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.