THE CLASS
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--because the 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 was very 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
Conservatoire shell 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 the _love_ of music, whereas
Leschetizky's is entirely for the _study_ of 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)--Professor went 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 he _is_ roused 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.
[Illustration: 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. They went 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--he _can_ play.' 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 3 A.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 he _is_ Italian--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.