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Updated: May 18, 2025
Rubenstein, to insist upon searching every person here not thoroughly known to you; and I recommend you, ladies and gentlemen," he added, looking round, "to submit to be searched. It will not be a very strenuous affair, because no one can have had time to conceal the notes very effectively.
There was a little murmur of voices and a shriek from one of the women as she clutched her handbag. Mr. Parker, bland and benign, rose to his feet. "My own stake has disappeared," he declared; "and the pile of notes I distinctly saw in front of the banker has gone. I fear, Mr. Rubenstein, there is a thief among us." Mr. Rubenstein, white as a sheet, was standing at the door.
Of the various pupils who have been formed by Liszt, Hans von Bulow, who married his daughter Cosima, is the most distinguished, and shares with Rubenstein the honor of being the first of European pianists, now that Liszt has for so long a time withdrawn himself from the field of competition.
The perspiration stood out on his forehead. He looked anxiously round, as though seeking for sympathy. Mr. Parker came over to his side. "Say, Mr. Rubenstein," he declared, "there isn't any one here who wants you to lose a five-pound note that's a sure thing! But there is just one difficulty about this searching business: How can you identify your notes?
The lights will be on again immediately." Almost as he spoke the place was flooded with light. The faces of the people were ghastly. A babel of voices arose. "Where are the police?" "Where are they?" "Who said the police?" The little dark gentleman whose name was Rubenstein stood upon a chair. "Ladies and gentlemen," he called out, "nothing whatever has happened nothing!
Rebel as muscles merely of the body politic, and ye rebel against inexorable law: that scribbling literati in the fifth story for newspapers like men have their brains in the upper story is more potent than you in settling the artistic position of a Lucca or a Rubenstein, a Dickens or a Doré, a Tennyson or a Carlyle.
I have heard Mme Schumann, Bülow, Rubenstein, Menter, and Esipoff, but I can understand that saying of Tausig, himself one of the greatest masters of technique whom Germany has ever produced: "No mortal can measure himself with Liszt. He dwells alone upon a solitary height." By FRANKLIN PETERSON, Mus. Bac.
And suppose that then you came across the complete works of Shakespeare and that you had never read them or the Odyssey and that you had never read that or, better, suppose that there was a Steinway piano in your sitting-room, and that one day the boy who worked the punka for you dropped the rope and sat down at the piano and played Beethoven from beginning to end as Rubenstein would have played him and suppose you had never heard a note of Beethoven before.
There was a little angry murmur. Mr. Rubenstein looked pleadingly round. "Ladies and gentlemen," he begged, "you will not object, I am sure. I am a poor man. Two thousand pounds of my money has gone from that table all the money I kept in reserve to make a bank for you. If any one will return it now nothing shall be said. But to lose it all I tell you it would ruin me!"
The poet lived by his wits and his gift of song. And for the first time in his remembrance he was happy. Then one day he read in Le Matin that Ada Rubenstein was to play "The Labyrinth" in Paris. Grimshaw was in Poitiers. He borrowed three hundred francs from the proprietor of a small café in the Rue Carnot, left his pack as security, and went to Paris.
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