but for myself, an interest solely in the music. Really, I was
continually tortured by jealousy. From the first minute that the
musician's eyes met those of my wife, I saw that he did not regard her
as a disagreeable woman, with whom on occasion it would be unpleasant to
enter into intimate relations.

"If I had been pure, I should not have dreamed of what he might think of
her. But I looked at women, and that is why I understood him and was in
torture. I was in torture, especially because I was sure that toward
me she had no other feeling than of perpetual irritation, sometimes
interrupted by the customary sensuality, and that this man,--thanks to
his external elegance and his novelty, and, above all, thanks to his
unquestionably remarkable talent, thanks to the attraction exercised
under the influence of music, thanks to the impression that music
produces upon nervous natures,--this man would not only please, but
would inevitably, and without difficulty, subjugate and conquer her, and
do with her as he liked.

"I could not help seeing this. I could not help suffering, or keep from
being jealous. And I was jealous, and I suffered, and in spite of that,
and perhaps even because of that, an unknown force, in spite of my will,
impelled me to be not only polite, but more than polite, amiable. I
cannot say whether I did it for my wife, or to show him that I did not
fear HIM, or to deceive myself; but from my first relations with him I
could not be at my ease. I was obliged, that I might not give way to a
desire to kill him immediately, to 'caress' him. I filled his glass at
the table, I grew enthusiastic over his playing, I talked to him with
an extremely amiable smile, and I invited him to dinner the following
Sunday, and to play again. I told him that I would invite some of my
acquaintances, lovers of his art, to hear him.