The Journal of a Disappointed Man

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.