THE CENTRE OF THE CIRCLE
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 who studies
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?"
[Illustration: 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,
childlike curiosity, 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 the evening, 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 greatest pleasures 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 the
wonderful 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.
[Illustration: 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 a _raconteur_ he 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 wiry and 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 may be 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 he holds 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 Notes:
The transcriber made these changes to the text:
p. 41, himelf --> himself
p. 44, music or your --> music for your
p. 67, training." --> training.
p. 69, Variations in A minor," --> Variations in A minor,'
p. 76, apart rom --> apart from
End of Transcriber's Notes]