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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
76
"Oh,
I
can't
move,"
groaned
the
old
woman,
"oh,
oh,
oh!"
But
I
went
away
laughing,
for
I
knew
she
would
appear
punctually
to
fetch
the
grapes,
and
a
walk
in
the
air
was
all
she
needed
to
cure
her.
How
the
whole
village
hates
and
dreads
fresh
air!
A
baby
died
a
few
days
ago,
killed,
I
honestly
believe,
by
the
exceeding
love
of
its
mother,
which
took
the
form
of
cherishing
it
so
tenderly
that
never
once
during
its
little
life
was
a
breath
of
air
allowed
to
come
anywhere
near
it.
She
is
the
watchman's
wife,
a
gentle,
flabby
woman,
with
two
rooms
at
her
disposal,
but
preferring
to
live
and
sleep
with
her
four
children
in
one,
never
going
into
the
other
except
for
the
christenings
and
funerals
which
take
place
in
her
family
with
what
I
cannot
but
regard
as
unnecessary
frequency.
This
baby
was
born
last
September
in
a
time
of
golden
days
and
quiet
skies,
and
when
it
was
about
three
weeks
old
I
suggested
that
she
should
take
it
out
every
day
while
the
fine
weather
lasted.
She
pointed
out
that
it
had
not
yet
been
christened,
and
remembering
that
it
is
the
custom
in
their
class
for
both
mother
and
child
to
remain
shut
up
and
invisible
till
after
the
christening,
I
said
no
more.
Three
weeks
later
I
was
its
godmother,
and
it
was
safely
got
into
the
fold
of
the
Church.
As
I
was
leaving,
I
remarked
that
now
she
would
be
able
to
take
it
out
as
much
as
she
liked.
The
following
March,
on
a
day
that
smelt
of
violets,
I
met
her
near
the
house.
I
asked
after
the
baby,
and
she
began
to
cry.
"It
does
not
thrive,"
she
wept,
"and
its
arms
are
no
thicker
than
my
finger."
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