A Last Look

— It was not at all romantic, but it was not uncharacteristic. The place was that huge, draughty restaurant of the new railway station at Cologne. The hour was toward midnight. No special occasion, so far as I remember, — at least, none local to the great Rhine city, — brought him there. In fact, I think he was in transition from some festival to his own home. As for the railway station (which, by the bye, possesses the poorest cuisine and the worst service that one can tolerate in a place so improper to it), — as for the Cologne railway station, it was flaring with its harsh lights, and stirred by the movements of some scattered dozens of passengers on hasty refection intent ; men and women coming and going, downsitting and up-rising, at tiie long white-covered tables. From outside came tlie intermittent sounds of luggage-trucks in their deliberate German motion, scraps of official and unofficial talk, the hisses or whistles of locomotives, or the clanking arrival or departure of trains, — at that hour especially of the species which can he termed, without too wide a departure from real traits and pronunciation, the Snailzug.

All of a sudden Rubinstein came in. A friend, and some one whom I took to he the friend of the friend, were with him, neither of them very impressive-looking gentlemen, so that Rubinstein’s striking figure and rugged face, with the odd look about the eyes, were the more distinguished. Nobody remarked him as he entered with two companions and looked across at a table of less publicity than most. After a word or two they went to it and sat down, Rubinstein facing my way, as good fortune vouchsafed. The wraps were plentiful, and there was a big, flat parcel in brown paper, that suggested a manuscript score of something. Perhaps, alas for him ! it was the offering of some friend yearning for criticism or compliment. I observed that he did not treat it lovingly, or even heedfully, and once he pounded it quite savagely with his empty beer-glass.

But the harsh common-places of such surroundings did not detract from the Rubinsteinish dignity. As he sat there, he was a personage, a presence. He was such almost as eminently as on the stage. The corner was a bit Rembrandtish in its chiaroscuro effect on him. Odd shadows came. He was tired, manifestly, and hungry, but, it seemed, not pleased at the idea of eating what he had time to eat (for out went his watch as divers queries over the menu passed back and forth between party and waiter), and not at all in good humor. He talked spasmodically, with irritation, upon some subject that was discussed in an undertone by his friends almost uninterruptedly, save for plying fork, knife, and glass. He appeared to have said as much as he felt necessary, and except for occasionally and peremptorily doing what we call “putting in his oar” again, he attended chiefly to his salad, or Franziskaner, or whatever other viands. His face wore its least cheerful expression, and now and then, simultaneously with the oaring process referred to, it flashed into anger.

Eavesdropping may be, I hope is, excusable, when we are within earshot of a genius evidently not discussing family matters. Sitting over in my humble place, with a Koelnische Zeitung flaunted in discreet exposition and interest, I — what was it that the judge in Bardell v. Pickwick said to one of the ladies testifying at that trial ? — “ And you listened, I suppose ? ” To which the witness sharply replied that she had not been eavesdropping, but that the voices had been “very loud, and forced themselves upon her ears.” I am brazen, perhaps. I not only listened to every sound from Rubinstein and his little advisory committee (as it seemed), but I wished that the voices really were loud, and would force themselves upon my ears. For I listened in vain, — the conversation would not “carry” so far my way; and after considering, in a manner worthy of the most vulgar and excuseless overhearer, how I might change my seat to good advantage, I gave it up. Twice I heard Rubinstein sharply interject, “ Nein ! ” — followed, alas, by nothing else. This was, perhaps, as a dissent on correction. And that was all I heard of that tripartite confab.

But it was a picture, if not at all a story. I shall never forget the half-weary, half-mournful dignity— now and then angry dignity — of the face in repose, which has suggested now a lion, and now Beethoven, scarcely less leonine. And his eyes, when he opened them wide, even from afar, were unforgettable ! Sometimes he leaned his head on his left hand, sometimes he looked furtively about the room. After a while some travelers near me remarked who was the central figure in that little company. It would have been odd if some had not ; and finally I heard a waiter observe confidentially to an official, “Das ist ja Herr Anton Rubinstein.” But be was not an object of observation at this time and place, and the restaurant was scantily patronized, as just then I was the only close spy of genius, I suspect.

All at once, just when there was a lull in this séance, — which I cannot say I overheard, but which I confess without shame to having watched with far more attentiveness than good manners over or within any frontier allows, — a station employee came trotting in, and up to the party he ran. At the same time I heard the in-rolling of a train on its way through the station. Rubinstein caught up his impedimenta in a heap ; one of the friends, who was evidently traveling with him, grasped his valise ; the other friend, presumably a stay-at-home, paid the bill ; the flat paper parcel fell to the floor with a smack and was seized in a trice ; and, presto, all three betook themselves hastily to the door, with the station aid in swift pilotage. Rubinstein departed last through it, his umbrella catching midway, and his back being visible a second or two later than the rest. Then he was gone, whither I knew not. But it was the last time I saw him. And now we shall none of us, in Cologne, in St. Petersburg, in Paris, in New York, or anywhere else in this mortal world of life, death, and art, ever see him again.