FullReads

“But supposing they all fell in love with each other and cleared out,” I said.

“I don’t see what they’d have to clear out for,” said Mitchell. “But suppose they did. There’s more than one medical wreck in Australia, and more than one woman with a past, and more than one broken old clerk who went wrong and was found out, and who steadied down in jail, and there’s more than one poor girl that’s been deceived. I could easily replace ’em. And the Lost Souls’ Hotel might be the means of patching up many wrecked lives in that way–giving people with pasts the chance of another future, so to speak.”

“I suppose you’d have music and books and pictures?” I said.

“Oh, yes,” said Mitchell. “But I wouldn’t have any bitter or sex-problem books. They do no good. Problems have been the curse of the world ever since it started. I think one noble, kindly, cheerful character in a book does more good than all the clever villains or romantic adventurers ever invented. And I think a man ought to get rid of his maudlin sentiment in private, or when he’s drunk. It’s a pity that every writer couldn’t put all his bitterness into one book and then burn it.

“No; I’d have good cheerful books of the best and brightest sides of human nature–Charles Dickens, and Mark Twain, and Bret Harte, and those men. And I’d have all Australian pictures–showing the brightest and best side of Australian life. And I’d have all Australian songs. I wouldn’t have ‘Swannie Ribber,’ or ‘Home, Sweet Home,’ or ‘Annie Laurie,’ or any of those old songs sung at the Lost Souls’ Hotel–they’re the cause of more heartbreaks and drink and suicide in the bush than anything else. And if a jackaroo got up to sing, ‘Just before the battle, mother,’ or, ‘Mother bit me in me sleep,’ he’d find it was just before the battle all right. He’d have to go out and sleep in the scrub, where the mosquitoes and bulldog ants would bite him out of his sleep. I hate the man who’s always whining about his mother through his nose, because, as a rule, he never cared a rap for his old mother, nor for anyone else, except his own paltry, selfish little self.

“I’d have intellectual and elevating conversation for those that—“

“Who’d take charge of that department?” I inquired hurriedly.

“Well,” reflected Mitchell, “I did have an idea of taking it on myself for a while anyway; but, come to think of it, the doctor or the woman with the past would have more experience; and I could look after that part of the business at a pinch. Of course you’re not in a position to judge as to my ability in the intellectual line; you see, I’ve had no one to practise on since I’ve been with you. But no matter— There’d be intellectual conversation for the benefit of black-sheep new chums. And any broken-down actors that came along could get up a play if they liked–it would brighten up things and help elevate the bullock-drivers and sundowners. I’d have a stage fixed up and a bit of scenery. I’d do all I could to attract shearers to the place after shearing, and keep them from rushing to the next shanty with their cheques, or down to Sydney, to be cleaned out by barmaids.

“And I’d have the hero squashed in the last act for a selfish sneak, and marry the girl to the villain–he’d be more likely to make her happy in the end.”

“And what about the farm?” I asked. “I suppose you’d get some expert from the agricultural college to manage that?”

“No,” said Mitchell. “I’d get some poor drought-ruined selector and put him in charge of the vegetation. Only, the worst of it is,” he reflected, “if you take a selector who has bullocked all his life to raise crops on dusty, stony patches in the scrubs, and put him on land where there’s plenty of water and manure, and where he’s only got to throw the seed on the ground and then light his pipe and watch it grow, he’s apt to get disheartened. But that’s human nature.