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 Grünwald, 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.

CHAPTER 6
“THEY WILL LISTEN”

All summer long the lovely town of Morges had its share of the Swiss tourist business, but no date in the year meant more to the hotel keepers, bakers, florists and other local businessmen than July 31. It was the happiest town holiday of the year. July 31 is the feast of the great St. Ignatius Loyola, founder of the Society of Jesus. It was, therefore, Ignace Paderewski’s feast day. Paderewski had a great devotion to his noble patron, and St. Ignatius’ day was the occasion on which friends from all over the world gathered at Riond-Bosson to celebrate with him.

As the years passed, the Paderewski feast day parties became famous as the most brilliant gatherings in Europe, for among the guests were the world’s most talented and witty people. Great care was expended on these festive occasions not only on the refreshments, which were superb, but on the entertainment, which was unique!

The celebration of July 31, 1914, was as lovingly and carefully planned as all the others, but a cloud of apprehension hung over the day. One month had passed since the assassination of the Austrian Archduke, Franz Ferdinand. This act of violence had triggered the chain of events that would lead to the catastrophe of world war. An uneasy peace was still in effect, but no one could guess how long it would last. After Mass, the day, usually devoted exclusively to fun, was punctuated by closed-door conferences with military and diplomatic leaders.

But when the time came for the evening’s festivities, everyone tried to relax and forget the troubles of the world, if only for a few hours. The dinner was one of Antonina’s and the chef’s greatest triumphs. The decorations—this year everything was ultra-Chinese—were a delight. The dancing was especially amusing because of the newly-imported American ragtime. The “ragging” music was provided by eight hands on two pianos. The hands belonged to Olga Samaroff, Josef Hofman, Ernest Schelling, and Rudolf Ganz. As for the entertainment! Schelling, who was Paderewski’s favorite pupil, was its mastermind. At midnight he summoned the guests to the drawing room, where chairs had been set up for the performance. Tonight, the guests were told, they were in for an unprecedented treat—a world premiere! They were to hear the first performance of “a symphony by Schoenberg!” Arnold Schoenberg was the leading composer of a type of new music that was understood by very few people, and Paderewski was known to turn a particularly deaf ear in its direction. Hence the delighted laughter and applause when the audience heard that a “Schoenberg Symphony” had mysteriously turned up in manuscript at Riond-Bosson. Paderewski, for whom the entertainment was always a jealously guarded surprise, threw up his hands in mock horror.

To perform the new “symphony,” Schelling and his fellow members of the “orchestra” had raided the kitchen and the rest of the estate for every noise-making instrument they could lay hands on: pots and pans, cups and saucers, eggbeaters and typewriters, hoses and horseshoes. With Schelling’s frenzied conducting to urge them on, the musicians turned in a truly superb performance. At the climax of the work, pots, pans, dishes, garden tools, everything went hurtling into a large rain barrel, with a crash that could probably be heard across Lake Geneva. Overcome by the beauty of it all, the exhausted conductor himself plunged head first into the barrel.

As the last echo of golden sound died away, as the audience gathered its collective breath to unleash a chorus of “bravo’s,” the telephone rang.

The telephone had been ringing all day, bringing greetings from missing friends. Why, then, was there so ominous a quality in the sound of it now? Paderewski was summoned by the butler and disappeared up the short flight of steps that led from the drawing room. A few minutes later he appeared at the top step and looked down at the guests who were now conversing in tense whispers.

“My friends,” he said quietly, “the war is here.”

The war had come, as inevitably it would. The cost of the next four years in human life and human misery was something so dreadful that few people could even begin to imagine it. How ironic, thought Paderewski, that in the cataclysm of war would be found the means of freeing Poland from a century and a half of bondage. “We have known it would come,” he told the men who gathered in his study at dawn on August 1, “yet we are not prepared. The gigantic armies of Germany and Russia will clash on this helpless body!” He pointed a finger at the map of Poland that lay on the table before him. “But while Poland’s jailers attack each other, their captive will escape!”

Yet he shuddered at the thought of what would happen to his country in the immediate future. The geographical location of Poland made it an absolute certainty that the full impact of war would fall upon the defenseless country. The armies of Poland’s three masters would ravage the land and strip it bare.

Politically, too, the situation immediately became dangerous so far as Poland’s future was concerned. Within two weeks after the beginning of the war, the Czar of Russia issued a proclamation offering freedom and love to his beloved Poles! “The time has come when the dream of your fathers and forefathers will at length be realized!... Under the [Russian] sceptre Poland will come together, free in faith, in language, and in self-government!... With open heart, with hand fraternally outstretched, great Russia comes to you!”

Paderewski and his fellow-Poles could hardly keep from laughing a very bitter laugh indeed at this sudden change of heart on the part of Russia, for Russia had until then emphatically denied that there was such a country as Poland. It couldn’t be, could it, that the Russians were hoping to line up Polish support against Germany and Austria, by dangling the hope of freedom before the Poles? The worst of this hollow offer was the fact that Russia was one of the allies of England and France. When the question of a free Poland finally came up, might the allies not be unwilling to act against one of themselves? Might they not say, “The question of Polish freedom is settled. Russia will take care of it!”

These problems and hundreds of others were all on Paderewski’s mind during the next hectic weeks at Riond-Bosson, as he contemplated his country’s future—and his own. Paderewski had already made himself a career rich enough and rewarding enough to fill the life of any one man. Now he was standing on the brink of a second career—a greater one, he believed. “My country before everything else,” he had said so many times. “After that—art!”

The group at Riond-Bosson realized that the first thing they had to do was to organize a relief committee for the Polish victims of war. They asked the great Polish writer, Henry Sienkiewicz, author of Quo Vadis, to manage its affairs in Switzerland. The Paderewskis themselves then prepared to leave their home and go to Paris and London. Antonina was left in charge of Riond-Bosson, which overnight had become a refugee shelter.

In Paris, Paderewski conferred with his countryman, Roman Dmowski, who was attempting to organize some sort of national committee to represent Poland before the other nations of the world.

In London he renewed old acquaintances, social and political. A peppery little Welshman named Lloyd George was Prime Minister. He thought the idea of a free, restored Poland one of the most ridiculous ideas he had ever heard. Others did not. Paderewski’s friends from happier days now rallied around him to help with Polish relief work, even though England herself was beginning to feel the economic hardships of war. A Polish Relief Committee was formed and within four months had raised a quarter of a million dollars for relief. At its head was Miss Laurence Alma-Tadema, who had admired Paderewski since the long past day when she had first seen him posing for his portrait in her father’s studio.

With affairs in Switzerland, Paris, and London under control, Paderewski was now free to turn his face towards the country that he firmly believed held the key to Poland’s future. In January of 1915, he sailed for America.

When Paderewski returned to the United States in January of 1915 he had two missions to accomplish. The first was to raise money to feed the starving people of Poland. No one thought there was anything odd about the world-famous pianist devoting himself to the cause of his suffering countrymen. It was the sort of thing one expected of artists.

The second part of his task was much more complex. The war was only six months old. No one knew how long it would last, but some day it would be over. That much, at least, was certain. And when that day came, statesmen from all over the world would sit down in conference to draw the new boundary lines of Europe. If the dream of a free Poland were ever to become a reality, it would be then. But who among these statesmen knew or cared anything about the fate of a country that geographically had ceased to exist one hundred years ago? At the moment they had other things on their minds—such as winning a war. And in neutral America, the chief concern of responsible statesmen was the question of staying out of the war.

In Washington, D.C., Robert Lansing, the United States Secretary of State, and therefore the most important man in the field of foreign policy, was surprised one day when his secretary told him that the pianist Paderewski had asked for an appointment. He was even more surprised when the famous man arrived in his office and began to talk, eloquently he admitted, about the ideal of a united and independent Poland.

Secretary Lansing was a true diplomat. Although the question of reuniting the former country of Poland was about the last thing in the world he had time to discuss, he listened courteously. His thoughts were all negative. “This man is way out of his depth. He’s a sentimental idealist. What does he know about the cold, cut-throat facts of international politics? He’s trying to do something that’s impossible.”

As gently as he could, Lansing asked a few pointed questions. Whom did Paderewski represent? The Polish government? There was no Polish government. The Polish people? But which ones? The German-Poles? The Austrian-Poles? The Russian-Poles? There was no such thing as a unified Polish people whose ideas the statesmen of the world would respect because of sheer force of numbers. As for the Poles in America, Lansing pointed out, they were more hopelessly divided than the Poles who actually lived in the divided country! Paderewski was only too well aware of this fact. He had often smiled over the old joke that says, “Put two Poles on a sofa and you have a new political party!”

In the United States several Polish relief committees were already in existence. Naturally each group was trying its best to snare the famous pianist for its own ranks. The minute his ship had landed, he had been besieged by their representatives. He had walked by the hour with them in Central Park, listening to each man’s arguments in favor of his own point of view. He had committed himself to none of them.

The man who could actually bring off the task of unifying the American Poles would have to be a political genius, not a musical genius, Lansing thought. As he studied the flying hair and romantically flowing tie of his visitor, he decided that this was decidedly not the man to do it.

During the next few weeks Paderewski became accustomed to the faint smile with which government officials greeted him. He knew so well what they were thinking. “What does a pianist know about international affairs?”

As Paderewski prepared to cross the country and begin his tour, he felt discouraged but not despondent. The men he had seen in Washington were important men, but they were not the ones who would really count in the end. There was a man—exactly the right man—whose support he needed, the “providential man” for whom he prayed and waited. But he knew that God would send him when it was time.

The city of San Francisco was holding a great exposition. The committee had asked Paderewski to play a concert for the occasion, since he had always been San Francisco’s favorite artist. When he replied that he was in the country to speak for Polish relief, not to play concerts, they willingly changed their offer. He could talk, he could play, he could do anything he liked. They in turn would guarantee him an audience of thousands who would be glad to hear whatever he had to say. It was a fine way to begin his career as a speaker, Paderewski thought. But as the day and finally the hour itself approached, he grew more and more nervous.

“What makes me think I can persuade an audience?” he asked his wife. “By playing—perhaps. But by speaking! And in English! How do I know they will even listen to me?”

Madame Paderewska’s eyes did not stray an inch from the sock she was knitting. She smiled patiently and said for the tenth time that day, “They will listen.”

As Paderewski walked toward the stage of the enormous auditorium that night, he longed for the blissful assurance he had once had of knowing exactly how every note was going to sound. He stepped out from the wings—and then stopped in his tracks at the breath-taking sight that greeted him.

The stage was bare except for the piano. Hanging behind the piano was an enormous flag that had been made only a day before. It covered the huge back wall of the building from one side to the other, and from ceiling to floor. A triumphant white eagle on a blood-red field! The flag of Poland!

Paderewski’s nervousness vanished. He felt a great surge of confidence both for the present moment and for the future. The audience was cheering wildly, but as he walked to the front of the stage and bowed, a deep silence settled over the hall.

He said, “I have to speak to you about a country which is not yours, in a language which is not mine.”

It was the first of over three hundred speeches. It was the opening of a journey that would carry him to every state in the country. He would travel thousands of miles to speak thousands of words. And with the unerring instinct of an artist, he had begun with a phrase that sent an electric shock through that first audience and every future audience that heard it.

“A country which is not yours—” Yet as Paderewski traveled from city to city, from platform to platform, more and more Americans began to sense a kinship with the country that did not even appear on the map. For the first time the bitter irony of the Polish situation became clear to them. Here was a country that had lost its freedom four years before America’s had been declared. Yet Poland had been one of the first nations in the world to advance the beliefs on which America had been founded. “Already in the fifteenth century a self-governing country, Poland became, in 1573, a regular republic, with kings elected. In 1430, consequently 259 years before the habeas corpus of England ... Poland established her famous law ‘No man shall be detained unless legally convicted.’ Our broad, liberal Constitution of 1791 preceded by 57 years the Constitution of Germany and Austria, and by 114 years the so-called Constitution of Russia. And all these momentous reforms ... were accomplished without revolution, without any bloodshed, without the loss of one single human life. Does it prove our dissensions? Does it prove our anarchy? Does it prove our inability to govern ourselves?”

“In a language which is not mine—” Yet somehow he had made it his. Audiences that had loved Paderewski the pianist now realized that he was equally great as an orator, although he spoke simply and without dramatic gestures.

When he finished speaking, he would turn to the piano and continue his plea for Poland in still another language. He would play the music of Chopin, and when the listeners finally left the hall, they knew that they had lived through a unique emotional experience.

It was no wonder that money for Polish relief began to pour in. Few people who heard Paderewski say “Give me seed for this trampled, wasted land, bread for these starving!” could resist the appeal. Generous America took the forgotten Polish people to its heart. By presidential decree a special “Polish Day” was established, because in the eyes of America “Poland” had become synonymous with “Paderewski,” the beloved artist who had so enriched the golden era of peace.

Although the first half of his mission had flourished beyond his greatest hopes, Paderewski felt that so far he had done very little about the second half. He had talked to plenty of government officials and diplomats, but they had little to offer beyond polite interest. Not until he had been in the United States for a year was he able to take the first sizable step. As he had known it must, it came through the intervention of one man, a man who was neither government official nor diplomat. He was the man to whom Paderewski would write, “It has been the dream of my life to find a providential man for my country. I am now sure that I have not been dreaming vain dreams.”

CHAPTER 7
THE PROVIDENTIAL MAN

Colonel Edward Mandell House, who had never accepted a political office, was more powerful than any man in Washington. He was the confidential adviser of President Woodrow Wilson. “His thoughts and mine are one,” Wilson said of House, whom he regarded as the most unselfish, patriotic man he knew. No one in the country had a greater understanding of European affairs than House. “A super-civilized person,” the French statesman, Clemenceau, said of him, “escaped from the wilds of Texas, who sees everything, who understands everything ... a sifting, pondering mind.”

From the day he had left England, Paderewski had known that he could not succeed unless he somehow got to House and convinced him of the justice in Polish claims. But Paderewski was not the only foreigner in the country who wanted something from the Colonel. House was under constant siege by representatives of small countries who were hoping to gain something by the peace settlement. Since America was still neutral, House had to be careful in dealing with these men or even in seeing them. This is why Paderewski proceeded cautiously in his opening moves toward the Colonel. The fact that House’s apartment was a three minute walk from Paderewski’s hotel was an added source of frustration. So short a distance separated him from the man who could do so much for him!

Then one day early in 1916, his prayers were suddenly answered. Paderewski’s discreet diplomacy had born fruit in a typical way. A Paderewski friend had wangled a letter of introduction from an Assistant Secretary of Agriculture to Mr. Robert Wooley, director of the U.S. Mint. Mr. Wooley was known to be a close friend of Colonel House. One day he sent word from Washington that he would be in New York in two days and would try to arrange a meeting between Paderewski and the Colonel. Paderewski was learning his new role in a practical way. As many a diplomat had done before and after him, he had gained his objective through a friend of a friend of a friend of the man he wanted to meet.

Mr. Wooley had sternly cautioned Paderewski against over-optimism. So his heart sank when he was greeted at the door by a radiant Madame Paderewska. “You are going to save Poland!” she cried, her beautiful eyes filled with tears. “I know it!” And as the two men walked the few blocks to House’s East Fifty-third Street brownstone home, the practical man of business wondered even more at the Polish pianist’s calm and complete faith in the events of the next few minutes. Well, perhaps he was right, but Wooley was inclined to doubt it.

Colonel House had marked half an hour off his tight schedule for his interview with Paderewski, so the two men did not waste time on small talk. Paderewski had been waiting a long time for this moment. He was ready for it. Pacing up and down the Colonel’s library, he began to tell his story. Point by point he built his arguments for Poland, with a mixture of logic and eloquence that an experienced lawyer might have envied.

The half hour flew by. Nervously Mr. Wooley looked at his watch and then glanced at the Colonel. “Let him go on,” House muttered. “Don’t interrupt him.”

An hour passed and then another hour. Whatever Colonel House’s later appointments were, they were cancelled. Never in his career of listening to people who wanted something had he heard a man plead his cause so irresistibly.

When he had made his last point, Paderewski stopped and waited for the Colonel to speak. House’s part in the two hour conversation was limited to three sentences, but they were the most beautiful words Paderewski had ever heard. “You have convinced me,” he said, rising and holding out his hand. “I promise you to help Poland if I can. And I believe I can.”

It was the beginning of a profound friendship between the two men, one so eloquent, and one so silent. And with the Colonel completely won over to his side, the door to the White House stood open to Paderewski at last. By the summer of 1916 House felt that the time had come to introduce the pianist to President Wilson. He arranged to have the Paderewskis invited to a diplomatic dinner at the White House.

Woodrow Wilson was a scholar and a statesman. He had been a college president before he went into politics. Such a man, Paderewski believed, would understand the justice of his cause.

There was great excitement after dinner that night when guests saw the piano in the East Room being opened. Was Paderewski really going to play? He was, they were told, since the President had asked him to do so.

Although President Wilson did not know a great deal about music, it did not take any special knowledge to get the message that the Polish artist was trying to convey by means of Chopin’s music. Paderewski and Chopin had become partners in this enterprise, and never had the two worked together so eloquently. As Wilson and Paderewski talked briefly together after the performance, the pianist felt that he had won his country another powerful ally.

It worked both ways. Wilson, too, had won an ally. 1916 was an election year. Paderewski campaigned actively for Wilson’s reelection all during the fall. Many Polish voters, following the lead of the Polish clergy, were Republicans. Paderewski convinced them that their country’s first real hope in a hundred years depended on a victory for Wilson. In the end he delivered the large Polish vote almost one hundred percent.

On the day before elections, when the campaigner had expected to relax a little, came shattering news from Europe. Germany had issued a proclamation declaring that Poland was a free and independent nation. The freedom and independence, of course, were the affectionate gift of the German government. The story behind the “gift” was actually a simple one. Germany had previously shown no sign of any such good will to the Polish people. Far from it. As soon as the Russians had been driven out, the German and Austrian leaders had gathered over a map of Poland and had once more divided it up, this time in a two-way split—one half for Germany, one half for Austria. Now suddenly they were declaring the country reunited and free! Why?

Paderewski knew why. It was not Polish freedom the German leaders wanted. It was Polish manpower. They were convinced that if they presented Poland with independence, a million Polish volunteers would gratefully flock to enlist in the German army and could be used to fight the Russians in the East. The other reason for the move was a more subtle danger. If the Poles appeared to accept the offer and consented to be taken under the loving wing of Germany, then America and the Allies would lose interest in the cause of Polish freedom. Poland herself would be regarded as a friend of the enemy.

Paderewski saw through the trick easily. “This means only more suffering for my people,” he told House. “It means that another army will be raised and that there will be more killing and more devastation!” He realized that everything he had won during the past few years was in danger of being destroyed in one day. Unless he acted quickly. But what could he do? Never before had he felt so cruelly his lack of real authority. If only he were the official spokesman for some truly representative Polish groups, so that when he spoke a firm majority of Poles spoke with him.

There was only one thing to be said for the fact that he had everything to lose: he could afford to take a desperate gamble. Cable lines buzzed between New York and Paris, Paris and Chicago, Chicago and New York. Within a few hours a statement was issued and flashed to every Allied country. The German offer was rejected, flatly and permanently. The message was signed by Paderewski and was approved by the Paris Committee and by several groups in the United States.

But what about the rest of his countrymen, Paderewski wondered. What about the millions of poor Poles who were not trained thinkers, who might not see the worm in the shining German apple? Would they support him, or would they demand the right to seize their freedom no matter who offered it to them?

He soon had his answer. Every Polish society in the country immediately voted to make Paderewski its official representative. They gave him full power of attorney to make decisions and to act for them in all political matters. From then on, when he spoke he was speaking with the voice of three million Polish-Americans.