In our hotel at Heidelberg I kept hearing a man play splendidly in the room below us, and every time we passed his door it was open, and we could partly see the interior of a charming room with a grand piano in it, at which he was seated. A pretty woman was always lying back in the corner of the sofa listening to him, apparently. The presence of a large wax doll indicated that there must be a child about, and the perfume of flowers stole through the open doorway. My interest was at once excited in these people, and I said to myself as I heard this gentleman practice every day, "This must be some artist passing the summer here and getting up his winter programme." Accordingly, on Sunday afternoon when he was playing beautifully, I roused myself up and enquired of a servant who he was. "Nicolai Rubinstein, from St. Petersburg," replied she. He is the brother of the great Anton Rubinstein, and is nearly as fine a pianist. I know a scholar of Tausig's who had studied with him, and Tausig had a high opinion of him. << less