Graham Greene: The Heart

‘I’ve known it for years. You don’t love me.’ She spoke with calm. He knew that calm—it meant they had reached the quiet centre of the storm: always in this region at about this time they began to speak the truth at each other. The truth, he thought, has never been of any real value to any human being—it is a symbol for mathematicians and philosophers to pursue. In human relations kindness and ties are worth a thousand truths. He involved himself in what he always knew was a vain struggle to retain the lies. ‘Don’t be absurd, darling. Who do you think I love if I don’t love you?’ ‘You don’t love anybody.’ ‘Is that why I treat you so badly?’ He tried to hit a light note, and it sounded hollowly back at him. ‘That’s your conscience,’ she said, ‘your sense of duty. You’ve never loved anyone since Catherine died.’ ‘Except myself, of course. You always say I love myself.’ ‘No, I don’t think you do.’ He defended himself by evasions. In this cyclonic centre he was powerless to give the comforting lie, ‘I try all the time to keep you happy. I work hard for that.’ ‘Ticki, you won’t even say you love me. Go on. Say it once.’ He eyed her bitterly over the pink gin, the visible sign of his failure: the skin a little yellow with atabrine, the eyes bloodshot with tears. No man could guarantee love for ever, but he had sworn fourteen years ago, at Ealing, silently, during the horrible little elegant ceremony among the lace and candles, that he would at least always see to it that she was happy. ‘Ticki, I’ve got nothing except you, and you’ve got—nearly everything.’ The lizard flicked across the wall and came to rest again, the wings of a moth in his small crocodile jaws. The ants struck tiny muffled blows at the electric globe. ‘And yet you want to go away from me,’ he said. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I know you aren’t happy either. Without me you’ll have peace.’