The great happiness that came to him at his marriage was followed very shortly by a great but not unexpected sorrow. Paderewski, while playing in Spain, was called home by the news that Alfred had died. A lifetime of care, of watchful attention and special treatments had not been able to save him. At twenty, he was buried in the Cemetery of Montmorency in Paris, near the tomb of Chopin.
For Paderewski, work had always been the surest antidote for grief. He now turned all of his energy to the finishing details of his opera, "Manru," which was to be produced at the Dresden Opera in May, 1901. Eight years of work lay behind the premiere of "Manru," which was shortly thereafter performed in many of the leading opera houses of Europe. The following winter the Metropolitan Opera in New York presented it with an all-star cast and included it in five cities of its annual tour. While the opera had, generally, a friendly reception, one critic remarked sourly, "What a pity that Paderewski is now composing, for he is no more a great pianist." He stood firmly alone in his opinion.
Paderewski had been the favorite pianist of Europe and North and South America long enough for the news of his greatness to spread clear around the world. In the spring of 1904 he set out on a tour of Australia. On this trip Paderewski's baggage problem was complicated beyond memory. The Paderewski menage was enlarged by the addition of some forty parrots. Mme. Paderewska had a fondness for all types of birds, and the talking variety fascinated her.
One of these animals became a special favorite of Paderewski's. Named Cockey Roberts, he was, according to his master, "more than a parrot. He was a real artist in his way." Paderewski's particular delight was Cockey Roberts' habit of perching on his foot during practice sessions. "He would sit perfectly still," Paderewski recalled, "and then from time to time, he would say in a very loving and scratchy voice, 'Oh! Lord, how beautiful!' It was touching."
Very few pianists ever retire from public performance, even briefly, at the height of their careers. Paderewski, however, did so in 1906. From causes he describes as partly physical and partly psychological, he had begun to feel a curious but very real aversion to the piano. Not even the estate in Switzerland, where he could let the sometimes healing forces of farming work on his nerves, helped much. When, in order to earn some money, he returned to concerts for a time, he found the distaste for the piano still strong. Physicians tried their arts on him, one even resorting to hypnosis. By 1909 Paderewski said, "The easiest pieces in my repertoire I could not manage. The touch was strange to me. It was torture." Perhaps Paderewski's sudden distaste for his lifelong routine came about because he was beginning to prepare himself subconsciously for a new and wholly unexpected career.