The Solitary Summer

The Solitary Summer

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Title: The Solitary Summer
Author: Elizabeth von Arnim
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The Solitary Summer
by Elizabeth von Arnim
To the man of wrath With some apologies and much love

May
May 2nd.--Last night after dinner, when we were in the garden, I said,
"I want to be alone for a whole summer, and get to the very dregs of
life. I want to be as idle as I can, so that my soul may have time to grow.
Nobody shall be invited to stay with me, and if any one calls they will
be told that I am out, or away, or sick. I shall spend the months in the
garden, and on the plain, and in the forests. I shall watch the things that
happen in my garden, and see where I have made mistakes. On wet
days I will go into the thickest parts of the forests, where the pine
needles are everlastingly dry, and when the sun shines I'll lie on the
heath and see how the broom flares against the clouds. I shall be
perpetually happy, because there will be no one to worry me. Out there
on the plain there is silence, and where there is silence I have
discovered there is peace."
"Mind you do not get your feet damp," said the Man of Wrath,
removing his cigar.
It was the evening of May Day, and the spring had taken hold of me
body and soul. The sky was full of stars, and the garden of scents, and
the borders of wallflowers and sweet, sly pansies. All day there had
been a breeze, and all day slow masses of white clouds had been sailing
across the blue. Now it was so still, so motionless, so breathless, that it
seemed as though a quiet hand had been laid on the garden, soothing
and hushing it into silence.
The Man of Wrath sat at the foot of the verandah steps in that placid

after-dinner mood which suffers fools, if not gladly, at least indulgently,
and I stood in front of him, leaning against the sun-dial.
"Shall you take a book with you?" he asked.
"Yes, I shall," I replied, slightly nettled by his tone. "I am quite ready to
admit that though the fields and flowers are always ready to teach, I am
not always in the mood to learn, and sometimes my eyes are incapable
of seeing things that at other times are quite plain."
"And then you read?"
"And then I read. Well, dear Sage, what of that?"
But he smoked in silence, and seemed suddenly absorbed by the stars.
"See," he said, after a pause, during which I stood looking at him and
wishing he would use longer sentences, and he looked at the sky and
did not think about me at all, "see how bright the stars are to-night.
Almost as though it might freeze."
"It isn't going to freeze, and I won't look at anything until you have told
me what you think of my idea. Wouldn't a whole lovely summer, quite
alone, be delightful? Wouldn't it be perfect to get up every morning for
weeks and feel that you belong to yourself and to nobody else?" And I
went over to him and put a hand on each shoulder and gave him a little
shake, for he persisted in gazing at the stars just as though I had not
been there. "Please, Man of Wrath, say something long for once," I
entreated; "you haven't said a good