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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
217
As
soon
as
they
were
spoken
I
knew
they
were
not
as
they
might
seem,
the
words
of
a
liar
and
hypocrite.
They
became
true.
E----
looked
very
sweet
and
helpless
and
I
loved
her
again
as
much
as
ever.
"It's
funny,"
she
said,
"but
I
thought
your
letters
were
cold.
Letters
are
so
horrid."
The
incident
shews
how
impossible
is
intellectual
honesty
between
lovers.
Truth
is
at
times
a
hound
which
must
to
kennel.
"Write
as
you
would
speak,"
said
I.
"You
know
I'm
not
one
to
carp
about
a
spelling
mistake!"
The
latter
remark
astonished
me.
Was
it
indeed
I
who
was
speaking?
All
the
week
I
had
been
fuming
over
this.
Yet
I
was
honest:
the
Sun
and
E.'s
presence
were
dispelling
my
ill-humours
and
crochets.
We
sealed
our
conversation
with
a
kiss
and
swore
never
to
doubt
each
other
again.
E.'s
spell
was
beginning
to
act.
It
is
always
the
same.
I
cannot
resist
the
actual
presence
of
this
woman.
Out
of
her
sight,
I
can
in
cold
blood
plan
a
brutal
rupture.
I
can
pay
her
a
visit
when
the
first
kiss
is
a
duty
and
the
embrace
a
formality.
But
after
5
minutes
I
am
as
passionate
and
devoted
as
before.
It
is
always
thus.
After
leaving
her,
I
am
angry
to
think
that
once
more
I
have
succumbed.
In
the
evening
we
went
out
into
a
field
and
sat
together
in
the
grass.
It
is
beautiful.
We
lay
flat
on
our
backs
and
gazed
up
at
the
sky.
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