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Updated: June 14, 2025
He said that cayuse did look like Paderewski, but the youth of the fiery locks blushingly explained that his present name was "Jail-Bird," which some fool Scandinavian had used instead of "Grey-Bird," his authentic and original appellative. But I stuck to my name, though we have shortened it into "Paddy."
The music was not altogether original; it reminded me, with its mechanical punctuations, of a concerto by Paderewski which contains an exquisite movement between the piano and kettledrum since the flute, which ought to have supported the voice, was apparently dumb, although the artist puffed out his cheeks as if his life depended upon it.
But there is much in common between two forms of an art in which physical dexterity counts for so much, and that passionate precision to which error must be impossible. It is the same kind of joy that you get from Cinquevalli when he juggles with cannon-balls and from Paderewski when he brings a continuous thunder out of the piano.
When Liszt and Thalberg were in possession of the concert platform, they occupied the attention of cartoonists as fully as Paderewski at a later date. Liszt, his hair floating wildly, was represented as darting through the air on wide-stretched pinions with keyboards attached a play on Flügel, the German for grand piano.
Sometimes, even now, she will tell me how she came to be fined by the United States commissioner at Mammoth Hot Springs. You see, the geysers rattled Maw, there being so many and she loving them all so much. One day when they were camped near the Upper Basin, Maw was looking down in the cone of Old Faithful, just after that Paderewski of the park had ceased playing.
There were hundreds of them, so many that it took just three days to go the rounds. She considers them invaluable, and constantly uses them in her own practise and in her teaching. Each exercise must be played in all keys and with every possible variety of touch and tone. Paderewski gives much time daily to pure technic practise.
He is a master of phrasing and of all beauties of detail, has a wonderfully perfect technique, but that quality which places him at the head of all rivals is his musical feeling, his temperament. He has been compared to Rubinstein and to Paderewski. He inspires his hearers, or, as it was once expressed, very neatly, "he creeps up under your vest."
Paderewski resorts to a private car, but even this luxurious mode of travel may be very monotonous and exhausting. The great distances must certainly account for some of the evidences of strain which deform the faces and exhaust the minds of so many virtuosos.
Chopin was once thought to be a drawing-room composer; Pachmann was once thought to be no "serious artist." Both have triumphed, not because the taste of any public has improved, but because a few people who knew have whispered the truth to one another, and at last it has leaked out like a secret. I shall never cease to associate Paderewski with the night of the Jubilee.
Against it one tree, which looked like Paderewski grown very old, stood up with tousled branches. In the village bonfires flared, and the dark figures of skipping children passed and re-passed before them. We heard youthful cries echoing across the sands. Soon they faded. The lights went out, and the wonderful silence of night in the desert came in to its heritage.
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