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Revisionist Historicism Theory and Practice: Challenging National Metanarratives

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Revisionist Historicism Theory and Practice: Challenging National Metanarratives Revisionist historicism theory and practice: challenging national metanarratives by Jennifer Anne Herbert BA, BA (Hons), MA Submitted in fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy Deakin University January 2014 Acknowledgements During the course of my candidature, I have received unstinting advice, direction and support from Professor David McCooey, Dr Maria Takolander and Emeritus Professor Michael Meehan. Their instruction has been erudite, generous, professional and timely, and they contributed significantly to maintaining my enthusiasm throughout my candidature. I thank them wholeheartedly for making the journey so positive and rewarding. I extend my grateful thanks to the staff of the Deakin University libraries who provided outstanding, timely support, and who served the needs of this distant-education candidate in a manner that made accessing resource material as easy as if I had been on campus. To Professor Roger Horn, Dean of Research Training, I owe thanks for the workshops offered, that provided valuable learning and advice, and gave me the opportunity to feel part of the academic community. To Robyn Ficnerski, HDR Administration Officer, thank you for your regular updates, explanations and help. And thank you Kate Hall for your meticulous proofreading of this thesis. Finally, I extend my most grateful thanks to my husband Fred Herbert, for his support over the past three years, his enthusiasm for my studies, and for the many hours he spent reading and commenting on my work. Table of contents In the Shadow of a Hero 1 Revisionist historicism theory and practice: challenging national metanarratives 227 Introduction: Reconstructing national identity 228 Chapter one: Retelling the past: theory and practice 232 Chapter two: Postcolonialism and the multiple applications of irony 251 Chapter three: A feminist response to the history debate 267 Conclusion: Ethical renderings: mining the past for present-day truthfulness 278 References 285 In the shadow of a hero Jennifer Herbert Maps relating to Howitt’s explorations through the Australian outback and Gippsland, and his home territory of East Gippsland Coopers Creek Adelaide Sydney Menindee Melbourne Paynesville *Lakes Entrance = Cunninghame Maps prepared by James Yeates Printing, Bairnsdale Chapter 1 They gathered up the body, at least what they could find, and laid it on the Union Jack. One hand and the feet were gone, taken by dingoes most likely. Howitt had brought four men with him: Edwin Welch, Alexander Aitkin, Dr Wheeler and Weston Phillips. They each took an edge of the flag and folded it inwards—the bones shifted unnervingly—and secured it with rope. They wiped their hands down their trousers, and stood bare-headed in the blazing sun, trying to keep the thirsty black flies from their eyes and sweaty faces without too much disrespectful waving. Howitt read from his Bible: ‘Though he were dead, yet shall he live’. When he’d finished the reading, he nodded to Aitkin and the men picked up the rope tails and lowered their bundle into the hole they had dug at the foot of a box tree. They reached for spades and scooped up the red earth, and it fell like dry rain into the grave. Howitt looked past the burial scene to the land beyond. While they had been travelling, spring had crept up behind them, leaving a swathe of wildflowers in its wake, and now the gravelly landscape was patched with violet and yellow, bright blue and crisp white. He closed the Bible and thanked his men. Burke’s was their second burial in a week: they’d found Wills a few days earlier at Breerily Waterhole, half buried by sand. Aitkin had retched at the sight of the headless torso, and his own stomach had heaved when his spade struck bone. Phillips stamped the earth firm over the grave with his heavy-booted feet, making Aitkin wince. In silence, they tied their spades to their saddles, mounted their horses and turned back towards camp. The sun was heading towards the western horizon, casting long black centaur shadows behind them. 3 | Page Their camp was set under a stand of box trees, on the banks of Coopers Creek where it widened into the Bullah Bullah waterhole. The tents formed a ragged semicircle around a campfire, and shirts and trousers had been washed and hung out to dry, giving the scene its one domestic note. Red desert pea flowers ran across the bare earth like wildfire and green budgerigars foraged for crumbs of damper. Approaching the camp, the men could see William Brahé pacing to and fro amongst the trees, one moment his blonde hair brightly lit by sunlight, the next, dulled by shade. He looked up anxiously at the sound of horses, his gnome-like face crumpled. Howitt nodded to him as he came alongside and slid out of his saddle. ‘You found him?’ Brahé asked in his cumbersome English. ‘We did,’ Howitt responded, squeezing Brahé’s shoulder. He placed his reins in Phillips’ outstretched hand, grimly smiled his thanks, and strode off to his tent without a further word. ‘Come on, William lad, you can give me a hand with the horses.’ Phillips spoke cheerfully to Brahé as he gestured to Welch, Aitkin and Dr Wheeler that he would see to their horses, too. ‘You found him, then?’ Brahé’s German accent had become thicker. Phillips nodded. He would spare Brahé what they’d found. ‘And buried him like a hero. Mr Howitt read the service.’ Phillips was a tall, loose-limbed man, disheveled and gangly as a wolfhound, with just enough Welsh blood to put a lilting edge to his speech. Feeling too tall beside Brahé, Phillips slouched his shoulders as they walked the horses towards a patch of green shade. Without speaking, they removed the saddles, rubbed the horses down, hobbled them, and slung chaff bags around their muzzles. Brahé looked despondently in the direction of the camels that were a little further away, quietly chewing their cuds. The beasts were molting to a new level of ugliness. ‘Dost will see to the camels later,’ Phillips reassured him. 4 | Page Dost Mahomet had been imported from Afghanistan into Australia along with Burke’s camels but he and beasts had only got as far as Menindee, left stranded with most of the gear by the impatient explorer. He was still there when Howitt’s relief party arrived. The cameleer had begged to join the mission, trying to convince Howitt of the valuable role the camels could serve. Howitt had reluctantly agreed to take the cameleer on, along with the mangy-looking camels. ‘What do you say to a swim, Will? I could do with washing this sand away.’ And the smell of death, Phillips thought. They stripped off and winced their way across the stony ground and into the water, which folded like cool silk around their skin. Phillips swam out to the deep centre and dived below the surface, rising streaming and spouting water from his mouth. Brahé stood waist deep looking down at his white wavering legs, then up at shadows dancing like smoke on the trunks of trees that lined the opposite bank. Phillips dived again, his eyes open to watch the fish as they swam towards him in packed schools, then parted and flowed around his body. He pushed back up to the surface. ‘You should see the fish,’ he called to Brahé, but the man frowned into the afternoon sun. A pink flush of sunset coloured the water as Phillips swam back to the shore. ‘How could they have died of starvation?’ he asked the still distracted Brahé. ‘There were fish hooks in King’s pockets.’ He hit the surface of the water with the palm of his hand. Brahé shrugged and shook his head, not taking his eyes off the opposite bank. Phillips followed his gaze but all he could see were the trees and a flock of galahs pecking around the trunks, breasts the same colour as the sunset. 5 | Page Dr Wheeler appeared from one of the tents and led John King towards the water, nodding to Phillips and Brahé as he approached them, and easing King down to sit in the shallows. They’d found King first, the only survivor of Burke’s small party that had pushed north. He was no more than a skeleton, covered by shedding skin that the natives had coated with foul-smelling fish oil. The man was so very weak; it had taken all his strength to point his finger in the direction of the bodies. Since finding King three days ago, the doctor had brought him to the water, washing away, layer by layer, the tenacious fish oil, gently so as not to break the man’s ravaged skin. Phillips positioned himself behind King, holding his bony shoulders so that he would not topple backwards. Brahé watched the pecking galahs, not offering to help. ‘There, there,’ the doctor spoke softly as he rinsed the cloth and soaped it, then wrung it out so the soapy water flowed over King’s head and body. Gradually the smell of tar soap was replacing rancid oil. As they led King back into the camp, Howitt emerged from his tent, pencil and journal in hand. He had lit a candle in his tent, and the canvas shone golden in the fading light. ‘Not yet, Mr Howitt,’ Dr Wheeler instructed. ‘He needs a couple more days before you start asking your questions.’ He could be dead by then, Howitt thought, but he nodded his agreement. *** The great comet that had lit their nights for the past two weeks was once more appearing in the night sky, its tail streaming like ocean spume.
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