home—on an orient liner—the orchestra—a sailing ship—paganini—port said—honolulu

again i am home and meet familiar faces, and enjoy the sweet security of home life and respectability; but soon the flight of time brings its inevitable changes both to my feelings and to those around me. i am no longer the prodigal son and a romantic novelty to the many who welcomed me at my arrival in the monotonous suburb; but nevertheless we are all moody companions in the sad drama of respectability. i had made up my mind to go travelling no more, but my good resolutions have faded away, and my whole soul is centred on inventing the best excuse for my not being able to accept the good position in london that will make me, at last, the respected son of a respected father.

well, i feel a bit ashamed of my incorrigible personality, and yet how much my soul is burdened with the thought that i must aspire to higher things, and go off to the city each day like mr w.’s son does, to sit on a stool. i can never be the pride and joy of the family, and as i sit alone and dream i am miserable with dim forebodings. on the back of the chair is my very high white collar and the smart tweed suit, and by my washstand my beloved fiddle. just over it, on a peg by my bed, is my big-rimmed australian hat. alas! that hat speaks of tropical sunshine and coco-palms. i can hear the arguing voices of bushmen in the grog shanty by “bummer’s creek,” and the trade wind in the shore banyans as the beachcomber laughs and nudges his pal in the ribs.

i cannot sleep, for the parrots are flying and muttering across the sky of my dreams; i hear the crack of the stock-whips on the slopes as the scampering, flying sheep go racing across my bedroom floor. i close my eyes, and the natives start singing in the fijian village, and the drums are beating the sunset out ere i am wide awake, through the civilised jingle of the milkman’s cans in the cold, windy street below.

the last dark wintry morning arrives. it has all been settled. i have signed on for a voyage as violinist and assistant purser on the orient liner the britannia. i am to catch the 4 a.m. train to london bridge. how dark and cold it is as i get up and dress, then go up the next flight to kiss my three sisters a last good-bye. they lift their sleepy heads and put their arms around my neck. “good-bye, tiggy,” they say once again, as i gently close their bedroom door and go downstairs. my father helps me on with my overcoat, and says very kind words. i try to answer, but my voice sounds husky and i keep placing the wrong arm in my overcoat sleeves. now comes the greatest task of all, a task that will tax all my courage. i strive to hide my weakness and make a joke about the bad penny turning up again soon, and then neither of us speak, and once again i kiss her lips, the lips of the most beautiful woman this world ever gave me. i hurry down the streets. i am glad it’s dark, for my eyes feel weak, and the windy light of the lamp-posts seem to swim about the street spaces. i am haunted by her face all down the channel that night, for she caught my soul adrift among the stars ere i was born, and my heart still sings a sad song for the woman who was my mother.

there is a deal of sameness on a large liner’s trip to the colonies. but for the complication of characters among the passengers and crew, and the ports that we put into on the voyage out, the passage would be extremely monotonous.

forward, near the fo’c’sle, was the glory hole, between decks, wherein slept the crowd of stewards and cooks. they were a jolly lot of men, and when the steerage and fore-cabin passengers had finished their evening meal they would sit on their sea-chests yarning or playing cards far into the night. sometimes they would sing songs, accompanied by the twang and tinkling of the assistant cook’s banjo; and older men, who were tired out, thrust their fierce faces out of their bunks and swore at being kept awake, as once more the wild chorus of i owe ten shillings to o’grady re-echoed through the “glory hole.” sleepless passengers up on deck clapped their hands with pleasure to hear the monotony broken, as the big pistons in the engine-rooms throbbed out their incessant pom-pe-te-pom, and the screws thrashed the racing liner across the world. in the morning at four-thirty the men would be dead to the world in their bunks as the second steward started shouting: “now then, you sleepers! now then, you sleepers, rise and shine!” or “come out of it, you young b——!” and so on, as sleepy heads lifted up in the rows of bunks and then dropped helplessly again. some were romantic boys who had read autobiographies, and some middle-aged men who had sickened of the workman’s train and drifted to sea.

in the evenings i played the violin in the saloon and deck concerts aft, beyond the dividing rope which was the boundary line that told the fore-cabin passengers that they must not approach the élite in the first saloon.

our orchestra consisted of three violins, ’cello, bass, and the usual brass and wind. i had an easy time, and often till midnight would stand on deck watching the stars and the world of waters below, and listening to the voices of passengers on deck outward bound for australia, to find fame and fortune—or ill fame.

i became very friendly with a member of our ship’s band, the solo cornet player. he was a quiet, elderly man, turning grey, and had once been a player in the orchestra of the lyceum theatre. a fine all-round musician he was too. he would sit on deck after dark, put a mute on his instrument, and extemporise melody and make it sound like a sweet-voiced girl singing softly to herself. he had the real temperament, and had received a first-class musical education.

nothing reveals character, the intellectual calibre of the instrumental player, so much as the type of composition that makes up his private repertoire. for in that he only plays the compositions which appeal to him. some are devoid of personality and only perform the stock pieces that are fashionable. others revel in melody that tells of the light side of life, its gaiety, or the pathos of dramatic existence on the stage, the tragedian’s mock grief before the footlights ere the curtain falls. others find their musical heaven vaguely expressed by playing those pieces that seem to murmur, as a sea-shell murmurs of the ocean, that indefinable note of poetry, the voice of the unknown, the intense inner life of our existence. my friend was one of the latter kind. he gave me many useful hints which i profited by, (as i often did in my travels), and so received a free musical education, the only music lessons i ever really had.

but for the throb of the engines and thrashing screw, the vessel’s motion, and the stewards’ sea-legs aslant to the deck’s list as they walk the saloons and cabin alley-ways, you could half think you were in some subterannean hotel. travel on a liner, and the wild poetry of the sailing ships swerving to the swell of travelling seas, the climbing sailors aloft singing their chanteys among the storm-beaten sails, the flying clouds overhead that race the moon, all seem to be something that you dreamed of, or lived through ages ago.

sea-boots and oilskins seem mythical things that faintly recall your yellow-backed old buccaneer novels, or the days when drake sailed down the seas.

officers on the p. & o. liners speak with university polish. “ay, ay”, “hold hard!”, “look out, you son of a sea-cook!”, “holy moses!”, “up she comes”, “all together!”, “let go!”, “haul the mainsail up!”. this is all changed now to “make haste, mr pye-smith” and “yes, sir, i beg your pardon. what a draught!”. or a bell tinkles down in the engine-room, and the mammoth liner, like a mighty iron beast, slows obediently to half-speed, stops, or slashes her tail and goes full speed astern, without one song or oath.

the stormy night and head-wind, the huddled group of sailors in oilskins singing their wild chantey, o, o, for rio grande, on deck in the windy dark as they bend together and pull while the vast monotone of the ocean becomes the orchestral accompaniment to voices from strong, open, bearded mouths, and your world of stars suddenly veers as the dark canvas sails and yards swerve round; the chief mate shouting, “what the blazing hell—— ay, there!” as on the wind comes faintly back, “ay, ay, sir, all clear!”: this smacks more of the sea. why, on a sailing ship, the very sea-cook at the galley door, amidships, clutching his pans, gazing across the wild, lonely waters, where the leaping, white-bearded waves seem like old misers’ hands plucking at the sunset’s gold, is sheer downright poetry compared with the electric-lighted saloon crowded with munching, over-fed men and women with moving mouths and pince-nez on their respectable noses.

the sailing ship has its rough, uncomfortable side, for well i remember my last trip from ’frisco round the horn, when i stood on deck at night, with deadly cramp gripping my legs, my eyebrows frozen together, my nose pinched and blue with cold, the decks awash and our sea-chests afloat in the fo’c’sle and deck-house. i recollect the cook holding on to his pots and pans and swearing as only an old-time boatswain, and that cook, could swear as we begged for a pannikin of hot coffee: stuff that tasted like heaven-sent life-blood to our frozen lips as we two boys drank it. the weather-beaten boatswain in his oilskins and sea-boots went by us in the dark, as great seas came over, singing a song to himself as though he was soliloquising in some quiet bar off the mile end road instead of experiencing the wildest weather i have ever seen, or ever want to see.

how i admired those old seafarers! “fetch that, matey,” they’d say, and off i’d rush, eager to please and obey the orders of horatio nelson and sir francis drake, for such men they seemed to me.

in the fo’c’sle at night they’d say: “get that fiddle out and play to us.” a thrill of boyish pride would go through me to notice their attention and respect as i played my best. presently they would join in as i played the chanteys they had taught me, sailing down to rio or blow the man down. without removing their pipes or chewing quids, their cracked, hoarse-throated voices would join in.

deep bass voices two or three had, and as they sat round me on their old sea-chests, and i scraped away to the tuneless, yelling, bearded mouths beneath the dim light of the fo’c’sle oil lamp, i drank in the last breath of the winds of sea romance. i see them now as i dream. there they sit on their sea-chests, oilskins and sea-boots on, with curios from other lands fastened over their bunks around them, as they open their big bearded mouths and sing. how ghost-like their eyes look by the light of the dim lamp, as the hazy tobacco smoke curls thickly to the low roof! then their hollow voices fade and the visionary “old hands” vanish as the last breath of wind blows them like cobweb-fine things through the fo’c’sle door, along the moonlit deck, away seaward for ever as i dream.

how i recall these lonely nights and the sailors moving across the deck in the dark, or climbing aloft like shadows back to the sky. i used to stand alone and gaze over the ship’s side and suddenly feel the intensity of living, as my thoughts half clung hopefully to the stars, like lost, migrating swallows that cling to the rigging of ships far out at sea; and the mighty, moving water all around me seemed to break with its monotone against eternity. i remember lying in my bunk, and by the oil lamp’s light watching the ship’s cockroaches go filing across the photographs of my parents and relatives which i had tacked on my bunk side to remind me of home, though i required no such reminder. those silent faces intensified the difference between reality and my boyhood’s dream; as a cold breath out of the grave of my beloved, who slept in the seas outside, blew through the door across my face as i dreamed of her—my beautiful dead romance!

truly, sailing ships have their rough side as well as a wildly romantic one. rolling down south, with gales behind bringing the seas up like majestic travelling hills as under the poop they go, and she rolls and swerves as the masts sweep across the sky, is the motion of sea poetry. if you are aloft you look down and could swear that she must turn turtle. telling you this calls back my feelings when i first went aloft as a boy of fourteen years.

the ship was rolling heavily, and as i looked down on deck something seemed to have happened (i turned pale, i’m sure): she was turning right over. i clung on with might and main as the masts and yards went over; death seemed to stare me in the face: like a wild beast i hooked on with fingers, toes and teeth, prepared for the final plunge into the heaving ocean below, when lo! to the mysterious equal pull of gravity she slowly swerved and rose, the rigging jerked and rattled, the jib-boom lifted and the figure-head at the bows lifted her face from the weather-side and went right over to peep at the lee-side. overjoyed, i looked over my shoulder astern and saw the chief mate yawning on the poop and the man at the wheel quite unconcerned, when i had instinctively thought they were clinging to anything movable, prepared to dive into the ocean when the ship turned clean over. that bronzed, broad-shouldered mate grinned when i stood on the poop. he asked me how i had felt. he was a good sort. he’s dead now and under the sea, missing these many years; and the red-bearded scotch skipper, who was like a father to me, is worse off, for the last i heard of him was that he was still alive and missing—mentally. “but this won’t buy the baby a frock,” as they say at sea when you go off dreaming and leave your work to yarn. so i must return to the p. & o. liner as she races across the mediterranean, bound for suez.

we had called in at naples, where we had taken on board a batch of passengers. i remember one of them especially; he was a distinguished old italian and his profile recalled to my mind the pictures i had seen of dante. he wore a loose cloak and a cavalier hat, and carried a violin-case. his eyes were eagle-like, yet bilious-looking, for he was suffering from some kind of yellow jaundice and slow circulation. on the hottest nights his teeth chattered with the cold. when we were crossing the red sea and the passengers brought their beds on deck to sleep, hoping to get a whiff of air, he went into his cabin in the usual way, with his teeth chattering with the cold, crawled into his bunk and got into his bed-clothes—a large canvas sack heavily lined with wadding; bodily into this he would go and tie the tapes at the head of the sack tightly round his neck, so that no air could possibly get into the sack and give him a chill. the very sight of it all made me perspire and gasp in that stifling hot weather. i felt sorry for him, and i cannot imagine now that he could have lived very long after getting to australia, where he was going for his health’s sake. he was a splendid violin-player, but did not perform. i used to talk to him on deck, and discovered that he was a genoese. i was greatly interested to hear that his father, who was also a musician, had known intimately the celebrated violin maestro, paganini, and had had violin lessons from him. from broken english, and italian gesticulations, i learnt that the great violinist had peculiar ways. he had stayed for a few days at my friend’s childhood home and while there had upset the quiet routine of the family, for he was extremely superstitious and restless, and walked about the house all night. he declared that a ghostly woman stood with her face at his window whenever he played a certain melody that had come to him in his dreams. beyond his family’s enthusiastic reminiscences over paganini’s violin-playing, that is the only incident that vividly impressed me. my friend was a remarkable character and, though he was ill, extremely vivacious and always talking excitably. sometimes he would sit on deck after dark, and plucking the strings of his violin, pizzicato, guitar style, would sing softly to himself in italian with a clear, sweet, musical voice that was very effective.

i went with him ashore at port said. it was fearfully hot, but as my friend walked down the gangway with me he was well swathed in scarves, and wrapped up in shirts under his large fur-lined cloak. he seemed to have plenty of money and was anything but mean with it. it was a treat to get away from the hubbub of the natives coaling the steamer. i only have a dim, dream-like recollection of that particular visit ashore at port said. i remember the town with the white buildings and palm-trees dimly outlined under the stars, and the begging, dark-faced descendants of the egyptian pharaohs who rushed forth out of alley-ways and sought our patronage. signor niccolo was terribly thirsty, and the english restaurant was so crowded with passengers from the boats that we both went off and sought elsewhere for refreshments. we went up a dark alleyway, directed there by a swarthy man who evidently misunderstood our requirements. in the darkness it seemed like some subterranean passage to an egyptian ghost-land as we walked along and heard the uncouth voices of the inhabitants issuing from the little barred windows that were let in in the high walls on each side. shuffling by us went the sandalled feet of black men with white turbans on that looked like towels swathed about their heads. presently we arrived at a tunnel-like entrance that led into a suspicious, dimly lit little restaurant. as we sat at one of the small tables and sniffed peculiar odours, that smelt like scented tea and aromatic herbs, four dusky beauties came through a little secret door and laughingly revealed their teeth, then asked in broken english what we would like to drink. signor niccolo called for wine and i had coffee. off rushed the dark female attendants to execute our orders. “funny plaze and funny girlees, eh?” said signor niccolo to me. “seems so,” i answered, for the waitresses were only dressed in little singlets, with a loose piece hanging to their knees and a scarf swathed about their bosoms for modesty’s sake, which was the only modesty that we saw there, as they lifted their scanty robes to dust the furniture. we drank our refreshment and hurriedly escaped from the place.

i do not think there are any missionaries at port said; possibly the english and american officials look upon it as hopeless. port said was a veritable hell of iniquity in those days, and still is. passengers often went ashore and lost the boat, or disappeared altogether. after we left a yankee saloon passenger sat on the settee and told us of his experiences there. he had gone into an isolated restaurant at the north end of the town and called for a drink. in his button-hole he wore a large red camellia blossom which, though he did not know it, was a kind of masonic sign. so directly he had ordered his whisky and sat down in the large arm-chair, the attendant, who was an old black arab mute with a heavy grey beard, suddenly touched a spring in the wall, and lo! up went a partition on each side and he was shut in a little room, staring with surprise at the old mute, who, to his astonishment, now spoke in a musical voice. the old man’s beard and eyebrows dropped off and with the old cloak fell rustling to the floor, and there, with shining dark eyes and pouting lips, a dusky harem beauty stood before him! even the sedate p. & o. chief officer smiled behind his napkin as the yankee told us that yarn, and we tried to keep straight faces over all the details which i have left out!

three or four weeks later i arrived in melbourne, where i stayed a week in collins street and at length succeeded in getting a berth on a boat that was bound for the islands. eventually i arrived at honolulu, where i had some luck with my violin-playing which enabled me to take a cheap passage to apia, where i had lived before.