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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
95
When
I
drive
to
the
lupins
and
see
them
all
spread
out
as
far
as
eye
can
reach
in
perfect
beauty
of
colour
and
scent
and
bathed
in
the
mild
August
sunshine,
I
feel
I
must
send
for
somebody
to
come
and
look
at
them
with
me,
and
talk
about
them
to
me,
and
share
in
the
pleasure;
and
when
I
run
over
the
list
of
my
friends
and
try
to
find
one
who
would
enjoy
them,
I
am
frightened
once
more
at
the
solitariness
in
which
we
each
of
us
live.
I
have,
it
is
true,
a
great
many
friends--
people
with
whom
it
is
pleasant
to
spend
an
afternoon
if
such
afternoons
are
not
repeated
often,
and
if
you
are
careful
not
to
stir
more
than
the
surface
of
things,
but
among
them
all
there
is
only
one
who
has,
roughly,
the
same
tastes
that
I
have;
and
even
her
sympathies
have
limitations,
and
she
declares
for
instance
with
emphasis
that
she
would
not
at
all
like
to
be
a
goose-girl.
I
wonder
why.
Our
friendship
nearly
came
to
an
end
over
the
goose-girl,
so
unexpectedly
inflaming
did
the
subject
turn
out
to
be.
Of
all
professions,
if
I
had
liberty
of
choice,
I
would
choose
to
be
a
gardener,
and
if
nobody
would
have
me
in
that
capacity
I
would
like
to
be
a
goose-girl,
and
sit
in
the
greenest
of
fields
minding
those
delightfully
plump,
placid
geese,
whiter
and
more
leisurely
than
the
clouds
on
a
calm
summer
morning,
their
very
waddle
in
its
lazy
deliberation
soothing
and
salutary
to
a
fretted
spirit
that
has
been
too
long
on
the
stretch.
The
fields
geese
feed
in
are
so
specially
charming,
so
green
and
low-lying,
with
little
clumps
of
trees
and
bushes,
and
a
pond
or
boggy
bit
of
ground
somewhere
near,
and
a
profusion
of
those
delicate
field
flowers
that
look
so
lovely
growing
and
are
so
unsatisfactory
and
fade
so
quickly
if
you
try
to
arrange
them
in
your
rooms.
For
six
months
of
the
year
I
would
be
happier
than
any
queen
I
ever
heard
of,
minding
the
fat
white
things.
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