Who pays with death’s blind eyes and cherished love?
But still the children cry upon the plain
Beside a grave; and still the cheerful king
Grows fat; and sad old men say: “Anything,
O God, except to live this life again!”
CHAPTER XV
The Lecturer—The Italian Virtuoso—Disillusioned
Before I left New Zealand I secured an engagement to play the violin at a concert hall where the district assembled to applaud the talent of youthful pianoforte players and maidens who had cultivated voices. I was engaged to play violin solos, accompanied by the piano, and to perform suitable tripping melodies for old feet when the parents danced after the entertainment.
One night, when I was hurrying back to my rooms after the dance, sick at heart (for, believe me, I do not tell you of my many aspirations and the disappointments of those days), I heard a wheezy voice behind me call: “Hi! you, Mr Violinist.” I immediately turned, and an old gentleman with a benevolent, cheerful face stood puffing and smiling at me. “Pray excuse my interruption,” he said as he bowed; then he continued: “Ah, my dear boy, you are a real musician and play your instrument as though you have a soul; you remind me of my own youthful days, when I played the violin, by special command, to Queen Victoria.” Hearing this, I at once became inwardly attentive. I had several manuscript songs that I wanted to get published, and no publisher in New Zealand or Australia would look at them unless I paid for the expense of engraving, so, not knowing what influence the old fellow might have, I speedily got into conversation with him—not from ambitious motives only, for he seemed a kind-hearted and intellectual old man, and therefore commanded my respect as well as my hopes. Inviting me into an hotel, he offered me a drink, and seemed very much surprised when I asked for “shandy gaff,” which is a mixture of ginger-beer and light ale. I flushed slightly and reordered whisky at his suggestion, and, though it tasted like kava and paraffin oil mixed, I bravely took sips of it, while the old chap told me of his violin engagements and the praise accorded him by the musical critic of The Times and by personages in the royal courts of Europe. As I listened, and nodded approval and surprise, I observed him carefully.