Such is Life

J >> Joseph Furphy >> Such is Life

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This brings us to the other mark of a personality so freshly minted
as to have taken no more than two impressions. Rory was her guide,
philosopher, and crony. He was her overwhelming ideal of power, wisdom,
and goodness; he was her help in ages past, her hope for years to come
(no irreverence intended here; quite the reverse, for if true family life
existed, we should better apprehend the meaning of "Our Father,
who art in heaven"); he was her Ancient of Days; her shield,
and her exceeding great reward.

A new position for Rory; and he grasped it with all the avidity
of a love-hungered soul. The whole current of his affections,
thwarted and repulsed by the world's indifference, found lavish outlet here.

After tea, Rory took a billy and went out into the horse-paddock to milk
the goats--Mary, of course, clinging to his side. I remained in the house,
confiding to Mrs. O'Halloran the high respect which Rory's principles
and abilities had always commanded. But she was past all that;
and I had to give it up. When a woman can listen with genuine contempt
to the spontaneous echo of her husband's popularity, it is a sure sign
that she has explored the profound depths of masculine worthlessness;
and there is no known antidote to this fatal enlightenment.

Rory's next duty was to chop up a bit of firewood, and stack it beside
the door. Dusk was gathering by this time; and Mrs. O'Halloran called Mary
to prepare her for the night, while Rory and I seated ourselves
on the bucket-stool outside. Presently a lighted lamp was placed on the table,
when we removed indoors. Then Mary, in a long, white garment,
with her innocent face shining from the combined effects of perfect happiness
and unmerciful washing, climbed on Rory's knees--not to bid him goodnight,
but to compose herself to sleep.

"Time the chile was bruk aff that habit," observed the mother,
as she seated herself beside the table with some sewing.

"Let her be a child as long as she can, Mrs. O'Halloran," I remarked.
"Surely you would n't wish any alteration in her."

"Nat without it was an altheration fur the betther," replied the worthy woman.
"An' it's little hopes there is iv hur, consitherin' the way she's rairt.
Did iver anybody hear o' rairin' childher' without batin' them
when they want it?"

"You bate hur, an' A'll bate you!" interposed Rory, turning to bay
on the most salient of the three or four pleas which had power to rouse
the Old Adam in his unassertive nature.

"Well, A 'm sure A was bate--ay, an' soun'ly bate--when A was lek hur;
an' iv A did n't desarve it then, A desarved it other times,
when A did n't git it."

An obvious rejoinder rose to my mind, but evidently not to Rory's,
for the look on his face told only of a dogged resolution to continue sinning
against the light. He knew that his own contumacy in this respect would land
his soul in perdition, and he deliberately let it go at that. Brave old Rory!
Never does erratic man appear to such advantage as when his own intuitive
moral sense rigorously overbears a conscientiousness warped by some fallacy
which he still accepts as truth.

Yet the mother loved the child in her own hard, puritanical way. And,
in any case, you are not competent to judge her, unless you have to work
for your living, instead of finding somebody eager to support you in luxury
for the pleasure of your society; unless, instead of marrying some squatter,
or bank clerk, or Member of Parliament, you have inadvertently coupled yourself
to a Catholic boundary man, named nothing short of Rory O'Halloran.

The embittered woman retired early, and without phrases. As she did so,
I casually noticed that the bed-room was bisected by a partition,
with a curtained doorway.

"Ever try your hand at literature, Rory?" I presently asked,
remembering Williamson's remark.

"Well, A ken har'ly say No, an' A ken har'ly say Yis," replied Rory,
with ill-feigned humility. "A've got a bit iv a thraytise scribbled down,
furbye a wheen o' other wans on han'. A thought mebbe"--and his glance rested
on the angelface of the sleeping child--"well, A thought mebbe it would
do hur no harrum fur people till know that hur father--well-as ye might say--
Nat but what she'll hev money in the bank, plaze God. But A'll lay hur down
in hur wee cot now, an' A'll bring the thrifle we wur mentionin'."

He tenderly carried the child into the first compartment of the bedroom,
and, soon returning, placed before me about twenty quarto sheets of manuscript,
written on both sides, in a careful, schoolboy hand. The first page
was headed, A Plea for Woman .

"My word, Rory, this is great!" said I, after reading the first long paragraph.
"I should like to skim it over at once, to get the gist of the argument,
and then read it leisurely, to enjoy the style. And that reminds me
that I brought you an Australasian. I'll get it out of my swag,
and you can read it to kill time."

But it became evident that he could n't fix his mind on the newspaper
whilst his own literary product was under scrutiny. The latter unfolded itself
as a unique example of pure deduction, aided by utter lack of discrimination
in the value of evidence. It was all synthesis, and no analysis.
A certain hypothesis had to be established, and it was established.
The style was directly antithetical to that curt, blunt, and simple
pronouncement aimed at by innocents who deceive no one by denouncing Socialism,
Trades-Unionism, &c., over the signature of "A Working Man." But the Essay.
I am debarred from transcribing it, not only because of its length,
but because----

"Rory, you must let me take a copy of this."

"Well, Tammas, A'm glad it plazes ye; right glad, so A am;
but A thought till--till"----

"Spring it on the public--so to speak?"

"Yis."

"Well, I'll faithfully promise to keep the whole work sacred to your credit.
And if ever I go into print--which is most unlikely--I'll refer to this essay
in such a way as to whet public curiosity to a feather edge.
Again, if anything should happen to this copy, you'll have mine
to fall back upon."

"A'll thrust ye, Tammas. God bless ye, take a copy any time afore ye go."

The object of the essay was to prove that, at a certain epoch in the world's
history, the character of woman had undergone an instantaneous transformation.
And it was proved in this way:

The two greatest thinkers and most infallible authorities our race has produced
are Solomon and Shakespear.

Solomon's estimate of woman is shockingly low; and there is no getting away
from the truth of it. His baneful evidence has the guarantee of Holy Writ;
moreover, it is fully borne out by the testimony of ancient history,
sacred and profane, and by the tendency of the Greek and Roman mythologies.
Examples here quoted in profusion.

The fact of woman's pre-eminent wickedness in ancient times is traceable
to the eating of the apple, when Eve, being the more culpable,
was justly burdened with the heavier penalty, namely, a preternatural bias
toward sin in a general way.

On the other hand, Shakespear's estimate of woman is high. And justly so,
since his valuation is conclusively endorsed by modern history.
Examples again quoted, in convincing volume, from the women of Acts
down to Mrs. Chisholm and Florence Nightingale.

Now how do you bring these two apparently conflicting facts into the harmony
of context? Simply by tracing the Solomon-woman forward, and the
Shakespear-woman backward, to their point of intersection, and so finding
the moment of transition. It is where the Virgin says:

"My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.
For He hath regarded the low estate of His handmaiden; for, behold!
from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed."

This prophecy has not only a personal and specific fulfilment, as pointing
to the speaker herself, but a transitive and general application,
as referring to her sex at large. There you have it.

But no mere abstract can do justice to the sumptuous phraseology of the work,
to its opulence of carefully selected adjective, or to the involved rhetoric
which seemed to defeat and set at naught all your petty rules of syntax
and prosody. Still less can I impart a notion of the exhaustive raking up
of ancient examples and modern instances, mostly worn bright by familiarity
with the popular mind, but all converging toward the conclusion striven for,
and the shakiest of them accepted in childlike faith. Integrally,
that essay conveyed the idea of two mighty glaciers of theory, each impelling
its own moraine of facts toward a stated point of confluence--represented by
a magnificent postulate--where one section, at least, of the Universal Plan
would attain fulfilment, and the Eternal Unities would be so far satisfied.
There was something in it that was more like an elusive glimmer of genius
than an evidence of understanding, or, still less, of cleverness.
Remarkable also, that, though the punctuation was deplorable, every superb
polysyllable was correctly spelled. But as a monument of wasted ingenuity
and industry, I have met with nothing so pathetic. A long term
of self-communion in the back country will never leave a man as it found him.
Outside his daily avocation, he becomes a fool or a philosopher; and,
in Rory's case, the latter seemed to have been superimposed on the former.

At ten o'clock, I hunted him to bed. I had plenty of blank forms
in my writing-case, and on these I took a preliminary copy of A Plea for Woman.
This occupied about three hours. Then not feeling sleepy, I took down
one of four calico-covered books, which I had previously noticed
on a corner shelf. It was my own old Shakespear, with the added interest
of marginal marks, in ink of three colours, neatly ordered, and as the sand
by the sea-shore innumerable. I put it back with the impression that no book
had ever been better placed. The next volume was a Bible, presented by
the Reverend Miles Barton, M.A., Rector of Tanderagee, County Armagh, Ireland,
to his beloved parishioner, Deborah Johnson, on the occasion of her departure
for Melbourne, South Australia, June 16, 1875. The third book was
a fairly good dictionary, appendixed by a copious glossary of the Greek
and Roman mythologies. The fourth was Vol. XII of Macmillan's Magazine,
May to October, 1865.

Opening the latter book at random, I fell upon a sketch of Eyre's expedition
along the shores of the Great Australian Bight. In another place was
a contribution entitled 'A Gallery of American Presidents.' The next item
of interest was an account of the Massacre of Cawnpore. And toward the end
of the volume was a narrative of the Atlantic Telegraph Expedition.
Of course, there were thirty or forty other articles in the book,
but they were mostly strange to me, however familiar they might be to Rory.

Hopeless case! I thought, as I blew out the lamp and turned into my comfortable
sofa-bed. If this morepoke's Irish love of knowledge was backed by one spark
of mental enterprise, he might have half a ton of chosen literature to come
and go on. And here he is, with his pristine ignorance merely dislocated.

When I woke at sunrise, Rory was kindling the fire, with the inseparable Mary
squatted beside him in her nightgown. After putting on the kettle,
he dressed the little girl, and helped her to wash her face. By this time,
I was about; and Mary brought me a blank form, which I had dropped
and overlooked the night before.

"Keep it till you learn to write, dear," said I.

"She ken write now," remarked Rory, with subdued exultation. "Here, jewel,"
he continued, handing her a pencil from the mantelpiece--"write yer name
nately on that paper, fur Misther Collins till see."

The child, tremulous with an ecstatic sense of responsibility, bent over
her paper on the table for a full minute, then diffidently pushed it across
to me; and I read, in strong Roman capitals, the inscription, MRAY,
with the M containing an extra angle--being, so to speak, a letter and a half.

"Ye're wake in spellin', honey," remarked her father merrily; "an' the M's got
an exthry knuckle on it."

"It's right enough," I interposed. "Could n't be better. Now, Mary,
I'll keep this paper, and show it to you again when you're a great scholar
and a great poetess. See if I don't."

The entrance of Mrs. O'Halloran cut short this nonsense; and Rory went out
to milk the goats, accompanied, of course, by Mary.

After breakfast, we took our bridles and went out toward where the five horses
were feeding together, the inevitable child pattering along by Rory's side.

"You have a lot to be thankful for," I remarked.

"Blessed be His Name!" thought Rory aloud; and I continued, "You must make up
your mind to send her away to school in another four or five years."

"Iv coorse," replied Rory sadly.

"A convent school, mind. None of your common boarding schools
for a child like Mary"

Rory's only reply was a glance of gratitude. My stern admonition would be
a moral support to him in the coming controversy.

"You mentioned some other literary work that you have on hand?"
I remarked inquiringly.

"Yis; A've jotted down a few idays. Now, Tammas--where was the Garden of Aden
supposed to be?"

"My word, Rory, if a man could only disclose that to the world,
he would command attention. However, one theory is that it was on the lost
continent of Atlantis; another, that it was in the Valley of Cashmere.
There are many other localities suggested, but I think the one which meets
most favour is the Isle of Kishm, in the Straits of Ormuz, at the entrance
to the Persian Gulf."

"Will ye repate that, Tammas, iv ye plaze."

I briefly rehearsed such relevant information as I possessed,
whilst Rory kidnapped the geographical names, and imprisoned them
in his note-book, trusting to his memory for the rest.

"Oul' Father Finnegan, at Derryadd, useteh argie that the Garden iv Aden
hed been furnent the Lake o' Killarney; an' no one dar' conthradict him,"
he remarked, with a smile. "But people larns till think fur theirselves
when they're out theyre lone. An' afther consitherin' the matter over,
A take this iday fur a foundation: The furst Adam was created in a
sartin place; then he sinned in a sartin place. An' when the Saviour
(blessed be His Name!) come fur till clane the wurrld o' the furst Adam's sin,
He hed till be born where the furst Adam was created; an' He hed till die
where the furbidden fruit was ait. An' A've gethered up proofs, an' proofs,
an' proofs--How far is it fram Jerusalem till Bethlehem, Tammas?"

"Nearly six miles."

"A knowed the places must be convanient. Now ye mind where the Saviour
(blessed be His Name!) says, 'all the blood shed on earth, fram the blood
iv righteous Abel'--and so on? Well, 'earth' manes 'land'; an' it's all
as wan as if He said, 'shed on the land.' An' what land? Why, the Holy Land.
An' the praphets lived there when the Fall was quite racent; an' hear
what they say:--"

(Here he gave me some texts of Scripture, which I afterward verified--
and I would certainly advise you to do the same, if you can find a Bible.
They are, Isaiah li, 3; Ezekiel xxviii, 13-xxxi, 9-18-xxxvi, 35; Joel ii, 3.)

"Rory, you're a marvel," I remarked with sincerity. "And, by the way,
if there's anything in the inspiration of Art--if the Artist soars to truth
by the path which no fowl knoweth--your theory may find some support
in the fact that it was a usage of the Renaissance to represent the skull
of Adam at the foot of the cross."

"Ay--that!" And Rory's note-book was out again. "Which artists, Tammas?"

"Martin Schoen--end of 15th century, for one. Jean Limousin--17th century--
for another. Albert Dürer--beginning of 16th century--in more than one
of his engravings. However, you can just hold this species of proof
in reserve till I look up the subject. I won't forget."

"God bless ye, Tammas! Would it be faysible at all at all fur ye till stap
to the morrow mornin', an' ride out wi' me the day?"

"Well--yes."

"Blessin's on ye, Tammas! Becos A've got four more idays that ye could
help me with. Wan iday is about divils. A take this fur a foundation:
There's sins fur till be done in the wurrld that men 'on't do; an' divils
is marcifully put in the flesh an' blood fur till do them sins.
'Wan iv you is a divil,' says the Saviour (blessed be His Name!).
'He went to his own place,' says Acts--both manin' Judas. An' there's a wheen
o' places where Iago spakes iv himself as a divil. An' A've got other proofs
furbye, that we'll go over wan be wan. It's a mysthery, Tammas."

"It is indeed." Whilst replying, I was constrained to glance round
at the weather; and my eye happened to fall on the creeper-laden pine,
a quarter of a mile away. Suddenly a strange misgiving seized me,
and I asked involuntarily, "Do you have many swagmen calling round here?"

"Nat six in the coorse o' the year," replied Rory, too amiable to heed
the impolite change of subject. "Las' time A seen Ward," he continued,
after a moment's pause, "he toul' me there was a man come to the station
wan mornin' airly, near blin' wi' sandy blight; an' he stapped all day
in a dark skillion, an' started again at night. He was makin' fur Ivanhoe,
fur till ketch the coach; but it's a sore ondhertakin' fur a blin' man
till thravel the counthry his lone, at this saison o' the year.
An' it's quare where sthrangers gits till. A foun' a swag on the fence
a week or ten days ago, an' a man's thracks at the tank a couple o' days
afther; an' the swag's there yit; an' A would think the swag an' the thracks
belonged till the man wi' the sandy blight, barr'n this is nat the road
till Ivanhoe."

"My word, Rory, I wish either you or I had spoken of this when you came home
last night. Never mind the horses now. Give me your bridle,
and take Mary on your back."

As we went on, I related how I had seen the man reclining under the tree;
and Rory nodded forgivingly when I explained the scruple which had withheld me
from making my presence known.

"He must 'a' come there afther ten o'clock yisterday," observed Rory;
"or it would be mighty quare fur me till nat see him, consitherin' me eyes
is iverywhere when A'm ridin' the boundhry."

"But he was n't near the boundary. I had turned off from the fence
to see that dead pine with the big creeper on it."

"Which pine, Tammas?"

"There it is, straight ahead--the biggest of the three that you see above
the scrub. You notice it's a different colour?"

"'Deed ay, so it is. A wouldn't be onaisy, Tammas; it's har'ly likely
there's much wrong--but it's good to make sartin about it."

No effort could shake off the apprehension which grew upon me as we neared
the fence. But on reaching it I said briskly:

"Stay where you are, Rory; I'll be back in half a minute." Then I crushed
myself through the wires.

Fifteen or twenty paces brought me to the spot. The man had changed
his position, and was now lying at full length on his back, with arms extended
along his sides. His face was fully exposed--the face of a worker,
in the prime of manhood, with a heavy moustache and three or four weeks' growth
of beard. So much only had I noted at first glance, whilst stooping
under the heavy curtain of foliage. A few steps more, and, looking down
on the waxen skin of that inert figure, I instinctively uncovered my head.

The dull eyes, half-open to a light no longer intolerable, showed
by their death-darkened tracery of inflamed veins how much the lone wanderer
had suffered. The hands, with their strong bronze now paled to tarnished
ochre, were heavily callused by manual labour, and sharply attenuated
by recent hardship. The skin was cold, but the rigidity of death
was yet scarcely apparent. Evidently he had not died of thirst alone,
but of mere physical exhaustion, sealed by the final collapse of hope.
And it seemed so strange to hear the low voices of Rory and Mary close by;
to see through occasional spaces in the scrub the clear expanse
of the horsepaddock, with even a glimpse of the house, all homely and peaceful
in the silent sunshine. But such is life, and such is death.

Rory looked earnestly in my face as I rejoined him, and breathed one
of his customary devotional ejaculations.

"Under the big wilga, just beyond that hop-bush," said I, in an indifferent
tone. "Stay with me, Mary, dear," I continued, taking out my note-book.
"I'll make you a picture of a horse."

"But A'm aiger fur till see the pine wi' the big santipede on it,"
objected the terrible infant.

"Nat now, darlin'," replied Rory. "Sure we'll come an' see the pine
when we've lavin's o' time; but we're in a hurry now. Stap here an' kape
Misther Collins company. Daddy'll be back at wanst."

He kissed the child, and disappeared round the hop-bush. Then she turned
her unfathomable eyes reproachfully on my face, as I sat on the ground.

"A love you, Tammas, becos ye spake aisy till my Daddy. But O!"--and the
little, brown fingers wreathed themselves together in the distress
of her soul--"A don't want till go to school, an' lave my Daddy his lone!
An' A don't want till see that picther iv a horse; an' A 'on't lave me Daddy."

I weakly explained that it was a matter of no great importance whether
she went to school or not; and that, at worst, her Daddy could accompany her
as a schoolmate. Presently Rory returned.

"Mary, jewel, jist pelt aff, lek a good chile, an' see if the wee gate's shut."
Mary shot off at full speed; and he continued gravely, "Dhrapped aff
at the dead hour o' the night, seemin'ly. God rest his sowl! O, Tammas!
iv we'd only knowed!"

"Ay, or if I had only spoken to him! He must have got there yesterday morning.
Likely he had heard the cocks crowing at your place before daylight,
and was making for the sound, only that the light beat him, and he gave it
best five minutes too soon."

"Ah! we're poor, helpless craythurs, Tammas! But A s'pose A betther see
Misther Spanker at wanst?"

"No," I replied; "you stay and do what you can. I'll ride back, and see
Mr. Spanker. How far is it to where that swag is on the fence?"

"About--well, about seven mile, as the crow flies."

"Better have it here. Now we'll catch the horses. Come on, Mary!
Take her on your back, Rory; we must hurry up now."

I have already exceeded the legitimate exactions of my diary-record;
but the rest of the story is soon told. Mr. Spanker, as a Justice of Peace,
took the sworn depositions of Ward, Andrews, Rory, and myself.
In the man's pockets were found half-a-dozen letters, addressed to
George Murdoch, Mooltunya Station, from Malmsbury, Victoria; and all were
signed by his loving wife, Eliza H. Murdoch. Two of the letters acknowledged
receipt of cheques; and there was another cheque (for £12 15s., if I remember
rightly) in his pocket-book, with about £3 in cash. He was buried
in the station cemetery, between Val English, late station storekeeper,
who had poisoned himself, and Jack Drummond, shearer, who had died--presumably
of heart failure--after breaking the record of the district. Such is life.

CHAPTER III

FRI. NOV. 9. Charley's Paddock. Binney. Catastrophe.

What fatality impelled me to fix on the 9th, above all other days in the month?
Why did n't I glance over the record of each 9th, before committing myself
by a promise to review and annotate the entries of that date? For,
few and evil as the days of the years of my pilgrimage have undeniably been,
the 9th of November, '83, is one of those which I feel least satisfaction
in recalling. Moreover, I incur a certain risk in thus unbosoming myself,
as will become apparent to the perfidious reader who hungrily shadows me
through this compromising story. But it may be graven with a pen of iron,
that, at my age, no man shirks a promise, or tells a fib, for the first time;
and so, "Sad, but Strong"---the family motto of the Colonnas, that offshoot
of our tribe which settled in Italy in the year One--I answer to my bail.

One reservation I must make, however. For reasons which will too soon
become manifest, it is expedient to conceal the exact locality of the unhappy
experience now about to be disclosed; but I think I shall be on the safe side
in setting forth that it was somewhere between Echuca and Albury.

Any person who happens to have preserved the files of the ---- Express
may find, on the second page of the issue of Nov. 12th, the following
local intelligence:--

LUNATIC AT LARGE!

On the night of Friday last the inhabitants of ---- were thrown into a state
of excitement which may better be imagened than described by the appearance
of a lunatic in puris naturalibus whose mania was evidently homicidal.
During the earlier portion of the night the unfortunate man was seen
from time to time by quite a number of people in places many miles apart.
Some of the pleasure-seekers returning from the picnic held by the
Sunday School Teachers' Re-union (noticed elsewhere in our columns)
saw him scuttling along the three-chain road at a breakneck pace,
others saw him dodging behind trees or endeavouring to conceal himself
in scrub. At about 9 o'clock in the evening one of the picnic party,
an athlete of some repute, made a plucky and determined attempt to capture
the madman, and succeeded in overpowering him. This accomplished
secundem artem, an impulse of humanity prompted Mr. K---- (for as some
of our readers have already guessed, the gentleman referred to was Mr. K----,
of the firm of D---- and S----, Drapers,----) to divest himself of part
of his own clothing for the benefit of his prisoner. The latter,
when Mr. K---- attempted to force the clothing upon him, rent the air
with horrible shrieks heard by many others of the party, and by exertion
of the unnatural strength which insanity confers, broke from his captor
and escaped. Mr. K---- humorously comments on the difficulty of holding
a nude antagonist. If we were inclined to be facetious on the subject
we might suggest that mens sana in corpore sano is not an infallible rule.
Late in the evening the maniac horresco referrens made a furious attack
on the residence of Mr. G---- who was unfortunately absent at the time.
Mrs. G---- with the splendid courage which distinguishes the farmer's wife,
kept him at bay till some wild impulse drove him to seek "fresh fields
and pastures new." The black trackers (who were brought on the scene
on Saturday afternoon) have found his tracks in Mr. A----'s flower garden
close to the parlour window, and also around Mr. H----'s homestead.
The trackers aver that he is accorpanied by a large kaugaroo dog.
It is a matter of congratulation that he has so far failed in effecting
an entrance to any habitation. The police are scouring the neighbourhood
and though the thunderstorm of Saturday night has unfortunately placed
the trackers at fault, we trust soon to chronicle a clever capture,
"a consummation devoutly to be wished." Various surmises are afloat
regarding the identity of the lunatic but to our mind the suggestion
of Inspector Collins, of the N.S.W. Civil Service appears most tenable:
On Saturday afternoon when the excitement was at its height this gentleman
called at our office, and in course of conversation on the all-absorbing
topic pronounced his opinion that the lunatic is no other than
the late escapee from Beechworth Asylum! Anent his mysterious disapearance
at some time late on Friday night Mr. Collins supposes that he must have
drowned himself in the river, and advances many ingenious and apparently
conclusive arguments in support of both his hypotheses.

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