There never has been occasion to record what would happen if the
"doctor" were to say, "No, sir." For he always has been able to answer
in the affirmative, with the most scrupulous regard for veracity.
Paderewski is as careful to play his best in the least important place
in which he gives a concert as he is in New York. This high sense of
duty toward his public accounts in part for his supremacy among
pianists Paderewski is not a mere virtuoso. He is a man of fine
intellectual gifts who plays the piano like a poet. Paul Potter, the
playwright, who lives in Geneva, Switzerland, and occasionally has
dined there with Paderewski, tells me that he has conversed with the
pianist on almost every conceivable subject _except music_ and always
found him remarkably well informed. His knowledge of the history of
his native land, Poland, and of its literature is said to be quite
wonderful. Chopin, also a Pole, he idolizes and regards as far and
away the greatest composer for the piano. To the fund for the Chopin
memorial at Warsaw he contributes by charging one dollar for his
autograph, and two dollars for his signature and a few bars of music.
From the money received as the proceeds of one season's autographs he
was able to remit about $1,300 to the fund.
When the amusing little dialogue at the supper table, which I have
recorded, takes place, the pianoforte which the virtuoso has used at
his concert already will be on the way to its next destination. For it
is part of the "doctor's" duty to see it safely out of the hall and
onto the train before rejoining the party on the private car. The
instrument is not boxed. The legs are removed and then a carefully
fitted canvas is drawn over the body and held in place by straps. The
body is slid out of the hall and slowly let down onto a specially
constructed eight-wheel skid, swung low, so as to be as nearly as
possible on a level with the platform. This skid is part of the outfit
of the tour. The record time for detaching the legs of the pianoforte,
covering the body, removing the instrument from the stage and having
it on the skid ready to start for the station, is seven minutes.
"Thawing Out" a Pianoforte.
The instruments never are set up except under the "doctor's" personal
supervision. Before each concert the pianoforte on which Paderewski is
to play is carefully gone over and put in perfect condition--tuned
and, if necessary, regulated, and this no matter how recently he may
have used it. Defects so trifling that neither an ordinary player nor
the public would notice them, would jar on the sensitive ear and
nerves of the virtuoso. Sometimes the instrument has been exposed to
such a low temperature that frost is found to have formed not only on
the lid, but even on the iron plate inside. In such cases the
pianoforte is set up and, after the film of frost has been scraped
off, is allowed to thaw out slowly and naturally before it is touched
for tuning or regulating.
There was an amusing incident in the handling of one of the Paderewski
instruments at Columbus, Mississippi, where Paderewski played for
seven hundred girls at the State College, although it was more
exciting than diverting at the time it happened. The "doctor" relies
on local help for getting the pianoforte from the skid to the stage
and back again. Usually efficient helpers are obtainable, but at
Columbus, where the college hall is upstairs and reached only by a
narrow flight of steps, there was no aid to be had save from among the
negroes lounging on the public square. The "doctor" went among them.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Nawthin'."
"Want a job?"
"Naw, too busy," was the usual reply.
At last, however, a band of twenty "colored gentlemen" was secured in
the hope that muscle and quantity would make up for lack of quality.
But never before has a high-grade pianoforte been in such imminent
peril. It was got upstairs well enough, in spite of the fact that the
negroes walked all over each other. But the descent! The "doctor,"
Emil C. Fischer, stood at the top of the stairs directing; J. E.
Francke, the treasurer of the tour, below. Around the latter fell a
shower of fragments from the wall, the rail, the posts; and at one
time it seemed as if the whole banister would give way and the
pianoforte crash in splinters on the floor. There were other moments
of suspense, for the pianoforte as well as for the two watchers, who
drew a long breath when the instrument safely was on the skid.
Fortunately such untoward incidents are forgotten in the general
atmosphere of good-humor which the pianist diffuses about him. He
enjoys his little joke. During the last tour he handed a photograph of
himself to Mr. Francke inscribed: "To the future Governor of Hoboken."
At the Auditorium hotel, Chicago, Millward Adams' brother, about
leaving on a trip, asked for an autograph. Paderewski, quick as a
flash, wrote:
"For the brother of Mr. _Adams_ on the _Eve_ of his departure from
Chicago."
Paderewski travels on a special train. With him usually are his wife,
his manager, the treasurer of the tour, the piano "doctor," a
secretary, valet and maid. His home is a villa on Lake Geneva, where
he has a beautiful garden and vinery, his dogs, his room for
billiards, a game of which he is very fond, and unlimited opportunity
for swimming, his favorite exercise. Apparently slender and surely
most poet-looking at the piano, he is a man of iron strength as well
as of iron will.