The smallest details of that departure, upon which my memory has dwelt so much, vainly seeking something to mitigate its bitterness, stand out before me with a distinctness which time has never blurred. Every one was more or less impatient, the horses because of the flies that tormented them, the coachman out of compassion for his cattle, grandfather and Jamie in their haste to enjoy the pleasures of the journey, Louise and Nicola in their sadness over going away, Aunt Deen because she dreaded the tumult of her feelings, and I, to get rid of the uneasiness that was overcoming me. Mother was trying to keep calm. Father alone did so, naturally. When my turn came to get in, last of all, he seemed to hesitate for a brief moment as if he would have detained me, spoken to me. I do not precisely know what it was that showed me this, but I am sure of it. And once in my seat I felt an unreasoning desire to get out again. Was it an instinctive longing for reconciliation? How I long to feel sure that it was! But the feeling was too vague for me to be sure of it now. Taking my place on the same seat with grandfather, I gave expression to my inward feeling by an act of ill humour, seizing hold of the violin case, which chafed my knees, and laying it roughly in the bottom of the carriage. “Be careful! It’s delicate,” observed grandfather protestingly. I can still see the vibrating light in the air, and the shining of the road in the sunlight. “All right?” asked the coachman, clambering to his seat. “Forward!” ordered father. And mother added the prayer that she always uttered at each parting. “God be with you!” Our heavy vehicle was already in motion, and these were the last words that we heard. _Forward_, and _God be with you_; they mingle, become one, always accompany one another in my memory, and whenever to this day I set out upon a journey, it seems to me that I hear them. At the turn of the road, down below the entrance gate, I saw the three figures standing out in the glaring day, Aunt Deen somewhat massive; my mother’s, more delicate, and the tall, proud figure of my father, lifting up his head. Why did I not call out? The one word, “Father!” would have pleased him, and he would have understood. His figure revealed such force, so rich a vitality, so dominant an authority, that it was of course of no use to humiliate oneself to give him satisfaction. I should always have time enough if I wanted to do so,--later, later. Grandfather was fumbling about my legs to rescue his violin case and I had to help him. We passed under the chestnut tree that had overshadowed--just one moment--the departing Nazzarena, Nazzarena laughing and showing her teeth. And the house was lost behind us.