



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 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 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 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
