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.




CHAPTER XII.



I wish now to speak of the anguish caused by a story that was read to
me. (I seldom read for myself, and in fact I disliked books very much.)

A very disobedient little boy who had run away from his family and his
native land, years later, after the death of his parents and his sister,
returned alone to visit his parental home. This took place in November,
and naturally the author described the dull gray sky and spoke of the
bleak wind that blew the few remaining leaves from the trees.

In a deserted garden, in an arbor stripped of all its green, the
prodigal son in stooping down found among the autumn leaves a bluish
bead that had lain there since the time he had played in the bower with