Once, And Once Only, He Sang A Song At Our
Concerts; Standing Forth Without Embarrassment, His Great Stature
Somewhat Humped, His Long Arms Frequently Extended, His Kalmuck
Head Thrown Backward.
It was a suitable piece of music, as deep as
a cow's bellow and wild like the White Sea.
He was struck and
charmed by the freedom and sociality of our manners. At home, he
said, no one on a journey would speak to him, but those with whom
he would not care to speak; thus unconsciously involving himself in
the condemnation of his countrymen. But Russia was soon to be
changed; the ice of the Neva was softening under the sun of
civilisation; the new ideas, 'wie eine feine Violine,' were audible
among the big empty drum notes of Imperial diplomacy; and he looked
to see a great revival, though with a somewhat indistinct and
childish hope.
We had a father and son who made a pair of Jacks-of-all-trades. It
was the son who sang the 'Death of Nelson' under such contrarious
circumstances. He was by trade a shearer of ship plates; but he
could touch the organ, and led two choirs, and played the flute and
piccolo in a professional string band. His repertory of songs was,
besides, inexhaustible, and ranged impartially from the very best
to the very worst within his reach. Nor did he seem to make the
least distinction between these extremes, but would cheerily follow
up 'Tom Bowling' with 'Around her splendid form.'
The father, an old, cheery, small piece of man-hood, could do
everything connected with tinwork from one end of the process to
the other, use almost every carpenter's tool, and make picture
frames to boot.
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