es, every one
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 some one 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 an