"Had answered," he corrected himself, trying not to
flinch at the thought.
Even if his hand should heal, it was scarcely possible that he would
ever play again, and he knew, as well as anyone, what brilliant promise
the future had held for him. He remembered how wisely he had been
trained from the very beginning; how Aunt Francesca had insisted upon
mathematics, Latin, and chemistry, as well as literature, history, and
modern languages.
He had protested to her only once. She had replied kindly, but firmly,
that while broad culture and liberal education might not, in itself,
create an artist, yet it could not possibly injure one. Since then, he
had seen precocious children, developed in one line at the expense of
all others, fail ignominiously in maturity because there was no
foundation. The Child Wonder who had thrilled all Europe at nine, by his
unnatural mastery of the violin, was playing in an orchestra in a Paris
cafe, where one of the numerous boy sopranos was the head waiter.
How disappointed Aunt Francesca must be, even though she had too much
self-control to show it! And his father! Allison swallowed a lump in his
throat.
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