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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
102
I
remember
when
I
was
at
the
age
when
people
began
to
call
me
Backfisch,
and
my
mother
dressed
me
in
a
little
scarlet
coat
with
big
pearl
buttons,
and
my
eyes
turned
down
because
I
was
shy,
and
my
nose
turned
up
because
I
was
impudent,
one
summer
at
the
seaside
with
my
governess
we
noticed
in
our
walks
a
solitary
lady
of
dignified
appearance,
who
spoke
to
no
one,
and
seemed
for
ever
wrapped
in
distant
and
lofty
philosophic
speculations.
"She's
thinking
about
Kant
and
the
nebular
hypothesis,"
I
decided
to
myself,
having
once
heard
some
men
with
long
beards
talking
of
both
those
things,
and
they
all
had
had
that
same
far-away
look
in
their
eyes.
"Qu'est-ce
que
c'est
une
hypothese
nebuleuse,
Mademoiselle?"
I
said
aloud.
"Tenez-vous
bien,
et
marchez
d'une
facon
convenable,"
she
replied
sharply.
"Qu'est-ce
que
c'est
une
hypothese--"
"Vous
etes
trap
jeune
pour
comprendre
ces
choses."
"Oh
alors
vous
ne
savez
pas
vous-meme!"
I
cried
triumphantly,
"Sans
cela
vous
me
diriez."
"Elisabeth,
vous
ecrirez,
des
que
nous
rentrons,
leverbe
Prier
le
bon
Dieu
de
m'Aider
a
ne
plus
Etre
si
Impertinente."
She
was
an
ingenious
young
woman,
and
the
verbs
I
had
to
write
as
punishments
were
of
the
most
elaborate
and
complicated
nature--
Demander
pardon
pour
Avoir
Siffle
comme
un
Gamin
quelconque,
Vouloir
ne
plus
Oublier
de
Nettoyer
mes
Ongles,
Essayer
de
ne
pas
tant
Aimer
les
Poudings,
are
but
a
few
examples
of
her
achievements
in
this
particular
branch
of
discipline.
That
very
day
at
the
table
d'hote
the
abstracted
lady
sat
next
to
me.
A
ragout
of
some
sort
was
handed
round,
and
after
I
had
taken
some
she
asked
me,
before
helping
herself,
what
it
was.
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