"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.
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