y other institutions. What becomes of the
thousands of students all working frantically with the hope of becoming
famous pianists? Surely, so much earnest effort can not be wasted even
though all can not win the race? Those who often convince themselves
that they have failed go on to perform a more useful service to society
than the laurel-crowned virtuoso. Unheralded and unapplauded, they
become the teachers, the true missionaries of _Frau Musik_ to the
people.

What is it then, which promotes a few "fortunate" ones from the armies
of students all over America and Europe and makes of them great
virtuosos? What must one do to become a virtuoso? How long must one
study before one may make a _debut_? What does a great virtuoso receive
for his performances? How long does the virtuoso practice each day? What
exercises does he use? All these and many more similar questions crop up
regularly in the offices of music critics and in the studios of
teachers. Unfortunately, a definite answer can be given to none,
although a great deal may be learned by reviewing some of the
experiences of one who became great.

Some virtuosos actually seem to be born with the heavenly gift. Many
indeed are sons and daughters of parents who see their own demolished
dreams realized in the triumphs of their children. When little Nathan
creeps to the piano and quite without the help of his elders picks out
the song he has heard his mother sing,--all the neighbors in Odessa know
it the next day. "A wonder child perhaps!" Oh happy augury of fame and
fortune! Little Nathan shall have the best of instruction. His mother
will teach him at first, of course. She will shape his little fingers to
the keyboard. She will sing sweet folk melodies in his ear,--songs of
labor, struggle, exile. She will count laboriously day after day until
he "plays in time." All the while the little mother sees far beyond the
Ghetto,--out into the great world,--grand auditoriums, breathless
crowds, countless lights, nobles granting trinkets, bravos from a
thousand throats, Nathan surrounded by endless wreaths of laurel,--Oh,
it is all too much,--"Nathan! Nathan! you are playing far too fast. One,
two, three, four,--one, two, three, four,--there, that is the tempo
Clementi would have had it. Fine! Some day, Nathan, you will be a great
pianist and--" etc., etc.

Nathan next goes to the great teacher. He is already eight years old and
fairly leaping out of his mother's arms. Two y