The first few concerts were quite successful and the three artists moved on, by train, by bus, or on foot, further and further to the north. But as summer faded and the temperature began to drop, the cellist gave notice. "I'm going back to Warsaw," he said, "and if you have any sense, you'll come too."
"Nothing doing!" violinist Ignace replied. "It's on to St. Petersburg for us!"
"Well, I'm not as adventurous as you are. Goodbye!"
Thus the trio became a duo. As the boys turned north and crossed into Russia, they suddenly found themselves in mid-winter. They lined their thin clothing with newspaper and pressed on. They were forced to admit that their brief summer success was over. Soon they were penniless and hungry. Ignace-the-violinist gave in first and wrote home for money. Finally Ignace-the-pianist had to break his resolution and do the same. The fathers of both boys sent money immediately and told the lads to be on the next train home. The violinist was delighted to follow orders. The pianist was more stubborn. "If only I could get to Petersburg. If only I could play one successful concert there!" he thought. "It's just as easy to get home from there as it is from here. Easier in fact. Just one more chance! It's all I ask. Father wouldn't really mind!"
He went on alone to Petersburg. And then real disaster struck. Both his baggage and the money he had counted on for his return home were stolen. He found himself absolutely penniless and half starved in a strange, unfriendly city. Fortunately for Ignace, not everyone in it was unfriendly. A poor plumber took the boy in off the street to save him from freezing to death. With nothing to do all day but try to stay warm, Ignace had plenty of time to think over his foolishness. He had no idea what to do next. On one point, however, he was adamant. He would not write his father again. "How can I?" he said to the friendly plumber. "He already sent me more than he could afford. And I lost it! I can't ask him for more!"
A few days later the janitor of the building came to the plumber's little basement room and said, "Isn't your name Paderewski? There's a letter for you at the General Delivery window of the Post Office."
"For me? But that's impossible. From whom?"