MELBA'S MEMOIRS.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXII, Issue 19203, 17 December 1925, Page 7

MELBA'S MEMOIRS.

TRIALS IN A NEW LAND, A BAD DROUGHT. (Copyright.) CHAPTER XVin.—(Continued.) I gave five concerts in Melbourne, and four in Sydney. May I bo forgiven for saying that from these nine concerts I netted tho sum of £21,000. I mention it because it was such a remarkable success, in view of tho drought which was then devastating Australia. You in England and America, to whom a drought merely means a temporary inactivity of the garden hoso, and a few brown patches on your lawns, can hardly realise the real horror of an Australian drought. All along the lino from Brisbane to Melbourne I noticed out of my window the carcases of sheep and cattle lyhig dead and rotting under the gum treos, whither they had crawled to eat the leaves. And when they could reach no mor« they had dropped dead. Everything was desolate with the desolation of the desert. Not a blade of grass. And in spite of ( this they came, these country people, from the wilds of the bush, from tho outlying hamlets, sometimes travelling for several days in acute discomfort, just to hear me sing. It was as wonderful a tribute as any artist had ever had. But my return to Australia was not by any means an unmitigated time of delight. After having known all the luxuries and all the amenities of Europe, I was soon to discover that this country of my birth had a very great deal to learn about the things which go to make life comfortable. All the little crudities, all tho little antiquated notions which, in tho old days, I had naturally not noticed, now impressed themselves upon me with overwhelming force, and though my love for the country was as strong as ever there were moments when I felt like giving up the whole programme and going back to Europe. I had rny house in Toorak and my own staff of servants, and one day I decided to give a dinner party to a few old friends. 1 chose a Sunday, as it was the only free day I had, and on the day before the dinner I was informed by the housemaid that my cook would like to see me at once. "Is it true that you intend giving a dinner on the Sabbath day ?" she said to me, I looked at her curiously. " Yes. Have you any objection ?" She folded her arms. " Objection! I should think I have an objection. I am not going to cook for you on the Sabbath." " And why?" I asked her. " Because I'm not. And I should like to give a week's notice." "You needn't do that," I replied. "You may go now." It was very easy to say those words, but I did not realise at the time how exceedingly difficult it would be to get anybody else. Melbourne seemed to be absolutely devoid of cooks. I sent messages high and low, I set all the registry offices working, but no cook was to be had. I might just as well have asked for a white elephant. And so, in despair, I went to my daddy and asked him if he would lend me his. He said, of course he would. But even then I found that there were extraordinary difficulties in the wav. For, in order to get that cook, I hod to go in person to the head of tho tramwavs in order that I might get her fiance changed from the tramline on which ho was at present engaged to a tramline near my house! But eventually, after infinite difficulties, these important events were accomplished. But it was worth it, for she was an excellent cook. Nobody in England or America has any idea of the intensity of the servant problem in the Southern Hemisphere. What is a problem in Australia is even worse in Tasmania. I remember, now I am on the subject, that when I was last in Tasmania I paid a visit to a man who may be described as the most important person on the island, and discovered when I got home that I had left my coat at his house. So the next day I went round to fetch it, going on foot, as it was a divine afternoon. I rang tho bell and waited. There was no answer. I rang tho bell again and again, and still thero was no answer. Wondoring if there had, perhaps, been some accident, or if the house were shut up, I was turning to go, when a very dilapidated gardener emerged from the bushes and said: " It's no good your ringing that bell. There's no one in the house." I looked at him in astonishment. "Hasn't his Lordship any servants?" I said. Tho figure laughed hoarsely. " Servants!" he cried. " I am the only servant that I have over heard of hero." Ho paused and added, " Bo you the lady what has called for a coat ?" I intimated that I waa. " I'll go and got it," he said. And as ho shuffled through tho door, emerging later bringing my coat in his grimy hands, I pondered on tho extraordinary trials which one encounters in these remote regions of tho south. When all is said and doue, however, these are but small things after all. And in tho long run they are wiped out of my memory by the generosity, the simplicity, and the open-heartedness of my countrymen. In no country in tho world is the hand so ready to give, the heart so ready to sympathise. But there are exceptions, and it is with some of those exceptions that I now find myself compollod to deal. I am no believer in that method of writing an autobiography which dwells only on the sunny side; which, with a mistaken bravery, chooses to ignore the difficulties that have come their way, and to forget the darknesses through which they have passed. Everybody who has known fame has also known the agonies which fame has brought. And it is only fair, not only to myself, but to every boy and girl who is starting on the threshold of life, to reveal some of the bitterness which they arc bound to experience in their struggle toward success, to tell them something, in fact, of the lies which will bo told about them. Dame Rumour has driven tho last nail into many an artist's coffin. For the artist is, of necessity, a terribly sensitive being. He responds to praise as a flower opens to the sun, he shrinks from criticism aa a sensitive plant. And when criticism gives place to falsehood, when his whole character is blackened, his most blameless action is interpreted as

something vile—then that is for him " the very darkest hour of night." I know it, because I have been through it rnysolf. It was only to be expected that when I returned to Australia after 16 years there would be at least a few scandalmongers to spread their gossip about me, and I wondered from time to time which particular rumour they would choose for my benefit. Would they say, for instance, that I took too much drink—the favourite rumour which attaches to all politicians ? I decided against that because I concluded that nobody would bo quite so imbecile as to imagine that a singer could keep her voice for a month under such circumstances. Would they discover that I waa a morphia maniac? Looking at my exceedingly healthy face in the glass, I smiled that supposition away. I supposed, therefore, that they would content themselves by telling each other that I was in love with my tenors or my baritones* or my conductors—it did not seem to matter very much which. Well, to a certain extent, I behove 1 came in for all of these rumours. And because I have seen the lives of so many men and women, whom I revere and admire, made miserable by similar stories, 1 want to set on record a tale which will, I believe, illustrate the way in which these rumours start, and may incline the credulous, not only now but in the future, to deal a little more kindly with the reputations of their public men and women, of whose inner lives the) know uothing bat hearsay. (To-morrow: Dame Rumoni.)