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.