The Fifth String

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The Fifth String
By John Philip Sousa

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.

``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 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.''

``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 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!''

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 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 Tower of Babel.
Having accomplished this to its evident
satisfaction, the audience proceeded, like
the closing phrase of the
``Goetterdaemmerung'' Dead March, to become
exceedingly quiet--then expectant.

This expectancy lasted fully three
minutes. Then there were some impatient
handclappings. A few persons
whispered: ``Why is he late?'' ``Why
doesn't he come?'' ``I wonder where
Diotti is,'' and then came unmistakable
signs of impatience. At its height
Perkins appeared, hesitatingly. Nervous
and jerky he walked to the center of
the stage, and raised his hand begging
silence. The audience was stilled.

``Ladies and gentlemen,'' he falteringly
said, ``Signor Diotti left his hotel
at seven o'clock and was driven to the
Academy. The call-boy rapped at his
dressing-room, and not receiving a reply,
opened the door to find the room
empty. We have despatched searchers
in every direction and have sent out a
police alarm. We fear some accident
has befallen the Signor. We ask your
indulgence for the keen disappointment,
and beg to say that your money will be
refunded at the box-office.''

Diotti had disappeared as completely
as though the earth had swallowed him.

V

My Dearest Sister: You
doubtless were exceedingly mystified
and troubled over the report that
was flashed to Europe regarding my
sudden disappearance on the eve of my
second concert in New York.

Fearing, sweet Francesca, that you
might mourn me as dead, I sent the
cablegram you received some weeks
since, telling you to be of good heart
and await my letter. To make my action
thoroughly understood I must give
you a record of what happened to me
from the first day I arrived in
America. I found a great interest mani-
fested in my premiere, and socially
everything was done to make me happy.

Mrs. James Llewellyn, whom, you
no doubt remember, we met in Florence
the winter of 18--, immediately after I
reached New York arranged a reception
for me, which was elegant in the
extreme. But from that night dates
my misery.

You ask her name?--Mildred Wallace.
Tell me what she is like, I hear
you say. Of graceful height, willowy
and exquisitely molded, not over twenty-
four, with the face of a Madonna;
wondrous eyes of darkest blue, hair
indescribable in its maze of tawny color
--in a word, the perfection of womanhood.
In half an hour I was her abject
slave, and proud in my serfdom.
When I returned to the hotel that evening
I could not sleep. Her image ever
was before me, elusive and shadowy.
And yet we seemed to grow farther and
farther apart--she nearer heaven, I
nearer earth.

The next evening I gave my first and
what I fear may prove my last concert
in America. The vision of my dreams
was there, radiant in rarest beauty.
Singularly enough, she was in the direct
line of my vision while I played.
I saw only her, played but for her, and
cast my soul at her feet. She sat indifferent
and silent. ``Cold?'' you say. No!
No! Francesca, not cold; superior to
my poor efforts. I realized my
limitations. I questioned my genius. When
I returned to bow my acknowledgments
for the most generous applause I have
ever received, there was no sign on her
part that I had interested her, either
through my talent or by appeal to her
curiosity. I hoped against hope that
some word might come from her, but I
was doomed to disappointment. The
critics were fulsome in their praise and
the public was lavish with its plaudits,
but I was abjectly miserable. Another
sleepless night and I was determined to
see her. She received me most
graciously, although I fear she thought my
visit one of vanity--wounded vanity--
and me petulant because of her lack of
appreciation.

Oh, sister mine, I knew better. I
knew my heart craved one word, however
matter-of-fact, that would rekindle
the hope that was dying within me.

Hesitatingly, and like a clumsy yokel,
I blurted: ``I have been wondering
whether you cared for the performance
I gave?''

``It certainly ought to make little
difference to you,'' she replied; ``the
public was enthusiastic enough in its
endorsement.''

``But I want your opinion,'' I pleaded.

``My opinion would not at all affect
the almost unanimous verdict, ``she
replied calmly.

``And,'' I urged desperately, ``you
were not affected in the least?''

Very coldly she answered, ``Not in
the least;'' and then fearlessly, like a
princess in the Palace of Truth: ``If
ever a man comes who can awaken my
heart, frankly and honestly I will
confess it.''

``Perhaps such a one lives,'' I said,

but has yet to reach the height to win
you--your--''

``Speak it,'' she said, ``to win my
love!''

``Yes,'' I cried, startled at her
candor, ``to win your love.'' Hope slowly
rekindled within my breast, and then
with half-closed eyes, and wooingly, she
said:

``No drooping Clytie could be more
constant than I to him who strikes the
chord that is responsive in my soul.''

Her emotion must have surprised her,
but immediately she regained her placidity
and reverted no more to the subject.

I went out into the gathering gloom.
Her words haunted me. A strange
feeling came over me. A voice within
me cried: ``Do not play to-night.
Study! study! Perhaps in the full fruition
of your genius your music, like the
warm western wind to the harp, may
bring life to her soul.''

I fled, and I am here. I am delving
deeper and deeper into the mysteries of
my art, and I pray God each hour that
He may place within my grasp the
wondrous music His blessed angels
sing, for the soul of her I love is at.
tuned to the harmonies of heaven.

Your affectionate brother,
ANGELO.
ISLAND OF BAHAMA, January 2.

VI

When Diotti left New York so
precipitately he took passage
on a coast line steamer sailing for the
Bahama Islands. Once there, he leased
a small cay, one of a group off the main
land, and lived alone and unattended,
save for the weekly visits of an old
fisherman and his son, who brought
supplies of provisions from the town
miles away. His dwelling-place,
surrounded with palmetto trees, was little
more than a rough shelter. Diotti arose
at daylight, and after a simple repast,
betook himself to practise. Hour after
hour he would let his muse run riot
with his fingers. Lovingly he wooed
the strings with plaintive song, then
conquering and triumphant would be
his theme. But neither satisfied him.
The vague dream of a melody more
beautiful than ever man had heard
dwelt hauntingly on the borders of his
imagination, but was no nearer realization
than when he began. As the day's
work closed, he wearily placed the
violin within its case, murmuring,
``Not yet, not yet; I have not found it.''

Days passed, weeks crept slowly
on; still he worked, but always
with the same result. One day,
feverish and excited, he played on
in monotone almost listless. His tired,
over-wrought brain denied a further
thought. His arm and fingers refused
response to his will. With an uncontrollable
outburst of grief and anger he
dashed the violin to the floor, where it
lay a hopeless wreck. Extending his
arms he cried, in the agony of despair:
``It is of no use! If the God of heaven
will not aid me, I ask the prince of
darkness to come.''

A tall, rather spare, but well-made
and handsome man appeared at the
door of the hut. His manner was that of
one evidently conversant with the usages
of good society.

``I beg pardon,'' said the musician,
surprised and visibly nettled at the
intrusion, and then with forced politeness
he asked: ``To whom am I indebted
for this unexpected visit?''

``Allow me,'' said the stranger taking
a card from his case and handing
it to the musician, who read: ``Satan,''
and, in the lower left-hand corner
``Prince of Darkness.''

``I am the Prince,'' said the stranger,
bowing low.

There was no hint of the pavement-
made ruler in the information he gave,
but rather of the desire of one gentleman
to set another right at the beginning.
The musician assumed a position
of open-mouthed wonder, gazing
steadily at the visitor.

``Satan?'' he whispered hoarsely.

``You need help and advice,'' said
the visitor, his voice sounding like that
of a disciple of the healing art, and
implying that he had thoroughly diagnosed
the case.

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