Read Ebook: The Lion of Poland: The Story of Paderewski by Hume Paul Hume Ruth Fox R Thi Lili Illustrator

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Ebook has 387 lines and 34930 words, and 8 pages

The boy lay awake in the darkness, listening.

All evening long the adults in the house had been conversing in agitated whispers, behind closed doors. Now they were asleep--or pretending to be asleep, as he was pretending. The house was unnaturally silent.

Suddenly the boy sat up in bed, clutching the blanket around his shoulders and listening with every ounce of concentration he could muster. His ears were unusually sensitive. Surely he had heard a muted laugh in the blackness outside. Yes--and there was another, and then the sound of low-pitched voices, no longer concealed, and finally footsteps running to the house.

He leaped out of bed and flung open the window. The house was surrounded by Cossacks. Their leader was pounding on the door. "Jan Paderewski!" he was shouting. "Open it up before we break it down!"

A stinging pain shot along his cheek as the Russian whirled and struck at him with a knout. "Let go of my coat, you Polish brat!" the man half snarled and half laughed. He called out some orders to his men, and the troop clattered down the road and out of the boy's sight.

The boy raised his hand to his smarting cheek. The Cossack rope had ripped across it like a firebrand, and the fire had burned itself into his soul.

Young Ignace Paderewski was only four years old on the night the Russian soldiers took his father to prison for a year. Jan Paderewski had been accused of plotting the overthrow of his Imperial Majesty, Alexander II, Emperor of all the Russias.

What Jan Paderewski had actually done was to allow firearms to be stored in his basement until such time as they might be useful. But besides getting him arrested and imprisoned, they had actually accomplished very little. The revolution of 1863 and 1864 was just one more in a succession of uprisings by which the Polish people struck back at their oppressors. None of these unhappy revolts had ever won back the country's lost freedom, but they kept alive the fierce pride of the Polish people, a pride that the rulers of three nations had tried for nearly a hundred years to extinguish.

Poland, as a nation, no longer existed. The ancient Catholic kingdom had been swallowed up by three hungry neighbors: Germany, Austria, and Russia. It had not, therefore, been swallowed whole, but in pieces. Three times--in 1772, in 1793, in 1795--the three royal butchers had met over a map of Poland and thought up new ways of dividing the country to their mutual satisfaction. To their distaste they found the Polish people did not agree with their selfish plans.

As a student Ignace was rather lazy, but he had a natural gift for languages and a great love for reading the history of his country. When he was ten years old, his sympathetic tutor gave him a book that described the great battle of Gr?nwald in which the Poles had defeated the greedy German Knights of the Cross and driven them from Poland. As the boy read the stirring account over and over, he was struck by an inspiration. The battle had been fought in 1410. This meant that its five hundredth anniversary was only forty years away--in 1910. "When I grow up," young Ignace promised himself, "I'm going to be rich and famous enough to build a great monument in honor of the anniversary of the battle of Gr?nwald!"

It was one of those odd fancies that overtake sensitive children. He kept it to himself to avoid unnecessary laughter at his expense.

It seemed obvious to Ignace's father that his son was clearly headed for a career in music. The boy played the piano constantly, although he much preferred to improvise his own melodies rather than practice anyone else's. The music notebook that his proud father had given him was already half filled with random compositions. But how, Jan Paderewski wondered, could the poor boy possibly get the musical training he needed in Sudylkow? When word came to town that a railroad was soon to be built, connecting Sudylkow with Warsaw, the father took it as a sign from heaven. In Warsaw there was a famous conservatory of music. Jan Paderewski swore that his boy would have a chance to study there, no matter how much penny-pinching would have to be done at home in order to finance the venture. In 1872, when Ignace was twelve years old, he and his father set out on the very first train that ran to Warsaw.

It was an exciting and a somewhat frightening adventure. The Warsaw Conservatory did not have dormitories and supervised living for its students, as a modern school would have. The twelve-year-old country boy would be more or less on his own in the big city. Added to this worry was Mr. Paderewski's concern over the fact that his son had had so little formal training in music. Would the entrance exams at the Conservatory be too much for him? As they were ushered into the office of Director Kontski, the father was more unnerved than the boy.

The director looked at Ignace's musical composition book and then he looked squarely at Ignace. The boy returned his gaze without a blink. Kontski turned to the anxious father and said cordially, "We'll take this boy immediately--and without any examinations."

The first hurdle had been taken easily.

Their unexpected luck at the Conservatory had improved Mr. Paderewski's spirits. "Now," he said to Ignace, "all our worries are over! First we buy you a piano! Then we find you a place to live!"

A few hours later his optimism was again on the decline. Although father and son had inspected nearly every piano in Warsaw, they had seen nothing that was not far too expensive. The last address on their list was that of the Kerntopf factory, the most famous piano manufacturers in Poland.

A wasted effort, this one, the elder Paderewski thought gloomily, as he trudged up the stairs to the showroom. If he had not been able to meet the price of lesser piano makers, how could he afford a Kerntopf piano?

Mr. Kerntopf himself greeted the two weary customers. Yes, he told the father, several used pianos were available but they were rather expensive. At the price Mr. Paderewski had mentioned? Well, there was only the old upright over in the corner. The boy was welcome to try it out if he cared to.

Ignace rushed over to the piano and began to play. It wasn't much of a piano, perhaps, but as long as he had something--anything--to practice on, he would be happy.

While he was playing, a younger man came into the showroom and stood listening attentively. After a while he turned to Mr. Paderewski and said, "What plans have you in mind for your son?"

The father said proudly, "My boy has just been accepted for the Conservatory without an examination. That's why I want to buy him a piano!"

"Not this old thing!" the young man said. "It would be worthless in a year. You don't have to buy him a piano! I will give him one to practice on. For nothing!"

Mr. Paderewski could hardly believe his ears. He looked inquiringly at Mr. Kerntopf. "This is my partner and my eldest son," the old gentleman said, shrugging as if to say that there was nothing he could do about this sort of impulse. But he looked pleased in spite of himself.

Mr. Paderewski said, "Now I must find a place for Ignace to live. I would like to get him a room with a family. He is so young to be alone in the city. Perhaps you could advise me?"

Mr. Paderewski beamed. All his problems had been solved at once.

God works in different ways to help the people who are close to Him accomplish His work and theirs. In Paderewski's life it happened time and again that when exactly the right person was needed to fill a specific need, that person was always sent to him. Edward Kerntopf was the first of many.

Although young Ignace wept bitterly when it was time to say goodbye to his father, his tears dried quickly. A houseful of youngsters to play with, and a factory full of pianos to play on! It was a splendid combination.

On the day Ignace reported to the Conservatory for his first piano lesson, his excitement was so great that he could hardly walk without reeling. Never in his short life had he looked forward to anything so eagerly. To study piano with a really fine teacher! Young as he was, the boy knew very well that although he could improvise cleverly and could impress his neighbors in Sudylkow, he did not really know how to play the piano correctly. He had a vast natural instinct for music, but such matters as correct hand position, fingering, and proper pedalling were mysteries to him. This was not surprising, since neither of his teachers at home had known much more than he himself knew about piano technique. But now, he thought naively, now at last he would learn everything! Here at the Conservatory some great teacher would give him the key to unlock all the secrets of the piano.

It was a blow, but Ignace realized that one man was not the whole faculty. Immediately after the lesson, he went to Director Kontski and asked for another teacher. Unfortunately, the second teacher was exactly the opposite of the first. The first man cared only for ready-made technique and had failed to recognize the boy's natural talent. The second man, with whom Ignace studied for two years, was so poetic and romantic in his approach to music that he paid no attention to the hardcore technical problems of piano playing. Although he had vast admiration for his young pupil, he could not give him what he most needed.

After several discouraging weeks at the Conservatory, Ignace was ready to agree that he was not really cut out to be a pianist. Perhaps he should start thinking seriously about some other instrument. Since he had always liked the sound of the flute, he decided to try it out. The flute teacher decided otherwise. "You'll never be a flute player, boy! You haven't got the lips for it!"

The teacher of oboe and clarinet was a much more agreeable man, but he finally had to admit that Ignace's future did not lie with either instrument. So did the teacher of bassoon and French horn. In time, however, the young musician found his instrumental niche. "Now, my dear boy," the professor of brass instruments told him one day, "you are always trying to play piano. But why? You have no future at all with the piano! Your future is here, playing the trombone!" He flung an arm enthusiastically around Ignace's shoulder. "Don't you know that you are a great natural trombone player?"

The teachers who were most enthusiastic about the new student, however, were the men who taught him theory and harmony and composition. "Never mind which instrument you play best," they told him. "Learn to play all of them because it will be useful to you as a composer. And it is as a composer that you will become famous. As a pianist, never!"

But as he sat night after night in the dimly-lit warehouse, as he worked hour after hour trying to make his fingers produce the kind of sound he wanted to lure out of the piano, he knew that nothing had changed. He would be a pianist no matter who said what. He would be a pianist if it took him a dozen more years to find the right teacher!

Hard work and discouragement did not by any means prevent Ignace from thoroughly enjoying life in Warsaw. For the first time in his life he had a chance to hear real music, properly performed. Edward Kerntopf saw to that. He took the boy to a succession of concerts and operas, and even took him visiting in the homes of Warsaw's leading musicians. Nothing could shake his faith in Ignace's future as a pianist, even though the boy had so far shown progress in nothing but trombone playing.

Near the Zamek, in a triangle of fresh green trees, was the shrine of the Mother of Sorrows. The heroic King John Sobieski had built it two hundred years before and dedicated it to "the Queen of Poland." It was here that the boy knelt most often to pray for the liberation of his country and for his own future. Another favorite spot was the seventeenth century Church of the Holy Cross, a spot particularly dear to the people of Warsaw. In its crypt was buried the heart of Chopin, and as young Paderewski saw it for the first time, he must have felt as many Poles had felt before him that the heart of Poland itself was buried in this holy spot. "Where your treasure is," read the inscription over the shrine, "there shall your heart be also."

Although Ignace was a serious boy and a tireless student, he had an incurable streak of mischief in him. In Warsaw, for the first time, he had a real opportunity to exercise it. At home, he had never had any playmates but his older sister, and a boy's older sister is hardly the ideal playmate. But now the rather shy country lad blossomed out and became a favorite among his young fellow students. They called him "Squirrel," in honor of his quick ways and his bright red hair. He soon became the ringleader in most of the pranks that went on in the stately corridors of the Conservatory. He also became an expert in the art of playing practical jokes on the older, more dignified students, who frequently called him several names other than "Squirrel."

It was not Ignace's mischief-making, however, that finally got him into serious trouble with the officials of the school. It was his skill as a trombone player. During the boy's second year as a student, Director Kontski decided to rouse up some publicity for the Conservatory by founding a student orchestra to play at local functions. As the school's finest trombone player, Ignace was naturally drafted into the brass section as first trombone. Final exams were looming ahead. The nearer they came, the more the boy resented the considerable time he had to spend blowing his trombone at rehearsals when he preferred to be studying the complexities of harmony and counterpoint. One day he flatly refused to attend the day's rehearsal.

The outraged director called him into the office and delivered a lecture on student discipline. Ignace countered with some ideas of his own on the useless, time-wasting aspects of the student orchestra. One word led to another, as one word unfortunately does at tense moments. Before he knew exactly what had happened, Master Ignace Paderewski had been expelled from the Warsaw Conservatory.

Fortunately for Ignace, he had friends among the faculty members. They raised such a fuss in his behalf that the Director was forced to change his mind. The boy was taken back in time to pass his examinations.

A less hot-headed fellow than the red-headed "Squirrel" might have learned a lesson from this extremely close call. But Ignace did not have the sense to stay out of trouble. The next year the orchestra question flared again. Seven students drew up a letter of protest which appeared over their signatures in the newspaper. The seven students were promptly expelled for one year, Ignace among them. This time no amount of influence helped.

Only the loyal support of Edward Kerntopf enabled Ignace to stay on in Warsaw and work at the piano as best he could by himself. And by giving piano lessons to the young children of Kerntopf customers he earned the princely sum of twelve cents an hour.

"Well--uh--"

"Good! Then it's all settled. We'll tour as far as Russia. That's it! We'll go all the way to St. Petersburg, leaving a trail of triumph behind us!"

In the end a cellist joined the troupe, and the foolish trio of young hopefuls started out in the direction of the nearest resort hotel.

"How different from today," Paderewski said later, as he reminisced about his boyhood adventures. "Such a thing could probably not happen in these years of rapid communication, with parents in constant touch with pampered children. Although still youths, we were to a great extent 'on our own,' as you put it, and parental advice was not close at hand. We were completely out of touch with our families. So it was easy for us to keep this great adventure a secret. I knew well enough that my father, had he known, would have no faith in it, nor could he give me any money for such an undertaking."

Whenever the artists reached a new town their first problem was to locate a piano and to persuade the owner to contribute the use of it to the evening's concert. The second problem was to get the piano moved to the hall where the concert was to be played. This was easier, the boys soon found, in a town which housed a military garrison. The good-natured soldiers were always willing to carry the piano in exchange for a glass of vodka. Since every soldier had a different theory about the proper way to move a piano, the entire garrison ended up as an escort. The sight of thirty or forty soldiers surging through the street after a piano, and all arguing at once, was good free advertising. No one in town could long remain unaware of the fact that a concert was to be played that night.

The first few concerts were quite successful and the three artists moved on, by train, by bus, or on foot, further and further to the north. But as summer faded and the temperature began to drop, the cellist gave notice. "I'm going back to Warsaw," he said, "and if you have any sense, you'll come too."

"Nothing doing!" violinist Ignace replied. "It's on to St. Petersburg for us!"

"Well, I'm not as adventurous as you are. Goodbye!"

Thus the trio became a duo. As the boys turned north and crossed into Russia, they suddenly found themselves in mid-winter. They lined their thin clothing with newspaper and pressed on. They were forced to admit that their brief summer success was over. Soon they were penniless and hungry. Ignace-the-violinist gave in first and wrote home for money. Finally Ignace-the-pianist had to break his resolution and do the same. The fathers of both boys sent money immediately and told the lads to be on the next train home. The violinist was delighted to follow orders. The pianist was more stubborn. "If only I could get to Petersburg. If only I could play one successful concert there!" he thought. "It's just as easy to get home from there as it is from here. Easier in fact. Just one more chance! It's all I ask. Father wouldn't really mind!"

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