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.