By Karen Blixen
With the mysterious arrival of Babette, a refugee from France's civil conflict, lifestyles for 2 pious sisters and their tiny hamlet starts off to alter. prior to lengthy, Babette has confident them to attempt whatever except boiled codfish and ale bread: a connoisseur French meal. Her banquet scandalizes the elders, apart from the traveling normal. simply who's this surprisingly gifted Babette, who has terrified this pious city with the possibility of wasting their souls for playing an excessive amount of earthly excitement?
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Additional resources for Babette’s Feast
I suppose innocence is a precarious bliss. On the other hand, if one’s mind is like a dead mole’s belly, it is wise, I think, to examine it closely but not too often, and to repeat that confirmation for one’s self every morning and evening. As a young child I had been, of course, as naturally religious as a savage or an angel. But even then, I think, I never could quite believe that Paradise was a mere Fenne-land. ’ I held down my limp, coral-coloured arithmetic. ‘Yes,’ said she. I wondered awhile, losing myself, as if in wanderings like Ariel’s, between the clouds.
Apart from these, one or two old country friends and distant relatives, I believe, attended his funeral, but none even of them can have been profoundly interested in the Hop, the Oyster, or the Cherry, at least in the abstract. Dr. Grose, owing to ill-health, had given up his practice and was gone abroad. But though possibly inquiry was made after the small creature that had been left behind, I stubbornly shut myself away in my room under the roof, listening in a fever of apprehension to every sinister movement in the house beneath.
But it was my soul, if that is brother to the spirit and can be neighbour to pride, that revolted against her proposition. I had to shut my eyes at the very remembrance of Miss Fenne’s prim and musty drawing-room. Every intimation, every jerk of her trembling head, every pounce of her jewelled fingers only hardened my heart. Poor Miss Fenne. Her resentment at my refusal seemed to increase her shortness of sight. Looking in on her from my balcony, I had the advantage of her, as she faced me in the full light in her chair, dressed up in her old lady’s clothes like a kind of human Alp among my pygmy belongings.
Babette’s Feast by Karen Blixen