“Nature has gone to her rest, love,
See, we are alone.
Give me your hand to press, love,
Lightly within my own.”
Sections VI & VII of PRELUDE
“She did not believe that she would ever not get lost in this garden.”
I may overuse the word ‘rhapsody’, but this novella is an apotheosis of rhapsody. Even rapture. Family in past days, its social mœurs, its blessings and small mercies. A descriptive delight in flowers and Proustian memories. A buttonhole of Siamese twin cherries. With the counterpoint of someone singing the above song…