Chapter 5: A Promise Fulfilled

The money he had made in America was important to him for one reason: Alfred. At last he was able to afford the kind of country holiday he felt would be best for the boy's health. Father and son spent a few wonderful months together in northern France. To his great joy, both his sister, Antonina, and Edward Kerntopf came from Poland for a visit. Antonina brought with her the love and blessings of their father, Jan Paderewski, who was too ill to travel, but the sister could report at first hand how his great pride in his son had illumined the good man's last years.

While Paderewski gave his sore arm a chance to recuperate, he devoted himself to composing. He began work on an opera called "Manru," a folk story of the gypsies who lived in the Tatra Mountains of which he had such happy memories.

His return to the stage was delayed for over a year, for the injured arm was not responding well to the treatments of the numerous doctors who worked on it. The combination of time and a gifted Parisian masseur finally restored the use of his fourth finger, but it never, he felt, regained its original strength.

It was the last year off he would have for some time. During the next decade his spiraling career would carry him at dizzying speed over thousands of miles on five continents. In America, at least, he quickly found a way around the tyranny of train schedules and hotel reservations. He rented his own private Pullman car. In it, together with his secretary, chef and piano tuner, he traveled all over America. The Pullman car was the home where he lived, ate, slept, and practiced during his tours. Although it cost him the equivalent of twenty-five first class fares, it was well worth it. It was, in fact, the reason why his tours could include so many out-of-the-way places and why so many people had a chance to hear him. But the principal advantage to railroad living was the fact that at last he could practice as loud, as long, and as late as he wished!

This was the golden age of American railroading. What rare, romantic moments were added to its history by the roving pianist! All over the country the same sort of scene repeated itself: a lone Pullman car, sitting at night on a siding--waiting, perhaps, to be coupled to the next express train going through Boston, or Chicago, or San Francisco; railroad workers, and even passing hobos, silently gathered around it listening to the glorious sounds of music that poured out across the almost deserted railyard.

Music was not the only thing that came out of that famous car. The hobo population, with its rapid communication system, soon spread the word that the Paderewski car was always good for a free meal. When Mr. Cooper, the magnificent but temperamental chef, finally put his foot down, Paderewski instructed his secretary to have fifty-cent pieces ready for the men instead of food.

Not everyone would find it possible to live happily in a Pullman car. But Paderewski had a happy combination of physical and mental gifts that made this life seem quite pleasant. He slept without any difficulty, putting worries aside and falling into a sound sleep as soon as he went to bed. His bedtime, to be sure, was rather erratic on concert nights. Whenever he played he worked himself up to such a frenzy of excitement that it took him hours to "unwind." But he had two unfailing methods of relaxation--billiards and bridge. He was fiendishly expert at both.

Paderewski's generosity--whether to whole audiences or to individuals--was boundless. Many railroad companies ran special Paderewski excursion trains from the country into the cities where he was playing. If one of these trains was delayed by bad weather, Paderewski would simply wait for its arrival or would add an extra hour of music at the end of the recital for the benefit of disappointed late-comers.

As for his generosity to individuals--it was the despair of poor Goerlitz, who tried hard to set some limit to his employer's open-handedness in money matters! There was no point at all, Goerlitz knew, in even trying to reason with him if the people asking his help were Polish. In such cases, he was hopeless. But the secretary often wished that he would not be quite so generous about matters that were strictly business. Like fees! There was that incident in California, for example....

A young engineering student named Herbert Hoover was working his way through Stanford University by a variety of methods. First he organized a laundry pick-up and delivery service. Then, with another student for a partner, he opened a lecture and concert bureau. The amateur managers had not done well with their last attraction--a speech by William Jennings Bryan--and they hoped to recoup with their big spring attraction, Paderewski. But the concert business is filled with pitfalls for the unwary, as the young men were about to learn. Paderewski's fee was high for those days--$2,000. Therefore the price of the tickets was high--higher than the residents of San Jose and environs were used to paying. The managers had also failed to notice that the date selected for their concert was in Holy Week, which cut down attendance still further. Their Paderewski concert turned out to be an artistic triumph--but a financial disaster. When the last word was in from the box office, the poor impresarios found themselves somewhat short of their expenses. It was a solemn moment.

The two students held a hasty conference. The first obligation, of course, was to pay the artist. The local people to whom they owed money for the rental of the hall, the advertising, the printing, and all the rest, would probably accept i.o.u.'s until they could find a way to pay their debts. Fortunately for the two students, word of this leaked out to Paderewski. He took quite a different view of the situation.

"Add up all the expenses of presenting this concert, down to the last penny," he told the young men. "Then subtract it from the box office receipts. Whatever you have left is enough for me."

"But Mr. Paderewski--that will leave you $400 short of your fee! Let us give you a note and pay it back as soon as--"

"No, no, no." He waved aside the suggestion good-naturedly. "It is enough. After all, if I did not _earn_ my fee for you, why should you pay it to me?"

This was the sort of fuzzy remark that nearly drove poor Goerlitz out of his mind.

"I hope that some day there'll be something I can do for you!" young Hoover said, as managers and artist shook hands. But he felt slightly foolish as soon as he said it. It was unlikely that a poor engineering student would ever be able to do anything for the most famous concert artist in the world.

It is possible for a person to be blessed with generosity and yet be a little short on patience. Since Paderewski had both virtues to an amazing degree, he gave his time as easily as he gave his money, and of the two commodities, time is often more valuable. Although it often bored him to the point of stupefaction, he was unfailingly polite about hearing young pianists play. A night in Kansas City was typical. Paderewski had played a tremendous recital before an enormous audience--nearly seventeen thousand people. After the performance, as he greeted his friends and admirers backstage, he recognized a lady whom he knew as a former Leschetizky pupil. Her name was Mrs. White. A serious-looking boy of about twelve or thirteen was standing with her as she waited for the crowd to disperse.

After mutual greetings she came straight to the point. "Mr. Paderewski, this boy is one of my prize pupils. Right now he's working on the Minuet. And he's having some difficulty with the turn." Paderewski smiled. Ah the Minuet! The Paderewski Minuet in G! How many youngsters all over the world were "working" on the Minuet! And most of them were having trouble with the turn.

Paderewski looked at the boy. "Sit down at the piano, young man!" he said sternly, his eyes twinkling.

("He scared me half to death!" the student, glancing back over that evening from a vantage point of sixty years, would say.)

The boy sat down and played the Minuet. When he got to the problematic turn, the composer stopped him and gave him careful instructions in the exact fingering necessary to bring it off properly. When the master-class was over, he shook hands and wished the lad success in his musical career. The boy went home in a glow of inspiration and for days worked at the piano even harder than usual. (He was already in the habit of getting up at 5 A.M. in order to practice two hours before going to school.) A few years later, however, the eager young piano student suddenly decided that piano playing was not for big boys. He gave up his idea of a career in music and went on to other things, including the White House. His name was Harry S Truman.

On the night of their meeting, of course, neither Paderewski nor the boy had any way of knowing that on a night in Kansas City the future President of Poland had just given a piano lesson to the future President of the United States.

It was not until the year 1899, with a widespread reputation firmly established, that Paderewski accepted an invitation to play a series of concerts in Russia. He had not been back there since the youthful venture twenty years earlier, from which his father's dream had so literally rescued him. On the way to Russia, he played three concerts in Warsaw, returning to his boyhood home where he was received with every kind of honor. It was not so when he arrived in Russia. While audiences everywhere were enthusiastic, Paderewski felt keenly the strong hostility of the conservatories of both Moscow and St. Petersburg.

The real problem lay in the hatred many Russians held for anything Polish. As a Pole, Paderewski felt many slights, heard many unfriendly remarks and even open hissing during his tour. He was not sorry when it was over.

Soon after his return from Russia, Paderewski married the beautiful Mme. Gorska with whom he had fallen in love during the years that she had done her best to act as a mother for Alfred. With his son and his new wife he settled down for a rest on the beautiful estate, Riond-Bosson, on Lake Geneva in Switzerland. He had bought the villa so that Alfred could have the quiet, open-air surroundings prescribed for him. Paderewski was happier than he had been for years.

Riond-Bosson also gave Mme. Paderewska an opportunity to indulge one of her favorite hobbies: poultry farming. The chicken houses as well as the fruit trees of the place became famous.

The grapes of Riond-Bosson were of surpassing sweetness and juiciness. One of their greatest admirers in later years was Paderewski's devoted friend, Achille Ratti, the papal nuncio in Poland. Paderewski always made it a point to supply him with the first growth of these luscious grapes. Even when the papal diplomat took up permanent residence in Rome and could no longer visit at Riond-Bosson, he received his grapes. Border officials sometimes balked at passing the fruit through the customs, but what could a mere customs officer do when told that the grapes were a gift from the beloved Paderewski to his friend, Pope Pius XI.

And when Paderewski went on tour, his wife was his constant companion, remaining in the dressing room while he played and doing everything in her power to shield him from the prickly harassments of concert work.

The great happiness that came to him at his marriage was followed very shortly by a great but not unexpected sorrow. Paderewski, while playing in Spain, was called home by the news that Alfred had died. A lifetime of care, of watchful attention and special treatments had not been able to save him. At twenty, he was buried in the Cemetery of Montmorency in Paris, near the tomb of Chopin.

For Paderewski, work had always been the surest antidote for grief. He now turned all of his energy to the finishing details of his opera, "Manru," which was to be produced at the Dresden Opera in May, 1901. Eight years of work lay behind the premiere of "Manru," which was shortly thereafter performed in many of the leading opera houses of Europe. The following winter the Metropolitan Opera in New York presented it with an all-star cast and included it in five cities of its annual tour. While the opera had, generally, a friendly reception, one critic remarked sourly, "What a pity that Paderewski is now composing, for he is no more a great pianist." He stood firmly alone in his opinion.

Paderewski had been the favorite pianist of Europe and North and South America long enough for the news of his greatness to spread clear around the world. In the spring of 1904 he set out on a tour of Australia. On this trip Paderewski's baggage problem was complicated beyond memory. The Paderewski menage was enlarged by the addition of some forty parrots. Mme. Paderewska had a fondness for all types of birds, and the talking variety fascinated her.

One of these animals became a special favorite of Paderewski's. Named Cockey Roberts, he was, according to his master, "more than a parrot. He was a real artist in his way." Paderewski's particular delight was Cockey Roberts' habit of perching on his foot during practice sessions. "He would sit perfectly still," Paderewski recalled, "and then from time to time, he would say in a very loving and scratchy voice, 'Oh! Lord, how beautiful!' It was touching."

Very few pianists ever retire from public performance, even briefly, at the height of their careers. Paderewski, however, did so in 1906. From causes he describes as partly physical and partly psychological, he had begun to feel a curious but very real aversion to the piano. Not even the estate in Switzerland, where he could let the sometimes healing forces of farming work on his nerves, helped much. When, in order to earn some money, he returned to concerts for a time, he found the distaste for the piano still strong. Physicians tried their arts on him, one even resorting to hypnosis. By 1909 Paderewski said, "The easiest pieces in my repertoire I could not manage. The touch was strange to me. It was torture." Perhaps Paderewski's sudden distaste for his lifelong routine came about because he was beginning to prepare himself subconsciously for a new and wholly unexpected career.

In 1910 an event occurred that was both important in itself and of great significance for the future. 1910 was a year of doubly historic moment in the history of Poland. It was the centenary of the birth of Chopin. It was also the 500th anniversary of the Battle of Grunwald, in which a victorious Polish army had driven out a foreign invader. Paderewski had never once during the past forty years forgotten that a small boy of ten had vowed to build a great memorial in honor of that battle for Polish freedom.

He had commissioned a talented Polish sculptor to design such a monument, and on the 500th anniversary of the battle it was unveiled and presented to the city of Cracow. On the base of it were carved these words:

"For the glory of our ancestors and the encouragement of our
brothers."

As the donor of the new monument, Paderewski made a presentation speech which was marked with the deepest patriotic fervor. Though he spoke quietly, the Cracow speech strongly showed Paderewski's deep knowledge of political affairs. And at a reception in his honor, after the formal presentation, the voice of the pianist was heard in a piece of peculiarly accurate political prophecy:

"Brothers, the hour of our freedom is about to strike. Within five years a fratricidal war will soak with blood the whole earth. Prepare, compatriots mine, brother Poles, prepare, because from the ashes of burned and devastated cities, villages, houses, and from the dust of this tortured soil will rise the Polish Phoenix."

It was during these days at Cracow that those in charge of the Chopin centenary asked Paderewski to be present at Lwow for the ceremonies there. At that time, also, his symphony was to be heard for the first time in the country whose story is enclosed in its measures. For the symphony's first movement is entitled "_In Memoriam_." Its second, a song of hope, is called "_Sursum Corda_," and the finale is a symphonic poem based on heroic Polish melodies. At Lwow, the composer and the orator spoke with equal eloquence.

Paderewski's voice rang with determined courage as he recalled Poland's glorious history, even under long oppression. His words closed with a promise of triumph as powerful as the final pages of the symphony, as he said, "Let us brace our hearts to fresh endurance, let us adjust our minds to action, energetic, righteous; let us uplift our consciousness by faith invisible; for the nation cannot perish which has a soul so great and immortal.

"Let the oppressor hear, I do not fear him!"

Small wonder that the Russian police, when the symphony was played in Warsaw the following year, forbade the printing of any program notes referring to the significance of its themes. But by that time every Pole had heard Paderewski's words and knew the meaning of his music.