The Fifth String(第五根线)

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The Fifth String

By John Philip Sousa

The Fifth String

The 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.

Therefore, 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 even- ing. 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.

The Fifth String

``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 Italian galleries that

always impressed me as the ideal image of maternal happiness. It is a

The Fifth String

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, an- other 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.

``There 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.''

The Fifth String

``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.

The Fifth String

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.

The Fifth String

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 dur- ing 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!''

The Fifth String

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-

The Fifth String

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.

The Fifth String

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 renowed 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.

The audience, ever ready to act when those on the stage cease that

occupation, gave a splendid imitation of the historic last scene at the

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TheFifthString1TheFifthStringByJohnPhilipSousaTheFifthString2IThecomingofDiottitoAmericahadawakenedmorethanusualinterestinthemanandhiswork.HismarveloussuccessasviolinistintheleadingcapitalsofEurope,togetherwithmanybrilliantcontributionstotheliteratureofhisinstrument,hadlongbeenfavorablycommentedonby...

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