"THEY WILL LISTEN"
[Illustration: Statue.]
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.
[Illustration: _Riond-Bosson_]
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."
[Illustration: _The flag of Poland!_]
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."