“We do not wish to be crippled or enslaved again. We will never accept so monstrous an injury, no matter by whom inflicted. The territory restored to us is justly ours. And we will stand by it with all our strength and uphold it by all our means. For if that restoration is wrong, then the partitions of Poland were right—and nobody should expect us to subscribe to such an iniquitous verdict....
“We do not want war. Everyone in Poland is longing for peace. We need peace more than any other country in the whole world. Nevertheless, if a war—and I am speaking now not as an official person, because I am not an official; I am a plain citizen, and I assume my own responsibility—if a war, I repeat it, by a formal declaration or by surprise is imposed on us, we shall defend ourselves.” Once again Paderewski was speaking the language of prophecy, though seven years still lay ahead before Poland would once again be invaded, this time by the armies of Hitler.
The year 1936 brought a brand new career into a life already crowned in two widely separated areas, music and politics. On August 8, Paderewski, the movie star, was born. For months, Paderewski’s chief aide had been working quietly, without Paderewski’s knowledge, to arrange the making of a movie about Paderewski. Finally when negotiations with a British company had reached a stage where Paderewski’s consent was necessary, the subject was brought up and met with none of the resistance that had been expected. Despite his lifelong dislike of bright lights, especially while playing, Paderewski spent two weeks on a movie lot outside of London making what is really a weakly sentimental production entitled “Moonlight Sonata.” Its one distinguishing feature is the ennobling sight and sound of the great artist moving through a few scenes.
The movie did have the effect of returning Paderewski to at least semi-public playing for the first time since the death of Mme. Paderewska, two years before. Late in 1938, Paderewski agreed to a short tour of England, where he played with ease and vigor. Their surprise turned to genuine dismay, however, a few weeks later when Paderewski announced his return to the U.S. for the early spring of 1939. The cold, undeniable fact was that Paderewski once again needed money. He could only earn enough to meet his obligations by returning to the United States at the age of 79 to play again for the thousands who clamored to hear him. He had never saved any money for the days when he might need it for himself. There had always seemed some better reason for giving it away. Against this real need was Paderewski’s rapidly failing health. In her diary, a friend said of him at this time, “He looks so feeble and moves about with such difficulty that I simply don’t see how he can contemplate a concert tour of the U.S., of all places.... How on earth will the President walk on the stage during his recitals? Surely not with the support of his cane, which he uses to get from room to room!”
Studio 8-H of Radio City
He did come to the United States and played the first concert of his 20th tour in that country in Studio 8-H of Radio City, before an invited audience of several hundred and a radio audience that was estimated at fifty million. Olin Downes said of Paderewski’s playing of the Moonlight Sonata on that day, “We had not heard him play this music with such tonal beauty and poetical effect.” The program included Liszt and Chopin, and at the end, naturally, the Minuet, of which the audience literally forced an encore.
Several more concerts followed, each of them packed to the rafters. Then came May 25, the day of the final concert scheduled for Madison Square Garden. It had been sold out for days, and as the hands of the clock moved down to 8:30, more than 15,000 people full of a special expectancy waited for the famous old man to appear. 8:35 came, and 8:40, and still they waited. A little before 9 o’clock, an announcement came over the Garden’s loudspeakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Paderewski has had a slight heart attack in his dressing room, and his doctor is moving him back to his private car.” Slowly, not quite believing what had happened, the crowd quietly began to leave, many of them without any thought of getting their money back, for already someone had suggested that a fund in honor of Paderewski could be started with the money that was in the box office. Paderewski had played his last concert.
But still there was strength in the grand old lion. And he would need every ounce of it. Five days after his collapse, Paderewski was strong enough to sail for France on the Normandie. After resting in Paris for several weeks, he returned to his beloved Riond-Bosson. On August 1, 1914, he had once stood and said, “My friends, the war is here.” And here, on September 1, 1939, twenty-five years and one month later, the news came to him that the Nazi army, at Hitler’s orders, had invaded Poland. On that day Paderewski broke his long-standing rule never to listen to the radio. The only set in the villa was brought down to the dining room where, throughout the day, it poured out its tragic reports: Warsaw and many other Polish cities being laid waste by German bombs. His prophecy of a quarter of a century before had come true all too soon!
Now the blows came faster, with the fall of France, and, in Paderewski’s opinion, with the complete failure of the machinery of the League of Nations to function as his old friend, Woodrow Wilson, had intended it to. “Dishonorably discharged!” was Paderewski’s final verdict against the League one evening after a long, discouraging discussion.