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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
121
I
looked
up
from
the
book
at
the
quiet
pools
and
the
black
line
of
trees,
above
which
stars
were
beginning
to
twinkle,
my
ears
soothed
by
the
splashing
of
the
mill
stream
and
the
hooting
somewhere
near
of
a
solitary
owl,
and
I
wondered
whether,
if
the
Man
of
Wrath
were
by
my
side,
it
would
be
a
relief
to
my
pleasurable
feelings
to
murmur
"Klopstock,"
and
whether
if
I
did
he
would
immediately
shed
tears
of
joy
over
my
hand.
The
name
is
an
unfortunate
one
as
far
as
music
goes,
and
Goethe's
putting
it
into
his
heroine's
mouth
just
when
she
was
most
enraptured,
seems
to
support
the
view
I
sometimes
adopt
in
discoursing
to
the
Man
of
Wrath
that
he
had
no
sense
of
humour.
But
here
I
am
talking
about
Goethe,
our
great
genius
and
idol,
in
a
way
that
no
woman
should.
What
do
German
women
know
of
such
things?
Quite
untrained
and
uneducated,
how
are
we
to
judge
rightly
about
anybody
or
anything?
All
we
can
do
is
to
jump
at
conclusions,
and,
when
we
have
jumped,
receive
with
meekness
the
information
that
we
have
jumped
wrong.
Sitting
there
long
after
it
was
too
dark
to
read,
I
thought
of
the
old
miller's
words,
and
agreed
with
him
that
the
best
thing
a
woman
can
do
in
this
world
is
to
keep
quiet.
He
came
out
once
and
asked
whether
he
should
bring
a
lamp,
and
seemed
uneasy
at
my
choosing
to
sit
there
in
the
dark.
I
could
see
the
stars
in
the
black
pools,
and
a
line
of
faint
light
far
away
above
the
pines
where
the
sun
had
set.
Every
now
and
then
the
hot
air
from
the
ground
struck
up
in
my
face,
and
afterwards
would
come
a
cooler
breath
from
the
water.
Of
what
use
is
it
to
fight
for
things
and
make
a
noise?
Nature
is
so
clear
in
her
teaching
that
he
who
has
lived
with
her
for
any
time
can
be
in
little
doubt
as
to
the
"better
way."
Keep
quiet
and
say
one's
prayers--certainly
not
merely
the
best,
but
the
only
things
to
do
if
one
would
be
truly
happy;
but,
ashamed
of
asking
when
I
have
received
so
much,
the
only
form
of
prayer
I
would
use
would
be
a
form
of
thanksgiving.
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