Sunshine and a garden path . . . flowers . . . the face and neck and bosom of the nurse upon whose heart I lay, and her voice telling me that she must leave me, that we must part, and immediately after anguish--blotting out the sunshine, the flowers, the face, the voice. This is my first recollection of Life--the pain of love. I was two years old.
Nothing more for two years--and then the picture of a pond and my baby brother floating on it, whilst with agonised hands I seized his small white coat and held him fast. And then a meadow full of long, deep grass and summer flowers, and I--industriously picking buttercups into a tiny petticoat to take to cook, "to make the butter with," I said.
And then a table spread for tea. Our nurses, my two brothers, and myself. Angry words and screaming baby voices, a knife thrown by my little brother. Rage and hate. And then a wedding, and I a bridesmaid, aged five years--the church, the altar, and great awe, and afterwards a long white table, white flowers, and a white Bride. Grown men on either side of me--smilingly delightful, tempting me with sweets and cakes and wine, and a new strange interest rising in me like a little flood of exultation--the joy of the world, and the first faint breath of the mystery of sex.
