In a letter to poet and dramatist Ettore Rella that appears in Talking into the Typewriter: Selected Letters (1973-1983), Christina Stead recommends a long-forgotten novel by Australian writer William Hay first published in 1918:
I have just finished a a truly remarkable novel that probably will not come your way: The Escape of the Notorious Sir William Heans (and the Mystery of Mr. Daunt) [which Hay subtitled “A Romance of Tasmania”] (that is the title) by author William Hay — British-born Australian author (died in 1945), writing about the penal settlement days in Tasmania (one of our worst convict settlements, that of Port Arthur). Given to me by friend-novelist Patrick White: he so greatly admires it that he “keeps buying it and giving it away.” This magnificent writer is a most serious deepdyed scholar, student of the epoch and his work is a sort of epic, an Inferno, not the usual horror-story of beatings and killings in prison (though he mentions it once or twice) but the story of an English gentleman sent to the Tasmanian penal settlement for “abduction”; and his life there — he is relatively well-treated, because of his station and his manners and dress which he keeps up with difficulty but without decline, until his escape; and this finickiness is an outward sign, not of vanity, but of his resolution. After two failures (accidental misfortune) he does escape and his escape with the help of some others (an aboriginal woman, a “lady” woman and even her husband, a prison architect) over the “goblin hills” (high dangerous heavily wooded and “paved” with the skeletons of previous escapees who could not find food in that unfamiliar bushland) is a real heart-teaser, you can hardly stand the tension; but it is also, one at once recognises, an ascent from Avernus. (But alas poor Sir William, all his friends are in Aervnus; and he goes to live in Dieppe — the closest he can get to England, the country that tossed him out to prison and exile.) It is done with great thought, painful solitary thought and the sensitivity of a “gentleman” — for the writer was, too. The women are beautifully, delicately treated. One of his wonders is his extraordinary use of the human face as a stage for conflicting emotions — often all at once! And for this play, these plays, his wonderful adjectives. Very fine writing…. No more on that. I would have you read the book, if you ever got a copy from me. I’ll look around. Should be able to get it here in sacred Erewhon [she was living in Australia].
Here are a few extracts to illustrate the strong prose and narrative drive of this remarkable novel.
On faces:
It is strange how the world will give a man a second chance — especially if he be a good-looking one. This perennial instance of man’s patience is no more evident in our male clubs and criminal courts than in the cabinets of the women. Sir William Heans’ crime — his sin — which we shall touch on most briefly hereafter, and the committing of which had pushed him from the places that he loved into exile and boredom in a wild island at the bottom of the world — his sin seemed like to have been forgiven him by certain of his new acquaintances…. This had not arisen from a rumour which had arrived with him … but from the far more potent argument of his good health and handsome face.
…
Steel-hard was Mr. Daunt; vigilant, regretful, deadly, a little sharp, a little careful, a little old. You would hardly have known him for other than a gentleman, in very difficult company, keeping himself on the civil side, except that upon the bottom of his face there was a smile-like contraction of the muscles, such as people have, they say, who have expired of thirst. It seemed involuntary. Perhaps he was trying to smile kindly. But that was not the significance of it as seen in conjunction with the vigilant eyes.
And the first moments of Sir William’s escape through the streets of Port Arthur:
He passed several people, and the face of one which he saw advancing right on him gave him a heavy pang. It was that of the small police sergeant who a year ago had ushered him into the waiting-room of Franklin’s audience-chamber: the man like a half-drawn knife. He was in smart cords and clawhammer and eyed him and his saddle with just a ghost of steely interest. He passed, however, without stopping him, and Sir William, on his part, threw him from his vision with a remarkable calm. Near the end of the street, he passed also, very down on his luck, a fellow with whom he had played at Fraser’s: a man who was remarkable for staring at each of the company in turn, and for long intervals, and saying never a word. He was aware that this gentleman stopped and stared after him disturbingly….
About the cart, as he looked, came the troublesome fellow on the restive horse. Heans stood there for a moment and stared steadily at this rider. He was a handsome man, with quite a Byronical air, a fine thin face, and prettily groomed whiskers. He came nobly and abstractedly along the road. He seemed younger than Sir William had supposed: not more than thirty to thirty-five years. Sir William did not think that he was particularly observed by him; nevertheless, he turned away with an unquiet heart-beat. A few yards on along the footpath was Six’s curio shop, and before he quite knew what he had done, he was standing before it, and looking at the prints and pieces of brass and copper. He there endeavoured to win back his calm of mind. Immediately, over the white glass behind, he saw Henry Six himself, his head a little bowed and the newspaper in his hand. For a flash Heans hesitated, but decided to wait again till the rider had passed by.
He waited five-six minutes. A horse with a vehicle passed down, but no hoofs passed up. He waited another three, four, five. Six continued to read his paper. No horseman went by. He now stole a glance southward. He immediately felt a sense of relief, for he could not see his sheep-like follower among the stockmen or by the wagon, and believed he had gone at last by his right-hand turning. He was mistaken, however, for on turning to look behind him, he recognised not the rider, but not far down his fine roan, held by a tout before a warehouse. Here were Six’s brass and copper baubles, here was poor Six sunk in his paper, and yonder was the horse, now singularly familiar even to its green forehead-band. Sir William examined each for a brief while; shifted his saddle to his left arm; and continued slowly up the north hill.
The Escape of the Notorious Sir William Heans (and the Mystery of Mr. Daunt) is also available on the Internet Archive: Link.
, edited by Anne Fadiman