expenses, notwithstanding the fact that I told him we had made more
money than we ever dreamed of making out of our extemporised concerts. I
will not tell you that converted missionary’s name, because he is now in
England, and it’s almost a dead certainty that he will read my book, and
it’s not because I think he will do so that I say here that he turned
out one of the best of men, and often by his conversation revealed to me
that he saw through the mockery of his previous profession and the
hypocrisy of many of those who followed it. He would sit rubbing his
sprouting chin and tell me many of his opinions of those who had been
his comrades as he sat by me in the evenings at the hotel rooms where we
both stayed.
Eventually we went to Coolgardie together and stayed for some days, and
he got a concert up for my special benefit, and I was billed all over
the place as “Signor Marrionette, the celebrated violinist.” He hired
the hall, and made all the arrangements. Indeed, he cracked me up in
such a manner that long before the concert night came off I was as
nervous as a kitten over it all, and spent the whole day practising the
fiddle so that my performance would not put my great reputation to
shame, but nevertheless I framed my programme to suit my audience and
put down Paganini’s “Carnaval de Venice” and the Adagio of his “Concerto
in D.” and light operatic selections. I discovered that he had a fine
tenor voice and we rehearsed “Good-bye, Sweetheart, Good-bye” and one or
two other songs which I have now forgotten the names of, and when the
concert came off and he sang as I played the _obbligato_, he brought the
house down, and gave the audience as an encore a rollicking drinking
song. The young women that he had got hold of to sing and make up our
programme were so fascinated with him that they looked like embracing
and kissing him. After the concert we both went off to their home, for
they were sisters, and spent the whole night, very nearly, singing,
playing and feasting. They were Melbourne people and their father kept a
general goods store; he was a genial-looking old chap and seemed hugely
delighted to be honoured with our company, and thinking that I was of
Italian origin he kept praising Italy and the Italians up to the skies,
saying, “Where are better musicians than those Italians?” and many other
like things, till at last I was obliged to confess that my Italian name
was an assumed one, and then he ceased drinking health to the “land of
song” and started off expressing his real feelings and finished up by
cursing the whole Italian race, saying they were the dirtiest set of
mongrels that ever sniffed the sunlight.
My comrade the missionary often winked at me, and we were both intensely
amused, and when at daybreak we carried the old chap into his bedroom
and placed him on the bed, he kept lifting his head up as I took his
boots off and called me a “dirshy Ishalon,” meaning a dirty Italian. His
pretty daughters were very much upset about the old man’s behaviour, but
the missionary and I soon put them at their ease, and when the old man
was up sober again, and once more the personification of assumed
politeness, we were all the best of friends and the girls blushed to
their ears, screamed with laughter, and hid their faces in their hands,
and the old man and his thin wizened wife opened their eyes and mouth
wide with delight and fright mixed up, not knowing what next we might
say, as we told them of our adventures on the South Sea Islands!
I have often thought of those girls since, and I am quite certain they
have not forgotten the young violinist Signor Marrionette, or the
handsome debonair missionary Carl Rosa de Bonne, for that was his _nom
de plume_ which appeared in big letters on the bills that announced the
great concert in Coolgardie years ago.
Now my early travels and adventures are drawing to their close, for we
left the gold fields and the new friends we had made very soon after the
episode of which I have just told you. I had plenty of spare cash which
I had saved through my violin-playing, and so I went off in
companionship with the missionary, who had made himself a general
favourite with many of the miners and authorities of the fast-growing
city. The old storekeeper drove us in his cart up to where the train
started, and the girls looked terribly crestfallen as we waved our hands
and they waved sadly back, as we passed away from them for ever.
Arriving in Perth we stayed at St George’s Terrace.
Here I will end my boyhood days, for the down of my upper lip had
stiffened and sprouted to a virgin moustache and I was getting homesick
and weary of hunting for fortunes. After several days’ stay in Perth my
friend the missionary and I went round to Sydney, and from there he took
a passage for England and I shipped before the mast on a sailing ship
bound for South America.
So ends this narrative of my boyhood wanderings, wherein I have tried to
describe to you some of those experiences that stand out vividly in my
memory of all that happened in my travels in distant lands. I had
thought to tell you more than I have done, but many things must remain
buried with the secrets of my heart, for a while at least, since those
who are intimately connected with them still live. I would not wish to
write in my humble autobiography of things which they may not care to be
revealed to the eyes of the world. And so, dear reader, whoever you are,
and whatever you may think of me, I wish you good luck and farewell.
* * * * *
I’ve travelled strange lands far and wide,
I dived ‘mong mirror’d moons
In waters where the catamarans glide
By palms and reef-lagoons;
I gazed in a dusky maiden’s eyes
By a wild man’s tiny tent,
Then packed my swag, as the black crow flies
To another land I went.
I lay all night on the homeless plain,
To the skies I prayed in bed
For life’s wild romance, but prayed in vain,
As the stars crept overhead.
But often in the lone bush night
Bright eyes came, leaned o’er me,
Then glimmering in the pale moonlight
Ran back into the sea.
And in those waters o’er and o’er
I’ve dived in vain, then cried
For misery on some lone shore
With no one by my side.
And so for years I wandered, friend,
Sought love and wealth, alack!
Roamed distant lands, and in the end
Brought this one sad song back.
The End
End of Project Gutenberg's Sailor and beachcomber, by Arnold Safroni-Middleton