"October 27th: Yes, this isolation cannot last. No link of thought unites us. My affection refuses to accept it. Our insignificant conversations are becoming unbearable to me. I try in vain to lift them from the commonplace. Elizabeth always lets them drop back again. She listens to me inattentively, does not interest herself, scarcely replies, or takes up another subject, a reposeful, personal subject. Even her voice, much too sharp, does not lend itself to the words of a deeper life. "I try to read to her, she interrupts me with trifles. Either one of the children called, or it is a noise from outside, which must be investigated. And if I get angry she is amazed, and I am altogether in the wrong. "When I come across in history or even in the newspapers--(our animated epoch is not without it)--one of those manifestations of generosity or courage which exalt me, I turn to share my emotion with her. She is like marble to all things which do not touch her closely. "She lets time pass as if we were always to live together, youth as if it were worthless; our love, as if we did not need to care for it. And her expressionless beauty irritates me as a reminder of my slavery. Sometimes, stirred by a dangerous longing for destruction, I watch for, I solicit one of those silly, ridiculous reflections by which so many women betray themselves and give us reason to despise them. But she is not even intelligent, which would release me. She allows her mind to remain fallow, as a beautiful abandoned domain. Her father, too worldly, her mother, too taken up with her father (and how uselessly!) did not teach her earlier to make use of her life. I came into it when the habit was already formed. This apathy freezes her heart and brain, as the cold does running water. Defeated, I have no more strength to break that ice. What fatal blow would be required to smash it?" "October 28th: We are leaving to-morrow. A last walk with my two babies. Elizabeth has pleaded trunks to be packed, so as to avoid coming with us. She has always some pretext for refusing when I ask her to go out with me. Physical activity is not pleasant to her. She likes to take the air only in a carriage or motor, or seated in a garden as long as summer lasts. Fatigue is unknown to her, that splendid fatigue which gives us an opportunity to measure our powers of resistance, to gain self-confidence. She has deprived us of that camaraderie and physical gayety which comes from fatigue endured together. "I was telling the little ones their favorite story--an old Scottish legend, 'The Cup of Happiness.' Our own has a crack through which the liquid has all flowed, but it cannot be seen at first glance. Am I then obsessed that I am always returning to this useless subject? That sorrowful beauty of Autumn on which I have gazed this evening from the bank for the last time, breaks my heart. If I am not happy, I have never been more eager to be...."