I could write then about things that happen to me
as if they had happened to somebody else. But I know from experience
that one day does not resemble another, and I am afraid of what the
morrow will bring forth.
24 June.
Towards the end of my sojourn at Warsaw I put down these words: "Love
for another man's wife, if only a pastime, is a great villany, and if
real, is one of the greatest misfortunes that can happen to a man."
Writing this before Kromitzki's arrival, I had not taken into account
all the items which make up the sum of this misfortune. I also thought
it nobler than it really is. Now I begin to see that besides great
suffering, it includes a quantity of small humiliations, the
consciousness of villany, ridicule, the necessity of falsehood, the
doing of mean things, and the need of precautions unworthy of a man.
What a bouquet! Truly the scent of it is enough to overpower any man.
God knows with what delight I would take such a Kromitzki by the
throat, press him to the wall, and tell him straight in his face, "I
love your wife!" Instead of that I must be careful lest the thought
should enter his mind that she pleases me. What a noble part to play
in her presence! What must she think of me? That too is one of the
flowers in the bouquet.
As long as I live I shall not forget the day of Kromitzki's arrival.
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