But when the time came for the evening’s festivities, everyone tried to relax and forget the troubles of the world, if only for a few hours. The dinner was one of Antonina’s and the chef’s greatest triumphs. The decorations—this year everything was ultra-Chinese—were a delight. The dancing was especially amusing because of the newly-imported American ragtime. The “ragging” music was provided by eight hands on two pianos. The hands belonged to Olga Samaroff, Josef Hofman, Ernest Schelling, and Rudolf Ganz. As for the entertainment! Schelling, who was Paderewski’s favorite pupil, was its mastermind. At midnight he summoned the guests to the drawing room, where chairs had been set up for the performance. Tonight, the guests were told, they were in for an unprecedented treat—a world premiere! They were to hear the first performance of “a symphony by Schoenberg!” Arnold Schoenberg was the leading composer of a type of new music that was understood by very few people, and Paderewski was known to turn a particularly deaf ear in its direction. Hence the delighted laughter and applause when the audience heard that a “Schoenberg Symphony” had mysteriously turned up in manuscript at Riond-Bosson. Paderewski, for whom the entertainment was always a jealously guarded surprise, threw up his hands in mock horror. [Illustration: _Riond-Bosson_] To perform the new “symphony,” Schelling and his fellow members of the “orchestra” had raided the kitchen and the rest of the estate for every noise-making instrument they could lay hands on: pots and pans, cups and saucers, eggbeaters and typewriters, hoses and horseshoes. With Schelling’s frenzied conducting to urge them on, the musicians turned in a truly superb performance. At the climax of the work, pots, pans, dishes, garden tools, everything went hurtling into a large rain barrel, with a crash that could probably be heard across Lake Geneva. Overcome by the beauty of it all, the exhausted conductor himself plunged head first into the barrel. As the last echo of golden sound died away, as the audience gathered its collective breath to unleash a chorus of “bravo’s,” the telephone rang. The telephone had been ringing all day, bringing greetings from missing friends. Why, then, was there so ominous a quality in the sound of it now? Paderewski was summoned by the butler and disappeared up the short flight of steps that led from the drawing room. A few minutes later he appeared at the top step and looked down at the guests who were now conversing in tense whispers. “My friends,” he said quietly, “the war is here.”