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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
109
There
are
no
bedrooms
on
that
side
of
the
house,
only
the
Man
of
Wrath's
and
my
day-rooms,
so
that
servants
cannot
see
me
as
I
stand
there
enjoying
myself.
If
they
did
or
could,
I
should
simply
never
go
there,
for
nothing
is
so
utterly
destructive
to
meditation
as
to
know
that
probably
somebody
inquisitive
is
eyeing
you
from
behind
a
curtain.
The
loveliest
garden
I
know
is
spoilt
to
my
thinking
by
the
impossibility
of
getting
out
of
sight
of
the
house,
which
stares
down
at
you,
Argus-eyed
and
unblinking,
into
whatever
corner
you
may
shuffle.
Perfect
house
and
perfect
garden,
lying
in
that
land
of
lovely
gardens,
England,
the
garden
just
the
right
size
for
perfection,
not
a
weed
ever
admitted,
every
dandelion
and
daisy--those
friends
of
the
unaspiring--
routed
out
years
ago,
the
borders
exquisite
examples
of
taste,
the
turf
so
faultless
that
you
hardly
like
to
walk
on
it
for
fear
of
making
it
dusty,
and
the
whole
quite
uninhabitable
for
people
of
my
solitary
tendencies
because,
go
where
you
will,
you
are
overlooked.
Since
I
have
lived
in
this
big
straggling
place,
full
of
paths
and
copses
where
I
am
sure
of
being
left
alone,
with
wide
fields
and
heath
and
forests
beyond,
and
so
much
room
to
move
and
breathe
in,
I
feel
choked,
oppressed,
suffocated,
in
anything
small
and
perfect.
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