Paderewski’s reputation made possible another long-awaited opportunity. In 1889, a great exhibition—a sort of World’s Fair—was held in Paris. It included a display of pianos from all over the world. Paderewski arranged to have some Kerntopf pianos, up to then known only in Poland, shipped to Paris and exhibited. They won a gold medal (after Paderewski had happily and cleverly used every ounce of influence he had with every one of the judges). The fact that his pianos—Polish pianos—had come out so well in international competition was one of the greatest events in Edward Kerntopf’s life. It would never be possible to repay Edward’s kindness, Paderewski thought, but at least he had been able to do something. Many people who reach sudden, dazzling success find it all too easy to forget the people who helped to bring it about. It was one of Paderewski’s principal characteristics, from his boyhood to his old age, that he never forgot his friends at home. The road had led him from Warsaw to Vienna to Paris. To continue his conquest of the musical world, Paderewski now turned to London. As his ship pitched its way across the Channel, the seasick artist was in no mood for optimism. The conquest of one city, he knew, did not guarantee success in another city. London in particular had always maintained a chilly “show me” attitude toward artists who came supplied with flowery reviews from foreign critics. Naturally anyone who arrived in the British capital preceded by rave notices like Paderewski’s would be under high suspicion. It came as a nasty shock to Paderewski to find that his London manager, Daniel Mayer, a beginner in the field, had plastered the city with posters advertising the appearance of the “Lion of Paris.” Paderewski, a Pole, knew better than the English Mr. Mayer that Londoners simply did not care for this sort of thing. “You make me sound like an incoming circus,” he roared at his overeager manager. Paderewski’s gloomy predictions about his first London appearance turned out to be one hundred percent correct. The night was wet and foggy; the hall was half empty; the audience was chilly. The artist, so sensitive to the emotions of the audience, was appalled. And the reviews were ghastly. “Vulgar,” “violent,” “much noise and little music,” “the clay and the jangle of metal,” he read about himself in the London papers. The critics seemed determined to cut the lion down to the size of a small tabby cat. Today we have our own opinion about the cautious critics who complained so bitterly because Paderewski’s playing was “utterly at variance with the traditional methods.” In England the “traditional methods” of playing certain unfortunate composers often meant rather spineless, languishing, ladylike performances. Paderewski’s intense vitality and virility startled the conservative critics of that Victorian era. It would take some getting used to!