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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
53
But
I
wonder
whether
they
will
be
thin-skinned
enough
ever
to
discover
that
other
and
less
delightful
side
of
life
only
seen
by
those
who
have
plenty
of
leisure.
Sordid
cares
may
be
very
terrible
to
the
sensitive,
and
make
them
miss
the
best
of
everything,
but
as
long
as
they
have
them
and
are
busy
from
morning
till
night
keeping
up
appearances,
they
miss
also
the
burden
of
those
fears,
and
dreads,
and
realisations
that
beset
him
who
has
time
to
think.
When
in
the
morning
I
go
into
my
sausage-room
and
give
out
sausages,
I
never
think
of
anything
but
sausages.
My
horizon
is
bounded
by
them,
every
faculty
is
absorbed
by
them,
and
they
engross
me,
while
I
am
with
them,
to
the
exclusion
of
the
whole
world.
Not
that
I
love
them;
as
far
as
that
goes,
unlike
the
effect
they
produce
on
most
of
my
country-men,
they
leave
me
singularly
cold;
but
it
is
one
of
my
duties
to
begin
the
day
with
sausages,
and
every
morning
for
the
short
time
I
am
in
the
midst
of
their
shining
rows,
watching
my
Mamsell
dexterously
hooking
down
the
sleekest
with
an
instrument
like
a
boat-hook,
I
am
practically
dead
to
every
other
consideration
in
heaven
or
on
earth.
What
are
they
to
me,
Love,
Life,
Death,
all
the
mysteries?
The
one
thing
that
concerns
me
is
the
due
distribution
to
the
servants
of
sausages;
and
until
that
is
done,
all
obstinate
questionings
and
blank
misgivings
must
wait.
If
I
were
to
spend
my
days
in
their
entirety
doing
such
work
I
should
never
have
time
to
think,
and
if
I
never
thought
I
should
never
feel,
and
if
I
never
felt
I
should
never
suffer
or
rapturously
enjoy,
and
so
I
should
grow
to
be
something
very
like
a
sausage
myself,
and
not
on
that
account,
I
do
believe,
any
the
less
precious
to
the
Man
of
Wrath.
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