CHAPTER 1_The Lion of Poland: The Story of Paderewski

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[Illustration: Monument.]

THE LION OF POLAND

_The Story of Paderewski_

by RUTH AND PAUL HUME

[Illustration: Street scene.]

ILLUSTRATED BY LILI RÉTHI

[Illustration: CREDO BOOKS]

_Hawthorn Books, Inc._ _Publishers_ _New York_

the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form,

except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. All inquiries

should be addressed to Hawthorn Books, Inc., 70 Fifth Avenue, New York

City 11. This book was manufactured in the United States of America and

published simultaneously in Canada by McClelland & Stewart, Ltd., 25

Hollinger Road, Toronto 16. Library of Congress Catalogue Number

62-16226. Decimal Classification 92.

FIRST PRINTING, NOVEMBER, 1962

SECOND PRINTING, NOVEMBER, 1963

H-5420

This is for Michael

_AUTHORS' NOTE_

Our warmest thanks must go to all those through whose kindness the

material for this book was assembled. We are particularly indebted to

Mrs. Robert Woods Bliss and to the Honorable Harry S Truman for their

generosity of time and spirit in giving us invaluable personal

recollections of Paderewski.

The following publishers kindly allowed us the use of copyrighted

material: Charles Scribner's Sons, facts and quotations from THE

PADEREWSKI MEMOIRS, by Ignace Jan Paderewski and Mary Lawton; Rutgers

University Press, a quotation from PADEREWSKI AS I KNEW HIM, by Aniela

Strakacz; The Macmillan Company, for facts from PADEREWSKI, THE STORY OF

A MODERN IMMORTAL, by Charles Phillips; _Harper's Magazine_, for a

quotation from "Paderewski, the Paradox of Europe," by Colonel Edward M.

House; the _New York Times Magazine_, for a quotation from "The

Paderewski Saga," by Charlotte Kellogg (Mrs. Kellogg is also the author

of PADEREWSKI, an excellent biography for young people that would be of

special interest to any readers who wish to investigate the subject

further); Simon and Schuster, Inc., for the quotation from MEN, WOMEN,

the story of Paderewski's meeting with Clemenceau in 1922 told in THE

WORLD OF CARNEGIE HALL, by Richard Schickel.

In an effort to give a complete and accurate picture of Paderewski we

investigated every available book and magazine article about him that we

could get hold of. The fact that so many _were_ available is entirely

due to the good offices of the Music Division of the Library of Congress

to which we are continually grateful on this and other scores.

RUTH AND PAUL HUME

A Note About Pronunciation

Although Paderewski quickly grew accustomed to hearing himself called

"Paderooski" all across America, this is not his name! A Polish "w" is

pronounced like an English "v", so he is really "Pa-de-_rev_-skee."

Since Polish surnames change their final "i" to "a" when applied to

women, his wife is called Madame "Pa-de-_rev_-ska."

_CONTENTS_

1. A Pounding at the Door 11

2. Debut in Vienna 38

3. The Lion Begins to Roar 57

4. A New World to Conquer 72

5. A Promise Fulfilled 86

6. "They Will Listen" 104

7. The Providential Man 122

8. The Thirteenth Point 134

9. Rebirth of a Nation 147

10. "After That--Art!" 163

Further Reading 183

Index 187

[Illustration: Map of Poland.]

CHAPTER 1

A POUNDING AT THE DOOR

[Illustration: Coat of arms with Eagle.]

The boy lay awake in the darkness, listening.

All evening long the adults in the house had been conversing in agitated

whispers, behind closed doors. Now they were asleep--or pretending to be

asleep, as he was pretending. The house was unnaturally silent.

Suddenly the boy sat up in bed, clutching the blanket around his

shoulders and listening with every ounce of concentration he could

muster. His ears were unusually sensitive. Surely he had heard a muted

laugh in the blackness outside. Yes--and there was another, and then the

sound of low-pitched voices, no longer concealed, and finally footsteps

running to the house.

He leaped out of bed and flung open the window. The house was surrounded

by Cossacks. Their leader was pounding on the door. "Jan Paderewski!" he

was shouting. "Open it up before we break it down!"

The boy could hear the heavy bolt being drawn. By the time he had crept

fearfully downstairs it was all over. His father was gone. His sister

and his aunt were sobbing in each other's arms. He ran into the

courtyard. "Where is my father? What have you done with him?" he asked

one of the soldiers. When the man ignored him, he tugged at his coat and

cried, "Where are you taking my father?"

A stinging pain shot along his cheek as the Russian whirled and struck

at him with a knout. "Let go of my coat, you Polish brat!" the man half

snarled and half laughed. He called out some orders to his men, and the

troop clattered down the road and out of the boy's sight.

The boy raised his hand to his smarting cheek. The Cossack rope had

ripped across it like a firebrand, and the fire had burned itself into

his soul.

Young Ignace Paderewski was only four years old on the night the Russian

soldiers took his father to prison for a year. Jan Paderewski had been

accused of plotting the overthrow of his Imperial Majesty, Alexander II,

Emperor of all the Russias.

What Jan Paderewski had actually done was to allow firearms to be stored

in his basement until such time as they might be useful. But besides

getting him arrested and imprisoned, they had actually accomplished very

little. The revolution of 1863 and 1864 was just one more in a

succession of uprisings by which the Polish people struck back at their

oppressors. None of these unhappy revolts had ever won back the

country's lost freedom, but they kept alive the fierce pride of the

Polish people, a pride that the rulers of three nations had tried for

nearly a hundred years to extinguish.

[Illustration: "_Where are you taking my father?_"]

Poland, as a nation, no longer existed. The ancient Catholic kingdom had

been swallowed up by three hungry neighbors: Germany, Austria, and

Russia. It had not, therefore, been swallowed whole, but in pieces.

Three times--in 1772, in 1793, in 1795--the three royal butchers had met

over a map of Poland and thought up new ways of dividing the country to

their mutual satisfaction. To their distaste they found the Polish

people did not agree with their selfish plans.

Ignace Jan Paderewski was born in the Russian third of Poland, on

November 6, 1860. His mother died when he was a baby, so his father's

imprisonment was a doubly cruel blow. The boy and his older sister,

Antonina, were very close. Like all Polish children, they had been

brought up on heroic tales of their country's former glory, and their

childhood games always centered around the melancholy struggle for

freedom. The boy, dressed in a Polish uniform of red and white paper,

would charge madly about the house on a hobby horse, smiting his

country's enemies with a wooden sword. By the time he was six or seven

these games had taken on a reality for him that no one suspected. Young

as he was, he determined that when he grew up he would fight for his

country, not with a wooden sword but with whatever weapons God would

give him. Gradually he took it into his head that only by becoming

someone special could he ever hope to help his people and his country to

freedom.

Soon after Jan Paderewski's release from prison, he moved his family to

the little town of Sudylkow, where the boy grew up. By the time he was

three, Ignace's family realized that he had an unusual talent for music.

His father, determined to give every possible advantage to his children,

brought a music teacher to the house to give them piano lessons. The

teacher was a violinist at heart and he could not do much for the

children except teach them the names of the notes and set them to

playing dreadful duets, arranged from popular operatic arias.

As a student Ignace was rather lazy, but he had a natural gift for

languages and a great love for reading the history of his country. When

he was ten years old, his sympathetic tutor gave him a book that

described the great battle of Grunwald in which the Poles had defeated

the greedy German Knights of the Cross and driven them from Poland. As

the boy read the stirring account over and over, he was struck by an

inspiration. The battle had been fought in 1410. This meant that its

five hundredth anniversary was only forty years away--in 1910. "When I

grow up," young Ignace promised himself, "I'm going to be rich and

famous enough to build a great monument in honor of the anniversary of

the battle of Grunwald!"

It was one of those odd fancies that overtake sensitive children. He

kept it to himself to avoid unnecessary laughter at his expense.

It seemed obvious to Ignace's father that his son was clearly headed for

a career in music. The boy played the piano constantly, although he much

preferred to improvise his own melodies rather than practice anyone

else's. The music notebook that his proud father had given him was

already half filled with random compositions. But how, Jan Paderewski

wondered, could the poor boy possibly get the musical training he needed

in Sudylkow? When word came to town that a railroad was soon to be

built, connecting Sudylkow with Warsaw, the father took it as a sign

from heaven. In Warsaw there was a famous conservatory of music. Jan

Paderewski swore that his boy would have a chance to study there, no

matter how much penny-pinching would have to be done at home in order to

finance the venture. In 1872, when Ignace was twelve years old, he and

his father set out on the very first train that ran to Warsaw.

[Illustration: _Ignace and Antonina were very close._]

It was an exciting and a somewhat frightening adventure. The Warsaw

Conservatory did not have dormitories and supervised living for its

students, as a modern school would have. The twelve-year-old country boy

would be more or less on his own in the big city. Added to this worry

was Mr. Paderewski's concern over the fact that his son had had so

little formal training in music. Would the entrance exams at the

Conservatory be too much for him? As they were ushered into the office

of Director Kontski, the father was more unnerved than the boy.

The director looked at Ignace's musical composition book and then he

looked squarely at Ignace. The boy returned his gaze without a blink.

Kontski turned to the anxious father and said cordially, "We'll take

this boy immediately--and without any examinations."

The first hurdle had been taken easily.

Their unexpected luck at the Conservatory had improved Mr. Paderewski's

spirits. "Now," he said to Ignace, "all our worries are over! First we

buy you a piano! Then we find you a place to live!"

A few hours later his optimism was again on the decline. Although father

and son had inspected nearly every piano in Warsaw, they had seen

nothing that was not far too expensive. The last address on their list

was that of the Kerntopf factory, the most famous piano manufacturers in

Poland.

A wasted effort, this one, the elder Paderewski thought gloomily, as he

trudged up the stairs to the showroom. If he had not been able to meet

the price of lesser piano makers, how could he afford a Kerntopf piano?

Mr. Kerntopf himself greeted the two weary customers. Yes, he told the

father, several used pianos were available but they were rather

expensive. At the price Mr. Paderewski had mentioned? Well, there was

only the old upright over in the corner. The boy was welcome to try it

out if he cared to.

Ignace rushed over to the piano and began to play. It wasn't much of a

piano, perhaps, but as long as he had something--anything--to practice

on, he would be happy.

While he was playing, a younger man came into the showroom and stood

listening attentively. After a while he turned to Mr. Paderewski and

said, "What plans have you in mind for your son?"

The father said proudly, "My boy has just been accepted for the

Conservatory without an examination. That's why I want to buy him a

piano!"

"Not this old thing!" the young man said. "It would be worthless in a

year. You don't have to buy him a piano! I will give him one to practice

on. For nothing!"

Mr. Paderewski could hardly believe his ears. He looked inquiringly at

Mr. Kerntopf. "This is my partner and my eldest son," the old gentleman

said, shrugging as if to say that there was nothing he could do about

this sort of impulse. But he looked pleased in spite of himself.

Mr. Paderewski said, "Now I must find a place for Ignace to live. I

would like to get him a room with a family. He is so young to be alone

in the city. Perhaps you could advise me?"

Edward Kerntopf laughed. "_Here_ is a family. It's a little big already.

There are ten children in it, so one more will hardly be noticed! Leave

your boy here and he can practice on all the pianos in the factory."

Mr. Paderewski beamed. All his problems had been solved at once.

God works in different ways to help the people who are close to Him

accomplish His work and theirs. In Paderewski's life it happened time

and again that when exactly the right person was needed to fill a

specific need, that person was always sent to him. Edward Kerntopf was

the first of many.

Although young Ignace wept bitterly when it was time to say goodbye to

his father, his tears dried quickly. A houseful of youngsters to play

with, and a factory full of pianos to play on! It was a splendid

combination.

On the day Ignace reported to the Conservatory for his first piano

lesson, his excitement was so great that he could hardly walk without

reeling. Never in his short life had he looked forward to anything so

eagerly. To study piano with a really fine teacher! Young as he was, the

boy knew very well that although he could improvise cleverly and could

impress his neighbors in Sudylkow, he did not really know how to play

the piano correctly. He had a vast natural instinct for music, but such

matters as correct hand position, fingering, and proper pedalling were

mysteries to him. This was not surprising, since neither of his teachers

at home had known much more than he himself knew about piano technique.

But now, he thought naively, now at last he would learn everything! Here

at the Conservatory some great teacher would give him the key to unlock

all the secrets of the piano.

By the end of the first lesson, poor Ignace's enthusiasm had been

cruelly dampened. The teacher to whom he had been assigned was a surly

type. He listened to the boy play for a few minutes and then said

flatly, "You'll never be a pianist. You haven't got the hands for it!"

He added helpfully, "I understand you write music. You'd better stick to

that!"

It was a blow, but Ignace realized that one man was not the whole

faculty. Immediately after the lesson, he went to Director Kontski and

asked for another teacher. Unfortunately, the second teacher was exactly

the opposite of the first. The first man cared only for ready-made

technique and had failed to recognize the boy's natural talent. The

second man, with whom Ignace studied for two years, was so poetic and

romantic in his approach to music that he paid no attention to the

hardcore technical problems of piano playing. Although he had vast

admiration for his young pupil, he could not give him what he most

needed.

After several discouraging weeks at the Conservatory, Ignace was ready

to agree that he was not really cut out to be a pianist. Perhaps he

should start thinking seriously about some other instrument. Since he

had always liked the sound of the flute, he decided to try it out. The

flute teacher decided otherwise. "You'll never be a flute player, boy!

You haven't got the lips for it!"

The teacher of oboe and clarinet was a much more agreeable man, but he

finally had to admit that Ignace's future did not lie with either

instrument. So did the teacher of bassoon and French horn. In time,

however, the young musician found his instrumental niche. "Now, my dear

boy," the professor of brass instruments told him one day, "you are

always trying to play piano. But why? You have no future at all with the

piano! Your future is here, playing the trombone!" He flung an arm

enthusiastically around Ignace's shoulder. "Don't you know that you are

a great natural trombone player?"

[Illustration: _He spent hours at the piano._]

The teachers who were most enthusiastic about the new student, however,

were the men who taught him theory and harmony and composition. "Never

mind which instrument you play best," they told him. "Learn to play all

of them because it will be useful to you as a composer. And it is as a

composer that you will become famous. As a pianist, never!"

But as he sat night after night in the dimly-lit warehouse, as he worked

hour after hour trying to make his fingers produce the kind of sound he

wanted to lure out of the piano, he knew that nothing had changed. He

would be a pianist no matter who said what. He would be a pianist if it

took him a dozen more years to find the right teacher!

Hard work and discouragement did not by any means prevent Ignace from

thoroughly enjoying life in Warsaw. For the first time in his life he

had a chance to hear real music, properly performed. Edward Kerntopf saw

to that. He took the boy to a succession of concerts and operas, and

even took him visiting in the homes of Warsaw's leading musicians.

Nothing could shake his faith in Ignace's future as a pianist, even

though the boy had so far shown progress in nothing but trombone

playing.

During his first few days in Warsaw, Edward had taken him to see all the

city's beloved monuments to the past. Ignace returned to them again and

again, dreaming as he had dreamed from his childhood of the day when his

country would be reborn. He liked to walk by the great yellow Zamek,

once the royal palace of the kings of Poland. In the palace square stood

the noble bronze figure of King Sigismond III, who held a cross in one

hand and a sword in the other. Like every other Polish boy, Ignace knew

the prophecy that had grown up around the statue: "When Sigismond shakes

his sword," the old folks said, "then Poland will be free again!" How

many times Ignace went to the square to stare, fascinated, at the

statue. Yet the king held his bronze sword rigid and immobile, and it

seemed unlikely that he would ever be able to shake it in the name of

freedom.

Near the Zamek, in a triangle of fresh green trees, was the shrine of

the Mother of Sorrows. The heroic King John Sobieski had built it two

hundred years before and dedicated it to "the Queen of Poland." It was

here that the boy knelt most often to pray for the liberation of his

country and for his own future. Another favorite spot was the

seventeenth century Church of the Holy Cross, a spot particularly dear

to the people of Warsaw. In its crypt was buried the heart of Chopin,

and as young Paderewski saw it for the first time, he must have felt as

many Poles had felt before him that the heart of Poland itself was

buried in this holy spot. "Where your treasure is," read the inscription

over the shrine, "there shall your heart be also."

Although Ignace was a serious boy and a tireless student, he had an

incurable streak of mischief in him. In Warsaw, for the first time, he

had a real opportunity to exercise it. At home, he had never had any

playmates but his older sister, and a boy's older sister is hardly the

ideal playmate. But now the rather shy country lad blossomed out and

became a favorite among his young fellow students. They called him

"Squirrel," in honor of his quick ways and his bright red hair. (Polish

squirrels are not gray, but red.) He soon became the ringleader in most

of the pranks that went on in the stately corridors of the Conservatory.

He also became an expert in the art of playing practical jokes on the

older, more dignified students, who frequently called him several names

other than "Squirrel."

It was not Ignace's mischief-making, however, that finally got him into

serious trouble with the officials of the school. It was his skill as a

trombone player. During the boy's second year as a student, Director

Kontski decided to rouse up some publicity for the Conservatory by

founding a student orchestra to play at local functions. As the school's

finest trombone player, Ignace was naturally drafted into the brass

section as first trombone. Final exams were looming ahead. The nearer

they came, the more the boy resented the considerable time he had to

spend blowing his trombone at rehearsals when he preferred to be

studying the complexities of harmony and counterpoint. One day he flatly

refused to attend the day's rehearsal.

The outraged director called him into the office and delivered a lecture

on student discipline. Ignace countered with some ideas of his own on

the useless, time-wasting aspects of the student orchestra. One word led

to another, as one word unfortunately does at tense moments. Before he

knew exactly what had happened, Master Ignace Paderewski had been

expelled from the Warsaw Conservatory.

Fortunately for Ignace, he had friends among the faculty members. They

raised such a fuss in his behalf that the Director was forced to change

his mind. The boy was taken back in time to pass his examinations.

A less hot-headed fellow than the red-headed "Squirrel" might have

learned a lesson from this extremely close call. But Ignace did not have

the sense to stay out of trouble. The next year the orchestra question

flared again. Seven students drew up a letter of protest which appeared

over their signatures in the newspaper. The seven students were promptly

expelled for one year, Ignace among them. This time no amount of

influence helped.

Only the loyal support of Edward Kerntopf enabled Ignace to stay on in

Warsaw and work at the piano as best he could by himself. And by giving

piano lessons to the young children of Kerntopf customers he earned the

princely sum of twelve cents an hour.

By the end of the school year he was getting a little bored with this

routine and yearned to launch his concert career. So did his best

friend, a seventeen-year-old violin student who was also named Ignace.

"Why wait around until we're too old to enjoy success?" the

seventeen-year-old asked the fifteen-year-old. "Now look, Squirrel.

We're wasting our time! The summer vacation is coming. What do people do

in summer? They go to summer resorts. And they need entertainment there,

don't they? Let's go on tour and present a violin and piano recital. You

have enough Liszt and Chopin pieces ready for your half of the program.

What do you say?"

"Well--uh--"

"Good! Then it's all settled. We'll tour as far as Russia. That's it!

We'll go all the way to St. Petersburg, leaving a trail of triumph

behind us!"

Ignace's eyes lit up. "That's it! We'll conquer Russia. We'll show them

what a couple of _Polish_ musicians can do!"

In the end a cellist joined the troupe, and the foolish trio of young

hopefuls started out in the direction of the nearest resort hotel.

"How different from today," Paderewski said later, as he reminisced

about his boyhood adventures. "Such a thing could probably not happen in

these years of rapid communication, with parents in constant touch with

pampered children. Although still youths, we were to a great extent 'on

our own,' as you put it, and parental advice was not close at hand. We

were completely out of touch with our families. So it was easy for us to

keep this great adventure a secret. I knew well enough that my father,

had he known, would have no faith in it, nor could he give me any money

for such an undertaking."

Whenever the artists reached a new town their first problem was to

locate a piano and to persuade the owner to contribute the use of it to

the evening's concert. The second problem was to get the piano moved to

the hall where the concert was to be played. This was easier, the boys

soon found, in a town which housed a military garrison. The good-natured

soldiers were always willing to carry the piano in exchange for a glass

of vodka. Since every soldier had a different theory about the proper

way to move a piano, the entire garrison ended up as an escort. The

sight of thirty or forty soldiers surging through the street after a

piano, and all arguing at once, was good free advertising. No one in

town could long remain unaware of the fact that a concert was to be

played that night.

The first few concerts were quite successful and the three artists moved

on, by train, by bus, or on foot, further and further to the north. But

as summer faded and the temperature began to drop, the cellist gave

notice. "I'm going back to Warsaw," he said, "and if you have any sense,

you'll come too."

"Nothing doing!" violinist Ignace replied. "It's on to St. Petersburg

for us!"

"Well, I'm not as adventurous as you are. Goodbye!"

Thus the trio became a duo. As the boys turned north and crossed into

Russia, they suddenly found themselves in mid-winter. They lined their

thin clothing with newspaper and pressed on. They were forced to admit

that their brief summer success was over. Soon they were penniless and

hungry. Ignace-the-violinist gave in first and wrote home for money.

Finally Ignace-the-pianist had to break his resolution and do the same.

The fathers of both boys sent money immediately and told the lads to be

on the next train home. The violinist was delighted to follow orders.

The pianist was more stubborn. "If only I could get to Petersburg. If

only I could play one successful concert there!" he thought. "It's just

as easy to get home from there as it is from here. Easier in fact. Just

one more chance! It's all I ask. Father wouldn't really mind!"

He went on alone to Petersburg. And then real disaster struck. Both his

baggage and the money he had counted on for his return home were stolen.

He found himself absolutely penniless and half starved in a strange,

unfriendly city. Fortunately for Ignace, not everyone in it was

unfriendly. A poor plumber took the boy in off the street to save him

from freezing to death. With nothing to do all day but try to stay warm,

Ignace had plenty of time to think over his foolishness. He had no idea

what to do next. On one point, however, he was adamant. He would not

write his father again. "How can I?" he said to the friendly plumber.

"He already sent me more than he could afford. And I lost it! I can't

ask him for more!"

A few days later the janitor of the building came to the plumber's

little basement room and said, "Isn't your name Paderewski? There's a

letter for you at the General Delivery window of the Post Office."

"For me? But that's impossible. From whom?"

"From a Jan Paderewski. The Post Office has been asking for you all over

town. Just by chance I heard about it."

The letter from home enclosed a hundred rubles. Ignace left Petersburg

the next day and was soon safe at home in Sudylkow, thinner but

considerably wiser than he had been a year before. One question had

haunted him all the way home. "How did you know where to find me?" he

asked his father. "And how did you know how desperately I needed that

money?"

"Oh, that was easy," Mr. Paderewski said. "You see, I had a dream. I saw

you hungry and cold in St. Petersburg, so I sent the letter to the Post

Office there and begged them to look for you. The surprising thing is

that they found you."

The fact that his father's intense love for him had worked a small

miracle on his behalf touched the boy's heart so deeply that he made an

immediate resolution. He would repay his father's goodness by doing

exactly as his father wanted. He would go back to the Conservatory and

finish his studies with no more nonsense. Nor would he put his father to

any more years of expense than the good man had originally expected. He

was now two years behind his own classmates, but he vowed that somehow

he would graduate with them. This gave him six months in which to

complete the regular work of two years!

During these months of intensive study, young Ignace began to develop

the gift that would carry him through so many crises in his life: an

enormous power of concentration.

On graduation day Mr. Paderewski was in the hall, sick at heart because

he did not really believe that his son could possibly have passed the

rigorous final examinations for the music diploma. As the list of the

names was read, as one boy after another went up to the platform, the

nervous father braced himself. "But of course his name will not be

called. How could it be? The others in the class have been working an

extra year and a half ... There ... that's the last boy going up now, I

think."

But it was not quite the last boy. The last boy was now being called.

"And finally," the Director announced, beaming, "with the highest honors

of the class, Ignace Jan Paderewski."

Mr. Paderewski remembered few details after that. All twelve Kerntopfs

were trying to shake his hand at once, and then Ignace was playing the

Grieg Piano Concerto with the orchestra, and everyone in the hall was

cheering for him. Then the father realized something that must have made

him even happier than this moment of triumph: in six short months young

Ignace must have done quite a bit of growing up.