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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
21
Imagine
carrying
him
off
in
company
with
his
great
friend
to
a
lonely
dell
in
a
rye-field,
and
expecting
them
to
be
entertaining.
"Nay,
my
dear
lady,"
the
great
man
would
say
in
mighty
tones
of
rebuke,
"this
will
never
do.
Lie
in
a
rye-field?
What
folly
is
that?
And
who
would
converse
in
a
damp
hollow
that
can
help
it?"
So
I
read
and
laugh
over
my
Boswell
in
the
library
when
the
lamps
are
lit,
buried
in
cushions
and
surrounded
by
every
sign
of
civilisation,
with
the
drawn
curtains
shutting
out
the
garden
and
the
country
solitude
so
much
disliked
by
both
sage
and
disciple.
Indeed,
it
is
Bozzy
who
asserts
that
in
the
country
the
only
things
that
make
one
happy
are
meals.
"I
was
happy,"
he
says,
when
stranded
at
a
place
called
Corrichatachin
in
the
Island
of
Skye,
and
unable
to
get
out
of
it
because
of
the
rain,--"I
was
happy
when
tea
came.
Such
I
take
it
is
the
state
of
those
who
live
in
the
country.
Meals
are
wished
for
from
the
cravings
of
vacuity
of
mind,
as
well
as
from
the
desire
of
eating."
And
such
is
the
perverseness
of
human
nature
that
Boswell's
wisdom
delights
me
even
more
than
Johnson's,
though
I
love
them
both
very
heartily.
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