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 me and that then--somewhere--together--they
will laugh at me. And he has _such_ memories of her! At the last she
cried his name! He is so much a grander man than I! Fine in every way!
Did I say that she would laugh? No, no .
Pages:
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352