The Scranton tribune. [volume] (Scranton, Pa.) 1891-1910, 1902-02-25
THE WAITING thousands sat with

II HE WAITING thousands sat with
upturned faces, silent in the anx-
L iety of their expectation. Softly
across the platform stepped slight
figure, the delicate. face framed in hair,
soft and shining as corn-sllk in the
September sun. The head was that of
man with wonderful mental poise-
and this was Paderewski. 1t was a
Polish poet who sang:
80 ye Exiles, who so long wander over the
world,
When will We find a resting place for your weary
steps?
The wild dove has its nest; the worm its clod of
earth,
Each man country--but the Poe-a grave"
Surely there is a Poland yet, and the
fair country is reincarnated in this man
with the sadness of generations carved
intaglo-like, on his countenance, and
as surely he is finding an abiding place
in the hearts of the world above the
lines OF race or nation or caste.
1t is something more than art; it is
something more even than genius, the
mysterious tie which links the emotions
of this man to the deepest feeling Of
others. To watch his face while he
plays is to realize suddenly that there
is a new grief in life which has not
touched but here and there in a GEN.
tury; it is to feel that there are heights
of purest Joy yet unreached.
The house was much larger than that
of the Nordica night. The stage was
packed at the rear with listeners and
the front seats We're all filled with Il
discriminating and enthusiastic au-
dience. Hundreds of people We're pres
ent from Wilkes Barre, Carbondale,
Binghamton, Honesdale, Stroudsburg,
bloomsbury and various small points.
Fred C. Hand had the unvoiced thanks
of the multitude for his enterprise in
securing such a treat.
1t has been said that Paderewski is
an artist By the grace of God, a phen-
omenal and inspired player No truer
keynote can be given to his character.
A patrician by birth, and by every in
stinct, it has been that he has always
chosen the highest. Therefore today
he stands on q pure, proud height, as
stood the Blameless King between the
towers of Camelot, and because he has
thus chosen he hears voices and dreams
dreams and knows sweet secrets that
tire mute and blind and hidden to 9TH
ers. Life has not smirched him and
toll has not hardened, and dsdain has
not turned the rare gold of his nature
to dross.
To hear him play Chopin is to know
that Poland reigns again through her
most illustrious son. To hear him play
Schumann is to feel that Schumann
should have another incarnation on
earth to know that finally he is immor-
talized as he should be.
There is little drawing of the great
pianist by Sir Edward Burne-Jones,
which more nearly expresses the real
PadereWski than any other portrait of
him. Somehow, he fits into the Pre-
Raphaelite idea and all at once we see
him as he iS-not the pianist only, not
the virtuosO. not the centre of hys-
terical adulation, but the poet apostle
of all music of all times. This is where
Paderewski stands supreme. He has
wrought out the poetical thoughts at
the basis of every inspired composition
and has seemed to give the chrysalis of
genius the wings of translation to n
higher realm. Sometimes we feel it,
but seldom can we give even the faint
est description of the lovely emotion it
creates.
The programme of last night opened
with the Moonlight Sonata of Beeth-
oven. Scranton heard it for the first
time in America from this great pian-
lists fingers His method of slipping
into the key of c sharp minor was
richly rhythmicaI and brought out the
warm full tones with conSummate a
beauty.
To one who sat within close range of
the pianist the wondrous effects made