men as they poked about the motors discussing rods and torque, he could not take his eyes from the plain, from the way the light fell on the ancient face of this land. He pulled the notebook from his jacket, watching Edna as she bent to touch the ochre soil.
He drew quickly, making written notes to remind himself of the colour or sense that he could not reproduce with simple graphite. He was caught by the strangeness of the sculptress here, the incongruity of her creamy skin, her elegant dress and pretty shoes in a land that seemed to devour the delicate. And yet there was something in the way her hair seemed to blend with the red and gold of the landscape, the way she pressed her hands into the dirt, that seemed to belong here too. She noticed his gaze and held up her ochre palms. “Just look at these colours, Rowly … the ground is so hard, like it’s been fired by the sun. I feel like I’m inside the earth’s kiln.”
Rowland smiled. “Sounds a little uncomfortable.” But he knew what she meant. It felt somehow like the earth was created here, like this was the first place.
“Righto … shall we start her up?” Kingsford Smith jumped down from the wing.
Rowland was startled. They’d been tinkering with the motors for only a few minutes. He’d expected that anything serious enough to completely compromise the engines would take a while to repair. It was almost more disturbing that it did not.
“It was just a push rod,” Pethybridge said, as he followed Kingsford Smith into the craft.
And so they all did likewise. Any lingering doubts that the plane would function were allayed when the engines roared on cue.
“What if this happens while we’re over water?” Edna whispered.
Rowland squeezed her hand wordlessly. The sculptress had a point.
5
AUTHOR’S PREFERENCES
MR. SOMERSET MAUGHAM INTERVIEWED
Mr. William Somerset Maugham, the famous author and playwright, who is visiting Sydney, made some interesting observations in an interview yesterday regarding Russia, and on modern literature.
Mr. Maugham was sent to Russia by the British Government in 1917, and he was there during the two revolutions which occurred that year. He is of the opinion that if the Allies had handled the situation properly by giving support to the Provisional Government and combated the unreliability of one or two members of that Government, and the outpouring of German money, the situation might have been saved.
“After the armistice I resumed the most agreeable occupation of the man of letters,” said Mr. Maugham. “In Russia I worked from 9 a.m. till 10 p.m., and I only then realised how jolly it is to be a writer. You have your freedom; you can work when you like, and you are not at anybody’s beck and call. Though you have much less money than is made in many other vocations, and you are exposed to the slings and arrows of the critics, it is a delightful life. All you require are some blank sheets of paper and a fountain pen.” The interviewer suggested that perhaps brains were also necessary, but Mr. Maugham insisted that as far as play-writing was concerned it didn’t require brains, but only a certain knack. “I think this knack is only a natural sense of logic,” continued Mr. Maugham. “Much nonsense is talked about the technique of the drama, but so far as I can see the whole mystery of it is to get a good story and to stick to it like death.”
The Sydney Morning Herald, 1921
T hey stopped in Darwin long enough to bathe and eat, while the Fokker was refuelled. Wilfred had somehow organised for fresh clothes to be awaiting them at every stop to minimise what they would need to take on board. He had instructed his English tailors by telegram to ensure that trunks of appropriate attire would meet them in Munich.
Milton was a little put out by the traditional nature of the suits which had been supplied by a local tailor under instructions from Rowland’s very conservative brother. The poet’s personal style was
He drew quickly, making written notes to remind himself of the colour or sense that he could not reproduce with simple graphite. He was caught by the strangeness of the sculptress here, the incongruity of her creamy skin, her elegant dress and pretty shoes in a land that seemed to devour the delicate. And yet there was something in the way her hair seemed to blend with the red and gold of the landscape, the way she pressed her hands into the dirt, that seemed to belong here too. She noticed his gaze and held up her ochre palms. “Just look at these colours, Rowly … the ground is so hard, like it’s been fired by the sun. I feel like I’m inside the earth’s kiln.”
Rowland smiled. “Sounds a little uncomfortable.” But he knew what she meant. It felt somehow like the earth was created here, like this was the first place.
“Righto … shall we start her up?” Kingsford Smith jumped down from the wing.
Rowland was startled. They’d been tinkering with the motors for only a few minutes. He’d expected that anything serious enough to completely compromise the engines would take a while to repair. It was almost more disturbing that it did not.
“It was just a push rod,” Pethybridge said, as he followed Kingsford Smith into the craft.
And so they all did likewise. Any lingering doubts that the plane would function were allayed when the engines roared on cue.
“What if this happens while we’re over water?” Edna whispered.
Rowland squeezed her hand wordlessly. The sculptress had a point.
5
AUTHOR’S PREFERENCES
MR. SOMERSET MAUGHAM INTERVIEWED
Mr. William Somerset Maugham, the famous author and playwright, who is visiting Sydney, made some interesting observations in an interview yesterday regarding Russia, and on modern literature.
Mr. Maugham was sent to Russia by the British Government in 1917, and he was there during the two revolutions which occurred that year. He is of the opinion that if the Allies had handled the situation properly by giving support to the Provisional Government and combated the unreliability of one or two members of that Government, and the outpouring of German money, the situation might have been saved.
“After the armistice I resumed the most agreeable occupation of the man of letters,” said Mr. Maugham. “In Russia I worked from 9 a.m. till 10 p.m., and I only then realised how jolly it is to be a writer. You have your freedom; you can work when you like, and you are not at anybody’s beck and call. Though you have much less money than is made in many other vocations, and you are exposed to the slings and arrows of the critics, it is a delightful life. All you require are some blank sheets of paper and a fountain pen.” The interviewer suggested that perhaps brains were also necessary, but Mr. Maugham insisted that as far as play-writing was concerned it didn’t require brains, but only a certain knack. “I think this knack is only a natural sense of logic,” continued Mr. Maugham. “Much nonsense is talked about the technique of the drama, but so far as I can see the whole mystery of it is to get a good story and to stick to it like death.”
The Sydney Morning Herald, 1921
T hey stopped in Darwin long enough to bathe and eat, while the Fokker was refuelled. Wilfred had somehow organised for fresh clothes to be awaiting them at every stop to minimise what they would need to take on board. He had instructed his English tailors by telegram to ensure that trunks of appropriate attire would meet them in Munich.
Milton was a little put out by the traditional nature of the suits which had been supplied by a local tailor under instructions from Rowland’s very conservative brother. The poet’s personal style was
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