The Larnachs Read online

  For William, Lydia, Sophie and Christian

  This is not a biography and not a history.

  It is a novel: the imaginative interpretation of a situation experienced by real people.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgements

  The Larnach & de Bathe Brandon Families

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  The Larnach Estate

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  My chief source of family material was King of the Castle: A Biography of William Larnach by Fleur Snedden (David Bateman, 1997), great-great-granddaughter of William Larnach. She in turn acknowledges Hardwicke Knight’s The Ordeal of William Larnach (Allied Press, 1981).

  I am grateful to Michelanne Forster for generously allowing me to read material she gathered in the course of writing her successful play, Larnach, and to Joanna Woods for her book Facing the Music: Charles Baeyertz and the Triad (Otago University Press, 2008), which contains much concerning the musical tastes of the period.

  Other material is taken from the letter books of W.J.M. Larnach 1884–1898, held on microfilm in Dunedin’s Hocken Collections, and from contemporary newspaper reports.

  I am grateful, too, for the encouragement and support of my editor, Anna Rogers, and publisher, Harriet Allan.

  One’s real life is often the life that one does not lead.

  — Oscar Wilde

  The Larnach & de Bathe Brandon Families

  William James Mudie Larnach (1833–1898)

  married Eliza Jane Guise (1842–1880) in 1859

  Donald Guise (1860–1910)

  Kate Emily (1862–1891)

  Douglas John (1863–1949)

  Colleen Shawn (1865–1951)

  Alice Jane (1868–1942)

  Gladys Beryl (1878–1900)

  married Mary Cockburn Alleyne (1849–1887), half-sister to Eliza Guise, in 1882

  married Constance de Bathe Brandon (1856–1942) in 1891

  Alfred de Bathe Brandon (1809–1886)

  married Constance Mary Anne Brandon (no relation, d. 1841) in 1840

  Henry Eustace (1840–1886)

  married Lucy Poole in 1854

  Alfred (1854–1938)

  Constance (1856–1942)

  Charles (1860–1942)

  Sarah

  Fanny

  Annie

  Hugh (1868–1923)

  Prologue

  The Wellington Post reports that the nuptials of the Hon. W.J.M. Larnach, C.M.G., and Miss Constance de Bathe Brandon, daughter of the late Hon. Alfred de B. Brandon, M.L.C., was solemnised in St. Paul’s Pro-cathedral this afternoon (January 27). The bride was attended by Misses F. and A. Brandon, her sisters, Misses F. and L. Brandon, the bride’s nieces, and Misses Doris Johnston and Cecilia Higginson. Dr Cahill acted as the bridegroom’s best man, and the bride was given away by her brother, Mr A. de B. Brandon. The ceremony was performed by the Rev. J.C. Andrew, M.A., assisted by the Rev. J. Still. There was a large congregation present, consisting principally of ladies, who naturally took a great interest in the affair. The wedding party, at the conclusion of the ceremony, returned to the residence of the mother of the bride, where a large number of family friends partook of an early afternoon tea. Mr and Mrs Larnach will spend their honeymoon on the West Coast of the North Island.

  Otago Witness, 5 February 1891

  Constance de Bathe Brandon married in summer. Curious people, mainly women, gathered in the sunlight and breeze outside the pale wooden walls of St Paul’s with its modest slate spire. The lawn was green and freshly mown, the small pohutukawa, still with a few last flowers, stood in close, dark foliage by the picket fence, beyond which carriage horses fidgeted. Thorndon Road dipped down towards Wellington Harbour, and steep, tree-stumped hills overlooked the city.

  The interior of the Gothic church was dim because of the dark, native timbers — totara, matai, rimu and kauri — and the buttress arches rose to the high ceiling. As the guests waited, one man complained to his wife that it was like being inside a giant walnut, but the wonderful hues of the stained glass windows, especially the sapphire blue, shimmered in the gloom, and the Reverend Andrew’s white surplice and stole were richly tinctured by the colours cast. The guests witnessed Alfred give his sister away, although it was rumoured that he considered she was marrying someone rather beneath the family’s position. The bride’s voice, however, was clear and definite when she made her vows.

  When the bridal party came from the cathedral, both those invited and the gawpers could make inventory of everything external: details of dress, deportment, the abundance of flowers, the quality of jewellery. Feelings were not so unequivocally displayed, although excitement showed on many female faces. Every marriage is a victory for women. It was a large wedding, socially significant, and most guests showed their pleasure in being included by slightly self-conscious poses as they stood around the church front, and slight distraction in their conversations as they watched the wedded pair. Constance’s cream satin wedding dress was figured with sprigs of lily of the valley, and her pale jacket had a high collar and puffed sleeves. She wore flowers in her light brown hair, and her posture was very upright, her gaze direct. That she was small, neatly formed, was emphasised by the almost portly figure of the groom, an older man with drooping moustache and balding head, but considerable assurance none the less.

  One woman observer, whose natural proportions made unnecessary the considerable bustle of her dress, commented that Dr Thomas Cahill, the best man, would make a more suitable husband for Constance, and also criticised the hairstyle of Cecilia Higginson, one of the bridesmaids, but most present responded to the occasion with affirmation and goodwill. Even more than a baptism, a marriage has a fine sense of optimism, for it is a conscious coming together of two people who consider a partnership better than individual selfishness.

  The wind was strengthening across the harbour and up the slope to Thorndon. It stirred the train of the bride’s gown, and wafted a scrap of paper that startled a horse harnessed to the carriage waiting by Bishop’s Court to take the bridal party to the Brandon home. Two carriages were needed, in fact, for although Constance’s father was dead, she had three brothers and three sisters.

  Davy Williams, who was to drive one carriage, moved closer to a skittish grey to quieten her, while still watching the people on the front church lawn, and talking with fellow driver Colm, who stood with his own two horses.

  ‘How long then d’you think we’ll be waiting here?’ asked Colm.

  ‘It’ll be a while, you’ll see. They’ll want to make the most of it.’

  ‘And when we get there we’ll be turned away without a decent meal, I dare say. Seems an odd pairing, don’t you think? He must have a good few years over her,’ said Colm. ‘Who the hell is Larnach anyway?’

  ‘That’s William Larnach,’ said Davy. ‘He’s a Parliament one just like her father used to be. Comes from way down south in Dunedin where it’s all Presbyterians and whisky.’

  ‘Me, I’ll have the bloody whisky and leave the Bible walloping.’

  ‘They say he’s married twice before and both died on him.’

  ‘Old goat.’

  ‘You’re right, but chance would be a fine thing, Colm boy.’

  Per
haps some of their betters thought the same, but no indelicacy was expressed then among the guests of both sexes. It was all felicitations and admiration, all sharp observation of people who mattered on the day, especially, of course, Constance and Alfred de Bathe Brandon, and William Larnach, the happy groom. No one paid much attention to twenty-seven-year-old Douglas Larnach, who went forward awkwardly to kiss his stepmother after the ceremony.

  The afternoon of 27 January 1891. A day as real and vivid as any other, before absorbed by the deepening mist of the past. A day of sunrise and sunset, of heightened significance for some, and routine boredom for most. A day of high ceremony, of mutton chop and potato dinners, of a specious land deal, the generosity of a patron, a long forgotten boy beaten with a razor strop for soiling his britches, the reconciliation of elderly sisters, a murder on the gumfields, kindness and malice shown in a thousand homes and workplaces. A day, like all others, that held the possibility of advantage and misfortune. The day on which Alfred de Bathe Brandon, in place of his dead father, and displaying a manner that was to serve him well as mayor of Wellington, gave his sister in marriage to William James Mudie Larnach, self-made successful businessman, landowner and politician.

  Conny, William and Dougie. There they are: alive, guiltless and smiling in the sunlight and the sea wind, with no shadows of the future cast over them, and choices still to be made. There they are, sharp and three-dimensional on the fabric of the present.

  One

  Not a mistake. When we went back to Wellington from our honeymoon in the north, more than six months ago, I did not think that I had made a mistake, but that it was going to be different from my expectation, and more difficult. But what does difficulty matter if a secure and successful partnership is achieved? Despite what the Reverend Andrew said at the wedding, marriage does not make two people one. Not even death, so much more powerful, can do that. What marriage does is to involve a woman in the life of a man, and its course can be a deepening pleasure for both, or a careful construction of boundaries, measured distances, which permit a civilised relationship. It is not necessarily one or the other, mind, like the choice of seasonal gowns for summer or winter. Some couples move between these situations, or inhabit any of a hundred stages possible between. And the advantages are not always in the one camp — ah, yes. Every marriage is of unique construction because the partnership itself cannot be repeated.

  None of my sisters is married, and Annie, closest to me, showed natural curiosity concerning the honeymoon. There was much to satisfy and amuse her, without exaggeration, but considerable experience, too, that I keep even from Annie. Fifty-seven-year-old William without his trousers is not an Adonis, but as a man of the world and twice married before, he at least lacks the gaucheness that would have caused us both more embarrassment than occurred. And although I am twenty-two years his junior, and had not slept with any man before him, I am not ignorant. He is an ardent husband and pays me many compliments. Becoming a wife has not been a physically ecstatic experience, but any such expectation was not a reason for my marriage, and my wedded friends have told me enjoyment, or at least complaisance, comes with time and repetition. Our first night together caused me discomfort no friend had warned me of, but the act is more agreeable now.

  Before my marriage I had the normal curiosity regarding lovemaking, talked about it discreetly with women friends, especially those who were already married, but it is an embarrassing subject to pursue, lest you sound unnaturally eager. From what my mother had said, it could be assumed that the only difference between men and women is that one sex wears dresses and the other trousers, and that all children, like Jesus, are of immaculate conception. As a new bride I was uncertain what I should wear to bed, whether William would find my body attractive, what would be a decent frequency for the union, and what beyond that would seem wanton. I need not have concerned myself. During the honeymoon, and for some months after, William was keen to take me every night and many mornings. Thereafter the act became much less regular and quite within my tolerance.

  In any case, I endeavour to be a good deal more than bed partner and mistress of the house for William. I encourage him in his public life, and seek to be close confidante and supporter in all that is private and personal. And I intend to have my own social causes and interests in which I hope he will support me. Marriage to William will enable me to have influence for betterment of others that I could not hope for unwed, or linked with a lesser man.

  I pay William this compliment — not once on our honeymoon did he deliberately, or as a slip, mention Eliza or Mary. It was a courtesy I appreciated. As an intelligent and caring man, he must have realised how sensitive I would be to such references until I became accustomed to my role as wife. It is not that I fear those shades, but his consideration is reassurance that he and I both look to the future, and with optimism.

  As he had promised at Island Bay when he proposed, our marriage provides the opportunity for us to please ourselves concerning our pursuits, without the intrusion of others. Both of us enjoy society, but equally the chance to concentrate on each other’s true nature, and to have time for our individual privacy and particular interests. We talked a great deal, especially in the evenings spent in hotels while we were travelling. William is essentially an active and practical man, but better read than I had realised before our marriage. He has an interest in Australian and Scottish history, both places with Larnach family connections, and his knowledge of plants and animals is greater than mine. On our walks and carriage travels in Taranaki and elsewhere, he identified many trees and smaller plants unknown to me, and pointed out differences between the flora of the two main islands. This inclination to natural history is one of the things he shares with Thomas Cahill, who is even more absorbed, and has provided rare, live birds for Dr Buller. In regard to music and literature William is happy to allow me the advantage.

  Part of our honeymoon was spent in Wanganui. We stayed in the wooden hotel overlooking the wide, muddy river. I have never before seen so many Maori people. Some of the young men and women were quite striking specimens, but the older ones had aged badly and the children were uncontrolled. No one of any age seemed to have any work to do. William said that, like the Aborigines of Victoria, they have weak dispositions and many die from diseases less deadly to Europeans. He fears they might cease to exist as a separate race. There are few of the native people in Wellington, and William told me they would be even fewer in Dunedin.

  William enjoys what he calls my personality summaries, and in the evenings draws me out concerning the people we have met, or been with. One evening, as we dined together in the Wanganui hotel, he asked me to create a disposition for each of the others present from their appearance alone, and burst out laughing when, after caricaturing a small man with a sore on his face, and his dowdy wife, I said that a boil on a man’s chin is more contemptible than his wickedness. Such conversation also served as a distraction from the food, which was uniformly bad in every place we stayed, apart from the private home of the Wallaces. The vegetables were boiled to a slop, the meat served in chunks, and condiments usually nowhere to be seen. In most dining rooms the cutlery was ill matched and the china of oafish thickness. Neither was cleanliness a virtue much in evidence. I shudder to think of the condition of those kitchens we were served from, but unable to see.

  We had more serious discussion also. Our marriage should be one of minds as well as bodies. I told William of the political issues my father and I had often discussed, especially those concerning education and advancement for women, and the need for more immigrants with cultivated backgrounds to act as a leaven in the lumpen colonial population. William was surprised, I think, when during our trip back to Wellington on a very wet day, I pressed him for his political manifesto, but in his answer rose to it admirably. Above all he strives for a society in which talent and industry are recognised and rewarded, and not impeded by the outdated conformities and class distinctions of the old country. In essence, I suppose
, he wishes for others to have the opportunities of which he has taken full advantage. He is not one for much regulation in commerce, or life, and trusts to character and practical good sense. ‘I believe in the power of enterprise and goodwill, and in having a pretty and gifted wife,’ he said, and kissed my cheek as the carriage swayed, and rain gusted onto the window. What bride denies such flattery is welcome?

  It is quite different in the world when you are married: even more so than I imagined. With a husband I can do things and go to places denied me as a spinster, and I find I am treated in a different way by both tradespeople and society. I am paid attention, partly because William is a man of means, and notable as well. There are more subtle distinctions too. Women expect a shift of conversation once you are wedded, the range of acceptable topics broadens, and the attitude of men also changes. They eye you less, or at least less obviously. A woman who marries to advantage, but retains independence of opinion, is given respect by both sexes.

  The evident pride that William takes in introducing me is flattering, but more importantly it is a sign of the value he gives our marriage. I stand well with him, and there is no reason we should not be good for one another and happy together. A woman alone is always at a disadvantage, and usually the subject of unexpressed pity, even if it be her own choice.

  I like to amuse him. Because he is so often at the centre of any society, he is apt to miss those spontaneous nuances of behaviour, or expression, that best represent a person’s true feelings. In this he and I are typical of our sex, I think. Men seek to impose themselves, and concentrate on their own performance; women have the habit of observation, and are sensitive to the response of others. How often Annie and I exchange glances in company, complicit in some amusing, or poignant, observation to which the men present are quite oblivious.