How to describe Paderewski’s electrifying effect on the public! Many people have tried. Arthur Loesser, in his fascinating book, MEN, WOMEN AND PIANOS, does it as well as anyone. He says: “The most flaming pianistic glory in America’s history broke out when the Steinways first put forth Ignace Paderewski in the autumn of 1891. He was indeed a performer of very high ability, an artist of unusual expressive power; yet that was only one element of his peculiar appeal. His total personality was just what, in the American idea, a concert pianist’s ought to be, if one were to marvel at him and respect him at the same time. His chrysanthemum of pale red hair, the feminine dreaminess and brooding of his looks coupled with his aggressive, solid muscularity—all this was strange and might have seemed ridiculous to Philistines. But the reserve of his bearing, the hypnotic deliberateness and lordly courtesy of his movements, were the signs of a profound inner dignity before which a measure of awe could not fail to be felt. He seemed, verily, the prince of a foreign realm. No pianist has ever captured the American imagination as he did, keeping his hold over it for thirty years. He became a legend: his mispronounced name drew farmers from their barns, schoolboys from their baseball, real estate speculators from their offices—all manner of unlikely persons from their dens—into a concert hall to have a look and a listen at him.”

The day would come when Paderewski’s hold over the affection of the American public would mean more to him—and to his country—than he could even begin to imagine as he sailed back to Europe at the end of his first visit to America.

CHAPTER 5
A PROMISE FULFILLED

The money he had made in America was important to him for one reason: Alfred. At last he was able to afford the kind of country holiday he felt would be best for the boy’s health. Father and son spent a few wonderful months together in northern France. To his great joy, both his sister, Antonina, and Edward Kerntopf came from Poland for a visit. Antonina brought with her the love and blessings of their father, Jan Paderewski, who was too ill to travel, but the sister could report at first hand how his great pride in his son had illumined the good man’s last years.

While Paderewski gave his sore arm a chance to recuperate, he devoted himself to composing. He began work on an opera called “Manru,” a folk story of the gypsies who lived in the Tatra Mountains of which he had such happy memories.

His return to the stage was delayed for over a year, for the injured arm was not responding well to the treatments of the numerous doctors who worked on it. The combination of time and a gifted Parisian masseur finally restored the use of his fourth finger, but it never, he felt, regained its original strength.

It was the last year off he would have for some time. During the next decade his spiraling career would carry him at dizzying speed over thousands of miles on five continents. In America, at least, he quickly found a way around the tyranny of train schedules and hotel reservations. He rented his own private Pullman car. In it, together with his secretary, chef and piano tuner, he traveled all over America. The Pullman car was the home where he lived, ate, slept, and practiced during his tours. Although it cost him the equivalent of twenty-five first class fares, it was well worth it. It was, in fact, the reason why his tours could include so many out-of-the-way places and why so many people had a chance to hear him. But the principal advantage to railroad living was the fact that at last he could practice as loud, as long, and as late as he wished!

This was the golden age of American railroading. What rare, romantic moments were added to its history by the roving pianist! All over the country the same sort of scene repeated itself: a lone Pullman car, sitting at night on a siding—waiting, perhaps, to be coupled to the next express train going through Boston, or Chicago, or San Francisco; railroad workers, and even passing hobos, silently gathered around it listening to the glorious sounds of music that poured out across the almost deserted railyard.

Music was not the only thing that came out of that famous car. The hobo population, with its rapid communication system, soon spread the word that the Paderewski car was always good for a free meal. When Mr. Cooper, the magnificent but temperamental chef, finally put his foot down, Paderewski instructed his secretary to have fifty-cent pieces ready for the men instead of food.