The Penguin Henry Lawson Short Stories Page 3

  I have grouped ‘The Loaded Dog’ with two earlier stories to illustrate Lawson’s success as a humorous writer. The term ‘humorous writer’ is, in itself, a limiting one, and I would agree with the view that, though he wrote many enjoyable comic sketches and stories, Lawson’s individual distinction is not to be found there. ‘The Geological Spieler’, the best of several stories in which Steelman and Smith appear, shows Lawson’s characteristic use of ironic reversal, but the story does remain within the conventions of frontier humour which Mark Twain popularised. ‘The Iron-bark Chip’, which similarly relies upon a sudden twist, has more of the feel of local experience about it. The hilarious farce of ‘The Loaded Dog’ centres on the action of the dog, but Lawson raises the story above the level of stock farce by making what happens the result of Dave Regan’s bright idea; with a few strokes at the end, Lawson puts the episode into perspective as a Dave Regan yarn, part of the communal memory of the bush. Of the humorous stories in this selection, though, the Mitchell yarn, ‘Bill, the Ventriloquial Rooster’, is the most successful in giving the flavour of bush humour.

  There is no hint of humour in the final story of this selection. I have included ‘A Child in the Dark, and a Foreign Father’ because it is of very great biographical interest, and also because it so clearly marks the end of Lawson’s creative period. In his autobiography Lawson quotes a friend’s advice to him on a projected book about bush people: ‘Treated ruthlessly, Rousseaulike, without regard to your own or others’ feelings, what a notable book yours would be!’ ‘A Child in the Dark, and a Foreign Father’ may well have been begun under the influence of such advice. According to Lawson, he had intended to write a novel, and had begun work in England. The story was finished after his return to Australia in 1902 and before his suicide attempt that same year. In this version of what were obviously distressing childhood memories, there is an impersonality of tone that is quite uncharacteristic, and an absence of those evocative impressionistic descriptions which carry so much emotional force in his best work. Like ‘The Drover’s Wife’ this story deals with the relationship of parent and child, but it is the work of a man who has lost the power to see into the heart of things.

  There are a few more stories which might have been included, had space permitted. Lawson’s achievement as a short-story writer, however, is not to be measured by the bulk of his collected works. His writing will be read by Australians for all sorts of reasons that have nothing to do with his literary qualities, but his claim to recognition as a writer in the larger English-speaking world rests, I believe, on the stories which have been gathered in this volume. It is in these stories that he stands apart from his Bulletin contemporaries – and successors – who understood the short story as a form of yarn-spinning, and no more than that. Reading these stories one starts to develop Lawson’s own haunting sense of ‘what-might-have-been’. The delicacy of his art met with little appreciation in a culture which valued the ‘slap-dash’ as being ‘dinkum’, and he never realised his full potential. Henry Lawson’s fate seems especially bitter in that he was misread and frustrated as an artist in the country which praised him highly while he lived and honoured him with a state funeral when he died.

  In the course of this Introduction I have drawn on my Henry Lawson’s Short Stories, in the Essays in Australian Literature series, published in Melbourne by Shillington House in 1985.

  John Barnes

  I

  THE DROVER’S WIFE

  THE BUSH UNDERTAKER

  THE DROVER’S WIFE

  THE two-roomed house is built of round timber, slabs, and stringy bark, and floored with split slabs. A big bark kitchen standing at one end is larger than the house itself, verandah included.

  Bush all round – bush with no horizon, for the country is flat. No ranges in the distance. The bush consists of stunted, rotten native apple trees. No undergrowth. Nothing to relieve the eye save the darker green of a few sheoaks which are sighing above the narrow, almost waterless creek. Nineteen miles to the nearest sign of civilisation – a shanty on the main road.

  The drover, an ex-squatter, is away with sheep. His wife and children are left here alone.

  Four ragged, dried-up-looking children are playing about the house. Suddenly one of them yells: ‘Snake! Mother, here’s a snake!’

  The gaunt, sun-browned bushwoman dashes from the kitchen, snatches her baby from the ground, holds it on her left hip, and reaches for a stick.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Here! gone into the wood-heap!’ yells the eldest boy – a sharp-faced, excited urchin of eleven. ‘Stop there, mother! I’ll have him. Stand back! I’ll have the beggar!’

  ‘Tommy, come here, or you’ll be bit. Come here at once when I tell you, you little wretch!’

  The youngster comes reluctantly, carrying a stick bigger than himself. Then he yells, triumphantly:

  ‘There it goes – under the house!’ and darts away with club uplifted. At the same time the big, black, yellow-eyed dog-of-all-breeds, who has shown the wildest interest in the proceedings, breaks his chain and rushes after that snake. He is a moment late, however, and his nose reaches the crack in the slabs just as the end of its tail disappears. Almost at the same moment the boy’s club comes down and skins the aforesaid nose. Alligator takes small notice of this, and proceeds to undermine the building; but he is subdued after a struggle and chained up. They cannot afford to lose him.

  The drover’s wife makes the children stand together near the doghouse while she watches for the snake. She gets two small dishes of milk and sets them down near the wall to tempt it to come out; but an hour goes by and it does not show itself.

  It is near sunset, and a thunderstorm is coming. The children must be brought inside. She will not take them into the house, for she knows the snake is there, and may at any moment come up through the cracks in the rough slab floor; so she carries several armfuls of firewood into the kitchen, and then takes the children there. The kitchen has no floor – or, rather, an earthen one – called a ‘ground floor’ in this part of the bush. There is a large, roughly made table in the centre of the place. She brings the children in, and makes them get on this table. They are two boys and two girls – mere babies. She gives them some supper, and then, before it gets dark, she goes into the house, and snatches up some pillows and bedclothes – expecting to see or lay her hand on the snake any minute. She makes a bed on the kitchen table for the children, and sits down beside it to watch all night.

  She has an eye on the corner, and a green sapling club laid in readiness on the dresser by her side, together with her sewing basket and a copy of the Young Ladies’ Journal. She has brought the dog into the room.

  Tommy turns in, under protest, but says he’ll lie awake all night and smash that blinded snake.

  His mother asks him how many times she has told him not to swear.

  He has his club with him under the bedclothes, and Jacky protests:

  ‘Mummy! Tommy’s skinnin’ me alive wif his club. Make him take it out.’

  Tommy: ‘Shet up, you little –! D’yer want to be bit with the snake?’

  Jacky shuts up.

  ‘If yer bit,’ says Tommy, after a pause, ‘you’ll swell up, an’ smell, an’ turn red an’ green an’ blue all over till yer bust. Won’t he, mother?’

  ‘Now then, don’t frighten the child. Go to sleep,’ she says.

  The two younger children go to sleep, and now and then Jacky complains of being ‘skeezed.’ More room is made for him. Presently Tommy says: ‘Mother! listen to them (adjective) little ’possums. I’d like to screw their blanky necks.’

  And Jacky protests drowsily:

  ‘But they don’t hurt us, the little blanks!’

  Mother: ‘There, I told you you’d teach Jacky to swear.’ But the remark makes her smile. Jacky goes to sleep.

  Presently Tommy asks:

  ‘Mother! Do you think they’ll ever extricate the (adjective) kangaroo?’

  ‘Lord!
How am I to know, child? Go to sleep.’

  ‘Will you wake me if the snake comes out?’

  ‘Yes. Go to sleep.’

  Near midnight. The children are all asleep and she sits there still, sewing and reading by turns. From time to time she glances round the floor and wall-plate, and whenever she hears a noise she reaches for the stick. The thunderstorm comes on, and the wind, rushing through the cracks in the slab wall, threatens to blow out her candle. She places it on a sheltered part of the dresser and fixes up a newspaper to protect it. At every flash of lightning, the cracks between the slabs gleam like polished silver. The thunder rolls, and the rain comes down in torrents.

  Alligator lies at full length on the floor, with his eyes turned towards the partition. She knows by this that the snake is there. There are large cracks in that wall opening under the floor of the dwelling-house.

  She is not a coward, but recent events have shaken her nerves. A little son of her brother-in-law was lately bitten by a snake, and died. Besides, she has not heard from her husband for six months, and is anxious about him.

  He was a drover, and started squatting here when they were married. The drought of 18– ruined him. He had to sacrifice the remnant of his flock and go droving again. He intends to move his family into the nearest town when he comes back, and, in the meantime, his brother, who keeps a shanty on the main road, comes over about once a month with provisions. The wife has still a couple of cows, one horse, and a few sheep. The brother-in-law kills one of the sheep occasionally, gives her what she needs of it, and takes the rest in return for other provisions.

  She is used to being left alone. She once lived like this for eighteen months. As a girl she built the usual castles in the air; but all her girlish hopes and aspirations have long been dead. She finds all the excitement and recreation she needs in the Young Ladies’ Journal, and, Heaven help her! takes a pleasure in the fashion-plates.

  Her husband is an Australian, and so is she. He is careless, but a good enough husband. If he had the means he would take her to the city and keep her there like a princess. They are used to being apart, or at least she is. ‘No use fretting,’ she says. He may forget sometimes that he is married; but if he has a good cheque when he comes back he will give most of it to her. When he had money he took her to the city several times – hired a railway sleeping compartment, and put up at the best hotels. He also bought her a buggy, but they had to sacrifice that along with the rest.

  The last two children were born in the bush – one while her husband was bringing a drunken doctor, by force, to attend to her. She was alone on this occasion, and very weak. She had been ill with a fever. She prayed to God to send her assistance. God sent Black Mary – the ‘whitest’ gin in all the land. Or, at least, God sent ‘King Jimmy’ first, and he sent Black Mary. He put his black face round the door-post, took in the situation at a glance, and said cheerfully: ‘All right, Missis – I bring my old woman, she down alonga creek.’

  One of her children died while she was here alone. She rode nineteen miles for assistance, carrying the dead child.

  * * *

  It must be near one or two o’clock. The fire is burning low. Alligator lies with his head resting on his paws, and watches the wall. He is not a very beautiful dog to look at, and the light shows numerous old wounds where the hair will not grow. He is afraid of nothing on the face of the earth or under it. He will tackle a bullock as readily as he will tackle a flea. He hates all other dogs – except kangaroo-dogs – and has a marked dislike to friends or relations of the family. They seldom call, however. He sometimes makes friends with strangers. He hates snakes and has killed many, but he will be bitten some day and die; most snake-dogs end that way.

  Now and then the bushwoman lays down her work and watches, and listens, and thinks. She thinks of things in her own life, for there is little else to think about.

  The rain will make the grass grow, and this reminds her how she fought a bush fire once while her husband was away. The grass was long, and very dry, and the fire threatened to burn her out. She put on an old pair of her husband’s trousers and beat out the flames with a green bough, till great drops of sooty perspiration stood out on her forehead and ran in streaks down her blackened arms. The sight of his mother in trousers greatly amused Tommy, who worked like a little hero by her side, but the terrified baby howled lustily for his ‘mummy’. The fire would have mastered her but for four excited bushmen who arrived in the nick of time. It was a mixed-up affair all round; when she went to take up the baby he screamed and struggled convulsively, thinking it was a ‘black man’; and Alligator, trusting more to the child’s sense than his own instinct, charged furiously, and (being old and slightly deaf) did not in his excitement at first recognise his mistress’s voice, but continued to hang on to the moleskins until choked off by Tommy with a saddle-strap. The dog’s sorrow for his blunder, and his anxiety to let it be known that it was all a mistake, was as evident as his ragged tail and a twelve-inch grin could make it. It was a glorious time for the boys; a day to look back to, and talk about, and laugh over for many years.

  She thinks how she fought a flood during her husband’s absence. She stood for hours in the drenching downpour, and dug an overflow gutter to save the dam across the creek. But she could not save it. There are things that a bushwoman cannot do. Next morning the dam was broken, and her heart was nearly broken too, for she thought how her husband would feel when he came home and saw the result of years of labour swept away. She cried then.

  She also fought the pleuro-pneumonia – dosed and bled the few remaining cattle, and wept again when her two best cows died.

  Again, she fought a mad bullock that besieged the house for a day. She made bullets and fired at him through cracks in the slabs with an old shotgun. He was dead in the morning. She skinned him and got seventeen-and-six for the hide.

  She also fights the crows and eagles that have designs on her chickens. Her plan of campaign is very original. The children cry ‘Crows, mother!’ and she rushes out and aims a broomstick at the birds as though it were a gun, and says, ‘Bung!’ The crows leave in a hurry; they are cunning, but a woman’s cunning is greater.

  Occasionally a bushman in the horrors, or a villainous-looking sun-downer, comes and nearly scares the life out of her. She generally tells the suspicious-looking stranger that her husband and two sons are at work below the dam, or over at the yard, for he always cunningly enquires for the boss.

  Only last week a gallows-faced swagman – having satisfied himself that there were no men on the place – threw his swag down on the verandah, and demanded tucker. She gave him something to eat; then he expressed his intention of staying for the night. It was sundown then. She got a batten from the sofa, loosened the dog, and confronted the stranger, holding the batten in one hand and the dog’s collar with the other. ‘Now you go!’ she said. He looked at her and at the dog, said ‘All right, mum,’ in a cringing tone, and left. She was a determined-looking woman, and Alligator’s yellow eyes glared unpleasantly – besides, the dog’s chawing-up apparatus greatly resembled that of the reptile he was named after.

  She has few pleasures to think of as she sits here alone by the fire, on guard against a snake. All days are much the same to her, but on Sunday afternoon she dresses herself, tidies the children, smartens up baby, and goes for a lonely walk along the bush-track, pushing an old perambulator in front of her. She does this every Sunday. She takes as much care to make herself and the children look smart as she would if she were going to do the block in the city. There is nothing to see, however, and not a soul to meet. You might walk for twenty miles along this track without being able to fix a point in your mind, unless you are a bushman. This is because of the everlasting, maddening sameness of the stunted trees – that monotony which makes a man long to break away and travel as far as trains can go, and sail as far as ships can sail – and further.

  But this bushwoman is used to the loneliness of it. As a girl-wife she hated it
, but now she would feel strange away from it.

  She is glad when her husband returns, but she does not gush or make a fuss about it. She gets him something good to eat, and tidies up the children.

  She seems contented with her lot. She loves her children, but has no time to show it. She seems harsh to them. Her surroundings are not favourable to the development of the ‘womanly’ or sentimental side of nature.

  * * *

  It must be near morning now; but the clock is in the dwelling-house. Her candle is nearly done; she forgot that she was out of candles. Some more wood must be got to keep the fire up, and so she shuts the dog inside and hurries round to the wood-heap. The rain has cleared off. She seizes a stick, pulls it out, and – crash! the whole pile collapses.

  Yesterday she bargained with a stray blackfellow to bring her some wood, and while he was at work she went in search of a missing cow. She was absent an hour or so, and the native black made good use of his time. On her return she was so astonished to see a good heap of wood by the chimney, that she gave him an extra fig of tobacco, and praised him for not being lazy. He thanked her, and left with head erect and chest well out. He was the last of his tribe and a King; but he had built that wood-heap hollow.

  She is hurt now, and tears spring to her eyes as she sits down again by the table. She takes up a handkerchief to wipe the tears away, but pokes her eyes with her bare fingers instead. The handkerchief is full of holes, and she finds that she has put her thumb through one, and her forefinger through another.

  This makes her laugh, to the surprise of the dog. She has a keen, very keen, sense of the ridiculous; and some time or other she will amuse bushmen with the story.

  She has been amused before like that. One day she sat down ‘to have a good cry,’ as she said – and the old cat rubbed against her dress and ‘cried too.’ Then she had to laugh.