Produced by Judith Boss and Charles Keller. HTML version by Al Haines.
The Fifth String
By
John Philip Sousa
The Conspirators
By
John Philip Sousa
I
The coming of Diotti to America had awakened more than usual interestin the man and his work. His marvelous success as violinist in theleading capitals of Europe, together with many brilliant contributionsto the literature of his instrument, had long been favorably commentedon by the critics of the old world. Many stories of his struggles andhis triumphs had found their way across the ocean and had been read andre-read with interest.
Therefore, when Mr. Henry Perkins, the well-known impresario, announcedwith an air of conscious pride and pardonable enthusiasm that he hadsecured Diotti for a "limited" number of concerts, Perkins' friendsassured that wide-awake gentleman that his foresight amounted topositive genius, and they predicted an unparalleled success for hisstar. On account of his wonderful ability as player, Diotti was afavorite at half the courts of Europe, and the astute Perkins enlargedupon this fact without regard for the feelings of the courts or theviolinist.
On the night preceding Diotti's debut in New York, he was the center ofattraction at a reception given by Mrs. Llewellyn, a social leader, anda devoted patron of the arts. The violinist made a deep impression onthose fortunate enough to be near him during the evening. He won therespect of the men by his observations on matters of internationalinterest, and the admiration of the gentler sex by his chivalricestimate of woman's influence in the world's progress, on which subjecthe talked with rarest good humor and delicately implied gallantry.
During one of those sudden and unexplainable lulls that always occur ingeneral drawing-room conversations, Diotti turned to Mrs. Llewellyn andwhispered: "Who is the charming young woman just entering?"
"The beauty in white?"
"Yes, the beauty in white," softly echoing Mrs. Llewellyn's query. Heleaned forward and with eager eyes gazed in admiration at thenew-comer. He seemed hypnotized by the vision, which moved slowly frombetween the blue-tinted portieres and stood for the instant, a perfectembodiment of radiant womanhood, silhouetted against the silken drapery.
"That is Miss Wallace, Miss Mildred Wallace, only child of one of NewYork's prominent bankers."
"She is beautiful--a queen by divine right," cried he, and then with amingling of impetuosity and importunity, entreated his hostess topresent him.
And thus they met.
Mrs. Llewellyn's entertainments were celebrated, and justly so. At herreceptions one always heard the best singers and players of the season,and Epicurus' soul could rest in peace, for her chef had aninternational 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 anticipatoryjoy--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 hisrichly melodious voice.
"But to define what constitutes happiness is very difficult," shereplied.
"Not necessarily," he went on; "if the motive is clearly within ourgrasp, the attainment is possible."
"For example?" she asked.
"The miser is happy when he hoards his gold; the philanthropist when hedistributes his. The attainment is identical, but the motives areantipodal."
"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 herinto stone, and with streaming eyes she ever tells the story of hersorrow."
"But are her children weeping?" he asked. "I think not. Happiness canbloom from the seeds of deepest woe," and in a tone almost reverential,he continued: "I remember a picture in one of our Italian galleriesthat always impressed me as the ideal image of maternal happiness. Itis a painting of the Christ-mother standing by the body of theCrucified. 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 thisthought: 'They have killed Him--they have killed my son! Oh, God, Ithank Thee that His suffering is at an end!' And as I gazed at the holyface, another light seemed to change it by degrees from saddenedmotherhood to triumphant woman! Then came: 'He is not dead, He butsleeps; 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.
"There are souls that have no motive low enough for earth, but onlyhigh enough for heaven," he said, with evident intention, lookingalmost 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 diligentlyand, I hope, intelligently, and yet I was quickly convinced that acounterfeit presentment of nature was puny and insignificant. I paintedNiagara. My friends praised my effort. I saw Niagara again--I destroyedthe picture."
"But you must be prepared to accept the limitations of man and hiswork," said the philosophical violinist.
"Annihilation of one's own identity in the moment is possible innature's domain--never in man's. The resistless, never-ending rush ofthe waters, madly churning, pitilessly dashing against the rocks below;the mighty roar of the loosened giant; that was Niagara. My pictureseemed 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 inmusic'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 marvelousfeeling of a player awaken your emotions?" persisted he.
She stood leaning lightly against a pillar by the fountain. "I neverhear a pianist, however great and famous, but I see the littlecream-colored hammers within the piano bobbing up and down likeacrobatic brownies. I never hear the plaudits of the crowd for theartist and watch him return to bow his thanks, but I mentally demandthat these little acrobats, each resting on an individual pedestal, andweary from his efforts, shall appear to receive a share of the applause.
"When I listen to a great singer," continued this world-defyingskeptic, "trilling like a thrush, scampering over the scales, I see aclumsy 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 meedof praise.'"
Slowly he replied: "Masters have written in wondrous language andmasters have played with wondrous power."
"And I so long to hear," she said, almost plaintively. "I marvel at theinvention of the composer and the skill of the player, but there Icease."
He looked at her intently. She was standing before him, not a block ofchiseled ice, but a beautiful, breathing woman. He offered her his armand together they made their way to the drawing-room.
"Perhaps, some day, one will come who can sing a song of perfect lovein perfect tones, and your soul will be attuned to his melody."
"Perhaps--and good-night," she softly said, leaving his arm and joiningher friends, who accompanied
her to the carriage.
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