MELBA'S MEMOIRS.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXIII, Issue 19217, 5 January 1926, Page 6

MELBA'S MEMOIRS.

HAPPY STOKIES. THE END OF THE WAR. (Copyright.) CHAPTER XXYIIL I think that of all tho many delightful children's stories I have heard, none mado me laugh as much as one in which I myself played a small part at this time. At Government House, wore staying the little eight-year-old Lady "V eronica Blackwood, whose father was Lord DutTorin, and Basil, her brother, who is now Lord Ava. They were both charming, unaffected children, whose only weakness, if you can call it a weakness, was an excess of curiosity. One day a very distinguished and powerful Maharaja who happened to be visiting Melbourne at tho time, was asked to tea, and beforo ho arrived, Basil who was a little older than Veronica, explained to his sister that Maharajas were not tbo same colour as she was—in fact, I remember that ho described him as being of something tho same hue as a chocolate cako which they had eaten in tho nursery tho day before—bub that sho must take no notice. Tho Maharaja arrived, was treated with great ceremony and respect, and tho children behaved themselves admirably. However, just as he was going, ho made some rerna>rk to Veronica. There was a moment's silence, and then in a piercingly distinct voico Veronica said: " I think I have had tho pleasure of meeting you on the P. and 0. steamer." (I may say, for those who do not see the point of this story, that all the servants employed on tho P. and 0 lines in tho lesser-paid occupations are Lascars.)

It was at this time that I received the proudest compliment which I have ever been paid. I had been giving a great many concerts for the Allies, and at on a of them at Melbourne, I sold a flag which had cost a guinea in the first place for the very creditable sum of two thousand two hundred pounds. I may mention, incidentally, that after it had been sold, nobody claimed it. As I came out of the concert afterwards, flushed with the pleasure of the result of my efforts, my dear old Scottish clergyman, by name tho Rev. Dr. Marshall, approached me, and in his oroad burr ho said: " Madam, you have been called many flattering names in the course of your career. Do you know what I call you ?" I laughed and said I had no idea. "I call you the 'Empress of pickpockets,' " ho said. I am afraid I wy,s tho Empress of pickpockets. I used to go up to people in the streets—people, that is to say, whom 1 ' kne.v to bo rich, and to be able to afford to lose something—and I would say to them: "I am Nellie Melba. I want you to promise to givo me everything in your pocket book, before you look inside to see how much you have got." Ido not think I had one refusal throughout the whols course of tho war, but I did have a certain amount of difficulty in persuading a man, who discovered when he opened his pocket-book, that inside were two £IOO notes, whose existence he had forgotten at the time of giving his promise. I am only too awaro of the shortcomings of my memories of this period, I say to myself, here was I, travelling in the United States, in Australia, in Canada, jp. thj most thrilling time of history, and yet all I have to say seems trifling and of little account. The explanation is that, quite frankly, I find it difficult to talk about the war at all. When so many great sacrifices were being made, when so many gallant deeds were being achieved, to write of my small efforts, my hopes and tribulations, seems almost impertinent. However, one thing at "least I can look back upon with some small gratification, and that is that I am reminded even as I dip my pen into tho ink, that my handwriting was completely ruined by the war. Wherever I went, whether it was in Australia, Canada, or the United States, I was always being asked to sign autographs, which would be sold for the benefit of the soldiers. I signed and signed, until I could sign no more. For one concert alone 1 wrote over a thousand' letters in my own hand, and the comparatively sober and dignified " Nellie Melba" with which I started the war had degenerated at the end of it into a flourishing and untidy parody of its former self.

Lot me just add, not in any boastful spirit, but as a means £>f thanking those •who helped me, that I made through the war over £120,000, which I was enabled to hand over to the Bed Cross, as a slight tribute from one who cared. The candlos were lit round my dinner table, the first glass of wine had been drunk on this day of November 11, 1918, when suddenly the telephone bell rang, and my butler came into the room and told me that the commandant of one of the destroyers in the harbour wished to speak to me. At once I went outside, and there in the darkened hall, over a wire that seemed to buzz and whirr as though it had caught something of the thrill of tho message that ho was delivering, I was told that peace had come at last. I let the receiver drop, and stood there for a moment motionless. And then, in a sort of wild joy, I screamed and ran back to tell the others. They sprang to their feet and clustered round me. What did I know ? Could 1 tell them any more ? Had I any definite information ? I shook my head. All I knew was that we had peace, and that Death had ceased to take his toll.

Suddiwily I remembered that all the little villages round about, all the tiny townships whose methods of communication were still as crude as they had Men fifty years ago, would still be in ignorance. So I ordered my car and, as soon as it Was ready, wo all got into it and whirled down to the village of Lilydale. Never ah all I forge.t sweeping up the deserted street to the old fire bell standing rusty and usually forgotten under the tall gum tree. I jumped out of the car, seized the rope and pulled and pulled and pulled, till the whole night rang with the echoes of it. For a few minutes there was no response, and then, ono by one, they started to come out. "Melba's here," they said to one another as they clustered round. "Don't bother about Melba," I cried out, and I can't remember whether I was laughing or sobbing. "It's peace." Like a flame in the woods when the bush is scorching, and the wind high, the word "peace" rushed round the village. It seemed hardly out of my mouth before other bells had started to ring, and soon in that little village of the Australian bush a strange shrill clamour of bells, like some unearthly chorus, was pealing to the skies. It was the same all tho way down the road, and when tired out we drove back, still from tiny houses on distant hills ' lights were shining brightly, and as we swept through the villages bells were still peiiling. The next morning I rose at four o'clock and went outside for a walk. The events of the night before seemed some grotesque dream. I wandered round the lawn, and I found myself standing under the great wattle. How fresh under the great wattle. How fresh and exquisite it was in this early breath of summer. It seemed to ine like a promise of life renewed. When I got down to Melbourne at six o'clock in! the morning the streets were full of people shouting and crying and waving Hags. A service was being held in the Town Hall. All difference of creed or of sect had been forgotten, and the place was full to overflowing—so full, indeed, that when I attempted to enter I found at first that it was impossible. However, a friendly policeman pushed me "'through the mob, and I found myself on

the stage. They cried out my name, but I shook my head. Thera was nothing I could say. Then suddenly I thought of the gift which God had given me—the gift of song. Surely, if ever there was; a time in my life when it was needed, now was that time. I hr.d been told time and again in the past that I had brought hope and beauty into the lives of men and women through that gift. Let me only try to do it now ! Impulsively I turned to . who was at my side, and put my hand on his arm, but before I could ask the question myself he had asked it of me. " You must sing, Nellie Melba," he said. " You must sing as you never sang before." And I found myself singing the National Anthem, at first a solitary voice, as it seemed, floating out into the green spaces, and then but one of an immense chorus that swelled up like an organ. When it was over everybody was crying.

One cannot live for four years in a state of acute nervous tension without paying tho price in some form or another and even to .recall, in the comparative peace and quiet of the present, those times of torment, makes mv heart beat quickly and mv hand tremble.. And so, at tho risk of being thought irreverent I am going to plunge without any premeditation, into a totallv different atmosphere to cheer up, not only those who may read these words, but myself, who am writing them. In fact I am going to give you a tonic. The name of that tonic is—Charlie Chaplin. , . I had long had a great desire to meet Charlie Chaplin, and as soon as we arnv?d at Los Angeles, on my long-delayed journey home, I set out for his studio in company with Lady Susan F.itzclarence, my great friend. No celebrities whom I ever have met so completely falsified my pre-conceived notions of them as Charlie Chaplin. Ho was then at the pinacle of his fame as a comedian —a pinnacle which he still occupies in solitarv state. But hov little the world knew 'of the real man who was hidden behind the mask of humour! I had expected first of all to meet an uclv, grotesque figure. Instead there advanced towards me a smiling, handsome young man, small, but perfectly with flashing eyes:, and beautiful teeth. He was dressed quietly and well, and he spoke in a low musical voice that seemed to belong moro to an English public school boy than to a knock-about comedian. But. it was not the superficial Charlie Chaplin that most surprised me, but the character of the man as revealed by his conversation. Instead of a brilliant clown, I found myself face to face with a philosopher with a serious, almost melancholy attitude to life. " Ah, Madame Melba," was one of the first things he said to me. " ¥bu should be happy. You have been able to express every emotion. You. have laughed in The Barber of Seville, and you have wept in Othello. But suppose that you have never been allowed to weep. Suppose, like myself, that you had always been lorced to laugh ?" He paused and then said abruptly, " I would £ive my soul to play Hamlet." A few minutes later he was again as bright as a child. Ho'had just bought a new motor-car, and danced round his new toy as if ho had never seen a car before. He pitted the radiator, poked his head underneath, and blew the horn, pretending to be very alarmed at each blast which it gave. Finally he invited us to come for a drive, and as we clambered in he said vaguely, " There is a present for you." 1 looked down and discovered, to my delight a beautiful rope of fox-tails on my kneos* We dined with Charlie Chaplin that night at the Raymond Hotel, Pasadena, and here ho expanded, and told me more about his early struggles. "My first engagement in America," he said, was with William Gillette, and I received three dollars a week for my pains. Those three dollars a week were the best earned money I ever made. I was supposed to be a burglar, and every night I clambered in at the window in the second act. I m not heavy, but the 'window was particularly fragile, and I was afraid that it would break. The nervousi strain was terrible." , More reminiscences, and then, for the first time, I had a taste of the Chaplin of the film. The waiter presented the bill, Chaplin produced a wallet, opened it, and' found it empty. With & sign he put both hands in his pockets and drew them out filled to the brim with silver dollar pieces. of these scattered over the floor involving much scrambling under the table cloth. Eventually, after a great deal of argument and addition, the bill was paid, the waiter departing with a plate that was heavily loaded with coins. I had laughed so much at the inimitable stock of business" which had accompanied this procedure that I felt quite tired, and said— _ . " Let us go and get some fresh air. Charlie Chaplin smiled and shook his head, pointing at the same time to some small boys who had miraculously appeared from nowhere, and who were scrambbng about on the floor in search of loot. " You don't want me to offend my penny public?" he said simply. On my next visit to Charlie Chaplin's studio I not only had a good insight into one of the reasons for his success, but I had the unexpected honour of taking part in a film with him myself. He was creating at this time ' a picture called " The Cure, The immense studio was a bustle of activity, and the powerful arc lights were centred on Charlie Chaplin, who was supposed to bo drinking seme medicine out of a mug. A simple operation, you might imagine, but Charlie Chaplin, like all true artists, was not satisfied with anything but the best. Over and over again, he drank, and was still displeased. Then suddenly he altered his position slightly, gave a new twist of his hand, shouted to the photographers, and the picture was taken. An hour's hard work for less than a minute's effect! He came toward me wiping his face and said: " I think your first film was very good." " What do you mean ?" I said. For answer he. pointed to the blank screen. There suddenly flashed across it a picture of myself, taken in the studio on my last visit, in which I had pretended to slap Chaplin's face, and had followed it up by chasing him round the room. All these activities had been duly registered by the camera, and when the short comedy was over Chaplin smiled at me mischievously and said: " There's a small part in my next piece that would just suit you." (To-morrow: Renowned Film Artists.)