During these years Leschetizky played a great deal in public. He was famous all over Russia, Austria, and Germany, both as pianist and teacher, and pupils collected to join his class from every part of Europe.

In his capacity as Capellmeister he had also to fill the part of conductor. In speaking of this part of his career he says: "Conducting is not difficult. It is harder to play six bars well on the piano than to conduct the whole of the Ninth Symphony of Beethoven." In illustration of this view he relates how, when he was once conducting the Schumann Concerto, Rubinstein, who was taking the solo, suddenly forgot the music so completely that Leschetizky was obliged to stop the orchestra. On rushed Rubinstein, playing anything that came into his head, till he found himself in the Cadenza, when Leschetizky at once passed the word round the orchestra to be ready to come in with the theme, if Rubinstein ever got there. Rubinstein did get there. Leschetizky brought down the stick, and all went merrily to the end. On another occasion he had to conduct an overture that he had never seen; but he ran it over in his mind before the concert began, and it went without a hitch. He thinks far too much is said about a conductor's difficulties. He protests also against "virtuoso-conducting." "Why should the orchestra rise? Why should so much be said about the way in which things are done? It is the composer who should have the applause, not the conductor." When a concert is over, he would have all the lights put out, the portrait of the composer thrown by a lantern on a screen, and make the audience applaud that. Leschetizky's own career as a conductor ended when Rubinstein came back to take up his position as "Janitor of Music" at the Court. Since then he has not sought the opportunity of carrying these ideas into practice.

In 1864 he visited England for the first time, making his dÉbut at one of Ella's Musical Union Concerts, where he played the Schumann Quintet and some of his own compositions. Mr. Kuhe happened to be in the artists' room at the time, and says that at rehearsal there arose a considerable discussion as to the tempo at which the Quintet should be taken. Leschetizky, it seems, was accustomed to play it much more brilliantly and at a greater speed than Joachim—the first violin on this occasion—and nothing would induce him to play it in any other way. "I play it so, or not at all." "Very well," replied Joachim, "but mind the responsibility rests with you." They played it according to Leschetizky's rendering, and so great was its success that the new tempo became universally popular.

Whatever Leschetizky made up his mind to do he carried through in spite of all obstacles. Once, on arriving at a town where he was to play in the evening, he found the impresario anxious to give up the concert, because that very day another pianist had already played the Concerto chosen by Leschetizky. "No matter," said Leschetizky quite calmly, "I will play it all the same. The audience will come to hear how I do it after the other man." And they did. In England it was still the fashion to give extremely long concerts—although not quite as long as in the Mendelssohn era, when it is recorded that Benedict arranged a concert of thirty-eight numbers. Mr. Kuhe was one of the most generous of impresarios in this respect, and Leschetizky never lost an opportunity of rallying him on the subject.

While Leschetizky was staying in London Mr. Kuhe gave one of these lengthy concerts at Brighton, and the former went down to hear it. But when he arrived he was tired after the journey and in the mood for a quiet evening; the armchair was comfortable; it began to rain—he did not go. Next morning he was walking about the parade enjoying the sunshine and the sea air, quite happy and entirely oblivious of the concert for the moment, when up came Mr. Kuhe, weary and reproachful: "Why did you not come to my concert last night?" Leschetizky stared at him, apparently horror-struck, "The concert! Good heavens," he exclaimed, "you don't mean to say it is over already!"

Leschetizky came to London two or three times afterwards, but never stayed very long. The atmosphere of solidity, musical and climatic, depressed him, and he was always glad to get away again to lands where the sky was blue and the sun shone.

Among those who had worked with him in St. Petersburg was Annette Essipoff. She came to him when she was twelve years old, and he grew to be prouder of her than almost any other pupil. "I would have given my life, could it have brought her nearer the goal," he says. "She had a talent that is met with once in a lifetime—oh, if you could but have heard how she played to me sometimes." Later his pride grew into love, and she became his second wife.

In 1878, partly on account of her health and his own—weakened by an attack of typhoid fever—and partly for the sake of his father, who had been living alone for many years, Leschetizky made up his mind to leave Russia and settle permanently in Vienna. During the twenty-six years that had elapsed since it had been his home, great changes had taken place there.

Vienna had always had a reputation as a musical city. Yet in 1838 Schumann, though finding it delightfully gay and the opera "splendid, surpassing any other," added in his letters home, "... in vain do I look for musicians, that is musicians who can play passably well on one or two instruments, and who are cultivated men." With the people themselves he is pleased enough: "Of all Germans," he writes, "they spare their hands the least, and even in their idolatry have been known to split their gloves with clapping so much." Incidentally it is curious to compare with this Mendelssohn's description of a Berlin audience a few years earlier: "When a piece of music comes to an end, the whole company sit in solemn silence, each considering what his opinion is to be, nobody giving a sign of applause or pleasure, and all the while the performer in the most painful embarrassment not knowing whether, nor in what spirit, he has been listened to." Enthusiastic as Vienna evidently was by nature, her enthusiasm did not carry her to the same level as other German cities, where music was an every-day occurrence, for she was as much behind Leipzig, for instance, as she was in advance of Russia.

At the time of Leschetizky's birth—1830—Vienna had just lost two of her greatest composers, Beethoven and Schubert, and for the moment no one remained to carry on her tradition as the home of great musicians. Schumann and Mendelssohn, it is true, came to and fro. Spohr had been there—Paganini, Vieuxtemps, Hummel, Meyerbeer, Cherubini, and a host of other executant-composers, including Liszt and Chopin. But no great composer was actually living there—nor was to live there for many years to come. Her creative spirit seemed to have gone to sleep and left her rich only in virtuosi. In 1878, when Leschetizky returned from Russia, it was to find her once more restored to her former glory. Brahms had come. Goldmark, BrÜckner, BrÜll, Volkmann, Johann Strauss were there. For thirty years she had been but a city of players. She was again a city of composers.

Leschetizky bought a house and settled down, thinking to rest from teaching for a time. But no sooner was it known that he had established himself in Vienna, than the inevitable pupils assailed him with petitions for lessons, and almost immediately he was hard at work again.

He had by now published a considerable number of compositions, many of which had become popular; but, never able to devote his whole energies to composing, most of his works are valuable solely as admirable pianoforte studies, wherein he has expressed his perfect knowledge of the instrument. Everything he writes is full of charm and handled with a delicacy that is peculiarly his own. Though difficult to play well, his works are all effective and repay the trouble of study.

In 1882 his second opera, "Die Erste Falte," was brought out at Mannheim. The composer was not present on the first night, for it happened that Liszt arrived just as he was starting, and Leschetizky, in the joy of seeing his old friend again—they had not met for many years—talked on till long after the only train had gone. This opera was produced with success in several other German towns, and finally in Vienna, under Richter. Vienna was full of interesting musicians at this time, all of whom Leschetizky knew: Pauline Lucca, Mariana Brandt, SchÜtt, Richter, Navratil, Rosenthal, Fischof, GrÜnfeld, Brahms, and many more. The Ton-KÜnstler Verein—a new musical club—became the centre where they all met, and where they produced and discussed each other's compositions with the freedom of old friends.

Leschetizky saw Brahms more often at Ischyl than in Vienna, and spent many an evening with him for, though they could not abide each other's music, they were excellent friends.

Leschetizky relates how, when he was sitting at the piano composing one morning, Brahms walked in and looked over his shoulder to see what he was doing. "Ha! What sort of things are you writing this morning? I see—quite little things, little things, of course, yes." "Little things? Yes, they are, but ten times more amusing than yours, I can tell you."

Every great artist who stayed in Vienna came to see Leschetizky, and he and Mme. Essipoff were welcomed everywhere as the central figures of a brilliant, gifted circle in which it was a privilege to be included. In 1892 they separated. Two years later he married his secretary, Mme. Donnimirska.

Leschetizky had long since definitely given up appearing in public. He lost his delight in applause and all the excitements connected with platform life very early. Soon, his interests, more and more absorbed by his pupils, the ambition to play gradually died out, and he gave his whole time to helping those who cared for a public career more than he did himself. His last appearance in public was in Frankfort in 1887, where he played the E flat Concerto of Beethoven. He says: "I did not care for their enthusiasm at all. Nor did I read their criticisms, though I was told they were good. If they had been bad I would have read them, for bad criticism is very wholesome. We learn much from the disagreeable things critics say, for they make us think, whereas the good things only make us glad."

Once only during his visit to London in September 1897 he allowed himself to be persuaded into playing in public by one of his pupils. This was at Mr. Daniel Mayer's reception at the Salle Erard, where Leschetizky gave some of his own compositions: "L'Aveu," "La Source," "Barcarolle," and the "Mazurka" in E flat. The storm of applause when he finished made speech impossible; but, ever critical of himself, he inquired anxiously in a whisper of those intimate friends around him: "Oh, children, have I played badly—oh, tell me, have I played badly?"

He stayed a few weeks only, but this time he was so sorry to leave London that he has been making plans to come back ever since.

He spends part of every summer at Ischyl, where many years ago he bought a beautiful villa, and where for months he lives content amongst trees and mountains and the company of an occasional sympathetic friend.

Sometimes he goes to Carlsbad for a few weeks, sometimes to Wiesbaden, but the winter always find him at home in Vienna, for his working year begins in November and—except for a day or two at Christmas—continues without a break until the following June.