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His cooks have had long reigns. Greatest of them was the great Copper, who retired in 1927 after cooking Paderewski's meals for 25 years. After a midnight meal in his private car on some Midwestern siding, Paderewski once called the waiter to him. "Tell Mr. Copper," he beamed, "that the meat, the vegetables and the dessert were excellent." The waiter went out, then reappeared. "Mr. Copper said to tell you," he reported, "that the soup was excellent too."
Old Patriot. Like all Poles, Paderewski is a fervent patriot. For him only one thing has been more important than his music: his life-long dream of an independent Poland. When the World War broke, Paderewski saw his big chance to make that dream come true. For the duration of the War he toured England and the U. S., playing, speaking at dinners, lobbying with politicians, devoting all the proceeds of his concerts to Polish relief. At this tea-table politics he was a great success. In 1917, with the help of his close friend, Colonel House, he prevailed upon President Wilson to include an independent Poland in his proposals for European peace. When, at the end of the War, the Allies asked Paderewski to organize a stable Polish government, the pianist took up politics in earnest. In a vote like a crashing chord the Polish Parliament voted their confidence in him as their first Premier. On June 28, 1919, at Versailles, he got Poland back its official place on the map of Europe.
Then Politician Paderewski's troubles began. "Piano playing," he once remarked, "is more difficult than statesmanship." But as a practical Premier, Paderewski was a first-rate pianist. He let correspondence pile up, let the telephone ring itself hoarse. In the rough & tumble of practical politics, he was a pushover for Poland's tough, military Marshal Pilsudski. In December 1919, Paderewski resigned, left Poland and politics to brood alone at his estate in Morges, Switzerland.*
At 59, Paderewski's political adventures had left him weary, disappointed and short of cash. For several years he remained a recluse, remembered by the public only for an occasional smouldering outburst on the state of affairs in his native Poland. He had not touched the piano for four years. Rumors spread that the great Paderewski had forgotten how to play. But in 1922, his red-gold hair now silver, Paderewski staged a comeback, proved that he was still the only living virtuoso who could gross half a million dollars on a U. S. concert tour.
Age had not subdued his mane-shaking mannerisms but had somewhat slowed his brilliant technique. He still flailed the keyboard like a maddened thresher, still followed through a rippling run as though he were plucking a rabbit from a topper. But his stubby fingers, which he always soaked in warm water before a performance, though still steely-supple, had just perceptibly lost something of their cascading fluidity. Critics no longer unconditionally rated him as No. 1 among the world's great pianists. But he still had what it took to hold an audience: a great past, a great presence.
When in 1933 aged Trouper Paderewski walked stiffly up to a piano in Manhattan's Madison Square Garden to play the last concert of his 19th U. S. tour, most of the throng of 20,000 believed they were hearing him for the last time.