XXIV.
"Two days later I left for the meeting in the county, bidding my wife farewell in the best and quietest of moods.
"In the county there was always a great deal to do, and there was a special life, a special world by itself. There, in the office, I passed ten hours a day for two days in succession. On the second day they brought me a letter from my wife. I read it at once.
"She wrote about the children, about uncle, about the nurse, about purchases, and, among other things, she mentioned, as a most natural occurrence, that Trukhachévski had called bringing the promised music, and that he had promised to play again with her, but that she had refused.
"I did not remember his having promised to bring any music: it seemed to me that he had then bidden her farewell for good, and so this startled me. I was, however, so busy that I had no time to think about it, and only in the evening, when I returned to my room, did I re-read the letter.
"Not only had Trukhachévski been at my house during my absence, but the whole tenor of the letter seemed to be strained. The furious beast of jealousy roared in its kennel and wanted to leap out, but I was afraid of that beast and I quickly locked it up. 'What an abominable feeling this jealousy is!' said I to myself. 'What can there be more natural than what she writes?'
"So I lay down in my bed and began to think of the affairs which I had to attend to on the following day.
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