journalist Edmund Finn better known as “Garryowen.” Finn on opening his front door introduced our hero to his five most cherished friends, his named collection of walking sticks. One of these was surprisingly called “the Rabbi.” As Maurice was Jewish this struck a chord. For Maurice too had five cherished friends, his languages of Hebrew, German, English, French and Latin, each of which he had mastered like a native. And as was the case with Finn, they gave him the freedom to walk wherever he wished, they were his five walking sticks.
Three people in particular helped me in the construction of my tale. My greatest collaborator was Maurice Brodzky himself. The middle third of my book which deals with Table Talk rests mainly on his own writings. I have not re-written them. Rather I have edited them, sometimes severely, sometimes lightly, to make them more friendly for the contemporary reader. This makes the middle third of my book somewhat different in style from the rest but I felt obliged to leave it in this form if I was to convey to you the essential spirit of this most interesting and unusual man. Richard Brodney and John Brodzky, Maurice’s grandsons, also helped by giving me copyright to Maurice’s unpublished writings and also to the works of their respective fathers Spencer Brodney and Horace Brodzky.
My own son Alexander Lew encouraged me to write the story in the first person. I wish to thank him for this. I was dubious at first but I now feel it was the correct way to go. If you enjoy this story one percent as much as I have then it has all been worthwhile.
Yours sincerely,
Harry Lew,
Melbourne, April 2000
Call me Maurice! My Hebrew name ‘Moshe Ben-Yisroel’ translates as ‘Moses the son of Israel’ but I prefer to answer to Maurice, Maurice Brodzky! Many years ago - a foggy September morning in 1871 to be precise - having no real reason left to remain in Europe, I decided I might sail about a bit, see the watery part of the world, and visit far off Australia.
Alighting from my train at Gravesend Station, I marched down the platform and made for the exit. This small market town and river port, located on a mile or so of the south bank of the Thames, some twenty miles east of London, epitomised Kent’s rich past. Caesar had first set foot on English soil here in 55 BC and Pocahontas had died on board ship here, in 1617, and was supposedly buried in St. George’s Churchyard. Their presence had been in relation to long journeys just completed, whereas mine was for an even longer one but outward bound. In 1871 Gravesend was the London point of departure for ships of the Money Wigram Line sailing to Australia. The journey was tedious and usually required eighty to ninety days. I had only just booked my passage and was now here to see the boat for the very first time. As I approached the “Sussex” it was obvious that the crew was already on board, busily making preparations for our voyage to Melbourne.
Suddenly the cadence of a delicate feminine voice! It was soft and demure and had a lovely English ring to it. “Are you going to Australia?” it enquired. I turned around to view a beautiful young woman, barely more than twenty years of age, with jet-black hair, light olive skin, finely chiselled features and capping it all, a beautiful pair of bright blue eyes. Her slender figure was cloaked in a widow’s outfit but this in no way made her less appealing or desirable. “Are you coming too,” I asked, more in hope than in expectation.
“No,” she answered, “but this gentleman, my friend, is going to a brother in Melbourne and needs someone to be kind to him on the way.” One glimpse at his pale and strangely vacant face, older than mine but not yet thirty, with its bushy black beard, shaggy eyebrows and aquiline nose and I immediately knew he was Jewish. I then realised that his female companion was also Jewish. Had she similarly picked me out, I wondered. We Jews, you know, have an uncanny ability of recognising one another. She introduced herself as Miriam Green and her companion as Mr. Morris Abrahams. Her name may be Miriam, I thought, but for me she will always be Rebecca, the daughter of Isaac of York, from Scott’s Ivanhoe. Rebecca was the heroine of every young romantic Jewish boy, myself included, who had ever read that novel. In Scott’s own words, “Yonder Jewess is the very model of perfection.” I found myself so deeply attracted to her that some unexpected thoughts now made their way across my mind. Should I cancel my trip and instead direct my attentions towards this heavenly creature?
“Is Mr. Abrahams ill?” I asked. “He has been very ill,” she replied, “but is quite well now. He may feel lonely on the voyage and would benefit from a kind companion.” She had cast her spell and I found I could refuse her nothing. “Of course, I will be kind to your friend,” I volunteered, “people on board ship are always kind, one to the other.” She gracefully held out her right hand and I knew not whether to shake it or kiss it. I blushed as I held her hand in mine. The hot blood reflected a desire I had to embrace more than just her hand. But shake her hand I did and in so doing sealed the promise of kindness that she had so skilfully extracted from me. She was ever so friendly and invited me home, that very same evening, to her picturesque villa in Hampstead and served a dainty little dinner. We talked and philosophised with kindness being the central theme of our discussion and she permitted no deviation from it. I never contacted her again, something I regret it to this very day. I was worried that if I kissed her it would spell good-bye to any plans I had of seeing Australia.
The Sussex was a three masted wooden sailing ship of 1100 tons net, 230 feet long, 32 feet wide, and 22 feet deep. It was built in Blackwall Yard, East London, in 1853 and ours was its twenty-eighth visit to Australia. I was fascinated with the ship’s stores. Fresh milk was available courtesy the ship’s milking cow accommodated in its own special pen. Other pens housed sheep and pigs and there were coops for chickens and ducks. There were plenty of vegetables and pickles galore. Throughout the voyage the sailors would also catch fish and the odd albatross on a line cast overboard, carrying meat as bait. Good meals were therefore never a problem. Fresh food was available and the preservation of foodstuffs was already quite sophisticated at this time.
The saloon was a large area just below deck serving as dining room, drawing room, and parlour, all in one. The saloon class passengers had their cabins surrounding it. Each had a sliding entrance door that ran off the saloon and folding doors in-between that could be unlocked should a family take up adjacent suites. Small Georgian six-pane windows let in the light and the fresh salt air. Outside of them strong boards were fitted to protect against rough weather. The bunks had bookshelves over the bed-heads and other fixtures included a washstand, a mirror, a swing tray for bottles, and hooks on which to hang things. These cabins were small but not dreary or uninviting. Second and third class passengers, such as myself, were boarded in much less comfortable circumstances in more remote parts of the ship.
Our first stop was Plymouth Harbour to take on more passengers and to await winds favourable to our final departure, which took place on October 9th 1871. John D. Collard was our Captain and in his care were 47 crew, 47 passengers and a general cargo of two hundred tons said to be valued at 44,000 pounds.
We passengers had no such responsibilities, just the problems of obtaining our sea legs and passing the time. We walked the decks and mingled actively. Numerous introductions were made. The traditional way of breaking the ice was to ask fellow travellers their reasons for undertaking such a long journey. Some were doing it for their health. A long sea voyage to Australia’s better climate was a frequently recommended prescription for lung complaints. Others were seeking fame, fortune or pleasure; perhaps escaping traumatic love affairs; or merely going to see what it was like. If conditions proved favourable, and they made a good living, they would stay; otherwise a return home was always on the cards. We even had a writer and a photographer on board. Books on travel were becoming increasingly popular now that steam and telegraph were shrinking the world. Photography yielded a more realistic impression of faraway places no longer compromised by artistic licence. But more important it offered work with the promise of a good income, so great was the demand for it, as an integral part of the new technology of the time.
We read, played cards and chess or deck games such as quoits, sang songs, arranged recitals,