August 18, 2025 • 9 mins
In this enchanting memoir, the author takes us on a nostalgic journey through her school days, originally serialized in The Girls Own Paper from October 1896 to September 1897. Filled with heartfelt stories about beloved teachers, cherished friends, and the childhood fears that lingered into adulthood, this account also offers a vibrant depiction of the most memorable summer of her youth. Summary by Cori Samuel.
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Part seven of My School Days by en Esbitt. This
LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part seven Disillusion.
I was sent with a servant from Pow to Banyuay.
She soon dried my tears by reminding me of the
hideous blue and white knitted cuffs which my hot and
(00:23):
rebellious fingers had for weeks been busy in knitting for
my mother, and which I should now be able to
present personally. They were of a size suitable to the
wrist of a man of about eight feet, and the
irregularities at the edge where I had forgotten to slip
the stitch were concealed by stiff little rutchings of blue
satin ribbon. I thought of them with unspeakable pride. We
(00:49):
reached Bannuet after dark, and my passion of joy at
seeing my mother again was heightened by the knowledge that
I had so rich a gift to bestow upon her.
We had late dinner, in itself an event to me,
and then I tasted for the first time the delicious schmand'fen,
a kind of open tart made of almond paste and oranges,
(01:11):
covered with a crisp icing or caramel. I have never
tasted this anywhere else, and though I have tried again
and again to reproduce it in my own kitchen, I
have never obtained even a measure of success. Even to
this delicacy. The thought of those blue and white cuffs
added flavor. After dinner, I slipped away and made hay
(01:34):
of the contents of my box till I found the
precious treasures. I returned solemnly to the room where my
mother was sitting by the bright wood fire with the
wax candles on a polished table. Mamma, I said, we
called our mother's mamma in the sixties. I have made
your present all my very own self, and it's in here.
(01:56):
Whatever can it be? Said my mother, acting an earnest interest.
She undid the paper slowly. Oh what beautiful cuffs, Thank
you dear, And did you make them all your very
own self. My sisters also looked at and praised the cuffs,
and I went happy to bed. When I was lying
(02:19):
between the sheets, I heard one of my sisters laughing
in the next room. She was talking, and I knew
she was speaking of my precious cuffs. They would just
fit a coal heaver. She said, she never knew that
I heard her, but it was years before I forgave
that unconscious outrage to my feelings. Banuey de Bigorre is
(02:43):
built in the midst of mountain streams. Streams cross the roads,
streams run between the houses under the houses. Not quiet,
placid little streams such as meander through our English meadows,
but violent, angry, rushing, boiling, little mountain torrents the thunder
along their rocky beds. Sometimes one of these streams is
(03:07):
spanned by a dark arch and a house built over it.
What good fortune that one of these houses should have
been the one selected by my mother on quite other grounds,
of course. And oh the double good fortune I even
I was the sleep in the little bedroom actually built
on the arch itself that spanned the mountain stream. It
(03:31):
was delightful, It was romantic, It was fascinating. I could
fancy myself a princess in a tower by the rushing
rhine as I heard the four foot torrent go thundering,
along with a noise that would not have disgraced a
full grown river. It had every charm the imagination could desire,
but it kept me awake till the small hours of
(03:53):
the morning. It was humiliating to have to confess that
even romance and a rush torrent did not compensate the
loss of humdrum commonplace sleep. But I accepted that humiliation
and slept no more in the little room overhanging the torrent.
(04:13):
The next day was I confess, tiresome to me, and I,
in consequence, tiresome to other people. The excitement of coming
back to my mother had quickly worn off. My mother
was busy letter writing, so were my sisters. I missed Marguerite, Mimi,
even my lessons. There was something terribly unhomelike about the
(04:37):
polished floor, the polished wooden furniture, the marble topped chest
of drawers with glass handles, and the cold grayness of
the stone built houses outside. I wandered about the swede
of apartments every now and then, rubbing myself like a
kitten against my mother's shoulder and murmuring, I don't know
what to do. I tried drawer, but the pencil was
(05:01):
bad and the paper greasy. I thought of reading, but
there was no book there that I cared for. It
was one of the longest days I ever spent. That evening,
my sister said to me, Daisy would you like to
see a shepherdess, a real live shepherdess. Now I had
(05:21):
read of shepherdess's in my Conte de Fay. I knew
that they wore rose wreathed watto hats, short satin shirts,
and flowered silk overdresses, that spinning was part of their
daily toil, and that they danced in village festivals, generally
at moments when the king's son was riding by to
the hunt. Oh, I should like to see a shepherdess,
(05:43):
I said, But do you mean a real one who
keeps sheep and spins and everything. Oh. Yes, she stands
at her cottage door and spins while she watches her sheep,
and eats a beautiful kind of yellow bread made of
maize that looks and tastes like cake. I dare say
she would give you some if you asked her. The
(06:04):
mention of the shepherdess dissipated my boredom. I climbed on
my sister's knee and begged for a fairy story, and
let it be about shepherdess's, I said, my sister had
a genius for telling fairy stories. If she would only
write them now as she told them all, then all
the children in England would insist on having her fairy
(06:26):
stories and none others. She told me a story that
had a shepherdess in it, and a king's son, of course,
a wicked fairy, a dragon and a coach, and many
other interesting and delightful characters. I went to bed happy
in the knowledge that the fairy world was stooping to earth,
and that the fairy world and this world of ours
(06:47):
would touch to morrow, and touch at the point where
I should behold the Shepherdess. I spent the next morning
happily enough in drawing fancy portraits of the Shepherdess, the
king's son, and the wicked fairy. My sister lent me
her paint and her best sable brush, and life blossomed anew.
(07:08):
Under the influence of a good night's rest. In the afternoon,
we started out to see the Shepherdess over the cobble
stones of the streets among the little mountain torrents. We
picked our way and came at last to green pastures
at the foot of the mountains. The Pyrenee were so
bright in their snow coats touched by the sun, that
(07:30):
our eyes could not bear to look at them. We
shall soon come to the shepherdess, said my sister cheerfully.
You must not expect her to be like the ones
in fairy tales, you know, of course, not said I,
but in my heart I did. We came presently to
a sloping pasture strewn with fragments of rock. There she is,
(07:56):
said my sister, sitting on a stone, spinning with her
sheep round her. I looked, but could see no one
save one old woman, the witch. Probably where I don't
see her, I said. By this time we were close
to the old woman. There's your shepherdess, said my sister
(08:17):
in English. Look at her nice quaint dress and the
spindle and distaff. I looked, but such a sight had
no charms for me. Where was my flowered, silk watta
hatted maiden? Where was her crook with the pink ribbons
on it? And as for the King's son, his horse
could never have ridden up this steep hill side. It
(08:40):
was a disenchanted world where I stood gazing sadly at
a wrinkle faced old woman in a blue woolen petticoat
and coorse linen apron, a gay colored shawl crossed on
her breast, a gay colored handkerchief knotted round her head.
She had wooden shoes, and her crook was a common
wooden one with a bit of iron at the end,
and not a ribbon nor a flower on it. But
(09:04):
she was very kind. She took us up to her
little hut among the rocks, and gave us milk and
maize bread at my sister's request. The maize bread was
like sawdust or a bath bun of the week before last.
But had it been ambrosia, I could not have tasted
a second mouthful. My heart was too full. I came
(09:26):
home in silence. My sister was sad because the little
treat had not pleased me. I did not mean to
be ungrateful. I was only struggling savagely with the misery
of my first disillusion. Like Missus over the way, I
had looked for pink roses and found only Foye Mott
(09:48):
end of Part seven.
Part seven of My School Days by en Esbitt. This
LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part seven Disillusion.
I was sent with a servant from Pow to Banyuay.
She soon dried my tears by reminding me of the
hideous blue and white knitted cuffs which my hot and
(00:23):
rebellious fingers had for weeks been busy in knitting for
my mother, and which I should now be able to
present personally. They were of a size suitable to the
wrist of a man of about eight feet, and the
irregularities at the edge where I had forgotten to slip
the stitch were concealed by stiff little rutchings of blue
satin ribbon. I thought of them with unspeakable pride. We
(00:49):
reached Bannuet after dark, and my passion of joy at
seeing my mother again was heightened by the knowledge that
I had so rich a gift to bestow upon her.
We had late dinner, in itself an event to me,
and then I tasted for the first time the delicious schmand'fen,
a kind of open tart made of almond paste and oranges,
(01:11):
covered with a crisp icing or caramel. I have never
tasted this anywhere else, and though I have tried again
and again to reproduce it in my own kitchen, I
have never obtained even a measure of success. Even to
this delicacy. The thought of those blue and white cuffs
added flavor. After dinner, I slipped away and made hay
(01:34):
of the contents of my box till I found the
precious treasures. I returned solemnly to the room where my
mother was sitting by the bright wood fire with the
wax candles on a polished table. Mamma, I said, we
called our mother's mamma in the sixties. I have made
your present all my very own self, and it's in here.
(01:56):
Whatever can it be? Said my mother, acting an earnest interest.
She undid the paper slowly. Oh what beautiful cuffs, Thank
you dear, And did you make them all your very
own self. My sisters also looked at and praised the cuffs,
and I went happy to bed. When I was lying
(02:19):
between the sheets, I heard one of my sisters laughing
in the next room. She was talking, and I knew
she was speaking of my precious cuffs. They would just
fit a coal heaver. She said, she never knew that
I heard her, but it was years before I forgave
that unconscious outrage to my feelings. Banuey de Bigorre is
(02:43):
built in the midst of mountain streams. Streams cross the roads,
streams run between the houses under the houses. Not quiet,
placid little streams such as meander through our English meadows,
but violent, angry, rushing, boiling, little mountain torrents the thunder
along their rocky beds. Sometimes one of these streams is
(03:07):
spanned by a dark arch and a house built over it.
What good fortune that one of these houses should have
been the one selected by my mother on quite other grounds,
of course. And oh the double good fortune I even
I was the sleep in the little bedroom actually built
on the arch itself that spanned the mountain stream. It
(03:31):
was delightful, It was romantic, It was fascinating. I could
fancy myself a princess in a tower by the rushing
rhine as I heard the four foot torrent go thundering,
along with a noise that would not have disgraced a
full grown river. It had every charm the imagination could desire,
but it kept me awake till the small hours of
(03:53):
the morning. It was humiliating to have to confess that
even romance and a rush torrent did not compensate the
loss of humdrum commonplace sleep. But I accepted that humiliation
and slept no more in the little room overhanging the torrent.
(04:13):
The next day was I confess, tiresome to me, and I,
in consequence, tiresome to other people. The excitement of coming
back to my mother had quickly worn off. My mother
was busy letter writing, so were my sisters. I missed Marguerite, Mimi,
even my lessons. There was something terribly unhomelike about the
(04:37):
polished floor, the polished wooden furniture, the marble topped chest
of drawers with glass handles, and the cold grayness of
the stone built houses outside. I wandered about the swede
of apartments every now and then, rubbing myself like a
kitten against my mother's shoulder and murmuring, I don't know
what to do. I tried drawer, but the pencil was
(05:01):
bad and the paper greasy. I thought of reading, but
there was no book there that I cared for. It
was one of the longest days I ever spent. That evening,
my sister said to me, Daisy would you like to
see a shepherdess, a real live shepherdess. Now I had
(05:21):
read of shepherdess's in my Conte de Fay. I knew
that they wore rose wreathed watto hats, short satin shirts,
and flowered silk overdresses, that spinning was part of their
daily toil, and that they danced in village festivals, generally
at moments when the king's son was riding by to
the hunt. Oh, I should like to see a shepherdess,
(05:43):
I said, But do you mean a real one who
keeps sheep and spins and everything. Oh. Yes, she stands
at her cottage door and spins while she watches her sheep,
and eats a beautiful kind of yellow bread made of
maize that looks and tastes like cake. I dare say
she would give you some if you asked her. The
(06:04):
mention of the shepherdess dissipated my boredom. I climbed on
my sister's knee and begged for a fairy story, and
let it be about shepherdess's, I said, my sister had
a genius for telling fairy stories. If she would only
write them now as she told them all, then all
the children in England would insist on having her fairy
(06:26):
stories and none others. She told me a story that
had a shepherdess in it, and a king's son, of course,
a wicked fairy, a dragon and a coach, and many
other interesting and delightful characters. I went to bed happy
in the knowledge that the fairy world was stooping to earth,
and that the fairy world and this world of ours
(06:47):
would touch to morrow, and touch at the point where
I should behold the Shepherdess. I spent the next morning
happily enough in drawing fancy portraits of the Shepherdess, the
king's son, and the wicked fairy. My sister lent me
her paint and her best sable brush, and life blossomed anew.
(07:08):
Under the influence of a good night's rest. In the afternoon,
we started out to see the Shepherdess over the cobble
stones of the streets among the little mountain torrents. We
picked our way and came at last to green pastures
at the foot of the mountains. The Pyrenee were so
bright in their snow coats touched by the sun, that
(07:30):
our eyes could not bear to look at them. We
shall soon come to the shepherdess, said my sister cheerfully.
You must not expect her to be like the ones
in fairy tales, you know, of course, not said I,
but in my heart I did. We came presently to
a sloping pasture strewn with fragments of rock. There she is,
(07:56):
said my sister, sitting on a stone, spinning with her
sheep round her. I looked, but could see no one
save one old woman, the witch. Probably where I don't
see her, I said. By this time we were close
to the old woman. There's your shepherdess, said my sister
(08:17):
in English. Look at her nice quaint dress and the
spindle and distaff. I looked, but such a sight had
no charms for me. Where was my flowered, silk watta
hatted maiden? Where was her crook with the pink ribbons
on it? And as for the King's son, his horse
could never have ridden up this steep hill side. It
(08:40):
was a disenchanted world where I stood gazing sadly at
a wrinkle faced old woman in a blue woolen petticoat
and coorse linen apron, a gay colored shawl crossed on
her breast, a gay colored handkerchief knotted round her head.
She had wooden shoes, and her crook was a common
wooden one with a bit of iron at the end,
and not a ribbon nor a flower on it. But
(09:04):
she was very kind. She took us up to her
little hut among the rocks, and gave us milk and
maize bread at my sister's request. The maize bread was
like sawdust or a bath bun of the week before last.
But had it been ambrosia, I could not have tasted
a second mouthful. My heart was too full. I came
(09:26):
home in silence. My sister was sad because the little
treat had not pleased me. I did not mean to
be ungrateful. I was only struggling savagely with the misery
of my first disillusion. Like Missus over the way, I
had looked for pink roses and found only Foye Mott
(09:48):
end of Part seven.
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