"Yes, insides," went on Von Barwig, unconsciously making the same
mistake. Then he added, trying to convince himself, "Better times will
come soon and then, perhaps, we shall part, but for the present I remain,
eh, yes?"
Costello nodded. "As long as you like, profess'; as long as you like!"
and he held out his hand for Von Barwig to shake. As Von Barwig did so,
he said: "I shall always remember it was your money that helped me to
bridge over--my--my difficulties----"
"That's all right, that's all right!" asserted Costello. "You're worth
the money or you wouldn't get it. But don't forget, when the lecturer
says, 'Bosco, Bosco, the armless wonder!' play up lively, see? and when
he says, 'Bites their heads off and eats their bodies; eats 'em alive,
eats 'em alive!' give it to her thumpin'!"
Here Von Barwig drew a deep breath. He was tired, tired unto his very
soul of the whole business; but he had to go on.
"Yes," he said, with a pathetic smile, "she shall eat 'em alive yet
livelier!"
This appeared to satisfy Costello, and shaking hands with Von Barwig once
more, he went out and left him standing in the middle of the room. Von
Barwig's eye fell on a daguerreotype of Mendelssohn, and it called him
back to Leipsic. "Eat 'em alive, eat 'em alive, eat 'em alive!" rang in
his ears. "Good God, to what have I fallen, to what have I fallen?" he
cried to himself; then he stopped. "I must have more courage. I am a
coward, I am always railing at fate! Who can tell what the future shall
have in store for me?" Then he thought of the songs he had found in his
old trunk with his symphony. He hastily opened the trunk, took them out
and hurried uptown for the purpose of selling them, but the symphony he
did not take--he had not the courage to sell that.
It was some years since Von Barwig had tried to dispose of his
compositions and he made the rounds of the various music publishers with
as little success as usual. "There is no demand for my music," he
thought, and he went into a fashionable music emporium, as a last hope.
The clerks at Schumein's recognised him in a moment; his was a face one
could not forget. Mr. Schumein, the head of the firm, could not see him;
he was busy.
"I will wait," said Von Barwig, and he sat down.
"I'm afraid he'll be busy all the afternoon," said the clerk
apprehensively.
"I can wait all the afternoon, if necessary," said Von Barwig. He was
tired and was glad to sit down.
"Suppose you leave your songs here and I'll hand them to our reader,"
suggested the clerk, after Von Barwig had been waiting over two hours.
"They won't see me," thought Von Barwig, "I can no longer obtain an
interview. I am not worth seeing," and he smiled to himself as he
thought of the days when people used to wait for hours to see him.
"Well," he spoke aloud, "I will leave them; and to-morrow I will call for
the answer."
"Better leave it till next week; our reader is very busy," said the
clerk, a little impatiently.
"I will call again next week," said Von Barwig patiently.
"What's your address?" asked the clerk.
Von Barwig told him and he wrote it on the back of the manuscript. "All
right, I'll attend to it," and the young man threw the songs carelessly
into a drawer in his desk. Von Barwig thanked him, bowed politely, and
walked slowly out.
"Who is that?" asked a young lady who had just arrived in a fashionable
carriage and pair. She had been watching Von Barwig for the past few
moments and was struck by the sweet, gentle sadness of his face.
"He's a sort of a composer, miss; that is, he writes songs and things.
He's a music master, I fancy, in one of the poorer quarters of the city,"
said the clerk, taking out the manuscript he had just thrown into a
drawer.
"Yes," he added, as she saw the address, "he has a studio at 970 Houston
Street. Rather far downtown," he added.
"Nine hundred and seventy Houston Street," repeated the girl; "that must
be near our settlement headquarters." She made some purchases, and a few
moments later the footman opened the door, and she was whisked rapidly
away by a pair of fine blooded horses.
"Who is that?" asked a fellow-clerk.
"Why don't you know?" asked the other with a slight tinge of superiority.
"It's Miss Stanton, the heiress."
"Is that so? She's a beauty!"
"Yes," went on his informant, "her father is only worth about twenty-five
millions!"
The other clerk whistled.
During Von Barwig's absence from his room that morning, young Poons had
taken possession of it for the purpose of practising on his 'cello, but
this was not his only reason. Jenny invariably made it a point to
straighten out Von Barwig's room at just about the time that Poons
happened to arrive. There he could look at her and speak to her in
little broken bits of the English language, without fear of being
interrupted by Miss Husted. Jenny's knowledge of German was as
hopelessly nil as his ideas of English; so they made up their minds to
study "each other's language from each other." To help matters along,
they bought two English-German "Conversation Made Easy" books, and in the
security of Von Barwig's studio they exchanged cut and dried sentences by
the page, neither understanding what the other said. On this particular
morning young Poons, with the assistance of Fico, had written out an
English sentence, which he had recited to himself dozens of times that
morning, for he had made up his mind to declare himself.
The opportunity came quickly. Poons had scarcely been practising three
minutes before the door opened, and in walked Jenny with Mr. Barwig's
table-cloth.
"Ach, Fräulein Chenny!" said Poons, blushing.
"Mr. Poons," gasped Jenny, in complete astonishment, although she must
have heard him playing as she came through the hall.
"Ach, Fräulein Chenny," he repeated, trying to remember his declaration,
but by this time the English sentence he had learned by heart had
completely left him.
"I could not speak to you for two days because auntie, that is, Miss
Husted, was watching," said Jenny, laying the cloth. Poons nodded and
smiled. "She was watching," said Jenny, but he made no sign. "Verstay?
Verstay?" she repeated, making her little stock of German go as far as
she could.
"Nein! Ich--" said Poons hopelessly. He was hunting for the piece of
paper with his declaration of love on it, and was having a great deal of
trouble finding it. Where was it? He knew it was in one of his pockets;
but which one? He looked very awkward and embarrassed.
"Have you your lessons learned?" asked Jenny, taking out her
English-German "Conversation Made Easy" book, and hoping to help him out
by starting on a topic.
"Nein," replied Poons, who knew what she meant when he saw the book.
Then he added in German that he had been so thoroughly occupied in
practising that he had no time, but that he had something of great
importance that he wanted to say to her.
Jenny almost shook her head off trying to make it clear that she didn't
understand a word he said.
"Fräulein Chenny," he began again, but gave it up. He opened the lesson
book and read in English, with a strong German accent, "Heff you
die--hett of--die poy--found?" Then he looked at her ardently, as if he
had just uttered the most delicate sentiment. Jenny smiled, and read
what she considered to be an appropriate answer.
"Nein, ich hab die slissell meine--Grossmutter----"
She looked at him for approval,
"Schlüssel," corrected Poons.
"Slissell," repeated Jenny.
"Schlüss----"
"Sliss----"
Poons gave up trying and went back to his book, reading the following
with deep-bated breath and loving emphasis.
"Vich---iss--to der hotel--die--vay?"
Jenny's reply came with business-like rapidity.
"Der pantoffle ist in die zimmer----"
"Puntoffel," corrected Poons.
"Pantoffle," responded his pupil.
"Tsimmer," said he.
"Zimmer," repeated she, placing the accent strongly on the "Z"; and so
the lesson went on. Suddenly a smile of joy spread itself over Poons's
features. In searching for his handkerchief he had fished out a piece of
paper from his hip-pocket. Joy! it was the lost declaration of
dependence! He opened it, and read her the following with such ardent
tenderness and affection, that the girl's heart fairly beat double time.
"Fräulein Chenny," he began, putting the piece of paper in the book and
pretending that it was part of his lesson. "Fräulein Chenny, I cannot
mit you life midout--you liff," and then, feeling that he had somewhat
entangled his words, he repeated: "I cannot life midout--you--Chenny--you
Chenny midout." Jenny looked at him in perplexity. His manner, the
words--all were so strange!
"That isn't in the lesson," she managed to gasp, holding down her head
bashfully.
"I cannot life midout you liff! Luff, Chenny, luff!" he added. He meant
love, for he knew the meaning of that, and he waited for her answer.
Perhaps she did not understand, but if she did, all she seemed able to
say was:
"That isn't in my lesson, Mr. Poons; it isn't in my lesson!"
What Poons said in response to Jenny's statement will never be known, for
at that precise moment in walked Von Barwig, who had just returned from
his weary, useless effort to sell his compositions. His face brightened
up as he saw the young lovers, and a beautiful smile chased away the
lines of sorrow and suffering. There was no mistaking Poon's attitude.
His eyes were full of love, and he held Jenny's hand in his. Although
she indignantly snatched it away as soon as the door opened, probably
thinking it was her aunt, Von Barwig saw the action, and it brought joy
to his poor, bruised old heart.
"Come here, Jenny," he said. She nestled by his side.
"Poons," he said sternly in German, "how long has this been going on?"
"I don't know, Herr Von Barwig," replied Poons, in a low voice.
"Jenny, do you approve of his action?"
"I don't know, professor, I--" Jenny laid her head on his shoulder and
Von Barwig knew that she loved the young man.
"Scoundrel!" began Von Barwig, turning to Poons. He tried to be serious,
but the expression on Poons's face made him smile in spite of himself.
Poons begged him to speak to Jenny for him; he pleaded so hard that Jenny
asked Von Barwig if he was talking about her.
"Ask him if he likes me!" said Jenny innocently.
"I will," replied Von Barwig, and he turned to Poons. "Do you love her?"
he asked.
Poons's reply was a torrent of burning love, a flood of words that let
loose the pent-up emotion of a highly strung musical temperament that for
months had longed for utterance. The way he poured out the German
language surprised both his hearers; it seemed as if he could not
restrain himself. In vain did Von Barwig try to stem the onward rush of
the tidal wave of talk, for declaration followed on declaration, until
Poons had completely poured out all he had wanted to tell Jenny for
months. He only stopped then because he had fairly exhausted the subject.
"What did he say?" asked Jenny anxiously.
"He said, yes," said Von Barwig, with a faint smile.
Jenny looked at him shyly, and held out her hand.
"Go on, love, you loon!" said Von Barwig to Poons in German, "you have
caught your fish. Don't dangle it too long on the hook!"
Poons acted on the suggestion, and took Jenny in his arms and kissed her.
The old man looked on approvingly; his eyes were moist with tears, but
his thoughts were far away from the lovers. He loved them, yes; they
were good children, good; dear, children, but his heart yearned for his
own flesh and blood. It did not satisfy him that Jenny put her arms
around his neck and kissed him gratefully, or that Poons embraced him and
cried over him. Their happiness only emphasised his misery. He wanted
his own flesh and blood; he wanted his wife and his little Hélène.
But, feeling that he was selfish, he kissed them both affectionately, and
promised he would speak to Miss Husted for them at the first opportunity.
He did not have to wait long, for a few moments later Miss Husted came
into the room with a letter for the "professor," and saw enough to
convince her that Poons and her niece were more than friends. Poons
wanted to pour out his heart to Miss Husted and tell her all, but Von
Barwig promptly squelched this impulse, and sent him out of the room.
Jenny followed him, and Von Barwig faced Miss Husted alone.
"They are charming young people," began Von Barwig.
"Yes, when they're apart," she replied.
"Now what have you against young Poons?" he asked conciliatingly.
"Nothing," replied Miss Husted, "but I don't like him!"
"Ah, if you knew his father!"
"I don't see how that would make any difference; it's the young man
himself I object to! Besides, I have tremendous prospects for Jenny; she
is going to marry a rich man, a very rich man."
"This is news," said Von Barwig.
"Yes," replied Miss Husted.
"Who is the gentleman?" asked Von Barwig.
"We don't know him yet; he--" Miss Husted hesitated.
"Ah, I see!" said Von Barwig, a flood of light breaking in on him.
"But I know he will come!"
Von Barwig shook his head. "You have been consulting Mrs. Mangenborn,
the lady who promises you a fortune for fifty cents. Ah, my dear Miss
Husted, when will you understand life as it is? You take the false for
the real and the real for the false!"
"I take Mr. Poons for a fool!" said Miss Husted with some asperity, "and
I am not far wrong."
"On the contrary," assented Von Barwig, "to some extent you are right,
quite right! But he is young, and he is in love. To you, perhaps; love
is foolishness; but love is all there is in life." There was quite a
pause. Miss Husted toyed with the letter she had not yet given to the
professor.
"You may be right, of course," said Miss Husted after a while. She was
more placid now, more like herself. In thought she had gone back many
years to a certain episode, the memory of which softened her toward
love's young dream, and even toward Poons.
Von Barwig looked at her a moment, then took her hand in his.
"Is it possible, dear lady, that you, in your woman's heart, never wished
that you had something to take care of besides Skippy?"
"Yes, but Mr. Poons is not--" began Miss Husted, and then she blurted out
"I can't understand him; he can't understand me. I might talk to him for
a week and he wouldn't know what I was talking about!"
"Yes, but Jenny understands him. What joy have you in life alone? Think
of the joy of seeing a young couple begin life, just like two young birds
in a little bird's nest! God put love into their hearts; can you stop
them? No, neither you nor I can forbid! As well try to count the sands
of the sea, as well try to stop the waves, the tides!"
Miss Husted did not reply for a moment. It was evident that Von Barwig
had made some impression on her, but she would not admit it.
"I had built such hopes on Jenny," she said, shaking her head sadly.
"Can you tell how Poons will turn out?" inquired Von Barwig, feeling that
he was gaining ground.
Miss Husted elevated her nose slightly, and handed the professor his
letter. "He'll turn out of this house if he makes love to my niece!" she
said.
"Give the matter a little thought," urged Von Barwig. "They both love
you," he added.
Miss Husted sighed deeply as if thoroughly disappointed. Then she began
to whimper. She told Von Barwig the story of Jenny's life; which story,
with variations, he had heard annually for many years. He listened
patiently, and agreed with her. Finally he extracted from her a promise
to suspend action in reference to Poons until she had given the matter
more thought.
"But in the meantime," insisted Miss Husted, "they must not speak!"
Knowing the extent of their knowledge of each other's language, Von
Barwig readily promised on behalf of Poons to obey her injunction to the
letter, and she left the room in a state of resignation.
Von Barwig opened his letter, his eyes fairly glittering with excitement
as he read the following:
"MY DEAR VON BARWIG: No doubt you thought I had forgotten you, but such
is not the case. Your appointment as conductor of the 'Harmony Hall
Concerts' has been passed on favourably by the promoters of the venture.
None of them knew you or had ever heard of you, but I soon won them over,
and I am now empowered to offer you a liberal salary during the
engagement. So come up to the hall at your earliest convenience and let
us discuss details.
"Yours always faithfully,
"HERMANN VAN PRAAG."
P.S. "We are having some trouble with the Unions, but I do not
anticipate any serious impediment to our progress."
Von Barwig's blood ran hot and cold; his heart beat so rapidly he could
hear it. He read the letter again and again. His first impulse was to
rush out into the hall to tell all his friends; to shout, to dance, to,
give way to excitement. This he resisted. Then a great calm came over
him; the end of his ill luck had come at last. It was a long lane, but
the turning was there and he had reached it. Deep, deep down in his
heart the man thanked God for His kindness. And as he read the letter
once more, he wept tears of joy, for he felt that his deliverance was at
hand. At last, at last, when well on the brink of failure, of despair,
perhaps of starvation, this great joy had come to him!
In order to realise it to its fullest possible extent he sat down in his
armchair and thought it all out. He could give engagements to Poons, to
Fico, to Pinac. Pinac was a fairly good violin player, both he and Fico
played well enough to sit at the back desk of the second violins. Poons
would, of course, be one of his 'cellists. And he, himself? He need
never go to the dreadful Museum again; for this alone he was grateful.
Yes, he could share his good fortune with his friends; he could even make
it possible for Poons to marry Jenny. These thoughts filled him with
such wild excitement that he could restrain himself no longer. He rushed
out into the hall, and called up the stairway for his friends. They were
in, he knew, for he could hear them practising. As soon as they heard
his voice they came trooping down the stairs, making so much noise that
Miss Husted rushed out of her room and asked whether the house was on
fire.
They all crowded pell-mell into Von Barwig's room. Was this the usually
calm, dignified professor? Could it really be Von Barwig who was now
almost shouting at the top of his voice, telling them to send in their
resignations from the _café_, that they need play no more at a wretched
twenty-five cent _table d'hôte_ for their existence. He would provide
for them, he would engage them forthwith for his orchestra. By degrees
they understood, and when they did understand they made his little
outburst of enthusiasm appear almost feeble and weak-kneed compared to
the wild, unrestrained, excited, and enthusiastic yells of joy that they
let loose. They embraced each other and danced around the room. They
hugged Miss Husted. Poons even dared to kiss her, and although she
slapped his face, she joined in the Latin-Franco-Teutonic _mêlée_ of joy
as though she herself had been one of them. In fact, she was one of
them! Even then their happiness did not come to an end, for they ordered
a good dinner for themselves at Galazatti's.
"To hell with the _café_," said Fico as he wrote to his employer, the
proprietor of the restaurant, saying they did not intend to play that
night, and could never come again.
"_Table d'hôte_, nothing! Not for me, never again," said Pinac as he
indited his resignation. "À bas le _café_!"
"I don't trouble to write at all," said Poons in German, "I simply don't
go."
Presently the dinner came, and what a dinner it was. The (California)
wine flowed like water, and this was true literally, for more than once
Von Barwig was compelled to put water in the demijohn to make it last
out. They all talked at once, and everybody ate, drank and made merry.
Miss Husted sang a song!
After the rattle and banging of plates, knives and forks had subsided and
the coffee had been brought in, Von Barwig was called upon to make a
speech. Somehow or other his mind reverted to the last speech he had
made, so many, many years ago, when he had accepted the conductorship of
the Leipsic Philharmonic Orchestra. It seemed strange to him now, nearly
twenty years later, that he should be called upon to speak on an almost
similar occasion. Then, too, there had been a banquet. He made a few
remarks appropriate to the occasion and finally drank a toast to the
standard of musical purity.
This was Pinac's opportunity. "No, no, Von Barwig!" he said, "we are not
fit to drink such a toast! We are in the gutter. It is you, my friend,
you alone of all these present, who does not sink himself to play for
money at a _café_ on Liberty Street. To Von Barwig, the artist!"
The rattle of plates, knives and forks attested the popularity of this
sentiment; then Fico began:
"It is you only who keeps up the standard." More applause. "You are the
standard bearer, the general. You lead; we follow," at which the
clapping was vociferous.
Von Barwig felt keenly the falsity of his position at that moment. He
thought of the deception, the lie he was practising on them. He had sunk
lower than they, far lower, for he was playing in a dime museum. He
could not bear their praises; for he knew he did not deserve them. He
inwardly determined to tell them the truth, but not at that moment, for
he did not want to dampen their spirits. As the cognac and cigars were
placed on the table Miss Husted rose grandly, and stated that the ladies
would now withdraw; whereupon she and Jenny left the room, proudly
curtseying themselves out. "_La grande dame_!" said Pinac as he bowed
low to her. The men then talked over their prospects, their hopes, even
getting so far as to discuss the opening programme. An idea occurred to
Von Barwig, "Why not open with his symphony?" The men almost cheered at
the idea, so he unlocked the little trunk and took it out. There it was,
covered with the dust of years and almost coffee-coloured. As he took it
out of the trunk, something fell out from between the pages and dropped
upon the floor. He picked it up, and his heart stood still for a moment
as he glanced at it, for it was a miniature portrait of his wife. He
thrust it hastily in his pocket and went on distributing the parts of the
symphony.
"You, the first violin, Pinac," and he handed him his part. "For you,
Fico, the second violin. Poons, the 'cello, of course," and the men
hurried to get their instruments.