Like many other famous artists of to-day, Paderewski finds the making of records for a phonograph far more trying and fatiguing than playing in public. He says he would “rather play at twenty concerts than once for a phonograph.” One of these records was so difficult to make, and needed so many repetitions to insure perfection in every note, not only artistically, but acoustically, that he almost dislikes to hear it. It is safe to predict that his admirers will not share this feeling, and that his own “Cracovienne,” Mendelssohn’s “Hunting-Song,” and Liszt’s “Campanella,” to mention only three, will become popular additions to their collections of records. He has a large number of Oriental records, in which he is greatly interested. Years ago, when he first went to San Francisco, he spent much of his spare time at the Chinese theater listening to their music; so the study of Oriental tunes is no new thing, although, thanks to the recording machines, it has taken a new form. Never shall we forget our last afternoon at Riond-Bosson, when Paderewski played for us, giving almost a professional recital, at which the greatest of all the music he played was his own “Variations et fugue,” Opus 23. To hear them in the concert-hall, as New York audiences have heard them, is a great experience; but to hear them in a room, with three or four enthusiasts as the only listeners, is a much greater one. Mme. Wilkonska, Paderewski’s sister; Miss Mickiewicz, granddaughter of the famous Polish poet; Mr. Blake, a young Polish sculptor, and we two, were the only persons there besides the pianist and his wife. She stood at his side to turn the leaves for him, although he hardly glanced at the printed page; but as he had not played this composition in a long time, and had had only a few hours’ practice to recall it to memory and fingers, he preferred to have the music before him. Lovers of music will recall the majestic theme in octaves upon which Paderewski has built one of the most splendid sets of variations in all music, one worthy to be compared with Schubert’s sublime variations on his song of “Death and the Maiden.” He had thundered out his theme, when two of Mme. Paderewska’s dogs began a mad romp through the room. Paderewski’s hands dropped from the keys, and the culprits were summarily put out, little realizing their sins. They reappeared at doors and windows, scratching and barking; but, once fairly launched, Paderewski was undisturbed by their small noises, and played on to the end. After finishing the fugue, he replied, in answer to questions, that one of the variations was difficult, then mentioned another, and ended by repeating several of the best variations and also the splendid fugue.