Father and son were together at last. And Paderewski had accepted the fact that the boy would never walk. In Paris Alfred was cared for in the home of the beautiful Mme. Helena Gorska, a friend who gave great love and kindness to the motherless boy and therefore much peace of mind to his father.
Paderewski’s reputation made possible another long-awaited opportunity. In 1889, a great exhibition—a sort of World’s Fair—was held in Paris. It included a display of pianos from all over the world. Paderewski arranged to have some Kerntopf pianos, up to then known only in Poland, shipped to Paris and exhibited. They won a gold medal (after Paderewski had happily and cleverly used every ounce of influence he had with every one of the judges). The fact that his pianos—Polish pianos—had come out so well in international competition was one of the greatest events in Edward Kerntopf’s life. It would never be possible to repay Edward’s kindness, Paderewski thought, but at least he had been able to do something. Many people who reach sudden, dazzling success find it all too easy to forget the people who helped to bring it about. It was one of Paderewski’s principal characteristics, from his boyhood to his old age, that he never forgot his friends at home.
The road had led him from Warsaw to Vienna to Paris. To continue his conquest of the musical world, Paderewski now turned to London. As his ship pitched its way across the Channel, the seasick artist was in no mood for optimism. The conquest of one city, he knew, did not guarantee success in another city. London in particular had always maintained a chilly “show me” attitude toward artists who came supplied with flowery reviews from foreign critics. Naturally anyone who arrived in the British capital preceded by rave notices like Paderewski’s would be under high suspicion.
It came as a nasty shock to Paderewski to find that his London manager, Daniel Mayer, a beginner in the field, had plastered the city with posters advertising the appearance of the “Lion of Paris.” Paderewski, a Pole, knew better than the English Mr. Mayer that Londoners simply did not care for this sort of thing. “You make me sound like an incoming circus,” he roared at his overeager manager.
Paderewski’s gloomy predictions about his first London appearance turned out to be one hundred percent correct. The night was wet and foggy; the hall was half empty; the audience was chilly. The artist, so sensitive to the emotions of the audience, was appalled. And the reviews were ghastly. “Vulgar,” “violent,” “much noise and little music,” “the clay and the jangle of metal,” he read about himself in the London papers. The critics seemed determined to cut the lion down to the size of a small tabby cat.
Today we have our own opinion about the cautious critics who complained so bitterly because Paderewski’s playing was “utterly at variance with the traditional methods.” In England the “traditional methods” of playing certain unfortunate composers often meant rather spineless, languishing, ladylike performances. Paderewski’s intense vitality and virility startled the conservative critics of that Victorian era. It would take some getting used to!
After two slightly more successful London concerts, Paderewski went on a tour of the smaller cities. Poor Mr. Daniel Mayer set out on the road with a heavy heart, for he looked forward to financial disaster. To his horror, Paderewski had firmly insisted that his publicity circulars for the provinces should reprint all his London reviews complete! Mr. Mayer, like every other manager in the business, believed in picking out the best and kindest remarks from reviews and cleverly stringing them together with “...” and “...,” thus giving the impression that all the critics had thought everything was wonderful. Yet Paderewski had vetoed this simple business procedure for a reason that appalled his poor manager. He said it was dishonest. Dishonest! Who cared about honesty in publicity releases, Mr. Mayer moaned to himself. Results at the box office were what counted! And who had ever heard of a rising concert artist with a conscience. It was a luxury he could not afford.
The admiring lady was Queen Victoria.
To Mr. Mayer’s vast surprise, Paderewski’s honesty turned out to be the best policy, financially as well as morally. The people of the smaller English towns felt—quite correctly—that Londoners looked down on them. For this reason they leaned over backwards to avoid following the lead of the big city in making decisions about anything, even the abilities of an unknown artist. The very fact that the London critics had given him rough treatment was a point in his favor. And the fact that he had circulated all of his reviews, good and bad, piqued their curiosity as nothing else could have done. Curiosity and sympathy are a powerful combination at the box office.