They
were really disputing about Helen's character, and Terence was trying to
explain why it was that she annoyed him so much sometimes. But St. John
thought that they were saying things which they did not want him to
hear, and was led to think of his own isolation. These people were
happy, and in some ways he despised them for being made happy so simply,
and in other ways he envied them. He was much more remarkable than they
were, but he was not happy. People never liked him; he doubted sometimes
whether even Helen liked him. To be simple, to be able to say simply
what one felt, without the terrific self-consciousness which possessed
him, and showed him his own face and words perpetually in a mirror, that
would be worth almost any other gift, for it made one happy. Happiness,
happiness, what was happiness? He was never happy. He saw too clearly
the little vices and deceits and flaws of life, and, seeing them, it
seemed to him honest to take notice of them. That was the reason, no
doubt, why people generally disliked him, and complained that he was
heartless and bitter. Certainly they never told him the things he wanted
to be told, that he was nice and kind, and that they liked him. But it
was true that half the sharp things that he said about them were said
because he was unhappy or hurt himself. But he admitted that he had
very seldom told any one that he cared for them, and when he had been
demonstrative, he had generally regretted it afterwards.
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