The grossness of his egotism reminds me of the story told of King James, whom the English got rid of in 1689.
The Dutch William, instead of waiting peacefully for the heritage of his father-in-law, went to claim it before his death, and James, pressed on all sides by enemies, decided upon flight.
One Sunday, in the month of December, his devotions over, he dismissed all his servants and advised his last partisans to turn towards the rising sun.
After which, he lay for an hour with his wife, the better to take leave of her."
The very thing Frederick Augustus would do if war or revolution made us fugitives.
I never realized the diversity in our natures as much as I do now, when all my thoughts go out to another, when even connubial tendernesses seem like whip-strokes.
The further our souls draw apart, the more disgusting this forced intimacy, the prostitution under the marriage vow, which I detest and abhor.
But what will I do? Shut my door to him? He would kick it in, or climb through the window. It's easier to submit to the violation of my person than to breaking of locks and furniture.