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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
216
Some
folk
don't
like
to
walk
over
Bluebells
or
Buttercups
or
other
flowers
growing
on
the
ground.
But
it
is
foolish
to
try
to
pamper
Nature
as
if
she
were
a
sickly
child.
She
is
strong
and
can
stand
it.
You
can
stamp
on
and
crush
a
thousand
flowers--they
will
all
come
up
again
next
year.
By
some
labyrinthine
way
which
I
cannot
now
recall,
the
conversation
worked
round
to
a
leading
question
by
E.--if
in
times
like
these
we
ought
not
to
cease
being
in
love?
She
was
quite
calm
and
serious.
I
said
"No,
of
course
not,
silly."
My
immediate
apprehension
was
that
she
had
perceived
the
coldness
in
my
letters
and
I
was
quite
satisfied
that
she
was
so
well
able
to
read
the
signs
in
the
sky.
"But
you
don't
wish
to
go
on?"
she
persisted.
I
persisted
that
I
did,
that
I
had
no
misgivings,
no
second
thoughts,
that
I
was
not
merely
taking
pity
on
her,
etc.
The
wild
temptation
to
seize
this
opportunity
for
a
break
I
smothered
in
reflecting
how
ill
she
was
and
how
necessary
to
wait
first
till
she
was
well
again.
These
thoughts
passed
swiftly,
vaguely
like
wraiths
thro'
my
mind:
I
was
barely
conscious
of
them.
Then
I
recalled
the
sonnet
about
coming
in
the
rearward
of
a
conquered
woe
and
mused
thereon.
But
I
took
no
action.
[Fortunately--for
me.
1916.]
Presently
with
cunning
I
said
that
there
was
no
cloud
on
my
horizon
whatever--only
her
"letters
disappointed
me
a
little--they
were
so
cold,"
but
"as
soon
as
I
saw
you
again,
darling,
those
feelings
disappeared."
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