CHAPTER VTHE LESSONS

A GROUP OF LESCHETIZKY'S PUPILS

One day a stranger came to ask Leschetizky for a few finishing lessons. "Will a mud pie give you a fair idea of a mountain?" was the Professor's reply. "No," said the stranger, "but then I don't want the mountain." "Well, you must go somewhere else for your mud pie; we don't keep them here."

The stranger went away to supply his needs elsewhere. Any one in Vienna could have told him that Leschetizky inexorably refuses to dole out a slice of his system of study. It is not to be had in a popular and abridged edition. It is a course of work for serious students, and can only be commanded in its entirety.

Leschetizky will only acknowledge as his "qualified pupils" those who have had regular lessons with him for at least two years, andpreferably longer. He considers it impossible for any pupil, however gifted, to grasp more than the grammar of his teaching in a few months—as some pianists have tried to do. "For," he says, "your house still remains to be built when the foundations are laid."

Giving but three lessons a day, he himself is able to undertake very few of the hundred and fifty pupils studying his method, and these few must necessarily be chosen from among the best. The others have to content themselves with the crumbs that fall from his assistants, till they are considered ready to join the elect. This preparation may last a few weeks, a few months, a year or even longer, the time varying with the pupils' progress.

Every now and then they play to the Professor, who, according to the stage at which they have arrived, agrees to give them lessons fortnightly, monthly—or perhaps not at all for the present.

In former days, when he had more strength, he took the most talented of his pupils through the technical training himself; but the present plan is better, for he is not naturally of a patient disposition. Emerson says a manshould be judged by his intentions. If that is so, Leschetizky stands high in the scale, for he is full of good intentions. They are with him always; but, as a dilapidated American was heard to murmur at the end of a bad lesson: "They must have paved a considerable stretch of the side-walks in hell by now," for they invariably leave him at the moment when they are most wanted.

The Professor intends to make allowances for all difficulties. He knows how tenaciously bad habits will stick, how hard they are to dislodge, and how long the fingers retain their old established ways, in spite of the best will in the world to train them to the new. He quite realises what a tax this minute and detailed method of analysis is to the unpractised mind, and how irksome are the first steps on the road to it. He is full of benevolent sympathy. But when the time for the lesson comes, everything but the immediate need of getting the thing done in the right way is obliterated from his mind, and in the enthusiasm of the moment all traces of this benevolence speedily disappear. He forgets the pupil is full of original sin and cannot wait for the signs of grace.

This leads to misunderstanding. It leads also to the sudden exit of the pupil; to the slamming of doors; to the crushing of music on the floor; to grim remarks about a future better spent "in tomato-planting." Once it led to total darkness. In the intensity of his feelings the master arose, hastily put out the gas, rushed away, and left his pupils sitting round the class in silence and gloom until things were patched up by some comforting soul outside.

Leschetizky loves his pupils as if they were his own children; but, as a good father, he considers his duty better done through the aid of discipline than of sympathy, believing the scourge to be of greater profit to their musical souls than the prop. Especially if he sees they are suffering from parental pampering. He is much troubled by parents. They come to him imbued with the notion that their particular offspring is quite unusually and supremely gifted, and the offspring himself is still more imbued with that notion. It is expedient, therefore, to remove these parents to a distance, in order that the mist of adoration may disperse, and leave the field clear for the child to find his true level. Otherwisevaluable time may be wasted in making headway against the inability of the parent to view discipline in any light but that of cruelty, and of the pupil to consider himself other than a sacrifice on the altar of his master's whims.

Leschetizky makes unsparing use of his power to analyse character in his teaching, unhesitatingly saying anything, however hard to bear, that he thinks may be a spur to the pupil's development. He has the gift of insight to a very remarkable degree, and although his own nature is not pliable enough to unbend to every other, he makes few mistakes in his summing up as a whole. Like all highly-strung people he is extremely sensitive to personality. This sensibility affects him in various ways. In the morning when the door-bell announces the arrival of the first pupil, should the Professor chance to be in a fastidious frame of mind, he steals downstairs to find out who it is, and if on peeping surreptitiously into the room he sees some one antipathetic to him, he promptly steals upstairs again and stays there a quarter of an hour or more to recover the blow. If the pupil has caught a glimpse of his face, he would generally prefer to go home, but knowing thatif he does, he may never have another lesson, he elects to face the worst and wait till the Professor feels inclined to come down again. When he comes down—if he has resigned himself to the inevitable, and if the pupil be of a tactful disposition—all may yet go well; the sinner be received into favour again, and sent home proud in the knowledge that he has gained the day and left a legacy of happy relations behind him after all.

The early lessons with Leschetizky are at once a revelation and an ordeal. If the quality of the pupil's intellect be at all strained—and his horizon too circumscribed for him to have found it out before—it will now be made quite clear to him.

In the first place he is expected to make all his corrections on the spot, for to Leschetizky's rapid brain comprehension is synonymous with performance—to understand is to be able to do. He is expected to hold these corrections firmly in his head, and to have the wit to apply them to new cases immediately. Nerve, quick observation, retentive memory, presence of mind must all be his. He must be neither too quick nor too slow, being careful not to stepin before the master has finished what he has to say and the illustration is complete, lest there be a sudden pause, and Leschetizky, regarding him with a baleful eye, sit back with folded hands, and inquire which of the two is to play: "Are you giving the lesson, or am I?" He must follow the different kinds of touch, the pedalling, the fingering, the variety of effects that may be drawn out of the instrument—all so difficult and puzzling in the initial stages—and be able to reproduce them on the spot. The most vivid and concentrated interest is exacted from him in every detail, infinite patience and unwearied effort.

Leschetizky cannot endure half-heartedness. Caring so intensely for music and for all that concerns it, an apathetic attitude is as unbearable to him, as disloyalty to his country would be to a patriot, and he resents it with his whole nature. Nor does he hesitate to show it. Enthusiasm he must and will have. A temperament devoid of it is an enigma he cannot solve. He expects a ready appreciation. He likes people to talk, to ask him questions, to be cheerful. He cannot bear dismal solemnity. If the pupil be of a taciturn order, Leschetizkyis quite sure something must be seriously wrong with his mind; or that he has not understood what he has been told, and is afraid to say so; or, what is most probable, that he possesses a very disagreeable character.

With one of these unfortunate dispositions—feminine, strange to say—it is on record that Leschetizky once went through an hour without a single word. She would not speak, he said, so why should he? On coming into the room he softly closed the door, tip-toed to the piano, bowed to the pupil, sat down and gave her the whole lesson in solemn and mysterious silence, indicating all he wanted by signs and dumb show. When the hour was over he rose, bowed with impressive gravity as before, glided to the door, and disappeared as silently as he had come in.

He enjoys experimenting with his pupils, and inventing special fingerings, or special exercises for unusual cases.

He had a pupil who played so accurately by ear that she could not be persuaded to study in any other way. It served her faithfully for a long time, until one day, when playing in the class, her memory failed, and she could notcollect herself. Nemesis came at the next lesson, for Leschetizky shut down the cover of her keyboard, and left her, bereft of all sound, to learn a page of unfamiliar music by means of her eyes alone. Another, who was unnerved by the merest trifle, he cured by accustoming her to shocks. One day, suddenly jumping up from the piano, he stared intently into the garden, exclaiming, "Ha! what is that I see out there?" Of course the pupil hurried to the window, but, seeing nothing exciting, turned back, startled and perplexed. "It's all right," nodded the master suddenly; "go onexactlywhere you left off." This kind of treatment continued till she could stand any disturbance with composure.

To another, whose ear was not fine enough to distinguish exactly what notes made up a chord when he heard it, Leschetizky taught an entire composition by playing it to him bar by bar, bit by bit, until he realised it all, both piecemeal and in combination. The harder the patient's case, the keener the doctor's interest. Nothing gives him greater satisfaction than to find the remedy for some unusual defect. He is as proud and pleased as agleeful child with a new toy, and as delightful to watch.

Buried deep in contemplation of the difficulty, he sits perfectly silent, motionless save for a periodic puff at his cigar. Presently a smile steals cautiously over his face—the clue is signalled. For an instant, still tentative and expectant, his hand poised in mid-air, he awaits discovery, then all at once up goes the head, out comes the pencil, and with an exultant shout he announces: "Now I've got it!" As simply and clearly as it can be put, he then explains the point in question and why this is its best solution.

One explanation ought to suffice for all time, and the pupil is expected to adopt it at once. If he cannot do this and the same mistake is made twice, the Professor begins to feel offended; if a third time, he shuts up the music in disgust; a fourth (having opened it again), he hurls it far away; a fifth (if the pupil is still there) one of the two invariably leaves the room. Sometimes, a little remorseful, the Professor comes back and stands half hesitating at the door of the dining-room, looking sweet and sorry, wishing things could have beenotherwise, but quite unable for the moment to say a single word of comfort to the sufferer. His own powers of memory, and of doing instantly with his hands what his brain suggests, are so remarkable that he cannot realise in the least what it means to be less highly gifted.

He appreciates courage, and respects the buoyant nature that can right itself after every rebuff, and bravely holds on, whatever happens, seeing in this a token of the best kind of self-confidence. With Stevenson he agrees that most of a man's opinions about himself are true, and he who finds himself most comfortable on the footstool is probably in his right place.

By reason of the Professor's own strong individuality, the adaptable pupil has, as a rule, calmer lessons than the more original nature that cannot amalgamate itself easily with another person's views. Leschetizky's powers of discernment seldom fail him in prophesying who will make a stir in the world, and it is precisely by these few that his keenest interest is excited, and with whom the storm bursts out most easily.

He does not always use his singularly penetratingqualities to sad issues. When the initial steps have been overcome, and the difficulties thinned out a little, the lesson is a delight from beginning to end.

Full of apt similes, weaving them in at every turn, Leschetizky has a knack of hitting upon exactly the appropriate figure to make a suggestion intelligible and permanent in the mind.

"To make an effectiveaccelerandoyou must glide into rapidity as steadily as a train increases its speed when steaming out of a station."

"Teach yourself to make arallentandoevenly by watching the drops of water cease as you turn off a tap."

"A player with an unbalanced rhythm reminds me of an intoxicated man who cannot walk straight."

"Your fingers are like capering horses, spirited and willing, but ignorant of where to go without a guide. Put on your bridle and curb them in till they learn to obey you, or they will not serve you well."

On the whole he theorises very little. Everything he says is practical, to the point, and can be immediately used to some good end.

"If you are going to play a scale, place your hand in readiness on the keyboard in the same position as you would if you were going to write a letter—or to take a pinch of snuff."

"The bystander ought to know by the attitude of your hand what chord you are going to playbeforeyou play it, for each chord has its own physiognomy."

"If you play wrong notes, either you do not knowwherethe note is orwhatthe note is."

"If there is anything you cannot do after a fair trial, either there is something the matter with your hand, or with the way you are practising."

"If your wrists are weak, go and roll the grass in the garden."

"If you want to develop strength and sensitiveness in the tips of your fingers, use them in every-day life. For instance, when you go out for a walk, hold your umbrella with the tips instead of in the palm of your hand."

"Practise your technical exercises on a cushion or upon a table sometimes. You do not always need the piano to strengthen your muscles."

And so on, intermingling advice with illustration, until the lesson becomes as entertaining as instructive.

When all goes well, a lesson with Leschetizky is a really wonderful experience. His point of view is so interesting, the depth of his comprehension so profound, his power of clear exposition so great, the parallels he draws between art and life so unexpected, that his listener is held under a spell of wondering enthusiasm throughout. Both his ear and his memory are very remarkable. He is able to retain accurately in his mind every detail in a piece of music on hearing it for the first time; and not only to play it through immediately afterwards, but to discuss points in it, making a suggestion here, an alteration there, exactly as if the music were before his eyes. He plays a great deal during the lesson in a fragmentary way, but rarely anything straight through. His piano is on the left of the pupil, the two instruments standing side by side, their keyboards level.

He sits very still and very straight, never stooping over the keys, or swaying about. His hands, often partially resting on the notes, are almost flat, the wrists low, the fingers doing allthe work, his whole figure taut with the tension of concentrated thought.

His playing is as difficult to describe as himself, for it is the translation of his nature into sound. Then, as at no other time, his varied temperament discloses itself, its contrasts finding in music their best interpretation. These sonorous chords weighed out by so masterful a hand; this steady beat of measured emphasis; the lilt and swing of the rhythm; the fine-pointed staccato; the piquant charm with which the dainty notes come dancing off the keys; the melancholy tenderness of the soft caressing tone, stealing in unawares—these tell the story, more faithfully than any other language, of his nature, not only as a musician, but as a man.

At five o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon the pupils begin to assemble for the class. For the time being, the salon, crammed with chairs, has the appearance of a concert-hall; the seats for the students, who number over two hundred, cover the whole floor; there is not an inch of room to spare.

In former days when there were but fifty or so, the class was quite informal. Given solely for the pupils, it had the character of a private lesson. Each one played what he knew, and had it corrected just as though he were alone; except that the corrections were probably fewer and less detailed. No strangers were admitted then, as the object of the class was work, and Leschetizky found that the presence of outsiders limited his freedom in criticism. The pupils were forbidden to clap—becausethe less talented became discouraged when they obtained no applause. The shortcomings of the bad pupil were freely commented upon, and discussed comprehensively, without much regard to his feelings, this apparent hard-heartedness being designed as part of the training. "For," said Leschetizky, "if a pupil has not sufficient courage to stand buffetings from me, how will he stand them later on from the world?" No peculiarity escaping his vigilant eye, he forthwith made some appropriate remark about it, and if he found its possessor impervious to a mild hint, very plain words followed.

The Professor knew exactly who was there and who was not, and whoever failed to put in an appearance heard about it at the next lesson. Every one sat where he or she liked, either round the pianos or at the opposite end of the room, where the black sheep were tactfully herded out of sight if possible.

If all went well, and there were many to play, Professor occasionally called "halt!" In the middle of the evening, the music stopped for a few moments and talk and laughter—and sometimes coffee—took its place. A rest wasvery necessary in those days, for the class often lasted four or five hours, and no one cared to leave before the end.

When the numbers increased and enlarged this family circle beyond all possibility of intimacy, it lost its private character and was transformed into a kind of concert—a rehearsal, in fact, for public performance.

Now it takes place once a fortnight—formerly once a week—attendance is optional instead of obligatory, and it has been found necessary to ask a fee. Only the best pupils play; the Professor criticises leniently; and guests are very often invited to listen.

Should any great artist be passing through Vienna, Leschetizky is delighted if he can induce him to play at one of these evenings—a somewhat formidable honour, for the audience has been brought up to a very high standard. In truth a great many of the pupils themselves are gifted artists, who have already played in public and know enough to be appreciative in the most valuable sense.

In this respect it differs from all other pianoforte classes, in which, as a rule, the pupils have not yet emerged from the Conservatoireshell into public life. Liszt's class was the nearest approach to it; but this again differed from it, inasmuch as Liszt's gathering was drawn together for theloveof music, whereas Leschetizky's is entirely for thestudyof music. Tausig founded one on the same lines as Leschetizky, but he had not the patience to carry it on for more than a very short time, in spite of the enormous success it had during its lifetime. Leschetizky's class now stands quite alone, the only assemblage of its kind.

In the year of his Jubilee, 1894, Rubinstein came, and gave the pupils two hours of his best. They have heard Liszt, not only at the class, but unofficially, for when he came he would often stay on, playing for them to dance to afterwards. Naturally Mme. Essipoff frequently played. A fragment from the diary of one of Leschetizky's pupils tells of one particularly delightful time: "After the two English girls had played—(Miss Rihll, Leschetizky's 'Wellen und Wogen' Etuden, and Miss Goodson Rameau's 'Gavotte and Variations in A minor,' which they did wonderfully well, for the first time)—Professorwent upstairs to find Mme. Essipoff. She came down a few moments later, and gave us the 'Handel-Brahms Variations.' It was one majestic sweep from beginning to end. Professor sat quite still the whole time, drinking it in, his face lit up with tender pride as he listened. When she rose from the piano he took both her hands and kissed them reverently, but without a single word, for he could not speak, and his eyes were full of tears." The Professor very seldom becomes visibly enthusiastic. It takes a great deal to draw more than "gut, ganz gut" and a little nod out of him; but when by any chance heisroused to show his satisfaction, he shows it in a whole-hearted outpouring of praise, immediately explaining to every one exactly why he finds the performance so good.

LESCHETIZKY AND MARK HAMBOURG

To attend the class when the best pupils play is a delightful and interesting experience. The diary, already quoted, contains an account of one such occasion:—"Now began the really exciting part of the evening, for it was little Mark Hambourg's turn. He marched up to the piano and sat down as usual, with a jerk, looking like a juvenile thundercloud. Theywent right through the Hummel Septet together (Professor taking the second piano part) in such perfect sympathy that one could hardly distinguish one from the other. Mark excelled himself to-night and put every one else in the shade. There seems to be nothing he cannot do, and his electricity is absolutely phenomenal. When he stopped, we burst into a storm of applause, but, grim little hero that he is, he was off into the dining-room almost before we began to clap. Professor turned round to us and murmured, 'he has a future—hecanplay.' The salon was quite dark except where Professor sat at the piano. He looked most strange. The light from above caught the silver in his hair and made his head sparkle every time he moved. His eyes gleamed like two red-brown balls, and though he was absolutely motionless you could see he was quivering with intensity."

"It was the last class this year, and in spite of Madame Donnimirska's protests that there was not enough to go round, Professor insisted on several of us staying to supper. We were all too excited and exhausted to eat much, but he was as gay and lively as if he had just got up, instead of having given a four hours' class;and some of the boys had to stay and play billiards with him. They are probably at it still, for it is only 3a.m."

The class is cosmopolitan. A patchwork of nationalities, where no one element permanently prevails. Held in an Austrian city, there are but few Austrians there; at present Americans in great numbers, a few English, many Russians and Poles, one or two French, Germans, an occasional Italian or Swede, a sprinkling of the Balkan nations, rarely a Greek or a Spaniard. This motley crew interests Leschetizky immensely. He catalogues them all, and knows by the country whence the specimen hails what its gifts are likely to be.

From the English he expects good musicians, good workers, and bad executants; doing by work what the Slav does by instinct; their heads serving them better than their hearts.

The Americans he finds more spontaneous. Accustomed to keep all their faculties in readiness for the unexpected, their perceptions are quick, and they possess considerable technical facility. They study perhaps more for the sake of being up to date than for the love of music.

The Russians stand first in Leschetizky's opinion. United to a prodigious technique, they have passion, dramatic power, elemental force, and extraordinary vitality. Turbulent natures, difficult to keep within bounds, but making wonderful players when they have the patience to endure to the end.

The Pole, less strong and rugged than the Russian, leans more to the poetical side of music. Originality is to be found in all he does; refinement, an exquisite tenderness, and instinctive rhythm.

The French he compares to birds of passage, flying lightly up in the clouds, unconscious of what lies below. They are dainty, crisp, clear-cut in their playing, and they phrase well.

The Germans he respects for their earnestness, their patient devotion to detail, their orderliness, and intense and humble love of their art. But their outlook is a little grey.

The gentle Swedes, in whom he finds much talent, are more sympathetic to him; and the Italian he loves, because heisItalian—though he cannot, as a rule, play the piano in the very least.

"Ah! what a marvel I could make, could I mix you all up!" he says; "what a marvel I could make!" So many of his pupils have become famous that it is not possible to speak of more than a few. The few shall be those already known to England.

Paderewski, Slivinski, Friedmann represent Poland. Mark Hambourg—whom Rubinstein pointed out as his successor—Gabrilowitch, Mme. Essipoff, and Mme. Stepanoff are from Russia. Fanny Bloomfield—"my electric wonder"—Otto Voss, Ethel Newcomb, from America. Helen Hopekirk—"the finest woman musician I have ever known"—is from Scotland. Paula Sjalit, and Schütt—best known as a composer—are Austrians; Schwabel and Richard Buhlig are Germans; Franchetti is an Italian. Katherine Goodson—one of the best pupils Leschetizky has ever had—Evelyn Suart, Marie St. Angelo, Douglas Boxall, Ada Thomas, Frank Merrick, and Ethel Liggins are all English.

Of Leschetizky's interests apart from his career there is little to be said. They are but the accompaniment to the song. His pupils are the axle on which his thoughts turn, the rule by which his day is measured. About twelve o'clock he comes down to his work, devoting the early hour to the less gifted, or to the beginners, in order to give them the benefit of his most tranquil frame of mind. The lessons last an hour or more, according to the virtue of the pupil and the Professor's own mood. Very often, having forgotten all about time, he goes on till some one comes in with a gentle reminder that another patient on the verge of nervous prostration is waiting for him in the study. Nominally he takes three pupils in the day, but sometimes after dinner a spare hour or two is filled up by some one whostudies with him unofficially. Knowing how difficult it is for some of the poorer pupils to find money to pay their expenses, if it comes to his knowledge that any of them are in need of funds, he is sure to find some tactful and charming way of playing Santa Claus. For one whom he loved, a little bank was piled up week by week, the Professor putting aside the fees as he received them throughout the whole period of study. When the time was over and the boy, packed and ready to start on his journey, went to say good-bye, out came the treasure—"just a souvenir"—to speed him on his way.

Most of the pupils who come back for a periodic polish receive the privilege of friendship, and Leschetizky is quite hurt if they dare to raise the question of payment: "Am I not your friend, then? Why do you bring me this?"

LESCHETIZKY AT CARLSBAD

Everything concerning the students is of interest to him. He likes to know how they live, how they spend their day, who they see apart from their musical life—not in the least from a sense of domestic responsibility towards them, but rather from a certain naïve, childlikecuriosity, a desire to know all about everything that comes his way.

Few people realise in what an inspiring atmosphere a great teacher's life is passed. The centre of an ever-changing stream of ardent young natures, filled with high aspiration, he is always in contact with the human being at its noblest and happiest, when life is still a fairy-tale, tinged with the promise of a marvellous future. Bound up in the service of their art, confident of reaching the goal they have promised themselves, these boys and girls form a constant inspiration to those who dwell in their midst, and make every other world seem prosaic and dull beside their own. Living in such a circle and finding therein all the novelty he needs, Leschetizky sees little of outside society now.

Though he is seventy-five he can still tire out most of his friends. He seems to possess an inexhaustible power of renewing his energies and remaining eternally young. Day after day, giving out the nervous force of two ordinary people, he yet holds a fund in reserve.

After the day's work is over he can entertain a table-full of people for several hours in theevening, begin to play billiards at midnight, go to bed at 3 or 4 a.m., and turn up fresh for the lesson next morning at 12. After breakfast it is his habit to go out for an hour or so with his dog, not so much for the sake of exercise as to calm and refresh his mind. He does nothing special to keep himself elastic and vigorous; gymnastics, he says, are excellent in theory, but what intelligent person could possibly put them into practice? "Imagine wasting twenty minutes a day shooting out one's arms and legs into positions nobody uses in every-day life!"

About four o'clock the lessons are over, and the Professor is ready for dinner; afterwards he usually goes to some café in the town, and often, if there are no billiards or cards at home, stays there chatting and smoking till long after midnight. The thought of a quiet evening at home fills him with dismay. Brilliantly-lit halls, bright colours, laughter, and gaiety are the very breath of life to him. He explores every form of entertainment, serious or frivolous, that he can find. He even enjoys a crowd.

When he was in London one of his greatestpleasures was to ride into the City on the top of an omnibus, watching the life of the streets as he went. He liked the turmoil and the stir and the endless vista of new faces.

Yet he loves outdoor life. Often in the summer-time he and some of his favourite pupils make long excursions together, and spend delightful hours on the hills, far away from the noise of the town; and there for awhile, sitting idle beneath the lights and shades of the beeches, they listen to the whispering of the stirring branches. In winter there are sleigh-rides, the skaters to watch, and festivals to be kept both at home and abroad.

Leschetizky spends Christmas in the old-fashioned German way, enjoying it afresh each time it comes round. For a week beforehand he is hard at it, buying gifts, tying them up, writing on names, choosing the tree, ordering the candles, bustling about and making everybody's life a burden, in order that everything should be quite perfectly and beautifully done. All this is a profound secret to every one else in the house. When the evening comes, the guests are hurried upstairs on their arrival, lest they should catch a premature glimpse of thewonderful things prepared for them below. Presently the organ peals, the doors of the salon are thrown open, and they go down, passing in silently and carefully, for everything is dark inside, and in the dimness only the outline of a shadowy figure seated at the organ is visible. The music, soft at first, grows gradually louder, brighter, and more triumphant, until suddenly, when it swells out into a glory of sound, some one draws back the curtain of the inner room; and the tree, sparkling in a blaze of light, is disclosed to view. No one speaks until the music dies away, and Leschetizky closes the organ to break the spell. "Now for the presents! The youngest first." Notepaper, fans, paper-knives, gloves, calendars, a silk blouse—every sort of gift is there, each chosen specially for the donee with much care and thought by the Father Christmas of the ceremonies. Congratulations over, chairs are cleared away, rugs taken up and the room made ready for dancing till supper, Leschetizky playing for at least part of the evening. Toasts, speeches, stories, and laughter fill the hours till early morning, when, about 5 a.m., a happy, but exhausted, procession streams homeward,stopping on the way at some café—if it is not yet 6 o'clock—to make sure the hall-porter, with his dripping candle and everlasting demand for his ten-kreutzer fee, will be safely gone to his lair.

THE PROFESSOR'S BIRTHDAY

Leschetizky's birthday, his Name-Day, New Year, and Twelfth Night, are all opportunities for festivals; so, too, in a small way, are the fortnightly suppers after the class.

Entering completely into all that is going on, Leschetizky is a most delightful host; the very embodiment of fun, his presence in itself is entertainment enough. As araconteurhe stands almost unrivalled, and his powers of mimicry are in themselves sufficient to justify a career. He is the most appreciative of listeners and the easiest of guests, finding pleasure in everything, charming and genial from first to last.

Aristocrat in life, as well as in music, he exacts from those around him gentle manners and delicate observances. The rough diamond does not attract him. His natural love of order desires everything to be in its place and suitable to the moment.

Leschetizky is of small build, extremely wiryand highly-strung, magnetic from top to toe. The whole man is charged with electricity, which sparkles out of him whenever anything evokes it. He gives the impression of being the very essence of nervous force, rather than the possessor of great physical energy. A certain aristocratic spirit reveals itself in the fierceness of his eye, and in his short quick step. Of iron will, he waits for no man. He knows what he wants and intends to have it. He is, in fact, peremptory. His orders must be carried out instantly. If the slave is not up to time—off with his head! If he imagines any one to be endowed with a certain characteristic, nothing will dissuade him from the notion. Whether the person really has this quality or not is beside the question. Leschetizky's imagination is so strong that it entirely obliterates reality, and the idea that has taken hold of his mind for the time being becomes so fixed that argument to the contrary is worse than useless. Justice implies dispassionate criticism, and this he reserves for musical matters only.

Like all individualistic natures he desires the monopoly of certain emotions. He maybe sad, but others must not be so. Whatever their inward thoughts, externally they must be gay. He must be weaned from sadness. The sight of a dismal face affects his entire mood. He would ignore the darker side of things entirely, if he could. Not because his is a frivolous or superficial nature, merely varied by an occasional streak of earnestness, as the whimsical flitting to and fro of his fancies might suggest, but because he is a man upon whom has flashed at moments a certain comprehension of the unfathomable mystery of the world, and who would fain turn away from its solemn to its lighter aspects.

He has experienced ill winds and dark days, but they have made him neither cynical nor old, nor yet resigned. There is no trace of the philosopher in his composition. Platitudes about the imperfection of human life, or the need of endurance, bore him inexpressibly. He cannot enter into the emotions of the middle-aged. Years have not in the least tempered the eagerness of his outlook. He drinks of life now as fervently as in his youth.

Mobile and impressionable, therefore always ready for a new friend, at the same time heholds loyally to the comrades of old—a rare combination in a nature of this type.

Like all people of strong constitution, he lives in continual expectation of death; a cold in his head—he is a doomed man; a little extra fatigue—his days are closing in; a slight cough—he is ready to say good-bye. But sympathy will do much to woo him back to health; a sweet face will tide him over the danger, and a good story even restore him to life.

Transparent as a child, his face is the index of his mood. There—and indeed not only there, but in his whole figure, which unconsciously obeys the trend of his mind—his thoughts are inevitably reflected. In two or three moments he will become as many different people; dry, derisive, dejected, gentle, earnest, even tender—his waywardness is difficult to follow. It is rare to meet with a temperament so rich in contrasts, so full of unexpected developments. He lives a thousand lives, going through sufficient experiences in a year to enrich an ordinary person's lifetime. Yet beneath this kaleidoscopic surface lie those qualities that have made his work what it is: unfailing patience, earnestness, inflexible will,keen interest, and complete, unswerving concentration.

His whole being is bound up in his music, and his ideals of it are as bright now as they were fifty years ago. The Principles of Music Study are to him as important and interesting as the Principles of the Universe were to Newton or Herbert Spencer; and it is this firm belief in the necessity of his work, and his loving devotion to it, that have made him the greatest teacher of the piano that the world has ever had.

Transcriber's NotesThe transcriber made these changes to the text:p. 41, himelf —> himselfp. 44, music or your —> music for yourp. 67, training." —> training.p. 69, Variations in A minor," —> Variations in A minor,'p. 76, apart rom —> apart from

Transcriber's Notes

The transcriber made these changes to the text:

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