I
At my dining-place in old Soho--I call it mine because there was a
time when I became somewhat inveterate there, keeping my napkin
(changed once a week) in a ring recognisable by myself and the waiter,
my bottle of Beaune (replenished more frequently), and my accustomed
seat--at this restaurant of mine, with its confusion of tongues, its
various, foreign _clientèle_, amid all the coming and going, the
nightly change of faces, there were some which remained the same,
persons with whom, though one might never have spoken, one had
nevertheless from the mere continuity of juxtaposition a certain sense
of intimacy.
There was one old gentleman in particular, as inveterate as myself,
who especially aroused my interest. A courteous, punctual, mild old
man with an air which deprecated notice; who conversed each evening
for a minute or two with the proprietor, as he rolled, always at the
same hour, a valedictory cigarette, in a language that arrested my ear
by its strangeness; and which proved to be his own, Hungarian; who
addressed a brief remark to me at times, half apologetically, in the
precisest of English. We sat next each other at the same table, came
and went at much the same hour; and for a long while our intercourse
was restricted to formal courtesies; mutual inquiries after each
other's health, a few urbane strictures on the climate. The little old
gentleman in spite of his aspect of shabby gentility,--for his coat
was sadly inefficient, and the nap of his carefully brushed hat did
not indicate prosperity--perhaps even because of this suggestion of
fallen fortunes, bore himself with pathetic erectness, almost
haughtily. He did not seem amenable to advances. It was a long time
before I knew him well enough to value rightly this appearance, the
timid defences, behind which a very shy and delicate nature took
refuge from the world's coarse curiosity. I can smile now, with a
certain sadness, when I remind myself that at one time I was somewhat
in awe of M. Maurice Cristich and his little air of proud humility.
Now that his place in that dim, foreign eating-house knows him no
more, and his yellow napkin-ring, with its distinguishing number, has
been passed on to some other customer; I have it in my mind to set
down my impressions of him, the short history of our acquaintance. It
began with an exchange of cards; a form to which he evidently attached
a ceremonial value, for after that piece of ritual his manner
underwent a sensible softening, and he showed by many subtile
indefinable shades in his courteous address, that he did me the honour
of including me in his friendship. I have his card before me now; a
large, oblong piece of pasteboard, with _M. Maurice Cristich, Theatre
Royal_, inscribed upon it, amid many florid flourishes. It enabled me
to form my first definite notion of his calling, upon which I had
previously wasted much conjecture; though I had all along, and rightly
as it appeared, associated him in some manner with music.
In time he was good enough to inform me further. He was a musician, a
violinist; and formerly, and in his own country, he had been a
composer. But whether for some lack in him of original talent, or of
patience, whether for some grossness in the public taste, on which the
nervous delicacy and refinement of his execution was lost, he had not
continued. He had been driven by poverty to London, had given lessons,
and then for many years had played a second violin in the orchestra of
the Opera.
'It is not much, Monsieur!' he observed, deprecatingly, smoothing his
hat with the cuff of his frayed coat-sleeve. 'But it is sufficient;
and I prefer it to teaching. In effect, they are very charming, the
seraphic young girls of your country! But they seem to care little for
music; and I am a difficult master, and have not enough patience.
Once, you see, a long time ago, I had a perfect pupil, and perhaps
that spoilt me. Yes! I prefer the theatre, though it is less
profitable. It is not as it once was,' he added, with a half sigh; 'I
am no longer ambitious. Yes, Monsieur, when I was young, I was
ambitious. I wrote a symphony and several concertos. I even brought
out at Vienna an opera, which I thought would make me famous; but the
good folk of Vienna did not appreciate me, and they would have none of
my music. They said it was antiquated, my opera, and absurd; and yet,
it seemed to me good. I think that Gluck, that great genius, would
have liked it; and that is what I should have wished. Ah! how long ago
it seems, that time when I was ambitious! But you must excuse me,
Monsieur! your good company makes me garrulous. I must be at the
theatre. If I am not in my place at the half-hour, they fine me two
shillings and sixpence, and that I can ill afford, you know,
Monsieur!'
In spite of his defeats, his long and ineffectual struggle with
adversity, M. Cristich, I discovered, as our acquaintance ripened, had
none of the spleen and little of the vanity of the unsuccessful
artist. He seemed in his forlorn old age to have accepted his
discomfiture with touching resignation, having acquired neither
cynicism nor indifference. He was simply an innocent old man, in love
with his violin and with his art, who had acquiesced in
disappointment; and it was impossible to decide, whether he even
believed in his talent, or had not silently accredited the verdict of
musical Vienna, which had condemned his opera in those days when he
was ambitious. The precariousness of the London Opera was the one fact
which I ever knew to excite him to expressions of personal resentment.
When its doors were closed, his hard poverty (it was the only occasion
when he protested against it), drove him, with his dear instrument and
his accomplished fingers, into the orchestras of lighter houses, where
he was compelled to play music which he despised. He grew silent and
rueful during these periods of irksome servitude, rolled innumerable
cigarettes, which he smoked with fierceness and great rapidity. When
dinner was done, he was often volubly indignant, in Hungarian, to the
proprietor. But with the beginning of the season his mood lightened.
He bore himself more sprucely, and would leave me, to assist at a
representation of _Don Giovanni_, or _Tannhauser_, with a face which
was almost radiant. I had known him a year before it struck me that I
should like to see him in his professional capacity. I told him of my
desire a little diffidently, not knowing how my purpose might strike
him. He responded graciously, but with an air of intrigue, laying a
gentle hand upon my coat sleeve and bidding me wait. A day or two
later, as we sat over our coffee, M. Cristich with an hesitating
urbanity offered me an order.
'If you would do me the honour to accept it, Monsieur! It is a stall,
and a good one! I have never asked for one before, all these years, so
they gave it to me easily. You see, I have few friends. It is for
to-morrow, as you observe, I demanded it especially; it is an occasion
of great interest to me,--ah! an occasion! You will come?'
'You are too good, M. Cristich!' I said with genuine gratitude, for
indeed the gift came in season, the opera being at that time a luxury
I could seldom command. 'Need I say that I shall be delighted? And to
hear Madame Romanoff, a chance one has so seldom!'
The old gentleman's mild, dull eyes glistened. 'Madame Romanoff!' he
repeated, 'the marvellous Leonora! yes, yes! She has sung only once
before in London. Ah, when I remember--' He broke off suddenly. As he
rose, and prepared for departure, he held my hand a little longer than
usual, giving it a more intimate pressure.
'My dear young friend, will you think me a presumptuous old man, if I
ask you to come and see me to-morrow in my apartment, when it is over?
I will give you a glass of whisky, and we will smoke pipes, and you
shall tell me your impressions--and then I will tell you why to-morrow
I shall be so proud, why I show this emotion.'