She was no dazzling executante; her runs were not at
all like strings of pearls, and she struck no more
right notes than was suitable for one of her age.
Nor was she the passionate young lady, who performs so
tragically on a hot summer’s evening with the window open.
Passion was there, but it could not be easily labelled;
it slipped between love and hatred and jealousy and idealism.
She was tragic in one sense only: she was great.
But that some sonatas of Beethoven are written tragical no
one can gainsay; yet they can triumph or despair as
Adele decides, and Adele had decided that they should triumph.
Paraphrases from the novel A Room with a View by E.M. Forster.