"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.

A GROUP OF LESCHETIZKY'S PUPILS