As the years slipped by, my daughter passed into the teen-age vale, developing a youthful proficiency on the piano. My goal was that she and I would one day perform together. I also wanted to perform in public with and for my peers, and to be secretly envied.I continue to play, to perform, but it is not the same. Fantasy, it turns out, is debased in the attainment. Before, when I heard a cello, it was all beauty and light. Now, as the TV camera pushes in close to Rostropovich's face, I recognize that charismatic grin as a mask of fierce determination. Even for him, the cello is an intractable instrument, unforgiving of ambition. I picked up my cello, screw tight the hairs of the bow and soar once more into Belle Nuit, the vibrato still wobbling like an unbalanced tire. As good as I wanted to be, I am as good as I'm going to get. It is good enough.
时间一年年地过去，我女儿已是十几岁的少女，成长为熟练的青年钢琴手。我的目标是有朝一天能和女儿一起演奏。我还向往能同像我一样的音乐爱好者们在公共场所演奏，而且有人在暗中羡慕我。我继续练琴、演奏，但情形和从前大不一样了。结果是，幻想在实现后魅力大减。从前我听到大提琴，觉得那声音是美丽和光彩的组合。现在，电视镜头放出罗斯特罗波维奇的面部特写时，我发现他那充满魅力的笑脸其实是坚定决心的面具。即使对他来说，大提琴也是难以驾驭的乐器——它对雄心万丈的人也一样铁面无情。我拿起我的大提琴，拧紧弓毛，再一次悠扬地奏起《夜色美丽》，颤音仍然颤抖如同不平衡的轮胎。以前我想拉一手好琴，现在我已做到了，我和我想的一样好。这就已经够了。
