the same logic as Descartes employs in the statement, “I think, therefore I exist.”  Now the formula is changed into, “I do not love her, but desire her still;” and both elements exist in me as if they were engraved on two separate stones.  For some time I did not realize that the “I do not love her” was merely a delusion.  I love her as before, but in such a sorrowing manner, with so much bitterness and venom, that the love has nothing in common with happiness.

Sometimes I fancy that even if Aniela were to confess to me her love, if she were divorced or a widow, I should not be happy any more.  I would buy such an hour at the price of my life, but truly I do not know whether I should be able to convert it into real happiness.  Who knows whether the nerves that feel happiness be not paralyzed in me?  Such a thing might happen.  Really, what is life worth under such conditions?

The day before our departure, I went to a gunsmith’s shop.  It was a quaint old man who sold me the revolver.  If he were not a gunsmith he might become a professor of psychology.  I told him I wanted a revolver, no matter whose make, Colt’s or Smith’s, provided it were good and of a large calibre.  The old man picked out the weapon, which I accepted at once.

“You will want cartridges, sir?”

“Yes, I was going to ask you for them.”

“And a case, sir?” he said, looking at me keenly.

“Of course, a case.”

“That’s all right, sir; then I will give you cartridges of the same number as the revolver.”

It was now my turn to look attentively at him.  He understood the inquiring look, and said:—­

“I have been in the trade over forty years, sir, and learned something about my customers.  It often happens that people buy revolvers to blow out their brains.  Would you believe it never happens that such a one buys a case?  It is always this way:  ‘Please give me a revolver.’  ’With the case?’ ‘No, never mind the case.’  It is a strange thing that a man about to throw away his life should grudge a rouble for the case.  But such is human nature.  Everybody says to himself, ’What the devil do I want with a case?’ And that’s how I always find out whether a man means mischief or not.”

“That is very curious indeed,” I replied; and it seemed to me a very characteristic sign.

The gunsmith, with a slight twinkle in his eye, went on:  “Therefore as soon as I perceive his drift I make a point of giving him cartridges a size too large.  It is not a small thing, the taking away one’s life; it requires a deal of courage and determination.  I fancy many a man breaks into a cold perspiration as he finally says:  ’Now for the revolver!  Ah, the cartridges do not fit; the gunsmith made a mistake;’ and he has to put it off until the following day.  And do you think, sir, it is an easy thing to do it twice over?  Many a man who has faced death once cannot do it again.  There were some who came the next day to buy a case.  I laughed in my sleeve and said:  ’There’s your case, and may it last you a long time.’”