1860
I was born November 6, 1860, and a few months later the mother, whom I was never to know, died. The beginning of my life was quite ordinary. I was born […] in a little country village in Podolia, a former Province of the old Polish Republic, which does not belong any more to Poland. The name of the village was Kurylowka. There was no woman in our house when we were small except my aunt, who came from time to time to visit us… Our home was very far from civilization; we were hundreds of miles from the primitive railway station, so that all traveling (and there was very little traveling then) was done by horse, of course.
1863
I started piano by my own intuition. There were no lessons, no effort to teach me. I was always seeking, always trying to find melodies, and then when I was three my first teacher […] came to give me lessons.  The only one available was a violin player and that violinist gave me my first rudiments of piano playing.  Now, young as I was, I soon realized that he could not teach me how to play.  So, I used to play by myself, improvising.
1864
Suddenly the house was surrounded by Cossacks […], perhaps 150 on horseback.  They completely encircled the house, and proceeded with the search.   They seemed very big and terrifying to a small boy.  …I approached a Cossack very timidly and asked about my father.  I was rather badly received, with the knout! …I kept asking […] why they were taking my father away…the tall Cossack laughed, threw back his head and again gave me several very heavy strokes with the knout.
1865-1867
During the imprisonment of my father, of course we could not stay alone - so our good aunt, who was living at a distance of a hundred miles or more, came to take us away…We had a wretched piano. An old piano made in Vienna by Graft. It was […] piano with a very weak tone and hoarse in sound and scratchy. However, that was the best we could have then.
…there was, at a distance of some fifty miles, an old gentleman who was reputed to be a bonafide musician.  My aunt asked him to come and give lessons to my sister and myself and for two years he came every week…he proved to be no better than the violinist.  …I did not profit from his instruction… He […] continued to teach us to play arrangements for four hands, always duets.  It was my fate!
1867
My father married again in 1867, and I acquired a stepmother.  There were many brothers and sisters, and life suddenly became different.
1868
Mr. Michael Babiański came in 1868.  With him I had regular lessons in grammar, both in Polish and French, in mathematics, geography, history, and so on… Although Babiański did so much for my education, my piano progress was absolutely nil.  I did not get even the first rudiments of piano technique. It was tragedy.
1870
I was then about 10 years old.  I tried to play, but I did not know how. I had absolutely no knowledge of fingering… I had absolutely no musical memory until I was fifteen or sixteen.  … I did not like to concentrate on music.  I did not receive any kind of serious musical education as a child, and what was given me in the form of pretended education bored me terribly.  I had no interest for playing of chords, basses, etc., in operatic arrangements.  The eternal duets!  The only enjoyment I could find was in improvising, and that does not mean an effort of memory.   I could multiply four figures by four figures in my mind with great ease.  I could play chess, when a boy of ten […] from another room without even seeing the pieces, dictating my moves. I could play two games of chess simultaneously, but at that time I could not memorize music at all.
1872
…my sister and I took part in a concert in the neighborhood – a little place where there were perhaps only a hundred people…a little charity concert, and our very first.  …we were well received by the audience – they applauded loudly and we were given some sweets as a reward.  Then […] I played two or three concerts more, quite by myself.  There were no more duets this time!  I was the soloist.  …after I had finished my so-called program, someone in the audience, as a great test, came and held a towel over the keyboard, completely hiding the keys, and without seeing them I played again.  And for that extra concert I actually received some pay!  My programs were quite modest […] and not very long.  I played some little arrangements from operas that I knew.  I played pieces by Kalkbrenner and Tedesco […] and last of all – the Carnival of Venice, [but]…for lack of pieces, I improvised a good deal, for I did not have access to any musical compositions at that time.  We were so far away from cities and artistic centers that we did not even have a musical library.  I was looked upon then as a very talented boy – a promising musician [but] I had never heard any concerts at hat age, nor any music really.  I had never heard an orchestra, a pianist, violinist, or even a singer.
1872-1875
About this time my father began to speak of sending me to Warsaw to the Conservatory.  He wanted me to have a real musical education.  And so we went on the first train that was organized.  There were no cars for the people; there were only cars for merchandise.  I was twelve years old.  At the Conservatory, I was immediately and kindly received.  The Director was a remarkable man.  His name was Kontski. When he spoke to me, he looked straight into my eyes.  But I understood his look at once and was not surprised when he said, “We’ll take this boy immediately, without any examination.”  …I had withstood that look – I faced him.  We understood each other from the beginning. 
My studies at the Conservatory began at once with a disappointment – and a bitter one.  …the first teacher I saw was so discouraging and so unpleasant that I asked at once to be relieved from piano study.  He said I had not the hands for piano playing.  On the other side my teachers in theory were extremely enthusiastic from the start.  They one and all agreed that I was to be a composer, not a pianist. 
The second piano teacher I went to was a very emotional man, [he] was an artist, and he admitted and realized at once that I really had something to say with my fingers.  After two years I could play very acceptably, […] with certain accents and emotions that betrayed a natural talent. …while studying harmony and counterpoint, I was very much attracted by various instruments – I wanted to know them all.  I went first to the teacher of the flute, […] but there I met again with great discouragement.  I could never become a flute player, I was told, because my lips were too thick for the flute.  Fate again!  …I then went to the oboe and clarinet class.  There was a very nice teacher… He gave me the elements of oboe and clarinet playing, but said I had no future with either the clarinet or oboe.  So I moved again.  To the bassoon next.  From the bassoon I went to the horn and for a few months I really played the horn – and quite acceptably.  [Then] I went on to the class of trumpets and of the trombone.  One day while giving the lesson [the teacher] said, ‘Now, my dear boy, listen to me.  Piano is useless for you – you have no future with piano; your future is here, playing the trombone!  You will earn your livelihood with the trombone, not with the piano.  Mark my words.” [When] the idea of the symphonic orchestra at the Conservatory matured, I was immediately called upon to take place as first trombone player! “But I cannot rehearse”, I protested.  “I have something more important to do now – my examinations.”  “Examinations!” [the Director] answered angrily.  “Nonsense.  There is nothing so important now as these orchestral rehearsals.  I order you to attend them.”.  …I refused to obey.  Then they used violence – they actually tried to keep me by force.  And I said, “I do not acknowledge that the Conservatory has any rights to arrest the student, […] and I shall not accept that verdict.  Please let the door to be opened.”  That ended the matter and I was then and there expelled from the Conservatory.
At this time … I lived with the kind Kerntopf family. …my expulsion from the conservatory did affect the Kerntopf family terribly.  They looked upon that as a disgrace. [Then] a message was sent from the Conservatory to Edward Kerntopf, which read, “Bring Paderewski back. We will pardon his offence….”  And so back we went… [The Director] looked keenly at me and said, “ Well, Paderewski, you have behaved very badly.  But as you have appeared here and performed this act of humility to see me, you are forgiven and you may now return and continue your examinations.”   Then the orchestra concerts started again.  At that particular moment the newspapers suddenly began to attack the Director.  …their attacks … became so violent that several of the pupils replied and finally send a protest.  I was again drawn into the conflict … and expelled for the second time.  …I left the Conservatory for a year.  I then went to a certain professor … for private lessons.  After the fourth lesson, he said, “Now, I’ll give you some good advice – do not try to play piano, because you will never be a pianist. Never.”  So I played by myself, and got on somehow.
1876-1878
…I was giving lessons then … at the tremendous sum of twelve cents an hour.   …I took any pupils that I could get … mostly children of eight or nine who wanted to play a little. …I used to go to their houses and gave about two lessons a day.  [Then] I started with two companions for a little tour of the provincial towns … in the north of Poland and Russia. I wanted to earn some money.  We had a very nice little success – we even made a little money, at first, but the cellist suddenly decided to return to the Conservatory.  So he went home, and we pressed on.  The cellist was right.  It was all very childish.  I was not quite 16 and my companion [violinist] 18 – after all there was not much wisdom in our joint ages.  Our greatest difficulty always was to find a piano.  A small square piano, usually hoarse and of terrible tone and seemingly a 100 years old, was the best we could find. …in the small provincial towns of Poland and Russia, there were not many grand pianos to be had.  We came to a large place where there was a Russian fortress, and we gave a concert.  It was not a success. We had no plan where to go next, and while thinking about it, we spent all our money… With our last few pence we bought a big loaf of bread, and lived on tea and bread for about ten days. We had nothing else to eat.  …the violinist wrote to his people, and thank God! an envelope came shortly [with] some money.  Our tour had started in the summer, we had no overcoats, and it was a very severe winter.  We covered ourselves under our vests with newspapers, the best protection and the only one we had.  It was remarkable that we survived at all.   At one of the military colonies we decided to give a concert.  We had great hopes of that place. [There were] some 15 thousand soldiers and officers there.  Then, I began suddenly to feel very sick.  I had a high fever and was simply burning up and very thirsty.  Sick as I was, I [became] obsessed with one great longing, a longing for caviar – nothing but caviar.  In the colony Miedvied there was only one hotel.  When we arrived I said quickly to the astonished proprietor, “I am going to eat plenty of caviar. That’s what I want”  I ate at least two pounds of caviar, and then I slept.  [Then] I sent for a doctor.  He examined my pulse and said, “If you pull through, it will be a miracle.”  He gave me a little medicine, and after a few days I was all right again.  I still don’t know what was the matter – and I’m sure the doctor also didn’t.  We went on with our tour.  By this time my father had heard of our adventure. He sent me 100 rubles with the idea that I should return home at once.  The parents of the violinist also told him to return, and he obeyed.  So I went on alone with the tour, and was on my way to St. Petersburg. When I arrived there, I met a young man I had seen in the Kerntopf family.  …he immediately borrowed all my money, and I never saw him again. To pile the agony still further, my luggage had been stolen.  I was left with nothing, literally.  Soon after I was left stranded, I met again on the street a man whom I saw when talking with my supposed friend.  He proved to be my guardian angel.  He was an extremely poor plumber.   [His] lodging was underground; there was no light there, [but] he gave me a roof to sleep under and a bit of bread to eat.  I was very thankful for it.  I spent there about a fortnight, it seemed an eternity.  Then the janitor came to me and said, “Have you any relatives?”  “Yes”, I answered.  “Why?”  “There is a letter for you”, he said. The address was wrong so they sent from the post office all over the place to enquire and it has come here.”  It was a letter from my father with 100 rubles.  That was simply a miracle. I reached home safely and there was great rejoicing in our family.

I went back to the Conservatory, and I worked so hard that in six months I finished my studies of two years.  I had enormous concentration.  They made no difficulties then in taking me back again – they were glad enough to have me. 
I received my diploma - I played the Grieg Concerto with the orchestra.  And thus came to an end my studies in the Conservatory at Warsaw.

I had great hopes of going somewhere, Berlin, or Vienna preferably, to study piano. But alas!  I had not the means.   So I accepted the post of teacher at the Conservatory. That offer was made immediately after receiving my diploma, as a result of the brilliant examination I had passed – perhaps a kind of reward after the stormy years as a student.

* Based on:  The Paderewski Memoirs   by Paderewski and Mary Lawton

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