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Updated: May 31, 2025
Two years later, little Jacob was a fair performer on the piano-forte, or such an instrument as at that time served for the Érard, the Chickering, the Steinway of the present day.
He had never forgotten the September day in the Bay of Smyrna when he had first seen the sweet-faced miniature now, at last he looked upon the reality. Long afterward he said: "It was forty years ago. From that day to this she has never been out of my mind." Charles Dickens gave a reading that night at Steinway Hall. The Langdons attended, and Samuel Clemens with them.
Violet went directly to a fine Steinway piano that was in the room, and without the slightest consciousness or embarrassment, thinking only of contributing to the young girl's employment, played a couple of selections with great expression and correctness.
She sat down on a sofa near the Steinway grand piano, which stood on a low dais, looked up at Max Elliot, and added, in quite a different voice: "Shall we hear any of his music to-night?" "I believe now we may." "Why now?" Elliot looked toward Mrs. Mansfield. "Because of mother, you mean?" "He likes her." "Anyone can see that."
His words were greeted with great enthusiasm, and on the following Monday evening he read, at Steinway Hall, for the last time in this country, and sailed on Wednesday. He was still very lame, but he read with unusual vigor, and with deep feeling. As he ended, and slowly limped away, the applause was prodigious, and the whole audience rose and stood waiting.
And yet, in that hour they only watched a young man of London, a modern intellectual youth, playing in a Victoria Street drawing-room upon a Steinway grand piano. They were sitting sideways to Valentine, and a little behind him. Therefore he could not easily see them unless he slightly turned his head. But they could observe him, and, obeying Doctor Levillier's mute injunction, Julian now did so.
There was a grand piano by Steinway, and on it Mendelssohn's 'Songs without Words. The fire slumbered in a curious grate that projected several feet into the room such a contrivance I had never seen before. Near it sat Mrs. Ispenlove, entrenched behind a vast copper disc on a low wicker stand, pouring out tea. Mr. Ispenlove hovered about.
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.
"It's confoundedly dull, anyhow; New York is dying of dullness," Beaufort grumbled. "And when I try to liven it up for you, you go back on me. Come think better of it! Sunday is your last chance, for Campanini leaves next week for Baltimore and Philadelphia; and I've a private room, and a Steinway, and they'll sing all night for me." "How delicious!
The writer recalls a simple room which was really a milestone in the development of taste, for it was so completely harmonious in colouring, arrangement of furniture, and placing of ornaments. Built for a painter's studio, with top light, it was used, at the time of which we speak, for music, as a Steinway grand indicated.
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