When Anton arose the next morning after a refreshing night's rest, he
became conscious that he was looking at the world through different
coloured spectacles; and that there was no longer a dull feeling of
despair gnawing at his heart. For the first time in many years his
plans for the day did not include a search in this or that direction
for his lost ones. It was not that he had forgotten, but he thought of
them now as dead and gone; and this certainty, this lack of suspense,
lightened his heart to such an extent that his manner was almost
buoyant. Realising the fact that he had spent nearly all of the large
sum of money he brought with him from Germany, he thought of his
future, his welfare. To do for others, he must first do for himself;
he must think of his music again; in short, he must earn a living. So,
after a light breakfast at Galazatti's, he took an inventory of his
available assets. They included some old music; some compositions
which he would now try to sell; a genuine Amati violin worth at least
three thousand dollars; a grand piano; one or two paintings; some
silverware, presents, and jewelry; and about eight hundred dollars in
cash.
Von Barwig was completely bewildered; he had purposely avoided meeting
musicians in New York and scarcely any one knew him; those who had
known him by reputation had now completely forgotten his existence. He
had not felt sufficient interest in affairs going on around him to
realise the state of musical art in America, so he scarcely knew how to
begin. It seemed like the commencement of a new life. The period was
that between Jenny Lind and Adelina Patti, and he soon realised that
musical art was at its lowest ebb. There were one or two ambitious
orchestra conductors in America; one in Chicago trying to introduce the
Wagnerian polyphonic school, and perhaps one or two in New York; but
the public clamoured after divas, prima donnas and tenors with
temperaments and vocal pyrotechnic skill. For orchestral music there
was little demand. Wagner was as yet unknown to the public--certainly
he was unheard except on the rarest occasions and the majority of
musicians did not like him because he was difficult to play.
So it happened that Von Barwig's compositions, which were of the modern
German school and rather heavy, did not find a ready market, in fact
they did not find a market at all. Day after day he would visit the
music stores with his music roll tucked under his arm. After a few
months the music publishers used to smile when they saw him coming into
their places of business, and shake their heads before he had a chance
even to show them his manuscripts. As time went on he came to be a
byword among them.
"Here comes poor old Von Barwig," they would say, and then they would
smile at his earnest face with its sad, longing expression and
sympathise with him for his beautiful smile of resignation as he folded
up his package of compositions and went sadly away. They admired his
technical skill, but thought him very foolish to waste his time on such
"stuff" as they called it. They advised him to write for the hour, and
not for posterity.
"You must give the public what they want," said Schumein.
"How can you tell what they want if you don't try?" pleaded Von Barwig.
"If you give them only what you acknowledge is bad, how will they ever
know what is better?"
"It's no use," was Schumein's reply, "music like yours has no market
value. We're not in business for our health; once strike a popular
tune and you'll be famous!"
Von Barwig had never mentioned his Leipsic reputation, and if he had,
in all probability, it would have been useless. Seven years is a long
time for even a genius to remain in obscurity.
"Bring in a good waltz," said one.
"What we want is a catchy melody; something that everybody whistles,"
said another.
Finally they were too busy to see Von Barwig at all; and after waiting
hours and hours in vain efforts to obtain an interview, he would walk
home slowly, thinking over the events of the day, or trying to create a
tune that might make an appeal to the music-loving, or rather
music-buying public.
"Alas!" he would say to himself, after giving up the effort. "I do not
understand these people. The American people do not like my work." It
did not occur to him that the Americans were not a music-loving nation,
at least not at that period. And so Anton Von Barwig gradually came
out of the world of dreams into the world of life. He had been reborn,
of necessity, for he was nearly down to his last penny. He used to
talk over the condition of the music market with Tagliafico, our old
friend, Fico, of the hall bedroom on the top floor of Miss Husted's
establishment, and Pinac, Fico's friend, who occupied the room
adjoining. The meeting of these three men, which subsequently resulted
in a friendship lasting many years, came about as follows:
While eating dinner at Galazatti's one night, Von Barwig found himself
at the same table as Fico. Fico bowed to him and he graciously
acknowledged his salute, not knowing who the man was, but vaguely
remembering his features. Fico then introduced Pinac, his
fellow-lodger. Fico had recognised Von Barwig as the occupant of the
first floor and took this opportunity of making the acquaintance of the
musician whose music he had so often heard on the piano--for Von Barwig
frequently played his own compositions and the strains were wafted
through the open window. Pinac was most enthusiastic, for he knew Von
Barwig slightly by reputation. He had been in Dresden and he had heard
of Anton Von Barwig, the musical conductor. It seemed scarcely
possible that the gentleman before him was that great man.
Von Barwig was silent, smiling a little at Pinac's enthusiasm, but as
he did not deny his identity Pinac felt sure that he was right. The
three men soon became quite friendly and often met in the little _café_
to talk things over. Galazatti's was frequented chiefly by foreigners
and the din of loud voices added to the rattle and clatter of knives
and forks made conversation difficult. But its patrons soon became
used to this and the _table d'hôte_ was cheap and good at the price,
twenty-five cents. It was a combination of East Side Tivoli and French
Brasserie and Hungarian Goulash Rendezvous--a tiny cosmopolis in
itself--and it did a rushing business.
So the months dragged along in unending monotony. Poor Von Barwig
tried hard to do work that would please the gentlemen who controlled
the music trades, but failed. One day, while looking over his
manuscripts to discover if possible the cause of his failure, he was
struck by the similarity of one of his compositions to another. They
all seemed to contain the same melody, in one form or another, and he
saw plainly at last that he was subconsciously haunted by the leading
motif of the first movement of his last symphony, the symphony that was
played on that dreadful night for the first and last time. The
inference was plain enough. This melody haunted him, he could not
forget it; it showed itself in all his work and he realised that his
career as a composer had come to an end.
After that Von Barwig tore up all his compositions and turned his
attention to teaching, an occupation he had always hated ever since he
had given up the professorship of counterpoint and harmony in the
Leipsic Conservatory. Teaching--the very thought had made him shudder.
He looked about him and found that New York was fast moving uptown, and
that Houston Street was not a good locality for a musical conservatory.
People who could afford to study music did not live in that
neighbourhood; but he could not summon up sufficient energy or courage
to leave the place. He had come to like the old house; it had become a
home to him now. He liked Miss Husted, too, though she made him the
repository for all her troubles, and then there were Fico, and Pinac
and Jenny--he really loved Jenny. His little world was all in Houston
Street and he made up his mind not to leave it, even if the location
made the getting of pupils harder. Besides he felt that he was not a
fashionable teacher; he could teach only those who learned music
because they loved it and not because they wanted to be accomplished.
Von Barwig did not speak to his friends of all this; his pride would
not allow him to discuss his personal affairs with them. Besides
neither Pinac nor Fico could throw much light on the pupil question,
for though they were musicians, yes, for they played, they did not
teach. Pinac did not even know until Von Barwig showed him how to hold
his violin properly he used to grab it with his whole hand instead of
by his finger and thumb; and as for Fico, he could not read music until
Von Barwig taught him, but played the mandolin, guitar and piano by
ear. These men were not only grateful to Von Barwig for his kindness,
but they loved him, and recognising in him the real artist had
unbounded respect for him. As for Von Barwig, he found them simple
fellows, sentimental, unpretentious and good-hearted, and he liked them
and felt at ease with them because they did not seek to probe into that
part of his life which he preferred should remain unknown to them.
They merely accepted him as they found him and for this Von Barwig was
grateful. As time went on, Von Barwig found himself badly in need of
ready money. One day when Miss Husted came for her rent, he hesitated
before he paid her; he had forgotten it was rent day and was
unprepared. The poor lady was kindness itself, but her kindness
embarrassed Von Barwig extremely, for he had never been in a position
in his life where he actually needed cash for his daily wants.
"Leave it a week, a month, a year, my dear professor!" said Miss
Husted, and she implored him not to pay her if it afforded him the
slightest inconvenience.
"I go to the bank--if you come in an hour I will have it for you," said
poor Von Barwig, quite overcome. He did not know what it was to be
"behind," and the experience was painful to him.
This was the beginning of the end, and the valuable Amati violin soon
went for eight hundred dollars, one-fourth its value, to a scoundrelly
violin maker and dealer who told Von Barwig he had tried everywhere but
could get no more for it, since there was a doubt as to its genuineness.
Von Barwig took the money, which was further decreased by a twenty per
cent. commission. The man told him he was very lucky to get it; and
perhaps he was.
This amount tided Von Barwig over for several months, during which time
he secured several pupils and seemed for a time to be in a fair way to
make a living. Be it understood that he was no longer the Anton Von
Barwig who lived in Leipsic ten years before. Gone was the fire of his
genius; dead was his ambition. His soul was not in his work--the man
was alive, but the artist was dead.