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Schreiner, Olive, 1855-1920

"The Story of an African Farm, a novel"

Can you form an idea,
Waldo, of what it must be to be shut up with cackling old women, who are
without knowledge of life, without love of the beautiful, without strength,
to have your soul cultured by them? It is suffocation only to breathe the
air they breathe; but I made them give me room. I told them I should
leave, and they knew I came there on my own account; so they gave me a
bedroom without the companionship of one of those things that were having
their brains slowly diluted and squeezed out of them. I did not learn
music, because I had no talent; and when the drove made cushions, and
hideous flowers that the roses laugh at, and a footstool in six weeks that
a machine would have made better in five minutes, I went to my room. With
the money saved from such work I bought books and newspapers, and at night
I sat up. I read, and epitomized what I read; and I found time to write
some plays, and find out how hard it is to make your thoughts look anything
but imbecile fools when you paint them with ink and paper. In the holidays
I learnt a great deal more. I made acquaintances, saw a few places and
many people, and some different ways of living, which is more than any
books can show one. On the whole, I am not dissatisfied with my four
years. I have not learnt what I expected; but I have learnt something
else.


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