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.
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