenient to reach them. They have not by any means lived all in one place, nor in straight lines and rows.’ See William Howitt, Homes and Haunts of the Most Eminent British Poets, Vol. 1 (Charleston, NC: Nabu Press reprint, 2010 [first published 1847]), 704–​5. 15 Dark and Chauncy both attempted to domesticate these caves, physically and textually. Dark made ‘Jerrekellimi’ more comfortable through a targeted blast and Chauncy’s characters set up a household in a cave in They Found a Cave. 16 Alison Booth, Homes and Haunts: Touring Writers’ Shrines and Countries (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 57. 17 In her study of Australian memorials, Chilla Bulbeck notes that ‘memorials to women tend to evoke the life-​giving surrounds of water or shrubs’. See Chilla Bulbeck, ‘Australian History Set in Concrete? The Influence of the New Histories on Australian Memorial Construction’, Journal of Australian Studies 15, no. 28 (1991), 15. 18 Deborah Bird Rose, Nourishing Terrains:  Australian Aboriginal Views of Landscape and Wilderness (Canberra: Australian Heritage Commission, 1996), 8. 19 Ibid. 20 Gabrielle Jackson and Guardian readers, ‘Who Needs a Statue in Australia? Guardian Readers Respond’, The Guardian, 29 August 2017, retrieved 5 March 2019 from:  https://​www. theguardian.com/​commentisfree/​2017/​aug/​29/​who-​needs-​a-​statue-​in-​australia-​guardian-​ readers-​respond. 21 Aunty Margaret Gardiner and Janet McGaw, ‘Placemaking in Urban Melbourne: A Dialogue between a Wurundjeri Elder and a Non-​Indigenous Architect and Academic’, in The Handbook of Contemporary Indigenous Architecture, edited by Elizabeth Grant, Kelly Greenop, Albert L. Refiti and Daniel J. Glenn (Singapore: Springer eBooks, 2018), 601.

INDEX Aborigines’ Friends’ Association (AFA) 189, 191, 192, 193, 202, 205 Aborigines Protection Board 197 Ackland, Michael 59 Adam Lindsay Gordon Commemorative Committee 11, 12, 26, 28 Adam Lindsay Gordon Lovers’ Society 11, 21, 31, 40, 41 Adam Lindsay Gordon Wattle League 22 Anderson, Hugh 126 Anderson, Wallace 37 Andrews, Gordon 201 Andrews, Julie 169 Anne of Green Gables 154 ‘anti-​memorials’  213 Apponyi, Silvio 205, 207 Archer, A. Lee 40, 42 Archibald, J.F. 82 Association for the Study of Australian Literature 51 associationism 4–5 Atkin, Polly 64 Attwood, Frank 40 austerity of authors’ lives 215 Australian Copyright Council 195 Australian Heritage Council 3, 13 Australian Literary Commemorative Association (ALCA) 11, 37, 41, 42 Australian Literature Society 22, 25 Australian Natives’ Association 11, 12, 23, 30, 84, 197 Australian Society of Authors 126 Australian Society of the Irresponsibles 41 Australian Unity. See Australian Natives’ Association ‘author country’ 7–8, 10, 44–45, 71–72, 217 Baker, Kate Australian Society of the Irresponsibles 41 Furphy and 9, 36–37, 38, 83, 214 Gordon and 11

Joseph Furphy: The Legend of the Man and his Book 37 life of  36 ‘Silhouettes’ 36 Balbuk, Fanny 202 bank note commemoration 199 Aboriginal artwork 201 Lawson 110, 199 Paterson 110, 199 Unaipon 110, 189, 199–202 Barak, William 197–98 Barkla, John 64 Barlass, Tim 156, 170 Barnard, Marjorie 137 Barnes, John 45, 52, 89 Bartlett, Tanya 165, 166 Barton, Emily 106, 107 Bates, Daisy 196 Bell, Diane 208 Bellanta, Melissa 18 Benison, Rodd 174 Bennett, Bruce 171 Bennett, Tony 12 Bicentennial celebrations 209, 217 Bilpin 128 Bird, Delys 46 Birpai people 175, 184, 185 birthplaces of authors 95, 170, See also individual authors Black Australian Writers Series 210 Blyton, Enid 122 Boldrewood, Rolf  8, 91 Bon, Ann Fraser 197 Bonwick, James 124 Booth, Alison 22, 55, 71, 127, 134, 216 Borthwick, John 179 Boyd, Bill 177–78 Bradford, Clare 122 Brady, Mike 26 Brandt, Barbara 149 Bread and Cheese Club 3, 11, 19, 25, 69, 197 Brewer, Inez 141

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Bridges, Jane 18, 21 Brighton Historical Society 26, 28 Brockman, Henrietta Drake 135 Brody, Richard 169 Brooks, Barbara 137, 138, 143, 145 Bryan, Gregory 89 Buchanan, Ruth 144 Bulbeck, Chilla 197 Bundanon 128 Bunny, Rupert 62 Burn, David 6 Burnand, Madge 168 Burns, Robert 80, 81 Burra Charter 178 Burt, Sandra 36 Byron, Lord (George Gordon) 50, 206 Cambridge, Ada 11, 37 Campbell, Rosamund 92, 95, 103, 108 Cantrell, Alf 104, 105 Carmichael, Jennings 22 Carroll, Lewis 160 Carter, Catherine 206 Casey, Edward 31 Cathels, William 41, 45 Chandler, Anthony 99 Charles, Graeme 64 Chauncy, Anton 114, 115, 116 Chauncy, Heather 115, 118, 119, 126 Chauncy, Nan 10, 31 Badge Lorenny trilogy 122, 125 Brown’s Caves 115, 118 Cadbury Fry chocolate factory 114 Chauncy Vale 113, 114–15, 126, 216 Cherry Tree Cottage 113–14, 125 childhood of 113–14, 118, 119–20, 125–26 clothing of  116 Comfort Me With Apples 114, 126 Day Dawn 113, 115–18, 120–21, 126 death of  115 environmentalist values 123 Girl Guides 116, 121 Half a World Away 113, 125 Indigenous Tasmanians 123–24 marriage of  114 Mathinna’s People 123, 124 Nan Chauncy award 126 residence in United Kingdom 114 Tangara 123, 124 They Found A Cave 113, 115, 118–19, 121–22, 123, 125, 147

They Found A Cave (film) 125 trip to United Kingdom 114 Chauncy, Peter 126 Childs, Allan 31 Childs, Jenny 31 Chisholm, Alec 109 Clark, Axel 55, 68 Clark, Ian D. 5 Clark, Judith 141 Clark, Manning 35, 62, 183 Clarke, Marcus 6, 8, 19 Clarke, Sally 132 Cole-​Adams, Kate 142, 149 Collins, Peter 141 colonial ‘lack’ of history 5–6, 8, 213 Commonwealth Literary Fund 126 Conrad, Peter 125, 215 Cook, Captain James 175, 177, 213 Coranderrk people 197, 199 Court, Sibella 101, 103 Cowan, Edith 200 Cowling, George 8 Crampton, Sean 163, 165, 166 Cranston, C.A. 114 Croft, Julian 35, 45 Cromb, Nat 200, 201 Crouch, R.A. 28 cultural nationalism 8, 9, 12, 214 Daley, Victor 22, 41 Darby, Robert 8, 71, 83, 215 Dark, Eleanor 15, See also Varuna acquaintance with Prichard 127 D.H. Lawrence and 139–40 dislike of publicity 150, 151 dislike of tourism 146 gardening 145–46 Jerekellimi 146–49 Lantana Lane 136 left-​wing politics  141 Little Company 137, 143, 144, 149, 150, 151 Prelude to Christopher 144, 145 pressures of domestic work 137–38, 145 Timeless Land 148 Dark, Eric 136, 137, 143, 145, 147, 149 Dark, Mick 138, 142, 144, 146, 147, 149 Darvill, Timothy 85 Davidson, Toby 4 Davis, Jack 198 Davison, Frank Dalby 9, 84, 123 Dawson, James 196–97

Index death masks 77, 163 Dehn, Helen 29 Dennis, C.J. 20 DeSilvey, Caitlin 14, 74, 100, 179 Devaney, James 123 Devanny, Jean 136, 145, 147, 151, 180 Dick, Margaret 174 Dickens statue 7 Disney, Walt 168, 169 Dixon, Robert 5 Dooley, James 79 Doss, Erika 162 Douglas, Dennis 49 Doyle, Mick 102, 103, 106 Drake-​Brockman, Henrietta  46 Drew, Gracie 156–57 Duncan, Roy 37 dwellings of authors 127, See also individual authors conversion to writing centres 15, 127, 216 failed house projects 28 ghosts 57, 64, 65, 136, 143, 149, 161, 216 as medium of expression 126 preservation vs. natural decay 14, 74, 186, 216 rural locations of  215 tangible connections 46, 48 Dyson, Edward 41 Earle, Horace 179 Eastman, Berenice 123 Edensor, Tim 74, 100, 179 Edmonds, Philip 89 Edwards, Hazel 147 Eggert, Paul 88, 95 Elder, John 89 Eldershaw, M. Barnard 39, 43, 214 Eleanor Dark Foundation 139, 140, 144, 149 Elkin, A.P. 196 Essay on Sepulchres 4 Ewers, J.K. 9, 11, 42, 46 Farrell family 97, 98, 102 Faruqi, Osman 110 Farwell, George 73–74, 215 Fawcett, P.H. 125 Fawcett, Tom 41, 42 Fellowship of Australian Writers 11, 46, 47, 74, 78, 82, 83–84, 126, 127, 135, 144, 150 Field, Barron 5–6

261

Fischer, Tim 104 Fisher, Edmund 41 Fitzgerald, Ross 32–33 Flanagan, Caitlin 169 Flinders Islands Chronicle 190 Flottmann, Rhonda 139 Folster, Bill 99 Forbes, George 7 Ford, Steve 82–83 Forrest, Alexander 197 Fox, Karen 210 Franklin, Miles 8, 9, 36, 38, 39, 42, 51, 81, 137 Who Was Joseph Furphy? 37 Friends of Chauncy Vale 115, 116 Friends of Varuna. See Eleanor Dark Foundation Frost, Lucy 187 Fuller, Edward 96 Fuller, George 79 Furphy, Andrew 51 Furphy, Joseph 8, 9, 10, 11, 83, See also Such is Life The Buln-​Buln and the Brolga 45, 51 ‘Childe Booth’s Pilgrimage’ 47, 49 circumscribed reputation of  52–53 gardening 43 literary tourism and 49–52, 53–54 Mattie Furphy house 35, 46–48 parents of  37 Rigby’s Romance 45, 51 Riverina 35, 43, 51, 72 Shepparton 35, 39–44 Tom Collins house 35, 46–48 Yarra Glen memorial 37–39, 51, 78 Furphy, Sam 46 Gale, Mary-​Anne 192, 195, 208 Gall, Jennifer 106 Gander, Ron 102 Gardiner, Aunty Margaret 198, 208 Garner, Helen 55–56 Gaunt, Henry 179 Gelder, Ken 6, 182 Gibbs, May 154 Gilmore, Mary 11, 84, 110 Gilmour, Andrew 61 Godwin, William 4 Goff, Helen Lyndon. See Travers, P.L. Goff, Travers 160–61, 162 Golding, William 119 Goode, Cyril 27–28, 37

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Goodwin, Harold 85 Gooneratne, Yasmine 144 Gordon Memorial Committee 25 Gordon, Adam Lindsay 13 Adam Lindsay Gordon and His Friends 24, 25 Australia as permanent colony 8 Ballarat Craft Cottage 18, 25, 28–29 bubble-​blowing  26 Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes 19 Charles R. Long and 8 daughter’s death 28 Dingley Dell 18, 29–31 ‘fatalist school’ founder 19 Galloping Rhymes 24 Gordon suburb 18 gravestone 19–20 horses and 92 ‘How We Beat the Favourite’ 92 iconic national status 184 iconic status 17 Jane Bridges and 21 Lewis Street house 27–28, 37, 74, 216 Life’s Romance of Adam Lindsay Gordon 22–23 Marine Hotel 19, 26 Mayor of Brighton and 85 Mt Gambier obelisk 30 Paterson and 91–92 Penola bust 30 Penzance Street residence 30 pilgrimage to his grave 17–18, 19, 21, 22–24, 25, 26, 32–33, 71 Poet’s Corner bust 18, 25, 106 portraits of  17 posthumous publication and sales 24 relics of  19 Sea Spray and Smoke Drift 24, 30 ‘Sick Stockrider’ 18, 20, 92 Spring Street statue 13, 18, 24–25, 26, 31 Sturt Street statue 25 suicide in Brighton 17, 18–19, 258 unofficial Laureate 7 Vansittart Park tablet 30 wattle flowers 20, 22, 23, 26 WWI soldiers and 24 ‘Ye Wearie Wayfarer’ 26 Gordon, Carolynne 145 Graham, Donald 62 Grant, Jane 176, 180 Grattan, C. Hartley 71, 131 Gray, Stephen 201 Green, Dorothy 63

Greenmount. See also Prichard, Katharine Susannah garden 131–34 Katharine Susannah Prichard Writers Centre 135–36, 149–50 as legacy 151 Prichard’s life at 129–34 Griffin, Elizabeth 97, 100 Griffiths, Billy 208 Griffiths, Tom 8, 105, 147, 196 Grossman, Michele 192 Gryllas, Chris 102 Gunai people 8 Hall, Rodney 49, 52 Hammond, Stanley 83 Hansen, Christine 197 Hansen, David 197 Hardy, Thomas 44–45, 50, 71, 127 Harpur, Charles 210 Harrower, Elizabeth 174 Hartog, Francois 1 Harvie, Philippa 92, 95, 103, 108 Haxton, Nan 202 Headlam, Thea 132, 135, 137 Healy, Chris 3, 10, 213 Heath, Lesley 83, 84 Hemley, Robin 142 Hendrix, Harald 126, 127 Henry Handel Richardson Society 12, 64, 68 Henry Lawson Centre 84, 88, 106 Henry Lawson Literary Society (Sydney) 83–84 Henry Lawson Memorial and Literary Society 12, 22, 37, 78, 82–83, 84 Henry Lawson Memorial Fund 80, 83, 84 Herbert, David 44 heritage conflict over 2 cultural framing in present 12–13 hegemonic discourse and 3–4 Heritage Council of Western Australia 46 Heseltine, Harry 95 Hewitt, Dorothy 141 Hickson, Barbara 97, 101 Hill, Max 140, 149 Hobby, Nathan 130, 140 Holmes, Katie 132, 133 Holmes, Mary 65 Holtermann collection 87 Horne, Julia 5

Index Hosking, Susan 193 Houston, Donna 4 Howard, James 88 Howard, Jennifer 162 Howe, Irene 190 Howitt, William 18, 28, 203, 258 Howlett Ross, John 21, 22, 25 Hughes, Billy 79 Hughes, Karen 200 Humphris, Edith 24, 25 Huxley-​Jones, T.B. 163, 165 Indigenous citizenship referendum 209 Indigenous heritage 8, 171 dearth of public monuments 196–98 deep time memory 2 exclusion of 4, 5, 8, 10, 15, 175, 176, 182, 213 imported conventions problematic for 15, 217, 218 overlaid by White heritage 10, 14, 76–77, 184–85, 216, 217 post-​contact authorship  190–91 pre-​contact literacy  191 recent monumental projects 198–99 traditional modes of memorialising 207–08, 217 Ingamells, Rex 42, 123 Inglis, David 65 Inglis, K.S. 6, 10 Iona Lympus 185–87 Jack, Ian 99, 100 Jackey Jackey 197 Jackson, John Brinckerhoff 74 Jacobs, Jane 182 Jenkin, Graham 202 Jensen, Mrs R. 140 John Batman’s Treaty 198 John Pat Memorial Day for Deaths in Custody 198 John Shaw Neilson National Memorial Cottage 215 John Shaw Neilson Society 12 Johnston, Dorothy 68 Jones, Jonathan 199 Jones, Philip 191, 192, 195 Katharine Susannah Prichard Foundation 135, 136 Keiza, Grantlee 108, 109

Kendall, Henry 7, 22, 24, 79, 94, 174, 179, 210 Australia as permanent colony 8 ‘Hut By the Black Swamp’ 179 Kennedy, Edmund 197 Kennedy, Victor 9, 37 Kidd, Reg 102 Kinross-​Smith, Graeme 43, 178 Kulin confederacy 190 ‘Kylie’s Hut building of ’ 175 ‘Kylie’s Hut’ 10, 13–14, See also Tennant, Kylie campground accessibility of  184 current appearance 176–77 danger of nostalgia 216 hut literature and 179 low-​key status of 184, 187 Missing Heir and 176 as national symbol 184 ‘old Australia’ and 183–84 restoration of 177–79, 187 site for entertainment 180 tourist responses to 182–83 Lack, John 82, 83 Lambert, George W. 80–81 Land, Clare 209 Langley, Eve 14, 173, 179, 185–87, 216 Latimore, Jack 184, 217 Lauder, Elizabeth 20, 22 Lawira Gunditj people 196 Lawrence, D.H. 133, 139–40 Lawson, Bertha 74, 79, 80, 83, 87, 94 Lawson, Charles 87 Lawson, Henry 7, 8, 9, 22, 24, 38, 52–53, 179, 215 Abbotsford 77–78 ‘Amongst My Own People’ 73 ‘Archibald’s Monument’ 81 Bourke to Hungerford walk 89 ‘Brighten’s Sister In Law’ 72 Bulletin debate 93–94 childhood of 71, 72, 85, 87–88 cultural centrality of  71 Day of Literary Appreciation 82 death mask 77 ‘Double Buggy at Lahey’s Creek’ 72 ‘Eurunderee’ 73 Eurunderee homestead 72–75, 215 Eurunderee school 72, 75–77, 105

263

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Lawson, Henry (cont.) ‘Flanagan’s Hotel’ 73 Footscray 82–83 ‘Fragment of Autobiography’ 72 funeral 78–79 grave 79 Grenfell festival 85–87 Gulgong festival 87 iconic national status 184 Lambert statue 79–81 ‘Lawson country’ 71, 72, 75 ‘Master’s Mistake’ 76 ‘Old Bark School’ 75, 179 Paterson and 93–95 pilgrimages to the Domain 81–82 privation of 13, 215 ‘Robbie’s Statue’ 81 sacredness of his relics 88 ‘Song of Southern Writers’ 94 suicide attempt 89 ten dollar note portrait 110, 199 ‘Water Them Geraniums’ 72 While the Billy Boils 89, 95, 179 Lawson, Joseph 82 Lawson, Louisa 7, 71, 76, 79, 86, 87 Lawson, Peter 71, 76, 87, 88, 105 Lawson, Valerie 154, 156, 160, 161, 163, 167, 168, 170, 171 Leaf, Horace 192 Leakey, Caroline 6 Leane, Jeanine 210 Lee, Chris 52, 76, 80, 85, 87 Lee, Robert E. 213 Lemurian novel 6 Lever, Susan 51, 52 Lindsay, Joan 216 Lindsay, Norman 41, 92, 93 literary geography 7 literary heritage organisations 10–12, See also individual organisations literary memory, definition of  1 literary place commemorative competition 14–15 definition of  2 literary tourism 35 driven by popularity 53 Hardy and 45 knowledge of text and 54 time travel 55, 64 Livingston, Eve 199 Long, Charles R. 8, 25

Long, Clarence 200, 207 Love, Margaret 101, 102 Lowe, Hilary Iris 64 Macartney, Frederick 8 Maguire, Emma 123, 124 Main, Barbara York 35, 47 Malangi, David 195, 201 Mar, Tracey Banivanua 10, 184 Marr, Ian 43 Marri Ngarr people 201 Marsden, John 121, 122 Marsh, Isla 130 Martell, F.J. 28 Martin, Susan K. 48 Mary Poppins 2, 14, See Travers, P.L. Massina, A.H. 19, 24 Masterman, Charles 113, 115, 118 Masterman, Jan 114, 115 Masterman, Kay 114, 115 Masterman, Lilla 113, 118, 119–20 Matthews, Brian 72, 78, 88, 179 May Gibbs residency 128 McCallum, C.A. 42 McCann, A.L. 210 McCrae, George Gordon 210 McCrae, Hugh 80, 130 McGaw, Janet 198, 208 McLaren, Ian 18 McMillan, Angus 8 McShane, Melissa 166 McVicker, Norman 73, 76–77, 85 memorials 1 1930s enthusiasm for 8, 9 equivalents to religious shrines 9 rudimentary nature of  13 as texts 2 Meredith, Louisa 5 Merlin, Beaufoy 87, 88 Metcalfe, Ernie 13, 173, 174–75, 180–82, 184, 185 Meyer, H.A.E. 203 Miller, Benjamin 201, 209 Miller, Kathleen A. 154 Mills, Stephen F. 96, 98 Mitchell, Thomas 10, 197 modern memory culture 1 Moir, J.K. 9, 19, 22, 25, 36, 69 Montford, Paul 25, 197 Montgomery, Lucy Maud 154 Moore, Tom Inglis 174

Index Moran, John 155–56 Morris, William 98 Morton, Frank 155, 167 Mudgee and District Henry Lawson Memorial Society 84–85 Muecke, Stephen 192, 194, 195, 208 Mune, Phil 43 Murnane, Gerald 56 Nalder, Ron 100 National Estate inquiry 217 national myth-​making 2, 3–4, 9, 10 National Trust 3, 13, 28, 61, 62, 87, 99, 100, 106, 108, 135, 136 Neilson, John Shaw 11, 80, 215 Neville, Richard 141 Ngarrindjeri people 189, 195 Ngungaiponi, David. See Unaipon, David Niall, Brenda 120, 125 Nicholls, Heather 102 Nicholson, Tom 198–99 Nielson, John Shaw 37 Nile, Richard 82 Noongar people 198 Noonuccal, Oodgeroo 198, 209–10 Noonuccal-​Nughie Education and Cultural Centre 198, 210 Nora, Pierre 1 O’Brien, Steve 41 O’Flynn, Mark 127, 142, 185, 187 O’Reilly, Dowell 143 O’Sullivan, Edward 6 O’Sullivan, Kerrin 64 Oakes, Leslie 96, 102 ‘old Australia’ 183–84 Old World imported traditions 4–5, 12, 15 Oodgeroo Noonuccal Indigenous Poetry Prize 210 Orange and District Historical Society 99 Orlando, Francesco 21 Osborne, Roger 51, 52 Ousby, Ian 111 Pallawah people 190 Palmer, Joan 64 Palmer, Nettie 9, 36, 42, 62, 155 Palmer, Vance 9, 36, 37, 42, 109 Park Low, Maggie 23, 24 Parkes, Henry 6, 7 Pascoe, Bruce 200

265

Pat, John 198 Paterson, A.B. Banjo Paterson Australian Poetry Festival 102, 105 Banjo Paterson Cottage restaurant, Rockend 107–08 Banjo Paterson Park, Orange 95, 99, 101 Banjo Paterson Park, Yass 106 Binalong bush school 105 ‘Black Swans’ 109 broken arm 108 Buckinbah homestead 14, 100, 103, 110, 216 Bulletin debate 93–94 Chandler bust 99 ‘Clancy of the Overflow’ 99, 104, 109 ‘Dream of the Melbourne Cup’ 92 ‘Dying Stockrider’ 92 Emmaville Cottage 14, 46, 91, 95–98, 100, 101–03, 106, 107, 110, 111, 216 Gordon and 91–92 ‘Hay and Hell and Booligal’ 48 horses and 92–93 ‘How the Favourite Beat Us’ 92 iconic national status 9, 184 Illalong 105 ‘Illalong Children’ 95, 108 Lawson and 89, 93–95 ‘Man From Snowy River’ 92, 108–09 Man From Snowy River and Other Verses 91, 92 Narrambla garden 101 Northern Suburbs Crematorium plaque 110 obelisk memorial 98–99, 100 ‘On Kiley’s Run’ 101 optimism of  8 Orange 95–103 ‘Paterson country’ 91 ‘Racehorses and Racing’ 93 Restoration Australia episode 101–03 Singer of the Bush 95 Song of the Pen 95 stamp portraits 110 Templer’s Mill 99–101 ten dollar note portrait 87, 110, 199 ‘Waltzing Matilda’ 91, 106, 109 World War I and 93 Yass 106 Yass bust 106 Yeoval monument 103

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Paterson, A.B. (cont.) Yeoval museum 104 Yeoval pilgrimage pathway 104 Yeoval rock cairn 105 Paterson, Alice 99, 100, 109 Paterson, Rose 106, 108 Pearce, Harry H. 83 Pender, Anne 171 Pendragon, Fern 132 Perth stadium ‘Kaya’ poem 198 Peter Cowan Writers Centre 127 Peter Pan 160, 169 Phillips, Glen 134, 135, 136 Pickering, Beryl 65 picturesque, cult of  4 Pierce, Peter 122, 174, 215 pilgrimage 17, See also Gordon, Adam Lindsay; literary tourism graveside reflections 18 pilgrimage drive 85 Plaque with Laurel 39, 43, 214 Plomley, Brian 124 political condemnation of earlier memorials 213 Port Arthur 6 Portman, Pam 132 ‘Portrait’ building, Melbourne 197 posthumous commemoration 2, 53 Potter, Beatrix 121, 159–60 Pratten, Chris 140 Prentice, Richard 2 Prichard, Katharine Susannah 15, See also Greenmount acquaintance with Dark 127 Child of the Hurricane 129, 130 Coonardoo 129 D.H. Lawrence and 140 desire for privacy 150 ‘For Jimmy’ 133 goldfields trilogy 130 ‘Grey Horse’ 130–31 Intimate Strangers 129, 131 left-​wing politics 132–33, 134, 151 pressures of domestic work 137, 138 Tennant and 180 ‘Wandu’ 129 Prinsep, Augustus 5 Probyn, Clive 59, 60, 65 Prout, Denton 94 Pung, Alice 136 Puyuum, Wombeetch 196–97 Pybus, Cassandra 141

Qantilda Museum 107 Quinn, Roderic 80, 83, 94 Ramsay Smith, William 193–95 Ramson, W.S. 176 Readman, Paul 4 Reed, A.W. 195 Reeve, George 84 Register of the National Estate 3, 31, 87, 135 Remembrance Fund for Victorian Pioneer Writers 11 Rhodes, Cecil 213 Richardson, Henry Handel. See also Ultima Thule 1912 tour and notes 59–60, 70 Chiltern 56, 58, 60, 64 End of a Childhood 65 Fortunes of Richard Mahony 13, 55, 59, 65, 66, 69–70 Getting of Wisdom 59, 63, 65, 66, 67, 126 Getting of Wisdom (film) 66 ‘Her Daughter’s Hair’ 66 Koroit 68–69 Lake View 13, 55–56, 57–59, 61–65, 66 Maldon 65–67 Maurice Guest 59, 63 Myself When Young 57, 62, 64, 65, 66, 68 postage stamp portrait 66 Queenscliff 67–68 Richardson suburb 66 Spiritualism 60–61 Richardson, Mary 67, 68, 69 Richardson, Walter Chiltern 56, 57–58, 60–61 commemoration of  69 hospitalisation 67–68 Koroit 68–69 madness 56, 58, 60 model for Richard Mahony 59 Queenscliff 68 Spiritualism 61 Riley, Jack 108–09 Robertson, Ethel. See Richardson, Henry Handel Robertson, George 194 Robin, Libby 20 Robson, Kevin 84, 88 Rodd, Lewis 174 Roderick, Colin 85, 88 Roth, Ling 124 Rothwell, Nicholas 92, 110

Index Rudd, Steele 8, 41 Runci, Janey 66 Russell, George (A.E.) 168 Ryan, Victor H. 30 Sansom, Clive 115 Savage, Kirk 196 Scholten, Matt 43 Scott, Kim 198 Scott, Rose 80 Semmler, Clement 91, 101 Shakespeare, William 95 Shapiro, Karl 137 Sharkey, Michael 45 Shepard, Mary 157, 163, 168, 171 Sheridan, Dick 98 Sheridan, Susan 123, 124 Shoemaker, Adam 192, 194, 195, 208 Simons, Margaret 202 Skemp, John 115 Sladen, Douglas 24, 25 Smith, Laurajane 3 Smith, Vivian 126 Southall, Ivan 123 Squire, Sheilagh Stanley, Francis Drummond Greville 159 Stanner, W.E.H. 10 ‘statue mania’ 162–63, 216–17 Stead, Christina 2, 170 Steele, Bruce 67, 69 Stephens, A.G. 37, 41, 50, 80 Stephenson, P.R. 8 Steppes 115 Stewart, H.C.E. 42, 43 Stewart, Ken 91, 93 Struthers, Les 161, 162 Sturt, Charles 10, 202, 204 ‘success of failure’ paradigm 215 Such is Life. See also Furphy, Joseph building work and 40 classic status 35 composition in Shepparton 39 copyright 36 difficulty of  35, 52 first version of  39 Palmer abridgement 36 picaresque and 49 publisher’s cuts 40–41, 52 record of a dying age 53 Riverina 44–45, 48, 54 Tennant and 179–80 Sullivan, Jane 143

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Taplin, George 189, 202–04 Taplin, Noel 205 Templer, Arthur 102 Tennant, Kylie. See also ‘Kylie’s Hut’; Metcalfe, Ernie Battlers 173, 179, 180 Crowdy Bay National Park 173, 176, 216 Foveaux 173 Honey Flow 173, 175, 176, 182 Indigenous people and 175, 176, 184–85 Joyful Condemned 173 Laurieton 174, 175 left-​wing politics 175, 179–80, 184 Long Bay Gaol 173 Lost Haven 173, 174 Man on the Headland 13, 173, 175, 180–82, 184 Metcalfe, Ernie 175–76 ‘method’ research 173 Missing Heir 174, 175–76 Ride On Stranger 173 S.H Prior Memorial Prize 173 Tell Morning This 173 Tiburon 173, 174 Thompson, Jack 104 Throssell, Hugo (Jim) 129, 131, 132, 133, 134, 136, 149 Throssell, Ric 129, 131, 132, 133, 134, 150, 151 Thwaite, Joy L. 185 Tindale, Norman 200 tourism. See literary tourism Travers, P.L. 2, 14, 86, 110 acting career 154, 167 Allora 153, 160–62 Ashfield 153, 156–57 Australian pre-​mortem interest in 154–56 Beatrix Potter and 160 Bowral 153, 163–67 Christchurch 167 dislike of Australia 170–71 early life of 153, 156 Holly Street cottage 165 last years of  153 Lewis Carroll and 160 Mary Poppins 153 Mary Poppins (film) 153, 157, 165, 167, 168–69, 170, 171 Mary Poppins and the House Next Door 153 ‘Mary Poppins and the Match-​Man’ 167 Mary Poppins Comes Back 153, 154 Mary Poppins Festival 157

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Travers, P.L. (cont.) Mary Poppins from A to Z 153 Mary Poppins House (Allora) 161–62 Mary Poppins in Cherry Tree Lane 153 Mary Poppins in the Kitchen 153 Mary Poppins in the Park 153, 160 Mary Poppins Opens the Door 153 Mary Poppins Street markets 157 Mary Poppins traffic lights 157 Maryborough 153, 157–59, 168 Mitchell Library collection 170 New York Poppins statue plan 163 New York Public Library donation 163 nom de plume 168 ‘non-​explaining’ 171–72 P.L. Travers Park 162 Peter Pan and 160 Poppins monument (Allora) 162 Poppins statue (Ashfield) 156–57 Poppins statue (Bowral) 163–67 Poppins statue (Maryborough) 158 Pound Cottage 167–68 proliferation of Poppins statues 171 Proud Marys Association 157–58, 171 Saving Mr. Banks 160, 161, 162, 166, 168–69, 170 Shadow of Mary Poppins 170 Story Bank 158–59 ‘Welcome Home Mary Poppins’ event 166 writing career 153 Treadwell, Rose 166 Treep, Lucy 187 Trollope, Anthony 6 Trubek, Anne 28 Tuan, Yi-​Fu  257 Tumarkin, Maria 10 Turcotte, Gerry 141, 142 Turner, Henry Gyles 5 Ultima Thule. See also Richardson, Henry Handel 1912 notes for 59 Chiltern 60 father’s grave 69 father’s madness 56 father’s release from hospital 68 Lake View 13, 57, 58–59, 61, 62, 63, 64 Queenscliff 67, 68 Unaipon, David 10, 15 AFA monument 205 David Unaipon Award 210–11

fifty dollar note portrait 110, 189, 199–202 ‘first Aboriginal author’ status 189, 190, 192 ‘Gool Lun Naga’ 209 Hungarrda 191 Kinie Ger—​T he Native Cat 191 ‘Leaves of Memory’ 190, 191, 193, 209 Legendary Tales of the Australian Aborigines 191, 192, 193–96, 200, 208 life of  189–90 Longfellow and 208 ‘My Life Story’ 191, 193, 208 Native Legends 191, 195 Point McLeay Mission 189, 190, 202–04, 206–07, 209 Ramsay Smith’s appropriation of  193–96 Raukkan 202–05 service at Kanmantoo 206 sesquicentenary plaque 204 ‘Story of the Mungingee’ 192 Tailem Bend sculpture plans 207, 211 Unaipon cottage 206, 207 writing career 191–93 Unaipon, James 193 Van Der Byl, Muriel 200 Van Toorn, Penny 190 Varuna. See also Dark, Eleanor Dark’s life at 136–38, 143 establishment of Writers’ House 138–41 garden 145–46 ghosts 141–43 as legacy 151 Quilt Project 144–45 Writers’ House 149–50 ‘vernacular’ heritage 213 Victorian Trust 3 Walker, Brenda 142 Walker, Derek 200 Walker, R.N. 99 Walter, Helen 199 Waltzing Matilda Centre 107 Wandin, Aunty Joy Murphy 199 Ware, Sue-​Anne 207, 213 Watson, Nicola 7, 95, 121 Wattle Park poets’ corner 22 Watts, Barry 39 Webby, Elizabeth 142 Westover, Paul 55 White, Patrick 2, 69, 171 White, Philip 206

Index Whiting, Frances 161, 162 Wilderness Society 115 Williams, Howard 2 Wilson, Mary 115 Windich, Tommy 197 Winnie the Pooh 163, 168, 169 Woolacott, Angela 171 Wright, Patrick 3

Wuldi, Robert 207 Wurundjeri people 197, 199 Wyndham, Marivic 141 Young, Charles Burney 205–06 Yuranigh 197 Ziner, Feenie 160

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