Frequently did he invite me, by letter in his wife's name even, and yet I never went to drink punch with them. When we met together afterwards, I always invented some excuse. On the first occasion I said my head ached; on the second occasion I said I was too busy; on the third occasion unexpected country cousins had looked in upon me, and so on.
Every time I met him, however, friend Wenceslaus always wound up with the bitter exclamation: "I shall have to blow my brains out. Still no promotion!"
At last I was tired of telling so many lies, so I told my friend the truth.
Now, there are three sorts of truths in the world.
The first sort of truth is that which pleases my friend, but doesn't please me.
The second sort of truth is that which pleases me, but doesn't please my friend.
The third sort of truth is that which pleases neither my friend nor myself, and which brings us to loggerheads at once. Let me illustrate what I mean.
To take number one first, I might have said to friend Kvatopil: "My dear comrade, a constitutional regime prevails in my house: my wife reigns, but I am responsible, and I could never obtain her majesty's consent to a bill authorizing me to go and have tea once a week with your pretty wife."
But this truth I did not tell him.
But supposing I had said to him: "My dear lieutenant, I move in a completely different sphere to you. I should be infinitely honoured by your society, but I should not know what to talk to your colleagues about," that would have been the second sort of truth.