第12章(2)英日対訳・スーザ自叙伝「進め! Marching Along」

I have found English audiences highly satisfactory. They are the best listeners in the world. Perhaps the music-lovers of some of your larger cities equal the English, but I do not believe they can be surpassed in that respect. Reputation-building in the musical world would be a pleasant task among the educated English. In England audiences were always fair and often wonderfully enthusiastic. It is wholly natural that this should be so. They have received their musical education through oratorio and organ, the two severest forms of vocal and intrumental music. They are particularly fond of fine orchestral music and of light music as well. Since their society is not maintained by the standard of wealth, grand opera does not assume the overwhelming importance that it enjoys in America. An educated Englishman has so keen a musical perception that it is a delight to play for him; he knows values and at once places a composition where it belongs. An inspired waltz or march will receive applause from him when a dry-as-dust symphony is met with silence. On the other hand, an inspired symphony is given its due of spontaneous applause and an inane march or worthless waltz falls perfectly flat. He judges a composition according to its musical worth alone. 



I had a merry time in England, giving interviews. Occasionally, a “Constant Reader” or “Vox Populi” would arise and write a complaining letter to the press taking exception to my “quips and cranks and wanton wiles” over contacts in Great Britain. I could not help it ― some things simply insisted on appearing funny to me. There is the matter of English money. I told one of the reporters who talked with me: 



“A great deal more money than they imagine is being spent by American visitors in buying things cheap. The guinea is only a snare and a delusion. There is no such coin in England outside the museums and yet goods are continually priced at so many guineas. Many Amerians think 'guinea' is another word for 'sovereign' and make their purchases accordingly. The other day I bought thirty guineas' worth of clothes and, after doing a sum in mental arithmetic, discovered that I had paid thirty shillings more than I thought I had paid. 'Why do you call them guineas?' I asked the attendant, 'instead of pounds?' 



“In dealing with gentlemen we always call them guineas!” “'Well,' I declared, 'in the future, I shall certainly receive money as a gentleman and dispense it as one of the Great Unwashed! It is apparently the only profitable way to do business in this country!'” 



On the 26th of April, 1901, I received a cable from Paris informing me that the French government had conferred upon me the ribbon of an offer of the Academy, an honor reserved for those who attain distinction in the field of art and letters.  



On the 17th of May, the French ambassador, M. Jules Cambon wrote me thus: 



Washington le 17 Mai, 1901 


Monsieur, J'ai l'honneur de vous faire savoir que M. le Ministre de l'instruction Publique vient de vous decerner les palmes d'Officier d'Academie pour votre concours gracieux aux ceremonies officielles d'inauguration a Paris au mois de Juillet 1900 des statues de Washington et de Lafayette. Je suis heureux de vous informer de la bienveillante decision dont vous avez ete l'objet et je m'empresse de vous faire parvenir ci-joint le brevet et les insignes de cette decoration. 

Recevez, Monsieur, les assurances de ma consideration tres distinguee.  

L'Ambassadeur de France 


ワシントン 1901年5月17日 







In the spring of 1901 I received a letter from Mr. Edward Bok of the Ladies' Home Journal offering me five hundred dollars and the copyright if I would make a new setting for S. F. Smith's My Country 'tis of Thee. I immediately declined the offer on the ground that the public was wedded to the music which had been used for so many, many years, and added that in my opinion no music, good, bad, or indifferent could take its place. Mr. Bok would not take that for a refusal and came to Manhattan Beach to repeat his offer. After dinner, as we sat on the porch of the Oriental Hotel and argued the point pro and con, I still maintained my position in the matter. 

1901年春、私は1通の手紙を受け取った。「Ladies' Home Journal」誌 

エドワード・ボック氏からだ。500ドルと著作権、という条件で、サミュエル・フランシス・スミス作曲の「アメリカ」(My Country 'Tis of Thee)に替わる曲の作曲依頼だ。私はすぐさま、そのオファーを断った。一般大衆はこの曲に、非常に長い長い年月の間、親密な関係を保っていて、どんな曲も、良し悪しどうでもよし関係なく、取って代わることはできない、と主張した。ボック氏は私の言ったことを、オファーを断ったと受け取らず、後日マンハッタン・ビーチへやってきて、再度オファーを持ちかけてきた。夕食後、私達はオリエンタルホテルのポーチに席を取り、この件の賛否を論じ、私は依然として自分の主張を曲げなかった。 


At last I said, “If you really want my name in the Ladies' Home Journal why not buy a story I have?” He threw up his arms with a laugh, and said, “Stick to music, Sousa. Let others write stories.”  

とうとう私はこんなことまで言った「君の雑誌「Ladies' Home Journal」に私の名前をどうしても載せたい、というなら、私の書いた小説でも掲載したらいい。」彼は諸手を挙げて大笑いすると、「スーザさん、あなたは作曲に専念なさったほうが良い。小説なんて、他に任せて。」 


“I have been listening to your arguments for two hours as to why I should write music for you, which I know could not supersede that already in use. Now why not listen to me for a half hour, while I unfold the outlines of my story? That's only fair,” I told him. 



I outlined to Mt. Bok my novel, The Fifth String and when I concluded, he said “Have you written it out?” 

“Not a word, I have been carrying that story around for twenty years, talking baby talk to it, and hoping that some day some one would see fit to buy it.” 

“Get it on paper at once, and then let me know,” was Mr. Bok's parting sentence. 





I went to work the next morning and tried to dictate my story to a stenographer; it didn't work, so I sat down and wrote it out slowly in long hand, and then, still haltingly, dictated it again. I then read it to two critics, had it copied again, and wrote Mr. Bok that the story was finished and he might have it for five thousand dollars. He requested me to send the manuscript to him for examination but I never did. 



Ten days afterwards, the band reached Indianapolis. Mr. Barnes, our treasurer, told a friend of his, connected with the Bobbs-Merrill Company there that I had a good story in my trunk. Mr. Hewitt Howland ― at that time the editor of Bobbs-Merrill ― immediately called at my hotel and offered to read the story. I read it to him myself and he telephoned to Mr. Bobbs, who asked me to dine with him at the University Club and discuss terms of publication. He made me a very liberal offer for the novel and so became the publisher of the The Fifth String. It was a best seller for quite a while ― why should it not have been, since it was illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy? 



When we reached Olympia, capital of the State of Washington, I noticed a man peering out from the wings for the first twenty minutes of our concert. I asked an attendant to find out his errand there and to ask him not to stand where he could be seen by the public. At the intermission he came to me himself and said, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Sousa, but I'm the sergeant-at-arms of the Legislature and we couldn't transact any business there this afternoon because we lacked a quorum, and I've been hunting all over town for the members. When I came here, I was able to count in your audience the legislator of both Houses, almost to a man! I have been wondering whether I ought to round up the absentees but I guess I won't.” I invited him to remain and put him in a box. 



Presently we opened at Willow Grove, a well-known amusement park outside of Philadelphia. It is unique of its kind, for its first consideration is music and the management endeavors to obtain every year the best the country affords. Such organizations as the Chicago Symphony, the Damrosh Orchestra, the Russian Orchestra, and famous bands like Conway's, Pryor's, Creatore's and Banda Rossa have played there. All this can be heard without paying a penny. 



For twenty-eight years the park has maintained its rule of “no liquor.” On the opening day I dined at the Casino. I asked a waiter for the wine card. He said, “We do not serve any wine or liquors.” I scribbled a note to the manager, “Please send me a bottle of claret.” 



The manager came himself with the note in his hand and said, “Mr. Sousa, as a true Philadelphian I am devoted to you and your band, and I am ready to do for you whatever is in the range of possibility. I can give you the park, if you want it, but I can't give you a bottle of claret for there is no such thing in the place.” 



I always thoroughly enjoyed myself in Pennsylvania. In one of the towns, I received a note written on the edge of a program, just as I was about to conduct a concert. It ran: “I came forty miles over the mountains to see the man who makes twenty-five thousand dollars a year out of his compositions. Kindly oblige me by playing them all.” Other requests ran like this: 



Bandmaster Sousa: Please inform me what is the name of those two instruments that look like gas pipes.” “A colored lady would like to hear a cornet solo by your solo concert.” 



Perhaps the best bit of all was this ingenuous request: “Please play The Ice Cold Cadets.”