The grandchildren asked her to play the piano. She played Schumann. "Now some Beethoven" called Cecil, when the querulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and played Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; it was resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. The sadness of the incomplete--the sadness that is often life, but should never be art--throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of the audience throb. 孫子孫女請(qǐng)求她演奏鋼琴。她彈奏了舒曼的曲子?！艾F(xiàn)在彈一些貝多芬”，Cecil在音樂的哀怨美消亡的時(shí)候說。她搖搖頭，再次彈起了舒曼的曲子。升起來的旋律魔幻卻無益處。樂曲中斷了，它又中斷了，而不是同行進(jìn)樂一樣從頭到尾地演奏完。不完整的悲哀常常是生活的悲哀，但從來不該是藝術(shù)的悲哀。不完整的悲哀在切分開的樂句中悸動(dòng)，也讓聽眾的神經(jīng)為之陣陣作痛。