Paderewski's gloomy predictions about his first London appearance turned out to be one hundred percent correct. The night was wet and foggy; the hall was half empty; the audience was chilly. The artist, so sensitive to the emotions of the audience, was appalled. And the reviews were ghastly. "Vulgar," "violent," "much noise and little music," "the clay and the jangle of metal," he read about himself in the London papers. The critics seemed determined to cut the lion down to the size of a small tabby cat.
Today we have our own opinion about the cautious critics who complained so bitterly because Paderewski's playing was "utterly at variance with the traditional methods." In England the "traditional methods" of playing certain unfortunate composers often meant rather spineless, languishing, ladylike performances. Paderewski's intense vitality and virility startled the conservative critics of that Victorian era. It would take some getting used to!
After two slightly more successful London concerts, Paderewski went on a tour of the smaller cities. Poor Mr. Daniel Mayer set out on the road with a heavy heart, for he looked forward to financial disaster. To his horror, Paderewski had firmly insisted that his publicity circulars for the provinces should reprint all his London reviews complete! Mr. Mayer, like every other manager in the business, believed in picking out the best and kindest remarks from reviews and cleverly stringing them together with "..." and "...," thus giving the impression that all the critics had thought everything was wonderful. Yet Paderewski had vetoed this simple business procedure for a reason that appalled his poor manager. He said it was dishonest. Dishonest! Who cared about honesty in publicity releases, Mr. Mayer moaned to himself. Results at the box office were what counted! And who had ever heard of a rising concert artist with a conscience. It was a luxury he could not afford.
[Illustration: _The admiring lady was Queen Victoria._]
To Mr. Mayer's vast surprise, Paderewski's honesty turned out to be the best policy, financially as well as morally. The people of the smaller English towns felt--quite correctly--that Londoners looked down on them. For this reason they leaned over backwards to avoid following the lead of the big city in making decisions about anything, even the abilities of an unknown artist. The very fact that the London critics had given him rough treatment was a point in his favor. And the fact that he had circulated all of his reviews, good and bad, piqued their curiosity as nothing else could have done. Curiosity and sympathy are a powerful combination at the box office.