“I know you are angry if I say so,” Thomas continued lightheartedly, “but my Hungarian breed can see nothing in Art but an explanatory imitation of Nature. We have no need of artists to stand between us and living nature. Any shepherd or cowherd can see the sunset of the great plain without the need of having its beauty worked into verses.”
Walter turned away as if he tried to escape Anne’s irresistible imploring look. He wanted to answer, for he felt he ought to answer.
“I understand music only. I can speak of that alone. That is not an explanatory imitation of nature, it is man’s only artistic achievement which lives in him, and comes out of his very own self.”
“I think so too,” said Anne gently. “Every art represents what exists, music alone creates what has never existed.”
“How they agree,” thought Thomas, vexed. Then, rather disdainfully:
“Do not the musicians learn from the reeds, the thunder, the wind, the birds?”
“Nature only knows harmony and discord,” answered Adam Walter, “melody has been created by man. Nature knows no melody.”
“Don’t say so, professor; have you never walked in the woods? Have you never slept on the moss near a brook?”
Adam Walter shook his head.
“I am afraid we don’t understand each other.”