ly," he insisted. "My ear
is exceptionally good, and I manage to hear what is said at a
considerable distance. I was not at all satisfied with the way Rosenhain
delivered a similar message I had entrusted him with."

I promised that I would scrupulously repeat what he had said, but I
added that I could not take the responsibility of stating that he really
was a fourth-rate one; he might be a third or a fifth rate pianist for
aught I knew.

"Oh, if that is all," he said, "I will play you something, and you can
judge for yourself." And with that he opened the small upright piano in
his study and began improvising, whilst I settled down comfortably to
listen to my own special fourth-class pianist. It was indeed
interesting. His plump little hands moved over the keys with a delicate
touch, suitable to the simple melodious vein in which he began. When
presently he broke into a rapid movement, and the pianoforte player
asserted himself, it was still with the touch of the good old legato
school. His execution was masterly, but not brilliant; whenever he
introduced passages or figures for the pianist as such, these seemed
commonplace and hackneyed. But when, on the other hand, the musical
thought sought expression, it flowed as from an inexhaustible store, and
took the dramatic shape, reminding one of his best operatic style and
his most brilliant orchestral effects.

His manner throughout was simple and unaffected. There was nothing showy
or self-conscious about him, no by-play of any kind, no sudden pouncing
on some _ben marcato_ note, or triumphant rebounding from it. In fact,
there was nothing to see but a benignant old gentleman playing the
piano; one wouldn't have been surprised if he had worn a pigtail like
those pianists his predecessors, who were not in a hurry, and treated
their little set of crowquills with loving care.

Rossini came into the world three months after Mozart's death, a fact
perhaps worthy to be considered by those who believe in re-incarnation.
It would be interesting to learn what may have been the temporary abode
of Mozart's spirit during those intervening three months. Perhaps it
crossed the Alps and found its way to Rossini, for the Maestro, imbued
as he certainly was with the spirit of his great predecessor, never lost
an opportunity of acknowledging his indebtedness to him, and was always
ready to talk of his favourite master.

"Beethoven," he said to me one day when conversation had turned