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.
He was innocent looking, with a cheery round face and eyes that were
small, but vivacious and blue; his hat was neither a tall hat nor a
bowler: it had a small rim, which gave it that clerical contour which
seems to be worn especially to allay any suspicion that might fall on
its owner. I would not reflect upon the appearance of this gentleman so
much if it were not that his appearance helped him enormously. I am not
going to be hard upon him either; notwithstanding his sins, he was at
heart a kindly man; but Nature had mixed his dough with too much yeast,
so that his aspirations to do well rose far beyond the range of his
intellect and solid, commercial honesty. This was a fact that helped me
considerably; for this commonplace failing of our race, shown in him,
put me on my guard in the future and saved me much pain and many
misfortunes in after days. I do not mean to be sarcastic in the
foregoing remarks, though it may sound like it. I only intend to convey
to those who have not experienced much the fact that all individual
types of good and bad men you meet in civilised lands are just teachers
in the university; that you must face, if you are not blessed with
wealth, and go off to seek it. They give you experience, and make you a
critic of your race, so that you can know and appreciate goodness, if in
your lifetime you are fortunate enough to meet it. They also teach you
to be lenient in your judgment of others, and by comparisons and
pondering over their sins you will recognise your own.
Though the old fellow tried to impress me with his greatness, and
praised my many virtues, I instinctively felt that I did not possess
them. I also noticed that, though he told me that he had just arrived at
Christchurch to give lectures to increase the funds for orphanage
children, his fancy waistcoat had been brushed to death and looked
shabby. This fact damped both my hopes and vanity; for I perceived that
his praise of my violin-playing was inspired by very much the same
feeling that made me repeatedly nod polite approval over his erstwhile
fame in the royal courts and concerts of Great Britain. In short, we
were both hard up for something that we needed, and saw that we could
help each other by being polite and awaiting events.
I was young, and he was grey and old, and possibly had been a really
good man in his day, till the soulful melody of heart-beats, called
life, had gradually resolved itself into a minor key, and that drama of
grey hairs and a wheezy voice that praised my youthful melodies in that
saloon bar off the main road in Christchurch, New Zealand. He fingered
about in his pocket, and I at once ordered him another drink, and
inspired with bravery, through his shabby waistcoat, I boldly called for
shandy gaff and pushed the whisky aside. We were now, by observation of
each other’s deficiencies, brothers, and though Queen Victoria’s praise
of his talent still lingered in my memory, I noticed that he gave a sigh
of relief as I paid for the next drink, and at once I felt that we were
at last equals. I will not weary you with any more details, but on the
way home that night he walked beside me, and I agreed to be the solo
violinist at the lectures which he was about to give in various halls
that he was hiring. I was not to get a specified salary, but was to
receive, which was better still, he said, shares in the collection and
in the tickets sold, after the bulk of the proceeds had been put by for
the New Zealand orphanages.
Next morning he called at my rooms at the time appointed. By daylight my
clothes did not look as affluent as they did by gaslight. In a moment he
noticed this and without any overture said: “Put your hat on, my boy,
and come to my tailor’s and get fitted out.” I was astonished to hear
him say this, and, not thinking my prospective abilities in his service
might deserve such kindness, my best instincts got the momentary upper
hand of those inclinations which are usually the strongest in men who
have endeavoured to earn their livelihood by musical accomplishments. So
I at first demurred, and then, overjoyed, went with him to his tailor,
who lived not a half-mile off. He even bought me india-rubber cuffs, and
the day before the first lecture came off I looked as well dressed as
anyone in the district.
On the morning before the first lecture at the Suburban Hall I strolled
down the main road and to my astonishment saw my name in large type on
big white bills. If I remember aright, this is how the advertisement
went: “Signor Safroni, the celebrated Italian violin virtuoso, has
kindly consented to perform at the Orphanage Fund lectures”; and then
followed an account of the lecturer’s philanthropic and stirring
speeches on behalf of helpless children. At first I felt annoyed at this
being done without my permission, for I had a kind of suspicion that the
old lecturer thought more of himself than of the orphan children, and I
did not want to be mixed up with anything that was likely to look shady,
both for my own self-respect and my youthful principles. I at once
sought my new employer and told him, as delicately as possible, that I
did not care to be billed as a celebrated violinist from Italy, and,
moreover, not so very far off was the very place where I had been
playing. “My dear, dear boy,” he said, opening his eyes as though with
amazement, “you call yourself a violin-player and are afraid to be
billed; you must be mad!”
“Well,” I answered, considerably mollified by the force of his
arguments, “your bill says: ‘The Right Honourable S. Middleton will take
the chair.’ How can I be both? And I know nothing about taking chairs
either.” “Leave it all to me; all you’ve got to do is to play the violin
and make money,” he said; and I went off, feeling a little guilty of
ingratitude, for I certainly had a good suit of clothes on, and my
expectations, financially, seemed very good.
Before the concert night my employer canvassed the streets, and indeed
the whole district, and sold some hundreds of tickets. Girls even stood
at the mission rooms and church doors and sold his tickets; they were
given special permission by the clergy, because of the noble cause which
my employer lectured upon.
When I arrived at the hall at the opening hour I saw a vast crowd
waiting by the door. The old lecturer was with me and rubbed his hands
as we went round to the back entrance to prepare for the concert. His
personality was of the masterful kind, but, mustering up my courage, I
at last said to him: “Shall I have to take the chair and make a
speech?”—for I was still a little suspicious of my dual personality as
an Italian violin virtuoso and the Right Honourable S. Middleton.
To my intense relief he patted me on the back and said: “Play the violin
as well as you are able and I will do all the rest.” My feelings were
relieved, and the thought of how much I should get from the shares of
tickets sold cheered me up considerably. Before I proceed I may as well
tell you that though he professed to lecture for the benefit of little
children and was deeply “religious,” for he prayed so fervently before
meals that I also prayed, out of sheer respect for his religious
earnestness, as far as I knew he never paid one cent to any fund;
neither did he pay for the halls that he hired, nor for the printing of
his preposterous bills, nor for anything that became his.
There was a special dressing-room in this hall; it was like a box, and
just at the side of the stage door. When the old lecturer was ready he
gave the little door-boy twopence and told him to open the entrance to
the hall and let the crowd in at the front; while the professor at the
back groomed himself before his little pocket mirror and I combed my
hair.
My heart began to beat a little faster than usual, for I heard the
audience starting to stamp and cheer with impatience just behind the
small door in front of me. The old rogue said hastily: “Go in and take
the chair and I will walk in behind you.” “Perhaps you had better go
first,” I said, and stepped aside. “No, no,” he responded quickly, in
his masterful voice, and, not wishing to appear nervous the first night,
I took a bold plunge and suddenly appeared before the vast crowd of
bronzed faces that made up that New Zealand audience. Had it been an
ordinary solo engagement I should have had something to do and so have
been completely at my ease. But when the vast crowd rose in a body and
cheered me, thinking that I had appeared first to make a preliminary
speech, ere the great philanthropist lectured about cruelty to orphan
children, and all the other lies on his bill, I felt very ill at ease,
and could only bow repeatedly and gaze at the little door, hoping my
employer would step on the stage. He did not appear, and I think I must
have bowed several times after the last clapping hand had ceased among
the smiling ladies in the front seats, who were gazing upon me with
evident approval, and at last, bewildered, I stooped to open my
violin-case. I was about to let the lecture go to the winds and start a
solo when suddenly the door opened at the side of me and the professor
stood bowing to the audience. They rose _en masse_ and cheered him, as I
nearly tumbled over my violin and sat in the little chair which was the
only furniture of the platform.
I felt like one in a dream as I sat there twirling my fingers, watching
the old fellow as his arms swayed and lifted with his grey head toward
the ceiling, and in fervent tones he told the audience that the Right
Honourable S. Middleton had been suddenly taken ill, and that I had
kindly consented to take the chair, as well as perform solos on the
violin. I have found out since that this ruse is a commonplace excuse
for a one-man lecture and entertainment; it saves expenses, and is
practised at lectures and concerts throughout the world. He was really a
clever professional liar, and the way he held his arms aloft and
passionately pleaded for the helpless children touched the audience as
though it throbbed with one large heart. It is a memory that I think
would make the most credulous nature become sceptical when listening to
shabbily dressed men who appeal for charity beyond their own immediate
requirements. Though he had bought me a new suit—on credit I found out
afterwards—he did not trouble much about his own clothes, but depended
on the pathos of his voice and his grey hairs. I felt suspicious of the
genuineness of his orphanage appeals, but as I sat there listening to
him a sense of intense shame came over me, for I, as well as the whole
audience, was touched by the pathos of his phrases and the descriptive
figures which he gave of poor little starving orphans that had appealed
for bread. Then, with his hands lifted to the ceiling, he held the whole
crowd spellbound as he described a dying child’s last look and words in
a London workhouse.
As he finished a great sigh echoed through the hall, as though it was
one sound from a thousand hearts that were bursting with emotion. His
voice ceased and he turned to me, and as I lifted the glass of water to
his lips I noticed that he had tears in his eyes; for his imagination
had carried him out of himself and touched him as well as me. Then I
stood up and played a solo, after which I extemporised an accompaniment
to a sacred song which he sang; for though he was old and sinful his
voice was mellow and sweet.
He told me he was the last living member of the Old Christy Minstrels of
London, and from his manner and general conversation I still believe
that assertion of his was a true one. I asked him once to play the
violin, but he would not do so, though he could play the banjo well.
I have never been so cheered by an audience as I was that night. I was
called and recalled. I do not believe it was so much for my playing, or
for the opinion of Italian royalty and the Queen of England on my
“wonderful” playing—it was on the programme—as for my being thought a
friend of that old lecturer on dying orphan children. For before we
played the National Anthem he told them that I had consented to go with
him through New Zealand and play solos purely for the sake of helping
unhappy children, and that I was to receive no salary. I did not know
how true it was when he said that, but I often think how fortunate I was
not to have been arrested with him; for, though I was quite innocent, I
believe that we were both liable to penal servitude for giving those
charitable concerts.
Before the audience dispersed the lecturer made an extra collection,
notwithstanding the fact that each member of the audience had paid one
or two shillings for admittance, and given sixpence for a programme!
At the hall door, after all was over, he interviewed many of the ladies
who sought a personal introduction; we also received many invitations to
call at their homes, and my old employer seemed quite touched by the
many sympathetic phrases they poured in his ears. When we were alone he
stood under a lamp-post and counted out the collection, and though I
lounged by him, and gave many hints, he did not offer me a portion, so I
asked him for my share straight out. He had promised me some money just
before the lecture. “I dare not give it to you,” he said. “I must first
pay for the hall, the printing and the amount due to the orphanage;
then, rest assured, my boy, you shall get your share.”
Next day he got fearfully drunk, and I became convinced that he was not
genuine, though the night before I had left him thinking that I must be
mistaken in my suspicions. The very boldness of his bills and his plans
would have disarmed older men, and I was then only about twenty-one
years of age. I had given my other job up and so, for the time being, I
was compelled to stick to him. He rebuked me for not saying grace before
my meals, and I discovered that he really was religious in the common
sense of the term; we even had arguments together because I would not
agree with all he said. He was extremely happy and sang to himself all
day, rose at five o’clock every morning and splashed water all over the
room as he washed, while I complained and begged for another hour’s
rest. I felt envious and yet sorry for him, and myself too. When a man
dimly realises his abjectness in the flesh he has begun to realise his
divinity; the night of his mind, that was dark, becomes unclouded, and
the stars glimmer forth only to sadden him. He does not feel any longer
so ready to criticise the dark of his neighbour’s mind, which is still
happy in that night of intellectual blindness which is such a blessing
to men who inherit the heavens through an acute squint. My swindling old
employer rejoiced in this squint to an abnormal degree; he really did
believe that he was a pious and good-living man. When I refused to work
for him, and told him he was a rogue, he was so shocked that I even
relented a little, and took his proffered hand when I said good-bye. He
seemed to value my opinions, though he did not agree with them, and I
honestly believe that, had he not had his religious aspirations to fall
back upon, he would have fallen back upon himself and been a really good
man.
When he left the district his creditors came down on me, and I had a lot
of trouble to prevent myself being arrested. The tailor who had supplied
my suit of clothes stopped me in the street; I lost my temper, and we
nearly came to blows, and I was almost locked up. Next morning I called
upon the tailor and told him the truth; he apologised for his remarks
and refused to take more than half the money due for the clothes, which
I paid him. I never saw the lecturer on orphanages again; and as it was
years ago, and he was old then, I feel that he must have given his last
lecture, closed his stage door for ever and gone away.
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