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?"

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.

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.