THE VILLA RION-BOSSON, PADEREWSKI'S RESIDENCE NEAR LAUSANNE

From a photograph by Mr. Jean Bauler

"Paderewski," said Pachmann in one of those speeches with which he sometimes enlivens his recitals, "Paderewski is the most modest artist that I have ever seen. I myself am the most unmodest artist, except Hans von BÜlow. He is more unmodest than I am." It is curious, indeed, how little is known at first hand of Paderewski. Knowledge of him as a man is confined to the friends with whom he is intimate. The outside world knows no more than that he is an accomplished linguist and a man of considerable reading and catholic tastes; that he is the soul of generosity to those with whom he is acquainted; that he is an expert billiard player—a talent he may have learnt from his master Leschetitzky; that he is a brilliant conversationalist; that he smokes a great many cigarettes; and that he is fond of staying up until the early hours of the morning. It is not, perhaps, so generally known that he is an expert swimmer. With regard to the billiard playing, the pianist once explained to an interviewer the place it takes in the economy of his life. The necessity of practising during his tours for a series of recitals has sometimes meant playing nearly seventeen hours a day, counting the time taken by the recitals themselves—a circumstance which has often happened during the pianist's American tours—and M. Paderewski confessed it was playing billiards that had saved his life. "If I walk or ride, or merely rest," he said, "I go on thinking all the time, and my nerves get no real rest. But when I play billiards I can forget everything, and the result is mental rest and physical exercise combined."

Very few people understand what a life of nervous stress a great pianist must lead. When Paderewski, in the ordinary course, has to prepare for a recital tour, he seldom practises less than ten or twelve hours a day. And that does not end his work, for he once told Mr. Henry T. Finck, the celebrated American critic, that he often lies awake for hours at night, going over his programme mentally, note for note, trying to get at the essence of every bar. Mr. Finck goes on to say: "This mental practice at night explains the perfection of his art, but it is not good for his health. Indeed, if he ever sins, it is against himself and the laws of health. He smokes too many cigarettes, drinks too much lemonade, loses too much sleep, or sleeps too often in the daytime. For this last habit he is, however, not entirely to blame; for whenever he gives a concert, all his faculties are so completely engaged that he is quite exhausted at the end, and unable to go to sleep for hours."

ANOTHER VIEW OF THE VILLA RION-BOSSON

From a photograph by Mr. Jean Bauler

The pianist's life has its compensations, however. He is not one of those artists whose whole life is made up of concert-tours, and this is even less the case now than it was some years ago. In the intervals between his tours he lives an ideal life in his Swiss home, busy with composition, which from the very first was his real aim in life. A writer in a German newspaper has given an interesting account of Paderewski's home on the lake of Geneva. "It is situated some distance away from the road, yet is easily accessible. If you visit the pleasing little town of Morges, on the lake of Geneva, and walk westward to the picturesque village of Islochenaz, you will, in a quarter of an hour, reach a shady park, amid which the chÂlet de Riond Bosson presents an imposing appearance. If you heed the warning notice on the gate: 'N'entrez pas sans sonner. Prenez garde aux chiens,' you may enter the grounds without danger. At most you will risk having your clothes torn, for Paderewski's dogs have particularly sharp teeth. By way of compensation, there are many beautiful things to see on the other side of the wire fence. Of course, the little castle of the Polish virtuoso is not open to everybody, not even in the absence of the owner, but all may visit the beautiful park which was planted by the Duchess of Otranto. The widow of FouchÉ, the notorious Police Commissioner of Napoleon I., bought this place in 1823, and occupied it a long time. After her death the ChÂlet de Riond Bosson came into the possession of her heirs, the Vicomte d'Estournel and the Comte Le Marois, who sold it in 1898 to Paderewski. On emerging from the shady walks of the park, the visitor comes upon an enchanting scene. In the foreground lies the antique little town of Morges; behind it is the semicircular blue expanse of the lake, and beyond that tower the snowy peaks of the Alps. Behind the orchard is a big greenhouse containing nothing but grapes for the table." Paderewski by no means spends his time in the dolce far niente for which there would be an excuse in so beautiful a spot. In addition to his composition he interests himself in everything connected with his estate, and particularly, like M. Jean de Reszke, in the breeding of live-stock.

GATEWAY OF THE VILLA RION-BOSSON

From a photograph by Mr. Jean Bauler

The reserve which his bearing on the concert platform suggests is the effect of an artist's well-poised, nervous control. In private life among his intimate friends he is a most sympathetic, pleasant companion, ready and able to talk brilliantly on other arts than his own, as well as on literature and life itself. Among those whose appreciation he values, he is willing to exercise his particular art without any of that false pride which has been characteristic of some virtuosi. Mr. Hermann Klein, in his interesting "Thirty Years of Musical Life in London" (Heinemann), gives an instance of this. Paderewski had been asked to meet Sir Arthur Sullivan, Signor Piatti, Sir Alexander Mackenzie and a few other well-known musicians at a dinner-party in Mr. Klein's house on May 3, 1904. "Just before dinner a quaint sort of letter was placed in my hand. It was from some one in the famous pianist's entourage, reminding me that M. Paderewski was very fatigued after his heavy work in the provinces, and begging that I would under no circumstances ask him to play that evening. I was half amused, half annoyed by this unexpected communication, which, of course, I knew better than to regard as inspired by my guest of honour himself. However, I thought no more about it until after dinner, when I took an opportunity to inform Paderewski, in a whispered 'aside,' of the strange warning I had received. I assured him seriously that I had not the slightest idea of asking him to play, and that my friends were more than satisfied to have the pleasure of meeting him and enjoying his society. He replied:—

"'Do you imagine I think otherwise? This is a case of "Save me from my friends!" That I am tired is perfectly true. But when I am in the mood to play fatigue counts for nothing. And I am in that mood to-night. Are you really going to have some music?'

"'Yes, Piatti has brought his 'cello, and he is going to take part in the Rubinstein sonata in D.'

"'Then I should like to play it with him; and more besides, if he will permit me, Piatti and I are now old colleagues at the "Pops," and we always get on splendidly together.'

"What could I say?—save express my gratitude, and apprise my friends of the treat that was in store. It was the more welcome because it was virtually unexpected. An unalloyed delight was the performance of that lovely sonata by the Prince of 'cellists and the greatest of living pianists. Both seemed to revel in the beauties of a work admirably designed for the display of their respective instruments, and the rendering was in every way perfect. After it was over, dear old Piatti, who rarely talked much, said to me in his quiet way, 'I quite enjoyed that. I have played the sonata with Rubinstein many times, but it never went better than to-night.' Later on he played again; and so did Paderewski—with Sullivan close by his side, watching with fascinated eyes the nimble fingers as they glided over the keys. That evening the illustrious pianist was inspired. Fatigue was forgotten; indeed, he seemed much fresher than on the preceding night, when he introduced his fine Polish Fantasia at the Philharmonic. He went on and on from one piece to another, with characteristic forgetfulness of self, and it was well on to dawn before we parted."

This type of anecdote is told of most great instrumentalists, and especially of Rubinstein. To the lay mind it always seems strange that an artist who earns fabulous sums from public and private recitals should display his gifts for the mere love of the thing, but to the artist himself there is an enjoyment in the appreciation of a few gifted brother-artists which not all the thunder of popular applause can equal. And M. Paderewski is, above all, an artist. His public career of course necessitates advertisement, but he has never sought after means to bring himself forward apart from his playing. In consequence an air of mystery surrounds him as an atmosphere. On the few occasions when he has broken through this retirement it has always been for the sake of some project connected with his art or to show his esteem for a fellow artist. As an instance of this may be mentioned the fund for the encouragement of American composers which he founded after his 1895-96 tour. He placed a sum of £2000 in the hands of three trustees of which the interest was to be devoted to triennial prizes for composers of American birth irrespective of age or religion.

Another instance is the prominent part he meant to take in the testimonial given to Mme. Modjeska at Boston in May 1905. It will be remembered that the great pianist as a young man owed a deal to the encouragement of the celebrated actress, and it may be imagined how ardently he desired to make some public acknowledgment of his friendship. Unfortunately the serious accident which brought about the nervous breakdown of the pianist happened just previous to the benefit performance. The American Press teemed with alarmist reports of the permanent character of this breakdown, and to some extent there was justification for them. According to M. Paderewski's business manager, Mr. J. G. Francke, the following are the facts of the case: "I was with M. Paderewski when the accident occurred in Syracuse which upset his nerves. We were coming from Auburn, twenty-six miles from Syracuse, where the artist had been playing. We had a special engine. When the switch leading from the Auburn line to the tracks of the New York Central Railroad, half a mile from the station, was entered, the switchman gave our engine-driver the signal to stop. This signal was disregarded. The switchman, noting the arrival of the Buffalo express, threw our engine off the track, and just in time, or we should have been cut to pieces by the incoming train. M. Paderewski was seated at the head of the table where he was supping. The force of the sudden jolt threw him against the table as it hurled us to the floor. He did not suffer much from the shock at the time, but he felt it more the next day. A muscle in the back of his neck, connected in some way with the muscles of the spinal column, was affected by the collision. That has been his trouble. He did play after that in some Canadian cities, but the complaint developed in Boston, and overwhelmed him eventually." On April 29 he had arrived in Boston but was too ill to play at the Symphony Concert to be held in aid of the Orchestral Pension Fund. This and his inability to assist at the Modjeska benefit seemed to have preyed on his mind and naturally did not improve his condition.

To the committee of the Modjeska Testimonial the pianist sent a characteristic letter—a letter which is no mere expression of regret but is of value in our understanding of the pianist, since throughout it there breathes a love of his country worthy of Chopin himself. "For many months," Paderewski wrote, "I have been looking forward to the 2nd of May, anticipating one of the greatest joys of my career. The thought of joining you all on this solemn occasion has been my pride for many months. The sudden adversity of fate makes me feel now grieved and humiliated, and words cannot express all the bitterness of my disappointment. But there is still a pride and a joy I cannot be deprived of—the pride of belonging to the same country, to the same race which sent into the wide world one of the greatest and noblest artists of all times and nations; the joy of being one of many to whom Mme. Modjeska has been good, kind and generous. The first encouraging words I heard as a pianist came from her lips; the first successful concert I had in my life was due to her assistance. Unable to be present, I beg of you to convey to Mme. Modjeska the homage of profound admiration and gratitude, and to extend my sincerest thanks to all who contribute to make this the day of legitimate and crowning triumph for a career great, noble, pure and beautiful."

The passionate love of his country which this letter expresses will not be new to those who are acquainted with the pianist, nor, indeed, to those who only know him through his compositions. Once before, in 1893, when a guest of the New York Lotus Club, he had given public utterance to the same passion. "I loved your country," he said in his after-dinner speech, "before I knew it, for the very simple reason, allow me to tell you, that this country is the only one in which hundreds of thousands of Poles are living freely and enjoying liberty; the country in which every countryman of mine may speak whatever he likes of the past and future of his country without fearing to be arrested. A few years ago, at the same time that you were fighting the glorious fight against slavery, our poor nation made its last effort for liberty. Our fate was different—you have succeeded, and we have not; but still you gave us a great deal of happiness in the feeling that we were not alone."

Perhaps it is not very safe to take into account the environment of an artist in any criticism of his artistic achievements, but there is more reason for it in the case of an executant musician than in that of a composer, for the one so clearly makes capital of all that he is, whereas the other often only rises to creative serenity by forgetting his surroundings. It was in that atmosphere created by his will that Wagner composed "Die Meistersinger," for instance. At any rate the spirit of passionate rebellion is often to be heard in Paderewski's playing, especially of Chopin, and it may well be that the early death of his first wife had the effect of deepening his nature. In other directions, too, he has known sorrow, for his only son, who recently died, was for years a confirmed invalid. It is pleasant to think that the pianist's life has been brightened since 1899 by his marriage to the Baroness HÉlÈne von Rosen.