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The Fifth String
The Fifth String
By John Philip Sousa
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The Fifth String
I
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。
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The Fifth String
‘‘That is Miss Wallace； Miss Mildred Wallace； only child of one of
New York's prominent bankers。''
‘‘She is beautifula 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 joyand 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
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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
Himthey 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 againI 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 domainnever 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。''
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‘‘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 thusgive 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 an