Towards six o'clock the company began to thin out somewhat, and within
the hour I found myself once more alone with Mr. Rawlence.
'Well, and what do you think of these few representatives of Sydney's
Bohemia?' asked my host. 'They are not, perhaps, leading pillars of
our official society, as one may say--the Government House set, you
know--but my Sunday afternoon visitors are apt to be pretty fairly
representative of our best literary and artistic circles, I think.
Interesting fellows, are they not? I was glad to notice you had a few
words with Foster, the editor of the _Chronicle_. If you still have
literary or journalistic ambitions, and have not been entirely
captivated by the pundits of commerce and money-making, Foster might
be of material assistance to you.'
Just then Ah Lun passed before us (still smiling), carrying a tray
full of used glasses.
'We'll have a bit of dinner here, Ah Lun. I won't go out to-night. I
dare say you have something we can pick over. Let us know when it's
ready.'
Really, as I look back upon it, I see even more clearly than at the
time that the artist was extraordinarily kind to me; to an obscure and
friendless youth, none too presentable, and little likely just then to
do him credit. I would prefer to set down here only that which I
understood and felt at the time. Perhaps that is not quite possible,
in the light of subsequently acquired knowledge and experience. This
much I can say: there was no hint at this time of any wavering or
diminution in the almost worshipful regard I felt for Mr. Rawlence.
Seen in his own chosen setting, he was the most magnificent person I
had met. Aestheticism of a pronounced sort was becoming the fashion of
the day in London; and, as I presently found, Mr. Rawlence followed
the fashions of London and Paris closely. Indeed, I gathered that at
one time he had settled down, determined to live and to end his days
in one or other of those Old World capitals. But after a year divided
between them, he had returned to Sydney, and gradually formed his
Macquarie Street home and social connections. No doubt he was a more
important figure there than he would have been in Europe. His private
income made him easily independent of earnings artistic or otherwise.
I apprehend he lived at the rate of about a thousand pounds a year, or
a little more, which meant a good deal in Sydney in those days. I
remember being told at one time that he did not earn fifty pounds in a
year as a painter; but, of course, I could not answer for that.
I think he derived his greatest satisfactions from the society of
young aspirants in art, literature, and journalism; and I incline to
think it was more to please and interest, to serve and to impress
these neophytes, than from any inclination of his own, that he also
assiduously cultivated the society of a few maturer men who were
definitely placed in the Sydney world as artists, writers, editors,
and so forth. But such conclusions came to me gradually, of course. I
had not thought of them during that delightfully exciting experience--my
first visit to the Macquarie Street studio.
The simple little dinner was for me a thrilling episode. The deft-handed
Chinaman hovering behind our chairs, the softly shaded table-lights, the
wine in tall, fantastically shaped Bohemian glasses, the
very food--all unfamiliar, and therefore fascinating: olives, smoked
salmon--to which I helped myself largely, believing it to be sliced
tomato--a cold bird of sorts, no slices of bread but little rolls in
place of them, no tea, and no dishes ever seen in Mrs. Gabbitas's
kitchen, or at my North Shore lodging. And then the figure of my host,
lounging at table in the rosy light, a cigarette between the shapely
fingers of his right hand--I had not before seen any one smoke at the
dinner-table--his brown velvet coat, his languidly graceful gestures,
the delicate hue of his flowing neck-tie, the costly sort of
negligence of his whole dress and deportment--all these trifling
matters were alike rare and exquisite in my eyes.
After their fashion the day, and in particular the evening, were an
education for me. I spent a couple of hours over the short homeward
journey to Mill Street, the better to savour and consider my
impressions. The previous day belonged to my remote past. I had
travelled through ages of experience since then. For example, I quite
definitely was no longer proud of being a clerk in an office. As I
realised this I smiled down as from a great height upon a recollection
of the chorus of a Scots ditty sung by a sailor on board the
_Ariadne_. I have no notion of how to spell the words, but they ran
somewhat in this wise:
'Wi' a Hi heu honal, an' a honal heu hi,
Comelachie, Ecclefechan, Ochtermochty an' Mulgye,
Wi' a Hi heu honal, an' a honal heu hi,
It's a braw thing a clairk in an orfiss.'
Well, it was no such a braw thing to me that night, as it had seemed
on the previous day. I had heard the word 'commercial' spoken with an
intonation which I fancied Mr. Smith would greatly resent. But I did
not resent it. And that was another of the fruits of my immense
experience: Mr. Smith would never again hold first place as my mentor.
How could he? Why, even some of my own innocent notions of the past--of
pre-Macquarie Street days--seemed nearer the real thing than one or
two of poor Mr. Smith's obiter dicta. I had noted the hats of that
elect assemblage, and there had not been a billycock among them. Not a
single example of the headgear which Mr. Smith held necessary for the
self-respecting man in Sydney! But, on the contrary, there had been
quite a number of a kind which approximated more or less to the soft
brown hat purchased by me in Dursley, and discarded upon Mr. Smith's
urgent recommendation in favour of the more rigid and precise
billycock. I reflected upon this significant fact for quite a long
while.
Certainly, the world was a very wonderful place. Was it possible that
a week ago I had been a handy lad, dressed merely in shirt and
trousers, and engaged in planting out tomatoes? I arrived at the
corner of Mill Street, and turning on my heel walked away from it. I
wanted to try over, out loud, one or two such phrases as these:
'I've been dining with an artist friend in Macquarie Street!'--'I was
saying this afternoon to the editor of the _Chronicle_'--'I met some
delightful people at my friend Mr. Rawlence's studio this afternoon!'
But, upon the whole, there was a more subtle joy in the enunciation of
certain other remarks, supposed to come from somebody else:
'I met Mr. Freydon, Mr. Nicholas Freydon, you know, this afternoon. He
had looked in at Rawlence's studio in Macquarie Street. In fact, I
believe he stayed there to dinner before going on to his rooms at
North Shore. Rawlence certainly does get all the most interesting
people at his place. Landon, the painter, was deep in conversation
with Mr. Freydon. No, I don't know what Mr. Freydon does--some
secretarial appointment, I fancy. He's evidently a great friend of
Rawlence's.'
It is surprising that I can set these things down with no particular
sense of shame. I distinctly remember striding along the deserted
roads, speaking these absurdities aloud, in an only slightly subdued
conversational voice. My mood was one of remarkable exaltation. I
wonder if other young men have been equally mad!
'How d'ye do, Foster?' I would murmur airily as I swung round a
corner. 'Have you seen my new book?'; or, 'I noticed you published
that article of mine yesterday!' Presently I found myself in open,
scrub-covered country, and singing, quite loudly, the old sailor's
doggerel about its being a braw thing to be a 'clairk in an orfiss';
my real thought being that it was a braw thing to be Nicholas Freydon,
a clerk in an office, who was very soon to be something quite
otherwise.
I am not quite sure if this mood was typical of the happy madness of
youth. There may have been a lamentable kind of snobbery about it; I
dare say. I only know this was my mood; these were my apparently crazy
actions on that remote Sunday night. And, too, before getting into bed
that night--fortunately for himself, perhaps, poor Mr. Smith was
already asleep, and so safe from my loquacity--I carefully folded the
two magnificent rainbow-hued silk handkerchiefs which good Mrs.
Gabbitas had given me, and stowed them away at the very bottom of my
ancient carpet-bag.
The sort of remarks which I had been addressing to the moon were not
remarks which I ever should have dreamed of addressing to any human
being. I think in justice I might add that. But I had greatly enjoyed
hearing myself say them to the silent night.