In the first main avenue of the King's Gardens I
had paced up and down, in my hand the thin exercise-book, folded over in
the middle,--the first book of writing I had ever seen,--and had already
spelt out the title, "Little Red Riding-Hood." The story was certainly
not very long; still, it filled several of the narrow pages, and it was
exciting to spell out the subject, for it was new to me. In triumphant
delight at having conquered some difficulties and being on the verge of
conquering others, I kept stopping in front of a strange nurse-girl,
showed her the book, and asked: "Can you read writing?"
Twenty-three years later I paced up and down the same avenue as a young
man, once more with a book of manuscript, that I was reading, in my
hand. I was fixing my first lecture in my mind, and I repeated it over
and over again to myself until I knew it almost by heart, only to
discover, to my disquiet, a few minutes later, that I had forgotten the
whole, and that was bad enough; for what I wished to say in my lecture
were things that I had very much at heart.
The King's Garden continued to occupy its place in my life. Later on,
for so many years, when Spring and Summer passed by and I was tied to
the town, and pined for trees and the scent of flowers, I used to go to
the park, cross it obliquely to the beds near the beautiful copper
beeches, by the entrance from the ramparts, where there were always
flowers, well cared for and sweet scented.
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