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"Either I can't hear you this morning, or the first violins are late in attacking and the wood wind drags drags drags." "What's the matter? We've played this a hundred times," growled Karlschmidt, the bass clarionet player, to Poons, the Dutch horn soloist, who sat at the desk next to him.
"What did he say?" asked Poons, losing Von Barwig's next remark in trying to hear what Karlschmidt was mumbling. "He said it's his own fault," whispered the second flute. "He's quite right," assented Karlschmidt. "Hush, hush!" came from one or two others. Von Barwig was addressing the men again, and they wanted to hear. "Let's play; cut the speeches out," growled Karlschmidt.
Karlschmidt was a socialist, a student of Karl Marx, and took more interest in communism than in his allotted share of the score of Isolde's Liebestodt. Indeed, nearly all the men were interested in something other than the occupation which afforded them a living. For them the pleasure of music had died in the business of attaining accuracy.
Many attributed it to the fact that he was nervous because of the first production of his new symphony. Karlschmidt hinted to his deskmate that Von Barwig was nervous and was trying to conceal it by pretending to be delighted with everything and everybody.
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