The Last King of Ireland
By Leonard Wibberley
First Published in The Daily Breeze on August 9, 1981
2/22/2025
Once, as I have told you before and I am sure you are weary of hearing, I earned my living as a wandering violinist, walking about England playing in the streets.
I did better when the traffic was heavy, for I have a bad time hitting F-sharp on the A-string (third position) and the only two pieces I couId play called for F-sharp on the A string.
It can be played on the E string, of course, but that’s a kind of cowardice and there was enough of that about in the world at the time without me adding to it.
Well, I played my way up to the north of England and I played my way back again to London—and, between, the noise of the traffic and the charity of the public, I didn’t do that badly.
In fact, this was one of the better periods of my life, providing me with a great deal of writing material.
The big drawback was keeping my clothes clean. I’m improvident about such things at best and, what with the wind and the rain and the sun and the mud and the dust, there wasn’t a scarecrow in England that envied my appearance when I got back to London.
Needing then a bath and a new wardrobe, I decided to call on a sister of mine who lived in the fashionable West End and was, now I come to think of it, a person of fashion herself.
I called on her at the wrong time, but I’ve often had that kind of luck. I called on her, in fact, when she was throwing a party for the literary, artistic, theatrical and other figures whom she knew and she’d spent months planning the whole thing and weeks fretting about it.
She’d bought four new evening dresses with matching shoes and had her hair done three times (she told me all this later) when I turned up at the door in my ragged clothes, a bit smelly and holding in my hand a violin case stuck together with the equivalent, in those times, of Band-aids.
She gave me a greeting that would warm the heart of any Christian.
“Good God,” she said, a sentiment with which I invariably agree. She added, after a few moments of paralysis, “I’m giving a party for some very important people and I can’t let you in like this. You know, Leonard, you are really hopeless.”
I knew that all right for I’d been told it many times before and all in all I think it’s true. Not hopeless in the sense of having no hope, but hopeless in the sense that there really isn’t much anybody can do with me.
“You’ll go right into the kitchen and sit there and not make a single sound,” said my sister, and she led me up the back stairs into the kitchen and sat me on a chair in a corner.
The door opened and a little man came in. He was oldish and small and had the look of a smiling fox. “You look like my father in his better days,” he said. “But he’s dead. Who are you?”
“I’m a descendant of the high kings of Ireland,” I replied. “Actually, I may not be, but it cheers me up now and again to think I am. My name’s Wibberley—Leonard Wibberley.” Before he could make any comment on that, I recognized him as the poet James Stephens and quoted:
“Within a dream lies trapped a doubt!
“That lets not go; that dares not out…”
“You’re Ireland’s greatest poet,” I announced.
“I’m a poet of Ireland who’s tramped many a weary mile in the white of the rain,” Stephens said.
“Myself the same but it was in England and playing the fiddle,” I said and told him of my adventures.
He gave me his coat and a tie and dragged me into the party announcing he had found the last king of Ireland and he was a fiddler. We had a grand evening of it all together, and my sister bought me a new suit the next day.
(Image by StockSnap from Pixabay.)
***** NEW MEMOIR NOW AVAILABLE ON KINDLE *****
THE MAESTRO and ME
Lessons in Violin and Life with Julian Brodetsky
With his trademark wit, Wibberley shares stories that shaped his journey with the violin—from his beginnings as a young student in London to his transformative studies with Russian maestro Julian Brodetsky in Los Angeles.
Brodetsky, once a celebrated concert violinist in Europe and friend to luminaries like Segovia and Pavlova, chose teaching over performing when he settled in California. His rigorous standards and deep compassion made him not only an exceptional teacher but also a cherished friend to Wibberley.
The Maestro and Me is both a memoir and a musical instruction manual that delves into Brodetsky’s belief in “deliberate practice,” a method of learning music that focuses on targeted, thoughtful exercises rather than mindless repetition, designed to enhance performance, technique, and musical interpretation.
Wibberley paints a vivid picture of the profound impact Brodetsky had on those around him, including Wibberley, whose life was forever changed by this unique maestro-student relationship. This book is a must-read for musicians of all ages and levels, music lovers, and anyone who values the transformative power of friendship.
“The theme is dedicated to a greater and more endearing purpose; to reveal the true story of his friendship with a noble man… the pupil became a friend, and the friend began to play the violin. The happy association is narrated with Wibberley’s best sparkle.”—Kirkus Reviews
“In Mr. Wibberley’s loving portrait, Julian Brodetsky emerges as an idealist with a passion for his profession, a moody inspirational philosopher, a man full of colorful stories about his native land. Like many Irishmen, Mr. Wibberley writes with a mixture of engaging wit and sentimentality.”—The New York Times
Find The Maestro and Me on Amazon here.
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