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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
59
It
was
on
the
tip
of
my
tongue
to
point
out
that
in
these
days
of
tree-peonies,
and
peonies
so
lovely
in
their
silvery
faint
tints
that
they
resemble
gigantic
roses,
it
is
absolutely
wicked
to
suffer
those
odious
red
ones
to
pervert
one's
taste;
that
a
person
who
sees
nothing
but
those
every
time
he
looks
out
of
his
window
very
quickly
has
his
nice
perception
for
true
beauty
blunted;
that
such
a
person
would
do
well
to
visit
my
garden
every
day
during
the
month
of
May,
and
so
get
himself
cured
by
the
sight
of
my
peony
bushes
covered
with
huge
scented
white
and
blush
flowers;
and
that
he
would,
I
was
convinced,
at
the
end
of
the
cure,
go
home
and
pitch
his
own
on
to
the
dust-heap.
But
of
what
earthly
use
would
it
have
been?
Pointing
out
the
difference
between
what
is
beautiful
and
what
misses
beauty
to
a
Frau
Inspector
of
forty,
whose
chief
business
it
is
to
make
butter,
is
likely
to
be
singularly
unprolific
of
good
results;
and,
further,
experience
has
taught
me
that
whenever
anything
is
on
the
tip
of
my
tongue
the
best
thing
to
do
is
to
keep
it
there.
I
wonder
why
a
woman
always
wants
to
interfere.
It
is
a
pity,
nevertheless,
that
this
lady
should
be
so
wanting
in
the
aesthetic
instinct,
for
her
garden
is
full
of
possibilities.
It
lies
due
south,
sheltered
on
the
north,
east,
and
west
by
farm
buildings,
and
is
rich
in
those
old
fruit-trees
and
well-seasoned
gooseberry
bushes
that
make
such
a
good
basis
for
the
formation
of
that
most
delightful
type
of
little
garden,
the
flower-and-fruit-and-vegetable-mixed
sort.
She
has,
besides,
an
inestimable
slimy,
froggy
pond,
a
perpetual
treasure
of
malodorous
water,
much
pined
after
by
thirsty
flowers;
and
then
does
she
not
live
in
the
middle
of
a
farmyard
flowing
with
fertilising
properties
that
only
require
a
bucket
and
a
shovel
to
transform
them
into
roses?
The
way
in
which
people
miss
their
opportunities
is
melancholy.
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