Scan 11
Musical Courier 1903-02-25: Vol 46 Iss 1196, 1903
26 lines. Read by computer on 23 September 2026. Printed page 12. See the scan on archive.org.
1THEODOR LESCHETIZKY.
3BY GEORGE CHUMLEIGH.
5VIENNA, JANUARY, 1903.
7THEODOR LESCHETIZKY lives some little distance out of the town in a pretty suburb of Vienna, known as the "Cottage Viertel," but why so named it is somewhat difficult to determine, as there is not a single house in it which in England would be called a "cottage."
9The quarter simply consists of three or four roads of detached villas, built in different styles, some of them charmingly picturesque. Each villa is occupied by two or three—sometimes even by four—different families; and each house has what is proudly termed a "garden," consisting of a piece of ground barely large enough for the children of the house to dig in! But the pride the owners take in these so called "gardens" often renders them veritable little strips of brightly colored patchwork! The roads in this quarter are planted with elm trees, which, in summer, form a luxuriant and lovely avenue. It is, in fact, one of the prettiest and most picturesque suburbs I know. The professor's villa is plainly recognizable from the others as being the only one built with a peculiar, square shaped tower.
11He who goes to Vienna intending to study under Leschetizky finds that the first difficulty lies in obtaining admittance at all into the circle of students that crowd around him, for this is by no means an easy matter. Many a light hearted candidate arrives from some distant land under the impression that he has only to knock at the door to be received with open arms. A brilliantly painted future of realized hopes and wishes is constantly rising up before the imagination, and at the very first opportunity the eager student, armed with his music and an undaunted determination, directs his steps toward the pretty villa, confidently expecting immediate admission! It is a somewhat rude awakening for him to be told that the maestro refuses to see him, and he leaves with damped ardor and distinctly altered views.
13It often happens that the student's visits are repeated several times with the same result, until to him, like to the importunate widow in the parable, for very peace's sake a hearing is granted.
15The delighted but now somewhat nervous candidate is accordingly ushered into the music room to await the final sentence. From the adjoining apartment, which is divided from the music room by folding doors, comes the sound of a querulous, irritable voice, which by no means tends to calm the nerves of the poor expectant victim. After a few moments the door is thrown open, and the professor hurries into the room, grumbling and scolding. He is a small, somewhat squarely built man, with a nervous, excitable manner, and a wild look in his eyes. From a high, intellectual forehead is brushed back his snow white hair, through which he has the habit of impatiently passing his delicate white hand. At one glance he seems to have fathomed the character, capability and intellectual capacity of his visitor. Fixing his eyes on him, the very first question he often asks in a sharp irritable voice is: "What do you want?" or, "What have you come for?" which takes one aback considerably. Without any further preliminary remark he then motions him toward the piano, bidding him begin at once. During the performance he paces slowly up and down the room with hands folded behind him, and head slightly bent forward—now and then pausing behind the performer to note the position of the hands, or to make some cutting remark.
17Unless one shows most pronounced talent it is an impossibility to be accepted by him at all, and even after acceptance it is but very seldom that the learner receives lessons from Leschetizky himself. He is nearly always sent to one or other of his old lady pupils to prepare for the maestro. At the time I was studying, there were but four of these "Vorbereiterinnen," as they are called, each as well known and qualified as the other.
19A time, tedious and somewhat trying both for pupil and teacher, now begins. The idea that one is merely going to be pushed still further forward along the musical path one has already been traveling is a great mistake. This old path has to be wholly and entirely forsaken; every piece of music, however carefully it may have been learnt, now has to be unlearnt, laid aside, forgotten, and for weeks never looked at. The candidate, despite his reluctance, has to commence from the very beginning like a little child, and for some long time has to content himself with finger exercises and scales, to allow his hands and fingers to be pulled, stretched and twisted in a manner seeming quite ridiculous, at which he is apt to laugh at first and treat as all unnecessary trouble and torment. But it is only those who have, with real earnestness and untiring patience, passed through this time of "trouble and torment" that know the true value of it all, and what it means to those who would acquire this world renowned method. Of course there can be no fixed rule given as to how long it takes one to learn the method. That depends entirely upon the talent and natural capacity of the student. But however long it takes, when once it is mastered all the trouble and hard work it has cost are more than repaid. The fingers that before were not always so flexible or manageable as could be desired gain a marvelous suppleness and strength that almost astonish the possessor himself. They have learnt a peculiar cunning that enables them to press into the keys with a power that brings out a sound, vibrating and strong—a sound that no other touch can possibly produce without that worst of all accompaniments—a thump. But even when this practical part of the method is mastered, it is, after all, only half the battle won.
21Leschetizky is by no means contented with simply mechanical work. He will have no "machines," and attaches, if possible, even greater value to the intellectual portion of his method. He is forever impressing upon his pupils to "work less, but study more. To practice with their brains as much as their fingers." He is no advocate of a slave driving method that demands eight or nine hours' labor; indeed, he condemns such action, and maintains that four hours a day are sufficient for anyone to practice, provided these four hours' work be conscientiously and intellectually done.
23The one aim of each student is to succeed in obtaining frequent lessons from the professor himself, and as he refuses all but the most talented, the less gifted ones consider themselves lucky if they get one lesson a month from him. That these lessons are always a pleasure is somewhat doubtful, for the temper (or to put it more mildly we will say nerves) of the great master is none of the steadiest. If he happens to be in a good humor just then, the lesson may go on swimmingly till some unlucky stroke on the part of the pupil disturbs the whole serenity of the situation. Then, if he be one of those who have neither the tact nor the strength of nerve to restore the lost equilibriy—woe betide him. I have known the irascible teacher to push the offender off the music stool and thunder out the most cutting and scornful remarks. With furiously heated countenance, eyes that seem to glare and almost start forward, he speaks as if unable to find any word bad enough to express his contempt. In a violent passion the enraged professor orders the unlucky pupil out of the house "to go and break stones," or "to go home and learn to cook and wash." Silence in a pupil is most abhorrent to the professor, irritating him to a high degree. Once a fellow pupil of mine, after her lesson, told me that he had been woefully hard to please that day, unceasingly muttering and grumbling, making angry gestures as he impatiently strode to and fro. "I listened," continued the relater, in a most reproachful tone, "with all respect trying hard to follow out his directions. But all was in vain; his annoyance only increased, till in a sudden outburst of long pent up anger, he cried: 'I'll have my parrot in to teach you to speak.' Another unlucky pupil had a still more delicate compliment paid him by the maestro. The young man had been, as he, poor wight, flattered himself, playing remarkably well, when, the performance ended, the professor, addressing his dog that chanced to be in the room, exclaimed: 'You never heard such infernal playing, did you?'"
25On the other hand, if the student happen to be one of the favored few to whom the professor is specially partial—or should he be lucky enough to succeed in keeping him in a good humor—no one could be more pleasant or charming. For his pupils, one of the events of the season, perhaps the event the most looked forward to during the whole winter, is the fortnightly class, which every pupil and aspiring candidate is perfectly free to attend. On account of the professor's age and somewhat uncertain health, these classes do not now take place regularly, and the notice of each one is spread either by the professor himself, or by his "Vorbereiterinnen." The classes usually commence between 5 and 6 o'clock in the evening: and an hour before that time the pretty Karl Ludwig Strasse is made unusually lively by the passing of varying knots of pedestrians, all bent in the same direction. It causes no excitement or curiosity to the inhabitants of that neighborhood; they are quite used to the sight, and as each new group appears, they smilingly explain it all as "Leschetizky pupils!" Should one happen to arrive at the villa among the first, there is ample time to look around and note all the peculiarities of the house. On entering one is shown into a room on the left, where one may lay aside hat and mantle. The waiting room is small and full of photographs of famous musicians, musical instruments, books and old curiosities. One is left entirely to oneself, with perfect freedom to wander about the rooms at pleasure, until the appearance of the professor announces the commencement of the class. The music room is a long, low apartment, at one end of which stand two grand pianos side by side, that on the right hand being the professor's, and that on the left the students'. A few inches below the ceiling, and running the entire length of the room, is a shelf with busts of musicians among small green plants; at the opposite end of the room to that at which the pianos stand is a mass of tall ferns and bright flowers artistically arranged. On the day of the class chairs and benches are placed round the room; and as the professor chooses only the very best to play, the whole performance is every bit as instructive as a personal lesson. Students of every age and nation are to be seen
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