It was thirty-one years, almost to the very day, since his well-remembered debut in Carnegie Hall in 1891. Now, on November 22, 1922, he walked out on the famous stage to begin again. This time an audience that months before had bought every seat in the house filled the hall with a great cheering at his entrance, and kept up the applause until he seated himself at the Steinway and struck the few chords with which he always liked to quiet his listeners. That he was nervous was certain. But that his fingers had every ounce of the control, of the magic singing sound, and the thundering excitement they had had in the past was clear to him and to his audience. It was clear, also, to the critics, who were unanimous as they sought, almost desperately, to describe the mature playing of this man who was now so much more than a pianist.
There was no dissent anywhere from the critical opinions. But there was one special friend who, under unique circumstances, summed it up better than any other. He was Georges Clemenceau, France's wartime premier.
On the night before his own return concert in Carnegie Hall, Paderewski had gone to the Metropolitan Opera House to hear Clemenceau speak. But Clemenceau had to make another speech on November 22 and had not been able to hear the great triumph of Paderewski's return. When Paderewski's concert was over, he was driven to the home of Charles Dana Gibson, a fashionable artist of the day, with whom Clemenceau was staying. There, the two men greeted each other with the deepest affection.
Paderewski said to Clemenceau, "You are the greatest man I ever knew. You told them the truth in a splendid way of which you alone are capable." He was referring to Clemenceau's speech at the Metropolitan Opera, when the "tiger of France" had called upon America to help Europe in the difficult postwar days.
"No, no, you are the greatest man," Clemenceau replied. "At the peace conference you made such a wonderful speech that I was nearly moved to tears." Then the old Frenchman paused. "I missed your concert," he said apologetically. "When will you play for me?"
"Master," Paderewski answered. "I will do anything for you. I will play for you now!" And for nearly an hour, the man who had only a short time before played for three hours in Carnegie Hall played in the half-light of the Gibson mansion. When it was over, Clemenceau said, "Marvelous, marvelous. You are not only a great musician and a great statesman, but a great poet also."