THE METHOD
"The Leschetizky Method" conveys to most people the idea of a
technical system by which pianists can be taught to play the piano
well. Probably this is so because technical perfection is one of the
most obvious characteristics of his school, and a quality immediately
comprehensible to the average audience. Virtuosity is, after all, but
a high development of the natural use of the hands, to which, in a
less skilled form, every one is habituated from childhood up; common
ground, whereon all sorts of people, from the prizefighter to the
juggler, from the juggler to the virtuoso, can meet, it is suitable
food for even the least intelligent; and unusual feats of execution
will be marked out long before those points which are of higher
importance to the interpretation of art strike home.
For this reason certain technical characteristics noticeable in
Leschetizky's pupils--emphasised rhythm, clearness, inaudible
pedalling, brilliance in staccato passages--having become associated
with his teaching, are popularly regarded as the chief things taught
in his school, and the attainment of them the chief object which his
pupils have in view.
The majority of students, coming to him in the single expectation of
finding untold treasures of pianistic wisdom, are surprised to find
that these treasures play but a small part in his scheme of work,
and that the larger proportion of their time must be devoted, not
to the development of manual skill, but to the art of studying the
music written for the piano. This question of study is the principal
point of difference between Leschetizky's and other methods. His is
not a technical system, including advice on musical matters, but a
system which makes its primary aim the study of the music written for
the piano; its second, that of the effects to be obtained from the
instrument; its third, that of the development of the hand.
Though the development of the hand comes last in the three sections,
Leschetizky in no way depreciates the value of technical ability--it
is impossible to use the higher faculties without it--but he looks
upon the period of apprenticeship to its attainment merely as work
done to perfect a necessary medium for adequate interpretation.
The technical qualities indicative of his teaching have come in
process of time to be labelled "The Leschetizky Method." Leschetizky
himself objects to the term, for he has no established technical
method. The name originated from his assistants, who, having collected
the most valuable and frequently needed technical exercises, have
pieced them together and arranged them logically into a connected
series, through which they put the pupils to be prepared for him.
"I have no technical method," says Leschetizky; "there are certain
ways of producing certain effects, and I have found those which
succeed best; but I have no iron rules. How is it possible one
should have them? One pupil needs this, another that; the hand of
each differs; the brain of each differs. There can be no rule. I am
a doctor to whom my pupils come as patients to be cured of their
musical ailments, and the remedy must vary in each case. There is but
one part of my teaching that may be called a "Method," if you like;
and that is the way in which I teach my pupils to learn a piece of
music. This is invariably the same for all, whether artist or little
child; it is the way Mme. Essipoff studies, the way _we_ study--and
_we_ have much talent."
With reference to technique, the gist of what Leschetizky considers
physically necessary is this: the hand, wrist, and arm must be under
such complete control that whatever part be called upon to play, it
shall be able to do so independently of its neighbour. It should be
possible to contract one part, while leaving the other relaxed; to
hold one part taut while the other is slack; to put one part in motion
while the other is at rest. He lays special stress on a few points:
the development of strength and sensitiveness in the finger-tips;
clear distinction between the many varieties of touch; the necessity
of an immaculate pedalling.
There are exercises to obtain these various results, and those of
which the pupil stands most in need have to be gone through before
the musical part of his work can be thought of.
As soon as the technical threads are drawn into order they are
worked into a piece, and the pupil enters on the second stage of
his study--that which concerns the manipulation of the instrument.
He will probably begin with some simple composition such as one of
Mendelssohn's "Songs Without Words," where he can be taught how a
melody should be played and accompanied. This may be followed by
something to illustrate the different kinds of staccato and legato
playing; the many varieties of rhythm, special pedal effects, &c.: an
example to which every technical detail that has been learnt can be
applied.
In the very first composition the pupil studies, he learns how to
work in the new way, which is as follows: he takes the first bar, or
phrase (according to the amount he can grasp and retain), and dissects
it till every marking is clear to him. He decides how he will play
it--with what fingering, touch, pedalling, accent, &c. He practises
each detail as he comes to it. He puts all the parts together,
learning it by heart as he goes, finishing one section, making it as
perfect as he can in every respect, both technically and musically,
before he attempts the next. What is required of him is, that he shall
study every piece of music so thoroughly that he knows every detail in
it, can play any part of it accurately, beginning at any point, and
that he can visualise the whole without the music--that is, see in his
mind what is written, without either notes or instrument.
Every pupil must study in this way--bar by bar, slowly and
deliberately engraving each point on his mind as on a map. "One page a
day so learnt will give you a trunk-full of music for your répertoire
at the end of the year," says Leschetizky, "and, moreover, it will
remain securely in your memory."
Any one with the power of concentration can learn to play by heart--no
matter how intricate a composition may be--if he will take the trouble
to study it according to this plan. If, after a work has been studied,
not only the melody, but the entire composition in detail--_i.e._,
every note, rest, marking of any kind--cannot be seen and heard by
the mind's eye and ear, it has never been thoroughly and accurately
learnt. A lack of exactitude in this respect is the reason why so
many people who can play quite well when they are alone are absolutely
stranded before an audience. The presence of other people compels them
to concentrate their attention on what they are doing, and they find
they do not actually know what that is. When alone it will probably be
of little consequence whether they know the music (in Leschetizky's
interpretation of the word) or not; their fingers having acquired the
habit of the notes, and their ears of the sound, generally suffice to
carry them comfortably through. So long as the fingers can go their
well-worn way, unconscious of what they do, without the hindrance of
thought, they will be fairly safe; but if for any reason they become
self-conscious, losing their instinct, they fail instantly.
A blind man on first recovering his sight can no longer locate
himself. He does not know the meaning of his surroundings. The
unaccustomed light has obliterated for the moment his only
safeguard--the sense of touch--and so altered the condition of
familiar things that they have become strange to him. The player who
has absorbed the sound and feeling of the notes into his ears and
fingers, and not into his thinking brain, is in the same case; for if
the mental faculty is unexpectedly called into action it paralyses for
the moment the instinctive motor faculties on which he usually relies.
The learner must therefore thread his way so carefully through the
network of complications which a musical composition presents, that he
emerges familiar with every detail; then, if the manual memory fail
him, the visual or audital one will take its place. Any lapse on the
part of nature after all these precautions can only be regarded as the
Act of God, against which no insurance can be taken.
The pupil having now gone through the necessary training to develop
his hands and to apply them to the best result upon his instrument,
and having learnt also how to study the music written for it, has
arrived at the really interesting part of his work--the musical part.
Leschetizky seldom gives the greatest compositions to those whom he
feels to be still immature. He sees the unfitness of expecting young,
untried natures to deal with what is an expression of the deepest
influences of life. They cannot understand. They can only imitate,
and he shrinks from the task of trying to convey to them what they
cannot possibly realise in its fullest and most intimate meaning. He
gives what lies within, or at most just beyond their grasp, so that
they may have the satisfaction of discovering what they _can_ do, as
well as what they _cannot_ do. His pupils study several compositions
at the same time, sometimes variations on some particular difficulty,
sometimes differing entirely from each other. Development is more
equable and the mind keeps fresher for its work, if energy can be
turned into several channels instead of being concentrated along
one. The more varied the material, the less chance of the faculties
becoming wearied by the monotony of continued effort in one direction,
and the better for endurance as a whole.
For this concentrated way of study, this mosaic work, is extremely
exhausting at first. It needs much patience to analyse everything so
minutely that the mental picture lacks no detail; but it is worth the
trouble. Not only is the result good and immediate, but it remains
firmly fixed in the memory.
Leschetizky, even in the maturity of his career, never practised
more than three hours a day. He considers that four, or at most five
hours, should be enough for any one. If it is not, the requisite
qualities to make a pianist must be lacking. Hours and hours of
practice do compel certain results in a shorter time than they could
normally be produced, and, were the supply of energy unlimited, no one
would hesitate to devote his entire day to practising, in order to
shorten the road to the goal. But this supply being exhaustible, if
the student draws it out at a greater speed, or in a greater quantity
than can naturally be refunded, it will fail prematurely and leave
his nervous organisation without vitality. Technical power means the
ability of the hand to carry out the suggestions of the brain, and
this will be great or small according to the speed at which the hand
can understand and translate these suggestions into action.
Overwork tends rather to retard than to accelerate the telegraphic
message, deadening the susceptibility of the wire, and exhausting the
nervous force to be transmitted.
The newspapers tell of a wonderful man who has acquired such control
over the different parts of his body that he can contract any muscle
at will and move his internal organs about as he feels inclined.
Leschetizky does not require these results in his pupils, but he does
require the concentration that produces them.
Concentrated thought is the basis of his principles, the corner-stone
of his method. Without it nothing of any permanent value can be
obtained, either in art or anything else. No amount of mechanical
finger-work can take its place; and the player who repeats the same
passage, wearily expectant that he will accomplish it in process of
time, is a lost soul on a hopeless quest. Leschetizky enumerates the
essential qualities of good work as follows: First, an absolutely
clear comprehension of the principal points to be studied in the music
on hand; a clear perception of where the difficulties lie, and of the
way in which to conquer them; the mental realisation of these three
facts _before_ they are carried out by the hands.
"Decide exactly _what_ it is you want to do in the first place," he
impresses on every one; "then _how_ you will do it; then play it. Stop
and think if you played it in the way you meant to do; then only, if
sure of this, go ahead. Without concentration, remember, you can do
nothing. The brain must guide the fingers, not the fingers the brain."
This is a rough indication of the method of study through which
Leschetizky's pupils have gained so much.
His _logia_ are simple and few, for he cares more for what is _done_
than for what is _said_. To his mind the making of many maxims is an
impossibility in the study of art. There is but one note penetrating
throughout all his advice, and one point on which he is inexorable:
the necessity of concentrated thought.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF LESCHETIZKY'S PUPILS]