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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 10, Issue 3 (June 1, 1935)

New Zealand Journey

page 32

New Zealand Journey

Christchurch, as that Blonde Whom Gentlemen Prefer, used to say, is divine. It is chockful of beautiful and astonishing things, so that I do not know whether to begin with the Illuminated Fountain or Professor Shelley, the Provincial Council Chambers, or Mr. Shurrock's overall.

Perhaps I had better begin in the municipal manner and introduce you to the Square. The Christchurch Square is a large open space bounded on the north by the Post Office, on the south by the “Press” newspaper (wherein sits my dear John Schroeder who wrote the best poem about a monkey ever produced outside heaven). There! That monkey has done it again! One puts on one's grandest municipal manner in order to introduce the reader to the Christchurch Square, and here is John's monkey clamouring for your attention. I perceive that this story cannot proceed until he has done his little song and dance. John Schroeder produced this delicious little piece when he heard that Mussolini had forbidden Italian organ-grinders to leave Italy. (Notice the capering, pattering movement of the verse):—

To the Memory of Jacko.
I shall never see a monkey
With a frill round his throat
In bright red trousers
And a bright red coat
And a squashed red hat
Tied under his chin.
I shall never see a monkey
Holding out a tin;
No more see a monkey
Dressed like that
(I forgot about the feather
In his floppy red hat …
And his bright brass buttons
And his nice yellow sash)
Holding out a pannikin
For driblets of cash.
No, it isn't the organ,
And it isn't the man—
I can do without them;
But I don't think I can
Do without Jacko
And his puckered up face,
Ridiculous trousers,
Buttons, and lace.
And I can scarcely help crying
As to-night I read
That the end of Jacko
Has been decreed;
And I sit here thinking
And thinking about
The queer way his trousers
Let his curly tail out …
No, it isn't the organ,
And the man I won't miss;
But it hurts quite terribly
When I think of this:
I shall never see a monkey
Never again
See a monkey rattling
His little steel chain
And whimpering on an organ,
With a frill round his throat,
And with bright red trousers,
And a bright blue coat.

* * *

Yes, yes, dear reader, it is a fascinating sight, this monkey, but you have yet to see the rest of Christchurch Square. Come along. The Square, like the world is quite full of a number of things. For instance, sixteen hundred bicycles have swooped by whilst you have been observing the monkey, and all these bicyclists are anarchists. They know not law and order. They laughingly loop the loop in front of the half-swearing half-swooning tram driver. The crossing lights signal your taxi to go?

Then four-and-twenty cyclists fly gaily across your path, if that can be called a path which is in shape (thanks to these cyclists) a true-lovers' knot. Every Christchurch person who buys a car goes white-haired within a week, that is well-known. You say that Dr. Xyz is not so? Believe me, whilst the cyclist lives, the doctor dyes. Billions of cyclists—anarchists all. Such is the Square.

But, as Al Jolson says, you ain't seen nothin' yet. In this Square is a statue, three tram-shelters, a green enclosure and a belt of traffic that will soon rival Piccadilly Circus. Here, too, is the Cathedral with its soaring spire pointing us to heaven. In fact, this is the centre of city life and drama. Here princes and duchesses have made their bows to the people; it was here that Pamela Travers, our own poet, ran barefoot playing leapfrog in the dark at 2 a.m., and if ever there is a revolution it will be here that the guillotine will be raised.

Christchurch is as flat as a fryingpan. The inhabitants say proudly, “Isn't it English?” But I thought it Dutch. The endless repetition of long flat streets, the ever-recurring river Avon, reminiscent of Holland's canals, the raised bridges every quarter mile or less—these were more like the Netherlands than anything else I have seen outside Amsterdam. The lovely bits of Gothic architecture complete the illusion.

Loveliest of all is the Provincial Council Chamber, that exquisite jewel of Gothic which I have not seen equalled anywhere. This was built by an English architect, Mr. B. W. Mountford, in 1864, as a House of Parliament for the early fathers of Canterbury province. The old Council page 33
“Every Christchurch person who buys a car goes white-haired within a week.”

“Every Christchurch person who buys a car goes white-haired within a week.”

Chamber is a nobly proportioned room, impressive in its entirety, perfect in its every detail. The carvings in rough stone give many a portrait of early pioneer faces, and William Brassington, the stone-mason, included a comical sculpture of himself which may be seen to this day at the east side of the gallery. The glorious stained-glass windows gently admonish the gentlemen in session with conscience-searching texts, such as “Good sense and reason ought to be the umpire of all rules.” “The credit that is got by a lie only lasts until the truth comes out.” “Read another man's conscience, but get thine own by heart.”

I went up into the gallery of this splendid hall and tried the acoustic: perfect! Upstairs here one could see the detail of the painted roof-decoration—a glowing symphony in gold, orange, blue and red, the work of one Francis St. Quentin.

“Why is it so beautiful?” I said to Hamish. “There is something about it that is different from anything else in New Zealand.”

“It was all done by craftsmen,” he suggested, “by men who lived to work, not men who worked to live as they do now. They have given it that same quality one sees in mediaeval churches and monasteries …”

“Yes, yes,” I put in eagerly. “I know what quality you mean. I can name it … love!”

It certainly took all the courage and foresight and unselfishness of love to erect this building in 1864. At that time there were only 3,000 people in the whole of Canterbury and Westland—pioneers facing bitter odds, untold hardships. Then the Council Chamber must have seemed a bold token of faith in New Zealand's future. Yes, it must have been a labour of love, the love that “beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.” You dreaming architect, you gallant builders, colour-mad painter, merry stonemason, your brave and joyous vision was solidly materialised for the inspiration of countless unborn men and women, a thing of beauty and a joy for ever.

Another lovely bit of Gothic is the University which, quadrangle and all, reminds one of some of the Oxford colleges. Above the main doorway is a fine old clock which has an exceedingly sonorous strike. And thereby hangs a tale.

It was Speech Day and the Chancellor of the University of New Zealand was due to address a large audience of students and visitors at 3 p.m. Which he did. Hardly had he uttered the first words of his carefully prepared speech, however, when the University clock started to strike—“One, Two, Three, …”

The Professor smilingly waited for the “Three” and prepared to go on. But it was the clock that went on. “Four, Five, Six,” … The gathered multitude looked at each other inquiringly. “Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen,” … Obviously a practical joke. Had one of the engineering students … ? Yes, one had. A clockmaker had to be sent for before the thing could be stopped. Ah youth, which delights more in a noisy clock speaking eleven hundred times, than in the most learned professor speaking once! This story was gleefully told me by—no, dear reader, Not a student—by one of the professors!

I met many of the professors, and liked them all. Let me introduce you. Here, to begin with, is Professor Tocker, the economist. He it was who acted as economic adviser to the Prime Minister at the Geneva Monetary Conference. But do not be misled by this. You are not to picture a dour financier with little marks round his mouth. If there is one adjective to describe Professor Tocker, it is “boyish.”

“Tell me all about Geneva,” I begged him.

His eyes twinkled reminiscently.

“Well to give you an idea of the nature of the place, this is the sort of thing that went on all the time: one night, I, a New Zealander, dressed in an English suit, laid down a Havana cigar in order to dance a Spanish tango with a Chinese lady to an Argentine tune played by a Hungarian band in a Swiss hotel.”

“And of all the great personages you met there, whom did you admire most?”

“Keynes,” replied Professor Tocker emphatically.

“A clockmaker had to be sent for.”

“A clockmaker had to be sent for.”

Professor Shelley, on the other hand, is quite grown up. Saturnine as to countenance, he glowers upon an inartistic world, and in spurts of dynamic energy tries to alter it and us.

With him I had a vigorous argument upon the subject of whether material or spiritual things come first in life. He belongs to the old school of idealists. I argued that men cannot turn to higher things without a modicum of material sustenance. His reply was “Seek ye first the Kingdom of Heaven and all things shall be added unto you.” This seemed to me to be the typical argument of a man who has never been hungry. The artist needs bread and meat in order to build the body that produces art (art, of course, being what Prof. Shelley means by “Heaven”). The first necessity for functioning in this world is, surely, a physical body. Professor Shelley was, and is, profoundly distrustful of materialism, however, and we left each other unconverted.

Amongst other things I did in Christchurch was a broadcast from the Government radio station, 3Ya. There we saw Professor Shelley again. He was next after me on the programme, in a one-act play. The play was about a gruff old doctor and a whiney neurotic patient. Hamish and I sat in an adjoining room watching Shelley. From where I sat, the other actor was out of sight. Shelley acted the gruff, cantankerous old man to perfection. The other actor was good. Although I could not see him, I admired the way his voice conveyed mental agony and strain. After a few moments, however, I got tired of it and we left the building. As we went down the street Hamish said, “Didn't you think Shelley was marvellous in that play?”

“Oh, Shelley, Shelley, Shelley!” I snapped. “If he does a thing everyone thinks it perfect. The other actor was just as good.”

Hamish roared with laughter.

“Why do you laugh? The other page 34 page 35 one was as good; in fact, I think he was better. The way his voice portrayed nerve-strain …”

“My poor child,” Hamish chuckled.

“I am not your poor child. And I am not a Shelleymaniac. I can appreciate other actors still, thank God.”

“But, my dear, Shelley was playing both parts.”

“What?”

“Yes, he was. And, what's more, sometimes he takes a whole play with five or six parts, men, women, children, everything!”

There was a long silence. Then I put my hand in Hamish's. In a very small voice I said, “He is wonderful. I apologise.”

After this we must seek something that is definitely not art, by way of relief. Such is the Illuminated Fountain, as every young person in Christchurch will tell you. The fountain stands in another Square and throws up successive columns, jets, rosettes and Prince-o'-Wales' feathers of water very beautiful to behold. And at night it is lighted from inside with blue and green and rose and purple lights, and thus changes from champagne to burgundy, and from burgundy to creme de menthe, and from creme de menthe to cherry brandy; but not such liqueurs as you get in shops but such as come from fairy pubs, glittering and evanescent as a houri's dream. It is all very bad taste, as the Superior Young Persons of Christchurch assured me, but I loved it, and would watch it for twenty minutes on end, always trying to guess what it would do next, and always miscalculating.

Those who are interested in psychic phenomena may be surprised to hear that one of the most powerful “direct voice” mediums in the world lives in Christchurch. His name is Mr. Lance Brice, and he is in private life a hairdresser. I had the privilege of sitting with his circle several times and was deeply impressed with all that went on. He is a New Zealander by birth and speaks but one language. Nevertheless, at his circle, voices spoke to me in French, Italian, Dutch, Russian, Jugo-Slav and German. Some of these were people I knew quite well.

Christchurch is fortunate in having one of the finest Art Galleries south of the Equator. The building stands in a beautiful park, surrounded by trees and shrubs. When I was there a blaze of zinnias, dahlias and michaelmas daisies surrounded the gallery with a ring of perfume and colour. Zinnias! Who but God would dare to throw so many clashing colours together? And who else would succeed so magnificently? Zinnias—yellow, orange, scarlet, crimson, magenta, purple, lemon, ochre, umber, terra cotta—with their sturdy stalks and glowing coronets … these are the sort of things that make me believe in a deity in spite of myself … a god of flowers, dizzy—as Stalin puts it—dizzy with success.

The Robert McDougall Art Gallery was founded in 1928, and who should lay the foundation stone but Mr. McDougall himself! This is but right, for this man gave £25,000 to the City of Christchurch in order to suitably house the collection of pictures assembled by the Canterbury Society of Arts. There are two portraits of him in the gallery—one a large canvas in oils by Archibald Nicoll, and the other a vigorous bas-relief in bronze by Francis A. Shurrock. The delightful and encouraging thing about this gallery is that it contains a good deal of fine painting by New Zealanders, and has not been filled up with tenth-rate work by English and Continental painters, as the Auckland Gallery has, for instance. It is a joy to see the telling portrait work of Elizabeth Kelly, ànd then to go out into the street and meet the same Elizabeth Kelly, just rushing off to meet her husband for lunch. It is interesting to view the somewhat academic painting of Richard Wallwork and then to slip across to the Art School and to watch him teaching a design class. Best of all, it is good to stand, gripped, before the sculpture of Francis Shurrock and then to go and gossip with him as he stands in his extra-ordinary voluminous khaki smock which is decorated with regimental buttons, heavens knows why, and discourses, in his homely North Country accent, with all the originality and insight of the true artist, simple, sincere, a craftsman to his finger tips. To my mind, Shurrock is The artist of Christchurch; but this may be a heresy so I will not labour the point.

If you go to this gallery there are two or three things that you must be sure to see. First, there are the landscapes by Nugent Welsh, done when Nugent Welsh was happy. But, you ask, is Nugent Welsh not happy now? … I do not know him; I have never met him; but I do know that his Christchurch gallery canvasses are serene, broad and benign; one senses the happiness in the paint. His later landscapes, on the contrary, are profoundly melancholy, typical products of our declining capitalistic era. Now-a-days, art is either melancholy, as in the case of Welsh; or insincere, as in the case of what's-it and you-know who; or revolutionary, as in the case of Epstein and his school. Happy art is a thing of the past … and of the future.

Then, too, you must see a picture called “The Sea and the Bay,” by Rhona Haszard, for this is a very good thing, and Rhona was a very special person. Yes, “was.” She is dead. At the age of thirty she fell from the roof of a building in Alexandria where she was painting, and thus ended much joy and genius and womanly beauty.

Rhona Haszard was born at Thames, New Zealand, in 1901. Her art education began at Christchurch, and then she went to Paris and perfected her craft there. The outstanding thing about our Rhona was her felicitous

page 36

page 37 technique with colour. She had a passion and a divine gift for colour. She used to say, “colour alone is so lovely and so satisfying that I often wonder why we bother to arrange it in shapes.” She could mix and match colours and put them straight from the palette onto canvas without trying them out at all. She knew colours as the deaf Beethoven knew sounds. The loveliness she put into paint was really an expression of the beauty within her; she was, as the Psalmist puts it, “all glorious within.” When she died a friend wrote of her: “She was so guileless, always believing the best of everyone, often disillusioned but never embittered… . She was like a sparkling stream with hidden pools of unknown depths and beauty. She was lovely—to see her was to be made happier, to talk to her was to have a lamp lit in one's mind. How she loved life! Nothing of beauty, however insignificant, passed her by unnoticed. Radiant, vital, lovely, one will always remember her.”

This is in her pictures. Every bit of it is in her pictures—and there are examples of her work in each of our big galleries. Leslie Greener, her husband, brought out all her paintings to New Zealand after her death. Many went into private hands, but the best he would only sell to the galleries. One feels that this is what Rhona would have wished.

We cannot leave Christchurch without seeing the Catholic Cathedral, a beautiful church in which classic and Gothic architecture are very happily combined. This Cathedral attracted Mr. Bernard Shaw when he was here, and he boldly stated his reasons for preferring it to the Anglican one. The latter was a copy, stereotyped Gothic, absolutely academic; but the Catholic Cathedral, he said, reminded him of the work of Brunelleschi, the supreme architect of mediaeval Italy. When Michael Angelo was asked, “Can you build a church with a better dome than Brunelleschi's?” he replied, “I can build a different dome, but not a better one.”

“They have here in New Zealand,” said Mr. Shaw, “a man who is capable of doing that work, but what an awful time he must be having! Just imagine! Supposing yourself born here in New Zealand, a Brunelleschi, and that your business is to produce cathedrals of that kind. New Zealand might make a great effort and give you one commission and one cathedral to build. That is pretty hard lines. That man wants to be building cathedrals all his life. There should be cathedrals like that in every town in New Zealand.”

I cannot quite agree with Mr. Shaw that we should build dozens of churches in order to keep a good architect in bread and butter; I would sooner see the money spent on building schools and universities to the glory of God; and these buildings should be just as noble and inspiring. When everyday surroundings are dignified and beautiful it will reflect on the character of the whole nation.

Christchurch hospitality is a legend. I cannot describe it, or shall I try? Shall I tell you how John Oakley, that competent young artist, gave a party for me in his studio, and invited 20 guests, and how, just-sorter-friendly-like, 54 turned up; and how John never batted an eye, but miraculously served supper by some sort of magic that exists in Christchurch but in no other town in the world? Yes, yes! Christchurch is divine (but I said that before). Dear, friendly Gothic-Dutch town, how much I loved your academic walks, your beautiful vulgar fountain, your boyish professors, your flaming zinnias, your crazy cyclists. How sad I was to wave you “Good-bye”! But Otago beckons and we must go.

The West Coast Road, South Island, New Zealand.

The West Coast Road, South Island, New Zealand.