He was shaking with anger, his head trembling and his hands quivering—it was difficult not to smile.
“You must not listen nor notice nor think of it,” I said firmly. “We are grateful for your work—all of us. Semyonov laughs at us all.”
“That poor Marie Ivanovna,” he burst out. “She does not know. She is ignorant of life. At first I was angry with her but now I see that she is helpless. There will be terrible things afterwards, Ivan Andreievitch!” he cried.
“I think she understands him better than we do.”
“I have never,” he said vehemently, “hated a man in my life as I hate him.” But in spite of his passionate declaration he was obviously reassured by my defence of him. He was quiet suddenly, looked at the view mildly and, in a moment, thought me the best friend he had in the world—in the Russian manner.
“You see, Ivan Andreievitch,” he said, looking at me with the eyes of an unnaturally wise baby, “that I cannot help wishing that my wife were here to advise Marie Ivanovna. She would have loved my wife very much, as everyone did, and would have confided in her. That would have helped a girl who, like Marie Ivanovna, is ignorant of the world and the loves of men.”
“You miss your wife very much?” I asked.
“There is not a moment of the day but I do not think of her,” he answered very solemnly, staring in front of him. “That must seem strange to you who did not know her, and even I sometimes think it is not good. But what to do? She was a woman so remarkable that no one who knew her can forget.”
“I have often been told that everyone who knew her loved her,” I said.
“Ah! you have heard that. … They talk of her, of course. She will always be remembered.” His eyes shone with pleasure. “Yes, everyone loved her. I myself loved her with a passion that nothing can ever change. And why? … I cannot tell you—unless it were that she was the only person I have known who did not wish me another kind of man. I could be myself with her and know that she still cared for me. … I will not pretend to you, Ivan Andreievitch, that I think myself a fine man,” he continued. “I have never thought myself so. When I was very young I envied tall men and handsome men and men who knew what was the best thing to do without thinking of it. I have always known that people would only come to me for what I have got to give and I have pretended that I do not care. And once I had an English merchant as my guest. He was very agreeable and pleasant to me—and then by chance I overheard him say: ‘Ah, Andrey Vassilievitch! A vulgar little snob!’ That is perhaps what I am—I do not know—we are all what God pleases. But I had mistresses, I had friends, acquaintances. They despised me. They left me always for someone finer. They say that we Russians care too much what others think of us—but when in your own house people—your friends—say such things of you. …”
He broke off, then, smiling, continued:
“My wife came. There was something in me, just as I was, that she cared for. She did not passionately love me, but she loved me with her heart because she saw that I needed love. She always saw people just as they were. … And I understood. I understood from the beginning exactly what I was to her. …”
He paused again, put his hand on my knee, then spoke, looking very serious with his comic little nose and mouth like the nose and mouth of a poodle. “I had a friend, Ivan Andreievitch. A fine man. … He loved my wife and my wife loved him. He was not vulgar. He had a fine taste, he was handsome and clever. What was I to do? I knew that my wife loved him, and she must be happy. I knew that I owed her everything because of all that she had done for me. I helped them in their love. … For five years I wished them well. Do you think it was easy for me? I suffered, Ivan Andreievitch, the tortures of hell. I was jealous, God forgive me! How jealous! Sometimes alone in my room I would cry all night—not a fine thing to do. But then how should I act? She gave him what she could never give to me. She loved him with passion—for me she cared as good women care for the poor. I was foolish perhaps. I tried to be as they were, with their taste and easy judgments … I failed, of course. What could I do all at once? One is as God has pleased from the beginning. Ah! how I was unhappy those five years! I wished that he would die and then cursed myself for wishing it. And yet I knew that I had something that he had not. I needed her more than he, and she knew that. Her charm for him would fade perhaps as the years passed. He was a passionate man who had loved many women. For me, as she well knew, it would never pass.
“She died. For a time I was like a dead man. And she was not enough with me. I talked to her friends, but they had not known her—not as she was. Only one had known her and he was the friend whom she had loved.
“Of course he found me as he had always done—tiresome, irritating, of vulgar taste. But he, too, wanted to speak of her. And so we were drawn together. … Now … is he my friend? I say always that he is. I say to myself: ‘Andrey Vassilievitch, he is your best friend’—but I am jealous. Yes, Ivan Andreievitch, I am jealous of him. I think that perhaps he will die before
