Eventually I bade the Maori world farewell, and arrived at Christchurch, where I was forced to stay for two or three weeks, for whilst gazing at a derrick that was hauling up a huge coping-stone I slipped and sprained my ankle, and was laid up for a week, and thereby got into low water.
In the house in which I was lodging there was also staying a retired actor, who was, like me, in extremis through the lack of the essential wherewithal. This old actor was an amusing man, always cheerful and a good companion. He was a man of about sixty years of age; and when I sat on the side of my bed and played my violin to him one evening his eyes gleamed with intense pleasure. “Bravo, youngster!” he said, and in his extreme delight his clean-shaved face wrinkled up with happy thought. “Fancy you talking about being hard up when you can play the fiddle like that.” Immediately he unfolded a plan, which was to give concerts in public without any preliminary expenses; in common parlance, we agreed on the spot to go “buskin.”
The idea of playing in the streets of a city was not congenial. It lacked all the romantic troubadour element of my previous experiences in the little bush towns up country. But nevertheless my companion’s cheerfulness and optimism gave me courage. He had a remarkably good voice, and in our room we rehearsed all the songs that he knew. Together next night, with our wild harps slung behind us, we sallied forth. My comrade had brushed his antiquated tall hat up till it shone with renewed prosperity. He had also cut out of paper a pair of new white cuffs, for he had a great belief in looking respectable. “My boy,” he said, “we must let them see that we are not allied in any way to common plebeian street players. How do I look?” Then he gazed at himself in our looking-glass with pride, while I told him that he looked the last kind of man to be singing in the street. I meant what I said too, for he had a very distinguished look, and his speech had the intonation of bygone polish in it.
In the heart of the city, by the kerb-side, we started the first open-air concert. It was after dark, and the well-lit street was thronged with people, who generously dropped coins into my partner’s tall hat; for as soon as he had finished singing he went into the crowd, as I played on. Whether it was my comrade’s melodious voice, or my violin-playing, or our respectable appearance, I know not, but I was astounded at the money he collected. After each “pitch” we retired into a bar and counted out the proceeds and shared alike.
My comrade smacked me on the back with delight as he continually had another drink. “Don’t you think we had better finish now?” I said, as I noticed that he was getting a bit excited; but he would not hear of such a thing. At the next pitch, by the arcade, he started to shout out, going through his old parts; he even opened his mouth and went through Hamlet! The vast crowd that collected to watch his antics stopped the traffic, and the police moved him on. “We had better get off,” I said to him, and to my great relief he agreed.
Just as we were turning a corner an aristocratic-looking old gentleman came up to us and, touching me on the back and saying, “You play the violin rather well for the streets,” got into conversation with us. He invited us up to his residence, where we had a good supper, and my friend entertained our host with reminiscences of better days. We were invited to stay the night, and left next morning as guests. I did not go out with my friend any more, but at once sought for a post.
I eventually secured a good orchestral job as violinist. I also got into “society,” and played drawing-room solos at a residence where the hostess was a person of very high standing in Christchurch. One day while I was playing a violin solo to her daughters in the drawing-room the door suddenly opened and a loud-voiced lady swept into the room, bringing a pungent odour of scent with her. She looked at me hard for a moment, then put on her pince-nez and once more surveyed me critically, saying: “Dear me, how you do resemble the young man who was playing a violin in Queen Street with another awful man!” I do not recommend violinists to go “buskin” if they can do better and wish to rise from the vagabond state. If they do they will be recognised long after they have forgotten the incident themselves.
To have even your ability recognised is sometimes distressing. I remember being awarded the first prize in an amateur violin solo competition at Bathurst, in New South Wales. I played Paganini’s Le Streghe and his violin concerto in D. I was awarded the first prize by the adjudicator; then someone recognised me as a professional and I was immediately disqualified. I remonstrated, but an old programme was produced, whereon it was stated that I had been special Court violinist to the kings, queens and high chiefs of the South Sea Islands! I think that is the only time in my career that my position as first violinist and composer to royalty has ever been recognised! also the only occasion when the musical and critical ability of the royal houses of the Southern Seas, through choosing me as their Court violinist, has ever been acknowledged.
Many things happened during my New Zealand wanderings, and one incident stands out in stronger, yet sadder, relief than many of the others as I dive and grope back, deep down in the silent waters for my dead sea fruit.
You will admit, I am sure, that I have not gone into rhapsodies over my virtues, but verily I believe the worst of us are better than we seem!