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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
124
Now
really
it
seems
to
me
that
I
am
a
much-tried
woman,
and
any
peace
I
have
enjoyed
up
to
now
is
amply
compensated
for
by
my
present
torments.
I
believe
even
my
stern
friend
the
missionary
would
be
satisfied
if
he
could
know
how
swiftly
his
prediction
that
sorrow
and
suffering
would
be
sure
to
come,
has
been
fulfilled.
All
day
long
I
am
giving
out
table
linen,
ordering
meals,
supporting
the
feeble
knees
of
servants,
making
appropriate
and
amiable
remarks
to
officers,
presiding
as
gracefully
as
nature
permits
at
meals,
and
trying
to
look
as
though
I
were
happy;
while
out
in
the
garden--oh,
I
know
how
it
is
looking
out
in
the
garden
this
golden
weather,
how
the
placid
hours
are
slipping
by
in
unchanged
peace,
how
strong
the
scent
of
roses
and
ripe
fruit
is,
how
the
sleepy
bees
drone
round
the
flowers,
how
warmly
the
sun
shines
in
that
corner
where
the
little
Spanish
chestnut
is
turning
yellow--the
first
to
turn,
and
never
afterwards
surpassed
in
autumn
beauty;
I
know
how
still
it
is
down
there
in
my
fir
wood,
where
the
insects
hum
undisturbed
in
the
warm,
quiet
air;
I
know
what
the
plain
looks
like
from
the
seat
under
the
oak,
how
beautiful,
with
its
rolling
green
waves
burning
to
gold
under
the
afternoon
sky;
I
know
how
the
hawks
circle
over
it,
and
how
the
larks
sing
above
it,
and
I
edge
as
near
to
the
open
window
as
I
can,
straining
my
ears
to
hear
them,
and
forgetting
the
young
men
who
are
telling
me
of
all
the
races
their
horses
win
as
completely
as
though
they
did
not
exist.
I
want
to
be
out
there
on
that
golden
grass,
and
look
up
into
that
endless
blue,
and
feel
the
ecstasy
of
that
song
through
all
my
being,
and
there
is
a
tearing
at
my
heart
when
I
remember
that
I
cannot.
Yet
they
are
beautiful
young
men;
all
are
touchingly
amiable,
and
many
of
the
older
ones
even
charming--how
is
it,
then,
that
I
so
passionately
prefer
larks?
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