After that memorable début in Hamburg, which was on March 14, 1894, I went directly to see Rubinstein, little dreaming that my eyes would then see him for the last time. I brought with me a large photograph of himself, and, though fully aware of his unconquerable aversion to autographing, my desire for the possession of his signature overruled my reluctance and I made my request.
He raised both fists and thundered, half-angry and half-laughing: "Et tu, Brute?"
But my wish was granted, and I reproduce the portrait in this article.
Then I asked him when I should play for him again, and to my consternation he answered: "Never!"
In my despair I asked him: "Why not?"
He, generous soul that he was, then said to me: "My dear boy, I have told you all I know about legitimate piano-playing and music-making"—and then changing his tone somewhat he added: "And if you don't know it yet, why, go to the devil!"
I saw only too well that while he smiled as he said it he meant it seriously, and I left him.
I never saw Rubinstein again. Soon after that he returned to his villa in Peterhof, near St. Petersburg, and there he died on November 19, 1894.
The effect that his death had upon me I shall never forget. The world appeared suddenly entirely empty to me, devoid of any interest. My grief made me realise how my heart had worshipped not only the artist in him but also the man; how I loved him as if he were my father. I learned of his death through the English papers while I was en route from London to Cheltenham, where I was booked for a recital on the twentieth. The B-flat minor Sonata by Chopin happened to be on the programme, and as I struck the first notes of the Funeral March the whole audience rose from their seats as if by command and remained standing with bowed heads during the whole piece—in honour of the great departed.
A singular coincidence occurred at my concert on the preceding day—the day of Rubinstein's death.