AUSTRALIAN LITERATURE

Evening Star, Issue 21992, 30 March 1935, Page 25

AUSTRALIAN LITERATURE

The discussion on ‘ The Future of Australian Literature,’ inspired by Mr Vance Palmer’s article in the Melbourne ‘ Age,’ continues interestingly in that* journal. Miss Miles Franklin, the author of a novel of out-back Australian life, much praised for its fidelity to spirit and atmosphere, writes:— “ Examine the indictment that our environment is sparsely furnished by Nature, and that, owing to isolation, absence of tradition, small numbers, and homogeneity, our politics and society are bumble and banal. In other continents between the living present and the oblivion of lost icons tncre is a corridor of recorded history, and beyond that the pagan myths from which to people a canvas. In Australia the valiant present has nothing between it and oblivion, but phantoms. We lack the massed life—holy and unholy—the loot of ancient cities. Our capricious inlands with their gentle fauna bear no relation to the teeming woods or jungles of other continents. Ours is a phantom land, bewitched and bewitching, who casts a spell over those who know the core of her. Vast silence, space, translucent atmosphere, mirage brew enchantment for sensitive souls, Increasingly, persons of the requisite spiritual and mental independence arc inspired by the metaphysical aspects of Australia. To capture this magic the dreamers must surrender to the environment. To discipline it to their artistic urge will finally piovc a more satisfying essay in self-expression than merely to echo other literature—at a distance —or to join a hegira. “ As a step towards such liberation Australian writers need to flout some of their genteel, pictistic conventions which maroon them in the doldrums of mediocrity. Each time 1 hear either a pictorial or literary artist grizzling that there is nothing iu Australia but ■a gum tree, and that one soon wearies of the crude local colour of fences and shearing sheds, sheep and cattle, wide open spaces, and drought, 1 recall the story of a master of the piano. When a prodigy came to him lie would exclaim, ‘ Play the -scald’ ‘Which scale, sir?’ ‘ The scale of C.’ To a aspirant heady about something so unexacting the master' would state that a great artist might explore the scale of C all his life and not exhaust its possibilities. “So with our eucalyptus and other native features. The alphabet of their character and significance has not yet been realised. Note the oak and its acorns in English handicraft, the acanthus in Greek and Roman architecture, and return, oh shallow Australian detractors, to the potential guru tree. “It is more profitable, as well as easier, to flee to historical environments where there is romance in even the dailv sunset because it lias been realised-"by a cloud of forerunners. Sturdier power and purpose must be called upon to invest more glorious sunsets which are empty of association. At present we are roughly divided into those who are satisfied with the gumtree school of literature as it exists and those who are bored to the 03es witii it and imagine they have got beyond it or are above it. The first arc worthy of but limity folk, the second miss the significance ol lundamciitais. and the fact t'hafc the art disii'led from the Australian bush scene, however little

or pungent, is the only original culture yet garnered in Australia.

“ Another reason advanced for our literary and general mediocrity is that so many of our gifted ones leave us. Out of a sparse population, Australia undoubtedly contributes a'considerable company to equal and surpass the Homelaudors or Americans in their own holds, and to gain the various grades of esteem and success, ami in some cases without, fully discarding the Australian locale. Henry Handel Richardson, Gilbert .Murray. G. B. Lancaster, Helen Simpson, Vclia Ercolc, Christina Stead, Mary .Mitchell, Randolph Hughes, Martin Mills, Dorothy Cottrell, Alice Grant Rosman, and and two Lindsays spring to mind. There are many others in literature, not to mention the other arts, professions, and callings. “ Were this company operating as exclusively in and for Australia as, say, Galsworthy, Bennett, Hugh Walpole, and dozens of others, are in and for England, or Hamsen and Udset arc in Scandinavian, we might soon, attract world attention to nur _ literary wares instead of being dismissed as negligible and remaining a dumping ground for London remainders. Our most distinguished authors might be gaining decent reward for effort instead of frankly admitting that the only money earned by their novels was in prizes. (And that is to consign liberally dignity to the limbo of a lottery.) “This is speculation. The hogira of talent from Australia is fact, and no stream of equal quality flows to us. There is a theory that progress towards a distinctive and distinguished literature of our own may ho interminably retarded, or, perhaps, impes-, sible to achieve, that ns the daughter of an Empire we may perforce remain derivative, unoriginal, 1 colonial.’ “ Our hope of surmounting tin's lies in our vigour and fecundity. Out of so many some will remain at home or return. Wo have some definitely Australian books. There are creditable novels dealing with the pioneer generation, and wc have room and appetite for .many more before the chronicle novel is superseded by a. new fashion. To supplement these we need at the moment writers with knowledge and mental equipment, who arc game to tackle without fear or favour ti e existing milieu in its prosperity, banality, bimbleism, sunny irreverence, cultural pretensions, or what ever its special characteristics may be, and to that end wo must outgrow- the childish notion that a novel must be ‘ a good ad. for Australia,’ as web as the spurious refinement which deplores the export of Granddad Rudd and his Selection, which despite all ttye extravagances and incongruities grafted upon it by stage and screen, remains onr one successful and famous drama and, is quite as entertaining ns many venerable folk plays of Europe and Asia,”

.Mi- Peirival. JSerle writes; “ Professor Cowling, in bis interesting article, stated that ‘ the rewards of literature in tin’s country are not good enough to make it attract the best minds.’ I wonder whether lie realised that the same thing could be said of his native country? If the rewards of literature in England were sufficient, why lias it been found necessary for the Government to give literary pensions to such men as Joseph Conrad (£I.OOO a year), W. H. Davies, £150; Walter do la Mare, £100; W. E. Henley, £225; W. IT. Hudson, £150; T. Sturgo Moore, £7o; Arthur Symons. £120: Sir William Watson, £200: and W. B. Yeats, £150? These arc hut a few out of a host of literary men that have been helped by the Government during the last hundred years. “ And why in addition to this has it been necessary to have such a fund as the Royal Literary Fund, which, during the last L>o years, has quietly distributed over £200,000 to needy followers of literature? The answer to both these questions is simple. In no country and in no time have the rewards <>f literature been sufficient in themselves to attract the best minds, and from at least Roman times onwards the patron has had to bo called in to help to keep the best literary workr-s a’ivc. Even so great a man as Shakesm are had a patron in his early days; Milton, in the following century, would have starved had he tried to live by In's poetry; a century later Samuel Johnson was writing— There mark what ill Urn scholar’s life assail; Toil, envy, want, the patron and the jail. Johnson knew what he was writing about. It was not until late in life that ho became free of money worries, when the Government granted him a pension of £-200 a year. In the nineteenth century Carlyle wrote to Monckton Milnes asking him to get a pension for Tennyson. M.ilncs replied that the dare not. his constituents knew nothing of Tennyson and would think it a job. To which Carlyle grimly yet Immo’ously replied: ‘'When von die and the Lord asks yon why didn’t you get that pension for Alfred Tennyson, it won’t be a bit of use trying (o put thy blame on to your constituent*. It is von that will be damned.’ Tennyson got his pension. “ Some years ago ! was a member of a deputation which waited on the I’rimo Minister to urge thal our Australian literary pensions should lie increased from £52 a year to a nia.vimnm of £2OO. We were kindly received, but on our request being referred to a committee it reported in effect that no Australian literary man was worthy of more than a pound a week. In face of this the Cabinet would do nothing; and as that was in prosperous times there would be no hope of getting anything done ; n these days.” Tn New Zealand, it may be stated, there is no such thing as a literary pension. If a needy Tennyson wrote in this country he would be entitled, after a sufficient term of residence, to the old age pension, and, to check his own returns of them, newspaper editors would he asked at intervals to state, for official information, the amount—possibly £1! or £s—they had paid him in a year, on the off chance that the small dole, not bestowed for literary merit, might be reducible.

Tn view of the recent commemoration of the anniversary of the death of General Gordon, unusual interest is attached to the announcement .of a new novel in-which he is depicted as the contra! character. ‘ Khartoum Trarvdv ’ is tlm title of fins new honk by Marcus Maclarcn. which was published by I,oval Dickson.