It is only briefly in the andante of the Second Quartet that I remember having translated, almost involuntarily, the far-off memory of a peal of bells that evening, at Montgauzy, coming from a village called Cadirac as the wind blew in from the west. Upon this ringing a vague daydream grew which, as in all vague daydreams, would be inexpressible in literary terms. Only isn’t it always that an exterior event numbs us like that in a train of thought that is so imprecise that in reality it isn’t thought at all, and yet it is something in which we bask? The desire for nonexistent things, perhaps; and it is here indeed that music holds sway.