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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
4
It
often
amuses
me
to
reflect
how
very
little
the
Man
of
Wrath
really
knows
me.
Here
we
have
been
three
years
buried
in
the
country,
and
I
as
happy
as
a
bird
the
whole
time.
I
say
as
a
bird,
because
other
people
have
used
the
simile
to
describe
absolute
cheerfulness,
although
I
do
not
believe
birds
are
any
happier
than
any
one
else,
and
they
quarrel
disgracefully.
I
have
been
as
happy
then,
we
will
say,
as
the
best
of
birds,
and
have
had
seasons
of
solitude
at
intervals
before
now
during
which
dull
is
the
last
word
to
describe
my
state
of
mind.
Everybody,
it
is
true,
would
not
like
it,
and
I
had
some
visitors
here
a
fortnight
ago
who
left
after
staying
about
a
week
and
clearly
not
enjoying
themselves.
They
found
it
dull,
I
know,
but
that
of
course
was
their
own
fault;
how
can
you
make
a
person
happy
against
his
will?
You
can
knock
a
great
deal
into
him
in
the
way
of
learning
and
what
the
schools
call
extras,
but
if
you
try
for
ever
you
will
not
knock
any
happiness
into
a
being
who
has
not
got
it
in
him
to
be
happy.
The
only
result
probably
would
be
that
you
knock
your
own
out
of
yourself.
Obviously
happiness
must
come
from
within,
and
not
from
without;
and
judging
from
my
past
experience
and
my
present
sensations,
I
should
say
that
I
have
a
store
just
now
within
me
more
than
sufficient
to
fill
five
quiet
months.
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