“I have the mark as well as you,” I laughingly proclaimed, “but the nearest approach I ever made to a dictatorship was when the British were expected in Constantinople in 1915, and I was to be in control of the city between the departure of the Turks and the British occupation.”
News of what Pilsudski and I were doing spread rapidly. Many guests unsuccessfully looked for a star in their own hands, and then came up to look at the General’s and mine.
Shoulder to shoulder with me sat this man trained to fighting. Opposite to him was Paderewski, with his wonderful head, with its fine, high brow, from which flowed that magnificent shock of hair, and showing those piercing eyes whose expression had puzzled so many, and whose whole education had been directed toward the evoking of harmony. For years, American music lovers had listened to this great virtuoso and been entranced by his vigorous and yet delicate interpretation of many of the most difficult and intricate classics. Now, he was no longer living amid clouds of harmonies and études, but was second only to Pilsudski in the council of this budding republic. There sat this sheer genius—this unstarred master. He needed no mark on his palm, no divining gypsy’s prophecy to prove that he would excel in any sphere to which he might direct his talent. Twelve or fifteen years ago, there was a picture painted of him and hung in the Lemberg Gallery: it showed him as Orpheus quieting the wild beasts with his lyre. It was of this that he irresistibly reminded me that night. He had undertaken the almost impossible task of reconciling the contending factions of his native land, and was eliminating race hatred itself. From a chance post of vantage, I could not help watching the court he held during the reception that followed the dinner. It equalled that of Pilsudski. Princes and politicians vied with each other for an opportunity to approach him, and to each he gave, with a perfect grace, an absorbed attention.
Another of his many sides I came to know. Poland’s financial plight seemed to me, the more I studied it, not so desperate as feared. If prompt and decisive help were offered, I believed, the Poles would rally and work out their own salvation. As it was, the idle people were losing their self-respect and were drifting toward militarism, simply through their inactivity. I thought a plan could be devised by which they could be aroused from their lethargy and given a start toward becoming a vigorous, self-supporting people. I had great faith in Paderewski who, I felt, did not subscribe to the militaristic views of Pilsudski, and I thought there was a good chance for working out a plan for the economic salvation of his country.
In Vilna, I spoke to a number of prominent business men, irrespective of religion, in regard to this matter. I asked them whether, if America would help to organize a great corporation which would endeavour to finance Poland, they would be ready to subscribe to some of the stock. I was somewhat surprised at their prompt acquiescence.
“But,” I pointed out, “you will probably be expected to subscribe in gold. Have you got it?”
“Oh, yes,” they answered.
Gold in ravished Poland! “Where?” I asked.
“In the Agrarian Bank.”
I said that I didn’t know the institution.