could see. She was always
thoughtful, he thought. On
anything she knew about, or
had read, or that she had ever
heard.
It was not her fault that when
he went to her he was already
over. How could a woman
know that you meant nothing
that you said; that you spoke
only from habit and to be
comfortable? After he no
longer meant what he said, his
lies were more successful with
women than when he had told
them the truth.
It was not so much that he lied
as that there was no truth to
tell. He had had his life and it
was over and then he went on
living it again with different
people and more money, with
the best of the same places, and
some new ones.
You kept from thinking and it
was all marvellous. You were
equipped with good insides so
that you did not go to pieces
that way, the way most of them
had, and you made an attitude
that you cared nothing for the
work you used to do, now that
you could no longer do it. But,
in yourself, you said that you
would write about these
people; about the very rich;
that you were really not of
them but a spy in their country;
that you would leave it and
write of it and for once it
would be written by some one
who knew what he was writing
of. But he would never do it,
because each day of not
writing, of comfort, of being
that which he despised, dulled
his ability and softened his will
to work so that, finally, he did
no work at all. The people he
knew now were all much more
comfortable when he did not
work. Africa was where he had
been happiest in the good time
of his life, so he had come out
here to start again. They had
made this safari with the
minimum of comfort. There
was no hardship; but there was
no luxury and he had thought
that he could get back into
training that way. That in some
way he could work the fat off
his soul the way a fighter went
into the mountains to work and
JOY FEELINGS | DECEMBER ISSUE
259