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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
97
She
had,
I
remember,
very
pretty
little
white
hands
like
tiny
claws,
and
wore
beautiful
rings,
and
sitting
opposite
her,
and
free
myself
from
any
undue
passion
for
goose,
I
had
leisure
to
watch
the
rapid
way
in
which
she
disposed
of
the
skin,
her
rings
and
the
whiteness
of
her
hands
flashing
up
and
down
as
she
used
her
knife
and
fork
with
the
awful
dexterity
only
seen
in
perfection
in
the
Fatherland.
I
am
afraid
that
as
a
nation
we
think
rather
more
of
our
eating
and
drinking
than
is
reasonable,
and
this
no
doubt
explains
why
so
many
of
us,
by
the
time
we
are
thirty,
have
lost
the
original
classicality
of
our
contour.
Walking
in
the
streets
of
a
town
you
are
almost
sure
to
catch
the
word
essen
in
the
talk
of
the
passers-by;
and
das
Essen,
combined,
of
course,
with
the
drinking
made
necessary
by
its
exaggerated
indulgence,
constitutes
the
chief
happiness
of
the
middle
and
lower
classes.
Any
story-book
or
novel
you
take
up
is
full
of
feeling
descriptions
of
what
everybody
ate
and
drank,
and
there
are
a
great
many
more
meals
than
kisses;
so
that
the
novel-reader
who
expects
a
love-tale,
finds
with
disgust
that
he
is
put
off
with
menus.
The
upper
classes
have
so
many
other
amusements
that
das
Essen
ceases
to
be
one,
and
they
are
as
thin
as
all
the
rest
of
the
world;
but
if
the
curious
wish
to
see
how
very
largely
it
fills
the
lives,
or
that
part
of
their
lives
that
they
reserve
for
pleasure,
of
the
middle
classes,
it
is
a
good
plan
to
go
to
seaside
places
during
the
months
of
July
and
August,
when
the
schools
close,
and
the
bourgeoisie
realises
the
dream
in
which
it
has
been
indulging
the
whole
year,
of
hotel
life
with
a
tremendous
dinner
every
day
at
one
o'clock.
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