Oh magic mirror of memory, so much is reflected in thee! Beloved images
pass by with a kind of glimmer.
There were the flowers, which they themselves looked after. There was
one flower-bed which they cared for with especial tenderness. There was
the fresh, intoxicating evening aroma of gilliflower. There was the
cluster of jasmine, dewy at dawn, so sweetly and so gently fragrant,
that one wished to weep in its presence, as the grass weeps its tears
of dew at golden dawn.
Then there was the open space in the garden, and the giant-stride in
the centre. What gigantic steps they took! How fast and how high she
flew round with Boris!
How glorious were the feast-days to the childish hearts. There was
Christmas Eve, with its tree, and candles upon the green branches, with
all the many-coloured glitter of golden nuts, red, green and blue
trimmings, snow-white foils of cotton-wool, offerings which gladdened
with their unexpectedness. Then in the daytime there is real snow,
glittering like salt, and crunching under one’s feet; the frost pinches
the cheeks, the sun is shining, their mittens are of the softest down,
their hats are white and soft, the sleds are flying down hillocks—oh,
what joy!
And now Easter is here. What a solemn night! Then the joyous chanting
of matins. The candle flames are everywhere, there seems to be no end
to them. There is a smell of Easter cakes. There are Easter eggs
painted in all colours. Every one is kissing each other. Every one is
happy.
“_Christoss Voskress!_”
“_Voistinu Voskress!_”
But the dear dead do not stir.
No. The beloved memories do not break the continuity of the circle, the
resurrection of the others—the fearsome, tragic memories. Inevitably
the vision leads on to the last terrible moments.