Internally he was saying that the man was a liar who
might always be trusted to lie, but he knew with shamed fury that
the lies were doing something to his soul--rolling dark vapours over
it--stinging him, dragging away props, and making him feel they had been
foolish things to lean on. This can always be done with a man in love
who has slight foundation for hope. For some mysterious and occult
reason civilisation has elected to treat the strange and great passion
as if it were an unholy and indecent thing, whose dominion over him
proper social training prevents any man from admitting openly. In
passing through its cruelest phases he must bear himself as if he were
immune, and this being the custom, he may be called upon to endure much
without the relief of striking out with manly blows. An enemy guessing
his case and possessing the infernal gift whose joy is to dishearten and
do hurt with courteous despitefulness, may plant a poisoned arrow here
and there with neatness and fine touch, while his bound victim can, with
decency, neither start, nor utter brave howls, nor guard himself, but
must sit still and listen, hospitably supplying smoke and drink and
being careful not to make an ass of himself.
Pages:
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694