Cruel Barbara Allen | Page 7

'That's it,' he said, looking up with naïve triumph when he had finished.
Yes, that was it, Christopher confessed, as he took back the violin and
bow and laid them on the table.
'What brings a man who plays as you do, playing in the streets?' he
asked a little sulkily.
'That eternal want of pence which vexes fiddlers,' said the youngster 'I
lost an engagement a month ago. First violin at the Garrick. Rowed
with the manager. Nothing else turned up. Must make money
somehow.'
'What have you made to-night?' Christopher asked. 'I beg your pardon,'
he said a second later; 'that is no business of mine, of course.'
'About seven or eight shillings,' said the other, disregarding the
withdrawal of the question. 'And I won't ask you,' he went on, 'what
brings a man who writes like you living near the clouds in a street like
this?'
'Are you an Englishman?' asked Christopher.
'No,' said the other. 'No fiddler ever was. I beg your pardon. I oughtn't
to have said that, even though I think it. No. I am a Bohemian, blood
and bones, but I came to England when I was eight years old, and I
have lived in London ever since.'
They went on talking together, and laid the foundations of a friendship
which afterwards built itself up steadily. In two months' time Carl
Rubach was restored to his old place at the Garrick, and poor

Christopher was beginning to find out in real earnest what it was to be
hungry. He was too proud to ask anybody for a loan, and Rubach was
the only man he really knew. 'When things are at their worst,' says the
cynical bard, 'they sometimes mend.' Things suddenly mended for
Christopher. The Bohemian turned up one afternoon with an
Englishman in his train, a handsome young fellow of perhaps
five-and-twenty, with a light curling beard and a blonde moustache.
'Allow me to introduce to you Mr. John Holt,' said the Bohemian. 'This,
Mr. Holt, is Mr. Christopher Stretton, a musician of great genius.
This--Stretton--is Mr. John Holt, a dramatist of great power. Gentlemen,
know each other. Mr. Holt writes charming songs. Mr. Stretton writes
beautiful music.'
He flourished with mock gravity as he said these things, turning first to
one and then to the other. Mr. John Holt's eyes were keen and
observant; and one swift glance took in the knowledge of the
composer's hungry pallor, his threadbare dress, the bare and
poverty-stricken aspect of the room.
'I have two songs for a new play of mine,' he said; 'I want them set to
music.'
Christopher's hand, thinner and more transparent than a healthy man's
hand should be, reached out for the offered manuscript.
'When do you think you can let me have the music?' asked the
dramatist.
Christopher read the songs through, and looked up.
'To-morrow?' he said.
'So soon!' said the other. 'At what time to-morrow?'
'Will midday suit you?'
'Can you bring them to that address?' 'I will be there,' responded

Christopher.
His visitors left him and he sat down to think. He was weak, and the
pains of hunger gnawed him, but as he sat over one of the songs the
words built themselves into a tune almost without his knowledge or
effort. Then he turned to write, and found that he had no music-paper.
He laughed bitterly at this discovery, and looking round the bare
apartment sighted his violin-case, and rising, took the violin and bow
out of it, put on his hat, and, with the case under his arm, made for the
pawnbroker's. There he realised half-a-crown, one halfpenny of which
was confiscated in payment for the pawn-ticket. He bought paper and
pen and ink, and having taken them home, went out again and ate cold
sausage at the bar of a public-house, and came back with a few pence
still in his pockets. There was a nausea upon him, and he could not
recall the air he wished to write. He had eaten nothing for three days
and he felt at once sick and drowsy.
He was fain to lie down, and he fell asleep, to awake in two hours' time
a little strengthened and refreshed. The tune came back again, and he
set it down, and then attacked the second one with like success.
Morning came, and after a meagre breakfast which finished his
resources, he went weakly to the address the dramatist had given him.
Mr. Holt had left behind him apologies for unavoidable absence.
Would Mr. Stretton call again at three? He wandered desolately home,
and; waited, and when the time drew near set out again. This time the
dramatist was ready to: receive him.
'The lady who will sing the songs is here,' he said, 'and with your
permission I