The Treaty of Versailles was signed.
“What M. Paderewski has done for Poland will cause eternal gratitude,” wrote Secretary of State, Robert Lansing. “... His career is one that deserves to be remembered ... by every man to whom love of country and loyalty to a great cause stand forth as the noblest attributes of human character.”
In the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, a roar of applause and approval greeted Paderewski as he stepped forward to sign the treaty for Poland. No other delegate except those of the “big four” nations received such an ovation. But Paderewski’s ears were accustomed to the sound of applause, and it was probably the last thing in his mind as he signed. His whole life had been directed toward this moment. He had worked, he had prayed unceasingly for the new life of his country. Now it was an accomplished fact, acknowledged by the whole world, witnessed by a stroke of his own pen.
Paderewski’s career as a statesman was drawing to an end. It lasted only six months longer, and the half year was a bitter anti-climax. When the Paderewskis returned to Warsaw they found the atmosphere unbearably hostile. Now that Pilsudski had “used” his rival to gain Allied support, he was determined to get him out of the way as quickly as possible.
Growing opposition of the meanest kind blocked Paderewski’s attempts to build an honorable, democratic government for his country. Pilsudski had little interest in democracy and no interest at all in maintaining the peace. He yearned for the smell of powder again, and he planned to strike for further Polish gains by making war on Russia. But first he must eliminate the peace-loving Prime Minister.
Political intrigue is a merciless game. Paderewski found himself attacked through the two things he loved most in the world: his faith and his wife. Anti-clerical feeling ran high among the socialists of the country. They used Paderewski’s staunch and well-known devotion to the Church to “prove” that he was a “tool” of the clergy and was therefore, somehow, dedicated to the enslavement of the working man. It was a fantastic charge from start to finish, but people believe what they want to believe, and disgruntled elements in the Sejm—the Polish assembly—eagerly spread the story.
Even more cruel were the charges leveled against Mme. Paderewska, she who had worked herself almost to the breaking point not only to ease her husband’s arduous life, but to further the cause of Polish relief. She was accused of undue interference in matters of state, of being a bad influence on the Prime Minister, of any vindictive thing that could be thought of to discredit her husband.
A man of Paderewski’s moral courage can weather almost any attack made against him, but the abuse of his wife cut him to the heart. For weeks he wrestled with his conscience. He was thinking, as usual, first of Poland; last, of himself. If he stepped aside now, would it not end the terrible dissensions that rocked the newborn country? But if he did so, would he not be deserting his country when she needed him, deserting her, perhaps, out of a selfish, if natural, longing for personal peace?
At last, on December 5, 1919, Paderewski announced his resignation from office. A few days earlier, at a wildly agitated meeting of the Sejm, his government had received a vote of confidence, but the vote had been carried by a very slim majority. Too slim a majority, Paderewski felt, to represent a true mandate of the people, particularly since one of the parties that voted against him in the Sejm actually had more followers, numerically, than any of the parties who voted in his favor. If he stayed on, nothing could follow but further discord. If he left now, then surely the country would somehow make her way to internal peace and unity.