Then comes that wonderful art of counterpoint, culminating in the building of a grand and complex composition out of two little phrases, called subject and answer, which flash and frown one against the other like lightnings against a blue-black sky. The student has to learn all about form—how a symphony is constructed from the humble beginning of a simple motive like this:
Furthermore, he must study instrumentation, and learn how the small army of voices in the modern orchestra are to be used. He must know their compass, their capacity for fast performance, the notes upon which it is possible to make trills, the keys in which they stand, and, above all, the character of the writing best suited to them. And again, he must be acquainted with the history of his art, for without it he is quite ignorant of the purposes of the composers whose works he attempts to perform. What a light it throws upon the correct interpretation of Mozart to know that in his day smoothness, finish, and a singing tone were the requisites of good playing. What a valuable thing it is for the pupil to know that Mozart desired to have the passages flow like oil, and that he was opposed to all decided violations of the time. What a flood of illumination it throws on all music to know the meaning of the three great periods of musical history, polyphonic, classic, and romantic. These subjects are taught to classes by lectures and special teachers; but it is a sufficient evidence of the light-mindedness with which most pupils approach, music that not more than five per cent. of the conservatory students enter these classes. The composition classes, of course, are only for very advanced students. Indeed, in Dr. Antonin Dvoràk's composition class at the National Conservatory several well-known composers are to be found.
And what do the music students outside of their study and practice hours? You can see them by the dozen at concerts and at the opera. They are especially conspicuous at the matinée entertainments. They have a school-girlish look, coupled with an air of wisdom, and they devote great attention to pianists' hands and arms. If the student is an aspiring young vocalist, she uses her opera-glass continually. I said to one of them at an opera matinée once,
"Why do you constantly watch Madame Lehmann through your opera-glass?"
"Well," she replied, "my teacher says that I must keep my tongue flat, because all good singers do, and I'm trying to see how Madame Lehmann holds hers."
"And how does she?"
"I can't see it all; I believe she has swallowed it."
Another said to me:
"I am watching Mr. Paderewski's wrists. My teacher says I must keep my wrists up, and there he goes every few minutes and lets his drop below the key-board."