Give the Devil His Due (50 page)

T
here was no doubt that the exhibition opening at Frasier's gallery was one of considerable import. The street outside the building was congested with Rolls Royces and the occasional Cadillac. Chauffeurs congregated between vehicles to smoke and chat as they waited to be summoned for the journey home. Dark-suited security men were a visible presence at the entrance to the gallery. Gentlemen in evening dress and ladies in fur stoles filed in, collecting programs from the reception and murmuring appreciatively at the glorious landscapes scattered along the corridors to the main hall like a tempting trail of crumbs that promised a journey's end of exquisite and ample cake.

The main gallery hall was, for the moment, still closed pending the arrival of the prime minister, who would officially open the exhibition. It was there that Rowland stood alone, with a large glass of gin. The hall had come up as he intended. It was uncomfortable to be in.

Copies of the books banned and burned by the Nazis—which they had mostly sourced from the bookshelves at
Woodlands House
— had been used in an extraordinary display. Edna had created life-size figures out of papier-mâché and trapped them, with the books, in a cage of barbed wire. Once more, Rowland read over the explanatory plaques beside each painting, which spoke bluntly of what he'd seen in Germany. He was, here, nailing his colours publicly and quite literally to the wall. Still, it surprised him that he was quite so anxious. Rowland suspected the critics would be brutal, that many would be offended and he might never again hold such an eminently attended exhibition. What he was doing was probably professional and social suicide.

Edna came to fetch him. “The prime minister is here, Rowly. Wilfred says you have to come and meet him.” She slipped her hand into his and looked searchingly into his face. “Are you having second thoughts?”

He shook his head. “No. I'm just a trifle nervous, Ed. I hope this works.”

Edna's eyes softened. Rowland always seemed so quietly selfassured. Moved by his sudden uncertainty, she embraced him. “It may not work, Rowly, but at least we will have not said nothing while the world went mad. We will have tried to make them see.”

“And if they won't see?”

She reached up and clasped his face between her hands. “We're still young,” she said. “If this doesn't work, we'll simply try something else. We have years before we're too old to fight.”

He smiled. He could easily have remained forever with the sculptress in his arms—God, he wanted to.

“Come along,” Edna said, smoothing down his lapel. “There are some rather important people waiting for you.”

To a glittering assembly, Prime Minister Joseph Lyons spoke warmly of the place of art in bringing the world to Australia, in allowing those unable to travel and experience the wonders and beauty of Europe to understand the landscape of countries like Germany. He apologised that the opening was three weeks later than originally planned, delayed because the artist had, by all accounts, been killed in a car race. The gathering chuckled politely, tittering at the folly of the newspapers. Buoyed by the laughter, the prime minister continued, pointing out that most artists were lauded only after their deaths. “It seems that Rowland Sinclair was not inclined to wait!” he finished, looking around for confirmation that he was indeed a man of rare and extraordinary jest. He was the prime minister, so he got just that.

When invited to say a few words, Rowland thanked everybody for their attendance, and mentioned with grateful admiration the friends who had helped him put the exhibition together. “It is my fervent hope,” he said in conclusion, “that on these walls you might see what we saw in Germany. And that you will respond accordingly.” Most people put the simplicity of his ambition down to the charming humility one would expect from a well-bred young man.

Then Lyons launched the exhibition with a toast to the artist, and the main gallery was opened.

A strange silence fell over the invited guests as the stark uncompromising depictions of a rising oppression were viewed. Rowland's paintings were sobering and unequivocally confronting. And they were not what the social art-lovers had expected.

Wilfred Sinclair pulled his brother aside, clearly livid. “What is the meaning of this, Rowly? You didn't tell me this so-called exhibition was some kind of propaganda campaign for the Communists.”

“You know this isn't propaganda, Wilfred. It's what I saw.”

Wilfred gritted his teeth. “You're losing perspective, Rowly.”

The exchange was interrupted by a raised voice from among the guests. “Why, this is outrageous! Preposterous! I was in Germany last year and can assure you that this is not what I saw. Clearly Sinclair is a disturbed young man, being influenced by his Bolshevik connections no doubt.”

Rowland turned. Campbell stood before the painting of the book burning. Other guests, who had been unsure how to respond to the confronting images, took Campbell's lead, tittering.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

“I invited him!” Wilfred replied fiercely. “You wanted me to offer an olive branch. I thought this would be a good forum to do it in. Of course I had no bloody idea what you were really doing.”

“It's quite worrying that Mr. Sinclair intends on standing for parliament.” Campbell's voice was loud, his intent clear. “Corrupt as the party politic machine is, he may succeed.”

But Milton Isaacs had also invited guests, who had been until now, quiet, a little uncomfortable in the elite surroundings. It was they who spoke in Rowland's defence, deriding Campbell as an apologist for the Nazis.

Wilfred cursed as hostility caught and spread. “I must get the prime minister out of here, not to mention Kate and Mother!” He turned on his brother fiercely. “Congratulations Rowly, you've succeeded in not only humiliating me and Kate, but have publicly demonstrated that you have lost all sense of proportion. You're a bloody fool!”

Rowland didn't try to defend himself. There would be time to reason with Wilfred later. For now there was Campbell and his cohorts to sort out.

A further disturbance at the entrance as more of Campbell's supporters tried to enter the gallery. There was panic now, fear that the elegant opening would become a riot. Gallery staff opened up the back doors to let people out. Dignitaries were ushered discreetly to their cars.

Campbell had embarked on a speech, decrying what he considered the “defamation of the German government by a servant of Bolshevik interests”. He wasn't without sympathy.

“There are many good men in New South Wales who would consider that subversives who cloak themselves in the mantle of high art ought to be dragged out and taught a lesson,” he declared. “I venture that those good men would be applauded!”

“Sod off, you Fascist mongrel!” Milton shouted. Someone swung at the poet. A scream. Then several. A painting was pulled off the wall and smashed underfoot. The opening to Rowland Sinclair's exhibition deteriorated rapidly. The artist himself might have been in serious danger if it were not for the fact there were many members of Sydney's artistic community in the gathering, who had attended for the sake of art, and who stayed to defend their colleague and their beliefs. Even so, the police presence which came with the prime minister was possibly all that saved the gallery being damaged and the exhibition completely destroyed.

It was in the early hours of the next morning that Rowland and his companions returned to
Woodlands House
after cleaning up what they could. The mansion was quiet, the servants all long since retired to their beds. Milton poured drinks as they sat a little stunned in Rowland's studio. Lenin, who'd been asleep by the hearth beside his cats, yawned in greeting and closed his eyes again. The one ginger kitten, that Edna had named Mercedes in memory of Rowland's late automobile, peered out from beneath the greyhound's long muzzle.

Edna curled up on the couch beside Rowland. “I'm sorry it all went so wrong, Rowly,” she said, stifling a yawn.

Rowland slipped his arm around the sculptress as she closed her eyes and relaxed against him. They were all tired. The exhibition had not gone as expected, but he wasn't sure what he'd expected in the first place. Rowland tried not to catastrophise. “They saw what I wanted them to see,” he said. “And they'll probably not forget this evening in a hurry.”

“They will certainly not,” Clyde agreed.

“It's lucky we're still young,” Edna murmured.

Rowland pulled his arm tighter, reminded.

“I expect you might get a bit of a thrashing in the papers, Rowly,” Milton sighed.

“Wilfred was cross,” Edna said softly.

“Yes,” Rowland said. He suspected that it would take some time for Wilfred to forgive him for this transgression. He hadn't thought through how the exhibition might embarrass his brother, and although he regretted that, he couldn't spend his life politely ignoring what he believed.

“Perhaps tonight was the monster Miss Norton predicted you'd release with that painting, Rowly.” Milton handed him a glass of sherry. “Some of those blokes looked like they wanted to tear you limb from limb.”

Rowland laughed. “Let's not make Rosaleen Norton a prophet, Milt.”

“One dance in the moonlight and he's joined the devil,” Clyde muttered.

“Hell is empty and all the devils are here,” Milton declared quite sadly.

“Shakespeare,” Rowland said. “I'm afraid he might be right.”

L
esley Bocquet was charged with illegal bookmaking and the murder of Crispin White. The charges against Milton Isaacs were dropped.

As Milton Isaacs predicted, the conservative newspapers were scathing of Rowland Sinclair's exhibition.
The Sydney Morning Herald
,
Truth
,
Telegraph
and
Canberra Times
all lamented the gullibility of the artistic community which seemed to be so easily swayed by the propaganda of Bolshevik interests. The dignitaries who had attended were at pains to distance themselves from the renegade artist and his fanciful paintings. Arts editors dismissed the exhibition as sensationalist nonsense.
Smith's Weekly
was a notable exception. It concentrated its criticism on Eric Campbell and the violent thugs who seemed at his beck and call, and commended Rowland Sinclair for his dogged pursuit of the truth. Perhaps it did so in memory of Crispin White.

While the Red Cross raised significant funds through staging the Maroubra Invitational, the bookmakers did not. The ultimate victory of the favourites was quite the financial blow. The Maroubra Speedway continued to claim lives through the 1930s and was eventually demolished in 1947.