A Devine Lesson

It’s a sunny day and I’m sitting with my legs squashed under a tiny desk in the middle of a classroom in Horsham.

Our teacher pulls out a small book and announces that the topic of today’s English Literature class will be poetry reading. I open my mouth to say that she cannot be serious, but I shut up when I hear the girls sigh with contentment.

This is all Mum’s fault. She went to St Brigid’s Convent School during the war and said she hated it. So why she decided to send me here for my last year of high school beats me. Back in the day, it was a girl’s only Catholic convent school run by nuns. Unfortunately, today we are living in the progressive 1970s, so they take boys, which explains why I am squashed into this single desk among a group of girls.

Back in my old school, a real school—Dimboola Memorial High School to be precise—we had tables and chairs which we moved around to sit with our mates. Then we would lean back and chuck stuff at each other and poke the girls with our wooden rulers. But those days are gone for me – now the teachers check if I have done my homework and ask me questions every lesson.

Mrs Devine announces the name of today’s poem, My Last Duchess, by Robert Browning. After several seconds of silence, she starts to read the poem aloud.

It is the dumbest poem you could ever read… sure, the words rhyme at the end of each line, but it makes no sense at all. Mrs Devine hasn’t got a clue about the big news – some boys ran up to me at lunchtime to say they heard on the 3LK radio station that I had been selected to play in the Dimboola Football team on Saturday. But alas, such things don’t interest my teacher as she drones on.

‘For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad,’

The girls around me are listening intently. There are only a couple of blokes in the class, so it makes it hard to crack jokes like I did in my old school further down the Wimmera River.

The girls intrigue me because it looks like they are really trying to listen and understand the poem… But I know they can’t really understand this bloke Browning’s pie-in-the-sky writing.

‘Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West,

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule…’

Mrs Devine broke off, ‘Now, let’s take time to analyse this heartbreaking poem… Gerard, what are your thoughts on the main theme of Browning’s masterpiece?’

‘Me?’ I splutter, ‘What do I think of what?’ Here we go again; she has nailed me just like Mrs Kendrick always did in her maths lessons back in Dimboola. Mrs Devine has got me like a rabbit caught in the spotlight… now all she has to do is pull the trigger.

She pulls it…

‘Gerard, you do understand the theme of the poem, do you not? It’s written through the eyes of an elderly duke who is complaining about his former duchess because she did not respect his wealth or public status.’

Strangely, I didn’t pick that up on the first reading, but I don’t tell Mrs Devine that. She continues, ‘Take this stanza, A heart – how shall I say? – too soon made glad.’

I take the line in and wonder what it means.

‘Now, in view of the duke saying the above, ponder on the lines,

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her….’

Hmm, I am starting to see what Mrs Devine is on about.

‘Do you now see the power of Browning? In those three lines, he shows us the old man is jealous that his beautiful young duchess takes pleasure in the small things people do for her rather than his immense wealth.’ She pauses for a few seconds and then goes on, ‘and reading between the lines, we suspect he had her sent to a nunnery because he’s now discussing the dowry of his future wife and duchess.’

Of course, it is obvious what Browning is on about, so I blurt out, ‘I’m with you, Mrs Devine - the duke’s a bastard.’ She frowns a little and then smiles in agreement. I’m on a roll now. ‘Mrs Devine, when you were courting, did your boyfriend give you a bough of cherries?’

Some girls laugh at my silly question, but Mrs Devine’s eyes light up.

‘Now that’s an intriguing question, Gerard. To answer, I’ll have to tell you a story from long ago.’ Everyone leans forward to listen to Mrs Devine’s story.

‘It was during the war. I was a junior officer in the WRAF – the Women’s Royal Airforce in England. We did all manner of things, office work, chauffeuring aircrew, driving trucks, and once I flew on a bomber to transfer it to another airfield. We travelled home late on the train – it was very exciting.’

Hmmm, I think to myself, this is good. After all, bombers are far more interesting than Robert Browning.

‘But to answer your question, Gerard, I was driving aircrew to their planes when a handsome Australian fighter pilot jumped in next to me. When he smiled at me, he didn’t have to give me a bough of cherries – I fell hopelessly in love with him. We married in Italy in a bombed cathedral and moved to Australia after the war. And that’s why I am sitting in front of you now.’

After that, we went back to Browning to see how he nailed that old bastard, the duke, and then, in coming months, Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s One Day in the Life of Ivan Denosovich was read and enjoyed; especially by the boys.

Sadly, later that year, Mrs Devine’s handsome fighter pilot and husband, John Devine, passed away at the age of 59. The St Brigid’s College literature class attended his funeral at St Joseph’s Church, Dimboola.

The wedding of RAAF Flying Officer John Devine to WRAF Section Officer Grace (Jill) Thornton at the Caserta Cathedral, Italy on the 22nd of January 1945.

The Royal Air Force provided the guard of honour in the presence of the bride’s mother and Air Vice Marshal RS Aitken.

(Photo courtesy of the Australian War Memorial)