Father’s Day

Looking at the paintings of fathers in the collection of the National Gallery of Victoria on Father’s Day, I wondered which best symbolised my relationship with my father. Ultimately, I decided that the portrait of ‘Monsieur Pierre-Cardin Le Bret and his son Cardin’ by Hyacinthe Rigaud from 1697 was the winner.

The Le Bret family came from Normandy and were ennobled by the end of the 16^th century due to their successes as general counsels at the court. Pierre-Cardin Le Bret was a magistrate, like his father and grandfather before him, and undertook several positions of ‘intendant’ in various provinces of France before becoming First President of the High Court at Aix – a post he held for almost 20 years until his death in 1710 aged 70. He married Marie Veydeau de Grandmont and their son, Cardin (II) Le Bret succeeded him to the Provence presidency. The portrait of the father and son is an excellent example of the determined, upright and dignified male members of the noblesse de la robe at the end of the 17^th century and demonstrates their professional standing and success.

Apart from the fact that my mother’s name was also Marie, my father’s life bore no resemblance to the Le Bret family. Although from Europe, he was not French, there was no family career pathway, and there was no connection to the law or to the aristocracy. Rather, my association of my father with this painting comes through his aspirations, ambition and achievements for himself and his children.

Born in Vienna in 1921, he came to Australia at the age of twelve with his parents and younger sister. His family were not part of the Viennese world of art, culture, science or psychoanalysis. However, his maternal grandmother was a ‘woman on a mission’ who, after having five children, decided that Vienna did not provide the opportunities she needed. The answer came unexpectedly in the guise of a man from Melbourne who visited her shop in 1926 and recognised her entrepreneurial ability. As the story goes, he said: ‘A woman with your energy and enthusiasm would do well in Victoria – you know they had a goldrush in Ballarat’. Apparently, her ‘eyes lit up like cash registers’ and she and her four sons soon opened a haberdashery in …. Ballarat – not deterred by missing the goldrush by 70 years.

Each year my great grandmother took the boat back to Europe to visit her only daughter (my grandmother) and suffered incredible seasickness on the six-week journey. Unable to face another voyage, she issued an ultimatum to her daughter: if you want to see me again then move to Melbourne.

My dad arrived in Ballarat wearing lederhosen and speaking no English in 1933. Within six years the family had moved to Melbourne, set up a small business and my dad had graduated near the top of his class at University High School – by now appropriately dressed and speaking perfect English without the trace of an accent. In 1939 he enrolled in medicine at Melbourne University.

Medicine was the practical and sensible option but not my dad’s first love. He enjoyed designing and making things and wanted to study architecture. The realities of a world at war, and the limited opportunities for a migrant in the conservative Melbourne architecture establishment, determined his career path. Nevertheless, he always had a fully-equipped workshop and would go on to build a beach house and make furniture and playground equipment for us. Sadly, none of these have survived but I do have innumerable old jam jars filled with every size and sort of screw imaginable – ‘as you never know when you might need it’.

Given my dad’s interest and ability in using his hands, his preferred medical vocation was as a surgeon. Despite finishing number three in his medical class, once again his ‘outsider’ background precluded him from entering the closed world of surgical training at the time. However, his manual dexterity did come in very handy in his medical career as a haematologist. He was renowned for being one of the few doctors who could easily bleed premature babies; and his speed at taking blood was utilised by the army during the Vietnam conscription years when he would bleed several thousand recruits over a weekend to establish their blood groups.

I spent countless hours with my dad in his workshop trying to assist him with his projects – but unfortunately did not share his fine motor skills. Although he encouraged me to become a surgeon, my lack of ability declared itself during my surgical rotation as an intern at the Royal Melbourne Hospital. More anxious and clumsy than usual, I managed to sew through my rubber glove and attach myself to the patient’s intestine during a simple appendicectomy. My dad’s best friend (and closest rival from medical school) was the surgeon supervising the operation and he strongly suggested that I should ‘become a psychiatrist’. When I followed his advice, my father never forgave either of us!

Education, hard work, and responsibility were the factors that drove my father’s desire to achieve and to succeed. Even after he retired from full-time work, he worked on weekends at Melbourne Pathology (the company he helped establish) so the junior doctors could spend time with their families. Later on, he went to ‘help out’ at the Royal Melbourne Hospital when the head of the Haematology Department became seriously ill. This makes him sound like a ‘workaholic’ which he was not – rather someone who liked to be busy and found many ways to achieve this through service.

During my medical life, I met innumerable people who knew my father. He was involved in education, projects, committees and charities – and always in the role of ‘worker bee’ rather than for the status or accolades. He was as comfortable helping a ‘tradie’ complete a job as discussing public health initiatives with the federal Minister for Health. The word that was invariably used to describe him was ‘gentleman.’

If I was not being reminded of my father’s kindness and charm, the other thing people responded to was his sense of humour. I can’t recall how many times I heard: ‘I don’t suppose you know one of your dad’s jokes?’ My father was a consummate joke teller – with a story for every occasion and perfect punchline delivery. The week before he died, we were discussing what I would say at his funeral and he insisted that I include a couple of his favourite (more risqué) jokes.

The painting by Rigaud shows a justifiably proud achiever who has earned his position of respect through diligence and duty. As Monsieur Le Bret gazes thoughtfully, kindly and knowingly at us, he gestures towards the importance of education, dedication, and a willingness to face the challenges of adversity. His son is attempting to follow in his father’s footsteps and, in upholding his father’s values, acknowledges the extraordinary contribution his father has made to his life and the lives of others.

In looking at this painting, I believe I know what Le Bret the younger was thinking.