There is not a great deal that is gentle in my nature, but occasionally it gets the upper hand. Not that I resent it. I simply do not know how to deal with it. Friends, such as I have, have told me to let it take its course, that I am a better man than I allow myself to be. But I dare not give way to whatever kindness is within me, for the virtue destroys my defences. In truth, I do not like myself very much. That, too, is a defence I suppose, for it makes pointless any attack you may wish to make on me. You are right. I am rotten, and deserve no one’s concern, and if at any time I should be repentant of my behaviour, I beg you to ignore it. Remorse would be a lapse in me, as much as kindness. I hope we are now on the old footing again, and I can go back to my sorry tale. On Thursday, the day of the funeral, it was raining. As a child, holding my mother’s hand, and seeing a funeral in the rain, she would tell me that the world was weeping for the one who had died. So that when a cortège passed under a blazing sun, it was a devil going to his own, and the world was smiling.
