My mother called me Mally veen (Mary dear) and out of love of her only child she must have weaned me late, for I have vague memories of her soft white breasts filled with milk.  I slept in a little wickerwork cot placed near her bed, so that she could reach me if I uncovered myself in the night.  She used to say I was like a bird, having something birdlike in my small dark head and the way I held it up.  Certainly I remember myself as a swift little thing, always darting to and fro on tiptoe, and chirping about our chill and rather cheerless house.

If I was like a bird my mother was like a flower.  Her head, which was small and fair, and her face, which was nearly always tinged with colour, drooped forward from her delicate body like a rose from its stalk.  She was generally dressed in black, I remember, but she wore a white lace collar as well as a coif such as we see in old pictures, and when I call her back to my mind, with her large liquid eyes and her sweet soft mouth, I think it cannot be my affection alone, or the magic of my childish memory, which makes me think, after all these years and all the countries I have travelled in, and all the women I have seen, that my darling mother, though so little known and so little loved, was the most beautiful woman in the world.

Even yet I cannot but wonder that other people, my father especially, did not see her with my eyes.  I think he was fond of her after his own fashion, but there was a kind of involuntary contempt in his affection, which could not conceal itself from my quick little eyes.  She was visibly afraid of him, and was always nervous and timid when he came into our room with his customary salutation,

“How now, Isabel?  And how’s this child of yours?”

From my earliest childhood I noticed that he always spoke of me as if I had been my mother’s child, not his, and perhaps this affected my feeling for him from the first.

I was in terror of his loud voice and rough manner, the big bearded man with the iron grey head and the smell of the fresh air about his thick serge clothes.  It was almost as if I had conceived this fear before my birth, and had brought it out of the tremulous silence of my mother’s womb.

My earliest recollections are of his muffled shout from the room below, “Keep your child quiet, will you?” when I was disturbing him over his papers by leaping and skipping about the floor.  If he came upstairs when I was in bed I would dive under the bedclothes, as a duck dives under water, and only come to the surface when he was gone.  I am sure I never kissed my father or climbed on to his knee, and that during his short visits to our room I used to hold my breath and hide my head behind my mother’s gown.

I think my mother must have suffered both from my fear of my father and from my father’s indifference to me, for she made many efforts to reconcile him to my existence.  Some of her innocent schemes, as I recall them now, seem very sweet but very pitiful.  She took pride, for instance, in my hair, which was jet black even when I was a child, and she used to part it in the middle and brush it smooth over my forehead in the manner of the Madonna, and one day, when my father was with us, she drew me forward and said: