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“Always dissatisfied, my child?”
She does her best to allay my discontent, but
when the spirit of dissension is once aroused,
everything is in vain. She tries to remember
my favourite dishes, but everything goes wrong.
There is nothing I dislike more than calf’s head
with brown butter.
“Here is something nice,” she says to me,
“expressly for you,” and sets calf’s head with
brown butter before me. I understand that it
is an unconscious mistake on her part, but can
only eat with scarcely-concealed repugnance and
simulated appetite.
“You are not eating anything!”
It is too much! Formerly I attributed these
annoyances to feminine malice; now I acquit
everyone and say, “It is the Devil!”
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