``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 face, an-other light seemed to change it by degrees from saddened motherhood to triumphant woman! Then came: `He is not dead, He but sleeps; He will rise again, for He is the best beloved of the Father!' ''
``Still, fate can rob us of our patrimony,'' she replied, after a pause.
``Not while life is here and eternity beyond,'' he said, reassuringly.
``What if a soul lies dormant and will not arouse?'' she asked.
``There are souls that have no motive low enough for earth, but only high enough for heaven,'' he said, with evident intention, looking almost directly at her.
``Then one must come who speaks in nature's tongue,'' she continued.
``And the soul will then awake,'' he added earnestly.
``But is there such a one?'' she asked.
``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.
She stood leaning lightly against a pillar by the fountain. ``I never hear a pianist, however great and famous, but I see the little cream-colored hammers within the piano bobbing up and down like acrobatic brownies. I never hear the plaudits of the crowd for the artist and watch him return to bow his thanks, but I mentally demand that these little acrobats, each resting on an individual pedestal, and weary from his efforts, shall appear to receive a share of the applause.
``When I listen to a great singer,'' continued this world-defying skeptic, ``trilling like a thrush, scampering over the scales, I see a clumsy lot of ah, ah, ahs, awkwardly, uncertainly ambling up the gamut, saying, `were it not for us she could not sing thus--give us our meed of praise.' ''
Slowly he replied: ``Masters have written in wondrous language and masters have played with wondrous power.''
``And I so long to hear,'' she said, almost plaintively. ``I marvel at the invention of the composer and the skill of the player, but there I cease.''
He looked at her intently. She was standing before him, not a block of chiseled ice, but a beautiful, breathing woman. He offered her his arm and together they made their way to the drawing-room.
``Perhaps, some day, one will come who can sing a song of perfect love in perfect tones, and your soul will be attuned to his melody.''
``Perhaps--and good-night,'' she softly said, leaving his arm and joining her friends, who accompanied her to the carriage.
