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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
69
The
size
and
plumpness
of
her
feather
beds,
the
Frau
Inspector
tells
me,
is
a
woman's
chief
claim
to
consideration
from
the
neighbours.
She
who
can
pile
them
up
nearest
to
the
ceiling
becomes
the
principal
personage
in
the
community,
and
a
flat
bed
is
a
social
disgrace.
It
is
a
mystery
to
me,
when
I
see
the
narrowness
of
the
bedsteads,
how
so
many
people
can
sleep
in
them.
They
are
rather
narrower
than
what
are
known
as
single
beds,
yet
father
and
mother
and
often
a
baby
manage
to
sleep
very
well
in
one,
and
three
or
four
children
in
the
opposite
corner
of
the
room
in
another.
The
explanation
no
doubt
is
that
they
do
not
know
what
nerves
are,
and
what
it
is
to
be
wakened
by
the
slightest
sound
or
movement
in
the
room
and
lie
for
hours
afterwards,
often
the
whole
night,
totally
unable
to
fall
asleep
again,
staring
out
into
the
darkness
with
eyes
that
refuse
to
shut.
No
nerves,
and
a
thick
skin--what
inestimable
blessings
to
these
poor
people!
And
they
never
heard
of
either.
I
stood
a
little
while
talking,
not
asked
to
sit
down,
for
that
would
be
thought
a
liberty,
and
hearing
how
they
had
had
potatoes
and
bacon
for
dinner,
and
how
the
eldest
girl
Bertha
was
going
to
be
married
at
Michaelmas,
and
how
well
her
baby
was
getting
through
its
teething.
"Her
baby?"
I
echoed,
"I
have
not
heard
of
a
baby?"
The
woman
went
to
one
of
the
beds
and
lifted
up
a
corner
of
the
great
bag
of
feathers,
and
there,
sure
enough,
lay
a
round
and
placid
baby,
sleeping
as
sweetly
and
looking
as
cherubic
as
the
most
legitimate
of
its
contemporaries.
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