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.

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.