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.