value, for after that piece of ritual his manner underwent a sensible softening and he showed by many subtle, indefinable shades in his courteous address that he did me the honor 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 spoiled 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! that is a good deal, 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 hare accepted his discomfiture with touching resignation, having acquired neither cyncism 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 Tannhäuser, 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 a hesitating urbanity offered me an order.

"If you would do me the honor 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 tomorrow, as you observe. I demanded it especially; it is an occasion

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 whisky, and we will sınoke 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."

II.

THE opera was Fidelio-that stately, splendid work, whose melody, if one may make a pictorial comparison, has something of that rich and sun-warm color which, certainly, on the canvases of Rubens, affects one as an almost musical quality. It offered brilliant opportunities, and the incomparable singer had wasted none of them. So that when, at last, I pushed my way out of the crowded house and joined M. Cristich at the stage door, where he waited with eyes full of expectancy, the music still lingered about me like the faint, past fragrance of incense, and I had no need to speak my thanks. He rested a light hand on my arm, and we walked toward his lodging silently, the musician carrying his instrument in its sombre case, and shivering from time to time, a tribute to the keen, spring night. He stooped as he walked, his eyes trailing the ground; and a certain listlessness in his manner struck me a little strangely, as though he came fresh from some solemn or hieratic experience, of which the reaction had already begun to set in tediously, leaving him at the last unstrung and jaded, a little weary of himself and the too strenuous occasion. It was

not until we had crossed the threshold of

a dingy, high house in a by-way of Bloomsbury, and he had ushered me, with apologies, into his shabby room near the sky, that the sense of his hospitable duties seemed to renovate him.

He produced tumblers from an obscure recess behind his bed; set a kettle on the fire, which scarcely smouldered with flickers of depressing, sulphurous flaine, talking of indifferent subjects as he watched for it to boil. Only when we had settled ourselves in uneasy chairs opposite each other, and he had composed me what he termed "a grog"-himself preferring the more innocent mixture known as eau sucrée-did he allude to Fidelio. I praised heartily the discipline of the orchestra, the prima donna, whom report made his country-woman, with her strong, sweet voice and her extraordinary beauty, the magnificence of the music, the fine impression of the whole.

M. Cristich, his glass in hand, nodded approval. He looked intently into the fire, which cast mocking shadows over his quaint, incongruous figure, his antiquated dress coat, his frost-bitten countenance, his cropped gray hair. Yes," he said, yes! So it pleased you, and you thought her beautiful? I am glad." He turned round to me abruptly, and laid a thin hand impressively on my knee.

66

"You know I invented her, the Romanoff, discovered her, taught her all she learned. Yes, monsieur, I was proud tonight, very proud, to be there, playing for her, though she did not know. Ah! the beautiful creature! . . . and how badly I played! execrably! You could not notice that, monsieur, but they did, my confrères, and could not understand. How should they? How should they dream that I, Maurice Cristich, second violin in the orchestra of the opera, had to do with the Leonora; even I? Her voice thrilled them; ah, but it was I who taught her her notes! They praised her diamonds; yes, but once I gave her that she wanted more than diamonds, bread, and lodging, and love. Beautiful they called her; she was beautiful too when I carried her in my arms through Vienna. I am an old man now, and good for very little; and there have been days, God forgive me, when I have been angry with her; but it was not to-night. To see her there, so beautiful and so great, and to

value, for after that piece of ritual his manner underwent a sensible softening and he showed by many subtle, indefinable shades in his courteous address that he did me the honor 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 spoiled 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 ! that is a good deal, 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 cyncism 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 Tannhäuser, 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. or two later, as we sat over our coffee, M. Cristich with a hesitating urbanity offered me an order.

A day

"If you would do me the honor 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 оссаsion! 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 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.'

II.

THE opera was Fidelio-that stately, splendid work, whose melody, if one may make a pictorial comparison, has something of that rich and sun-warm color which, certainly, on the canvases of Rubens, affects one as an almost musical quality. It offered brilliant opportunities, and the incomparable singer had wasted none of them. So that when, at last, I pushed my way out of the crowded house and joined M. Cristich at the stage door, where he waited with eyes full of expectancy, the music still lingered about me like the faint, past fragrance of incense, and I had no need to speak my thanks. He rested a light hand on my arm, and we walked toward his lodging silently, the musician carrying his instrument in its sombre case, and shivering from time to time, a tribute to the keen, spring night. He stooped as he walked, his eyes trailing the ground; and a certain listlessness in his manner struck me a little strangely, as though he came fresh from some solemn or hieratic experience, of which the reaction had already begun to set in tediously, leaving him at the last unstrung and jaded, a little weary of himself and the too strenuous occasion.

It was

not until we had crossed the threshold of a dingy, high house in a by-way of Bloomsbury, and he had ushered me, with apologies, into his shabby room near the sky, that the sense of his hospitable duties scemed to renovate him.

He produced tumblers from an obscure recess behind his bed; set a kettle on the fire, which scarcely smouldered with flickers of depressing, sulphurous flaine, talking of indifferent subjects as he watched for it to boil. Only when we had settled ourselves in uneasy chairs opposite each other, and he had composed me what he termed "a grog"-himself preferring the more innocent mixture known as eau sucrée-did he allude to Fidelio. I praised heartily the discipline of the orchestra, the prima donna, whom report made his country-woman, with her strong, sweet voice and her extraordinary beauty, the magnificence of the music, the fine impression of the whole.

M. Cristich, his glass in hand, nodded approval. He looked intently into the fire, which cast mocking shadows over his quaint, incongruous figure, his antiquated dress coat, his frost-bitten countenance, his cropped gray hair. "Yes," he said, yes! So it pleased you, and you thought her beautiful? I am glad."

66

He turned round to me abruptly, and laid a thin hand impressively on my knee.

Her

"You know I invented her, the Romanoff, discovered her, taught her all she learned. Yes, monsieur, I was proud tonight, very proud, to be there, playing for her, though she did not know. Ah! the beautiful creature! . . . and how badly I played! execrably! You could not notice that, monsieur, but they did, my confrères, and could not understand. How should they? How should they dream that I, Maurice Cristich, second violin in the orchestra of the opera, had to do with the Leonora ; even I? voice thrilled them; ah, but it was I who taught her her notes! They praised her diamonds; yes, but once I gave her that she wanted more than diamonds, bread, and lodging, and love. Beautiful they called her; she was beautiful too when I carried her in my arms through Vienna. I am an old man now, and good for very little; and there have been days, God forgive me, when I have been angry with her; but it was not to-night. To see her there, so beautiful and so great, and to