The Music Master; Novelized from the Play. Charles Klein
serious, eh?" asked Von Barwig, steeling himself for the answer he expected.
"Yes, I think so," nodded Poons, gulping down a sob.
"The worst, eh?"
"God, you know what scandal-mongers are; what people say—when they do say—how they talk! They have no mercy, no brains, no sense! What is a woman's reputation to them? They repeat, they—they—the wretches—the murderers—" Poons seemed to be trying to shift the blame on a number of people; it was easier for him to generalise at this moment than to answer his questioner straightforwardly.
"Do they say that my wife—that Madam Von Barwig neglects her home?"
"Yes."
"And her child?"
"No, no!" eagerly interrupted Poons, quite joyous at being able to deny something at last.
"Do they say that she—neglects me, that she doesn't care for me, that—" Von Barwig spoke now with an effort; "that she no longer loves me?"
Poons nodded affirmatively. He was summoning up all his courage for the question that he knew was coming; and it came.
"Do they say, do they mention—his name?"
Poons again nodded affirmatively.
"Ahlmann?"
"Yes."
Von Barwig held his breath for a moment; then literally heaved a sigh. What he most feared had indeed come upon him. The world knew; his heart was on his sleeve for daws to peck at.
"How long have you known this?"
Poons hung his head, he could not answer. He was longing to throw his arms around his friend's neck and cry on his shoulder; and he could think of nothing to say but "Poor Anton! Poor Anton!"
"Don't pity me, damn you! don't pity me!" burst out Von Barwig. "And don't sit there bleating like a lost sheep of Israel! I'm not a woman—tears are no panacea for suffering like mine. Put the world back five years, restore for me the past few months; then I could live life over again, then I could see and know and act differently. Don't sit there like a wailing widow, moaning and moping over other people's miseries! That isn't sympathy, that's weakness! If you want to help me, tell me to be a man, to face my troubles like a man; don't cry like a baby!"
"That's right," assented Poons, "go on; it does you good. Give it to me, I deserve it!"
"Poor old Poons, you do your best! Ah, your love does me good, old friend; but there's hell to face! She threatens to leave me, to leave me because I refused to allow him to come here. I've warned him! And if he shows his face in Leipsic again, I'll kill him! Look!" Von Barwig felt in his inner pocket. "Now you can understand why I couldn't hold the men together at rehearsal this morning. My mind was with her, with him. Ha! the mother of my little girl, my little Hélène! That's the pity of it, Poons, that's the pity of it!" and now it was Von Barwig's turn to show weakness. "That's what I can't understand. A woman's love for a man, yes, it can go here, there, anywhere; but the mother instinct, how can that change?"
"Doesn't she love her little girl any more?" asked Poons in simple astonishment.
"She loves him," said Anton. "Can there be room for the mother love with such love as he inspires?"
He looked at the letter in his hand and passed it to Poons. "This morning, just as I was leaving for rehearsal, the servant handed me this. My little girl is all I have left now." His voice choked with emotion as he turned once more toward the window.
At the sight of his friend's suffering Poons could no longer contain himself, and he fairly blubbered as he read the following:
"DEAR ANTON: Henry Ahlmann is in Leipsic and I have seen him. I cannot live a lie, so I am going away with him. Believe me, it is better so; I feel that you can never forgive me and that we can never again be happy together. Kiss my darling Hélène for me, and oh, Anton, don't tell the little one her unhappy mother's miserable history until she is old enough to understand!
"ELENE VON BARWIG."
"Well, that's conclusive, isn't it?" asked Von Barwig grimly as soon as Poons finished reading.
Poons's voice failed him. Hot, scalding tears were fairly raining down his cheeks as the letter fell out of his trembling hands and fluttered to the floor.
"Well, what's to be done; what's to be done?"
"Then she has gone?"
Von Barwig nodded. "I suppose so! I don't know, I can't tell," he said helplessly. "I didn't try to stop her," he went on after a pause. "What's the use, to what end? Oh, I don't want the entire blame to rest on her shoulders! A beautiful woman, twenty-five years of age, a pampered, petted, spoiled child, craving constant excitement; and he, a handsome, young American, rich and romantic. I, as you know, am a mature man of forty, devoted to an art in which she takes little interest. I introduced them. Ha! that's the irony of it! I brought them together, I left them together, I—it's my fault, Poons—my fault! I neglected her for my work. With me, all was music: the compositions, the rehearsal, the concert, the pupil, the conservatory, the opera, the singer, the player. He used to take her to my concerts; and I—fool, fool—encouraged him, for it gave me more time to devote to my art. An artist is a selfish dog! He must be, or there is no art. What could I expect? I am fifteen years older than she; ugly——"
"No, no!" blurted out Poons.
"Misshapen, undersized——"
"No, no!"
"My friend can lie, but my looking-glass doesn't. I know, I know! God, how will it all end? How will it all end?"
At this point the door shook a little as though some one were trying to get in.
"She's come back!" almost gasped Anton, and walking firmly to the door, he unlocked and opened it. As he did so, a little fairy creature between three and four years of age, with golden, flaxen curls and blue eyes, bounded into the room, calling out, "Papa! Papa! Where is oo? Where is oo?"
Von Barwig was on his knees in a moment, and the child threw her left arm around his neck and hugged him so tightly that the little doll she held in her right hand was almost crushed between them.
"Hélène, Hélène! my poor, motherless little baby!" And then for the first time Von Barwig gave way to tears.
"We are alone, alone, alone! Oh, God! Oh, God!" he sobbed as he rocked from side to side in his agony. Poons crept softly out of the room and closed the door gently after him.
Chapter Two
It was past seven o'clock that evening when Poons returned to Von Barwig's apartment on his way to the Gewandhaus concert. His old overcoat buttoned tightly over his well-worn dress suit covered a palpitating heart; for Poons was afraid. A few minutes before, when he had kissed his motherly wife good-bye and told her to take good, extra good care of their little son August, she had noticed that his hand was trembling. And when he tried to account for his nervous condition by reminding her that Anton Von Barwig's new symphony was to be played that night and that a member of the Royal family was to be present on the occasion, she had shaken her head gravely, accusing him of being a foolish, timid old boy. It needed all the courage he could muster up to enable him to ring the door-bell of Von Barwig's dwelling. There was such a death-like stillness that Poons thought for a moment no one was there; he dreaded he knew not what. As he stood listening to the silence, he thought he heard a child's laughter, and he sighed in relief. The servant came to the door, a sleepy-eyed German mädchen as strong as an ox and nearly as stupid. "Oh, it's Herr Poons," she said. "Come in. I tell Herr Von Barwig——"
"Is he—is he? How is he?" faltered Poons, much relieved that the girl showed no