The Profilist

by Adrian Mitchell

  The diggers do not mend matters. They leave an endless waste, streams turned out of their proper channels, creek banks broken and thrown aside, the very earth itself heaved upside down and inside out. Utterly undone. The whole countryside looks as though a rampaging army has invaded it, sacking and pillaging wherever it goes, violating and devastating the forests, wrecking whatever might happen in its way, and throwing away what is no longer of use. The litter and rubbish have to be seen to be believed; and I do not mean what gets tumbled down abandoned shafts.

  After the diggers, nothing is ever the same again. There can be no putting to rights here. But demanding rights, ah, that is quite another matter. The diggers have their grievances about the licence. They have to pay for it as soon as they are on a declared field, and even the storekeepers and delivery men have to possess one, almost a leave pass. Which is not so very far from the old convict ways. Anybody found in want of that precious piece of paper can be marched off to a magistrate, fined five pounds and chained to the logs until the fine is paid.

  The officiousness of the inspectors is irksome enough. The superciliousness of the commissioners is even more so, young fellows mincing about in fancy uniforms with gold braid, riding about attended by a trooper, and never where they are wanted; or rogues with questionable histories endlessly soliciting and receiving bribes. The diggers can be summoned out of their holes as often as a constable passes by, perhaps up to half a dozen times a day, and having to leave off their activity to clamber up the muddy shafts becomes an infernal irritation. So they call out to each other at the approach of the traps, and one or another of them might set off in a mad dash through the scrub, hurdling over felled logs like a thoroughbred, weaving in and out of copses like a hare, leaping creeks like a kangaroo until, cornered at last, he reaches inside his shirt and produces the demanded licence. Meanwhile, those of his mates who are without one have had ample time to take evasive action on their own account.

  Not all that long ago, in Bendigo, the miners started to gather in large meetings to protest against the way the system is administered, and once they began to hear their own voice, stronger and stronger views were expressed, until a spirit of angry violence began to spread. Stirred up, they refused point blank to continue to pay their licence, and to show the strength of their numbers they took to wearing red ribbons as hat bands, many of them, but also tying them on the harness of their horses, or with deliberate rudeness, around their horses’ tails. They strongly resented the system where an informer could earn half the fine for pointing out those who had no licence—a temptation to some who had had no success on their own, or others’, claims. The diggers drew up a petition and all and sundry signed it, and marched in a procession to present it, in another demonstration of their united opposition.

  That agitation on the Bendigo fields spread to the other diggings. Bungling Governor Bathrobe, more inept than can be believed, more gangling than Edward Longshanks, determined to double the fee for the licence, to pay for his public works in Melbourne as well as to increase salaries for all his minions; and in a panic at the outrage this stirred up, reversed his decision after just two weeks. Which might seem the action of a man who has seen reason. What in fact it showed is that he had made a severe and silly mistake, and that he could be made to back down. To the angry diggers it signalled his weakness, and though it would take some time for him to depart, that was the beginning of the end of him.

  His next move was to propose to do away with the licence altogether; and then he revoked that revocation and imposed a revised schedule. He was well and truly in a quagmire. Each step he took was for the worse, and yet he was no better off if he stood still either. It looked like he did not know what he wanted. He was a ditherer.

  Melbourne boasts two major newspapers, one desperately respectable in every expressed sentiment, the other forthright to the point of foolhardiness, particularly in its disapproval of the Governor. Each pretends to ignore the other, of course; between the two of them they cover most points of view. The most injudicious gossip circulates at the bars of the main hotels, just as in Adelaide and no doubt in every main town on the face of the earth. Between drinks thirsty men must empty their mouths, after all; and the more they drink the more unwisely they express their hidden thoughts, which is no little part of the pleasure of these establishments. In vino veritas, or whatever the Latin is for beer and spirits. It was at the bar of the Criterion that I heard that Governor Bathrobe had tendered his resignation, and that no one was much interested in replacing him. We were, of course. The Governor Designate apparently had much rather go elsewhere, to the Crimea if you please, than sail off to this far end of the earth, in order to take charge of a rabble of unruly diggers. He had to be persuaded to his duty.

  Governor Hotham was in no hurry to arrive. He may have known something of what awaited him here; though in point of fact, the populace at large wished him well, and to demonstrate their goodwill there were floral arches across the roadways, and flags and bunting, as well as crowds lining the way to show him his route. But he had taken his time in getting here, a further two weeks later than first announced, and just as winter was settling in. So the crowds were a little less fervent than might have been the case, and a little more restive, stamping their feet and hugging themselves to keep warm. They just wished he would make his appearance. They had waited long enough.

  On that day of days, when all were peeking and craning to see if he was coming yet, a sudden cheer and waving of hats and walking sticks and umbrellas began way down at the other end of the street and gradually grew louder—and then the object of all the cheering appeared, a digger on a scraggy horse galloping up well ahead of the official party and waving his hat to all and sundry. It raised a laugh, and while the new Governor was not amused when informed of it, that action had made the crowd more genial, and more inclined to a generous applause when the official carriage at last trundled into view.

  The delayed arrival proved something of a feint on his part, a deceptive manoeuvre, for he is a most meticulous individual, a Navy man who insists on everything being just so, as though he is still in command of his ship. Her Majesty’s ship. Which is to say he does not make himself readily accessible; my guess is that like Hindmarsh he is too used to the exclusive privilege of his own quarterdeck. He is rigid in his adherence to the rules and regulations that have been established, and that has not boded well with the noisy demonstrations on the goldfields.

  He has cut back on government expenditure, discovering that his predecessor had been spending more than could be accounted for. Shades of Grey. He will have regulation and order, which means he urges the constabulary to be more diligent than even before; and he will accept petitions only if they are formally worded memorials, following the proper procedures. Which ordinary men are not well acquainted with, usually. The leaders among the miners seem to be more capable of stirring up and inflaming strong views than of presenting a reasoned case; more given to demanding than to negotiating.

  This was all the main topic of conversation in the Criterion and other hotels I dipped into from time to time; there is always talk about gold, of course, and where the latest rush is, and whether there are deeper deposits in the worked-out fields, and what to do with the gold once it is found, and how much of that wealth should go to the colony, and what it should be invested in, and so on and so forth. Which I have to say does not much hold my attention. I am more interested in the characters, and in recording the daily events at the diggings, and to that end I have made it my business to visit the different fields from time to time, to sketch and record whatever came to notice.

  I have been back to Forest Creek, now called Castlemaine but still much the same place, and beyond it to Bendigo, as the diggers know it, or Sandhurst as the officials know it; and I have taken to visiting Ballaarat, travelling by way of the road through Geelong of course, as the route through Bacchus Marsh is a marsh in the better part of the year, and an impassable swamp for the rest of it.
The northerly diggings are in long winding gullies, whereas Ballaarat is on more of a plain skirted by low hills, a flat as it is poetically called, prone to flooding after heavy rains. The route from Melbourne is well marked, with hotels at convenient intervals, at just about the stretch of a man’s thirst, and with favoured camping spots each at something like a day’s steady walk. Though you can now travel by coach if you wish—at a cost. Nothing comes cheap in this colony.

  Ballaarat seems to be a more extensive field than the others, although it would be difficult to tell whether this is actually so, as the others are all tucked away in the branches of gullies, and in any case the population fluctuates according to where and when the latest strike has occurred. It is certainly more easily accessible than up toward Mount Alexander, and a high proportion of newcomers head in its direction. Close on their heels, so do the storekeepers and saloon proprietors and shanty owners, the butchers and bakers, and then soon enough barmaids and entertainers and boarding-house landladies.

  And artists too. I am not the only one sketching and drawing. Some of us have looked to sell our sketches to the journals and papers in Melbourne, but some have been residents, for the time being, on the field and sold their drawings to the diggers. Ballaarat has a reputation for being a successful field for artists and diggers alike; that is to say, there are plenty of diggers with a pouch of nuggets, plenty of diggers with money to burn. I never saw that myself, but it is a common enough saying, that they will light their cigar with a five pound note, just because they can.

  One artist I heard of, an Englishman, had trained in France and was said to be a better than average painter, of the kind you might see in a gallery. But because that requires very slow and careful work, it did not provide his daily bread. So he also drew quick sketches, but not of the kind that is commonly shown to the public. He had lived in Paris for several years as a student, and made a special study of drawing the human body in his life classes there, particularly the male figure. Perhaps for lack of the alternative on the goldfields, he returned to this subject, and in a very short time there was a clandestine market for his sketches; with some among the younger men rather too ready to sit for him. Or should I say pose, for the drawings circulated quickly among particular groups of the men, and not, I suggest, for artistic admiration alone. He did not stay long on the goldfields. He had no need to, as he rapidly made enough to establish himself in Melbourne, though whether he continued his French ways and his interest in the young men I cannot say.

  It is endlessly interesting to see what men and women will turn to, to earn a living. In Ballaarat I like to call in at John Aloo’s pie shop, at a place called of all things Bakery Hill—his mutton pies are delicious, and reasonably priced. Though it occurs to me now, as I write this, that their interesting flavours may have derived from unspecified additional sources of nutrition. I have been content to enjoy them for what they are. Or what they are said to be.

  John’s English is very limited, but sufficient for him to conduct his business. Curiously, whenever we enter his shop he shoos away his own countrymen, as being bad for his business; though perhaps they come again to his back door and eat their meals somewhere out there. You learn very little from John. His conversation is not much more than saying ver’ good, and smiling and nodding and rubbing his hands together; his version of bowing and scraping I suppose.

  Most of his countrymen have no English at all, and so necessarily keep to themselves, but that seems to be their preference anyway. They mostly look for specks of gold in the tailings left behind by other miners, fossicking as it is called, in the mounds of yellow clay that are left everywhere. Who can say whether they make much from this effort? They have continued on the field, and that might mean they are sufficiently encouraged to keep on, or so unlucky that they cannot afford to return to their home villages. As has often been remarked, they are enigmatic. Which makes many of the diggers uncomfortable.

  Mr Aloo, the inscrutable piemaker—the maker of inscrutable pies—has been keen to enter as far as he is able into community activities, to be seen to be joining in. That is good for his business too. I was surprised, as well as amused, to see him with a companion, perhaps a nephew, at the theatre. What he would have made of the production beggars the imagination. It was a performance of Hamlet, of all things. None of the fireworks and crackers with which the Chinese were used to amuse themselves in their own camps. Nor fierce dancing dragons neither, nor gongs. It was as different as could be from anything he might have experienced in his own homeland.

  He would not have been at all able to follow from the lead of the audience, for it was a theatre full of rowdy diggers and their mates, all in colourful jumpers or shirts, though some made an effort and wore garish check coats, those who had found female companions for the evening and brought them along, all simpering and coquetting and displaying themselves. Perhaps that was good for business too. Fellows with enormous whiskers were calling out to acquaintances, and passing along a bottle of brandy. Some were standing up on their seats to speak with friends in the improbably named dress circle above them. Against all that hubbub, the play managed only with great difficulty to get under way. The orchestra, all five members of it, was in no danger of being heard.

  And the play, ah yes, the play’s the thing. The ghost looked like he was wearing his wife’s nightgown, and attracted whistles from all across the audience for his troubles. Ribald remarks were made about the fact that young Ophelia seemed of much the same age as Hamlet’s mother, and there was much loud barracking at the swordfight between Hamlet and his opponent, Laertes I think. Bets were offered and taken up on the outcome. When the Queen swooned, a digger jumped up on the stage and offered her a reviving swig of brandy from his bottle. Twice the play had to be stopped, and the leading actor stepped forward and begged for a little less competition from the audience. More applause and huzzahs all round.

  The players won full attention in the graveyard scene, however. The audience watched intently, if for a brief while, and then they started calling out again, suggesting adjustments to the actor’s shovelling technique, and asking if he had bottomed out yet or how deep had he gone, and whether he had found any gold, and so on and on, to wonderful comic effect. If the intention of the management was to provide entertainment for the audience, then the evening was a triumph; but the cast could have taken very little credit for that. The diggers had entertained themselves, and the rest of us too.

  In fact, Ballaarat does quite well for entertainments. As with all the goldfields, there has been from the first a racing track cleared on a convenient flat, and regular races are held in all sorts of weather. There are jumping competitions, and quoits and bowling alleys and skittle lanes. Other agreeable and convivial occasions are organised too, more enthusiastic than elegant. Victoria has yet to discover elegance. Subscription balls are held in the appropriate season—or inappropriate, as it turns out in this climate. In the old country, from time immemorial, winter is the preferred time for concerts and dances and the like, the social season; and as it is there, so shall it be here. These are noisy and jolly events, and vigorous, starting with energetic stamping to clear the mud off your shoes. Some of the gentlemen may have unearthed a pair of dancing pumps, others regrettably are still wearing their boots, to the imminent danger of their fair partners. Some unself-consciously continue to wear well-travelled top hats. The ladies of course are all in their best bonnets.

  And pointedly, the price of admission for a lady and a gentleman is the price of the monthly licence. Each. That tends to keep the numbers of diggers at bay; they don’t like the reminder. Instead, those present are for the most part the storekeepers and the doctors and other professional types, with a sprinkling of those who have struck it lucky. The hall in which the dance is held is decorated with loyal flags (another discouragement to the diggers) and banners, the wooden floor fresh scrubbed though before long it shows that not everyone was meticulous about removing what they have walked through on their
way to the ball. Couples push and shove for enough room to show their steps; the orchestra sits up in a balcony along one side of the hall, and the chandelier throws its charming glow over the entire proceedings.

  But alas, the waiters have been circulating too well among those onlookers sitting on the benches—chairs are in rare supply—and the merriment increases to occasional evidence of tipsiness. Throughout the evening the well-meaning public generously keeps the orchestra in mind, and at frequent intervals sends up a bottle or two with compliments, and so the music becomes a little more ragged and discordant as the hour passes, but nobody notices because that is entirely in keeping with the rising voices and shifting attention of the patrons. Acquaintances are calling out across the room to each other, husbands are trying to catch the attention of a waiter, plump wives are kicking up their heels, the violinist has left his companions … everyone is having a very good time indeed. So why regret elegance?

  In contrast, but not such a contrast really, are the evening concerts you come across in the more ambitious hotels. The main bar is sure to be well patronised in any event, but sometimes the publican arranges for an entertainer, a singer perhaps, with a repertoire of old favourites and a few amusing patter songs. The accompanist has his work cut out—he sits on an upturned keg for lack of a stool, and the piano lid might be held open by a miner’s pick. He is on a small raised stage, which he shares with several of the drinkers. Most of the men stay close to the bar, some grouping around the stove that warms the premises, and of course near to the girl who stokes it with billets of wood from time to time, though the quantities of rum consumed should soon make those contributions superfluous.