Gaspard was a little crop-eared dog who was saved from absolute
homeliness by the vivacious and kindly expression of his eyes. I do not
now recall how he came to domesticate himself with us, but I do know
that I loved him very tenderly.
One winter afternoon, when he and I were out for a walk, he ran away
from me. I consoled myself, however, by saying that he would certainly
return to the house alone, and I went home in a happy frame of mind. But
when night came and he was still absent I grew very heavy of heart.
My parents had at dinner that evening an accomplished violinist and they
had given me permission to remain up later than usual so that I might
hear him. The first sweep of his bow which preluded I know not what slow
and desolate movement, sounded to me like an invocation to those dark
woodland paths in which, in the deeps of night, one feels that he is
lost and abandoned; as the musician played I had a vision of Gaspard
mistaking his way at the cross-roads because of the rain, and I saw him
take an unfamiliar path that led forever away from friends and home.
Then my tears began to flow, but no one perceived them; and as I wept
the violin continued to fill the silence with its sad wailing, and it
seemed to get a response from bottomless abysses inhabited by phantoms
to which I could give neither a form nor name.
That was my introduction to reverie awaking music, and years passed
before I again experienced such sensations, for the little piano pieces
that I began to play for myself soon after this (in a remarkable way for
a child of my age they said) sounded to me only like sweet, rhythmical
noise.