June, 196975 Centt

N"rLHM'onew novel

mirrors the good andbad in Maori -pakeharelationships andattitudesit ,t

AruWd1wfuo,

A story that buildsto a violentrevelation of thereal worth ofmoney, status,possessions andhard work

by the Author of'[Vlaori Girl '

$2.00Published by

WHITCOMBE & TOMBSand available at all good booksellers

LANDFALL A NEW ZEALAND QUARTERLYEdited by Robin Dudding and publishedby The Caxton Press

ContentsNotesA Retired Life, Maurice GeeThree Poems ,, Albert W endtAriadne, Vincent O'sulliaanFlower/Bird Song For Sam, Ian WeddeThe Sirens' Cave, Alistair CarnpbeltDamage, Owen LeemiogOf Helen, a-t_Three Months, in Hospital,

Alan RoddickTwo Poems, Owen LeemingResident of Nowhere, Allen CurnowThree Poems ,, Louis f ohnson

C.olrurrENTARIES:The Twenty-First Auckland Festival

Visual Arts, Mark Y oungMusic,, Gerald SearnonDrama, Con O'Leary

Rnvrrws:On Native Grounds, Teruy SturmShadow Show, f . E. P. ThontsonNew Zealand Art, Wystan CurnowThe Rainbirds, Patrick EaansFlying ro Palmersron, Roger Oppenlteim

Correspondence, E. H. McCormickPatrtiggs !y -Colin McCahgo, Robert Ellis,

R. H. Rudd and lohn KinderIllustrations, Anthony Stones

99101tt6119120t2tt23

131132148176

1341401++

179184186189198203

VOLUME TWENTY-TH REE NUMBER TWO JUNE r969

LANDFALL is published with the aid of a grantfrom the New Zealand Literary Fund.

LANDFALL is printed and published by Tt-t.Caxton Press at t t p Victoria Street, Christchurch.The annual subscription is $3.00 net post free, andshould be sent to the above address. All contribu-tions used will be paid for. Manuscripts should besent to the editor it the above address; they can-not be returned unless accompanied by , stampedand addressed envelope.

NotesPnnsucE awards for New Zealand writers are neither numer-ous nor well-endowed; no\M the Katherine Mansfield Mem-orial Award for short stories is to be shunted into the limboof amateurism by $. decision of the award's administeringcommittee to consider only unpublished work. Publicationis not in itself a proof of exceflbnce but to make the awardfor published woik does allow some initial winnowing out ofthe .pj.Teral, the unimporranr and the shoddy-#ork byNew Zealand's many 'sunday writers'.

The list of earlier award -recipients-Maurice

Duggan, C.S. Stead, Maurice Shadbolt (triice) and Frank Salr"geson-shows that the Katherine Mansfield Memorial Award forp.,rb$hed short stories -awarded biennially and sponsored bythe Bank of New Zealand in association with thb New Zei-land Women Writers' Society-had, unril now, real merir.In altering the. conditions the organizers have, in effecr,invited such writers as these not to enter while encouragingentries from lesser writers, if only because established *rlt.*are usually more. interested in colnmunication through publi-cation than in submitting-rypescripm ,o anony-oo, iai,fiJiir-tors. What was an awaid ior mefit promises now to b..o-.a, lolly-scramble and the New Zeiland Women Writers'Society, from its experience of the quality of work submittedfor its more restricted competitions, should have been awareof the_pf9!rQl. quality.of work artracted in this way.In 1967 the conditions of the award were aitered roinclude a section for -unpublished work by writers under 24years of ,g--. though the *rjor award for fubfished work wasretained. Few of the prtze-winners in t6. new section sawtheir stories published; few hnd earned this right. This yearthe award has been further diversif.4 (devalo".dl; ' nor o"tyis there a 'Young Writers' Award-senior' but th.r. is akla new 'Young ^Writers' Award-Junior' for second aryschool students. On the assumption that 'encouraging yorrrgwriters' means catching them young, primary sino"ol" com"-petitors should perhaps not be ilnorJd when the DT I condi-tions are framedl

The administering committee is either unsure of its reasonsfgr change or unwilling _to reveal them. Mr J. '\4/'. R.Kersh?w, of the Bank ofNew Zealand, for the adriinisteringcommiftee, wrote in response to an inquiry: 'Although thE

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look at, and to see, ourselves.100

and in New Zealand, however

which will onlyof our ability to

MAURICE GEE

A Retired Life

to say.'It's the children we're thinking of,' the woman said. ,What

if children saw them?' Her h-ands were trembling ,r irr.101

wiped the withered skin under her. eyes. Cliff could notbelieve her distress \Mas for anyone but herself . I've got L

couple of baptists, he thought. This was not an exact term-he tsed it f& people whole religion made them uncomfort-,b1.. The clother bf these rwo #ere Sunday puritan, especi-,tty the woman's. She wore black shoes with chunky heels,"i a black felt hat skewered to her hair with a steel-headedpin. Her dress had a crinkled elastic waist and the hem camedo*n ro the middle of her calves. Cliff's mind went backtwenty years: the 'new look'. The memory. made him sym-pathefic. They ygre like the last of the dinosaurs,. womeniit . this, and should be allowed to live oul their dryt in peace.

'If you could tell me what they're doing ..-.-:?'Th; man thrust his face forward again. 'Would you be

gooa enough to make that call? Or else. they'll get,3way..'?nir one .Ill.d up no sympathy. Cliff said politely, 'I cSrl'task them to come without knowit g. I've got to satistymyself.'''I've told you, an indecent act. Do you expect me todescribe it in-front of my wife?'

'They \Mere touchirg each other,'-t\. woman said.H.. husband caughi h.r arm with both hands. 'Be quiet,'

he said in a vicious tone.She started to cry and turned aYaY.'You see. You r*. what you've done. She's got bad nervest

mv wife.',1.h.r, why didn,t you take her home? Cliff Poulson almost

said. Instead of coming here? He watched the woman goJo*" the sreps. she lient slowly, bring_tlg !o,b feet on ro.r.n srep before qoving to the

- next. Her husband passedher and waited at the bottom.

We'll trouble you for the use -of ygy{ ptlh.' It was ^rebuke and a dismissal. He took his wife's elbow between

i*o n"gers and a thumb and turned her towards t\. gatg.For a momenr they reminded Cliff of his parents-both dead.f.opte who had known how to live, all the same. These twoi*.il.d of mothballs. He went inside and closed the door.

The empry two hours until lunch faced him again. .H.took a,rolo*e of the Popular Ency clopaedia from the shelfand sat dor,vn in his chair in the living-room. Prehistoricmonsrers, he thought. Should be back in their swamp, -noto"i i" the sun. TLere was a small turmoil in his stomach atthe encounrer, and he smiled at how well he had come out ofir. poor fools. It was only then that his mind went back to

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the woman's complaint. Touchirg each other. He saw atonce what this would mean for he-r. Not in broad daylight,he thought. Although, if the beach v/as empty. . . . [t lirp-pened at night, he knew. He'd found the evidence severaltimes, tlUq*n-up on his lawn. Collecting these objecrs on aspade, hq'd refused to admit the sensual Cxcitemenr'uncoilirrgunder his disgust. Their burning in the incinerator hadbecome a high-minded affat, and, less openly, 8r act ofexorcism.

He got up and went to the window. The turmoil in hisstomach widened-a pre-dentist feeling. There was no oneon the beach. God, h. thought, herC I ?ffi, sixty-seven, anold man troubled by dirty thoughts. Exactly where I \Mas atsixteen. Ffe knew that *hen h; wenr back ro his chair hewould put_the encyclopaedta away and take out Tbe Carpet-baggeri. For thai reison he stayed at the window andwatched some men surfing at the south end. There, hedecided,_was an explanation of the miracle of walking on the]ya-ter. Jesus had a surf-board. The thoughr shocked him alittle and failed to cheer him up._ It was simply a time-gainingg3ctic, a kind of foul blow, in-the suu,ggle he had ro pur up.But he stood there longer, trying to take an interesr. If I wasyounger I'd be a surfie, he told himself. It was a half-heartedthought- He looked back along the beach. A woman withthree black poodles on separate leads had come on ro thenorth end and was striding along in a mannish way at theedge of the 'water. A group oT seagulls wenr up as sheapproached then dropped neaily into fllace behind 6er. Thedogs -y?ppe.d, he could tell by lhelr-actions. I'm seeing asound, _he th.ought. In front of his house a mollyhawk iraspatiently takirrg up and dropping a pipi to break it on the hard.saqd hf the \Mater. Ffe tried to feel the shellfish's panic,locked in its shell. It wouldn't work. Scenes from Th;Carpetbuggers flickered in his mind. He saw, without interesr,a brown foot lyiry .as tho"g! cur from its body on the drysand at the foot of his lawn. One of its roes flickbd lazily. I{emoved a little so the rest of the body slid our from 6ehindthe tamarisk tree. There was a dislocation between sight andunderstanding. FIe had watched the man for several iecondsbefore it was clear to him that a woman's forearm was lyingdown the length of his body with its hand resting ovei th-egenitals.

He turned away at once. He went back to his chair andfound his place in the encyclopaedia, half-way through the

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article on the Jurassic age. He read a column with almost hisfult arrenrion,-then put-the book down and let his mind gocalmly back io whai he had seen on the beach. It was noth-irrg. Lif. was cleaner than fiction. He felt refreshed and hestSod up and wenr into the breakfast-room where the win-dows give him a complete view of the man and woman sun-bathin"g in front of itit house. They were touching 91chorher, Ih.r. was no doubt of that. But not exactll'tgYchingeach other'. They were wearing bathing quitp- a9d althoughthe woman's hand was cupPeton the-placid lump-in bisthighs it seemed it had ri*ply found this plagg to rest. {lybtI'r; simple-minded, CIiff thbught. He Could not see this as

sexual touching. The man's arm was crossed under hers andhis hand slope"d up to rest on !h. toP of her thigh. .Thosebaptists, Oif thought. But he knew he was calmer than he

"oirld have expecred. Children might misunderstand. Helooked along t6. beach. The woman with the poodles musthru. gone "by without seeing; sbe hr{ almost leached theplace ''*h.te " the men were surfing. No harm done. Heivatched as the man's hand moved, stroking Lazily. It seemedto have black hair on its back. And a ring. Weddiqg li"g?Adultery, he thought, but lgain without any sensual shock',"tt *itfr disappoi-rrt*ent. Ee tried to see the woman's lefthand. In a, moment it came up slowly frorn her side andsettled on the lutting edge of her rib-cage. - Feeling gulty'he wenr ro the sitting-room and brought back his binoculars.n. focussed them oi the woman's hand. She had a weddirrgii"f roo. He couldn't believe they were married to eachother.

f'or the nexr five minutes Ctiff Poulson watched the coupleon the beach. Ar first he used binoculars but he soon Putthem aside. He was no voyeur. (The term, when he remem-bered it, made him blgs\.i This was observadon. More andmore, ar last with a kind'of breathlessness, lrq found himself*ri"ttirrg the woman's hand. It lqX on its side now' like ananimal asleep. There was a kind of intimacy i.n this, a maffer-of-fr., tenderness, he had no experience of, he almost could,rot believe it was'happening. At times he wondered if somesubtle acr were taking placl, too small for him to see. Butrfo*ty the hand brou"ghr his life into focus: he was old andalone.

He had had these thoughts before, but never without self-pity. The truth about h[ condition stood sharp before him.Hd was relieved to see it at last.

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The woman's hand moved from her ribs. She had broken

^ flowerirrg branch from the tamarisk tree on Cliff Poulson's

lawn and the tickled the man's face with it. He grappledwith her. For a moment they wrestled on the beach, then thewoman escaped and ran for the water.

Cliff Poulson saw with disappointment that she had thinIegs. For two or three minutes he watched the couple splash-irrg in the waves, throwing water at each other. They wereboth thirty if a, d^y. He went back to his chair and readabout fossilized dinosaurs. It was dfficult to understand. Hekept thinking of the woman's hand, and each time it camebaCk to him the words about himself came with it-old, alone-bringing an im age of a stone face, broken, with blind eyeg.Greek] RomanP -It receded before he could hold it; it sanklike a, stone in water until its outline was lost. He kept onreading. 'Plesiosaurus was a marine reptile with an imrnenselylong neck adapted to hunting . . .'. But the hand kept comingback, and with it each time the knowledge about himself,the broken face.

At eleven o'clock he mixed a whisky and milk and lookedat the beach again. The couple had gone.

'What were those damned baptists moaning about?' he said.He sat down to read. The hext time he thought of the

hand he swore. His anger found something to fasten to: thattart had been on his lawn breaking trees. The skinny adult-erous bitch. Feeling better, h. drank some whisky. He readabout Tyrannosaurus Rex. Interesdng. He gotthe sort ofexcitement from this he had once got from sport. The encyclo-paedias had been a good bry, in spite of his son's opinion thatanything sold at the door was a, pup. He had read first thearticles on ancient historl, taking up a brief boyhood interest.(The salesman had caught him with Nero's Rome.) Now hewas back in Mesozoic times. His pleasure in knowirrg morethan his wife made him unbearable at times. He knew this.A bore. But there was also his pleasure in knowing things,his excitement in discovering new facts. At times he felt tiny,endangered, adventurous. Ffe wanted her to share.

When his wife came home at twelve o'clock he called herinto the living-room. 'Listen. "And so the era of these greatbeasts drew to its close. No more would the primeval forestecho to the mating call of Triceratops, the fearsome roar ofchargirrg Tyrannosaurus Rex, or the chilling shriek of thediving Pteranodon. The empire of the dinosaur was over. Agentler creature rose to take his place. Small, timid, delicate,

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unfitted for survival, one would have thought, in this worldof swamp and forest and sudden death, this furry creaturewas to found a dynasty before which even that of thedinosaur would pale into insignificance . . .".' FIe _glance{ypand saw she wai waiting impatiently for him to finish. Themystery went out of the picture, he could no longer hearthl roaring of the dinosrurs or the leathery hiss- of thepterodactyl's wings. Stubbornly he went on to the end ofthe paragraph.

'Interesting. I thought you were going to set the table.'She went to the kitchen. Dishes began to clatter. 'I've got tobe back at work by one.'

He sat for a moment fighting off one of the rages that lefthim cold and sick for hours afterwards. He had slammedthe encyclopaedia shut as his wife left the room. Now heopened it again and closgd it quietly. Uselessto try and sharewith peoplJ-surely life had taught hi* that. H._pyt the bookin the shelf and went to the breakfast-room. His wife hadplates and cutlery on the table. She came in with ham,tomatoes and lettuce, and a loaf of bread.

'Ffot bread for you. I got one of the girls to -bu;,r_ it.'_'Thanks.' He could srnell it, a delicious smell. Hot breadwas one of his treats, especially with ham and tomatoes.

FIe smiled at her. 'Can I help?''Too late now.' She went bick to the kitchen for another

load.Still in her shop mood, h. thought. teatirrg t i* like one

of the ]uniors. Well-he-hr4gomised to have the table set.He watched the beach. There was the usual lunchtime

crowd from the town, getting in a quick swim. Some goo-d-looking kids in bikinis. -His wife told him to sit down and hestarted-to tell her about the 'baptists' and the 'adulterers'. Hehadn't got the second half cleai and knew he wasn't plkinga good -story of it. He couldn't say. where the woman's handha.,d been. Aft.r forty years married to her. It upset him.He told her about the branch of the tamarisk tree.

'Some people,' she said, but without {gal indignltiory andhe watchbd her retreat from his 'woolliness' to the shop-Windle's Pharm acy. The name was embroidered in pink onher smock. Just where her left breast used to !9, he thoogttt.

'It's been a hectic morning. Susan Johnson didn't come in.She got her mother to ring -and lay. she -was sick.'

'Is-she the one who pinches-' Another word he couldn'tsay-had they really got this far apart? '-thingummybobs?'

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'Durexl She's given that up. Changed her boyfriend. I'llbet she's off with him now somewhere.'

Good luck to her then, thought Cliff Poulson. Good luckSusan Johnson. There's more to life than lipstick and indiges-tion powder. And pile ointment, for God's sake. Have funwhile you can.

It almost became a rhapsody, but his wife interrupted.'I'm going to tell Mr Windle to fire her. I knew that girl

was no good the dry she started.''And will he? Fire her? Because you say so?''That's what he hired me for. Someone mature to keep the

iunior staff in order. This bread's not as hot as you like it.'He made himself a thick sandwich and went back to the

window.'Are you going to stand there and eatl''I like to watch the people.'She said nothing for a moment. 'Are there many down

there?''Many what?' he said angrily. He knew she meant girls.'People, dear.''Quite a few.' He meant girls.'I think it would be more polite if you sat down with me.'

It was almost impossible for him to get under her skin and helooked at her with a feeling of gratitude. He sat down andsaid he was sorry. They ate in silence, then he made anothersandwich and said he was enioying the bread. 'Ffe's a goodbaker, George Rainey. -You know, those people this morn-irg, they really were pretty cheeky.'

'Which peopleP''The adulterous ones. They were lying there in the middle

of the beach and she had her hand on his-' He had meant tosay 'cock', but found he couldn't bring the word our.

'On his?' his wife grinned.'Penis.''But they had their bathing suits on?'tYes.''What are you getting upset about then?''I'm not upset. It's the baptists who were upset.''Baptists? Really Cliff, you are hard to follow.''The ones who came to the door. I told you.''Oh. Those.' She lost interest.'She had her hand on his cock.''There's no need to be crude.'

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'Working in a chemist's shop gives you a broad mind.That's what you said.'

They finished their lunch in silence. Then she escaped igqoher clatterirrg efficiency: clear table, wash up, put away. FIetimed her. Eight minutes. A record. 'Windle had got agood woman.

She came back for a, moment before leaving and searchedfor a, peace-making remark. 'Is Peter calling for you?'

'Half past one.''Well-it's a, hot dry. Don't overdo it.''I won't.'She went out. That, he thought, was my wife. My darling

pink-eyed blue-haired wife. He thought of her sadly. Thqqthad been L good marriage. No doubt about it. Successful.And still wis of course, of course. If only she could haveretired with him ('I'd go mad,' she had said), gone mad withhim.

At half past one when his son arrived to take him for agame of golf he said, 'Ffave a talk with youf mother someiime. See if you can get her to give up her iob.'

'Why? What's gone wrong?''Nothing's gone wrong. I think she needs a rest, that's all.''She'd go mad stuck in the house all dry.''I'm stuck in the house all dry.'Perer began to sulk and kept it up after his father's mood

had lightened. They drove to ths golf course. Cliff waspleased ,g be out of

-the house. The busy, main street of the

to\Mn excited him and he thought, by God, I made my markhere, a lot of these people would be broke if it wasn't for me.He had been a good accountant-an adviser more than a book-keeper. He doubted if Peter could ever be that, althougffgfcourse the business had grown. But that was the times. Helooked at his son and was sorry to see him still sulklng, Itwas good of the boy (at forty? ) to -ask him out to golf. Andstupld of him to let thq dry !. tpoilt-.

-'H.y, there's Harry Bell. Look at him go. After a sale.' Hegrinned. 'Tyrannosaurus Rex. Pity the poor customer.'

'What? What are you talking about?''seventeen tons of implacable bloodlust.''Have you been readlng those encyclopaelias |gain?''The Jurassic age, when the dinosaur was-king.''Whi don't you read the useful articles? Advertising.

Business method.''Cheer up, son.'

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'Nothirrg wrong with me.''No. Who are we playing with?''Friends of mine. No one you know.'Implacable, thought Cliff Poulson. If he doesn't come right

it's going to be a lousy afternoon. He set himself to improvehis son's mood. It's like trying to get him to eat his vege-tables, he thought. That had been the only dfficult thingabout Peter-an easy-going child who had wanted to be a,

pilot, then a, scientist. Cfitr couldn't remember how theseenthusiasms had passed. Ffe remembered the boy being_se_ntout to dig L root of potatoes and blowing them out of theground with home-made explosives. 'Mashed potatoes, Dad.lThe only thing to do had been laugh. How had he decidedto be an accountant? My God, it was ne, Cliff remembqrgd,I pressurgd him. But accountancy was a good life, nothingwrong with it.

'Remember the time you blew the potatoes out of theground?'

Peter didn't remember and this shocked Cliff. It was as ifhis son had admitted some part of him \Mas dead.

At the course they went to the locker-room to change.Cliff put on shorts, long white socks and black golfing shoeswith iasselled flaps. He looked down at himself approvingly.Part of the modern world, os much as Enid with her bluehair. The men they were playing with came in and Peterintroduced them. Lionel Broadhead. Alan Rope. Wheneveryone was changed they went out to the tee.

Ciitr enioyed the-round. He had been a careful golf-.f untilhis retirement and had got his handicap down to thirteen.These days he really went for his shots and had slip_ped bl"\to twenty-four. But he enioyed himself more. There hadbeen some pleasure in lobbing the ball down the middle andscoring steady pars or one-overs. Accur Lcy had pleased him.He could not understand at first the wildness that came intohis game. Concentration, he decided, rnust have depended_onthe inental exercise of his work. Now he did not worry. Ffisshots sprayed all over the course, he lost on the average_ threeballs a-round, but he also scored an occasional birdie. It wasmuch more fun. Peter meanwhile kept the Poulson traditionalive, poking his shots down a dead straight line.

The first hole was an easy par four. Cliff scored a birdie.'I think there's something fishy about your handiczp,'

Lionel Broadhead ioked. Cliff picked him for a" bad loser.He played well after that. For the first time in months he

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went round in less than a hundred. He and Peter won easily.Lionel Broadhead was a good loser. His plump face glowed

with friendliness as he brought the first round of drinks tothe table. Alan Rope was the one who seemed sour.

'I don't have muCh time to play golf,' he said shortly whenCliff asked him if he belonged to a club.

'Alan's a real office man,' cried Lionel Broadhead. 'I hadto talk hard to get him out here today.'

'I had work to do.''Work. You can work any dry. Nothing like a round of

golf to get the old juices flowing.'- Alan Rope looked pained at the word 'juices'. FIe sippedhis glass of beer and said nothing. The others talked aboutthe game. Peter was in a good humour now and Cliff felthappier than he had for a long time. When the conversationchanged he told them about the couple on the beach. As hewenC on he realized that again he \Mas not telling the storywell. It was too simple to make much out of. He coarsenedthe thing to make it funnier. A sense of shame overtook himand he tried not to look at his sorl. At the end, while LionelBroadhead laughed loudly, he thought of the brown curledhand and the statue with the broken face but the images hadno meaning.

'And you had a grandstand view?' laughed Lionel Broad-head.tYes.'

'You retired blokes have all the fun. What do you sayAlan, shall we retire?'

'Not while there's money left to make.''See? See what I mean? FIe carries the office with him.

Get that monkey off your back, boy. Be like old Cliff here,having fun.'

They were like a pair of cheap comedians, Cliff thought.He began to dislike them.

Petei smiled. 'Lionel and Alan are the directors of Amal-gamated Properties.' He waited for his father to understandbut the name meant nothing to Cliff. He saw the two menlooking at him expectantly. Alan Rope was managing tosmile. -Cliff tried to guess what it was they wanted him tosay; something complimentary?-'They're the onei who are putting up those flats,' Petersaid.

Cliff Poulson understood. The afternoon was a set-up. Hewondered if they had let him win.

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'I thought you asked me out to play golf,' he said to Peter.'I did. But still, Lionel and Alan wanted to meet you. . . .

They've got a proposition to make.''If they want to boy my land the answer's llo.' Ffe felt

sick at the deception; and sorry for his son who was beingused. His anger at the two men across the table was sointense he could not bring himself to look at them.

'Listen Cliff,' Lionel Broadhead said, 'we've got a greatlittle scheme on the boards. All we need is your place, thenwe'll have the two hundred feet of frontage we need. Nowwe've talked it over and we can see our way to offeringtwenty-four thousand dollars.'

'I'm not interested.''Perhaps you'd rather discuss it at the office,' Alan Rope

said. He turned to Lionel Broadhead, smiling. 'Lionel, I toldyou it wasn't a good thing to mix business and pleasure.'

'Nonsense Alan. If a couple of friends can't work out adeal over a pint of beer then things have come to a. prettylow ebb.'

Comedians, thought Cliff Poulson. Except that they weredangerous. His son was glaring at him. There must be some-thing in it for him, he must have been bought.

'Peter's told us what you paid for that place,' Lionel Broad-head went on.

'Has he?''And what we're offering represents a gain for you of

almost one hundred per cent.'Cliff made no answer. He looked at his son with pity.'Just look at it this \May.' Lionel Broadhead held up his

hand and started to count off points on his fingers. 'Firstly-''Lionel, Lionel, we'II leave it at that,' Alan Rope broke in.

He looked at Peter coolly. 'Perhaps you'Il arrange a moresuitable time and place.' The words carried an insult andCliff saw his son go red. Poor fool, he was out of his class.As much for Peter as for himself he said, 'There'Il be noother time and place. My property's not for sale.' Stick withme boy, he tried to signal Peter.

Alan Rope smiled tightly. 'We might see our way to rais-irrg the offer.'

And Peter said, 'You can't hold back progress, Dad. Thatbeach is ready for a scheme like this.'

Ctiff said nothing. He felt lonely, and felt Peter's loneliness.He wished there were some way he could help his son up tothe level of Broadhead and Rope, if that was what he wanted.

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But selling the house wasn't it. He knew now that he lovedthat place, he wanted to end his days there, and he blamedPeter for not understanding this.

'I don't \Mant to talk about it.' He tapped his watch toshow Peter it was time to leave. There was a. long silencewhile the others drank more beer. Then Lionel Broadheadsaid heartily, 'Tell me Cliff, what does a retired gent do withhis time?' He had not the skill to hide the dislike in his eyes.

'I read encyclopaedias.''Dad bought a set at the door. A real con iob,' Peter tried

to foke.'The best b,ry I ever made,' Oiff said shortly.Alan Rope aiked him what sort of thing !e read. He was

smoorh-a dangerous man, Cliff thought. It was typical ofPeter to think Broadhead was iust as important.

'All sorts.''Nero ald hit_p_?ls. Suchlike,' Peter said.'Interesting. What are you going on to next?'Cliff grew more angry: -they were humouring him.

'Astronomy.''Ah, the stars.''I'd like to get to the stars,' said Lionel Broadhead. 'Think

of the opportunities. All that real estate.'Cliff cduld not control his anger. 'There's life out there.''Eh?''There's life out there. Intelligent life. They'll keep your

sort out.' FIe stood up and went to sit in Peter's car.Perer came five minutes later-like a third-former from the

headmaster's office. They were half-way home before Clifftrusted himself to speak.

'Nexr time you take me out to golf make sure it's only forgolf.'

'There won't be any next time,' said Peter.He threw Cliff's ciubs into the garage and drove awly.

Clitr wenr inside. It was after six o'clock. His wife waseating her dinner in front of the television set. She servedhis iri the breakfast-rooffi, then went back to watch. Cliff ateslowly. Poor Peter-he was such-a boy, living in a, romanticworld of bie deals. The office boy trying to go with thebosses. Cliff-knew there was no way he could help. Twenty-five years ago he could have helped blt not llow.

H; went"into the living-room to talk to his wife.'Did you know Peter was mixed up with the crowd that's

trying to boy this house?'LL2

He saw she did-and guessed the meeting today had beenher idea.

'You know I'm not selling?''Why not? You I..p. saying i!'r to9 hig.' She was im-

patient and kept looking back at the television set. 'Neitherof us uses the beach.'

'I do . . I like to watch the people.''Yes. I'd forgotten.'He ignored this-a feminine reflex. 'Those blokes are out

of Peter's class. They'll take every penny he's got.'tNonsense.''I know the type. They're con men.''Nonsense. They're respectable businessmen. Lionel

Broadhead comes into the shop.''I see. It was your idea.''Cliff, do let me watch. This is funny.'He turned and went out of the house. A light rain had

started to fall but he walked to the end of the- path beforeturning back for his raincoat and hat. Then he went down tothe water. The tide was three-quarters ir; each new \Mavepushed its rim of froth further up the partly dry sand. Thewater looked warm. Ffe began to feel calmer watchirg itseasy advance and retreat and he decided to take his shoei offand paddle. Ffe sat down on the sand near the spot where hehad seen the couple in the morning. The limp branch of thetamarisk ffee was lying just off the edge of the lawn. Hepicked it up. At on-ce [*'was overcome 6y a longing to havea" woman with him. The feeling surprised him by not beingsensual. The image of the statue floated up in hia mind. Hastood up impatiently. Ffe did not like this, it was roodramatic, he did not like the self-pity that came with it. FIeput his shoes and socks on the lawn. The statue was going tohaunt him; he wondered how to get rid of it.

At the edge of the water he rolled up his uouser legs. Hesupposed he must look odd barefooted, in his plasdc coat andfishing hat. No matter. No one in sight. They were allcrouched over their television sets, like his wife. FIe 'won-dered if she had real]y _he_lped Peter ser Broadhead and Ropeon to him. It seemed likely. She wanted to sell the place andmove into something newer. And she liked the idea of allthat money in the bank. FIe couldn't blame her. They hadneither of them got over the depression-bread pudding days,she called them. And she had had some bad knocks -in herlife. A stillborn daughter, an operation that took off one of

113

her breasts. (H. shuddered.) And now a bad;t-emperedhusband and a son who seemed stuck in a sour adolescence.He began to feel tender towards his wife. Good oq h.er, hethouglit; she was getting by, with h._t igb and blue hair andher Ielevision set, and her-grim pride in looking after himwell.

He started ro walk towards the south end of the beach.Several times the waves touched the roll of his trousers butthis made him feel reckless and boyish. He wondered why,in spite of everything, he could not. regret retiring. Thingshadbe.n easier ihen. -Forty years of iuggling pieces of paper,manipulating, balancirg. irlecessaly 1Y9rk, lnd h.e had beengood ar ir. E[e had saved some of his clients from bankruptcy1and helped others through it like a kind of operation andback to financial health again. But it was only now he couldsee this as exciting. If h; were back in that sort of life thedullness beneath the fiction would be exposed. Now, at least,things happened in colour-even the past hlpp_.ned in colour.

T-hrough the thin mist of rain he saw the- last sunlighl. gfthe dry -reflected off the windows of houses on the cliffsacross ihe harbour: orange lights as bright as flares set inthe dark-blue bush. As he watched they began to go out.Everything seemed to turn several shades darker. He satdown on ; rock at the southern headland and looked tt thesky. The stars would soon be coming_out. -I1. laughed whenhe remembered what he had said to- Lionel Broadhead-thenlooked around quickty to see if aqyone had heard. He smiled.Where had he got that idea, life out there? But he hopedit was rrue, and ihat people like Broadhead would b.. -k.pt out

His legs were sorb from the round of gglf and he restedfor severll minures. Then he began to walk towards home.Cars came roaring down a road- to the edge- of qhe beach,Iike dinosaurs helhought, and U-turned with a blaring ofhorns. A dozen young people in bathing suits got out andran down the beabh towirds him. For a moment he thoughtthey were after him. But they b_rgke a1rd ran by on eitherside. He watched as they plunged into the water and startedswimrnirrg. Some of the girb shrieked at the coldness.

Cliff P6ulson watched.- They had gone round him as if hewere some natural oblect-something inanimate. An old man.Cliff smiled. He welcomed the statue this time. He saw itssrone face dripping with rain. He wondered if he had seenit in the encyclopaedia, but lhogght- that probably it camefrom further

- back, from his boyhood.

114

He kept on \Malking. The noise of the young people in thesea became fainter. The rain was so light iC was -almost

a"

vapour. Low down in the sky several tiny white stars hadappeared. If he watched, he thought, he would see themgrow large and coloured. He stood still and watched. Asmall very old man went past him towards the north end ofthe beach. His crooked arms and straining face showed hewas trying to run, but he went at no more than a. slowwalking pace. He was wearing slippers and yellow pyjamas.Cliff started after him.

'Mr Webb,'he called. The old man was running away. Ithappened every two or three weeks and the people living atthe beach had learned to walk beside him uniil his daughlerscame to take him home. Cliff looked back. A hundred yardsaway the two Miss Webbs were coming at a middle-agedrult. They would catch the old man before he reached theend of the beach. Cliff wondered what he thought was roundthe headland. The women should let him get that far. 'MrWebb,' he said.

The old man kept up his wooden progress, looking straightahead. Ffe came to a place where a, trickle from a storm-water drain had cut a shallow channel in the beach. ft wasonly a couple of feet wide but Mr Webb \Ment back and forthat its edge like a bird at the bars of a cage. He looked backand started to moan with fright.

I could hide him, Cliff thought. Or tell the women to lethim go. He touched the old man's arm.

'Mr Webb, wait here. Your daughters are coming.'The old man ran through the water. One of his slippers

came off. Cliff saw that he had prepared himself foi thisescape by tucking his pyiama legs into his socks. He pickedup the slipper. It smelled strongly of urine. He held-it outas the daughters came up and the older, taller woman tookit on the run like a relay baton. She gave a hoarse cry ofthanks. Poor bitches, he thought, watchirg them catch MrWebb. Thqy brought him back past Cliff; sturdy figures,gupporting the old man so that his feet only touched the sandlightly. The tender sounds they made died away.

'Naughty. Naughty old dear.''We'll get you into a nice warm bed.''Naughty boy. Runnirrg away from the ones who love

him.'The old man must be wet, Cliff thought. He'd catch pneu-

monia. In a couple of days he would probably be dead.115

He wenr on towards home. At the edge of the sand hesaw the branch of the tamarisk tree. He picked it up and putit on the lawn, then took his shoes and socks into the wash-house. He hung up his coat and hat.

When he opened the door he heard his wife laughing. Shewas watchit g the 'Dick Van Dyke Show'. He put on hisslippers in the bedroom and came back to tell her about MrWebb.

She laughed agein with the television set. 'Rob wanted toboy his wi fe a fur coat and Buddy said he could ge_t it whole-sale. Now they've got a coat that's ten sizes too big.

Cliff Poulson thought he was going to cry. It surprisedhim because he was not unhappy. He sat down and staredar the television set until he knew it was safe for him to talk.No quaver, he managed it well.

'I'11 get you a. cup of tea later on.''Thanks,' said his wife, staring and laughing.Cliff got the volume 'A-Bi' from the shelf. He took it into

the breikfast-room and started to read about the stars.

ALBER" WENDT

Lava Field and Road, Savaii

TnB NAKED road dips and dances,slips, stumbles and crawlson bleeding knees acrossimpartial lavaunder a sky suippedof the voice of birdsand feathered wingsbeating to cool the sult.

116

Land{oll

CIFT SUBSCRIPTIONLINoTALL is published tour times a year-inMarch, June, September and December, and nrb-scription,s are calculated on a calendor yeor basis.Yo'u may take out a gitt zubscription for a yearor tor part o,t a yea:r.Please tick the month you wish your gitt sub-scrip'tio'n to begin and enclose the approp,riatesubscr iption tee .

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ADDRESS

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THE CAXTON PRESS

P.o. Box z5-o88 cHRrsrcHURCH

NEW ZEALAND

No trees where shadowsmay nest, no artful godsdare live here but lizardsrustling through healed scarsin the face of the black land hardas the noon sun's blade-the maskof Hiroshima twisting from mountainridge to sea.

This lava for a thousandyears will not crumbleto wind-blown dust.

This was the world'sbeginning-the fire godslacerating their bodieswith shell knives-the bloodbreaking from mountain's woundscongealed black and cold, then the silenceof the closed sepulchre doorthat opened to the miracleof resurrection when lava decayedand green fingers broke to the sun.

This too is the world'send: the f atal silenceafter the flashwhen blood coagulatesto black stone and man

is an imprint on the roadthat slips, stumbles and crawlsfrom stone to stoneto stone into the huskof the wind.

rt7

Panthers

IN THESE small islandsmost houses are built lowto the ground and soare tombs poisedin the shade like panthers.

Only the rich can affordhigh houses safe fromfloods and termites,and tombs of steel and concretewith glass doors.

The poor, like panthersin the shadowsof the tombs,crouch.

For Sina

Mv DAUcHTER has beenplaying all morning

in the streetof flamboyant trees,

now she is asleepblood hot

with sun like hibiscus, skinsmooth palT-milk exudes

sererutyof sleep.

She will wakein whispers-the evening

coolin the mirror aboveher bed, cool in petalsof orchids in the vase-and

breathe the scentof the falling sky.

118

VINCENT O'SULLIVAN

Ariadne

Yns, r sAY to him, over and over,yes until the word yes grows, is morethan speaking, thinkitrg, becomes blackin his mind, turns f at, crawls hungryto wherever yes has littered corners,hunts a white wall undefiled.Yes I say and each yes a stepto the knife honed, I think, the throar . . .And Theseus, arms folded,in the voice he turns to food or weather,takes one yes, and another, threads them,smoothes them, his fingers white as againstobscene, dark berries.

Says 'These are yours?'

It seems I am yes to labyrinth,I am yes to him mazed, unm azed,at the last movement, between the horns,in the too refining world of the bull'shot eIe, I am yes, yes above himin the sun's disc, in the earth, beneath him.The sea at our door, its loose edgingacross the rock, is my yes around him,.th. spilling of stars fro.m a June skyis my army yessed against him, spying . . .

Theseus, there is nothing the spidersyou spin from the cave of my wordshave not latched their filth otr, no cup,no bread hot from the oven,your berries have nor anticipated,tainted. No prayer, no word between us,not ash to its centre, not corrupt.I would not, your second labyrinth,involve youl rLot, as minotaur,cook for you, clothe, unsex you.

r19

While yo3 think I sleep I shall bideyour casting off.

- Yqt, to-your libgrty,

yes, even, t-o blade, blood splashedibout. Worst, wait that sly islandyou scheme to give ffie, spiders, rocks,what else?

To your final dream, Yes, Yes.

IAT] WEDDE

Flower/Bird Song for Sam

ScerorNc his gutswith booze

what ro do?What to do? Man,one dry arum lilieswill spiout from your belly.Red poppiesgro\M out of your-eyes. Youwitt be fed upon friendyou will have no s?y.illowers & birds will suck the liquorfrom your bones.But nowthe world comes to youlike creatures to Saint Francisto be consecratedin you.r gentle,passionatestutterirg words.Oh don'[ $op the carnival.

120

ALISTAIR CAMPBELL

The Sirens' Cave

HB HAS never been the same,py father, since he blunderedinto a sirens' cave, as they

were soaping each other'scrotches joyfully, their voiceslinked in harmony.

Insidiously they shrilledat hi*, but his innocencesimply bladed off their spell.

Then unabashed the sirenslet down their hair, stretched outlike seals and barked at him,

which caused him to run off,unmanned by laughter thatmocked him as it blessed. . . .

He has been running since,my father, hoping to repeatthat blunder and find again

the sirens' cave, not oncesuspecting why for him alonethe rock pools open out

their pockets, or whyeach night he falls asleepin the palm of the wind.

t2t

'l!,It

a

4,1 ,

122

OWEN LEEMING

Damage

l\ r u:fi:lr'ffff ffi #ilh'"1"1"#'ffi,x':lI \ I against the ilr, charge obliqu.ly at the trainI \l window. They stop at the very last minute, then-r \ slant away quickly. It's a bluff, though one isn't

entirely sure the glass won't fly in and that rubble, white dustand unhinged shutters won't grind and crush one under theirtumblirrg ospedaletti, A wall stops in mid-assault. It slipsfrom the seeing eyes into the minii's eyes.

The wall is grey and sooty. There are words painted on itin black. The words are tlni,td, LAvoro, Patria. tlnderneaththem, in small letters, is painte d Il Duce. There are more thanwords on the wall. Projectiles have seemingly slammed intothe stone of which it is made. When the dust, or smoke itmight be, drifted awzy, the wall was altered. Its stone isbrought back nearer to its unquarried state. In places, thesmoothness brought about by the stone-saw of the mason isravaged in a semblance of the randomness of nature. Thecrystalline interior of the stone is evident in the progressivelayeritrg, in the sharp straight cleavage between neighbouringsegments. The ravaging is negative, convex, crater-like, withrespect to the smoothness. At the centre of many of thecraters, ? circle of finely-gjo.und. powder marks the d-eep-gstpenetration of the proiectile bodies. These proiectile bodieswere undoubtedly of metal, possibly heated, -probably sharp-edged, and travelling at very high velocities. A small know-ledge of modern history places the impact of proiectile onwall within a six-year period of armed conflict stretching

t23

from nineteen thirty-nine to nineteen forty-five. A surmisethat the visible results of impact might date to a previousfive-year period of armed conflict is ruled out by the factthat at least fifteen impact craters occur insi,de the wordUniti. Whereas the painted letters are black, the inner sur-face of the craters is Clearly light grey. The letter 'i', to takeone example, is divided into three segments, as well as havingan irregular edge, because of the craters. The words wouldhave been painted between the years nineteen twenty-five- aldnineteen forty-three, this being roughly the duration of thepolitical ascendancy of Signoi Benito Mussolini, styled 'IlDuce' by or for the Italian nation. Therefore, the proiectilesmust have struck the wall during the six-year period of con-flict between nineteen thirty-nine and nineteen forty-five,after the letters were painted. That is, unless the signwriterscrupulously pailted around !h. ..dggt of already existingcraters in the wall. Two occasions during the six-year periodoffer themselves as possibilities, one near the beginnirrg of theperiod, the other nearer the end. Near the beginnirrg of thgperiod, the Italian nation declared itself to be in a state ofwar with the neighbouring French nation. Nearer the end,the Italian nation-declared-itself to be in a state of war withits former ally, the German nation. Additionally, &t this time,the British and American nations were waging war againstthe German nation on Italian soil. Lacking sufficient know-ledge of events, the observer chooses between the two possi-bilities on other grounds. Because the craters, or pocks, orpits, vary greatly in diameter-some seeming as wide as ahuman head, others no wider than a, human eye-it seemsunlikely that they were caused by proiectiles of the samesize. Of course, proiectiles of the same size, such as bullets,ciln cause pocks, pits or craters of varying diameters, provi4-irg that ttrey differ in velocity or angle of !mpact._ It merelyseems more probable that the proiectiles all struck the wallsimultaneously, or at least on a single occasion. In this case,the proiectiles would almost certainly have been metallicfragments scattered by the explosion of a larger projectifeneirby. While the fragments would have been irregular insize and shape, this larger projectile would have been smoothand basically regular in shape, before explodirg. This followsfrom the laws of aerodynamics, the larger primary proiectilebeing designed to follow a. flight path or trajectory, depend-ing on whether it were dropped or propelled. In the relativescale of such proiectiles, this would have been a small one

r24

for dropping, a standard one for propelling. Near the begin-ning of the six-year period, proiectiles of about twenty-fivepounds in weight were commonly dropped from aeroplanes.During the whole of the period, proiectiles of this weightwere prope.lled. Propulsion. of proiectiles occurs in militaryaction on the ground, which was more likely to have takenplace in the area. in the early part of the six-year period.Therefore, whether dropped or propelled, the projectileprobably exploded near the grey wall then rather than nearthe end of the six-year period. This would have been somefifteen years before the date of observation, at a time whenthe observer was approximately ten years old. He finds itdifficult to imagine ihe phenomenon of explosion. An ex-plosion is the instantaneous transformation of a solid or, morerarely, a liquid into-.gas, the solid in this case vgry likely beingtri-nitro-toluene. The words 'bang' or 'crump' used by manyauthors and cartoon-artists to characterize an explosion?ppear inadequate. The poet Wilfred Owen speaks of 'buf-feting'. The observer has only once experienced explosions atclose quarters. This was in the English county of Cheshire. . . u,nder the English county of Cheshire. [Jnder the countyof Cheshire, salt is mined in rock galleries. The rock is brown.The galleries are spacious, the roof being supported at inter-vals by rectangular rnasses of rock which have been left intactduring lhe mining process. Towards the working faces, thefloor is littered with rubble which machines gathei up. Threeor four faces are worked at a time, separated one Irom theother _by , iutting wall. The rock is iemoved by blasting,holes having been?rilled into it and small lengths of gelignireor dynamite introduced, which are then detonated bleCtric-ally. Just before blasting, a hooter sounds. The miners leavethe bry containing the rockface which is to be blasted andgather in an adjacent bry protected by the iutting rock wall.The hooter sounds again and there is silence. This silenceseems to last a considerable time since there is a sensation ofwaiting ald apprehension which is not immediately cancelled.The machines and the men are silent. The exploiion occurs.It is not perceived primarily as noise. It is perceived rather8s, literally, a shock. The shock is the perception of an ex-tremely -powerful air-wave. The explosion throws irregularpieces of rock out of the bry and follows these with a clloudof fine dust. The most curious effect of the explosion is aprolonged pulsing of the ab, seen in the way the dust ad-vances, and felt as a loud pulsing sibilance inside the ears, with

125

t26

metal fragments, such as those which produced the craters onthe grey wall. He has very great difficulty conceiving men-tally an air-wave of sufficient force to produce the aicribede{ec_ts, for instance, the ship's bridge lined with fragmentsof skin mentioned in the novel The Cruel Sea. Clothingwould no doubt be torn along its seams or its least resistantareas and removed in the direction of the air-wave. The bodywould presumably dislocate at the main ioints and, as it were,be punched away from between the limbs. The punch seemsan.appropriate analogy, If the body were punched against aresistant surface, g{ if its own weight provided adequate re-sistance for a suifrcient length of tiilre, a tenth of a sdcond orso qerhaps, the punch would cause the body to fragmenr,qossibly_ even to vaportze. Does bone tissue iesist an explo-iionP No more, it would seem, than skin tissue and muscirlartissue. No author mentions the reduction of men to theirskeletal structure by explosion. The air-wave may thereforehave the property of disintegrating all tissues into iheir cellu-lT components. Most frequentln reference is made to ex-plosion removing p1rt only- of a human body. This possiblyresults from a srnaller explosive charge, a hand-grenade orlaq{mjre, or thg pqtial piotection of the body bt a wall ora ditch or a table. Frorr early in his childhood, the observerhas seen many men who have iost one, two, even three of theirfour limbs in warfare. Nlowing for the removal of a limb orlimbs by surgerl, some of these men at least would have lostarms or leg! in an e_xplosion. These men frequently madeobjects of wickerwork or inlaid wood if they had lost-legs, orpainted pictures with their feet if they had lost arms. - Theplace at which they worked was called

-The Disabled Service-

men's Centre. Historically, the destruction or disablirg ofservicemen by explosives predates the conflict periods of thenineteen hundreds. The - eighteen hundreds ind even theseventeen hundreds and earlier abound with evidence of theuse of explosives to this end. However, it is the more immedi-ate and verifia!!. present which is preoccupying the observergf tb. gTey w_all. He is considering in particulai the extent ofFis family links with explosive projeciiles. His own age haskept him from direct experience himself. At the end of thenineteen thirty-nine-nineteen forty-five period, the Nliedarmies were not recruiting fifteen year-old youths, nor at a,

later date was the army of his country.,qonscriptirrg youngmen as old as he \Mas for compulsory military tiaining, as irwas called. His next brother and his nexr brother but one

127

were however compelled to train militalily. Th..y weretrained precisely in the method of propelling e.xplosive plo-jectiles iro* fi,Jta-guns in such a manner thit the ptgiectilesiell and exploded i-s closely as possible to ?n a:siSnS4 target.It being p.r..time, the taiget. was not an inhabitei. buildingor live''hr*rn bodies but a hittside or a derelict ship's hulk-The field-gun \Mas normally situated at a distance of several-ii.r fronithe assigned trrf.t and quite often out of sight of;h; target. In thii case, tlie princiiles of triggnom¤try. ,Tdlogaritli-r were used ro calculate the required, angle of thefiid-gun's barrel. The pro_bable effect of wind on Ih. Pro:iectilis path was also caiculated. The two brothers involvedin the fiiing of field-guns did not seriously consider that their

".* skills 'f;rould be ised in time of war-nor were they. Twoother relatives did have direct experience of the effect of ex-plosive proiectiles in time of wai One 'was an elder brotherbf the obr6r.rer's morher. His task was to deliver messagesfrom one unit to another on a motor-cycle in the course of thenineteen fourteen-nineteen eighteen conflict period. fn the*onth of November nineteei eighteen, a number of 4rytb.fore that conflict was declared ended, 2r explosive projecliii.

-struck either his body, or his motor-cycle -or the ground

"tor. ,o his moror-cycle. ' His organitry failed to resist the

.ff..rs of the explosion ro the exient that it \Mas destroyedrather than disabled. The other relative was the eldest sonoi ifr. observer's mother's eldest sister, that is, a first cousinto the observer. During the nineteen fftly-lit.-nineteeniorty ,q". conflict perio-d, the first cousin had thg d^"lf of;;;',"anding a light armoured vehicle in the North Africandesert. He'-*rr Instrocted to go with his vehicle and crewand two other similar vehiclei and their crews in order todiscover whether a" certain low hilltop would pro_vide a" suit-,Ut. point for observi+g the gpqo.:i"b troops.. Unknown toitr. nisr cousin, a buildi"'g on tlie^hilltop was-already occupiedby opposing troops- of thE German nation yh, posses:.d guls.ipr[i. of" prgpelling explosiy. . p.foiectiles. As thg light,riroored,r.hi.l6r rpp-roaclied the hilltop, e-xplosive proi ectileswere fired in such a way that they struck their targets 4it-ectly, namely the light aimoured vehicles. The first cousin'sbod/ and thor. of- the crews were destroy.d... The fust.oorirr'r brother was later called upon to idcntify the des-uoyed body, but the observer of the. grey wtll never heardhi"i describt' the effects of the explosion on t he body of hisLrother. The observer therefore ii only able t.o speculate on

128

LI

4.f.these effects, lot having_ dir.ect experience or eye-wirnessexperience of them to guide hg imaginarion. Facin[ the greyyrll, he sums up the Tacrs. Two or his relativ.r"hrr."hrhtheir bodies. destrgyed by explosive projectiles aimed at ;distance. His brothers in their-turn haie 6.en taught how to

129

) -j;.i,^iI

\

aim these proiectiles at a distance. He himself has seen humanUoai.r aiJnnt.a by these proiectiles, wlth their missing limbsreplaced by hooks, rods,- joiqted artificial ljmbs, or not re-plicea, in'which case crutches were employ..d or sleeves;erv; iLot at the shoulder or elbow. Fragments-of an explgsiveproiectile have altered the aspect of a grey wall which is iniio"t of his eyes. The surface contains craters of different;il. ffr. *oidr tlnitl, Loaoro, Patria, Il Duce;.a{e p3$1ed; the wall in black. it. 'i' oi the word Unitl is dividedi"io ihree by irregular craters. The use of explosive ploigg-,ii.r to- d.rrroy or damage buildings or to des[roy or disablehuman organiims has the characteiistic of placing a distancebetwe.r, tfi. agenr and the target. Th.-explosiyq proiectile has

, io"g.i hirtoiy than methods of warfare which-are designedi, a.itroy human organitryq by corrosion, poisoni,"g,ot blrn-i.g, but it has a. sh6rter history than those methods whichd.i.rd on the piercing or- cutting of the human organism.tti" errolotion #ould tfierefore seem to be towards increasedremoteness and higher destructive gaptcity. tlgry.ver, theseconsiderations are 6nly implicit in the obseived defacement of;d t;ey wall. The obr.ruer is aware of his comparative lackof direct experience.

130

from

trees,

ALAI{ RODDICK

Of Heler\ at Three Monrhs,in Hospital

ITHB rrowEn's fallen. In its steadsleeps this pale fruit, her head.

Down the delicate vine, the sapflows, feeds her, drop on drop.

Each dry she is older-butI cannot now believe that.

Since she came here, weare older-not she.

When she's home again, thenshe'll start to grow igain.

iiDreamirg, I touch

her cheek, and her mouthsketches a cry

soundlessly

Today I didso: and her parted

lips froze in atiny silent

catlike snarl, insuch concentration

on pain, now Ican't turn away

as in L dreamr31

iiiMidnight. She beginsher next dry. I hold my breath for her:and hear in the silenceher breathirg break upon our darkness,rapidly, uneyenly

.rising, to rack the ribs of this houseand frtt and empty the trees, and fiIlthis sleepless ciry that we are, with her.

ivThe respirations of the darkness alter,quick¤r, and slow.Surely, now?

Colour rises to the surface of thitrgs,so, like a, blush.Surely, now.

Sunlight glances up from every leaflike children at play:surely , today ?

OWEN LEEMING

All Saints' Day

'You READ of the various motions of the spirit; of .warAnd its bitter aftermath; you turn over in-your mindtfrt vain preoccupationi which a. pogr PeT effusedAt a tender age; you read of tears ind of the wound1"t. boy witli th. quiver made with his sharp dart in me as a

boy.132

Gradually, all things are consumed by further age. And wedie

Throrrgh living, and we are taken away by remairrirrg here.Yet

The me that -s!ay_s will nor seem the me that has gone:The forehead is different, and the habits, the mind has a new

shape,And the voice sounds strangely.'

under a rockfa.ce, houow rriir'f;rl:t#f,rti #:.llXi,l5::0','After heavy rain.It rains now, is qol{. This aurumn shocks, this cold,The leaves which fall-never st_opping-yet seem ro sray,The darkness at five. Half a globb 'From that one explosion of steami_ng rain, the year-long fluxOf warm to hot to warm, shadowle-ss.Stick-thin, t-h,e black midwife stands at a srele,f$".}'<itg of her blood-mother, of Yallah who is so grear,of all the grey-pi"l-. brats she has pulled to life.lgqbrbs put on leaf, briefly act as led rrees.Flalf a globe againFrom lorg twilight, mild, the 'zock' of touching bowls,A mother drying plates, humming Romberg.It will not rain foi a week, says the sky,Black swans driving over,-noiseless V: 'While Earth skids out, taking its fast corner into Aries.Do the bodies care? Why- then all these chrysanthemums,Twitching i! the rain, and heavy women in biack coatsMilling on the gravell9jly of tombs: no one visits its poor slums,Wire and wood and weeds.All Saints, All Souls-if only the earth were flat again . o .

'Already, observatrion of lifeLlrt given much-to mourn nothing, to 6ear with everything.Slowly, experience has been drying the tears of .*p.ii.rr"ii

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RevolutionsVBRATIoNS keep coming up, fissuring the bells;

-No wonder the paint fla-kes-on tinkers' cartwheels.With history sinking snarling under the hills,

-It takes some tamping to make the sun stay down.

We hardly pick out axle-noise for ancient coughs,Oceans shirfi.g, slopping in the bidets, the g!!-s. -Sprouting like black celery-sun, get gone! WhtftsOf broniirrg dead slink between our houses no one.Will pay to mend. Round the corner squeaE! the floralCart, Jiggling pennies out our pqckgt-holes: XerxesNever aid fill his great canal. Neither will tonight renounceIts rurn nor hold those browned heads underneath the dawn.

The Twenty-First Auckland Festival

MARK YOUNG

Visual Arts

some

cricketer, and Marcello Mastroianni.134

The bus goes otr, up to and along Karangahape Road, pastthe buildings torn down for the motorway's progress. Evoca-tion of Robert Ellis. 'Moto rway lCity Paintings' his currentexhibition. 'We should b.ry one,' sayeth the mayor, to remindus 'how much revenue is lost to the city by the land themotorways take.'

The mayor goes on. But from here on in we can forgethim. And we shall return to Robert Ellis and his work later.

Art should not exist in Karangahape Road, and usuallydoes not to iudge from the coarse remarks of lost shoppersand those others who are dutifully 'doing the festival beat' asthey come across the McCahon exhibition. But O the ioyth4 they are missing. Tucked away in this ladychapel of agallery are some of the gems of the painter's private collec-t10n.

All elements of his work are displayed. The crucifixiontaking place among New Zealand hills, the dialogues of doubtand of doubters-especially a 1959 Elias triptych with atomicassociations imbued in the cross in the- middle section-examples of most series up to 1963 and two works relating tothe ill-treated TEAL painting of L953, including a drawingof sffangq -aeroplane parts, one of which-prophetically?-isplunging like Icarus into the sea.

Ill-treated. The words recur throughout the history ofvirginal Victorian toe-testing that is officialdom's attitude to-wards contemporary art in this country. In her addressopening the exhibition of Brazrlian Graphics, the Brazilianambassador expressed the desire of her government that NewZealand should participate in the Sao Paulo Biennial, next toVenice perhaps the most prestigious of international artshows. But because of the ditherings of the august gentlemenwho arrange these tlUqgl in New Zealand, it is quite possiblethat the chance to exhibit has been lost.

However, the Brazilian Graphic Arts exhibition arrivedhere safely. 4rd survived the _openitrg, a social shoutingmatch of knights and nobodies. But where's the bossa novi?In the main, like so much printmaking today, it is coldbloodedand antiseptic. Perhaps the somewhat magical connexion of'festival' and 'Brazil', conjuring up the Mardi Gras of BlackOrpheus,led me to expect mofe flamboyance, h"! the exhibi-t-ion is generally unexciting and made worse by being crampedfor space and consequently badly hung. There is much rnoreuse of relief and surface texture than one finds in the workof local printmakers, but only three artists stand out: Newton

135

Cavalcanti with his little black violent woodcuts, Anna BellaGeiger's surreal human organic forms and Antonio Henrique'scornical and cynical depictions of the world of noisy cgm-munication ani waggin! tongues. 'CIac clac' thr:y go. Justlike the opening. 'Ye ye ye.' -Just like the early Beatles.

Yes, thL beaf goes on. - For -the festival, art is _everywhefe.In the new Anglican cathedral, the Revgrend Jqht Kinder

( 18 Lg-l903 ) is lionoured with a small exhibition of his -pho1o-graphs and' \Mater-colours. Tucked away { an aisle thatillows very little viewing room, it is, nevertheless, a gentleand beautiful exhibition.

Kinder's scenes are barely populated. But progress meansthat one builds up to knolk- down aglin;- a4d the tranquilpasrures where the Reverend tended his flocks became dens.]yiettled, only to be once more laid bare by the comilg of themororwzy,-whiffling and burbling its way through the tulgeywood.

Recording the metamorphoses of the .!ty is- Robert Ellis.Not this ciiy, nor any specific city; _rather the .clly as anorganiSffi, a universal irirage. Thorrgh tlr. works exhibited aresrria[er in size than those seen previously, he still conveys thecity's power and seething lifemass. They- have been made-ore hr*an by the use of such devices as

-clouds, demarcated

horizons and brighter colours to depict the environs, but atthe same time the encroachment of the great white waysreminds us of the inhuman fate that may be in store.

Ellis's work, like his subiect, undergoes constan_t change,but it would appear that the Auckland Festival So.l.ry isstuck in an antique groove. 'Paintings from Private Collec-tions', the exhibition that it has organrzed,- can only beregaried as an attempt to ltop ,h.g progress of contemp.o.r?rypamung. It seems almost- impossible that such an exhibitionLodd 6rrer be thought about let alone displaye4 seriouslY:One is confronted witfr forty-eight paintings of flowers andstill-lifes, of such an abysmal standard that if there is anythit ggood at all on show, one cannot summon up the courage tostay and look for it.

This exhibition does not occupy the nadir of the festivalalone for John Papas is along there also. In what must beone of the worst exhibitions ever mounted by a supposedlyserious contemporary painter, we are shown a collection oftrivia that is mirked bi a lack of feeling, of forethought, ofdesign and of substarlce. Add to this a, constant camp pretti-ness, a refusal to use the whole of the painting area and a

136

constant formula that is so frail that one good painting woulddestroy it forever, and the total is an exhibition that appearsto have been dashed off at great speed and now lies limp, likeL damp cigarette paper.

There is much more substance to be found in the onlyfestival exhibition of sculpture, that of Paul Beadle and BettyCutcher, but although they both have excellent work on dis-play, it is difficult to think of them as sculptors. They comeacross more as fashioners of figurines in an exhibition thathas something grotesque about it.

Beadle gives hints of being an eccentric chess-playingcreator and manipulator of models, inventirrg worlds popula-ted by little people who dance or sing or pass judgment onone another but who all have a nigger-minstrel quality aboutthem. They appear almost to have been miscasf in bronze-the spindle limbs and protruding eyes and breasts, althoughof a much higher quality, seerrr- as-if they would be bettlrsuited by the black-painted plaster of paint-shop lampstandsand wall plaques.

There is something terrifyirrg about larger-than-life insects,?nd Betty Cutcher's bronzes do not fail to evoke this feeling.Realistically done, they seem, however, to lack a raison d'6tre-they exist, but don't do much more. FIer larger ceramicsa1e mainly abstract and unatilactive. The smaller utilitarianpieces possess more feeling and gentleness and are much morepleasing.

The first fortnight has come to an end, and the studentshave left the pedestrian walk by the Bledisloe Building. Theirpaintings remain, the pruze-winning works marked by thesame rosettes that adorn pigs at A. & P. shows. One shuddersto use the plrase, but this

-is 'srudenr painting'. A few showpromise,- a few make you wonder how they've managed toget so far at art school. However, the best works won,provo$qg the exp-ecled response from such people as '14Puzzled Laymen of Titirangi' who publicly wondered 'Ffowdo those paintings best represenr our festival?'

Festival? Now the students have stopped work and thepassert:by have nothing to gape at, the only bright and livelylpot of the festival has gone. - In fact, apait from the urinai-like pgsle! kiosks, with their atrociously stuck-on posrers, onewouldn't know there was a festival on.

137

**i

But the exhibitions continue. At the Auckland Society ofArts, the exhibition is almost a coniladiction in terms: 'Con-temporary Paintings from New Zealand Art Societies'. Oneshould perhaps be pleased by the nature of the show, but, onreflection, considering that abstract art has been around nowfor over fifty years, all one can say is that it's about time andanyyry, most of it is still the same old Art Society Sundaypainting crap, slightly updated as a result, perhaps, of thenow numerous adult education classes held throughout thecountry.

The work of those painters who have held one-man showsat the commercial galleries is immediately set apart by thefact that they have more to say and say it better. Also fallinginto a, group is the work of several Canterbury painterswhose paintirrgr are colourful and quite hip. Of thesg R. ff.Rudd's '250 Constructional SP' is the best.

But there is little else, and one has little hope of the artsocieties becomirg anything more than the cultural equiva-lents of bridg. clubs.

Work by some of those who have influenced art societiesare on display in 'British Painting L930-1960'. Since thisexhibition is taken from works held in public galleries, thereis .very little that has not been seen before. Most of thepainters are represented by typical works although GrahamSutherland's tiny etching displiys none of the elements that'were later to influence Francis Bacon. Some of the work ismundane, and the Sickert is extremely bad; but the twopaintings by L. S. Lowry are quite _dellgh1ful, ?nd -these,along with the work of John Bratby, Paul Nash, Josgf FIer-man and Henry Mundy, make this an interesting exhibitionalthough minor and non-comprehensive.

Len Castle's pottery exhibition is divided into _tyo parts,one a representative selection of domestic ware and the otherindividuil works that are mainly variations on particular formthemes. The latter are unglazed, with broken surfaces,exffemely tactile and touchtempting-the best word todescribe

-them is gutsy. Spice is added to the exhibition bythe presence of biskets by Ruth Castle and paintings by theirfive-year-old daughter.

The third non-New Zealand exhibition held during thefestival, 'Banners from New York', is probably the strongestshow of all on display. Many of the biggest names of one ofthe biggest art scenes are represented-Warhol, Lichtenstein,

138

Frankenthaler, et ol.-with all their op, pop and abstract ex-pressionist overtones.

For ile, one of the greatest surprises was the strength thatAndy Warhol's work still has, even after seeing his soup cansin reproduction for so many years that they have become asfamiliar as the commercial variety. The pop parade is furtherrepresented by Roy Lichtenstein whose banner is of a yellowmoon/deep blue sea scene that could have come out of theadvertising for 'Blue Ffawaii'. Yet it has incredible beauty andLichtenstein has further enhanced it by the humorous use ofpolka-dot material for the clouds.

Much less romantic but much more sexy are an excerptfrom Tom Wesselman's continuing saga of American woman,this one with suction-cup nipples and brief bikini, and Ji*Dine's ever so kinky Red Boots banner.

Pop elements, along with op ones, are used superbly byRobert Indiarua in his arrangement of the letters of L O V E,but William Walton is strictly an op artist. His banner, anarrangement of arrow shapes,,i, incredib{r jagged prld expl.o-sive in its visual changes. Also extremely powerful are thehard-edged works of Jack Youngerman and Nicholas Krush-enick and the slightly softer banner of Helen Frankenthaler.

This is one of the few opportunities this country has had tosee the work of some of the most important artists alive today.That they are commercially produced banners in no waydetracts from their strength and validity for the Betsy RossFlag and Banner Company have produced them with exquisitecraftsmanship that remains completely true to the artists'original work and intention.

Superb craftsmanship is also demonstrated in MilanMrkusich's latest one-man show, an exhibition in which theamount of communication strangely varies from visit to visitand from painting to painting. Utilizirrg a form throughoutthat is reminiscent of a desk blotter-pad-the corners of eachwork are painted a different colour (or colours) from themonotone remainder-he appears to be attempting to conveya, presence rather than an event. The smaller works seem tocome across more strongly but the most successful is 'PaintingDark', the largest work included, where he has brought inextra. shapes and made more use of tonal variants within thepamtlng.

Overall, what the festival appears to lack is festivity. Theexhibitions are generally interesting, at times excellent, butthere is a general lack of adventure in the selections, and, with

139

the Mardi Gras of Black Orpheas and John Rechy's City ofI{ight hauntirrg one along the empty streets, one does notpartake of them in a particularly joyous mood.

GERALD SEAMAN

Music

to offer a wealth of entertainment, in many cases not inferiorto that of the Edinburgh Festival and certainly as diverse, is astriking tribute to New Zealand's cultural awareness and tothe achievements of the Auckland Festival Society and itssupporters.

This is nor to say that we have reached the height of per-fection and can no\M sit back in a state of smug satisfaction.Far from it! Excellent though it was in so many respects,there were aspects of the festival which left much to be

140

desired. It was a great source of regret to !h. present writerthat if one wishJd ro hear even the malor musical items(comprising concerts, ballet anq oper-a), this coPld jnly b3achieved by attendirrg none of the drama or the films. Itmust have 'been frustlating to many, for instance, _that theMaori concert fell on the sime nighr that Inia Te Wiata sangin Il Seraglio. Since there were pre_cious few Maori Pro-grammes fi the festival, what pooi planning it was to havei*o such important features running simultaneoutly. Itseems to indicate lack of iudgement, too, that a lrqt singer,such as David Ward, shouid hive two concerts and that morefinancially lucrative and publicly supp,orted items such as

the ba[ef and opera, should run for such limited -periods. Itmust be admitted that, notwithstanding the very high stand-ards of performance obtainilg, there was too much ,music,so that 6y the end of the festival, one's ears were dinned,musical perception blunted and one's powers of appreciadonconsid.ribly di*irrished. This was unforqrnale, and no doubtthe poor aitendances that- prevailed in the final concerts ofthe iestival were largely due to widespread musical indiges-don.

A constant source of annoyance and irritation throughoutthe maiority of the concerts w1s the presence of extraneousnoises. 'How many times throughout thq musical year is one'saftention disrupted at some particularly poignaqt momentby. the roar of^ hot-rodders revving their accursed machinesprior to the ascent of Cook Street. Although.. letters andbetitions have been presented to the city council_t.questingthrt traffic be divefted in the environs of the Town Flallduring important concerts (as is done in Vienna and otherEurofean ^cities with far_ greater traffic problems than ouro*n), virtually nothing hai been done to remedy the situa-tion.'

'And this is seribus, for many prominent celebritieshave commented on the appallirrg noise factor in Aucklandand how distracting it is to ihe professional pelfo_rryer. Whata pleasure it was, then, -!o be able to listen to the N.y PragueQLartet in the excellent surroundings of the lVl.JgoryTh.rtr.. Indeed, the Mercury Theatre and the N.Z.B.C.Radio Theatre are the only buildings in Auckland where onecan listen to music in peace. Let us hope that public moleycan be provided in the near future to erect a modern civichall worthy of the city.

The observation has been rnade that this year there seemedto be a lack of memorable personalities. But surely, this

l4L

statement is hardly justified. The figure of Shura Cherkasskycrouched over the keyboard, producing a scarcely audibleMozartian pianissi*o, or with his fingeri moving so quicklyin the Bart6k and the Liszt that they could scar-ely bi seen,or again with his hands raised high above the piano in pre-paration_ for a thunderous tff passage in the -TchaikovskySecond Piano Concerto, were unforgettable occasions. Norwill one cease to remember Inia Te Wiata as Osmin in e,

enterprising in their choice of repertoire. Surely a. festivalshould offer something to appeal to all tastes. Is Stravinskyof no importance, nor Schonberg, Villa-Lobos or GtintherSchullerl Strange to relate some of the most enterprisingprogrammes were to be found in the impressive concertsgiven by student performers selected by the AucklandSociety of Registered Music Teachers. One concert includedpieces by Suk, Debussy, Grechaninov, Ambroise Thomasand Sibelius; and another, D. Scarlatti, Tartini, Soler, Seixas,

t+2

Boccherini, Schubert and Falla. Other memorable and imag:inative concerts were those given by Glynne Adams andRosem ary Mathers, the Lind's ay_Strlng _Otghqtra. -(yhichincluded'works by Poulenc and Edwin- Carr), David James(a young New Zealand pianist of gre?t- promise, al presgnta siuden--t at the Univeisity of Aucklahd, and DorotheaFranchi. Mention of the part played by New Zealand resi-dents is of great importance; ind6ed, without the contribu-tion of artists such ds Elisabeth Hellawell, Russell Channell,Maurice Till, Alan Pow, Peter Godfrey and the Choir of St.Mary's Cathedral, and the staff of the rlni-velsity music de-partmenr, the festival would have been infinit.ly poorer. Onewonders, though, whether more could not be done to attractmore young plople to the festival and to stimulate nationaltalent in the iorrir of festival prizes. Some overseas festivals,for instance, offer as a prize ; performance by ? symphoqyorchestra of a, successful competition work. There are inNew Zea,larnd many gifted young composers who are starvedof opportunities of tf,is nature and the chance to have a workperfbimed by the National Orchqstra, for instance, mightwell have considerable appeal. The venture-'Two Arts-One Medium', with programmes of recorded music by NewZealand composers sblected by Dorothea Franchi ?nd JohnJoyce, was a move in this direction and a number of concertswere grven ln conrunctlon with that stalwart patron, -theN.Z.B]9., which enabled one ro hear some of the outstandingcompositions by New Zealand qopposers. A number ofchamber works were commissioned foi the occasion and theseserved to illustrate that our younger generation is not lackilgin imagination or enterprise. A memoiable occurrence was theplaying of part of Jenny Mcleod's recently completed Earthand SEy, ail impressive operatic rcalization of a Maori crea-tion *irlt. Thii work should defini,..ly be given.w.id.esp{eadsupport; it is likely to be as successful overseas as it is in NewZealand.

The musical side of the 21st Auckland Festival, then, wascertainly something to be remembered. Though.ole felt thatthere were too many individual items, which inhibited thearr-lover from attending more than a fraction of the totalnumber of events, the oierall standard was impressive and inits great variety, ranging from the Hoffpung

- Cgncert, the

Novi Singers ind the Zbigniew Namyslowski Quartet, tostudent performers, the N.Z.B.C. Orchestra and thg Or_pheusChoir, must have satisfied most musical tastes. In the closing

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moments of the festival the suggestion \Mas pur forward thatlext year's festival should have a more popular appeal. Bear-irg in mind the alread y large_ part played -by popular classicsin the plogrammes, it is difficult fo iee hdw this might bedone without driving _away the younger generation entirely.After all, young people are more in rymprthy with contem-porary -music than they are with Baroque, Classical orRomantic. _Surely- the answer is to encourage more schoolsto visit different festival items at favourable prices and, byso doing, ensure that the s-upporters of tomorrow's festivilare won before they are losi. At the Perth Festival, forinstance, large parties of school children attend concerrs arconcesston rates. Why,_for example, was the superb andpopular Norman Gadd Percussion Ensemble not supportedby the Auckland schoolsP Clearly, there should bA moreliaison between the festival authorities and the EducationBoard, for such a combination must surely be to their mutualprofit.

CON O'LEARY

Drama

Most interestRosencrilntz, and

he drama section of the 1969 Auckland Festival

lry in the Mercury Theatre's offering,Guildenstern dre Dead by Tom Stoppard.

L+4

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Colin AtlcCahon. Ho't$ is the Hatrnlter of the Whole Eartltcttt Asuruder and Broken. oil on hardboard, 196l .

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Robert Ellis. MotorlDaylcity. Oil on hardboard, 1968'

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The newspaper critics panned the production and the choiceof play-strangely aftef the occasional uncritical praise giventhe Mercury Theatre earlier in its history-while theatre-goers seemed to react either with extreme enthusiasm or withdislike. Ffowever Rosencrilntz did provide a reasonable even-ing's theatre although neither the play nor the production northe performers were without seiious weaknesses.

The play, a parasitical involution of H arnlet with minorcharacters taking the major stage, provides a wash of imagesand ideas about the human predicament-identity, reality,action, direction and death-wiih a commentary on the actorand on Shakespeare's bloodthirstiness as well as some verbalacrobatics, thrown in. The play as a whole fails to develop,however, and its pretentiousness weighs against it.

It is ironic that producer Roy Hope in a play dealing withlack of communication failed to come to grlps with the play.This \Mas reflected in an apparent lack of control on the castand some occasionally blatant business and camping-up of thescript, which indicated lack of confidence in the dialogue.It could be that in his keenness to see the play performed- MrHope failed to articulate his motivation fully and was trippedup by inadequacies in the cast.

Of the cast Ian Mune as the Player King had the bestattack and Roderick Horn, as Guildenstern, the best delivery.If Horn did not entirely succeed this must have been due inpart to his beinqcrowded by David Weatherley, who in hispresentation of Rosen crantz was often in danger of wooingthe audience at the expense of the play. Weatherley, inaturally well-endowed actor who has been a mainstay ofMercury productions, sought specific solutions to sections ofthe dialogue rather than _pjefeqtiry a fully worked-out andconsistent performance. Ffe had fine moments but was over,under and around the character, presenting, in effect, severalcharacters,-ald allowing himself some jarring slips into sloppydiction and broad accents.

Some of the minor actors did their best with fleeting entriesbgt Tany \Mere below par. Roy Heayberd was off-key asHamlet and one was forced to conclude that he, and orhers,were unfamiliar with Shakespeare's play. A reading of H arn-let would have been at least one of the ways to ensure thatmembers of the Danish 9ourt, minor characters in Stoppard,made significant if brief appearances. The members of thecourt needed a -style and this \Mas lacking. The ser by JohnS. Roberts worked well enough but was not made a dimen-

145

sion of the play and --h{. lighting was better integrated thanin the amafeui productions, it was sometimes used haphaz--ardly and, as with a, blackout immediately after an interval,unwisely.

Allen Curnow's radio play Resident of Nowhere was theonly New Zealand work.^ It'dealt with the luckless first NewZealand Resident, James Busby, who helped draft the lrgrryof Waitangi. The playwright has devised a. g_ood techniquefor this excursion into our origins by setting the play tt thedeathbed of a delirious Busby, whose snatches of reminis-cence and recrimination gave rise to sections of dialogue. Itwas a worthwhile contribution but one regretted the prepon-derance of explanatory dialogue and the lack of direct con-frontation. Piofessor

-Curnow hardly attempts dialogue in-volving the Maori, who is represented only by a, few linesfrom a Maori girl who has lapsed from tlre grey salvation ofthe missionaries, and by underlays of haka and chant. Thismeans that the play laci<s a dimension which is also missing inmosr New Zealan'd writing; as Bill Pearson has p_ointed -out,mosr attempts to handle Maori characters in our fiction haveresulted in bmbarrassing failure. This was a. provo$rg, Jrot-est piece of wor\ given a senstive productiog by Roy t y-wood. 'William

Johnsor, Jrn Bashford and Laurence H.p-worth stood out in an otherwise adequate cast.

The Titirangi Drama Club's presentation, Right You Areby LujSi Pirandello, \Mjf produced. by Chris Cathcall, butan assistant producer, l(rysten Latham, hld to - handle thefinal weeks, ivhen Mr Caihcart was out of Auckland. Theplay deals

'with the intrusion by local residents into themysrerious behaviour of three new arrivals in a v.illager. horder to comment on aspects of human behaviour-includirrgthe formation of mass opinion from rumour-and leading -tothe thesis that truth varies with the individual and might bebest left alone.

The production featured a goo4 box set and some solidlyblocked movement and tableaor, but spilled past the neces-sary style into farce. Ron Commetti was-Lmgotlrllcompetentas the

-observer-commentator Laudisi; Elizabeth Prendergasttook top honours with her Mfq_ Fr_o!a, while David Croweprovided laughs ?s the Walrus-like Mr Silelli, b]rt had occa-iional lapses.- Gilbert Goldie worked hard on thg e.rugmaticMr PonLa but his uncontrolled gesticulation had the over-tones of a horror film, while Hugh Tollemache as fryazliplayed in a revlre-style and young lane Knapman constantly

146

seeking the audience, upstaged in a musical comedy fashion.The audience enioyed it completely.

Grafton Theatre staged Hart and Kaufman's You Can'tTake It With You, a" lightweight comedy about the boss'sson and the daughter of a house inhabited by an entertaininglyeccentric family, which despite being a piece of periodAmericana has the underlying solidity of a. good theatricalworkhorse. When its ideas were still as hot as the fireworksthat exploded on the stage it must have gone with a bang.

Bruce Allpress's production, hampered by the raw inex-perience or unsuitability of some members of the cast, missedthe style, was askew on pace and pointing and allowed toomany lines to be lost. But amateur verve and what linesremained enabled it to get by, to the amusement of theaudience. Alan Carlisle, despite a, tendency to drop the lastword or phrase, scored with a relaxed, low-key performanceas the non-conformist grandfather Vanderhof. Rosem aryDavis, as the heroine Alice, gave some good changes of mood,showing an ability to act between the lines which will serveher in good stead as she gains more experience. Les Huntwas the boomirrg Russian Kolen\hov, and Colleen Broadl.ygave some spice to the show with a last-act appearance as acountess turned cook.

Actors' Studio Theatre's Edna Harris production of MaxFrisch's The Fire Raisers failed to come off. After an abom-inable first half it lifted a little with some good exchangesbetween the Biedermanns, Sam Winer and June Renwick,but these could not save the play. Frisch's moral parable isperhaps too explicit to stand the treatment it received but Idoubt that it is a very good play anyway. The cast triedhard, but that is not enough when accents and action fluctu-ate wildly and members of the cast fail to proiect. FrancisHalpin, for instance, looked good as the fire-raiser Schmitzbut was often inaudible. The chorus of firemen intoned dullyand drably and scene changes were badly handled.

As Auckland second ary -schools have'recently presentedBrecht and Beckett, Thornton Wilder's Our Town seemedan anachronistic choice for a combined Auckland second aryschools' offering. Producer Russell Aitken deserved bettermaterial. His festival production did little more than showthat some mouldable talent might emerge from our second-a.ry schools.

t47

ALLEN CURNOW

Resident of Nowhere

London, tbe Busbys' lodgings. Surnrner, 187 1. fames Basby-is propped up in bed. HA his ius! been succ.essfully operatedoi loi'catarict. As required li lhe gpthghryit surgeons of-th1tim'e, his ey es ore botlS heaaily bandiged; his head is yeQgeqbetween two sandbilgs, so that he can riloae it aery littl_e, ifttt all; the room is darkened. In his seaentieth !e(r, Busby issaid to haae been 'prematurely aged'. His hearing ruJtts notgood.Street noises outside. Horse traffic. Vendors' cries.

Jevrns Busry. Agnes. (Stirs restleslU, getting, bfgqth.) Agnes!Door opens. Rustle of dress, slighl noise_of dishes oru trdy.AcNBs Bussv. Are you all right, James dear?Jemns. Agnes!-What? What's that?Acmns (closer, il bit louder). There! There! I'm back.

I've brought you some luncheon.Jennrs. Ay.-What time is it?AcNns. Past mid-day. I do hope it's nice.

They said the fork was eicellent today,They were quite disappointed when I-

Jenzrcs. What's that?Acxps. I told them it wouldn't do at all'Jervrrs (irritably). Mumble mumble mumble!Acxns. The pork, dear-I told them it-Jevrcs. Pork?l Never want to see- it ?gain.- Too much pork in New Zealand.AcNns (closer, ioothing). There! There!

That's just what I told them.Jeivrns. Ay.-Where a{e you?AcNrs. Flere, James, sitting on your bed.

148

Jeuns. Your face, Agnes.Let me touch your face. Put my hand on your cheek.Av!

Brief pau,se. Street noises up.AcNBs. Won't you have something to eat?

There's beautiful beef rea, and the new bread.Javms. Ay.-You're going to feed me.-Where's your hand

gone?AcNBs. I need both hands, James, I'll spill the beef tea.

It's so dark.Javrns. You're not in the dark-in the middle of the day?Acxes (a little strained). The whole room is dark, dear.

Did you forgetl-Don't move your head!Keep absolutely still.

Jentrs. Feed ffie, Agnes. I'll not move.AcNtrs. You rnust keep it straight. That's what the sandbags

are for.One sandbag on each side of your head. The doctor saysIt's so important.-Now,I'm putting the spoon ro your lips.There! Is it nice?

Jervrns_ (suckingt swallowing). Ay, you're an angel, Agnes.(Louder.) Do you believe them?

AcNns. Shall I dip a bit of bread for you?Do I-? Who, James?

Jemrs. I'll never see you again.AcNns. Of course you will. Here, I'll pop it in your mourh.

Nice?Jevrns (suallows, coughs) . Very nice. (Couglts.) Very nice,

thank you.(Irritably.) No, no!-no more-that'll do.

Acxns. Have a bit more, just this one-J,rvrns. No, I said, no! (Spluttering.)AcNBs. Oh {gq ir's on the sheet! I can'r see properly ro-

Keep still, James.Jerrms. They said it was a clean cut with the knife.

Will I see you againPAcNBs. oh. quite soon, dear! Didn't the doctor say

That the operation was a complete success?Jerurcs. Ay, soon-in paradise.AcNtrs. Don't, James! Flush, now. Listen. Listen to Londonl

can you hear the horses, and the omnibuses,And the music in the street?

t49

Jervrns. I hear very little, Agnes-only youWhen you come close and speak very distinctly.

Acxns. It must be a barrel-organ. - It's playing a waltz.Jeuns. They say blind men hear better than others do.

Maybe if I'd not had the cataract removed,-Ay, the surgeons are clever, the \May thgy 1alk.Maybe they-ve blinded me for ever wittr the knife.Give me your hand, Agnes.-Is that music?

AcNns. Hush, now.Jeuns. I can hear somethirg, like the wind in the trees

Or the sea in these bags o' sand.AcNBs. Therel Lie still, dear. Why, it's the Blue Danube!

Listen. (Hu?ns the t?,tne, 7)ery close to him.)It's Vienna, can you catch it? Can you?

Jruvrns. What? Ay, Vienna is on the Danube.- I know the ,irrp of Europe. I might have gone there.Never did, never did. Madrid, Bordeaux, Paris, Mont-

pellier,I saw them all before ever I saw AustraLia,Or New Zealand.-'We'd not met then. Ay, haven't I

told you?Acxns. Oh James, how many thousand times! Noq Vienna,

Of course not. I'm your ignorant old colonial wife.I do get the capitals of Europe so muddled.

Jenrns. There was a fortune in it, a fortune!- Spanish grapes, French grapes, fd five hundred cuttingsAll o' the rarest finest vines in Europe.I'd have planted great vineyards in AustraliaWhen King William was on the throne.I fell among thieves in New Zealand.What's left-of it all? What's left of it?

AcNns. I'm left, James. And the childrelt.Jernns. God forgive me, that's true.-Ay, thieves!- Men without sense of fustice, and no shame,

Who fear not God, neither regard man!Rustle of dress. Tray is moaed.

Don't go, AgneslAcxBs. I'm-putting the tray down, dear.

Would you like me to-shall I read to you?I've got The Times and-

Jaurns. I can read. I am reading.- In the tablets of my memory.I read the Book of Iniustice, chapter by chapter.I read it aloud to myself, and to You, Agnes,

150

Though it is L book which you have read many times.I read- here, and here, that they made me His Mriesty's

ResidentOn the islands of New Zealand, adiAnd that in my thirty-fourth year I

a, Hundred Isles-

acent to Australia,landed at the Bay of

Fude up street noise aery briefly. Fade to noises of wind arudsed.. Ship's gqn fiIr!, ^dchoes fIom, hills. Brief ,pause. Gunagain . . . afain. Brief pause. Bugle call aboard sbip. Creakof timbers, rigging, sound of sea at ship's side.

Jenres. Seven guns, Captain?ClprArN. That is the salute, Mr Busby, Sfo.Jenars. Indeed?Ce.prerN. At your service, Sir. Will you step into the gig?J.r.rnrcs. Captain Blackwood, Sh-CeprRrN. At your service.J,to'rrns. It was my impression,-do not mistake me.

As His M^iesty's Resident in New Zealand-Would it not be expected, by those on shore?Not for myself, personr[y, but-You consider seaen sufficient, for the occasion?

CepurN. I have my orders, Sir.His Excellency the Governor-

Jevrns. Yes yes, the Governor in Sydney.It is his Mriesty the King, you understand,Whose gracious message to the people of New ZealandI have the honour to bear,

Clpr,qrx. I know my duty, Sir.Jeuns. Your pardon, Captain.

I am your guest aboard,-ffiI heartiest thanks.CaprRrN. The honour is mine, Sir,-permit me to add,

The pleasure, of your company.Noise of oars in rowlocks, as the giy is pulled alongside. Co$-sl&ain's aoice: 'Steady ! Steady, lads!'Jervrrs (aside). Seven guns. Well, better than no guns at all.

-I am ready, Captain.ClprArN. After you, Mr Busby, Sh.Steps doasn gdngwoy.

The weather is kind for your landing.Royal weather indeed.

Jenaes. For a Royal occasiotr, Captain.ClprRrN. Will you be seated, Sir?

151

Coxswain's aoice: 'Fend off! Fend off! Steady.-Giae uo!,lads!-Giae r)rily together!' Ir,,oise of oars, as boat pulls d,urily.

Jenaes. A beautiful bry. Beautiful, is it not, Captain?CaprerN. That is often said, Sir.Jemrs. There will have been great preparations for us,

Many people on the shore.CApterN. One could see as much, from our sHp, Sir.Jemns. Beautiful. Yet it is not quite-quite

What I imagined.Ceptarx. With respect, Sir-you imagined?Jerurns. I hardly know. A great b^y, with many islands.

But so different, now it is before my eyes.You will have had many similar experiences?

CeprArN. I am a sailor, Mr Busby, imagination'sA fine thing for the passengers, no doubt.Cunning and a, steady hand, that's what the sea takes-Like savages. Well, the sea's behind you, Sir,And there's the savages in front.We're all in God's hand.

Jenrns. Amen, Captain.CAprerx. Better the Devil you know. Give me sea-room.

Savages or rocks ahead-no place for a sailor.I'Il remember you, when I get safe to sea,In my prayers.

Jelrres. I shan't forget you, Captain.-Ay,The bay is so beautiful, and so different.

CA,ptArx. All in the eye of the beholder, they say.Javrns. Yes, the mind's eye, in the mind's eye.

I had such a very clear picture of it all-The people you call savages, especially the people.After the first gutr, it was not clear any more,And the closer it gets, the less clear.

Captarx. You'll see, Sir,You'll see. There's brown savages and white savages.No place for sailors, I say.

Jenrns. And Christians, Captain.Caprerx. Ay, the worse for some of them.Jer,,rns (excited). Why, there's a, multitude, a multitude!

It is exactly how I saw it in the mind's eyelIs it not clear that the people of New ZealandHave prepared

lrffI welcome for the King's ambas-

Resident, I mean to say? See, Captain!152

Cepr.qrN. I've got good eyes, Sir.Jor*Et_._ Lord Glenelg would nor listen ro my requesr.

Was it not justified? His M^iesty the King would havewished it.

A multitude!CaprerN. The King's a sailor, God bless him.

What would he have wished, SirPJavrns. Why, to receive me in audience,

As I requested, as his personal envoy to this country.C.tprarx. No place' for saifors, I'd have iold him that,

r

And he'd have understood, make no mistake.Javros (laughs, acknowledging joke ils best he can).

Why, that's capital, Captain!Capterx. You wont gg short of kings to receive you here,

Every man jack of 'em's a king,-And

-God frir the missionaries .:' . .

Coxswain's aoice: 'Steady,ladl! Steady!' Noise of oars.'Giaewd_y., -lads!--Together now!' Lop of waaes on d sandy shorewhich fudes up slowly cr,nder.

That'll be Mr Williams at the front rhere.Jannns. Which Mr Williaffis, Captain?CeprarN. Wtry, the Rev. Mr Flenry, Sfo.Jaivrns. You know them both?CeprArN. If you know the Bry of Islands you know Mr

Williams.I'd know him a mile off, when the sun's on his spectacles.That's Mr Flenry all right.-We've touched, Sir.

Coxswain's aoice: 'Oars, lads, oars! Toss!' Sailor's aoice: '(Jp,Sir! . . . Hold tight,_fir, I'ae got you sufe. . . Feet up, Sii.tSloshing of .yeny.qdiys frqmhoai to beach. Ffaka be'gins onshore, swells. Sailor's- aoice) ouer noise: 'Listen ti thentbloo.dy cannibals!-Beg pdr4ou, Sirl . . . Bogpipu takes up andswells with haka, playing'Cock o' the Norti.t'. Alt noisis mixand dorninate for a moFnent. Fade ortt. Pduse.A door opens.Many WnuAMS. He_nry! I'd given you up.HBNnv WrruAMS. Mary my love, it-was i Maori welcome.

Eqgby, I wanr you_ ro meer my wife,Who is the soul of patience, more than we deserve.

Door is closed.Menv. Frow do you do, Mr Busby. Welcome ro paihia.Jennns. Ffow do you do, Mrs Williams. I am sorry ro be the

cause,r53

However innocently, of the smallest domestic anxietyUnder this hospitable roof.

HnNny. Blame Busby, ffiy dear,It was all on his account.

Meny. Now, Ffenry!HnNnv. Where's William?Many. He went home for a pen.HnNnv. Pen? What on-

Haven't we got pens?Meny. Ffe said we don't get a letter from the King every dry,

And our pens don't suit him.Hexnv. You see, Busby?

My brother is very particular-an example to us all.Well, we shall put our Royal message into the purest

MaoriAnd copy it with the best pen in Paihia. My dear!Busby must be famished, and I know I am.Do I smell hot scones?

Menv. They a)ere hot, Henry.If only you'd come sooner! I wonder sometimes,If I hadn't married a missionary-

HrNny. I know I know, ffiy love, I should have been a Bishop,A very punctual Bishop.

Menv. Forgive ffie, Mr Busby.We shall have tea in a minute. Do sit down now, both

of you.Inner door opens, closes.HnNnv. Well, Busby, what do you think of us all?Jenres. f must confess, Sir, that it is a little early-

I do not like to say I am overwhelmed, but-Hrxny. Why not? We-I mean of course our Maori friends

-Are in the habit of overwhelming our distinguishedguests.

Anything less would be bad manners, or worse.We like to impress them. And to enjoy ourselves.I must say that today's performance, in your honour,Impressed me-and I am not easily impressedAfter all these years at the Bry.

Jeuros. Ah, then my arrivalHas been marked-am I to understand you?-As an extraordinary occasion?

HnNnv. Marked? Oh, yes.How extraordinary-that's not easy to say.

tt+

On the beach, that is where it all begins.We always begin with a tremendous performance.We may mean a greut deal, or very little,And the meaning may be more, or less, than you think,-Or somethirrg altogether different.

Jervros. A great deal-is it not? that I-Hnxnv. Oh, to ffie, and to our brothers and sisters in Jesus

Christ,A very great deal, I assure you.

Jevrns. Indeed, Mr Williaffis, I thank you from the heart.We were speakitrg, were 'we not? of the New Zea-

landersTo whom I come in the name of the King's Mriesty.

HnNny. Busby, many years ago I came to themIn the name of Almighty God.-Look out the window.What do you see? What do you think?

Jarvrns. IP-Does the Scripture not SoI,This is the Lord's work and it is marvellous in our eyes?

HnNny. Cabbages, roses, English apple uees,The house of God, the houses of his ministers-In oar eyes les, it is marvellous,The bounty of God.-But in their eys, Busby?It is a question I cannot answer for myself.I cannot presume to answer yours.One works, and one prays, that is all.

Jeivrcs. And yet, Sir,You have saved souls.

HBNnv. Don't tempt me, Busby.At the Last Dry, we shall all be much wiser.I have saved none but by the mercy of God.I know the Gospel, I know-parts of His ways,There are parts of which the knowledge is not easy to

bear.Roses, apple trees, the Church in our midstWhere we worship in the beauty of holiness-All good gifts for which we praise and thank Hh,What else should we do? But that's nor all.Do you follow me?

Jervrns. Ay, Sir, if it is our common knowledgeAs Christian men-

HpNny. If it were, I would not speak of it.Jevrcs. Then it is a. particular knowledge

Of this country in particular,And you say it is not-

155

HnNnv. Not easy to bear. For some, impossible.I cannot teach it you. You will purchase itYourself, at a price, which is not fixed,But may not be less than all that a. young manLooks for in life,-health, hope, happiness,All but, please God, your soul.Busby, I take the privilege of an older mall.Souls are for sale h-ere, and the Devil bids high.Hell is very close.

Clatter of ted things. Door opens.And the hope of heaven.

Jauns. Amen, Sir.FIBxny. And our earthly comforts, among which tea-

Ah, thank you, thank you, my dear-is not the least.Menv. We're not interrupting, Ffenry?

I'm sure it's time we did.Hnxnv. A most welcome interruption, ffiY love,

Both for body and soul. For one thing,I have talked long enough,-and Busby will be glad of

somethingA bit more substantial.

Menv. Poor Mr Busby!Someone else is glad too, if I know my own husband.The scones dre hot, and there's a very special treat,Mrs Clendon's ne'w strawberry ir*.

Hrxnv. Splendid.Let me assure you, Busby, you are about to tasteThe best part of your welcome.

Menv. Oh, iust the best ir*.I'm afraid this isn't Sydney, Mr Busby, we're not very

stylish,But they can't have anythirg like our Paihia strawberries.-Put the tray down by the window, Ffuia. Thank You,

my dear.Now, won't you say hoan do you do to Mr Busby?-Huia is one of our mission girls, Mr Busby.-Sry, how do you do, to Te Puhipi?Te Puhipi hal come all the way in the big {tipTo brinf us a long letter from the King of England.

Jannns (as to a child). How d_o_you do, Huia.Hure. Tena koe-Te Puhipi. How do-you do?

Jernns . Te-na- (Hesitate_s.)HBonnv (proruFts, abruptly). Tenil koe. Tena koe.

156

Jevms. Ay,-Tena koer-Quick steps. Door opens, closes.MenY. Why, Huia. My dear-come back!HnNnv. Let her go.Many. But Henry, she really-HnNny. I shall speak to her, Mary.Jevrcs. I am afraid my presence-

Should I not have greeted her in the native language?She is not-

Hnxnv. No, Busby. I hardly think two words of MaoriIn your excellent Scottish accent could-But we shall see, we shall see.

Menv. She is shy, Ffenry.FfBNnv. She is proud.Jeuns. They are a proud race, are they not, Sfu?HBNnv. And fallen, fallen.Menv. A child of God, Ffenry.Ffnxnv. A daughter of Eve, my love.Menv. Don't forget, so is your wife.-

Now, Mr Busby. Ffow do you like your tea?Jer',rns. Ffowever it is poured, ma'am.-Thank you.Meny. Milk?Jel'rrns. Thank you, ma'am. No sugar, thank you.FfBNnv. Try a scone, Busby.Jenans. Indeed, they are irresistible. I am wondering,

Sir,-you will pardon me, ma'am, if I speakOf what is uppermost in my mind,-as to the form,The precise form of the ceremooy, the arrangementsOf a public and official description, for the native

leaders,And the European inhabitants-to hear the Royal mes-

I have also ir, *ffirnm I shall have something to addIn my official capacity, as Resident in this country.Somethirg I-

FfBxnv. Taihoa! That's a word for you, now.It means, 'No hurry'-f estina lente.Good Latin for good Maori.-Flelp yourself to ir*And I'll sugar my tea.-As you may be a'ware,I have done a little pyself, in my time, in his M^iesty's

sefvlce.The Navy is a good school. We won't let him down,

God bless him.We'll have a table out of doors, for the papers,

r57

A few chairs for ourselves,-the natives don't need them,Th.y know how.to sit on the grass and keep their dig-

But it wouldn't frfrt, us pakeba, We'Il hoist the Flag-And the rest's up to you, my boy, and the weather,And that'll hold fine by the look of it.

Gate-latcb clicks outside. Steps on gravel.That's William now, I'll be bound.

Door opens off.Menv. Come along in.-We didn't wait tee.WrruAM Wlrr,levts. Of course not. (Fade on.) I'm sorry

to have been so long.Door closed off.HrNnv. Let me introduce my brother, Busby.

Our best translator, and scribe.Jervres. How do you do, _Si-r. We-I, th-at is-

Must consider ourselves fortunate in your services.WlruAM. How do you do.-On the contrary.

It is my good fortune. (Urgency ) Hgryy-Mr Buiby, you will excuse us? The girl is gone.

HnNnv. Not Huia?Wrr,uAM. I'm afraid so.FIBNnv. She was here only a. moment ago.Menv. She ran out of the room. Oh, I-HBNnv. Gone! ?-From Paihia?WIr,uAM. Yes.Menv. Ffeaven forgive ffie, it's my fault, Henry.HBNnv. Nothirrg of the sort, I said, let her go.Menv. I was u/rong to be so formal, and so pakeho.HBNnv. You're positive, William? Where?WlruAM. Koroiareka. There was a canoe on the beach-

Pomare's people.Hrxnv. Ah, merciful heaven!-Do you see, Busby?

No you can't, but you will. Hell is vely close.Wrr,uAM. Chapman and Clarke took the boat to Pomare's

But if you ask J3; she'll never get so far.There'i the American whaler dr-opped anchor last night.

HnNnv. Ikno'w. Iknow.Menv. Poor Huia! What can we do, Henry?HBNnv. Till the boat gets back, nothing.Menv. Her baby, Henry!

158

HBNny. Pray, my love.Mlny. One feels so helpless.HeNny. There is always prayer-only prayer.Javrcs. Pardon me if I am taking a, liberty, ma'am.

Without offence, I trust. It had not escaped my noticeThat the young woman is enceinte. I take itThat her husband is not of this Christian settlement?

HBNnv. She's not married, Busby.Jemrs. Christian mauimotry, Sir?-

There is native custom, is there not?HBNnv. No. Nor native custom. 'White man's custoffi, Busby.

What is custom ary in this country.-Shall I tell you?You wish to withdraw, Mary.

Meny. I think perhaps.Mr Busby will excuse a busy housewife, and a lady.

Fade off. Door opens, closes.

Janrns (awk'usard, detecting snub). I fear I should not have-Sir, I-

HnNny. Nq apologies, young man. Nothing I can say ro youIs less known to my wife than to myself, to my broiher

here.My wife knows more, as \Momen indeed do,Of the Hell men make for women, and themselves.You ask about this girl,-you saw, how should you nor?That she is carrying a child.

Jervrcs. Ay, Sir. I did not suppose-HBxnv. Taihoo! If I told you now, it is not her first child,I would be telling very litde-Jelurns. But she-HeNny. Wait. Hardly more than a child herself.

Is that it? No, not her first,-nor her second,Nor her third, nor for all I know, her fourth.Flave I told you anything? Very likely nor.

Jer',res. Sfo, you have the advantage.-I am to concludeThere is a family of four, maybe five bairns?

HnNnv. No family. No bairns, Busby. Ah, God in heaven-I tell you. I cannot teach you to understand.

Jemrs. Ah, Mr Williaffis, I shall try to do so.HnNny. Dead, every one. Murdered by their mother.Jevrns (sho c ked). Infanticide!Hcuny. Oh, give it a narne, by all means, Busby.

A Sydney prostipte-the daughter of a chief, a rongil-tffo-

159

God knows the difference. Do you know how they doit?

They close the baby's nostril's with a finger and thumb.Like that. Till the breath stops.

Jevrns. And-and the father-of this child?HnNnv. Our Father in heaven.Jalurcs. Ay, but there's-FInNnv. Oh, yes. The father could be the captain

Of a Nantucket whaler, drunk, or a seaman drunk.The pigs and the women go aboard together,And the difference is, if there's afiy that matters,The ruling price of a gun or a cask of rum.That's a kind of ship you've not sailed in-They don't scrub the decks much or polish the brass.The-smell of a whaler's enough to turn your stomachEven at sea when she slogs into the wind,-When she drops anchor she's filthy stem to sternWith the filthy traffic of Flell, vomit, excrementOf men, women, beasts. Paternity, Busby,Is a word without meaning. This girl, no'w,And her unborn child,-my wife gave her a petticoat.Do you see?

Jervrns. A petticoat?EfBNnv. Oh, it's more than you think.

Sometimes, not alwayS, 2 gift will win them overTo bear the child, and let it live.But that's not all. There is the will of God.Mry He not choose in his merciful ProvidenceTo-call home the soul that we, in our blind compassion,Would bind to the rack of its infected flesh?Mry not inf anticide be a part of His mercies?

Jeuns. As Christian men-! ?- Have we not the Scripture-that in Christ we live?Though in Adam we die of that infection of sin,-Our common curse, Sir-

Ffpxnv. Infection of sin?I am acquainted with the doctrines of the ChurchConcerning sin and redemption.-What does Scripture

say?'The sins of the fathers are visited upon the children,'[Jnto the third and fourth generation'.I speak of the infection of syphilis.

Sound of small church bell not fur off.160

Evensong already! William, will you go over?Tell Chapman-ah, ro-you will take the service your-

self, then.WrruAM. Of course.Door opens. Bell louder.

(Off.) Shall I wait till you-?HBNnv. No, rlo. I'll be there for the first hymn.

Go, rlow.Steps on gravel, receding.

(Calls.) William! No sign of the boat?WrruAM (calls back). No . . . rhe bay is empty.FfBNny. Ah.-Coming to church, BusbyPJevrns (subdued but firm). With all my heart, Sir.Bell continues . . chang¤s, cross-fading, to public clockchirning, London street noise.

Jarurrs (like echo of his oa)n aoice).Waitangi-very well, Mr Williaffis,I shall boy the land, I shall build the Residency.

Acxns. James! Speak to me! Are you awake?Jevrns. There will be two small rooms, and a bit of an out-

building.Not quite on the scale of your dwellings at Paihia-

Acxtrs. Oh, your poor old eyes, all bandaged over-Jenrns. Lppreciate your advice,

It will be best, I am sure, for your purposes and for mine,That I should isolate myself, at Waitangi,-

AcNBs. It's Agnes!JemE!. The Klg" name surely will be sufficient protection

For myself and for my young bride,-I shall have nosoldiers

Nor constables. I am not a Magistrate here.But I have the King's name.I am told I cannot rely upon the form of the law,But upon the influence which I am to obtain over the

chiefs.(Aside2 argent.)What did he s2y, Sir? I cannot follow the language.Yes?-He welcomes ffie, even if I have come to iell -frimlWho said that? !-Ay, thar is white man's malice.Tell him I come to protect, not sell him into bondage.I bear a letter from the King. You shall hear his words.(Voice pitched higher, os heard o little way off i,n large

16r

open-dir assembly, but it is still the aoice of the agedf urues.)'The King trusts that no circumstences may occur infuture to interrupt the internal tranquillity of NewZealand, which is

-so necess ary to the maintenance of L

close commercial intercourse, between its inhabitantsand those of Great Britain.'The King is sorry for the iniuries which you informhim the plople of

-New Zealand have suffered from his

sublects. . . -. In order to afford better protection, bothto natives and to British subjects who may proceed therefor purposes of made, tLe Kirg has sent the bearer ofthis letter, James Busby, Esquir., to reside among you asHis M^)esty's Resident.(Pitcb lowered o little, off the note of Royal proclama-t:ion, for his oa)n peroration.)'When my house is ready, you will visit me and we shall

be friends.'We shall take counsel between us, how New Zealmd

and its people'Shall become rich, and^wiie, like the people of Britain.'It is the will of God that love and peace ihould prevail

here' ' ' the fruits of their'That men *"rr;:lr?i in securitY

Acxtrs. James! James!Jeuns. What? ! Who's there?AcNBs. Me. It's me. Your wife, James!Jervms. You can't stay here. Ttt_gy]t. all at war.- Titore and Pomare.-Get Williams!

The wind is fair for Sydney. We'll meet again.God keep you.

AcNBs (aside, di,stress). Oh, James.Jernrns. Whatis this? I can't see. Why, there's a band-AcNrs. Don't touch it, James! It has to be dark.Jervtns. A band, across my eyes. Ay!AcNps. Oh, you worry me so.

Talking, talkirrg like in you! sle_ep, James,I couldn't stop you-but so loudYou might have been awake, and your eyes covered,And it's so dark in here, I-

Jennrs. What was I sayingPAcNBs. Oh, old old times back in New Zealand,

162

King William's days-it's near on forty years.So many times I've heard you say it overI've got it by heart-The King has sent the bearer of

this letter-Jevrns. Ay, James Busby, Bqoire, to reside among you.-

The wee house on the headland, I'll not see it again.AcNps. You'll have your sight, James.Jeurs. I'll not see Waitangi. I know it, Agnes.-

I'm a man reading about himself in an old bookPicked up on a stall, by an author nobody ever heard of,As if I'd been a Resident-of nowhere.

AcNns. There's a bit of the land left. I'd never be hrppyback here.

Woutrd you?Jervrns. It was for the children! You and the children.

They sent Hobson, they gave him the guns, and themoney

I begged them for, seven long years at Waitangi.What could I do, when my occupation was gone?Ay, a bit of the land!

AcNBs. What's gone is gone, James,I never think of it.Javres. Fifty thousand acres!

What could I do but buy land where the land was?Was it not theirs to sell and fairly paid for?Solid gold, guns, gunpowder, blankets, the full price-Grey robbed re, under the noses of a. dozen chiefsThat swore the land was mine-Tirarau, Puku ra-Ay, good Governor Grey! Bribery and falsehood,Slander and trickery were the means employedTo corrupt the honour of the Maori!The bait of a second price when the first was fair.Didn't I raise my voice?-Ay, twenty yearsI was not silent in my own cause, nor that of others.I kept faith with the Maori and they with me.Wh; told them that I had taken the" Governor's moneyIn full satisfactionl Weren't we all fliesIn the web of falsehood spun by the white spiders,Whitaker, Johnston, Wakefield, Greyl-Ay, Agnes,I read it all in an old book nobody will writeAnd nobody will read-with my mind's eye,In a dark room, thirty years on, twelve thousand milesFrom our Waitangi, so much seems clearer than it did.

AcNns. Oh, I know, dear, but you mustn't-r63

Jelnrns. So much clearer!I wrote the Treaty!-Hobson presented it.'The Confederation of the United Tribes of New Zea-

land'-'The rights and powers of sovereignty'-my work!Where was Hobson when I called the chiefs together?

AcNtrs. There! There! Let's be thankful. So long 2go,James.

You've not had justice. But New Zealand has paid atlast.

Jeurs. Ay, iustice-that sees a man grow oldAnd pays his debts on the brink of the grave-And spills the blood of innocence! I would be guilty,Blood-guilty of New Zealand's wars, had I kept silence.Was Williams iustly accused? Was I?-Does conscience .prick me? Land was the curse,

-I,and was a craving-too much of it, for the having-God, did I not deal honestly?-Have I not paid?

AcNBs. Oh, James!Jeurs. Would any man, in my place-? Ay!

The water in the Bay is calm like the peace of GodAnd how clearly. the evening bell sounds from the Mis-

slon-Thirty ships filled with the gifts of civilizationRidin,g at anchor in the Bry-

AcNBs. For pity's sake!Jeuns. Fornication, filth, disease, child-murder,

Out of the reach of God's law, or man's-'The habits and the institutions of civilized nations'.Didn't I write those words?Remember the flagl Ay, it was a great d^y at WaitangiWhen the Maoris chose the flrg, and we hoisted it.Twenty-one guns we had . . . that d^y. . . .

Ship's gun fires. Echo. Brief piluse. Gun a_gain. Echo.Pau,se.Gin again. Echo. Fude up crowd noise. Flakq begi,ns, swells,ouerri,d,es crowd noise. Fade. Bagle call, rnid-distance.

lsr Plrnse.. I don't like it-sti' me dead if I do.2No Pe eue. Sure, what's the harm? 'Tis kapin' the savages

amused.3np PArtrsR. Great dry for the Irish, Paddy.

Well the Navy's here, thank Christ for that.lsr PerBue. Listen t'Lawd Nelson-

So long as them bastards don't forgett64

There's more than one way of loading a gun.3nn PtrnHA. The Navy?lsr Pernue. Nah, them natives. Busby's playing wiv fire.2No ParBsa. 'Tis a bit of a rag on a pole he's playing with.lsr Paxpua. What abaht them natives?4rru PerBu4, Why, that's the goddamdest mongrel fl^g.

Where'd he get a fl^g like that, now?lsr PernuA. Aht o' 'is own 'ead. That's the Gawd's truth.

Sittin' up o' nights 'e's bin, wiv Mrs Rezzydent-Near nine months gone she is too-the pair of themMaking stars ar,' crosses on bits o' paperFor the whores in Sydney ro stitch a flag by.

4rrr Par<BuA. That goddam crazy flag!3no PArnue. Thank God for the Navy.lst Pr,rBnA. Bloody young fool!2wp Pertrua. 'Tis a harmleis folly.3no PmBue. He's a fool in earnest, Paddy.

There'll be guns fued in anger beforb he's done.2un PArBse. D'y. say so?lsr Perpne. Y'don't know the 'alf of it. (Mocks Busby.)

There's to be civilized hinstiturions,4 pgly;;"t "r ,r* M;;;i^i;;;t;] ,ry, Mister Busby,And a parly menr 'ouse ro sit them in.

5ru PerBrrr. Ah, get along! They'll give 'im civilized in-situtions!

2Nn Pernne. Bejasus, with the rough end of a taiahaUp his residential backside, that's whar.

3no Perena. All right, laugh. ft's us that'll get the rough end.What about your businessP

5rn PtxBHe. I'll take care of that.I sr PernnA, fog just wait! Yus, 'e's got grand ideas, 'as our

Mister MacRezzydent. The 'ousCo' I-ords and the 'ouseo' Commons won't be nothink ro them chiefs when 'eggLs started,-'e'll rax the grgg aqd 'e'll rax the tabaccy,-'e'11 clap a charge -on-every bloody ship in the B^y. ye'llsee the exciseman's fingermark on the blanket quict er'na randy sailor can tumbl e a whore on ir.

2No PArBut. Sure, wouldn't that be the most elegant civilizedproceeding.

But 'tis all the foolishness in the poor young man's head.4rru PArnua,. I guess so. See that bunch settin'?own passin'

laws like Congressmen?Not while there's a hog or a woman in the nationOr a goddam cask of rum.

r65

Isr P,q,rBHa. This ain't no Congress.I ain't sayin' nothin' about Yankees-

2No ParBsA. Nty, nowlWhat for would they be taxing and passing the laws,Tell me that, now?

l sr P.trnse. I'm tellin'-to pay the soldiers wiv-2Nn P,mnul. Redcoats? Mother o' God, ye-1 sr PerBnl. Yus-Redcoats.5rH PArnsA. Who's talking that way?lsr PArBse. Never mind who.

Look at that there flag-bit of L rag, eh?Plenty o' hands on the hoist, ain't there?Forty chiefs, that's too many for my fancy,An' a couple o' them bible-bangers at the Missiol,An' Mistei Clendon an' Mister Mair from the B^y-An' the man o' war's ossifers.

5rtr Pernse.. What about the Frenchman?lsr Pernul. What abaht 'im?5rn PerBse. Calls himself King of the Cannibal Islands,

Sovereign Chief of New Zealand.lsr PernsA. 'im?! If 'e's not mad I'm Jesus Christ.

Well, 'e'll find King Busby wiv 'is fl^g up.2xp Pmn,nA.. Holy saints, that makes two o' them.4rn PArnrrl. I guess our President don't aim to move over in

the White Ffouse.

Fade. Fade up Maori patere. Subdued buzz of oatdoor 0s-sembly, under. Patere closer. Fade.

J.r.rnrns. Gentlemen! 4y next dory on this solemn occasion,is to request the signatures of our witnesses,- representa-tives of -the Church, and of the people, to this Declara,-tion of New Zealand's Independence, agreed upon inyour presence and before Nmighty God by the thifly_hve chiefs and leaders of the United Tribes, assembledhere at Waitangi upon this ninth d^y of December in theyear of our Lord eighteen hundred and thirly-five. Theiaid chiefs and leaders hereby constituting themselves, intheir collective capacity, the sole soverign authority ex-isting within the territory of tbe said tribes. Further-more, the said hereditrry chiefs hereby declare theirdetermination, to meet each yefi in congress here atWaitangi, for the purpose of framing laws, to the endsof iustice, peace, good order, ?nd the regulation of trade,for the common welfare and happiness of the peoples of

t66

this land.-It is likewise agreed that I, as Resident, shallsend a copy of this Declaration to his Majesty the $irg,thankirg -him for his gracious acknowlgdgment of ourfl^g, and affirmirrg the iolemn resolve and purpose of thethiity-five chiefs to extend-to all his Mrigsty's qqbiectsresiding within their territory-that same friendship andproteciion which, for their part, they humbly entreatthe King will continue to afford their nation, al a father,and a protector against any attempt upon its independ-ence.

Very brief pttuse. Subdued stir.I call upon the Reverend Mr Henry Williams.Sh, wilf you sign here? '

Hnxnv. With pleasure, Mr Resident.Rustle of popsrs. Pen scrdtches.CrBNpoN (aside). I ssy, Busby's long-winded, isn't he?M^ln. I'll back him against the Maori.CtnNooN. Or a Presbyterian preacher.Jernres (off). The Reverend Mr Clarke,-if yo1r please?CremB (fade off). Gladly, Sir.-Thank you, Henry.Pen scrdtches, off.CrnNooN. Well it's all he's got, the words.Mern. Paper bullets, eh?CrBNooN. And the pen is mightier-so they say, or some fool

did.Jevrns (otr). Mr Clendotr, Sir-will you be so kind?CrBNnon (fade off). I'll make the third, Mr Resident.Pen scrotches, off,

There!Jervrns (otr). Now, Mr Mair? You entertain no-reservations?Mem (f uding off, and on). Ffrppy to oblige! No-none at all.Quick scratch, on.

You take this seriously, Busby.Jervrns. Gentlemen, I thank you.-

Seriously, Mr Mair? This dry will be rernemberedAs the day-do you understand me? when the Magna

Carta of New ZealandWas signed.-Crptain Lambert, Sir,Kindly convey my thanks to the officers and menOf your gallant ship, for their indispensable paft in the

Nry, Mr Mair. iT:Tll','l;;ons of the Baron de Thierryr67

To the sovereign chiefdom of these islands may be nomore serlous

Than you suppose, but my own responsibilitiesFor the security and tranquillity of this countryAre not light, Sir.-If we are not to make historyThis d^y, here at Waitangi,History will make short work of us-Ly, short workl

Fade. Pause. Fade up clock ticking and hold in buckgrou.nd.A door opens.Meny.Why, Henry-HnNny (off). Yes, my love, I'm back and glad of it.Door closed.Meny. ft's all over, then.HnNny (f ade on). All is a big word. I suppose so.

Whatever it was.Meny. Ffow did it go?HBNny. Oh, well enough, well enough. (Sigh.) I'll sit down

for a bit.Meny. You must be worn out.HnNny. Ah, that's better!-Still knitting?Meny. Oh, I'd only just sat down.

If I didn't manage a few rows now and again,Nothing would ever get finished.

Ffnmny. I'm glad you're knitting. Don't stop.What is it nowl

Many. A bonnet, for a baby.Hcuny. Arry special baby?Menv. I don't quite know. It was going to be.Hnxny. What is it, my love?Menv. I started it for-Fluia's child, Henry.

Oh, I don't want to think of it!God forgive me for what I did.

HBNny. You did not murder the child, Mary.Very likely, in the sight of God, nobody didWhat nobody could prevent.-One stitch at a time.

Many. I'm going to finish it. It'll come in.Agnes Busby's near her time,-I'll be needed soon.I'm sorry, Henry.-Now, tell me all about it.

Hnxny. Busby's wife,-why so she is!Well, you women have something to show for your

labour.We men labour like mountains, and lo! (Flatly.) a

natlon.r68

We've been declarirrg the independence of New Zealand,Whatever that is.

Meny. Independence!? Mercy!-Who are ase?HBxnv. Why, the hereditary'chiefs of the United Tribes,

In the words of James Busby. Thar's who.We've hoisted our fl^g and we're going ro fight all

comers,To wit, the Baron de Thierty, in whose existenceI confess I find it increasingly difficult to believe.That's the gist of it.

Meny. Oh, not fight! But surely you-Hnuny. Well, in a manner of speiking.

I imagine wq expect the Biitish Ar*y and NavyTo do any that'i needed. A sort of Protectorate.-If the word w{n't used, ir's the only one that wasn't.

Manv. BoI F&*y-how can theyt-Hoirr can Mr Busby?-Is it the Governmenr, tt Flome?

HBunv. oh good heavens, no. Nothing like thar.Meny. Oh, do be serious, Ffenry.HtrNnv. Patience, ryy love. I'm-doing my level best.'WE, that is, the aforesaid heredit ary chiefs,

Ptopose to sit o-nce_ a treff in the Parliamenr BuildingWhich Busby the Resident hath set up, or proposetfi to

And, ro the ,"Jl,ti- tfln. flr1te-, t rrp, sackbut, psalte ty,dulcimer and all kinds of music,

We shall legislate for the governance of our country,Flereinafter to be name-d the Confederation of 'the

United tibes.Menv. A Parliamenr Building? ! At Waitangi! No, Henry!

And they're living in rwo rooms.-Poor Agnes.Sydney- wo.l't _pay -a pe+ny more, everyone says.What they'll do when the baby comes, I can't imagine.It's not true?

Hnxny. Oh yes it is. And ir isn't.It's on a piece of .paper, with the mokos of thirty-five

chiefsAnd ryy moko, and Clarke's and Clendon's and Mair's,-And it's on its way ro the King. How about that?

Menv. But a native Parliamentl ! Surely they'd never-HnNny. Of course not, my love. Nor -a

Pailiament Ffouse.Still, the Magna Carta of New Zealand has been signed,

and witnessed.-Sufficient unto the day is the signature thereof.

169

Poor young Busby! Something so desperately diligentabout him.

Those reports of his to Sydney, ald Whitehall-The reanis of paper, the gallons of ink and midnight oil!Confess, Mary, yo, can'i but admire it, and d.lplil-All thar zeal,- and honesty, and assiduity-and futility.I like him, too-but what can you do about a manWho's got such vision, for,everything-but th.. obvious.Nothinf-nothing will shake the man's convictionThat hJs done in a dry more than we-with God's help-Have done in twenty years.

Many. If only no harm comes of it. It worries ffie, Ffenry.Ffexny. If I'd feared mischief I'd have had no part of it.

It's a slim chance, but it may turn to good.Busby's lust got to learn sooner or laterThat- he's pua here to perform the delicate and respon-

of a Noboay-,if*i:f:'That's preciiely what his instructions are, if he could

read them.He's looking for Somewhere to be Somebody in, maybe

he'll find it,But it won't be here,

Manv. He's ambitious, Henry, isn't he?HBNnY. Yes, and no.

He \Mants to be master of his own tHp, that's all,And there's no ship.-All this time,You haven't stopped knitting, my- love.

Menv. Why no-as long as I'm_ sitting I have to go on.One stitch at a time. Look, four more rows,And the bonnet is finished.

FIBNnv. You have to go on.Yes, Mary, there will be a baby to Plt the bonnet otr,One baby-or another-that's somethit g'What fine fingers yours are.

MenY. Flattery, Henry.Hnunv. Mine'aren't much use, for the fine work.Meny. Now you're fishing.-Your dear old fingers.

But I do -like

them best when they're not so inky.Hnxnv. Why, so they are. The birth stains of a nation.

Ah-whlt it is to be a, young man with vision!I'd better wash them, hadn't I? Is there-

Manv. There's hot \Mater on the stove.FfnNnY. Good. Good.

170

Door opens, closes. Clock ticks. Fade.Menv (to berself ). One baby-or another-another-Clock f udes to brief silence. Clock f ades aF, strikes midnight.Hamrnering on door.Moonn ( off ). Mr Williaffis, Mr Williams! Are ye there, SirP

Mr Williams!Hommering renewed.HBNny (fade on). Who's that? Steady, there!Door opened.Moonn. ft's Moore, Sir, Mr Busby's man-

There's bloody murder, Sir!FfBNRy. Steady, steady my lad. What's wrong?Moonp. Wrltangi. Mr Busby's shot, Sir-'tis foul play!

Mr Busby said ro get you, Sir-HBNny. Shot! D'you say murder!Moonn. Yes, Sfu-I do'know, Sir. Them natives-HBNnv. Pull yourself together, Moore. (Incredulous.)

Natives!?Many ( off ). Henry!FIeNny (to Moore). All right, lad, I'll come over.Many (fade on). What is it?FfnNny. Busby's been attacked.

Wait hege, Moore. We'll get the boat manned.Thank God it's calm water--Go back to bed, Mary.

Menv. Indeed ro, I'm coming. It's Agnes-she's near hertlme-

Ffnxny. Yes, yes. Agnes, of course!-Dress quickly.Voices approoch.

William!-That you, Clarke? Waitangi's in trouble.Turn out the boat's crew. Get more lanterns.I'11 be at the landing.

WrruAM. What's the trouble?FfENny. Never mind that. Go.

Now, Moore, tell me.Moontr. I don' rightly know, Sir.

There was four shots, out o' the darkMr Busby calls out, I'm hit, Moore.

HnNny. Who's there besides?Moonn. Only three of us men, Sir.FfnNnv. Come on then, lad.-

4h,-rea4y, ryy love? The boar's down by the look of it.Plenty of ligh$ at the landing. Come on.

T7L

Steps on graael, rapidly distancing. Fade up noise of sruallwdaes, bout pushing off, odrs.Henry's aoice il little off, heard from shore.

Give way, lads-together! Together!Steer for that one light there. That's Busby's.

Oars fade ou,t. Pause. House door opens.AcNBs. James! Don't leave me-Javres. It's all right, deares!,_it'l all right llow.- It's the boat from the Mission.Steps dpprooch.

Mr Wiltiams! Thank God you've come, Sir.Mrs Williams? Ah, God biess you-my poor wife-

Menn. Let me go in, Mr Busby._Javrns. Ay, matam, go in-ye'li find her safe and sound.fl"**t. You're huit, Busby-bleeding, mall. Give me the

light, there.That's no bullet wound!

Jennns. A splinter of wood, _ Sir.

The bullet's there-in the frame o' the door.Hpxnv. Who was it?Jevrcs. Rete-or Rete's pegPlg-HpNnv. Rete? That's a chief.

In the dark? You'd never see them.Where's your evidence?

Jennes. Ay, you're right, Mr Williaffis,I never saw, but my men say-

FfpNnv. You know what this means?You'll have the whole pack of hell-hounds at the BryYelling for blood and ihe guns of the Navy-And you say you never saw?

Jevres. Niy, Sir, there's little doubt,My men here-

HtrNnv. Confound your menlBetter leave this to the Mission, Busby.We'll sift it, we'll get the chiefs together,

-With yourself and Captain Lamberiwhile his ship's here.Jennns (hiih horse). Sir, I^have satisfied *yr,4f." The &i*. is grievous, not against ryysel! personally,

But against hia Mayesty the King whom I represent.I rely in the King's name,upon your suppofi,And'upon the N-avy, in, +. prompt execution of iusticeUpon tfris man Rete and his -accomplices.The punishment cannot be less than death.

172

HBNnv. Are you serious?Jernns. I have never in my life been more serious, Sfu.

I demand your-FfBNnv. Mr Resident! You may demand.-

If that is your intention, I promise you that you have no

You are alone. ttr?":"1'noruy.

Janrns (aery brief paase). Alone?-Sir, I beseech you-HnNnv. It won't do, Busby.Jemns. Ay, Sir-then I am in your hands.

Let it be-sifted, then, as you propose.-Will you kindly come int Ye see, my wife-

Many (fade on,). Hush, Ffenry. She is sleeping. Poor soul,She bears it all, so much, and so bravely.-Flush.

Door closed, aery gently. Fade up London street sounds.'Blue Danube' on barrel-orgdn. Window closed, music f ades.

AcNBs. Doctor, tell me. Am I to hope?DocTon. You are brave, Mrs Busby.AcNBs. There is-no hope, then?Docton. None that I should raise.AcNBs. I have prayed, Doctor, all night.Docton. You need rest, Mrs Busby.

You are your husband's comforter.Jawrns (aery painfully ). Agnes! I-I-AcNns (moaenaent to hirn). I'm here. What is it?Jernrns (his breathing heard). The light, I-AcNtrs. There! You can see rne-a little?Javrns. On your face-your cheek-

Ay, come closer.AcxBs. There! TherelJevrns. The light is too strong. AgRes-Acxtrs. There, close

1ftii eyes again. You've such a bad, bad

Oh, that east wind! Doctor, we should never have gone

Jeuns. What? -Wh"gliere?AcNBs. Only the doctor, James. Lie still, dear.You need your strength.

Janaes. Ay.AcNtrs. Orly to see a bit of London. Oh, why did we-?Docton. Your husband needed the exercise, Mrs Busby.

We hoped, that with the recovery of his sight,Exercise might recruit his strength a little.-

173

The congestion of the lungs is very severe,But it is not only that. Many years of great strainHave told heavily upon him, very heavily.

Jarvms. The-the things-the things-AcNns. There! There!I^q'rwrs. Of this-of this world-" Oh the light-so terribly strong.

Where his your-hand gone?- (Quick breoth, conr)ul-sive,)

IN-THE, KING'S NAME,! LE,T JUSTICE, BEDONE.

I DEMAND-I-I- (Breath and strength fail him.)Acxns. Oh, don't, don't, James-please!Docron. Mrs Busby, I beg of you.

Our patient is under great strain.We must bear up as best we can, ma'am.Don't misundersiand me-I had hoped otherwise-I am afraid we are little more than spectators.

AcNtrs. Doctor, he has suffered so much iniustice.Docton. Ma'am, I am not unfeeling. It is your burden

That you are able to connect what I must interpretAs delirium.

AcNBs. My husband is dying.Docron. You are a, brave woman.AcNBs. Oh, [o, Doctor. No.Jerrrns (laughs, almost a senile giggle, but it is not).- LAND SHARK! Do you see what this man says?

Ay, that's a fine thing,_a {.. lhiqg-that,.anq worse!R6ad it, Agnes-land shark-that's your husbandIn the corrupted sight of a corrupt

-community.

Did the Maori not have iustice in all my dealings?(He stands bef ore il Maori assembly, -more. distant,forrmul, the aoice rising to what is like hysteria, but isnot.)You know me by *y name. I am Tq Puhipi.I boughr my land from you fairly. _ Tell the Goverltor.Your land-my land! What does the Treaty sqy?What did it siy before it was torn and smearedBy dirty Company fingers? Where is the land gone-Your land, and mine, Te Puhipi's-?

Acxns. Oh James!Jenrns (in ixtrnnis). God! God of Justice-into the sea!

THE SHARKS ARE FEASTING YET.174

Fade up patere. Cross f ade into gull cries, subdued sea noises,taken down to backgrootnd.A door opens.IsenBne Busry. John! That's not all for us? !

JouN Dow Busny. Ffer M*iesty's mails. I wish they camemore often.

We just don't get the ships to the B^y.Waitangi must be more cut off than it wasWhen father was King's Resident.

IsenrrlA. It's exciting when it comes.Have you lookedP

JouN. It's all in the heap, dear. Plenty for you, of course-And a" f.* parcel from Sydney.

IsesBrLA. My dresses!JonN. And a letter from London. It's mother.

Forgive ffie, dear.Letter torn open. Brief pduse.

Father!Isannrre ( off ). Oh, John.JonN. My father is dead.

I should have been there. Not here.

JonN (reading, controlling strong ernotion).Your dear father is removed from this world of

sorrow. . t .

AcNBs (her aoice, her letter).I am left a stranger, in a strange land, to mourn his loss.He thanked God that he could see, but alas! for meThose eyes were too soon to be closed for ever.I pray God who is full of compassion to give me

strength.I shall return to Waitangi, my home, as his young bride.He has gone to the better land, where his treasure was

long laid up.Fade ap sed, gull cries. Sloas f ade out.

Resident of N oushere wes commissioned by the New Zeilend BroadcastingCorporation, which asked for a play about 'a figure that strongly in-fluenced New Zeeltnd's history', for performance during 1969, bi-centeneryyear of Cook's first Pacific voyage. It v/as first broadcast as pert of theL969 Auckland Festival, and will be heard again in the bi-centenary pro-grammes. It was produced by Roy Leywood in the N.Z,B.C. Aucklandstudios, with the following cast:J_q*o Busby_ (Williqm Johnson), Agnes Busby (Jan Bashford), CaptainBlackwood, R.N. (Frederick Betts), Flenry Williams (Laurence H.p-

t75

rn/ofth), Mary Williams (Pamela Seebold), tluia (B3rbara Magner),William Williams (Peter Vere-Jones), First Pakeha (Don Hutchings),Second Pakeha (Dawson Manning), Third Pakeha (Frederick Betts),Fourth Pakeha (Peter Vere-Jones), Fifth Pakeha (Donald Farr) o J. R.Clendon (Dawson Manning), Gilbert Mair (David Prosser), GeorgeClarke (Craig Ashley), William i\{oore (Craig Ashley), Doctor (Wi[iamSmith), John Dow Busby (David Weatherley), and Isabella Busby (PamMerwood).I am indebted to Mr Roy Leywood, who kindly checked and correctedmy. gopy against his production copy. of th._ play.. it4y oyn subseguentrevsron accounts for i few minor variations from the broadcast perform-ance. -4,C,

LOUrS IOHNSON

'ln Another Country: and Besides...'

To rIERCE the skin, or to suffer a simple itch?Journeys in depth are the most difficult:Street noises differ by , decibelBut tell no more than size or an obsession.

I try to explain to myself some facts about p]ace_:Ffow, lacking roots, the hand moves out to clutchAt obvious growth, and finds the answer's air.Deeper needs patience and the power of tact.

The traffic on Flubert Murray is rowdier thanThe serried ranks of steel on Lambton Quay;Death sprouts more anchors here to the- straight mileThough it's all smaller than the routes I know.

The difference may be of care: in my own placePerhaps the air \Mas coarser, drew a veilThat .y. and ear ffixy, in more calm, prevailAnd feel at home. A surface clarity here

Mry make the soundings seem more evidentBut mean no more than sunburn, pigmentation,Another time of dty. If there were choiceCould one change much by preference

176

Of being here or there? Perhaps the wenchIs dead, and the longing only born to be solitary.Deeper then: this is merely to foot the highwayNot sensing labours of making, sure foundations.

Avocados

Fnovr rHE hills of a strange country,three black-skinned avocadossummon your imagg:-w-ho, over several seasno\M write to me, still desperate with love,wanting to come.

I think, as I preparethese soft, polyptic fruit in the mannerto which we were accustomed-French dressingstrong with garlic-taking the two uncutand placing them in the fridge (or, rather,I do not think), ffiF hands rememberholding your breasts with iust this gestureand calling them avocados.

Desperate too,all things refer rne to you. My cupboardsbulge with indulgences, the things we enioyedsharing together, to offer as homageupon your desired arrival. I cherish all,and have taken the great seed from the cut fruitand buried it in the garden, where it may makeof the heat and approaching monsoonsome swift green shoot like memory to standin this yard forever, perhaps to shade the house,and always to give pleasure, having been setupon eagfr in your namg, whgse syllablesalways bring me to singitrg, always to pralse.

t77

The Way to Train a Dog

ToNrcHT we were told the way to uain a dogTo chase Kanakas. While still a pup,You put him in a sack, then beat itWith a stick. When howls and yelping die,You send the houseboy out to set him free.With any luck, the dog, enraged, will turnMadly upon his liberator, thinkingHis the dark hand inflictirrg former pain.So grows discrimination among dogsThat was already planted in their masters.

Walkirrg at night to take the Moresby air,You are advised to keep to the crown of the roadAnd carry a stick, or a handful of rough stones.In darkness dogs do not distinguish skins,May bite the hands that feed them, or that payBoth for the houseboys and the dogs they feed.Which proves, perhaps, no tutelage is faultlessHowever well-intended. Sticks are best,For dogs are not the only danger: thereAt the fringe of the road, under trees, may lurkDark-eyed marauders, sullen-knived avengersSeeking their payback, dogs having their dry.

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Reviews

ON NATIVE, GROUNDS, Australian Writing from'Mean-jin Quarterly', selected by C. B. Christesen, Angus dt Robert-son. $6.00.

TnB EDrroR of a book of this kind faces special problems.For what kind of audience is it intended? Should the aim beto produce a representative anthology-one that captures thecontemporary flavour of a magazine and gives a, sense of itshistorical development-or should the principle of selection bethe editor's own iudgment about 'the best that has beenthought and said' F - $. magazine? And what method ofarranging the material best serves the initial purpose? Facedwith the task of reducing to a book of manaqeable proportionsthe ten thousand pages of writing which Meanjin's contribu-tors produced in the first twenty-five years of its existence( 1940- 1965) ,, Mr Christesen argued, probably rightly, that itwould be better to offer substantial selections within a clearlydefined area than to attempt a superficial coverage of thewhole ranse of its interests. This entailed, initially, two maiorareas of elimination: all non-Australian contributions, and,within the Australian context, all non-literary contributions.The result, then, is that the anthology can be said to 'repr.-sent' Meaniin only within fairly narrow limits. Almost halfthe book (the section entitled 'Interpretations') is a selectionof articles of e literary critical nature. There are also elevenshort stories and fifty-three poems, two shorter sections con-taining articles of biography and reminiscence (again primar-ilv of literary interest), and finally a short section ('Variety')of miscellaneous articles. This latter section includes suchcelebrated pieces as Vance Palmer's 'Battle', A. A. Phillips's'The Cultural Cringe', Sidney J. Baker's 'Letter to TomCollins: Demise of the Bulletin', and A. D. Ffope's stingingreview of Max Harris's The Vegetatiae Eyr,'Confessions ofa Zombie', and thus hints, all too briefly, tt Meanjin's import-ant role as a forum for contemporary debate and controversy.

What one misses most are the contributions on historical,political and sociological themes (Brian Fitzpatrick's 'Coun-ter-revolution in Australian Historiography?' is one that comes

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to mind), contributions on the arts other than literature, and,except for the brief final section, the sense of specific issues-a climate of discussion and controversy which is served notso much by the longer article as by the short article, thereview, the editorial, the correspondence column. In his shortpreface, Mr Christesen himself draws attention to such omis-sions, and to the quite practical considerations of space whichmade them necessary; to emphasize them here is simply todraw attention to the range of interest which Meanjin hasmaintained under his editorship.

Given the limits of subject-maffer, Mr Christesen's selec-tions generate their own comparative interest as one readsthrough them. My main quarrel relates to the poetry section,where the fifty-three poems are spread among no fewer thanforty-eight poets. Only A. D. Hope (2), Judith Wright (3),Gwen Flarwood (2) and James Picot (2) receive the acco-lade of more than one poem. There was a strong case, onpurely historical grounds, for preserving a sample of thepoetry of Meunjin's early Brisbane issues (Paul L. Grano,James Picot, I-f. Vintner and Ian Mudie, for example) sincethis provided, at the time, the main raison d'¤tre for the maga-zine. But apart from this I think it would have been betterto cut the number of poets to at least half, perhaps even athird, the present number, and let each speak where possiblethrough at least three poems. If 'we set aside the moreestablished figures-FitzGerald, Flope, McAuley, Wright andDouglas Stewart-then of the poets whose work I've readVincent Bucklay, David Campbell, Nancy Cato, Ian Mudieand Chris Wallace-Crabbe in particular seem poorly repre-sented. On the other hand there is a characteristic delicatelyfashioned allegory by Rosemary Dobson, which might remindNew ZeaLand readers of Charles Spear, and Francis Webbis well-represented by his poem 'Harry'. Of the youngerpoets there are some good, if slight, examples of the work ofVivian Smith, Rodney Hall, Thomas W. Shapcott and BruceDawe. Interestingly, Colin Thiele's 'Radiation Victim' is theonly poem which, tt least on the surface, shows any overtconcern for post Second World War anxieties-apart, that is,from Alexander Craig's hysterical dismissal, in rhymed coup-lets, of post-war American poetry ('Art's compass gone, andquadrant intellect,fIt steers into a maelstrom and is wrecked').

If one \Mere to generalize about the poetry offered in thisselection, the poems that stand out are those where there isleast forcing of the initial experience into moulds of general-

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ization-as in those by.fitzGerald,. Dobson, Smith and Shap-cott. What I am pointing to here is the pervasive presence ofrhetoric, but it is a certain kind of rhetoric seiving quitespecific. purp.osq: hardly pJopagandist or even vaguelf socialin its aims (in fact one of the most obvious feaiures of theselection is the almost complete lack of any poerry of com-mjtryent). Instead rhetoric ieems to functio" i" a gtear manyof ,hg poems as a mode of isolating a parricular".*p..ienctfrom its social context and insisting 6n iis value as r-rr*thirrgpurely

, private and personal, as something caught, and held',

and valued,, i!. only momentarily. The sociologicat implica-tions of thi: (in so- far as it is a recurrenr strain in contempor-ary Australian poerry) Srrr- perhaps be explained in termr bf ,reaction against strongly felt pressures of social conformityand authoritarianitq. -Yet poets writing in this vein run thtrisk of success in their own terms: tffit the reader will beunmoved P,re.cisgly because he is excluded (both by thesffategy.and the 'meanin{ gf $. poem) -from participating intlr. poe.{s perceptions an? in the particular values attach.fi tothem. 'Prayer for the Death of the Grey Bird', for example.begins with an arresting conception, t,it one's r.ii.T^;'ilr;eqd is partly for the bird's releas^e from the intolerable burden9f^the poet's self-consciousness. One suspects the pervasiveinfluence of one of Judith Wright's poetil styles nefrina thispoetry of the Personalized Object. From ore point of view,Vincent Buckley's essay 'Helicon as Jordan' (included in the'Interpretations' sectioirl , . which hiis out rather wildly atnotions of literature as substitute religious gratification, "pro-vides a useful commentary. P-ersonali{ed Ob]ect as Fetish.'. . .In so far as the haphizari, arrangemenr 'of the poems atintervals ,.hjorghout the volume gi-ves the imprerrior, "f Irather fastidioui samplit g from a m,lch.grea,ter rang. oipo.*,and po:tsJ it might be seen as rather mis"leading. d1 hisiorillgrounds I would have thought that the case fdr a chronologi-gd plesentation of the poemsr or perhap-s a series of gro,rpffithy. decades, was srrong. _(olS i.r, Teficitous arrangemenris the juxtaposition .of A. D. Hope's'poem 'A Commfi;ir;,a savage ritual cursing of .cgqtg*pg riry culture in the *6lio.f Jo\".of Revelation,^wigh !it_qtbq"., sympathetic air""r:sion of the qualities of Steele Rudd's 'seleciion stories i" r.ir-tion to those of Henry Lawson.) However, these objeciio"tto the principle gf selection and arrangement of the po.*tdo not PpPly at all to the short story section, which .d"rrirrtsome of the most exciting work in the book. 'Perhapr ."ig.;:

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cies of space forced Mr Christesen to be more selective here,but without exception these stories point to the corytquingvitality of the short story form in Australia. Vance Palmer,Patrici< White, John Morrison (whose writing reminds mevery much of Ol E. Middleton's), Pgter Cowan and Judah I-'.Waten are all represented by stories that are among theirbesr. It is a pity thrt Frank Hardy -could not be represent.i,if only ro p-rride a fuller contexi for David Martin's article'Threb Rerjists in Search of Reality', which is one of the out-standing contributions in the literary criticism section. It notonly c6ntains the most symp_athetii and intelligett criticismthai Morrison, Waten and

-Hardy have received, b9, - also

raises fundamental questions about-socialist realism and aboutliterature and political commitment in terms which cutthrough, or at least questiofl, orthodox formulations of anecess ary antagonism bbtween the_e{pression of ideolggy ?".dthe 'integrity' 6f the work of art. I disagree with Mr Martin'sconclusions

-because he seems to me to fall back on a mono-

lithic model for fiction-in terms of a particular kind of rela-tionship between theme, character,- psyqhglogf etc.-wherewhat ii wanted, I think, is a series of models that account fordifferent kinds

'of relationship and emphasis representing dif-ferent kinds of fictional intention. Nevertheless, one hopesthat the republication of the essay in this anthology willstimulare the further discussion that it so clearly deserves.

My comments on the articles selected for the 'Interpreta-tions; section must largely take the form of personal prefer-ence, although, again, f'm not sure whether the arrang-ementof the articles is Jor the best. Mr Christesen's method is toopen the series with two general articles p-resenli.g culturalth.r.r on the main impulses behind Australian literature-Ff.P. Heselrine's celebrafed Trillingesque version of the Aus-tralian literary imagination as one preoccupied with 'thehorror of she-er exisience', 'the terror at the basis of being',and A. A. Phillips's reply in defence of the democratic ynag-ination, 'Austrrllan wiiiers' sense of identification with theCommon Man'-and after this he presents a series of articleson specific authors in their chronological order,.{atging fromRusiel Ward's 'Felons and Folk-songs' to I-f. G. Kippax on'Ausrralian Drama Since Sumrner of the Seaenteenth Doll',and ending with two articles of more general cultural con-cern: K. Sl Inglis's 'The Anzac Traditiorl, a consideration ofthe cultural thlsis underlying C. E. \M. Bean's war histories,and T. Inglis Moore on 'The Meanings of Mateship'. This

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arrangement does have its own obvious logic; on the otherhand it obscures the possibility of viewing Meanjin's criticismhistorically. In fact ten of the seventeeh articies belong tothe 1960s, and this predominance is maintained througf,ortthe book as a whole-roughly half of it consists of miterialtaken from Meanjin in the six years 1960- 1965. Articles thatmight have been culled from the 1940s include Nettie Palmeron Richardson (though the article on her by F. ff. Mareswhich Mr Christesen has chosen contains some very percep-tive commentary), and more especially Norman Bartlett'sextremely interesting article on the Australian Little Maga-zine (2 ll9+8) . A. A. Phillips, who is quite properly repie-sented by t*o .essays (as well as being vigorously-present ln athird, as the butt of John Barnes's argument about 'TheStructure of Joseph Furphy's Such is Ltfr), provides the onlyarticle from the 1940s, 'Henry Lawson as- Craftsman'. MrPhillips is one of Lawson's most astute critics, nor least, as histitle implies, in his dissent from the still persistenr 'naif' schoolof Lawson criticism, which seems to rest on a kind of edu ca-tional snobberl: rather like the version of Thomas Flardy asa self-educated man who fortunately never quite lost- his'natural' disposition of straw-chewing yokel and tonsequentlywas able to give us picturesque scenes of rural life.

Those yho - might like to argue that Meanjin's forte isfiction rather tl'ran poetry could point to the heairy weightingin favour of fiction in'the 'Interpretations' r..iiorr. ''Aprr"tfrom Ward's article on the convict ballads, and BuckGy's'Helicon as Jordan', which is only marginally concerned withAustralian poetry, there are only two articles on individualAustralian poers: R. D. FitzGeraid on Mary Gilmore, and T.Inglis- Moore _on _Judith Wright. Other irossibilities wouldhave been S. L. Goldberg. on-A. D. Hope and H. J. Oliveron FitzGerald; on the other hand bottr- these artiiles havebeen republished elsewhere, as has R. F. Brissenden's articleon Judith -Wright. There is nothing in the miscellaneousselection of articles in the three short sections which end thebook that one would wish to omit-from the tributes toVance Palmer, Ff. M. Green and E. Morris Miller ro theshorter pieces in 'Variety' which 'preserve a little of theflavour of early issues'. My reservitions about the poetrysection, the method of arrangirg some of the marerill, andtL. S-omp.aratively heavy wgighting given to the last six yearsof Meanjin's first t\Menry-fiyE yearsl simply reflect my ownpreference for a more historicaliy-oriented inthology. As Mr

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Christesen says in his preface, 'How maqy alternative Y?y.sthere were oi arranging such a selection!'- The book whichhe has produced is-fuIl of interest, _?nd contains much ofvalue for anyone interested in Australian literature.

Terry Sturrtt

SHADOW SHOW. Ruth Dallas. Caxton. $1.50.

Ruru Dnnes in her fourth book of poems continues toexplore. possib-le, ways of catchilg in woids and rhythm herperceptions of the world around her. Hers is not a commonnor a very human world. It is not measured in miles andhours. Beiide a strong sense of the immediate moment runsan awareness of cosm-ic time and space, Yester d*y is aeonsxgo, hardly to be remembered; but always -present is the#oita spinning around the sun,.in tnd out of- darkness;. theuniveme driftiig; man born and aged in a moment. At timesit is a child's ,rlew, free of adult conventions. Children livea long age in the excitement of a fair-dal,_ as-tents and boothsare ser up-and next morning are astonished that all t: g.ongand the adult world has left ihem behind. Or we are invited

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these poems record a dislike of compatrf, and even the best, ifpleasant, is unprofitable.

The range of material is wider than this account mightsuggest, though I pick out what tr find most fascinating. Thesubstance of the poems is, however, often less important thanthe justness of the expression. A brief poem from the series'Brush Strokes' celebrates technigue, not matter:

When Sengai paints a hrppy footThat foot is hrppy.Joy rocks the single line of the sole.

Ruth Dallas's poems in general aim to stand if not as brief atleast as self-sufficient as that one, and the reader may wellfind his greatest pleasure lies in appreciating the skill withwhich the poems are put together. They are written in acarefully balanced, succinct free verse-rarely does she use aregular form against which to play variations. The lines ofverse are at their best very controlled, especially in theirrhythm. Often a poem seems to be made up of single linesor phrases, each one a new discovery and unique, anotherstroke of the brush in a severely economical sketch, a nuggetcherished with only five or six others as being alone wofthkeeping of all the stones in the riverbed of language, Butthey are chosen, phrases and words, for sound and rhythmfirst; the meaning is not always quite so apt. The rhythmof a line is the paramount consideration; auxiliary aids, oftendelicately used, are alliteration (by no means only of theinitial letter and often approaching consonance within theline) and a delight in long vowels. Rhyme is occasionallyused, especially to link the last line to a point further backso as to bring the poem quietly to anchor.

It is not easy to choose a representative poem. 'Faces inthe Street' rvill however show many of the sffengths andinterests I have mentioned:

From bittercounttY,from escarpment,from blanched bone,springs th. spiralmatagourr,in no shelter but its own.

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Over facesshielded,shut faces,faces cool and stricken faces,walks the crow's-footof the thumbscrew,of eroded stone.

Many of the poems in this book are simple images orcameos, worth little but in the carving. A heavy burden isthus set on form and technique. Miss Dallas on the wholeworks very carefully, and the book is admirably free of poorwriting, even if the metaphors are at times rather consciouslyworked op. But the better poems tend to be the shorter ones.A technique which relies so heavily on the phrase and theline easily loses the form and emotion that might hold theIonger poem together. It is perhaps the lack of warmth, too,that repels one a little from what is in detail so clearly hard-won and sensitively chosen. Miss Dallas, in 'PotlPoem', prizesmost highly the poem which seems to have been always there,like a buried mosaic, simply awaiting discovery. Orly a" fewof these forty and more poems win that independence. Read-irrg the others, one can itill catch a glimpse of the workmenpacking their tools.

One long poem, the last in the book, stands apart. It is Lre-tellirrg of the Beauty and the Beast legend, runs to fourpages, and is cast in a semi-dramatic form. It does not aftemptthe intensity and concision the shorter poems require tosucceed, and yet is rich in language and sound. Perhaps thefreedom the subject offers the poet encourages this fine mid-sumrner flowering: at all events, the thing is well done.

I. E. P. Thomson

NEW ZELLAND ART. Edited by P. A. Tomory. Paint-ing 1827 -1890, Hamish Keith. Painting 1890-1950, P. A.Tomory. Painting 1950-1967, Mark Young. A. H. de A. W.Reed. g 1.00 each.

CunNows HAvE been in trouble over anthologies before, so Ihad better get some things straight right away. As readerswill know, or guess, the Rita Angus on the cover of thesecond volume of this series is a portrait of my mother. I can

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dimly remember her sitting for it, and I certainly rememberit as a fixture in the house. More damning is the fact thatthis series was a pet proiect of my brother, Tim, who worksfor the publisher{ Reeds. And then, I should add that HamishKeith spent a couple weeks with us in Philadelphia in 19-67,Don Binney was through here some time back and iust lastweek Bryan Dew and I were 'rapping' about the New Yorkscene and these books in his apartment off Central ParkWest and a few blocks north of Peter Tomory's place. MarkYoung, Colin McCahon, Mike Illingworth and the others Ihave more or less lost touch with. Why am I reviewing thesebooks? The request that I should do so arrived only a fewweeks after I had received them and I thought to myself thenthat I was the last person to do the iob. Tim's books andMum on the coveri ! But then I thought, I remembered:that's what it's like in New Zealand, everyone interested inthe arts knows everyone interested in the arts. If in my o'wncase, being a Curnow disqualifies me more than the otherdisqualified candidates, then being an expatriate qualifies memore than other disqualified candidates. To some extent,anyway. Of course, I like the books, and that is my otherexcuse for deciding to review them.

I think well of these three books because they are appro-priate. It is praise to say that very few countries are at thistime producing 'art books' that look anything like these, ordo anythit g H[e what these do. To me they?on't look like'art books' at all. They look like exhibition catalogues, andI like that. Cheaper than those put out by the Museum ofModern Art (and theirs are cheap by American standards),and less sumptuous, they are comparable in price althoughmore informative, and useful, than the catalogues of smallprivate galleries like Sidney Janis. One issue of Art Inter-national is more of an 'art book' than one volume in thisseries. It is praise to say this because New Zealand culture isspecifically -what it is and any useful contribution to it mustrecognize this. (Curnow-speak.) What is remarkable is thecombination of cheapness and unpretentiousness on the onehand and high standards of presentation on the other. Sucha combination is desirable in many kinds of publications atany tim.e and in any place, .but it is p.ecgli$l1 ,{esirable,appropriate, tt this time in New Zealand. Why? Some ofthe defining facts of our society are these: smallness of popu-lation, homogeneiry, prosperity, high level of general educa-tion. These facts mean that the opportunities for the wide

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dissemination of the products of 'L-tig!' culture are greatel i,New Zealand than in most countries in the world. Excellentgallery attendance figures in Auckland and excellent salesfigures for New Zealand poetry are evidence. These booksare designed to make the most of these opportunities, andthus are appropriate. If we assume that 'high' culture bringsgood newsf then we must praise this appropriateness.

While they contribute to the high standards of presenta-tion, matters of the selection of reproductions and the view-points expressed in the introductions to each volume are ofsecondary importance. In this sense: to approach each volumeas if it were a definitive critical statement on the art of theperiod would be to distort the purpose of each and requireit to serve a function it cannot properly do and serve- thefunctions it already does. That iaid, the critical statementwhich this anthology makes, 3s a whole and in its pafts, hasto be confronted. Our culture is young, its achievements ofnecessity few, yet there comes a moment when these achieve-ments accumulate to the point where they seriously invite anorderitrB, a shapirg, a winnowing, and for the fust time. Thatpoint has been reached and passed so far as poetry is con-cerned. These books address themselves to the notion thatsuch a point has arrived as far as painting is concerned. Theydo not exhaust that moment, rather they winnow and sketchin a likely shape. Furthermore the critical statement is impliedin the rigorous selections rather than expounded in the intro-ductions which are more informative and descriptive thandidactic or theoretical. The restraint is most apparent inPeter Tomory's volume, although Hamish Keith's assertionsare surprisingly modest. His view that the assimilation of the'unique quality of the Pacific light' is central to the isolationof a native tradition is foreshadowed in so far as it informshis account of colonial painting and is lightly echoed in theintroduction to the second volume. It is not belaboured,however; it is the sketchirrg of a shape. In its current formthis view invites the questions that are begged in HamishKeith's concluding paragraph about the relationship betweenartistic concepts and viiual facts. Similarly, Mark Young'simplication that the problem of national identity is no longerrelevant is leopardized by his assumption that landscape paint-irrg is not ultimately and intimately concerned with 'themental landscape or the universality of human relationshipsand tensions'. Both ideas are interesting, suggestive as can be

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verified by looking at the reproductions. And this issufficient.

The major critical act here is in the selections. It is goodat this time to see so many left out of the account. NoGoldies, Russell Clarks, Louise Hendersons, Keith Pattersons,John Tolesl ! There is bound to be argument. For myselfI have few obiections. Doris Lusk should be represented. Icannot understand the choice of Ross Ritchie's Thought II,it's a clumsy pastiche of a picture which only serves to showhow much he has grown since 196+, Bryan Dew's BirthdayParty has been reproduced many times and there are otherpieces of his of equal strength. The Suzanne Goldberg needsto be in colour. Don Binney's Kotare oaer Ratuna Cburch,Te Kaa, shows the weaknesses rather than the strengths of hisstyle. But this sort of disagreement aside, the big thing hereis that only a few painters are represented. If sense is to bemade of the history of New Zealand painting the focus mustbe narrowed and these books do it for the first time.

It may be argued that the premise upon which my reviewis based is simply that I concur with the bulk of the criticaldecisions made by the editors and therefore that the argu-ment for appropriateness is faulty to that extent. However,I do not believe that it can be argued that these books presentan eccentric picture, a major distortion of the record. f dobelieve, on the other hand, that this series should not beallowed to rule by default the general understandirrg of NewZealand paintilg. No- more than ever \Me need articles andmonographs, lengthy and serious, on individual painters,periods and centres. New Zealand 'high' culture is still dis-turbingly thin; it has reached the point where it can produceadmirable, appropriate, and challenging anthologies of itsachievements but so far seems to lack the power to sustainand develop a critical understanding of those achievements.Peter Tomory has left the country, Flamish Keith hasdeveloped a ma)or interest in politics and Mark Young .h$a major commitment to poetry. f salute all those responsiblefor this series (Flail!) and call upon them to give up theirfoolish pursuits (Give them up! ) and to return to the studyof New Zealand painting (for the rest of your livesl).

Wystan Carnow

THE, RAINBIRDS. Janet Frame . Pegdsns. $2.7 5.TnB NEwEST inhabitant of Janet Frame's world is thirty-

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year-old Godfrey Rainbird, an Fnglish immigrant who hasbecome a Dunedin clerk, and who has a wife, a house witha view, and two children. In The Ruinbi,rds, Godfrey experi-ences death and resurrection in suburbia. He is taken lifelessto the morgue after being knocked down one night on lheway home -from a meedng. His wife, her p,aren$, his ghil-dren and sister smoothly assume the attitudes of grief ex-pected and accepted by society; his. older sister Lynle-y d.:cides to emigrate from England in time for the fuleral, _andthis ceremony is expensively, lavishly prepared without lovebut with a monogrammed coffin. But fate has cruelly trickedthem all: Godfrey wakes from a coma, a s.leep of death andnor death itself, and all those who reconciled themselves soswiftly ro his going find it impossible to reconcile themselvesro hii return. HIs 'corpseness' constandy repels his wifeBeatrice; both now possess an unspoken awareness of thepresence of death in life. She often thinks ani speaks of himin the preterite, is aware of the coldness of his bgdy andhands (which even civilization's latest electric blanket can-nor cherish back to lively warmth), and perceives new mean-irrg in the word 'sleep'.

Rot where she incieasingly shies away from this alien mor-bidity, h. is increasingly fascjnated by it. tle- begins to geeemblems of death all-about him. Those all about him alsobegin ro perceive death in this man who has died and re-tuined. On the bus going in to his iob at the Tourist Bureauhe is treated with curiosity by his fellow passengers, pnd hehas to ger off early. When he does reach the Tourist Bureauit is toleceive noiice: a man who has been dead cannot pro-rnore rourism. People stare at him in the street; his story iswanted for television, for newspapers, and for sermons atEaster. His experience makes him a. social cripple. I+ qsociety engaged in a festering pursuit of the material, !h. 'live'and the sup?rficial-a chase which is a p"i-"- avoidance ofeverything ibstract, eternal, or spiritual-Godfrey is a walk-ing reminder of mortality-His withdrawal into himself is a withdrawal from life andits practical problems. Excluded from suitable work, he isconrenr to assemble electric plugs at home; he spends the restof his time in idle contemplation. The neighbours begin tocall him an irresponsible ciipple, and qheir children to tauntthe Rainbirds'. Beatrice Rainbird, a dull suburbanite unarmedfor such battles, succumbs, and, with stones thrown by !h.neighbours rattling on the Rainbirds' roof, she opens up her

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throat with a sharp silver knife. The last chapter surveys theRainbirds' grave in Anderson's Bry Cemetery, and, withskimpy irony, outlines their posthumous fame and the suc-cesses of their children. Seen in this compressed form, TheRainbirds appears to be a, scathing criticism of New Zealandsociety. Janet Frame's dark suburbanites are an undifferenti-ated mass capable only of a dull collective evil against theRainbirds, turning unseeing from the grain of sand whichGodfrey holds uf.

By inclination, Miss Frame favours interior exploration ofher characters, and her technique has always aided her search.But in Tbe Rainbirds she shows a desire to cast a cold eye alsoon the society in which she places her characters, and inwhich she perhaps sees herself as well. Ffer eye is often acuteand perceptive.

. . Easter: the beach, the last supply of sun . . . Eastereggs, rabbits for the children; Good Friday changed toDead Friday; death on the roads, in the mountains, the fiqddrownings before summer came again. . . . Alternate wailsand cheers from the churches: He is dead, He is risen.Then Anzac Dry most solemn: khaki and poppies.

Here is the panoramic sweep and the compression of thesocial observer-of Janet Frame, almost tangibly present asauthor, ro matter #frict character she drafies Lr"fr remarkover. And there's the rub: the further the novel proceedsat this social level, whatever the intrinsic value of the observa-tions rnade at these heights, the greater is the damage done tothe introspective aspects of the novel, the very area in whichin the past the writer has gained and communicated her mostsignificant insights. Despite initial appearances to the con-trary, Janet F'rame is at heart an omniscient narrator 'peeringin' at her characters. Rather than being a genuine user of thestream-of-consciousness technigue, she establishes the illusionof 'possessing' the consciousness of her characters. More andmore in Tbe Rainbirds she will speak-either directly, or at aslight. remove from o:, -tqrough characters-in her own voice,surprising us often with her urban drawl. And the more wehear of this civilized voice, the less \Me hear of that bar-barous tongue with which v/e are accustomed to receive hermessages from the darker regions she explores. It is for theseryes!?geS, after all,. that -we go to her books; and the story ofGodfrey Rainbird implies by its emphasis that its burden,

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too, will result from exploration rather than survey. fn re-cording a journey of exploration Janet Frame employs lrerethe language of ; social diary, and tbe resultit g uncertaintydistorts the meaning of The Rainbirds.

Its force, too, is -dissipated by fundamental troubles at theheart of the process of writing, in the matter of technique.Because of an unusual attitude towards her medium, MissFrame often allows the force of her writing to be deflected.It is ironic that a writer with an almost Joycean reverence forwords should on this occasior, instead of building surely,tend at times to go against the business of true creationthrough her use of ihem. Her aim as a writer has always beenhigh, -she artempts to tift the painted veil which those who[;e call Life. FIer problem is that Shelley's veil, for her, h?talways had words painted on it, not p-eoplg.; aqd these wordsoften distract her ^from telling us *hai lies beneath them.Janet Frame is more interested-in tb. appearance, size, sguqd,and personal reverberations of each word rather than in itsmeaning. So we see this:

-Have either of you noticed this? . . .

-Why no, they said together and he could not tell if theyspoke-the truth or lied;-liars; liar; fair fire.

At another point she follows the thought '$lqd instanrJy'with the unnecessarily facile 'like coffee'; and the narrativepursues this until e*haustion sets in. Word association ininterior monologue must have only a second q\Y place toverisimilitude seiup in the novel. Reality must dictate mean-irg in thq lo.ng. r.in, whoever owns the consclousness thatpercerves both the reality a+-d the meaning. By. too often,tfr. meaning of this book is dictated by the word associations

-almosr as If Ufe is one of those interminable Oxford Debateswhich change direction with elch new pun or change of keyword. The-degree to which Miss Frarne sees life as words isindicated in hei description of Beatrice Rainbird's realizationthat her parenrs are mortal: 'Then realizing that one drytheir t.rrt. would change . . .'. And when Godfr eY, after trisli.rorrection', sees life "and society in the perlpective of thegrave, Miss Frame makes him turn over ttre thick surface of"wordi, reversing them and turning them inside out:

here in the creamtoriumlie the deadradeye to be bunred.

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Surely the resurrected should turn over ideas and values andconcepts, and not just the words they are wrapped in?

Thit tfr. author is preoccupied so often wiifi thg colour,sound and 'feel' of words at [he expense of semantics againplaces the author constantly at the reader's side. Like t{op-kins' Holy Ghost, Miss Frdme broods over her bent world-and sometimes blinds us with the flash of those bright wings-but with a, commitment to the inward lives of charactersthere should go an attempt to create the illusion that thosewords formed themselves upon the page, that no author wasrequired to arrange them in that *-ry. Vlits Frame's constant'prbsence' goes against this, and ultimately-penalizes her crea-tion of chiractei-it drains them of any chance for integrityor uniqueness, for no characteristic is sacred, aU traits arecommon and held in the presence of the author. The beauti-ful and often lyrical stream of consciousness which we havehad from this

-writer in the past is now replaced too fre-quently by a, kind of interpretation which puts us at a. dis-tln". fro* the characters. intimacy is lost. The voice whichpervades the book is Janet Frame's,

_ not those of her char-

icters. She appears to inhabit her characters perfunctoril_y:it is only with an effort that we believe that Godfrey reallydid awaken from that coma, and at no point does he, nor doany of his family, become 'alive' and true. This individualityin-a character, whether in a conventionally-narrated novel orin one using some sort of interior' narration, is after all basic-ally an illusion, created in the surface of the book. When theauthor remains 'outside' his character, he gives it depth byassigning to it certain traits of speech, actions and behaviogr,which he excludes from other characters. The novelist whotakes us on a voyage through the consciousness of his charac-rers has L greater number of ways by which to foster thisillusion of individuality in characters: he may give them dif-ferent patterns of thinking: .using .distinctive symbols andimages in their thoughts; at his best he will equip each char-acter with his own rhetoric of thought and speech.

Virginia Woolf springs to mind here as a successful ex-ponent of many of these methods, especially in The Waaes,that book devoid of apparent author or narration, whichsweeps us ?lorrg. in the six-fold stream of im characters' con-sciousness. But the Janet Frame of Owls Do Cry also has thisability and is able to voyage on the dangerous seas of thehuman mind armed with the discretion of fine obiectivity.In Owls Do Cry Miss Frame disciplined her talents towards

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self-effacement, eliminating the artistically gratuitous pas-sages of authorial comment which occasionally threaten tocapsize The Rainbirds.

Ffowever, the immense verbal talent remains, always bestwhen economical, concentrated into phrases and single words.Here is Beatrice, alone in bed after Godfrey has 'died': ' . . .

she . . . felt . . . the cold lack, the unattended level and chillof his absence . . .'. Although the bold vision and insightwhich distinguished the earlier books, particularly Owls DoCry, is still present, to find less than the full measure in thisnev/ novel is a disappointment.

Patrick Eaans

THE LE,GACY OF GUILT: A LIFE OF THOMASKENDALL. Judith Binney. OxfordlUniaersity of Auck-land. $5.80.

Tnovres KBNn ALL) after his inglorious dismissal by theChurch Missionary Society, lurked for a, long time in theobscurity historians bestow on men who dishonour theircause. Then as Josiah Pratt (Secretary of the Church Mis-sionary Society) and Samuel Marsden (founder of the NewZealand mission) began to wobble on their lofty pedestals, akindlier eye was turned on the renegade. As early as l9l+I{. T. Purchas, historian of the English Churclr in NewZealand, wrote: 'If ever a New Zealand Goethe should arise,h; may find the materials for his Faust in the history ofThomis Kendall.' A damned soul, still, though one \Morthyof interest and sympathy. But in Keith Sinclair's poem'Memorial to a Missionary', published in 1952,

angels flewTo draw his frightened soul quiverirrg to heaven . . .

Exactly to which region of the upper or the nether worldour contemporaries would assign the Rev. S. Marsdefl, I amnot sure, but Kendall's salvation just now is assured, andtwo sympathetic biographies have been accorded him i abrief essay by R. M. Burdon, written in 1947, and JudithBinney's new, more scholarly work, based on an exhaustivestudy of the sources.

t9+

In this book the unsaintly heroes who established NewZealand's first mission are described without flattery. The'godly mechanics' supposed to introduce civilization as a, pre-lude to evangelization are revealed as an incompatible bunchof ignorant, untrained men, of only average character andvirtue, whose sole qualif cation for their exacting.task was aconviction of the superiority of their o\Mn brand of Chris-tianity and civilization. The Christian community set upamong the heathen was ruled by jealousy and backbiting, notlove and forbearance. Marsden, who led the settlement fromNew South Wales, is shown to be a man of strength andpenetration, but overbearing, partial, unsystematic, unsym-pathetic and unforgiving.. His 'worst mistalfe,. Mrs. Binneyargues, was to insist on the establishment of the misison atRangihoua, where it fell under the protection of fairlyfriendly Maoris, but because of the unpromising terrain waswithout any possibility of self-subsistence. Depending forthe necessities of life on Maori trade, the settlers were fre-quently forced to bry food with muskets. As Mrs Binneyputs it, 'The Christian community existed in the Maori worldon Maori terms.'

Kendall was totally unsuited to the rigours of such a life.Josiah Pratt, who described him in 181 3 as 'a most worthyand prudent man', \Mrote in 1820: ' . . . his mind appears tohave acquired a sort of wildness and absence of self-restraint'.Nine years later Marsden wrote:

. . he appears as if God had departed from him . . . andat the same time he appears to suffer the severest Stings ofConscience . . I cannot conceive a man to be in a morepitiable Condition than he is in. . o .

In tracing this disintegration Mrs Binney describes the effectof isolation on a sensitive, but not intellectually self-sufficientschoolmaster deeply committed to Evangelical beliefs. The'legacy of guilt', a quotation from Sinclair, refers, of course,to the Christian, or more specifically Calvinist, sense of sin.Endowed with more intelligence and infinitely greater sensi-bility than his fellows, Kendall alone thought it worthwhileto understand the Maori religion and social system beforetrying to replace them. This apparently harmless ambitionhad, however, to be reconciled with the Evangelical view thatthe heathen world corresponded to the kingdom of Satan:close investigation of what Marsden described as 'obscene

195

mysteries' \Mas likely to pollute the mind. To some extentKendall appears to have felt that this had happened: 'I havebeen so poisoned with the apparent sublimity of their ideasthat I have been almost completely turned from a Christianto a heathen.' But Mrs Binney shows that though his un-orthodox curiosity proved irreconcilable with the service ofthe C.M.S., he never seriously questioned his Evangelicalbeliefs. He, more than the other settlers, needed muskets topurchase Maori friendship and the knowledge he craved, andhis dismissal resulted from his irresponsible defence of thetrade. His affair with the daughter of a tohufrgd, the consum-mation, in a sense, of his attraction to the Maori way of life,effectively confirmed the break with the C.M.S. That Ken-dall himself was unable to conceive of a useful life except asa, servant of the C.M.S. in New Zealand was part of histragedy. He left New Zealand in 1825 and in 1832 wasdrowned off New South Wales, a broken mall.

His sense of failure was, on the whole, justified: heachieved little. Even the sympathetic backing of Marsdenand the C.M.S. would scarcely have overcome his intellec-tual limitations. His most useful work was to reduce theMaori language to writing, and A Grammar and Yocabularyof the Language of lr{ew Zealond, written with the help ofthe Cambridge linguist Samuel Lee, was published in 1820.His other ambition-the interpretation of the Maori world-turns out to have been an utter failure. Mrs Binney's mostimpressive and original work has been in assessing what re-mains of Kendall's writings on this subject. She shows thatthough his work was quite unacceptable to the C.M.S., what-ever Kendall discovered about Maori beliefs was neverthelesstotally obscured by his theological preconceptions. He wasalso hampered by an inability to observe closely or describepreciselyl his untrained bent was towards abstraction ratherthan scientific description. He began from the then fairlyorthodox theory of a. former connection between the Maoripeople and the ancient cultures of the Middle East, and sawill Maori maditions as perversions of 'real' events described inGenesis. The Maori conception of a, Supreme Being hebelieved to have been derived from the same connection, buthis attempts to describe the corruption of that original truthrender his account 'a hopeless amalgam of the logos, Pan"rhe intellectual principle", and the Pythagorean "[.fniversalMind".'

What value remains in Burdon's essay? This is an import-196

ant quesdon because although many readers have found hisshort life eloquent and stimulating, Mrs Binney, while ack-nowledging these qualities, suggests that he is roo inaccurateto be of lasting value. She rightly corrects him on severalpoints: he is apt to hint at possibilities which, 2S he wellllnows, he_gan't prove, and which Mrs Binney rejects ordisproves. Worse still, on p. 3 5, he writes of Kendall in 1819,'he had not ceased to indulge his lust for Maori women'-astatement for which there ieems to be no evidence at all.However, Mrs Binney has misread Burdon more than once.Shq \Mrongly says he describes J. L. Nicholas as a stowaway,and in discussing the amount of money paid by the Baronde Thierry to. Kendall she reads -{11-,000 Jor {1,100. Theseare mrnor points, but she also does less than justice ro Bur-don's interpretation of Kendall's character:

Through a failure to understand Evangelical terminologyand seeking a consistent personal weakness in Kendall, heargues that the missionaiy's excessive vanity and confid-ence formed a'pattern on which his life wis moulded'.

Burdon wrote that Kendall was all his life 'haunted . . . bya moral ideal he was incapable of living up ro' and thrissuffered recurrent falls from grace. Thd *m the 'partern'h9 T.algr and is not far removed from the alternating periodsof humilily and pride noted by Mrs Binney. Thoulh lesscoolly obiective than hers, Burdon's interpretation seems toPe, - except for his lggggstion of a sexuaL weakness, a per-fpg_rly tenable olle. The ideal of missionary service led Ken-dall into circumstances which put abnorriral stresses on hismoral character. As an introduction to Kendall Burdon'sessay is still well worth reading.

Missionary biography is nor an easy genre. Some of thebetter known New Zealand missionaries were honoured withorthodox biographigs- which, thougtr really hagiography, arestill useful mines of information. The more difficulf piocessof revaluation is now being undertaken: the biographdr musrstill recount a life story, but more is expected of him.Present-day students, for instance, can no longer accept un-critically th.- preconceptions, aims and metho-ds of thb mis-sionaries, and some interesging work has been done, particu-lqly by the Australian historian Dr \ /'. N. Gunson, inshowing how the Evangelical missionary's attitudes weredetermined by his background. Mrs Binney's use of this

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approach has been fruitful: her best work is in analysirg Ih.effect of Kendall's Evangelical background and in workingout the varied intellectual origins of his account of Maorireligion. Her thoroughngsl. ir]. sorting out the many uncer-tainties surrounding Kendall's life is also commendable. How-ever, .her determination to be thororrgh and accurate hassometimes led her to incorporate rather too much of bothopinion and factual evidenie undigested. One of the bio-giapher's problems is the arrangement of material, ald sheappears to- have had some difficulty in- marrying !h. chrono-logical and the critical sides of her work: neither the narrativenor the argument always stands out as clearly as one migtltwish. For-all that, it is a most useful and interesting book.

f ane Thontson

FLYING TO PALMERSTON. Kendrick Smithyman.Oxf ord I Auckland Uniaersity. $ 1.25 .

Fryrmc ro PeTuERSToN contains sixty poems of which somehave been previously published but most are from KendrickSmithyman-s more recent writing. The book contains noclues to the dates of publication and it is evident from thebrief dust-jacket note that Mr Smithyman intends his readersneither to come to general conclusions about his work, nor -toindulge in literary exegesis. Flying to Palrnerston is to betreated as an exhibition of the poet's interests and accomplish_ments, its sole theme 'an occupation with the writer's craft'.

In this respect the book is lndeed a display of virtuosityyet when it - is compared with his earlier collections, TheBlind Mountain (1950) or Inheritdnce (1962) it is not sur-prising to discover that there is no spectacular change instyle or diction. Kendrick Smithypa+ was mature both as

poer and thinker when his first book was published; the-ihanges are principalty those of refinement of technique,-.ofgrearer contiol and wider range. Ih._ poems -of the earlierivork then foreshadow the later, and though the passions of1950 have been tempered and the introspective nature of theverse has deepened, the concerns, both in technique -aqdsubjem, a1e not radically.different. Of a lesser poet +is mightbe a condemnation but in this present case it is only to saythat, having found the main lode, he continues to mine it as

carefully as before.198

Mr Smithyman is an intellectual poet, which is not to saythat his poems can be appreciated by an intellectual coterieonly. .In these poems as in his earlier work, the-subjects alescenarios around which an intricate structure of meaning isbuilt. It is the idea that counts, rather than subjective feeling,and Mr Smithyman does not, overtly at least, amempt tocreate in his readers a subjective awareness of mood. In hisuse of language it is meaning rather than an evocation of feel-ings parallel to his own which is important. The poem is anextremely complex coded message which does not yield upeverything in a quick reading. The reader must work at thepoem, seeking to understand. Not infrequently he may re-treat before what seems too recondite a siheme of referenceand it may be this which has created an impression thatMr Smithyman's work is difficult or wilfully obscure. Sucha view has as much to do with the skill of reading as it hasto do with the art of writing poetry. Kendrick Smithymanhas shown in two works, hir skilful essay on 'Goblin Market'and his A Way of Saying, how we are to go about the task.He has done his part in making the poem, we must do ours inthe reading of it.

The title poem, 'Flying to Palmerston', is an example. Inearlier drafts of this review analysis of this poem ran intoseveral hundred words none of which, I think, dealt withanythit g which was not present in the text. The k.y linesin this poem in my view are those which occur in the firststanza

Queen Street, horrorof what is altogetherbearable . . .

and the last

Twelve forty-two. A bus is at the door.No longer a person. You are nowin flight. A Flight.

A way of reading the poem and one which I find, for now,satisfyirg, is to view it as an analysis of the word 'horror'.Seen in this way we find the principal idea is that horror isthe result of random observations, which, fitted together bya mind sufficiently perturbed, lead to a perception of anomib.These randoply

. collected perceptions are fitted to a con-

tempo rury situatiotr, the depersonalization of the humant99

being. In taking a plane even to so modest a destination asPalrnerston, the person is delivered up to the machines of hisown, and hence his society'S, creation. The scenario is mun-dane but it is within such mundane experience that ongstfinds the materials upon which to work.

To say so little is to do violence to a poem of intelligenceand po#.r using the latter term as one inight of a sciJntifichypothesis to mean a capacity to unloqk problems. Thereis in absence of recondite aliusion in the poem; an Indianwoman with a caste mark, a Chinese man wiih a tattoo, a lilyin the air centre lounge which is marked (and perhaps to- beconsidered? ) and a dummy in a shop window are the pointsby which the meaning of the poem is located. The languageis simple English and the syntactic structures not over-com-plicated, buithe words are made to work hard. The under-iying srrucrure of the poem is in the duplications of mean-iirg attachirrg to such

- words as 'marked', 'centre', 'dead','suspended','pallid','flight'.

The longer poems inlhe collection vary in type. 'priginalSin a Suburban Prospect' is perhaps the most demanding _andembodies an intellectual device which Smithyman employselsewhere-it is not fanciful perhaps to call this L L6vi-Straussian distinction between nature and culture. In thispoem thg natural is exemplified. by the sea, thg creek, Pn-d t!,.women ln labour, the cultural by the maternity hospital, theburial ground on which the hospital is built, th-. boats whichthe sea-desrroys. These are paired or jqxtapose4 tq illuminatesubtleties of ifte theological^ concept of original qin which isin turn balanced against original - man, the 'Adam' of thepoem. It was, one supposgs:--a Maori burial ground, tnd theblood-shed of an ancient killing committed by people whgcould not sin is of the same order as the blood of childbed.

Here the linguistic sffucture of qlre poem is more complexthan in 'Flying to Palmerston'. There is a certain baroqueingenuity in such lines as

Reach from your loam the marrov/, the brownsmutched blood-clots,

clawed radius and femur; plytattered hands to their trade

unmaking man under the whywhen how of askirg cloud, a wise Cain

whipped from shyAdam-in garden simples three hundred years back

200

The spareness of the punctuation giveg e, drive to the pgeTwhich does nor permif the eye to rest but forcqs the reader'sattention on from idea to idea.

The contrast of nature and culture is used another way in'Demolishing the Farmhouse' in which the house and- the toJiprree respecti-vely reflect the cultural and the natural. In thispoem the first iections set out as spal.elf as a- theorem thei;rounds on which the poem is to work. In making Trd ull-iraking man exhibits hf essential humanity, -but here the poelis deei'ly involved in the sense- of place, of love and personal*ortriity. The conclusion of the poem touches; the 1..q,kind of 'religious sense is perhaps the greatest because it isdoctrineless, ro more than a sharp awareness of the humancondition.

There is a piety is not beliefwhich maf unconsciously be touchedwhen we see our houses going downlarger than lives they admitted by morning.Miy we be delivered, man and child even the

youngest,from our condition. Let me carry homea few small branches from the tulip tree.

Historical themes are present in Mr Smithyman's workmore in a sense of time past or passing than in specific choicesof subject. 'Vigrrettes of the Miori 'W'ars', a sequence of threepoems, uses tlie Waikato War as setting for-lhe discussionbf war in our native context. The poems are about wa! thebanality of a, young soldier's death and as contrast the deathof a single old man. Here the historical occurrences arerelated to our perceptions of the past and reworked in agroup of poems against heroism.

Fliing lo Palmerston contains a wide variety of wrl,tlngfrom mijor poerns to those which are entertainments. 'ForAndries''for example, is a small poem for an occasion as is'Slow Flame', buC these poerns are always made with theutmost care. 'They .r,e*plify how small ihings may be saidwell, are lighter than the maior poems in the sense that tlrqydemand less of us. There are poems which are personal inreference about love and domeiticity, poems which sharplyinspect the self such as 'What do I get {rom the Estate?' andothers in which there is a, certain blackness of humour,'Ritualists', 'stargazing', 'Dirge for Two Clavichords andBowler Hat', and 'A Note on the Social Arts'.

20t

The announced theme, a concern with the writer's craft,is evidenced by the structural elements which give a distinc-tive shape to Mr Smithymat's. verse. He chooses words witha continual vigour and precision. Words of a scholarly and'non-emotive' kind are given a new colour-'incompetent tobe our avatar', 'a non-contingent pleasant place' , 'anachron-ist'. His syntax surprises the reader with its unexpectedness,for example, 'Whom too malicious winters' stooping po\M-dered,/Salted, scarred, tanned and wrinkled most profoundly'('Old Folks at the Flome'), and

Konstantin, hero yet not wholly gauche,observes his figure dwindles in lake water,but limps inside for tea. Soon it is later.

('Tryeplyev')

These and the exercise of wit to maintain structural tightnessare characteristic of his poetry.

The mere size of Mr Smithyman's literary culture oftensets the reader groping for memory of lines which he knowsor thinks he ought to know. Although the more deliberateare given italic, there is a, sense of reading glossed lines fromother poets or sources which ate common to our experience:Shakespeare, the Bible, the Book of Common Pra>rer, as wellas others more difficult of access. It is an exercise moreprobable for undergraduates fortuna.lgly, tq Flnt up. allusiol:or rewordings of common lines, ('The Bishop alien amidtheir corn prayed his ruth'-is an easy one) which sometimeshave a bravura air, but though failure to recognlze the sourcemay hurt the ego it does not occlude understanding.

Over and above these points I note two things. One is thespecific New Zealand reference which comes about as a,

natural consequence of the setting of the poem but is oftenincidental to the theme. Knowledge of these settings is byno means necess ary to reading the poem. To know MilfordBeach or Glink's Gully creates a cosy sense of recognitionoccasionally (neither place is directly named) but more im-portantly marks a regional quality in Smithyman's work. Thescenes are Auckland city and suburbs, the west coast, andfarm country north or south of Auckland. Mr Smithyman isan Auckland poet, New Zealand is too big a scheme for himand he is immune apparerly, to the need to use the countryas more than point of refererlce. There are no mountains,blind or otherwise, in his photograph album.

202

Too close attention to the way the poems in Flying toPalrnerston are made may divert the rea-der's notice from adeeper unifying quality. This quality is compassion..- Beyondhumour, scepticism or- other moods, there is a prev.ailing carefor the human being and the ambiguity of his position. Thereare poems in which- care for particulai people is explicit as. in'W6o Gathered Samphire' and 'sixteen', but compassion in-forms all the other poems in the book. It is the pasiion whichgives dynamism and control to the pogml, it- directs theieader to understand, if he is able, an unadmitted demand fora like compassion in himself.

It would be presumptuous to Ssy, as only players of theliterary criticism game may reasonably 4o, whether somepoems are better than others in this book. Some appgal. to memore than others, because of felicity of style, tone, diction, orconrent, or all together. A short list in no particulal order,contains the title poem, 'Vignettes', 'Original Sin', 'D?y ofAdvent', 'Demolishing the Farmhouse', 'Coming Ffome','saturdry Joly Second' and 'Love Song'.

On the -evidence of Flying to Palrnerston I am confirmedin my belief that Kendrick Smithyman has more to !ay_ ?ndsays it better than any other poet at present writing in NewZealand.

Roger Oppenheim

CorrespondenceSrn: I should like to make a belated comment on PeterAlcock's 'An Invisible Literature' in Landfall 88. On firstreading the article I was puzzled by Leeds University's appal-ently poor showing in -the census of New Zealand bookswhich -Mr Alcock carried out in British universities. WhenI was ^t Leeds early in 1962 the English department had acollection includirrg every literary work of any importancethen in print, some numbers of Landf all, and a wide selectionof background works on New Zealand history, biography,and the arts. Some of these books were presented by localpublishers, others w¤re borrght from a go\Trlmeq! grantmade through the efforts of Mr John Reece Cole. The only

203

STUD FARMURTTITARANAKI

lohn Summers Bookshop,1 19 Mancbester Street,CHRISTCHURCH. A,D.

Dear Mr Summers,Haae you THE, MOTLEY REPUBLIC:fo.rget tbe author

-a one aolume edition under a dolldr a)ould giae young Hansd bit of a background.

Now winteis asith us perhaps I could begin readjng TH-EGREAT BOOKS OF THP -WE,STE,RN WORLD. ThCnew price, about fi276, eaen allousing for P"l_t!ry's yir!(, isoff-pittting. After all', wbat do _you get_, Homerr^Ploto,D'oitoieas6y, Newtonr-Tolstoy and so forth, but no C!uY?.Perhaps thai's because tbe 54th and last volame i.s Freud.(ll).Anyhbw I do a)ant to read Freud, so lf yoy haye-tbe'GreatBooks' ot soy fi150 l'd be d stdrter. Blll Rudderham wouldgo halaes. As he says, a;hy be o share-milker in name only.IS I'm in luck, forward all releaant data !ry p!qt!^y!Uy!._-' Is it true ttiai y ou'ae got Fi,rth's ECONOMICS OF THENEW ZF,,I\LAND MAORI i,n mint condition at fi3.30?-amast for ligbt relief after Freud. I also hear aia the aine thatyou'ate got-Esin's MECCA AND MADINAH at fit as ne'LD.

it mus{ be as neaD. I a)ant it for the dust-coaer show;ingthe interior of the Apostles' Mosque, just like tbat dome inXanadu, and harre y ou noticed the just and happy adaptatio_nof electyiq light fitiings to su,c.h ancient architecture: then the,iroy all that stone sesms to giae light !ryd air a f orT. But ofcoarse there are good photos inside. Oh !¤s, I nearly forgot,post out Oaid's LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME,: so busy otpresent I don't know ,f I'm on my head or heels.

Cheers,

f,lart, H"il20+

malor omissions were certain books out of print at the timeand unobtainable at short notice.

Why then did Leeds show up bqdly in the census? First,because a fairly high proportion of Mr Ncock's titles werepublished in oi after 1,-96[ and were not added to the collec-tion when they appearedl second, because other titles whichwere out of println 1962 remained so in the following yqars;finally, oS the comments from the Leeds librariaq (quo_ted gpp. 40.0) indicate, because his original reply to Mr Alcock'sguestionnarre \Mas lnaccurate. I+. fact, g+ the strength of g?o.dintentions, Leeds should be credited with 100 per cent on MrNcock's generous score card.

What I- have said does not weaken Mr Ncock's plea forthe setting up of government-sponsored collections of NewZealand books in other countries. On the contrary, I havestrengthened his case by citing a. precedent, always a sr{ongargument in official circles. The example of Leeds dges,however, emphasize the necessity for maintaining such collec-tions once they are established. Moreover, it points to theneed for republishing the many New Zealand'classics' nowout of prinf. I am glad to see that the Univgrsity of Auck-land intends bringing out a series of such books.

But at a graduate or post-graduate level can a serious studyof New Zealand writing be based solely on books? I amprompted to ask this question by reading_'Ez.ra Pgund, AliceKenny & the Triad' in Landfall 89. Dr Ruthven's illuminat-irrg and witty essay confirms a belief I have long held: thatmuch of our literary past still lies buried in the numerousperiodicals that strew otr history. If it is impossible to reprintthem for use in local and overseas collections, they should bePhotocoPied

E. H. Mccormick

205

New ContributorsCon O'Leary. Born in Westport. Graduated B.A. in English and PoliticalScience et the University of Canterbury. Employed as iournalist on theAuckland Star where he has written drama criticism and television dramacriticism. An experienced actor and producer he has done work for theUniversiry of Canterburyr the New Theatre and Uniry Theatre in Wel-lington and for the University of Auckland, Grafton Theatre and CentralTheatre in Auckland.R. H. Rudd. Born in Christchurch in March L9+7. Educated at Christ'sCollege and et the University of Canterbury School of Fine Arts wherehe obtained his Diploma n 1967. Held his first exhibition in 1968 at Christ-church, and exhibited at the Auckland Arts Festival L969. Invited toexhibit at this year's Group Show in Christchurch.Gerald Seaman M.A., D.Phil. (Oxon). Born in England in 193+. AttendedWarwick School; 1950 member of British Schools' Exploring Society'sexpedition to Arctic Norway; L952-4 National Service in Royal Navy,srudying Russian language; t954-60 Oxford University (reading music);1960..61 post-graduate scholar at Leningrad Conservatorlz; 1964 on staff ofUniversiry of Western Australia; 1965 appointed Senior Lecturer inMusicology at the Universiry of Auckland. He is well-known overseas asa writer and broadcaster, has contributed to Groue's Dictionary and authorof History of Russian Music (Vol. l, Blackwell's, 1968). Fellow of theRoyal Commonwealth Society. Recreation: hill-walking.

Price IncreaseAs from the next issue (No. 9l-september 1969) Landfallwill sell at the new price of $ 1.00 a, copy or $4.00 a. year.Landf ull has never been self-supporting and this price increase

-only the second in its 23 years' life-has been forced uponthe publishers by rapidly increasing costs of production.Current subscribers, of course, will receive the balance of thisyear's issues without further payment and until 197 0 onlycasual buyers and new subscribers will pay the new price.

206

Th.e New Directions ,f . . .+NEW ZEALAND WRITINGv

N.Z. UNIVERSITIES ARTS FESTIVAL

YEARBOOKEditors:

Bill ManhireJohn Dickson

Ei(O(eerltS

On Sale inAugusteuer)w/tere

Announcing a New Novel

by FRANCES KEINZLEY

A. Ti-m.e lio EDrpeSrFrances Keinzley, a subtle psychologist whose previous novel,Tangahano, won the Hubert Church Literary Award in 1960, hasnow written a new novel centred around Auckland and NationalPark. A spine-chilling mystery, it is one of the most excitingnovels of its type in years. lngenious and inventive with asurprise solution, the book is powerful and memorable.

Published byI'V, H. ALLEN & CO. LTD

Available from all good Booksellers Retail Price $2.60

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REED reFacsimile publications have been one of the importantcontributions made by A. H. & A. W. Reed to NewZealand publishing. Current and forthcoming volumesincludeEARLY CHARTS OF NEW ZEALANDPETER MALING. A beautiful volume covering the period from1542 to 1851. Entirely produced in New Zealand on speciallyimported materials, it contains 59 facsimile charts with 10 platesin iull colour. 15* x 11 ins, text printed in two colours, half-boundin leather, limited edition of 500 numbered copies. Colour prgs-pe.ctus available. To be published August 1969. Pre-publicationpnce $95

ILLUSTRATIONS TO ADVENTURE IN NEW ZEALANDA oerfect facsimile edition of full colour illustrations to EdwardJerhingham Wakefietd's Adventure in New Zealand,.first publishedin 1846. They include scenes, Maori portraits and plant studiesfrom teading

-artists of the daylH_e_aphy, B^rees and others. Sev-eral open dut to 6Ol ins widih. ?2- x- 14* ins, quarter-bound lnleathei. Limited edition of 500 numbered copies. $110

SOUTH AUSTRALIA ILLUSTRATEDGEORGE FRENCH ANGAS. Full colour reproductions of Angaspaintings first published in 1846. A meticulous facsimile volumeia*ricfr lrovidei an authentic visual record of South Australia'scolonia[ period . 20* x 14 ins, 60 colour reproductions, half-boundin leather, colour prospectus available. $175

SAVAGE LIFE AND SCENES IN AUSTRALIA AND NEWZEALANDGEORGE FRENCH ANGAS. A facsimile reprint, in one volume,of the edition first published in 1846 which describes-thepainter'stravels in both cduntries. Biographical comment by C. R. H.Taylor. $6.50

FROM ALL GOOD BOOKSELLERSWrite for full details and have your name placed on a mailing listfor nsws of further publications.

A. H. & A. W. REEDBox 6002, Wellington

Auckla nd-S yd ney-M elbou rne

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Recent publications from

THE CAXTON PRESS

ASCENT 3Edited by Leo Bensemann & Barbara BrookeA full range of the arts in New Zealand is surveyed in the newissue of Ascent. This, the most lavishly-illustrated issue to date,contains penetrating studies of the work of sculptor Paul Beadleand painters Olivia Spencer Bower and Ralph Hotere. Book andexhibition reviews, commentaries on the visual arts scene in thefour main centres, and coloured prints of work by Robert Ellis,Don Binney, Gordon Walters and Olivia Spencer Bower arecomplemented by an Arts Council supplement on the performingarts.88 pages, more than 80 plates. $1.50

LEARNING: Educating Childrsn-fl Journal for ParentsEdited by Jenny GunbyThe first issue of this quarterly was greeted as filling a long-feltneed for informed commentary for parents on education today.The second issue, available this month, includes articles on theinadequacies of formal examinations, the principles of art educa-tion today, left-handedness, the parents'role in helping withhomework, the cost of a university education, vocationai guidanceservices in New Zealand and general studies courses fbr sixthf orms.Annual subscription $1.50. Single issues 40c. Concession sub-scriptions for parents' groups. Please write for details.

NOT FAR OFFCharles BraschTh is new collection of verse is the first by Charles Brasch sincehe gave up editing Landfall; lhe poems in

- it offer greater varietyof theme and treatment than his iour earlier collecti-ons which ar6now all out of print.Demy 8vo, casebound, 92 pp. $1.60

From Good Booksellers

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NEW POETRY FROM OXFOR])

THE, ROCK WOMAN-SE,LECTE,DPOEMSJAMES K. BAXTERldr Baxter is considered by many critics, both here and overseas, tobe New Zeilnd's finest poet. The publication of this book shouldconfirm this view.

This selection was made by Mr Baxter himself from the work ofrwenry years. It contains several poems unpublished in any of hisprevious books, and ^ number -which have only fPPeared inperiodicals. The author has included a selection from the sequencePiS Island, Letters, the controversial Henley Pab and many of thebest poems from his earlier boots.Demy |zso, 86 Pdges fi1.7t Pdper

A VIOLE,NT COUNTRYDAVID HARS NTThis remarkable first collection has e brilliant series on madness-Niiinsky's, St Simeon Srylite's, a friend in hospital-that is balancedby'love poems whose gmrr. music never scants the terror that under-1ils them; and t group of compassionate but inspiring poems on lsuicide is set ngrirrtt , sequenie in which t woman moves withdreamlike precis-lon throug6 her house and garden, lolit-aV, obser'vant, angriished, withdrawn. This volume has received L PoetryBook Sociery Recommendation.Dqny ?ao 62'6t

AF TE,R E,XPE,RIEN CE,.\,ry.. D. SNODGRASSWhen Mr Snodgrass's Pulitzer Prize winning collection -of poems,Heart's l{eedle, im published in 1960, Robert Lowell made mentionof the 'harrowing pathos' present in Mr Snodgrass's work. AfteyExperience concludes with a section of translations from Rimbaud,Rilie, and others. This new book contains a remarkable number ofmoving and memorable poems and shows the author to be L manwho rtitt has terrible ,rrd touching things that have to be said andan unmistakable voice in which to say them.

Demy |ao, 92 pages $2J0 Paper

OXFORD UNIVERSTTY PRESSP.O. BOX 185 : WELLINGTON