It was late the following morning when Von Barwig returned from his
interview with Van Praag. All the details had been settled
satisfactorily, and his three friends were to be engaged. Von Barwig
had not yet left the Museum; his sense of obligation to Costello was
too great to permit him to desert him without notice, so it was
understood that he was to leave at the end of the week. How Von Barwig
welcomed the thought of that Saturday night, and it was only Wednesday!
When Von Barwig came in, the men were in his room practising their
parts of the symphony. His arrival put an end to further work. They
wanted to talk about their "grand new engagement," as Pinac called it.
Von Barwig produced some cigars that Van Praag had forced on him, and
the men sat talking of their prospects, and smoking until the room
looked like an inferno.
While they were debating as to where they should dine that night, there
was a knock at the door, and, Von Barwig hastened to open it. A
somewhat portly, rather well-dressed, middle-aged individual entered.
He was followed by another person, a tall, lantern-jawed man of the
artisan type, who looked around defiantly as he came into the room.
"Does Anton Von Barwig live here?" demanded the first comer.
Von Barwig did not know the gentleman who made the inquiry.
"Why, it is Schwarz! how do you do, Mr. Schwarz?" said Pinac, coming
forward and shaking hands with him, and he then introduced him to Von
Barwig as Mr. Wolf Schwarz, the Secretary of the Amalgamated Musical
Association.
Mr. Schwarz then introduced his companion as Mr. Ryan, the
representative of the Brickmakers' Union. "Shake hands with Professor
Von Barwig, Mr. Ryan," said Schwarz. Mr. Ryan did so with such
enthusiasm that Von Barwig was glad to withdraw his hand.
Mr. Schwarz was an Americanised German, far more American than the most
dyed-in-the-wool, natural-born citizen of the United States. Had any
one called him a German, he would have repudiated the suggestion as an
insult. He knew the American Constitution backward, and he determined
that others should know it, too. His demand for his rights as an
American citizen was the predominating characteristic of his nature,
for he was a born demagogue of the most pronounced type. It did not
take Mr. Schwarz long to make clear the object of his visit.
"You don't come to our rooms very much, Von Barwig," he said.
Von Barwig pleaded stress of business as an excuse.
"If you had," went on Mr. Schwarz, taking up the thread of his remarks
without noticing Von Barwig's apology, "you'd know that Van Praag and
those fellows up at Harmony Hall are on the black-list."
"Black-list?" said Von Barwig apprehensively.
"Mr. Ryan here represents a delegation from the Brickmakers' Union,"
stated Mr. Schwarz, coughing and clearing his throat, thus indicating
the importance of the statement that he was about to make.
"Well?" asked Von Barwig, who did not see the value of the information
just furnished by Mr. Schwarz.
"Well," repeated Mr. Schwarz, "The Brickmakers' Union has just
affiliated with our musical association."
"Music and bricks--affiliated!" The idea rather appealed to Von
Barwig's sense of humour and he laughed. "Music and bricks," he
repeated, but this attempt at pleasantry did not meet with much
response from Mr. Schwarz. That gentleman merely shrugged his
shoulders while Mr. Ryan, the brickmakers' delegate, contented himself
with squirting some tobacco juice into the adjacent fireplace and
tilting his hat, which he had neglected to remove, over one eye, while
he surveyed Von Barwig with an unpleasant stare from the other, thus
indicating that he wanted no nonsense.
"Music and bricks," repeated Von Barwig, who evidently enjoyed the
incongruity of the combination. Then noticing that Ryan was standing
he said with a smile, "Brother artist, be seated!" Pinac and Fico
roared with laughter. Mr. Ryan sat down, mumbling to himself that that
sort of sarcasm didn't go with him; he was a workman, not an artist.
Von Barwig apologised and then, looking at Schwarz, waited for him to
speak. A very awkward pause ensued.
"You've had an offer from the Harmony Hall Concerts, under the
management of Van Praag," stated Schwarz.
"Yes," assented Von Barwig, who began to perceive for the first time
that his visitors had come on a matter of more or less serious Import.
"Well," began Schwarz, "you've got to hold off for the present."
"I do not understand," said Von Barwig.
"You've got to throw up the job," broke in Mr. Ryan, emphasising the
statement by allowing his walking stick to fall heavily on a pile of
music which lay on the piano.
Von Barwig looked at him but did not speak.
"You can't go on," said Schwarz.
"Not while scabs are working there," added Mr. Ryan sententiously.
Von Barwig tried to speak but could not; words would not come. His
heart had almost stopped beating. Finally he managed to gasp, "What
does it mean; all this?"
"Our association has been notified that Van Praag is having his new
music hall built with non-union bricks, and----"
"Scabs," broke in Mr. Ryan, once more banging the inoffensive music
with his stick. "Scabs! We called out our men and they put in scab
carpenters. The carpenters went out and the plumbers have gone out;
they've all gone out, and now it's only fair--that--you should go out.
Stick together and we'll win; in other words, 'united we stand, divided
we fall.' Am I right, Schwarz?"
Mr. Schwarz did not commit himself as to the merits of the case; he was
not there for that purpose. He was there to carry out the wishes of
the association, so he merely contented himself with saying that the
musicians would undoubtedly have to go out under the term of the
affiliation.
"Music and bricks has got to stand by each other," said Mr. Ryan,
unconsciously quoting Von Barwig. "They've got to, or there'll be no
music; and no bricks."
Music and bricks, then, was no longer a joke. It was a reality, a
dreadful impossibility that had become true; and Von Barwig's heart
sank as he looked at his friends, and saw by their faces that they,
too, realised what it meant. They were in the midst of a sympathetic
strike; the question of the right or wrong of it did not appear. It
was immaterial; right or wrong, they must go out because others went;
those were the orders from headquarters.
"Of course, Von Barwig, you'll stand for whatever the Amalgamated
stands for?" said Schwarz.
"You'll resign until the matter is settled, I presume?" queried Mr.
Ryan. Von Barwig shook his head. A faint "no" issued from his throat,
which had literally dried up from fear; the fear of losing the
happiness he had had just now, the fear of going back to that dreaded
night-drudgery again. All their hopes were shattered, their
anticipations were not to be realised.
"Of course--I--I am of the Union. I stand by the Union--of course.
I--but it's--it's hard!" Then with an effort, "It will not last long,
eh?"
"No," said Mr. Ryan, "it won't last a month! We'll put them out of
business if it does. They'll weaken, Mr. Barwig, you'll see! They'll
weaken all right." The ashen appearance of Von Barwig's face, the
abject despair he saw depicted there aroused the man's sympathy. "It
won't be long, Mr. Barwig," he repeated in a softened voice. "I know
it's hard, but what are we to do? If we don't stand together, we'll be
swamped."
"That's right," said Schwarz.
"It ain't sympathy; it's self-defence, Barwig," declared Mr. Ryan,
uttering what he thought was a great truth.
"Yes, yes," muttered Von Barwig. Hope had gone completely from him now.
"Self-defence," he repeated, and then he laughed bitterly. "The art of
music progresses. Wagner should be glad that he is dead."
"Wagner? Who is Wagner?" inquired Mr. Ryan.
"No one, no one!" replied Von Barwig, shaking his head, "he did not
belong to the Union----"
"Then he's a scab," remarked Mr. Ryan.
Von Barwig looked at him and burst out laughing, the laughter of
despair. Pinac and Fico looked at each other. Von Barwig's laugh
grated harshly on their ears; they did not like to see their beloved
friend act in that manner. Pinac touched him gently on the arm and
looked appealingly at him. Von Barwig nodded, then rising from his
chair, with his habitual gentleness, suggested that the interview was
at an end. Messrs. Schwarz and Ryan bowed themselves out and the four
friends were left there alone with their misery.
Von Barwig turned to his friends. It was for them that his heart bled,
for they had resigned their positions at his request. For the first
time since their friendship he had been the cause of misfortune coming
to them. He felt it more than all the disappointments that he had
experienced during his stay in America. "I am accursed," he thought,
"doomed always to disappointments, and I am now a curse to others, to
those I love." He tried to tell them how grieved he was at their
misfortune, but they would not allow him to apologise, so he sat down
in his old armchair and tried to smoke, but he could not. His heart
was as heavy as lead. They saw this and they felt for him; they felt
his sufferings more than they did their own.
"We have resign from the _café_, yes, but we are glad, damn glad," said
Pinac, lying like a true Gallic gentleman. "Von Barwig, I tell you we
are deuced damn glad," he repeated with emphasis.
Von Barwig silently shook his hand and smiled.
"I said to hell with the _café_--I say it now!" ejaculated Fico. "The
_café_ to hell, and many of him!"
"My beautiful 'cello is wasted in that food hole," said Poons to Von
Barwig in German, then he laughed and told him a funny story that he
had read that day in the _Fliegende Blätter_. He did his best to make
the old man laugh with him, but Von Barwig only smiled sadly. He did
not speak; his heart was too heavy.
"It won't last long! You see, it won't last long!" said Pinac, again
trying to comfort him. "Come, boys, we go upstairs and play. We play
for you, Anton, eh?"
Von Barwig made no reply. The men looked at each other significantly
and tried to cheer him up by striking up a song and marching around the
room; but they saw that the iron had entered deep, deep into his soul,
and that he was thoroughly disheartened.
"Come! We go and play; perhaps that will arouse him," whispered Pinac
to the others. And they marched out of the room singing the refrain of
one of the student glees that Von Barwig had taught them.
[Illustration: Beverly brings Hélène a wedding gift.]
Von Barwig sat there quite still for a long time. His thoughts were
formless. In a chaotic way he realised that he had played the game of
life and had lost; he seemed to feel instinctively that the end had
come. He had the Museum to go to, that could supply his daily needs,
but he was tired, oh, so tired of the struggle. There was nothing to
look forward to--nothing, nothing. He arose with a deep, deep sigh.
"I am tired," he said to himself, "tired out completely. I am like an
old broken-down violin that can no longer emit a sound. My heart is
gone; there is no sounding post; I am finished. I have been finished a
long time, only I did not know it." He arose slowly from his chair and
took his pipe off the mantelpiece. As he slowly filled it his eyes
lighted on a wooden baton that lay on the mantelpiece. He took it up
and looked at it. It was the baton with which he conducted his last
symphony. He smiled and shook his head. "I am through; thoroughly and
completely through," and he broke the conductor's wand in pieces and
threw them into the fire. "That finishes me!" he said. "I am snapped;
broken in little bits. I did not ask to live, but now,--now, I ask to
die! To die, that is all I ask, to die." He took out the little
miniature of his wife and looked at it long and tenderly. "Elene,
Elene! My wife, where are you? If you knew what I go through you
would come to me! Give me the sign I wait for so long, that I may find
you."
He listened, but no answer came; then a new thought came to him.
"I go back home, home; for here I am a stranger; they do not know me.
The way is long, so long--" and then he started, for he heard the
strains of the second movement of his symphony which was being played
in the room above. It brought him back to himself, and he
listened--listened as one who hears a voice from the dead. It seemed
to him that the requiem of all his hopes was being played. He was
still looking at the picture of his wife when Jenny entered. She had
come to fetch the lamp, to fill it with oil. The short winter
afternoon was drawing to a close and the dusk was deepening into
darkness. The red rays of the setting sun came in through the window
and as it bathed him in its crimson glow it made a sort of a halo
around the old man's head. Jenny gazed at him for a long time and was
surprised that he did not speak; but Von Barwig was not conscious of
her presence. She looked at him more closely and saw the tears in his
eyes; then she came over to him and nestled closely by his side. In a
moment her woman's instinct divined his need of sympathy and her heart
went out to him.
"Don't look like that," she pleaded, "I can't bear to see it! I've
always known that something troubled you, that you've something to bear
that you've kept back from us. Tell me, tell me! Don't keep it to
yourself, it's eating your heart out. You know I love you;
don't--don't keep it back," and she placed her arm around his neck and
wept as if her heart would break. Her action brought Von Barwig to
himself and he patted her gently on the back. "Why, Jenny, my little
Jenny! Yes, I know you love me, and I--I tell you. Yes, Jenny, I tell
you----"
Jenny nestled closer to him; it was a sorrowful moment for the old man,
and he needed some one to lead him into the light. Slowly, slowly, but
surely the young girl led him out of his mental chaos. His heart had
been perilously near the breaking point, but he could think more calmly
now.
"I--when--I came over to this country I--I looked for some one that I
never found. I have--no luck, Jenny, no luck," he said in a broken
voice, "and I bring no luck to others." He paused and then went on: "I
stay here no longer, Jenny. I go back; it's better! Yes, I go back to
my own country."
"Oh, no, don't go back!" pleaded the girl.
"Yes, I go; I must go," the old man said.
She clung tightly to him now, as if she would not let him go. He
smiled at her but shook his head. "It is better," he said gravely,
"far better. I cannot trust myself here alone; it is too much alone!
I love you all, but I am alone. There is an aching void which must be
filled. I cannot trust myself alone any longer."
She did not understand him, nor did she inquire of him his meaning.
She only clung to him, as if determined not to lose him.
"When you are married, Jenny," he went on, "I shall not be here. But
keep well to the house, love your husband, stay at home. Don't search
here, there, everywhere for excitement! The real happiness for the
mother is always in the home; always, always! One imprudent step and
the mother's happiness goes, and the father's, too," he added
pathetically.
"Whose picture is that?" asked Jenny, as she caught sight of the
miniature in Von Barwig's hand.
"The mother, my wife;" he said in a low, sad voice.
"Ah!" and Jenny looked closely at the picture.
"The mother who loved not the home, and from that's come all the
sorrow! She loved not the home." Von Barwig's words came quickly now,
and were interspersed with dry, inarticulate sobs. "The mother of my
little girl, for whose memory I love you. Ah, keep to the home, Jenny,
for God's sake! Always the home!"
Jenny nodded. "Where are they?" she asked, pointing to the portrait.
"Ah, where are they?" he almost sobbed. "For sixteen years I have not
seen my own flesh and blood! He, my friend who did this to me, robbed
me of them, and took them far, far away from me. I mustn't say more!"
Jenny understood; she no longer looked tenderly at the portrait. She
pointed to it almost in horror. "She was not a good woman?"
Von Barwig was shocked. Here was the verdict of the world, through the
mouth of a child. He had never thought of his wife as bad.
"She was a good woman; not bad, not bad! No, no, Jenny! I thought of
nothing but my art, of music, of fame, fortune. One night, the night
of the big concert, when I came home she had gone and she had taken
with her my little Hélène. It was the night that symphony was played.
Listen, you hear, you hear? It's the second movement. It was a
wonderful success, but ah, Jenny, that night I won the world's
applause, but I lost my own soul!"
The strains of the music came through the open door. Jenny looked at
him. He was listening eagerly now. In the red glow of the late
afternoon sun his eyes sparkled with unnatural excitement.
"It takes me home," he said, and then he looked at the picture. "Not
bad; oh, no, Jenny; she is not bad!"
Jenny shook her head. She hated the woman from that moment.
"She is bad," she thought, "or how could she have done it?" But she
did not speak, and the old man went on:
"I am not angry! No, mein Gott, no! I only want my little girl.
Anything to have her back, my baby, my little baby girl, gone these
sixteen years! My little baby!"
"Yes, but she wouldn't be a baby now," broke in Jenny.
Von Barwig, about to speak, stopped suddenly. "Of course not; I never
thought of that!" Then he shook his head violently.
"I cannot think of her as anything but a baby!"
"Yes, but she'd be a grown-up young lady," insisted Jenny.
"How old was she when you--when she--when you left her."
"Three years and two months," said Von Barwig softly.
"Then she'd be nineteen," said Jenny, "just my age; big, grown-up young
lady."
"She is my little baby," repeated Von Barwig plaintively. "I can see
her now so plainly; always playing with her little doll--the doll with
one eye out. That was the doll she loved, Jenny; the doll she had when
I last saw her."
The old man was calm now. The idea that the girl was a grown-up young
woman, although obvious enough, changed his train of thought. For the
moment it took his attention from the immediate cause of his
unhappiness, and brought his imagination into play.
"A grown-up young lady!" he mused. "Yes, of course! But I can't see
her as grown up; I can't see her, Jenny. I can only remember her as a
wee tot walking around with her one-eyed doll; the eye she kicked out!
I remember that so well."
In spite of his misery, the old man laughed aloud as he recalled the
circumstance that led up to the loss of the eye. The consternation in
the face of the child as she handed him the piece of broken eye had
made him laugh; and he laughed now hysterically as he recalled the
incident. Jenny seeing him laugh, laughed too.
"Thank God he can still laugh," she thought.
"Ah, well!" he went on, drawing a deep breath. "They are gone, and
I--look no more. My search is over, Jenny, over and done. But I go
back; I see once more my Leipsic. There they know me! Here I am an
outcast, a beggar."
Jenny could only shake her head and look at him helplessly. She
realised that any effort she might make to influence him to change his
plans would be useless; and more and more did she hate the woman who
had been the cause of all his misery, the woman whose portrait he
looked at so lovingly.
"A beggar," Von Barwig repeated to himself. "Yes, that's it! I can
fall no lower, I give up!"
The fortune of the broken-spirited, broken-hearted old man was now at
its lowest ebb; and he gave up the fight. There was a long silence.
Jenny was thinking hard. What could she say or do; how could she help
him?
A knock at the door broke the stillness, which had become almost
oppressive.