“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.