It was noticed by more than one member of the Leipsic Philharmonic
Orchestra that Herr Director Von Barwig was in unusually high spirits
that evening. Many attributed it to the fact that he was nervous because
of the first production of his new symphony. Karlschmidt hinted to his
deskmate that Von Barwig was nervous and was trying to conceal it by
pretending to be delighted with everything and everybody. This was
probably true in a measure; at all events, when he came into the artists'
room at the Gewandhaus at about five minutes to eight, he shook hands
with everybody, joked with his men, and talked almost incessantly, as if
he wanted to keep at high pressure. Poons watched him closely. Von
Barwig was unusually pale, and as he slapped his concert meister on the
back Poons noticed that, though his face wore a smile, his lips quivered.
"For heaven's sake," he heard him say to the leader of the second
violins, "don't play the _pizzicato_ in the third movement as if you were
picking up eggs!" Poons rejoiced that his friend could forget so easily.
It was, however, when Von Barwig walked out on the platform to the dais,
bowed to the immense audience, and turned to his men, that the deadly
pallor of his face was most apparent. Some of the audience noticed it as
he acknowledged the applause he received. There was not a tremor of hand
or muscle, not an undecided movement; merely a deadly pallor of
countenance as if he no longer had blood in his veins, but ice. The men
felt the absence of the compelling force that always emanated from him,
that seemed to ooze from his baton; that psychic something that compelled
the player to feel as his director felt--the force we call magnetism.
The firmness of mouth showed that the determination to dominate was still
there, but the absence of that mental power left only the automatic
rhythm and swing, sans heart, sans soul, sans feeling. The beat was the
beat of the finely trained academic conductor, but the genius of it was
gone. The ghost of a departed Von Barwig was beating time for the Von
Barwig that had lived and died that night.
Perhaps the audience did not feel this as much as the men did, for they
applauded heartily at the end of the opening number. They did notice
that Von Barwig did not acknowledge their applause and seemed to be
oblivious of their presence. The fact that an ultra-fashionable audience
was present, including a prince and princess of the Royal Family, and the
_élite_ of Leipsic, to say nothing of the American Ambassador, Mr.
Cruger, apparently did not affect Von Barwig in the least. This appealed
very much to the democratic instinct of Mr. Cruger, and at the end of the
first part he asked his friend, Prince Holberg-Meckstein, to present him
to the conductor.
"I will present him to _you_," said his highness, carefully readjusting
the pronouns; and he sent for Von Barwig.
"A curious personality!" remarked Mr. Cruger to the prince as Von Barwig
bowed himself out of the box a few minutes later.
"Yes, and a fine musician," said the prince. "But he's not at his best
to-night."
As Von Barwig passed through the artists' room, Poons approached him.
Anton motioned him away as if to say, "Don't speak to me," and Poons
walked sadly away.
The second part of the programme was to begin with Von Barwig's latest
work.
"Quick, put the score of the symphony on my desk," he said to the
librarian, who happened to be passing at the moment. "I intended to
conduct it from memory; but I have forgotten."
As the librarian placed the score on the conductor's desk, he thought it
strange that a man who had been rehearsing from memory for weeks should
so suddenly forget.
Von Barwig opened the score a few moments later, raised his baton, and
the wood wind began the new work. He conducted as mechanically as
before, for his dead heart could pump no enthusiasm into his work, and
the audience suddenly felt a sense of disappointment. But after the
first few passages had been played the leader lost his self-consciousness
and forgot his surroundings. He began to feel the music, to compose it
again, and the mechanism of the conductor was lost in the inspiration of
the composer. It was a beautiful movement marked _andante
sostenuto_--pathos itself, and Von Barwig drew from his men their very
souls, forcing them in turn to draw out of their strings all the
suffering he had been going through for the past few days. Then a
curious psychic phenomenon took place. Von Barwig completely forgot
himself, his audience, his orchestra; he was living in his music, and the
music took him back to the precise moment of inspiration. Once more he
was in his studio, seated at his work table, looking up from his score
into the face of his beloved Elene. She was smiling at him, encouraging
him to go on with his work, the work that she had prophesied would make
him famous and her the happiest of women. This dream had almost the
appearance of reality to Von Barwig. Indeed it was real, as real as
reality itself, until the wild applause of an enthusiastic audience awoke
him alike to the consciousness of the success of his work and the
hopeless misery of his present position; his success in his music only
accentuating the failure his life had become.
The playing of this movement made such an impression that Von Barwig was
compelled again and again to acknowledge the plaudits of the audience.
Indeed, they wanted him to repeat it, but this he steadfastly refused to
do. There was a slight intermission between the playing of the first and
the second parts of the symphony, and during this pause the librarian
handed a note to Von Barwig, whispering to him, "You must read it. The
woman is outside in hysterics."
"What woman?" demanded Von Barwig, his thoughts reverting to his wife.
Trembling and fearful of he knew not what the leader read the following
hastily scrawled note:
"Come at once. The _Fräulein_ is gone. She has been stolen away.
Please come. GRETCHEN."
Von Barwig crushed the note in his hand and looked about helplessly,
almost lurching forward in his bewilderment.
"Hélène stolen? What did it mean?" He could not understand.
He knew instinctively it was time to go on with the next movement, and
that he must make an effort for the sake of others. Already there were
signs of impatience in the great audience. Slowly he stepped upon the
dais, steadying himself by means of the music-stand. He raised his
baton, his men played the opening bars, and as they did so the full
meaning of the awful news he had just read flashed upon him. He realised
suddenly that his men were no longer with him; the first violin looked up
at him panic stricken. He sawed the air wildly as he felt the great
audience surging around him and his orchestra swaying to and fro. Then
he reeled, stumbled, clutching at the music-stand for support; and fell
face forward upon the floor.
* * * * * *
Some six weeks later loving friends had gently nursed him back to life
and reason. It was slow work, but Von Barwig weathered the point of
death and sailed slowly into the harbour of life. As he grew stronger,
he realised by degrees all that had happened. One day he called for his
beloved Poons, but they did not dare to tell him that his faithful friend
was dead; the shock of that night had brought on a stroke from which
Poons never recovered. When they did tell him long afterward, he only
smiled, shook his head sadly, and said, "Why not? All is gone! Why
should my old friend remain to me?"
When Von Barwig was strong enough he took the train to Berlin and
consulted with the police authorities in reference to the whereabouts of
his lost wife and child; but they had left no trace behind them except an
indication that they had passed through Paris on their way to some
unknown destination. He called on Mr. Cruger, the American Ambassador,
who could throw no light on the subject. A search of the steamship lists
failed to reveal their whereabouts; and at last, though Anton Von Barwig
felt that they were hopelessly lost to him, he returned to Leipsic, more
than ever determined to find them. It was the only idea he had: to find
them--to find them--to find them. His other thoughts were without
stimulating power--irresolute, vague, uncertain. This one idea grew and
grew until it became an obsession. He could no longer bear the sound of
music; so it was no sacrifice to him to give up his profession. He hated
the very streets he walked in, for had Elene not walked in them? He must
find her; he must find his child. He could hear the little girl calling
for him, he kept telling himself. It was his only duty, his only object
and mission in life; so it became an ideal, a religion. But where to go,
where to go? Finally, he made up his mind to leave Leipsic for Paris and
start from there. One day, after living in Paris for some months, the
idea occurred to him to go to America, the place of the man's birth. A
week later he packed up all his effects and took passage on a steamer
sailing for the port of New York.