His was not a character
that was the stronger for misfortune. He submitted, crushed to the
ground. His mind now dwelt upon that journey from Petrograd, a journey
of incredible, ironic ecstasy lighted with the fires of the wonderful
spring that had accompanied it. He recalled every detail of his
conversation with me. His confidence that life would now be fine for
him--how could life ever be fine for a man who let the prizes, the
treasures, slip from his fingers, without an attempt to clutch them?
It was so now that he saw the whole of the affair--blame of Marie
Ivanovna there was none, only of his own weakness, his imbecile,
idiotic weakness. In that last conversation with her why could he not
have said that he refused to let her go, held to her, dominated her,
as a strong man would have done? No, without a word, except a cry of
impotent childish rage, he had submitted.... So, all his life it had
been--so, all his life it would be.
He could only wonder now at his easy ready belief that happiness would
last for him.
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