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.

Had happiness ever lasted?
As a man began so he ended.
Life laughed at him and would always laugh.

Nevertheless, he _had_ that journey--five days of perfect unalloyed delight.