Section (Part 1)

The Fifth String

By

John Philip Sousa

The Conspirators

By

John Philip Sousa

Contents

The Fifth String:

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

The Conspirators

IThe coming of Diotti to America had awakened more than usual interest in the man and his work. His marvelous success as violinist in the leading capitals of Europe, together with many brilliant contributions to the literature of his instrument, had long been favorably commented on by the critics of the old world. Many stories of his struggles and his triumphs had found their way across the ocean and had been read and re-read with interest.

The refore, when Mr. Henry Perkins, the well-known impresario, announced with an Air of conscious pride and pardonable enthusiasm that he had secured Diotti for a"limited"number of concerts, Perkins'friends assured that wide-awake gentleman that his foresight amounted to positive genius, and they predicted an unparalleled success for his star. On account of his wonderful ability as player, Diotti was a favorite at half the courts of Europe, and the astute Perkins enlarged upon this fact without regard for the feelings of the courts or the violinist.

On the night preceding Diotti's debut in New York, he was the center of attraction at a reception given by Mrs. Llewellyn, a social leader, and a devoted patron of the arts. The violinist made a deep impression on those fortunate enough to be near him during the evening. He won the respect of the men by his observations on matters of international interest, and the admiration of the gentler sex by his chivalric estimate of woman's influence in the world's progress, on which subject he talked with rarest good humor and delicately implied gallantry.

During one of those sudden and unexplainable lulls that always occur in general drawing-room conversations, Diotti turned to Mrs. Llewellyn and whispered:"Who is the charming young woman just entering?"

"The beauty in white?"

"Yes, the beauty in white,"softly echoing Mrs. Llewellyn's query. He leaned forward and with eager eyes gazed in admiration at the new-comer. He seemed hypnotized by the vision, which moved slowly from between the blue-tinted portieres and stood for the instant, a perfect embodiment of radiant womanhood, silhouetted against the silken drapery.

"That is Miss Wallace, Miss Mildred Wallace, only child of one of New York's prominent bankers."

"She is beautiful—a queen by divine right,"cried he, and then with a mingling of impetuosity and importunity, entreated his hostess to present him.

And thus they met.

Mrs. Llewellyn's entertainments were celebrated, and justly so. At her receptions one always heard the best singers and players of the season, and Epicurus'soul could rest in peace, for her chef had an international reputation. Oh, remember, you music-fed ascetic, many, aye, very many, regard the transition from Tschaikowsky to terrapin, from Beethoven to burgundy with hearts aflame with anticipatory joy—and Mrs. Llewellyn's dining-room was crowded.

Miss Wallace and Diotti had wandered into the conservatory.

"A desire for happiness is our common heritage,"he was saying in his richly melodious voice.

"But to define what constitutes happiness is very difficult,"she replied.

"Not necessarily,"he went on;"if the motive is clearly within our grasp, the attainment is possible."

"For example?"she asked.

"The miser is happy when he hoards his gold; the philanthropist when he distributes his. The attainment is identical, but the motives are antipodal."

"Then one possessing sufficient motives could be happy without end?"she suggested doubtingly.

"That is my theory. The Niobe of old had happiness within her power."

"The gods thought not,"said she;"in their very pity they changed her into stone, and with streaming eyes she ever tells the story of her sorrow."

"But are her children weeping?"he asked."I think not. Happiness can bloom from the seeds of deepest woe,"and in a tone almost reverential, he continued:"I remember a picture in one of our It alian galleries that always impressed me as the ideal image of maternal happiness. It is a painting of the Christ-mother standing by the body of the Crucified. Beauty was still hers, and the dress of grayish hue, nun-like in its simplicity, seemed more than royal robe. Her face, illumined as with a light from heaven, seemed inspired with this thought:'They have killed Him—they have killed my son! Oh, God, I thank Thee that His suffering is at an end!'And as I gazed at the holy face, another light seemed to change it by degrees from saddened motherhood to triumphant woman! Then came:'He is not dead, He but sleeps; He will rise again, for He is the best beloved of the Father!'"

"Still, fate can rob us of our patrimony,"she replied, after a pause.

"Not while life is here and eternity beyond,"he said, reassuringly.

"What if a soul lies dormant and will not arouse?"she asked.

"The re are souls that have no motive low enough for earth, but only high enough for heaven,"he said, with evident intention, looking almost directly at her.

"Then one must come who speaks in nature's tongue,"she continued.

"And the soul will then awake,"he added earnestly.

"But is there such a one?"she asked.

"Perhaps,"he almost whispered, his thought father to the wish.

"I am afraid not,"she sighed."I studied drawing, worked diligently and, I hope, intelligently, and yet I was quickly convinced that a counterfeit presentment of nature was puny and insignificant. I painted Niagara. My friends praised my effort. I saw Niagara again—I destroyed the picture."

"But you must be prepared to accept the limitations of man and his work,"said the philosophical violinist.

"Annihilation of one's own identity in the moment is possible in nature's domain—never in man's. The resistless, never-ending rush of the waters, madly churning, pitilessly dashing against the rocks below; the mighty roar of the loosened giant; that was Niagara. My picture seemed but a smear of paint."

"Still, man has won the admiration of man by his achievements,"he said.

"Alas, for me,"she sighed,"I have not felt it."

"Surely you have been stirred by the wonders man has accomplished in music's realm?"Diotti ventured.

"I never have been."She spoke sadly and reflectively.

"But does not the passion-laden theme of a master, or the marvelous feeling of a player awaken your emotions?"persisted he.

She stood leaning lightly against a pillar by the fountain."I never hear a pianist, however great and famous, but I see the little cream-colored hammers within the piano bobbing up and down like acrobatic brownies. I never hear the plaudits of the crowd for the artist and watch him return to bow his thanks, but I mentally demand that these little acrobats, each resting on an individual pedestal, and weary from his efforts, shall appear to receive a share of the applause.

"When I listen to a great singer,"continued this world-defying skeptic,"trilling like a thrush, scampering over the scales, I see a clumsy lot of ah, ah, ahs, awkwardly, uncertainly ambling up the gamut, saying,'were it not for us she could not sing thus—give us our meed of praise.'"

Slowly he replied:"Masters have written in wondrous language and masters have played with wondrous power."

"And I so long to hear,"she said, almost plaintively."I marvel at the invention of the composer and the skill of the player, but there I cease."

He looked at her intently. She was standing before him, not a block of chiseled ice, but a beautiful, breathing woman. He offered her his arm and together they made their way to the drawing-room.

"Perhaps, some day, one will come who can sing a song of perfect love in perfect tones, and your soul will be attuned to his melody."

"Perhaps—and good-night,"she softly said, leaving his arm and joining her friends, who accompanied her to the carriage.

II

The intangible something that places the stamp of popular approval on one musical enterprise, while another equally artistic and as cleverly managed languishes in a condition of unendorsed greatness, remains one of the unsolved mysteries.

When a worker in the vineyard of music or the drama offers his choicest tokay to the public, that fickle coquette may turn to the more ordinary and less succulent concord. And the worker and the public itself know not why.

It is true, Diotti's fame had preceded him, but fame has preceded others and has not always been proof against financial disaster. All this preliminary,—and it is but necessary to recall that on the evening of December the twelfth Diotti made his initial bow in New York, to an Audience that completely filled every available space in the Academy of Music—a representative audience, distinguished alike for beauty, wealth and discernment.

When the violinist appeared for his solo, he quietly acknowledged the cordial reception of the audience, and immediately proceeded with the business of the evening. At a slight nod from him the conductor rapped attention, then launched the orchestra into the introduction of the concerto, Diotti's favorite, selected for the first number. As the violinist turned to the conductor he faced slightly to the left and in a direct line with the second proscenium box. His poise was admirable. He was handsome, with the olive-tinted warmth of his southern home—fairly tall, straight-limbed and lithe—a picture of poetic grace. His was the face of a man who trusted without reserve, the manner of one who believed implicitly, feeling that good was universal and evil accidental.

As the music grew louder and the orchestra approached the peroration of the preface of the coming solo, the violinist raised his head slowly. Suddenly his eyes met the gaze of the solitary occupant of the second proscenium box. His face flushed. He looked inquiringly, almost appealingly, at her. She sat immovable and serene, a lace-framed vision in white.

It was she who, since he had met her, only the night before, held his very soul in thraldom.

He lifted his bow, tenderly placing it on the strings. Faintly came the first measures of the theme. The melody, noble, limpid and beautiful, floated in dreamy sway over the vast auditorium, and seemed to cast a mystic glamour over the player. As the final note of the first movement was dying away, the audience, awakening from its delicious trance, broke forth into spontaneous bravos.

Mildred Wallace, scrutinizing the program, merely drew her wrap closer about her shoulders and sat more erect. At the end of the concerto the applause was generous enough to satisfy the most exacting virtuoso. Diotti unquestionably had scored the greatest triumph of his career. But the lady in the box had remained silent and unaffected throughout.

The poor fellow had seen only her during the time he played, and the mighty cheers that came from floor and galleries struck upon his ear like the echoes of mocking demons. Leaving the stage he hurried to his dressing-room and sank into a chair. He had persuaded himself she should not be insensible to his genius, but the dying ashes of his hopes, his dreams, were smouldering, and in his despair came the thought:"I am not great enough for her. I am but a man; her consort should be a god. Her soul, untouched by human passion or human skill, demands the power of god-like genius to arouse it."

Music lovers crowded into his dressing-room, enthusiastic in their praises. Cards conveying delicate compliments written in delicate chirography poured in upon him, but in vain he looked for some sign, some word from her.

Quickly he left the theater and sought his hotel.

A menacing cloud obscured the wintry moon. A clock sounded the midnight hour.

He threw himself upon the bed and almost sobbed his thoughts, and their burden was:

"I am not great enough for her. I am but a man. I am but a man!"

III

Perkins called in the morning. Perkins was happy—Perkins was positively joyous, and Perkins was self-satisfied. The violinist had made a great hit. But Perkins, confiding in the white-coated dispenser who concocted his matin Martini, very dry, an hour before, said he regarded the success due as much to the management as to the artist. And Perkins believed it. Perkins usually took all the credit for a success, and with charming consistency placed all responsibility for failure on the shoulders of the hapless artist.

When Perkins entered Diotti's room he found the violinist heavy-eyed and dejected."My dear Signor,"he began, showing a large envelope bulging with newspaper clippings,"I have brought the notices. They are quite the limit, I assure you. Nothing like them ever heard before—all tuned in the same key, as you musical fellows would say,"and Perkins cocked his eye.

Perkins enjoyed a glorious reputation with himself for bright sayings, which he always accompanied with a cock of the eye. The musician not showing any visible appreciation of the manager's metaphor, Perkins immediately proceeded to uncock his eye.

"Passed the box-office coming up,"continued this voluble enlightener;"nothing left but a few seats in the top gallery. We'll stand them on their heads to-morrow night—see if we don't."Then he handed the bursting envelope of notices to Diotti, who listlessly put them on the table at his side.

"Too tired to read, eh?"said Perkins, and then with the advance-agent instinct strong within him he selected a clipping, and touching the violinist on the shoulder:"Let me read this one to you. It is by Herr Totenkellar. He is a hard nut to crack, but he did himself proud this time. Great critic when he wants to be."

Perkins cleared his throat and began:"Diotti combines tremendous feeling with equally tremendous technique. The entire audience was under the witchery of his art."Diotti slowly negatived that statement with bowed head."His tone is full, round and clear; his interpretation lends a story-telling charm to the music; for, while we drank deep at the fountain of exquisite melody, we saw sparkling within the waters the lights of Paradise. New York never has heard his equal. He stands alone, pre-eminent, an Artistic giant."

"Now, that's what I call great,"said the impresario, dramatically;"when you hit Totenkellar that way you are good for all kinds of money."

Perkins took his hat and cane and moved toward the door. The violinist arose and extended his hand wearily."Good-day"came simultaneously; then"I'm off. We'll turn'em away to-morrow; see if we don't!"Whereupon Perkins left Diotti alone in his misery.

IV

It was the evening of the fourteenth, In front of the Academy a strong-lunged and insistent tribe of gentry, known as ticket speculators, were reaping a rich harvest. They represented a beacon light of hope to many tardy patrons of the evening's entertainment, especially to the man who had forgotten his wife's injunction"to be sure to buy the tickets on the way down town, dear, and get them in the family circle, not too far back."This man's intentions were sincere, but his newspaper was unusually interesting that morning. He was deeply engrossed in an Article on the causes leading to matrimonial infelicities when his'bus passed the Academy box-office.

He was six blocks farther down town when he finished the article, only to find that it was a carefully worded advertisement for a new patent medicine, and of course he had not time to return."Oh, well,"said he,"I'll get them when I go up town to-night."

But he did not. So with fear in his heart and a red-faced woman on his arm he approached the box-office."Not a seat left,"sounded to his hen-pecked ears like the concluding words of the black-robed judge:"and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul."But a reprieve came, for one of the aforesaid beacon lights of hope rushed forward, saying:"I have two good seats, not far back, and only ten apiece."And the gentleman with fear in his heart and the red-faced woman on his arm passed in.

They saw the largest crowd in the history of the Academy. Every seat was occupied, every foot of standing room taken. Chairs were placed in the side aisles. The programs announced that it was the second appearance in America of Angelo Diotti, the renowned Tuscan violinist.

The orchestra had perfunctorily ground out the overture to"Der Freischuetz,"the baritone had stentorianly emitted"Dio Possente,"the soprano was working her way through the closing measures of the mad scene from"Lucia,"and Diotti was number four on the program. The conductor stood beside his platform, ready to ascend as Diotti appeared.