and rondos dance across the piano in quick succession; and
his comments were as spirited as his playing.

"Professor MacDowell's criticisms were clear and forceful, and filled
with many surprising and humorous touches. Of Bach he said, 'Bach
spoke in close, scientific, contrapuntal language. He was as emotional
and romantic as Chopin, Wagner or Tchaikovsky; his emotion was
expressed in the language of his time. Young women who say they adore
Bach play him like a sum in mathematics. They find a grim pleasure in
it, like biting on a sore tooth.'

"He never approached the piano like a conqueror. He had a nervous way
of saying that he didn't know whether things would go, because he had
had no time to practise. After an apologetic little preamble, he would
sit down and play these rococo bits of trailing sound with fingers
dipped in lightning, fingers that flashed over the keys in perfect
evenness and with perfect sureness.

"The closing lectures were in reality delightfully informal concerts
for which the class began to assemble as early as 8.30 in the morning.
By 9.30 every student would be in his chair, which he had dragged as
near to the piano as the early suburbanite would let him. Someone at
the window would say, 'Here he comes!' and, entering the room with a
huge bundle of music under one arm and his hat in his hand, MacDowell
would deposit them on the piano and turn to us with his gracious
smile. Then, instead of sitting down, he would continue to walk up and
down the room, his thoughts following, apparently, the pace set by his
energetic steps. He had an abundant word supply and his short, terse
sentences were easy to follow."

This is not the picture of a man who was unqualified for his task, or
indifferent, rebellious, or inept in its performance; it is the
picture of a man of vital and electric temperament, with almost a
genius--certainly with an extraordinary gift--for teaching. His ideals
were lofty; he dreamed of a relationship between university
instruction and a liberal public culture which was not to be realised
in his time. He was anything but complacent; had he been less
intolerant in his hatred of unintelligent and indolent thought on the
subjects that were near his heart, his way would have been made far
easier.

The results of his labours at the university, he finally came to feel,
did not warrant the expenditure of the vitality and time that he was
devoting to them. He was, in a sense, an anachr