Lawson is not in the least dazzled by the melodramatic aspects of the country, the beautiful wild young man type that Gordon depicts, the dark and daring braggadocio. Indeed, he speaks with the bitterest scorn of those who use their art to immortalize.
“The gambling and the drink that are their country’s greatest curse.”
But in the pathos and the humour of the commonplace his genius burns clear, with rare glimpses of a spiritual insight far above that gospel of mere revolt with which so many of his fellows are imbued.
Another Australian favourite is A. B. Paterson, whose “Man from Snowy River” has met with such immense success—a success that is not for a moment to be wondered at, for if his poetry is not of the highest type, Paterson paints the Australian Bush with such truth and vigour and such true affection, that, to those who dwell in the cities, it is like a veritable breath of the wild open country and the wild free life.
“For the drover’s life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know:
And the Bush has friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him;
For the murmur of its breezes, and the river on its bars;
And he sees the vision splendid, of the sunlit plains extended
And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars.”
Australian writers up to the present time seem to have been at their best in verse, and after that in short stories, Lawson’s collection, published under the title of “While the Billy Boils,” being hard to beat, particularly the stories of “The Bush Undertaker” and “The Drover’s Wife.” But it yet remains for a great Australian book to be written, and for the undoubted latent talent that certainly exists to establish itself by some more solid effort. Perhaps one of the most vivid works that has ever appeared, regarded as a true product of this country, was “My Brilliant Career,” by Myles Franklin, which, in spite of its crudities and egotism, gave rise to a hope of great things from the same pen, particularly as it was written when the authoress was only seventeen years of age; but nothing more of any note has appeared, and one fears that it was only a case of another meteoric flare. Among other more or less well-known writers Marcus Clarke was English; Mrs. Humphrey Ward left Australia when she was a small child; Mrs. Campbell Praed, Mary Gaunt, Guy Boothby, were all born in Australia; but it is for the most part in England and of England that they write. Of course, there have been, and are now, many lesser lights in addition to those of whom I have written. Among them Roderic Quinn, Brunton Stevens, and Rolf Boldrewood, who has in his own particular, obvious fashion—or, at least, in his one famous book—reached as high a level as any. Yet it is in the future that we must still seek for a sustained work of fiction, worthy both of the people and the country, a book at once as true and simple as “Marie Claire,” or Yoshio Markino’s “A Japanese Artist in London,” of which every line of writing tells as delicately and yet vividly as does each touch of his magic brush. America seems to have taken to fashioning her literature with a crimping-iron and “sheer-lawn,” while Australia hacks hers out with a billyhook from back-block and Bush. Still, there is something between the two, as perhaps Mrs. Æneas Gunn, among all the writers in this new world, has been the only one as yet to discover.
In art as in literature there seems to be an idea that crudity is strength, even at times a real brutality, as in much of Norman Lindsay’s clever work. Though it is little wonder if the Australian artists feel, as well as paint, with a sort of ferocity, seeing that art is about the last thing which appeals to those who are in the position to buy pictures; and, if they do buy, they want size, they want show, something “pretty,” and highly coloured, and smoothly finished; while it remains to the eternal credit of the artistic fraternity that they certainly do not pander to this demand, even if they go too far in the opposite direction. The trustees of the public galleries seem to try to elevate the masses by leaving their own artists severely alone, and spending enormous sums on pictures that are undoubtedly “caviare to the general,” Melbourne being far worse than Sydney in this respect, one of its most recent acquisitions being an ineffective and rather colourless Watteau, for which the trustees paid £3,125. Meanwhile the prices offered to local artists are often little short of ludicrous, the £100 paid to George Lambert for his picture, “The Shop,” which was lately hung in the Victorian Artists’ Exhibition, being regarded as something quite abnormal; while Mrs. Ellis Rowe’s wonderful collection of paintings of native flowers went begging for years before they were ultimately purchased by Sydney.
It is odd that a country so frankly egotistical, so frankly immersed in all that is new and fresh, should allow its money to be spent on pictures which must represent—to 90 per cent. of those who see them—nothing more than a mere name. It is, indeed, as odd a contradiction as is the alacrity with which titles are seized by the representatives of this people, who so greatly pride themselves upon their democracy.
Only a few years ago a really very large sum was spent upon a Corot for the Melbourne Gallery, “The Bent Tree.” Crowds flocked to see it, because it was the thing to do; but from the remarks I heard several times as I stood near it, they were only asking each other in sheer bewilderment, “What came ye out for to see?” very little admiration being expressed, save for the frame. Still, it is now only a matter of time, I really believe, until someone will find leisure to rebel against spending so much on a style of picture that is supposed to mould the tastes of the people—quite erroneously, for we are but little influenced by what we do not understand—and paintings which show an art as beautiful and more vital, and more comprehensible, to the people will be insisted on; for each year shows the Australians rebelling, with a greater persistency, against the adaptation of themselves to past ideals, the pouring of new wine into old bottles.
Australia has not yet produced any great composer; and yet it has gone far, and will go still farther, in the musical world, fresh young talent passing over to London or Paris almost every year to complete its training; while the number of beautiful voices that a further opening up of the country, and further facilities for recognition and teaching, will bring to light, can scarcely be over-estimated. The Australian’s ordinary uneducated speaking voice is curiously harsh and raucous. But, in spite of this, the percentage of singing voices is wonderfully high, owing, perhaps, to the light, dry atmosphere and the absence of fogs; while I believe that the best way of improving the natural intonation will be found to be by teaching singing more carefully and consistently in elementary schools, and thus bringing out all that is best in the children’s voices.