The Project Gutenberg EBook of Theodor Leschetizky, by Annette Hullah
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Title: Theodor Leschetizky
Author: Annette Hullah
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LIVING MASTERS OF MUSIC
EDITED BY ROSA NEWMARCH
THEODOR LESCHETIZKY
"If you choose to play!--is my principle
Let a man contend to the uttermost
For his life's set prize, be it what it will."
BROWNING
[Illustration: _Photo. by H. S. Mendelssohn, London, IV._
Theodor Leschetizky (signature)]
THEODOR
LESCHETIZKY
BY ANNETTE HULLAH
[Illustration]
LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY. MCMVI
Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO. LIMITED
Tavistock Street, London
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. 1830-1862 1
II. 1862-1905 14
III. THE EVOLUTION OF THE METHOD 25
IV. THE METHOD 39
V. THE LESSONS 51
VI. THE CLASS 66
VII. THE CENTRE OF THE CIRCLE 75
ILLUSTRATIONS
LESCHETIZKY AT THE PIANO _Frontispiece_
_From a copyright photograph by
Mr. H. S. Mendelssohn, London, W._
_To face
page_
LESCHETIZKY'S VILLA IN THE CARL LUDWIG
STRASSE, VIENNA 14
LESCHETIZKY IN 1903 18
ON THE KAHLENBERG 22
DR. ARNE (OLD SCHOOL) 26
A GROUP OF PUPILS 50
LESCHETIZKY AND MARK HAMBOURG 70
LESCHETIZKY AT KARLSBAD 76
THE PROFESSOR'S BIRTHDAY 80
CHAPTER I
1830 TO 1862
Theodor Leschetizky was born in Poland at the Castle of Lancut, near
Lemberg, June 22, 1830. His father, a Bohemian by birth, held the
position of music-master to the family of Potocka. His mother, Theresa
von Ullmann, was a Pole.
The Potocki had luxurious tastes. They were cultivated people, who
cared for beautiful things, and were rich enough to have them. The
Castle itself, a fine old building, stood in the middle of a large
park, surrounded by trees and plenty of open land; it contained a
picture-gallery and a private theatre. This was the home in which
Leschetizky passed his childhood, seeing life as a delightful thing,
full of grace and ease, which might have been quite perfect had there
been no music lessons. But at the age of five he began to learn the
piano, and had to study two hours a day from the beginning. He loved
music intensely, and might even have loved practising; but his father,
according to the parental custom of the day, was so extremely severe
that the lessons were a misery to both, and, but for his mother's
gentle help, might have ended in his hating the instrument altogether.
In spite of such troubles, his progress was extraordinary. In four
years he was ready to play in public, and made his first appearance at
an orchestral concert in Lemberg. He played a Concertino of Czerny,
and created a considerable sensation; "but," he says, "I cannot
remember very much about the music, because at the time my mind was
entirely taken up with the rats." Concerts were given so rarely in
those days that any place was considered fit to play in. Leschetizky's
first concert-room--probably a little more primitive than most--was
built of wood; the light came in through the cracks, and the floor was
full of holes, through which climbed the aforesaid rats in hundreds,
running about fearlessly, not only during rehearsal, but at the
concert itself.
After this exciting début Leschetizky went about playing everywhere,
and very quickly became famous as a "wonder-child." Everybody talked
about him and wanted to hear him; great ladies borrowed him for their
salons when they could, and fêted and spoilt him, as great ladies
always do--all of which he enjoyed as much as they did.
When he was ten, his father, pensioned by the Potocka, took his family
to live in Vienna, where they were already accustomed to spend the
winter. Joseph Leschetizky's post in the Potocka household had given
him the opportunity of meeting all the great artists of the time who
frequented their salon; and in this way Theodore had been able to hear
the best music from his earliest boyhood. For a year the boy continued
to study at home with his father, after which he went to the great
Czerny, whose school was so famous in those days, and to which many
of the greatest artists, such as Liszt, Thalberg, Döhler, Kullak, and
Hiller, had belonged.
Himself a fine pianist, Czerny had been a pupil of Clementi and an
intimate friend and pupil of Beethoven; "a fact of which he was very
proud," says Leschetizky. "So often, indeed, did he speak of him to
me that I always felt as if I had known him myself." In the same
indirect way he became spiritually acquainted with Chopin, whose pupil
Filtsch was his great friend. A little older than Leschetizky, Filtsch
was already a beautiful player, whom Chopin loved, of whom he thought
highly, and who would assuredly have become famous had he lived.
Leschetizky's readings of the lighter compositions of Chopin are for
the most part inspired by the remembrance of what he assimilated
from this gifted boy, and he has changed his rendering very little
since those days. Czerny cared little for Chopin, either as pianist
or composer, nor did he willingly teach his music. His mind was too
limited to understand subtlety, and he felt for it the contempt the
plain man always feels for what he cannot grasp.
At fourteen Leschetizky began to take pupils himself, and seems to
have been a prodigy in teaching as well as in playing, for he had
soon so much to do that his time was quite filled up. His father
took two rooms for him next door, so that he might carry on his
musical work without disturbing the household. He was very busy, for,
besides the teaching and his own practice, there were lessons from
Sechter in counterpoint and, until his voice broke, he sang in a
church choir two or three times a week. He played everywhere. He was
known in Metternich's salon, to Thalberg, to the great Liszt, whom
he worshipped, to the Court, to Donizetti, who encouraged his early
attempts at composition, in fact to all the great artists who passed
through Vienna.
It was at this time that he heard Schulhoff play one evening
at Dessauer's house. It was a new experience. Hitherto he had
heard nothing like it. To phenomenal technique he was quite
accustomed--fireworks could no longer disturb his equanimity--but
the poetry, exquisite finish and simplicity of Schulhoff's playing
touched something within him that till then had lain dormant, and he
recognised at once the incompleteness of his own work.
Schulhoff, though not a pupil of Chopin, knew him well in Paris, and
had caught something of his manner; yet it was not this--already
familiar to Leschetizky through Filtsch--but his marvellous power of
making the piano "sing" that brought to the boy the vision of a new
world. The public did not understand Schulhoff at first. They rather
despised this pianist, who played to them in a perfectly simple way.
They missed their runs and trills and surging octave passages, and
found him dull. Not so Leschetizky. Here was a pianist who had gone
further, and attained to something higher than the rest. He too must
reach the same plane. For months he worked, refusing to play in public
till he had gained what he had been searching for, and when he emerged
from his exile, not only his playing, but his point of view had
entirely altered.
Up to this time, in spite of Filtsch's influence, he had, like others,
been satisfied that "the perfect finger" was the desirable thing; now
he recognised a finer ideal. The change in him was to be of farther
reaching influence than he dreamt of at the time, for it filtered
through him to his pupils and created in them the germ of what
developed later into the famous Leschetizky School. Schulhoff's visit
marked an epoch in Leschetizky's life.
In the same year he took a course in law at the University; and this
together with his pupils kept him so busy that he was obliged to read
hard into the early morning hours to get through the double work.
When the Revolution of 1848 came--putting an end to all music in the
city for the time being--he was ready for a holiday. Having also hurt
his arm in a duel, therefore unable to practise, he decided to take
this opportunity of seeing something of the world. He did not see much
of it, for he went to Italy, and promptly fell so deeply in love with
everything--and everybody--there, that he had to be removed from the
source of danger; and a faithful friend hastily took him back to the
Austrian mountains and kept him there, till both his mind and his city
were calm enough to permit a safe return to ordinary life.
For four years he worked away steadily at his teaching, playing much
besides, and leading the gay social life his genial nature loved. He
also composed his first opera, "Die Bruder von San Marco." Meyerbeer,
to whom he played it, thought it showed great promise, and urged
him to finish it, but this he never cared to do, and the work still
remains as he left it then.
In 1852 Leschetizky decided to go to Russia, and set out in September
of that year.
His début at the Michael Theatre in St. Petersburg resulted in a small
circle of pupils, which very soon grew into a large one. His fame as a
pianist had already preceded him, and shortly after his arrival he was
commanded to play before Nicholas I.
He tells of the magnificent carriage sent to convey him to the palace,
of the sumptuous apartment and dainty supper to greet him when he
got there and, alas, of the intolerable piano, upon which he flatly
refused to play, and went home instead. Expecting to be ordered out
of Russia, a little later on he received to his surprise a second
invitation, accompanied this time by no beautiful carriage, and graced
by only a very meagre supper served in a miserable little bedroom. But
the piano was all he could wish, and he played on it so much to their
Majesties' satisfaction that, his sins forgiven, bedtime discovered
him once more in the gorgeous apartment of his first visit.
He was very happy in his Russian life. He had many friends, and among
them Anton Rubinstein. As boys they had played together in Vienna,
now as young men they were to work together in St. Petersburg.
Rubinstein was concert-master at the Court of the Grand Duchess Helen,
the sister of the Emperor Nicholas. Soon after Leschetizky came to
Russia, Rubinstein wishing to go on tour, asked him to take his place
until his return. Leschetizky agreed to do so, on the understanding
that he could live in his own rooms instead of staying in the palace,
and be allowed to go on with his private teaching at home. Life would
have been intolerable to him had his freedom been curtailed. His
duties were to arrange all the music at Court, to give singing lessons
to the daughter of the Grand Duchess, and to one of her Maids of
Honour--Madlle. de Fridebourg, who possessed one of the most beautiful
voices he had ever heard. In 1856 he married this lady. Sixteen years
later they were divorced.
Leschetizky's connection with the Grand Duchess brought him into touch
with all the great artists who visited St. Petersburg. The Grand
Duchess Helen was a remarkable woman, who exercised considerable
influence over the political affairs of Russia and made her palace
the centre of culture in the capital. Of wide sympathies and
unusual intellectual gifts, she was fitted to be the leader of any
sphere she might choose to rule. Men and women from all parts of
Europe--military, diplomatic, artistic--visited her salon. She it
was who started the Russian Imperial Musical Society which, under
Rubinstein's directorship, eventually founded the Conservatoire; and
it was in a large measure owing to her influence that Rubinstein,
Kologrivov, and others were able to carry out their schemes for
educating the people to a knowledge of good music.
St. Petersburg was very far behind the rest of Europe in regard to the
status of the musical profession when Leschetizky first went there. It
was not regarded as an honourable career at all, nor even as a serious
study. The rich patronised it because it was fashionable; the bargeman
on the river chanted his song as he went because he loved it; but its
cultivation as an art was in no sense a conscious necessity of Russian
life.
Outside aristocratic circles there was little or no music, scarcely
any one who thought it worth while to make it his life-work. No one
knew anything about the generation of young native composers then
growing up. Even Glinka's popularity had waned, and Dargomijsky and
Balakirev were hardly more than names. The orchestra of the Symphony
Concerts--given but two or three times in the year by the Court
Chapel--was made up of students, clerks, or any one who could play,
and liked to spend his leisure in that way. Till 1850, when Rubinstein
inaugurated the Sunday Concerts, there were no public orchestral
performances outside the Court at all; and even twelve years later,
when the Conservatoire was started, musical life was but just
awakening, and a little knowledge of the art spreading through the
city. The ignorance of people in general was incredible. Leschetizky
tells an amusing story to illustrate this.
One day a rich tradesman came to one of his musical friends to ask
what his terms would be for giving pianoforte lessons to his daughter.
He named his price. "Well," said the tradesman, "that certainly is
expensive--but does it include the black keys as well as the white?"
In a comparatively short time the condition of musical affairs
improved immensely, for the people at once took advantage of the
opportunity to hear and learn, and Leschetizky's popularity as a
teacher increased so rapidly that very soon it became impossible for
him to take all the pupils himself, and he found it necessary to train
some of them to work under him as assistants.
In 1862, when the St. Petersburg Conservatoire was opened with Anton
Rubinstein as director, Leschetizky transferred his class there.
Though among the pioneers who actively interested themselves in its
development as a means of popularising the study of music, Leschetizky
was more taken up with pupils in particular than pupils in general.
He sympathised to a certain extent with Rubinstein's plans for the
improvement of the musical condition of the country; at the same
time his nature, more individualist and less philanthropic than his
friend's, preferred to work in a smaller field. He could devote
himself heart and soul to watching and tending the unfolding of any
young talent, but not to the education of the masses; and it is well
that it was so, for otherwise a specialist would have been lost to
the world. His chief care was that each pupil entrusted to him should
develop to the best of his ability; if pianism in general incidentally
benefited by the system of study he had built up, so much the better.
CHAPTER II
1862-1905
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.
[Illustration: LESCHETIZKY'S HOUSE IN VIENNA]
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.
[Illustration: LESCHETIZKY IN 1903]
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.
[Illustration: ON THE KAHLENBERG]
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.
CHAPTER III
THE EVOLUTION OF THE METHOD
Over a hundred and fifty years ago, in the year 1747, John Sebastian
Bach went to Potsdam to visit Frederick the Great, and while there he
was asked to try over some of the new fortepianos that had recently
been made for the King by Silbermann. He did so, and disliked the
noise extremely. His ears, too long accustomed to the gentle tinkle
of his beloved clavichord, could not accept this harsh, modern
instrument, and he returned home thankful that Providence had not
brought him up on such an abominable invention.
But his son, Carl Philip Emanuel, in the service of the King, and
having therefore the opportunity to study the Fortepiano at his
leisure, became so much interested in it that he wrote a book on the
art of playing it--the first book that exists on piano technique.
His father's instructions for the clavichord advised players to keep
the hand as quiet as possible, "to wipe a note off the keys with
the end-joint of the finger only, as if taking up a coin from a
table"--"not to be too lavish in the employment of the thumb." Carl
Philip Emanuel transferred what he could of this to his own book,
putting in a plea for certain necessary innovations--he thought they
might look on the thumb with a little more favour: on rare occasions a
note might be struck, it was inadvisable now to pass the fingers over
each other backwards if they could do without. They must, above all
things, maintain an elegant tranquillity, a quiet deportment, being
careful to sit precisely before the middle of the keyboard, using
their fingers softly, caressing
Those dancing chips
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait.
[Illustration: DR. ARNE (SKETCH BY BARTOLOZZI)
_Old style of playing, for new style see Frontispiece_]
In Bach's time, and long afterwards, people never played vigorously.
They could not. If they had attempted to do so the piano would have
collapsed at once. They were very delicate instruments, unfitted
for any but the most tender treatment--which, indeed, is all they ever
had.
Playing must have been anxious work in those days. There was no pedal
to swell the sound, or cover up defective technique. The note died
away immediately after it was struck, making--what distressed Mozart
so much--"cantabile playing" an impossibility. The touch of the
keyboard was something like that of a harpsichord, the keys jumping up
and down with a little jerk; and when the instrument went out of tune
it was a serious matter.
By the beginning of the nineteenth century all this had changed. The
mechanism was so much improved that it had developed into a responsive
medium worth the trouble of studying. Clementi was the first who
composed specially for the piano; for Mozart and Haydn, concerning
themselves little with its mechanical resources (what they wrote
serving equally well for the clavichord or harpsichord), treated it
merely as a vehicle for the expression of their ideas, well suited to
the inspiration of the moment. Clementi--whose inspirations were few
and far between--regarded it from an entirely different standpoint.
He was interested in the instrument itself; he experimented with it,
tried what effects could be got out of it, and composed to introduce
these effects rather than for any other reason. He considered the
pianist more than the musician, and, in so doing, became the founder
of a school of playing that regarded mechanical skill as a study in
itself.
By degrees the piano and its players, developing side by side,
diverged into two distinct styles--the English and the Viennese.
The English school grew up, so to speak, of the masculine sex, the
Viennese of the feminine--their respective instruments being in a
large measure responsible for the heavy, vigorous qualities of the
one, and the delicacy and lightness of the other. As long as Mozart
lived, the Viennese held to their old-time gentleness and quaint
dignity, but after his death they became more and more brilliant;
so that, in his "Music in Germany," Dr. Burney could write of them
as the "most remarkable people for fire and invention" (by which he
probably meant improvisation) that he had ever heard. In spite of this
reputation, the manner of performance in those days, tried by present
standards, would have seemed very dry indeed. Correct, accurate,
redolent of propriety and good manners, the goal of perfection
exemplified by such men as Herz, Hunten, and Steibelt, cannot have
been very interesting. Clementi himself, though no doubt angular and
stiff, did try to some extent to shake off prim custom. At any rate,
his was a wider mind, genuinely interested in striving to infuse some
warmth and colour into his art. He pioneered his cause to the utmost,
talking about it, writing studies for it, and setting every one
else doing the same. His ideas were worked out still further by his
pupils Field and Cramer, who, having a faint inkling of the mysteries
of "tone-effects," tried to "make the piano sing"--as Field's
compositions show.
As yet no one had in the least realised what the instrument could
be made to do. Quantity of notes, not quality, was the chief
concern; fluency, not beauty of tone, the aim of a good player. The
perpendicular finger of the Bach era--a relic of the clavichord
touch--was still fashionable; indeed, up to this time, there was no
reason why it should not be so, for the music of the day called for
nothing more forcible. But there were signs that this dull code of dry
formulæ was soon to become too narrow, and the complaisant pedagogue
to be driven from his throne. There was need of a change, and the man
destined to effect it was at hand.
Wiping out their stiffness, poking fun at their propriety, it was
Beethoven who broke through their foolish little rules and gave them
something deeper and more vital to think of. Full of dramatic power,
of orchestral effects, of changing moods, his music outstretched their
limits entirely. It created a new element and offered them a new
problem: the study of tone. He demanded of the piano what had never
been demanded of it before; both the instrument and its players were
forced to change. Henceforward the art of pianism stood on an entirely
different level. A new school was growing up.
Weber, who was an immense admirer of Beethoven, and a great influence
in the musical world, went into the question with enthusiasm--indeed,
some of his own Sonatas showed a faint dramatic tendency, new figures,
and a more complicated technique.
Kalkbrenner, a follower of Clementi and famous teacher, was at work
in Paris. Dussek, and Berger (Mendelssohn's master) helped elsewhere.
Schubert in his compositions afforded food for experiment too.
On the other side Czerny, Woelffl, Herz, Steibelt, and even
Hummel--who was considered a good enough pianist to be put forward as
Beethoven's rival--upheld the prim style of their youth. Thus began
the usual struggle between old and new, ending in the invariable
victory for the new. Moscheles and Mendelssohn, though educated in
the old traditions, sympathised with modern views, so welding a link
between the past and "the wonderful things reported of a Pole--Chopin
by name," of whom Schumann told the world in his journal.
In about eighty years both players and instruments had developed
beyond recognition, virtuosity became an art in itself, and the
piano so increased in importance that instead of being regarded as
little worse than an accompaniment, it had become popular as a solo
instrument, and long recitals, without the relief of song or strings,
were given for it alone.
Partly to avoid the monotony of this one-man entertainment, and
partly to induce the public to stop to the end, great pianists,
such as Thalberg, Liszt, and Dreyschock began to do strange and
wonderful gymnastic tricks. They passed one hand over the other with
extraordinary rapidity; divided the melody between two hands and made
it sound as if they had not; played octaves glissando; jumped with
marvellous agility from one end of the piano to the other; wrote
horrible and difficult fantasias of interminable length; played
without the music; in short, they did everything they could think of
to make a sensation and astonish the public. Vienna and Paris, where
the audiences came from gay and sprightly circles and much preferred
being amused to being instructed, were delighted. Sober-minded Germany
was less so, for--although Liszt created a _furore_ there as well as
elsewhere--she had Mendelssohn to keep her in the way she should go.
Europe was divided into two distinct camps--the one brilliant, the
other scholarly. To the former belonged Leschetizky.
In 1830, the year of his birth, Rubinstein was but a baby; Von Bulow
a few months old; Clara Schumann had just given her first concert
at the age of ten--(her programme is interesting as showing the kind
of music popular at the time: "Rondo Brilliant," by Kalkbrenner,
"Variations Brilliantes," by Herz, "Variations" on a thema of
her own); Saint-Saëns was born five--Tausig eleven--years later.
Dreyschock was already twelve; Henselt sixteen; Thalberg eighteen;
Liszt nineteen.
All these artists and many more visited Vienna, and Leschetizky heard
them often. They were the source from which he drew inspiration as a
young teacher, and whose playing served him as material from which,
later on, to build up a system of his own. It is from them, from
Schulhoff his friend, and from Czerny his master, that he has worked
out the principles known as "The Leschetizky Method."
The explanation of the technical part of this method without practical
illustration--that is, without a piano at hand--is impossible; for the
description would have to cover not only the account of the manual
exercises themselves, but of their application to the instrument. The
art of playing the piano cannot be taught by correspondence; although
the development of the hand may be. The instrument must be there to
give value to the statement. To describe a pianoforte method by the
pen does as much good to the pianist as the "Absent Treatment" of a
Christian Scientist does to his patient. Indeed, the treatment might,
by a rare chance, cure a patient furnished with a fertile imagination;
whereas no amount of imagination will make anybody play the piano,
even if he read all the treatises written, from the naïve simplicity
of Philip Emanuel Bach's "True Art of Piano Playing," to the wonderful
complexity of Tobias Mathay, on "The Act of Touch."
With regard to methods in general, Leschetizky is very broad-minded.
If a method can teach the pupil to accomplish what is necessary, the
process by which it has been done is quite immaterial. Any suggestion
that makes for progress would be welcome to him, and though he seems
to have drawn all that is serviceable and important into his own
system, he says: "I have thought over these things all my life, but if
you can find better ways than mine I will adopt them--yes, and I will
take two lessons of you and give you a thousand gulden a lesson."
Nearly every one can do something well if they are told exactly what
to do. Leschetizky does not expect to make a silver goblet out of
a pewter-pot, but he takes the trouble to make the pewter-pot as
perfect in its way as possible. He does not think the world is made
for genius. He sees that it is made for the ordinary man. Not in the
least imbued with "that appreciation of mediocrity that the Creator of
all things must evidently possess,"--as Ehlert puts it--he knows that
those who can "reach the heaven" and "come back and tell the world"
are very few, and it is the cry of the weaker talent that has to be
answered, and for whom (unfortunately) methods must be worked out.
Genius has called forth no system. It will express itself well, no
matter what means it may elect to use.
Broadly speaking, Leschetizky's plan is to cultivate the pupil's
special gifts, whatever they may be; to leave those things that lie
beyond his capacity almost entirely alone. He prefers the narrower
and more perfect field, to unfinished work on a large scale. To spend
time wrestling with details in which glory can never be attained is
a waste of energy. The struggle merely serves to emphasise incapacity
in one direction to the detriment of natural talents in others, and
generally ends in making the player so nervous that the very thought
of being asked to play overwhelms him with terror.
People are very ingenious in finding excuses when they do not want
to play, or when they have played badly. "A bad instrument" is one
of them. "Artists say too much about the materials they have to
use," says Leschetizky. "It is hard to find the tools unresponsive
or uncertain, but do not accustom yourselves to a first-rate piano.
If you do, it will lead you to think you are responsible for the
beautiful sounds that come out of it; whereas very likely it is but
its natural tone--independent of your skill. At home you think: 'What
a lovely touch I have.' Then you come to me. You play abominably, and
say it is the fault of my piano. It is not my piano at all. It is you.
Your hand is not under control, you have not learnt the principles
of things. If you really know how to produce a certain effect--and
produce it as the result of your knowledge--not of your piano--you
can face almost any instrument with a clear conscience. If you leave
anything to chance, you will be the first to feel it--your audience
will be the second. A good pianist should be able to make any passable
instrument sound well, for his knowledge will be so accurate that he
can calculate to a very fine point how much he must allow for the
difference and quality of touch."
In Leschetizky's young days even more depended on the player's
scientific knowledge of how things should be done than now, for people
were asked to play upon very strange instruments. The mere remembrance
of them makes him indignant. "When one was invited somewhere to
dinner," he expostulated one evening when reminiscences brought up
the subject, "the plates given you to eat upon were not cracked, the
wine-glasses to drink out of were not dirty, the hostess was not in
rags, but decked out in her finest, and she gave you the best she
had to give. That was _at_ dinner. But _after_ dinner! _Mein Gott_,
she wanted music. She had a piano, but--one or two notes stuck a
little--could you manage? The pedal squeaked--well, you need not
use it much, need you? The things on the top of the piano jingled
rather--but then they were such a bother to move. The tuner came
yesterday, but he said it is not as good as it used to be--which
is _so_ strange, for it has scarcely been played upon these twenty
years--but do play us something! They say times have changed in this
respect,--perhaps so--but my pupils don't seem to go with the times,
for they tell me they meet with these things still."
CHAPTER IV
THE METHOD
"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.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF LESCHETIZKY'S PUPILS]
CHAPTER V
THE LESSONS
One day a stranger came to ask Leschetizky for a few finishing
lessons. "Will a mud pie give you a fair idea of a mountain?" was the
Professor's reply. "No," said the stranger, "but then I don't want
the mountain." "Well, you must go somewhere else for your mud pie; we
don't keep them here."
The stranger went away to supply his needs elsewhere. Any one in
Vienna could have told him that Leschetizky inexorably refuses to dole
out a slice of his system of study. It is not to be had in a popular
and abridged edition. It is a course of work for serious students, and
can only be commanded in its entirety.
Leschetizky will only acknowledge as his "qualified pupils" those
who have had regular lessons with him for at least two years, and
preferably longer. He considers it impossible for any pupil, however
gifted, to grasp more than the grammar of his teaching in a few
months--as some pianists have tried to do. "For," he says, "your house
still remains to be built when the foundations are laid."
Giving but three lessons a day, he himself is able to undertake very
few of the hundred and fifty pupils studying his method, and these few
must necessarily be chosen from among the best. The others have to
content themselves with the crumbs that fall from his assistants, till
they are considered ready to join the elect. This preparation may last
a few weeks, a few months, a year or even longer, the time varying
with the pupils' progress.
Every now and then they play to the Professor, who, according to
the stage at which they have arrived, agrees to give them lessons
fortnightly, monthly--or perhaps not at all for the present.
In former days, when he had more strength, he took the most talented
of his pupils through the technical training himself; but the present
plan is better, for he is not naturally of a patient disposition.
Emerson says a man should be judged by his intentions. If that is
so, Leschetizky stands high in the scale, for he is full of good
intentions. They are with him always; but, as a dilapidated American
was heard to murmur at the end of a bad lesson: "They must have paved
a considerable stretch of the side-walks in hell by now," for they
invariably leave him at the moment when they are most wanted.
The Professor intends to make allowances for all difficulties. He
knows how tenaciously bad habits will stick, how hard they are to
dislodge, and how long the fingers retain their old established ways,
in spite of the best will in the world to train them to the new. He
quite realises what a tax this minute and detailed method of analysis
is to the unpractised mind, and how irksome are the first steps on
the road to it. He is full of benevolent sympathy. But when the time
for the lesson comes, everything but the immediate need of getting
the thing done in the right way is obliterated from his mind, and in
the enthusiasm of the moment all traces of this benevolence speedily
disappear. He forgets the pupil is full of original sin and cannot
wait for the signs of grace.
This leads to misunderstanding. It leads also to the sudden exit
of the pupil; to the slamming of doors; to the crushing of music
on the floor; to grim remarks about a future better spent "in
tomato-planting." Once it led to total darkness. In the intensity of
his feelings the master arose, hastily put out the gas, rushed away,
and left his pupils sitting round the class in silence and gloom until
things were patched up by some comforting soul outside.
Leschetizky loves his pupils as if they were his own children; but,
as a good father, he considers his duty better done through the
aid of discipline than of sympathy, believing the scourge to be of
greater profit to their musical souls than the prop. Especially
if he sees they are suffering from parental pampering. He is much
troubled by parents. They come to him imbued with the notion that
their particular offspring is quite unusually and supremely gifted,
and the offspring himself is still more imbued with that notion. It
is expedient, therefore, to remove these parents to a distance, in
order that the mist of adoration may disperse, and leave the field
clear for the child to find his true level. Otherwise valuable time
may be wasted in making headway against the inability of the parent to
view discipline in any light but that of cruelty, and of the pupil to
consider himself other than a sacrifice on the altar of his master's
whims.
Leschetizky makes unsparing use of his power to analyse character in
his teaching, unhesitatingly saying anything, however hard to bear,
that he thinks may be a spur to the pupil's development. He has the
gift of insight to a very remarkable degree, and although his own
nature is not pliable enough to unbend to every other, he makes few
mistakes in his summing up as a whole. Like all highly-strung people
he is extremely sensitive to personality. This sensibility affects
him in various ways. In the morning when the door-bell announces the
arrival of the first pupil, should the Professor chance to be in a
fastidious frame of mind, he steals downstairs to find out who it
is, and if on peeping surreptitiously into the room he sees some one
antipathetic to him, he promptly steals upstairs again and stays there
a quarter of an hour or more to recover the blow. If the pupil has
caught a glimpse of his face, he would generally prefer to go home,
but knowing that if he does, he may never have another lesson, he
elects to face the worst and wait till the Professor feels inclined to
come down again. When he comes down--if he has resigned himself to the
inevitable, and if the pupil be of a tactful disposition--all may yet
go well; the sinner be received into favour again, and sent home proud
in the knowledge that he has gained the day and left a legacy of happy
relations behind him after all.
The early lessons with Leschetizky are at once a revelation and
an ordeal. If the quality of the pupil's intellect be at all
strained--and his horizon too circumscribed for him to have found it
out before--it will now be made quite clear to him.
In the first place he is expected to make all his corrections on the
spot, for to Leschetizky's rapid brain comprehension is synonymous
with performance--to understand is to be able to do. He is expected
to hold these corrections firmly in his head, and to have the wit
to apply them to new cases immediately. Nerve, quick observation,
retentive memory, presence of mind must all be his. He must be
neither too quick nor too slow, being careful not to step in before
the master has finished what he has to say and the illustration is
complete, lest there be a sudden pause, and Leschetizky, regarding
him with a baleful eye, sit back with folded hands, and inquire which
of the two is to play: "Are you giving the lesson, or am I?" He must
follow the different kinds of touch, the pedalling, the fingering, the
variety of effects that may be drawn out of the instrument--all so
difficult and puzzling in the initial stages--and be able to reproduce
them on the spot. The most vivid and concentrated interest is exacted
from him in every detail, infinite patience and unwearied effort.
Leschetizky cannot endure half-heartedness. Caring so intensely for
music and for all that concerns it, an apathetic attitude is as
unbearable to him, as disloyalty to his country would be to a patriot,
and he resents it with his whole nature. Nor does he hesitate to show
it. Enthusiasm he must and will have. A temperament devoid of it is
an enigma he cannot solve. He expects a ready appreciation. He likes
people to talk, to ask him questions, to be cheerful. He cannot bear
dismal solemnity. If the pupil be of a taciturn order, Leschetizky is
quite sure something must be seriously wrong with his mind; or that he
has not understood what he has been told, and is afraid to say so; or,
what is most probable, that he possesses a very disagreeable character.
With one of these unfortunate dispositions--feminine, strange to
say--it is on record that Leschetizky once went through an hour
without a single word. She would not speak, he said, so why should
he? On coming into the room he softly closed the door, tip-toed to
the piano, bowed to the pupil, sat down and gave her the whole lesson
in solemn and mysterious silence, indicating all he wanted by signs
and dumb show. When the hour was over he rose, bowed with impressive
gravity as before, glided to the door, and disappeared as silently as
he had come in.
He enjoys experimenting with his pupils, and inventing special
fingerings, or special exercises for unusual cases.
He had a pupil who played so accurately by ear that she could not be
persuaded to study in any other way. It served her faithfully for
a long time, until one day, when playing in the class, her memory
failed, and she could not collect herself. Nemesis came at the next
lesson, for Leschetizky shut down the cover of her keyboard, and left
her, bereft of all sound, to learn a page of unfamiliar music by means
of her eyes alone. Another, who was unnerved by the merest trifle, he
cured by accustoming her to shocks. One day, suddenly jumping up from
the piano, he stared intently into the garden, exclaiming, "Ha! what
is that I see out there?" Of course the pupil hurried to the window,
but, seeing nothing exciting, turned back, startled and perplexed.
"It's all right," nodded the master suddenly; "go on _exactly_ where
you left off." This kind of treatment continued till she could stand
any disturbance with composure.
To another, whose ear was not fine enough to distinguish exactly what
notes made up a chord when he heard it, Leschetizky taught an entire
composition by playing it to him bar by bar, bit by bit, until he
realised it all, both piecemeal and in combination. The harder the
patient's case, the keener the doctor's interest. Nothing gives him
greater satisfaction than to find the remedy for some unusual defect.
He is as proud and pleased as a gleeful child with a new toy, and as
delightful to watch.
Buried deep in contemplation of the difficulty, he sits perfectly
silent, motionless save for a periodic puff at his cigar. Presently a
smile steals cautiously over his face--the clue is signalled. For an
instant, still tentative and expectant, his hand poised in mid-air,
he awaits discovery, then all at once up goes the head, out comes the
pencil, and with an exultant shout he announces: "Now I've got it!"
As simply and clearly as it can be put, he then explains the point in
question and why this is its best solution.
One explanation ought to suffice for all time, and the pupil is
expected to adopt it at once. If he cannot do this and the same
mistake is made twice, the Professor begins to feel offended; if a
third time, he shuts up the music in disgust; a fourth (having opened
it again), he hurls it far away; a fifth (if the pupil is still
there) one of the two invariably leaves the room. Sometimes, a little
remorseful, the Professor comes back and stands half hesitating at
the door of the dining-room, looking sweet and sorry, wishing things
could have been otherwise, but quite unable for the moment to say
a single word of comfort to the sufferer. His own powers of memory,
and of doing instantly with his hands what his brain suggests, are so
remarkable that he cannot realise in the least what it means to be
less highly gifted.
He appreciates courage, and respects the buoyant nature that can right
itself after every rebuff, and bravely holds on, whatever happens,
seeing in this a token of the best kind of self-confidence. With
Stevenson he agrees that most of a man's opinions about himself are
true, and he who finds himself most comfortable on the footstool is
probably in his right place.
By reason of the Professor's own strong individuality, the adaptable
pupil has, as a rule, calmer lessons than the more original nature
that cannot amalgamate itself easily with another person's views.
Leschetizky's powers of discernment seldom fail him in prophesying who
will make a stir in the world, and it is precisely by these few that
his keenest interest is excited, and with whom the storm bursts out
most easily.
He does not always use his singularly penetrating qualities to
sad issues. When the initial steps have been overcome, and the
difficulties thinned out a little, the lesson is a delight from
beginning to end.
Full of apt similes, weaving them in at every turn, Leschetizky has
a knack of hitting upon exactly the appropriate figure to make a
suggestion intelligible and permanent in the mind.
"To make an effective _accelerando_ you must glide into rapidity
as steadily as a train increases its speed when steaming out of a
station."
"Teach yourself to make a _rallentando_ evenly by watching the drops
of water cease as you turn off a tap."
"A player with an unbalanced rhythm reminds me of an intoxicated man
who cannot walk straight."
"Your fingers are like capering horses, spirited and willing, but
ignorant of where to go without a guide. Put on your bridle and curb
them in till they learn to obey you, or they will not serve you well."
On the whole he theorises very little. Everything he says is
practical, to the point, and can be immediately used to some good end.
"If you are going to play a scale, place your hand in readiness on the
keyboard in the same position as you would if you were going to write
a letter--or to take a pinch of snuff."
"The bystander ought to know by the attitude of your hand what chord
you are going to play _before_ you play it, for each chord has its own
physiognomy."
"If you play wrong notes, either you do not know _where_ the note is
or _what_ the note is."
"If there is anything you cannot do after a fair trial, either there
is something the matter with your hand, or with the way you are
practising."
"If your wrists are weak, go and roll the grass in the garden."
"If you want to develop strength and sensitiveness in the tips of your
fingers, use them in every-day life. For instance, when you go out for
a walk, hold your umbrella with the tips instead of in the palm of
your hand."
"Practise your technical exercises on a cushion or upon a table
sometimes. You do not always need the piano to strengthen your
muscles."
And so on, intermingling advice with illustration, until the lesson
becomes as entertaining as instructive.
When all goes well, a lesson with Leschetizky is a really wonderful
experience. His point of view is so interesting, the depth of his
comprehension so profound, his power of clear exposition so great,
the parallels he draws between art and life so unexpected, that his
listener is held under a spell of wondering enthusiasm throughout.
Both his ear and his memory are very remarkable. He is able to retain
accurately in his mind every detail in a piece of music on hearing
it for the first time; and not only to play it through immediately
afterwards, but to discuss points in it, making a suggestion here, an
alteration there, exactly as if the music were before his eyes. He
plays a great deal during the lesson in a fragmentary way, but rarely
anything straight through. His piano is on the left of the pupil, the
two instruments standing side by side, their keyboards level.
He sits very still and very straight, never stooping over the keys,
or swaying about. His hands, often partially resting on the notes,
are almost flat, the wrists low, the fingers doing all the work, his
whole figure taut with the tension of concentrated thought.
His playing is as difficult to describe as himself, for it is the
translation of his nature into sound. Then, as at no other time, his
varied temperament discloses itself, its contrasts finding in music
their best interpretation. These sonorous chords weighed out by so
masterful a hand; this steady beat of measured emphasis; the lilt and
swing of the rhythm; the fine-pointed staccato; the piquant charm
with which the dainty notes come dancing off the keys; the melancholy
tenderness of the soft caressing tone, stealing in unawares--these
tell the story, more faithfully than any other language, of his
nature, not only as a musician, but as a man.
CHAPTER VI
THE CLASS
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.
[Illustration: LESCHETIZKY AND MARK HAMBOURG]
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.
CHAPTER VII
THE CENTRE OF THE CIRCLE
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?"
[Illustration: LESCHETIZKY AT CARLSBAD]
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.
[Illustration: THE PROFESSOR'S BIRTHDAY]
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.
* * * * *
[Transcriber's Notes:
The transcriber made these changes to the text:
p. 41, himelf --> himself
p. 44, music or your --> music for your
p. 67, training." --> training.
p. 69, Variations in A minor," --> Variations in A minor,'
p. 76, apart rom --> apart from
End of Transcriber's Notes]
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