Paderewski said to Clemenceau, “You are the greatest man I ever knew. You told them the truth in a splendid way of which you alone are capable.” He was referring to Clemenceau’s speech at the Metropolitan Opera, when the “tiger of France” had called upon America to help Europe in the difficult postwar days.
“No, no, you are the greatest man,” Clemenceau replied. “At the peace conference you made such a wonderful speech that I was nearly moved to tears.” Then the old Frenchman paused. “I missed your concert,” he said apologetically. “When will you play for me?”
“Master,” Paderewski answered. “I will do anything for you. I will play for you now!” And for nearly an hour, the man who had only a short time before played for three hours in Carnegie Hall played in the half-light of the Gibson mansion. When it was over, Clemenceau said, “Marvelous, marvelous. You are not only a great musician and a great statesman, but a great poet also.”
From New York, Paderewski’s tour led him across America, as it had so many times in the past. His private car again became a familiar sight on the railroad tracks of the country. Again switchmen, brakemen, and the freight handlers across the country were treated to the glorious sounds that came from this very special Pullman car. In Minneapolis, Paderewski played an entire impromptu recital in the car one day for ten nuns who could not attend his regular concert. Sitting at his upright, with the noises of switching cars and passing engines for background, Paderewski played as if he were on the stage of a great auditorium. And surely he had never had a more appreciative audience.
The world’s capitals, political and musical, saw and heard Paderewski once more as he traveled from Hawaii to London in the old, familiar crossing and recrossing pattern. Honors came to him, more than were ever given to any pianist before or since. Universities vied with each other to give him honorary degrees. One, from New York University, had to be delivered to him in his hotel room when he was too ill to leave it for the formal convocation. To the University’s Chancellor, Paderewski said, with a smile, “You have come to a sick man to make a doctor of him!”
Ignace Paderewski, 70 years of age
Paderewski easily recovered from a sudden appendectomy, in the fall of 1929, and made one of the longest of all his American tours the following year, playing 87 concerts in the winter of 1930-31. The death of his wife in January, 1934, was less upsetting to Paderewski than some of his friends had feared it might be, because for five years before she died, Mme. Paderewska had suffered from a loss of memory and her tragic illness had actually withdrawn her from all the activities in which for over 35 years she had played so busy a role.
On his tours, Paderewski played many benefits for war veterans. In the years when the depression spread across the U.S. and Europe, he was always glad to play concerts whose proceeds went to unemployed musicians. One of these, in Madison Square Garden in 1932, raised nearly $50,000. And in the midst of his renewed career, Paderewski kept in intimate touch with the political development in Poland and throughout Europe.
One of the greatest of his speeches was given in May, 1932, at a banquet in his honor in New York City. Broadcast across the entire country, Paderewski’s address that day was a magnificently outlined, superbly delivered history and analysis of the so-called Polish Corridor. His country’s vital need for an outlet to the Baltic Sea was at stake, and Poland’s position and rights were being threatened. The entire speech was later published in Foreign Affairs. It was built as a master symphony is built, with its principal themes stated in varying manner during its course, and its closing pages rising to a superb climax. As he reached its final lines, Paderewski said: