Herr Kreutzer's little stock of money (depleted sadly by dishonest
exchange) sagged heavily in a small leather bag which he carried in a
carefully buttoned hip-pocket in his trousers. There it gave him
comfort, as, the day after he had landed in New York, it chinked and
thumped against him as he walked. There was so much of it! In this
land of gold and generous appreciation of ability, it would be far
more than enough to carry him and the two girls who were now dependent
on him until he should find a well paid, but not too conspicuous,
situation. He was sure of this. It had been the gossip of the little
orchestra in London that musicians, in New York, if worthy, were
always in demand; that when they played they were paid vastly. Tales
often had been told of money literally thrown to players by delighted
members of appreciative audiences--money in great rolls of bank-notes,
heavy gold-pieces, bank checks. Nowhere in the world, not even in the
music loving Fatherland, a wandering trombonist who had visited the
states had solemnly assured him, were expert performers on any sort of
instrument so well paid and so well beloved as in the city of New
York.
"You, Kreutzer," this man had said (for when musicians lie the
cultivated and exotic fancy, essential to success in their profession,
makes them lie superbly) "could, past the shadow of a doubt, win a
real fortune in a season in New York."
"Much work is waiting, eh?" said Kreutzer, eagerly. He did not wish to
win a fortune, for that would mean the larger orchestras, but he
wondered if the smaller organizations paid proportionally well.
"For such as you," the man replied, maliciously--he was a
disappointed, vicious person--"there ever is demand from large and
small."
"Why, then, did you come back to England?" the flute-player inquired.
"I? Oh, I am not an artist--a real artist, as you are," was the
answer, flattering and vicious. The man had tried to get an
introduction to fair Anna and had been refused peremptorily, as all
had been refused. He planned to have revenge for it. "The man who
merely plays is not so vastly better off, there in the states, than
here; but to the _artist_--to the real artist, such as you--the states
will literally pay anything."
That the man who had found failure was not a real musician Kreutzer
knew. Too often had his trombone trespassed, with its brazen bray,
upon the time which the composer had allotted to the soft, delightful
flute, to leave the slightest doubt of its performer's rank
incompetence. That he had failed was, therefore, easily understood;
in no way did it indicate that all he said about the chances of a real
musician in the land of skyscrapers and mighty distances (which he
also told about at length) was of necessity untrue. It had been the
talk of this man which had fascinated Kreutzer; it was the city of
this man's wild fancy which the flute-player expected to encounter
when he reached New York.
The disillusionment came slowly at the start. Certainly the
skyscrapers were existent in a number and a grandeur which the man had
not been able to exaggerate; certainly the railway trains ran up and
down on iron stilts as he had said they did; certainly the crowds were
mighty and amazing both in their brutality and their good nature, just
as he had said they were. Many things there were which, for a time,
preserved the innocent flute-player's faith in his informant. But when
he came to look for work--ah, then vanished the first bubble.
Seemingly there was no place in all the city for an old performer on
the flute save that which Karrosch offered and which Kreutzer would
not take.
Even in this new land, far from those he would avoid, the old
flute-player was determined not to go to the great orchestras, among
whose auditors were likely to be travelers. Thus he barred himself
from opera-houses, theatres and most of the hotels, by the towering
barrier of his own timidity. Nor did he wish to join a union (this
shut him out from many smaller orchestras) or even to enroll himself
at the employment agencies. He would not risk unwelcome prominence
even to that slight extent. Instead of doing these things, which would
at once have won him profitable work, he tramped the streets, looking
for various employment, at first with a resilient hope, then with a
careful industry, at the end of the first month with dogged
determination, finally with a desperation bordering upon despair.
And there were other things to worry him. Early in his search for work
he had made a noontime pause, one day, in a quaint lager-beer saloon
much frequented by musicians. There, at the table where he sat, he had
encountered one who earnestly announced himself as a "wise guy" and
told him much about New York, all quite as pessimistic as the London
romancer's talk had been enthusiastic. He suffered from misfortune
which he blamed, unhesitatingly, to the vileness of the prosperous and
ranted endlessly without attracting much attention till he touched
upon the subject of the viciousness of the American rich man with
women. This roused Kreutzer fully, for one of the tales the babbler
told was of a gilded youth who had befriended poverty in order to
obtain the confidence of lowly beauty and then, of course, abused the
confidence.
Herr Kreutzer's heart beat madly before the man had finished speaking.
Could it be possible that all Americans were of this ilk, as the
disgruntled one maintained? If so, then Vanderlyn--ah, it could not be
possible! The youth had been too kind to them during the few days of
his stay in New York city, before he had departed for the west on a
short trip; had promised too much kindness to be offered upon his
return! But--Anna!
And so, that very night, he searched until he found another tenement,
and, with his own hands, moved their scanty household goods to it,
leaving behind him no address. Naturally a sweet and unsuspicious
soul, he had never dreamed of treachery upon the part of the
ingratiating youth; now suspicion's seeds were sown in his old mind
and fertilized by rising tears of disillusionment in most things which
he had found in New York, he was ready to be doubtful of the most
undoubtable.
The new quarters were much less desirable, in every way, than those
they had abandoned, and the rent was higher; but they were quite the
best the old man could discover on short notice, and quite the lowest
priced. He never dreamed, as he argued with his new landlord over rent
that the old rental had been cut almost in half to him because young
Vanderlyn had made arrangements surreptitiously. He entered the new
tenement with the firm conviction that he had been swindled in the
rent which he had paid, "cash in advance," and, that night, was very
gloomy.
So, also, were the bewildered Anna and M'riar.
"Hi sye, Miss," said M'riar, when they were alone, while the
flute-player went out for the supper, "wot'll that young toff think,
comin' back an' findin' yer gone orf from there?"
"Surely there was left behind the address of this place," said Anna,
with small confidence of this in her own heart.
"Hi 'eard the lawst word said," said M'riar, with conviction, "an'
hall yer farther told th' geezer was that 'e was goin' to quit."
"But, he would not possibly be so lacking in his courtesy! He--"
Just then the flute-player returned and Anna asked him, boldly, but
with a studied air of carelessness, about the matter. It was the first
time in her whole life that she had ever tried to hide her real
emotions from her father.
"Leave our address for Herr Vanderlyn?" said Kreutzer, who had been
waiting for the question and had schooled himself to answer it without
revealing the real facts. "Of course. Of course. Why not?" It was the
first time he had ever actually lied to Anna. Things, thus, were in a
bad way at the start in the new quarters.
M'riar, after the first day there, did the marketing. The streets,
transformed into deep, narrow canons by the towering buildings
bordering them, swarming with the poor of every nationality on earth,
every block made into a most fascinating market by the push-cart
vendors with their varied wares, had, from the start, enthralled her.
She was uncannily acute at bargaining. Soon more than one red-headed
Jew had learned, in self-defense, to take out the stick which held up
one end of his cart, and move along, at sight of her. Too often she
had been the symbol of financial loss. Her "Hi sye!" and "My heye!"
became the keen delight of German maidens back of counters over which
cheap delicatessen was distributed.
Beyond a doubt M'riar was in her element. She labored day and night.
Few tasks there were about the tiny three-room menage, save the actual
cooking, which she did not undertake and undertake with energy which
made up, largely, for her lack of skill. Herr Kreutzer, who had been
in doubt about the wisdom of engrafting her upon his little family
looked at her with amazement, sometimes lowering his flute, on which
he might be practicing, in the very middle of a bar, so that he might
better stare at her unbounded and unceasing physical activities. She
abandoned, as unworthy of her mistress, her old form of address and no
longer simply called her "Miss," but "Frow-_line_," after tutelage
from the small shop-woman who sold cheese to her in three-cent
packages.
But, ere much time had passed, the day arrived when Herr Kreutzer
feared to have her even buy so much of luxury as cheese in three-cent
packages. The little bag of money which had chinked so bravely on his
hip when he had first arrived in New York city scarcely chinked at
all, these days. Everything was so expensive in this new land they had
come to! Not only must he pay as much rent for a three-room tenement,
with one room almost dark and one quite windowless, as he had had to
pay, in London, for the comfortable floor which they had occupied in
Soho, but food cost twice as much, he woefully declared--and played
the "Miserere" on his flute. He would not go to Karrosch, or any of
the large, important orchestras; none of the small ones wished a
flutist. He learned to loathe the mere word "phonograph"--in so many
places did it form a clock-work substitute to do the work he longed to
do.
It was when want actually stared them in the face that he read an
advertisement in a German newspaper for a musician--flute or
clarinet--in a beer garden. The clock-hands had not yet reached eight
when he presented himself at the address, far uptown. He had been
unsuccessful, once or twice, in getting hearings because he had
arrived too late--these days he rose by four and had a paper fresh
and damp from the great presses, and every advertisement in it read by
five o'clock.
There were many applicants for the position, and by ten o'clock when a
youth with a red face and a hoarse voice appeared behind the wicket at
the side of the main entrance, peered out curiously at the shabby,
anxious crowd and winked derisively before he let the door swing
inwards, Herr Kreutzer was as weary as he well could be and keep
upright upon his feet; but, notwithstanding this, he had not given
ground and still held first place in the line. He had arrived at a
decision which filled his soul with dread. If he failed to get this
place he would apply to one of the great orchestras! This possibility
he thought of with a desperate dismay, for, playing thus before the
prosperous public, some traveler would be sure to see him, recognize
him, send word back to Germany and then--ah, then the deluge! He had
been sadly disappointed when he had discovered that New York is not
remote from Europe, but as cosmopolitan, almost, as London. Here, as
there, asylum only could be found in the remote resorts, unfrequented
by those with means, by travelers, by those who know good music. Ah!
he shuddered at the thought of what might happen if, some night,
forgetting his surroundings, he should play as he _could_ play in
hearing of a connoisseur. Then, certainly, discovery.
So he was very anxious to obtain this small position in the little,
far beer-garden. He was sorry for the others, but they could not have
necessities the least bit greater than his own. He must not yield to
them, so, in the eager crowd, he pushed and scrambled as the others
did, and always kept in front.
"What kin yer play?" the fat and blear-eyed manager asked gruffly.
"I play the flute."
"Bring it along?"
"Yah; surely."
"Let 'er go, then. Give us something good and lively."
With nervous hands Herr Kreutzer raised the old flute to his lips,
with fingers which put tremolos where none were written in the score;
but he made many of the notes dance joyously. Through anxious lips he
blew his soul into the instrument--his love of the pre-eminent
composer who had sung the song he played, his love of his sweet
daughter for whose sake he played--his love of her and fear for her if
he should fail to win the favor of his burly listener. The great
"Spring Song" of Mendelssohn has never been played on a flute as
Kreutzer played it, in the grey light of that morning in the
cheerless, bare beer-garden. When he had finished there was silence in
the crowd behind him. Not a man among the applicants for the position
was a real musician, but all knew, instinctively, that they had been
listening to a veritable artist. Then, after an awed moment, there
came a little spatter of applause. All these men were seeking for a
chance to earn the mere necessities of life; every one of them was
more than anxious, was pitifully eager for the small position which
was open; but, having heard Herr Kreutzer play, they hoped no
longer--and were generous.
The owner of the beer-garden looked on them in surprise.
"Got it all framed up," he said, "that Dutchy is to have the job, have
you?" He turned, then, to Kreutzer. "That's all right, too, I guess.
Showed you can play real fast and that is somethin' with a crowd, all
right, all right. But don't you know some really _good_ music?"
"Good music!" Kreutzer faltered, at a loss. That which he had played
had been among the best the world has ever known.
"Yes; rag-time stuff, an' such. Real pop'lar."
"No," said Kreutzer, sadly, "I fear I do not know good music of the
kind you name." He made as if to turn away, but then bethought himself
and whirled back hopefully. "But I can learn," he said. "Simple
things, without a doubt, I could play on sight."
"Off the notes, you mean?"
"Yah; so."
"Take this, then." The manager held toward him a thick book of
rag-time melodies.
Kreutzer, too desperate to be disgusted, ran through half-a-dozen of
them rapidly. Now the manager beamed pleasantly.
"Say, you'll do, all right, all right," he told the flute-player.
Then, turning to the rest he motioned them away. "Beat it, you guys,"
he commanded. "Father Rhine here's got the job."