Kangaroo by David Herbert Lawrence

Kangaroo by David Herbert Lawrence

Author:David Herbert Lawrence [Lawrence, David Herbert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Travel writing, Biographical
Publisher: Feedbooks
Published: 1923-07-14T16:00:00+00:00


Chapter 11

WILLIE STRUTHERS AND KANGAROO

Jaz took Somers to the famous Canberra House, in Sydney, where the Socialists and Labour people had their premises: offices, meeting-rooms, club-rooms, quite an establishment. There was a lively feeling about the place, in spite of various down-at-heel malcontents who stood about in the passage and outside on the pavement. A business-like air.

The two men were conducted into an inner room where a man sat at a desk. He was very dark, red-faced, and thin, with deep lines in his face, a tight shut, receding mouth, and black, burning eyes. He reminded Somers of the portraits of Abraham Lincoln, the same sunken cheeks and deep, cadaverous lines and big black eyes. But this man, Willie Struthers, lacked that look of humour and almost of sweetness that one can find in Abraham Lincoln's portraits. Instead, he was suspicious, and seemed as if he were brooding an inner wrong.

He was a born Australian, had knocked about the continent, and spent many years on the goldfields. According to report, he was just comfortably well-off—not rich. He looked rather shabby, seedy; his clothes had that look as if he had just thrown them on his back, after picking them off the floor. Also one of his thin shoulders was noticeably higher than the other. But he was a distinct Australian type, thin, hollow-cheeked, with a brightish brittle, red skin on his face, and big, dark, incensed-looking eyes. He nodded to the two men as they entered, but did not speak nor rise from his desk.

"This is Mr. Somers," said Jaz. "You've read his book on democracy."

"Yes, I've read it," said Struthers. "Take a seat."

He spoke with a pronounced Australian accent—a bad cockney. He stared at Somers for a few seconds, then looked away.

He asked the usual questions, how Richard liked Australia, how long he had been there, how long he thought of staying. The two didn't get into any easy harmony.

Then he began to put a few shrewd questions concerning the Fascisti and Socialisti in Italy, the appropriation of the land by the peasants, and so on; then about Germany, the actual temper of the working people, the quality of their patriotism since the war, and so on.

"You understand," said Somers, "I don't pretend to give anything but personal impressions. I have no claim to knowledge, whatever."

"That's all right, Mr. Somers. I want your impressions. What they call knowledge is like any other currency, it's liable to depreciate. Sound valuable knowledge to-day may not be worth the paper it's printed on to-morrow—like the Austrian krone. We're no slaves to facts. Give us your impressions."

He spoke with a peculiar kind of bitterness, that showed passion too. They talked about Europe for some time. The man could listen: listen with his black eyes too. Watchful, always watchful, as if he expected some bird to fly suddenly out of the speaker's face. He was well-informed, and seemed to weigh and judge everything he heard as he heard it.

"Why, when I left Europe it seemed to me socialism was losing ground everywhere—in Italy especially.



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