スーザ自叙伝「進め!Marching Along!」英日対訳


第5章(2/2)英日対訳・スーザ自叙伝「進め! Marching Along!」

Finally the administration came to an end and General Harrison moved in. His inauguration certainly stressed the return to the simplicity of American family life as I had known it. American traditions and customs were steadily coming into their own at the White House. Few intellectual giants have graced the presidency, but General Harrison was one of them. He was a great wit. His sense of humor was ever alert, and his conversation consistently scintillating and satirical; the most brilliant speech I have ever heard was one he delivered at a Gridiron Club dinner. 



Mrs. Harrison impressed me with her kindhearted, considerate attitude toward those about her. She was, in every way, a splendid type of American womanhood, a personality never to be forgotten by the many who were privileged to know her. 



Certain it is, however, that there are men ready to depreciate the most admirable president. During one of my transatlantic voyages, I spent many hours on deck with a United States senator who was particularly severe in his comments on Mr. Harrison, whom I defended as best I could. I believe the man's bitterness arose from an interview which he described to me. He had called on the President a month after his inauguration and had requested him to withdraw his objections against a man whom the Senator desired to have appointed to a certain office. The President replied that he would not change his decision, and the Senator angrily retorted: 



“You seem to forget, Mr. President, that during your campaign, when the Republican party needed money badly, I went out and got it and thereby assured your election.” 



The President's answer was, “I appreciate your efforts, Senator, but you forget I am not President of the Republican party, but President of the United States. I must represent the people at large, and the people at large are not in favor of the appointment of the man you mention.” 



“Darn the little runt!” the Senator added to me. “His posterior is too near the ground to make him great, in my estimation.” 

“Remember,” I said quietly, “size is no gauge of bravery or brains!” 



And Mr. Harrison continued to prove in his administration that he was the President of the Unite States, and not the President of a party. 



Courteous and kindhearted, he was a gracious man to meet ― if your presence was desired. He very quickly became a national hero to those who had no axes to grind. Mrs. Harrison and Mrs. McKee, his wife and daughter, followed out the custom of giving Saturday afternoon receptions during the social season ― that is, from January 1 to the beginning of Lent ―, and , in addition, an occasional children's party for "Baby” McKee, the much-talked-of despot of the White House. At one of these children's parties, the grown-ups at the mansion had evidently planned how the children were to go into the refreshment room and how they were to be seated. The President was there looking on, but when he attempted place “Baby” McKee next to a shy little girl, the ungallant baby screamed “I won't!” and broke away. 



After him went Mr. Harrison and pulled him back forcibly, but he decamped again. The President turned to me, “Don't play the march until I get him.” 

“Mr. President,” I replied, “it's easier to control eighty million people than that little fellow.” 



Watch me!” the President rejoined, very decidedly. He caught the refractory youngster, held him tight, plumped him down on his feet at the head of the line, and, making him shake hands with his selected partner, started the march into the refreshment room. “Baby” McKee's sulkiness vanished at the sight of the ice cream, candies and cake. 



One drizzly day I was driving to the White House, when through my cab window I saw a short man with a big umbrella almost run down by a streetcar. As I looked, I noticed that it was President Harrison. I entered the White House, and so was awaiting him when he came in from his walk. I remarked, 



“Mr. President, I saw you a while ago picking your way across the street in the rain entirely unattended, and quite like the humblest citizen.” How different from a Presidential promenade that I had seen in Paris not long before! First there had appeared a platoon of hussars with drawn revolvers, clearing the streets. Following these at a short distance another platoon with sabres flashing. Then a hollow square of cavalry, in the centre of which was a barouche bearing President Carnot of the French Republic. 



We were occasionally complimented by members of the Diplomatic Corps attending White House receptions. I suppose it was tactful for them to praise the President's band. We were also very popular at the British Embassy where we played every year on the Queen's birthday. After each of these annual appearances Sir Julian Pauncefote gave the band a handsome honorarium. 



There had been for some time a new commanding officer of the post at the Marine Barracks. The Barracks were divided into Headquarters and Post ― that part of the barracks on the G Street side, with offices of the various members of the staff of the Marine Corps. 



The officer in command of the post on the west side of the Barracks was Major George Porter Houston, who though soldierly in his bearing, walked lame from the effects of Chagres fever, contracted while he was in command of the Marines in Panama; one of the finest men in the Marines Corps, he was as brave as Napoleon and possessed a steely blue eye that looked clean through you. My first introduction to Major Houston was a rather trying one. I have always tried to be diplomatic, but I sometimes speak more warmly than I should; and one morning after the Major had been in command of the post for nearly three weeks, I was summoned to see the Commanding Officer. On my entrance into his office, he looked up and said sternly, 



“You are the bandmaster?” 

“Yes, sir,” I replied. 

“Well, I want you to distinctly understand that these German dukes and Italian counts that constitute your band can't turn the barracks!” 

“I don't understand you, sir.” 

“Then I shall make myself understood. Three of them were late at the guard mount this morning, and they can't run me or the barracks, I want you to understand that!” 







I looked at him steadily and replied, “If I am not greatly mistaken, there are certain rules and regulations governing a marine be he bandsman or soldier, who fails to arrive punctually at guard mount.” He returned my gaze for fully a minute, then said, “Sit down; we'll talk this matter over.” 



We talked it over. His apparent anger was all assumed, and in twenty minutes Major Houston and I were the closest of friends, and remained so until his death. He had many admirable qualities. No troops were ever better fed than his. He often took some of the money intended for the purchase of beef and diverted it to oysters! He was determined that the Marines should have a varied bill of fare. 



The major was extremely just in all his dealings with his men; he would not tolerate deceit; but he was not over-severe in punishing dereliction of duty if it was accompanied by a truthful attitude. I remember an occasion when the first sergeant reported a man for jumping the wall, getting full of whiskey and returning to have an altercation with the guard. 



Houston said, “Show him in.” The door opened, and Private Smith entered, limping painfully, his head bandaged, and looking as if he had been through a threshing machine. Houston turned to me seriously and said, “Sousa, what do you think of a man, who enlists in this glorious service, the Marine Corps, receives three good meals a day, a good bed to sleep in, medical attendance when needed, and who cannot be arrested for bastardy, and yet jumps the wall, gets full of bad whiskey, comes back and assaults the sacred person of the corporal of the guard?” 



Of course it was my cue to look very grave, but keep silent. Turning to the culprit, Houston said, “Well, what have you to say for yourself?” The marine straightened up slowly. “I'll thank the Commanding Officer to hear my story.” Houston gave him permission to grow eloquent.  



“Well, sir,” began the battered private, “I was sitting in quarters at eight last night, and I got thirsty for a drink so I went up the gate and said to the sergeant of the guard, 'I'd like to see the officer of the day.' He ordered me back to my quarters. I went back, but I was trying to figure out why I couldn't see the officer of the day, and I was getting thirstier and thirstier; so I tried again, said, 'I'd like to see the officer of the day. I want permission to leave the barracks for fifteen minutes.' 'You can't see him,' said the sergeant. 'You go back to your quarters, and the next time you come up here to see the officer of the day, I'll chuck you in the brig.' I went back to quarters, but darned if I could see why I should be chucked into the brig; so I jumped the wall, got one drink, and then I was so mad to think the sergeant had threatened to chuck me in the brig, that I took a couple more. I wasn't drunk, though. I walked up to the gate to go in and the corporal said, 'How did you get outside?' 'Jumped the wall,' I told him. He came up and said something to me that I wouldn't allow any man to say, and I struck him. He struck back, and before I realized it, there was a general rumpus, and I got the worst of it. They chucked me in the brig, and then they had to take me to the dispensary to bandage me up. But I wouldn't allow any man to say to me what he did, without fighting him back ― not if it killed me!”  



Houston said quietly, “It's a serious case, Smith, and requires some thought on my part. Go back to your quarters, and I will consider the affair.” The woe-begone marine limped out dejectedly. Houston turned to the first sergeant. “Release that man from custody immediately, and see that he is sent to the hospital and properly cared for.” Then, to me, “Sousa, it's pretty damn hard to get all the cardinal virtues for thirteen dollars a month!” 



Major Houston, strange to say, was very fond of my music. One day an advertisement appeared in the Washington papers, stating that a concert would be given at Lincoln Hall by a Symphony orchestra from New York, and that the programme would consist entirely of music by American composers. When Houston looked it over, and found nothing of mine upon it, he dismissed it by saying that he knew it would be “rotten.” I defended the programme however, for there were some fine composers represented upon it, and I added, “They are from New York, and probably I am little-known there.” 



The concert was given. Next morning, when I arrived at the barracks, the Major sent for me, and asked. “Did you play last night at the Willard?” “No, sir, I did not.” Whereupon he showed me a criticism of the concert, which stated that a reception had followed, at the Willard Hotel, and announced that the Marine Band was presented at the reception. “You answer that,” said my superior. “Let the public know it is so.” So I wrote this to the Washington Post: 




In your account of the concert of American compositions given two evenings ago at Lincoln Hall, you state, “The Marine Band, stationed behind tall palms, played music in violent contrast to that heard earlier in the evening, at the American Composer's concert.” I desire to offer a few corrections: 




First: The Marine Band was not placed behind tall palms at the Willard Hotel. 

Second: The Marine Band did not play music in violent contrast to that heard earlier in the evening at the American Composer's concert. 

Third: The Marine Band was not present. 

Except for these errors, the article is substantially correct. 








The Commandant of the Marine Corps, Colonel McCawley, suddenly went away on sick leave. I had been on the best of terms with him, although he had opposed any request I made to take the band on concert tour. The most he would allow was twenty-four hours' furlough which could carry us only as far as Richmond, Baltimore, or Philadelphia. I had applied many times for leave, but he had always refused to endorse an application to the Department for it. Since I was a member of the Marine Corps, I had no intention, even if the opportunity should present itself, of doing anything against his wishes. But as soon as he left Washington, I called on the Acting Commandant and obtained his permission to make the tour; he suggested that I call on the Secretary of the Navy. 



General Tracy was the Secretary, a true friend of the Band. He approved of the plan but added that I “had better see the President.” My years in Washington had taught me that if you wish to see the President, see his wife first. So I asked for Mrs. Harrison. She liked the idea of the tour, and promised to speak to the President about it. 



Next morning I was summoned to see the President. As I entered the room, he rose, shook hands cordially, and leading me to one of the windows which faced the Potomac River, he said, “Mrs. Harrison tells me that you are anxious to make a tour with the band. I was thinking myself of going out of town, and,” ― with a smile, ― “it would be tough on Washington if both of us were away at the same time. I have thought it over, and I believe the country would rather hear you, than me; so you have my permission to go.” 



I immediately arranged a five weeks' tour which was a success both artistically and financially. The tour was directed by David Blakely, manager of Gilmore's Band. After we had completed our tour, Colonel McCawley, our Commandant, died. His son told me that his father had said to him, about two months before, “I see by the paper that Sousa is going on tour with his Band. He has got his own way at last!” A newspaper notice of the period gives one of our early typical programmes: 



The Marine Band, John Philip Sousa, Conductor, appeared at the Auditorium Theatre, Chicago, for the first of a series of three concerts, April 17, 1891. Marie Decca, Soprano, was the soloist. The band was made up of 14 B Clarinets; two flutes; two oboes; two bassoons; four saxophones; two alto clarinets; four French horns; four cornets; two trumpets; two fluegel horns; three trombones; two euphoniums; three basses and drums, triangles, tympani, etc., a rather larger proportion of wood to brass than the strictly military band calls for, made necessary, however, by the greater variety of music which Director Sousa essays. 




RIENZI Wagner  

Invitation to the Dance Weber 

MOSAIC, The Pearl Fishers Bizet 

GRAND ARIA, Perle du Brazil David 









OVERTURE, William Tell Rossini 

Toreador et Andalouse  

  Bal Costume Rubinstein  

Funeral March of a Marionette Gounod 

SYMPHONIC POEM, Ben Hur's Chariot Race Sousa HUMORESQUE, The Contest Godfrey  











The Star Spangled Banner Arnold 




When the curtain rose a half hundred men were seen on stage in dress uniform of dark blue trousers, scarlet coats, liberal embellishment of silk cord, epaulets and gilt buckles. When conductor Sousa ― a stalwart and pleasant-looking gentleman, with a large sword hitched in true military fashion to his belt, came in, there was more applause. 



The tour was a very trying one, with two concerts a day, luncheons, banquets, civic demonstrations and incessant travel. The drain on my energy and the lack of sufficient sleep finally caused me to break down on my return, and the Post surgeon sent me to Europe to recuperate.