Another Man's Wife Page #6

"Another Man's Wife" is a lesser-known short story by Fyodor Dostoevsky, exploring themes of love, infidelity, and the complexities of human relationships. The narrative revolves around a man who becomes infatuated with another man's wife, delving into the emotional turmoil and moral dilemmas that arise from his desires. Dostoevsky's characteristic psychological depth is evident as he examines the conflict between passion and societal norms, ultimately revealing the profound impacts of jealousy and betrayal on the lives of those involved.

• Novel

								


It must be observed that Ivan Andreyitch's stall was close to the
baignoire, and to make matters worse the treacherous box in the second tier
was exactly above his stall, so that to his intense annoyance he was
utterly unable to see what was going on over his head. At which he raged,
and got as hot as a samovar. The whole of the first act passed unnoticed by
him, that is, he did not hear a single note of it. It is maintained that
what is good in music is that musical impressions can be made to fit any
mood. The man who rejoices finds joy in its strains, while he who grieves
finds sorrow in it; a regular tempest was howling in Ivan Andreyitch's
ears. To add to his vexation, such terrible voices were shouting behind
him, before him and on both sides of him, that Ivan Andreyitch's heart was
torn. At last the act was over. But at the instant when the curtain was
falling, our hero had an adventure such as no pen can describe.

It sometimes happens that a playbill flies down from the upper boxes. When
the play is dull and the audience is yawning this is quite an event for
them. They watch with particular interest the flight of the extremely soft
paper from the upper gallery, and take pleasure in watching its zigzagging
journey down to the very stalls, where it infallibly settles on some head
which is quite unprepared to receive it. It is certainly very interesting
to watch the embarrassment of the head (for the head is invariably
embarrassed). I am indeed always in terror over the ladies' opera-glasses
which usually lie on the edge of the boxes; I am constantly fancying that
they will fly down on some unsuspecting head. But I perceive that this
tragic observation is out of place here, and so I shall send it to the
columns of those newspapers which are filled with advice, warnings against
swindling tricks, against unconscientiousness, hints for getting rid of
beetles if you have them in the house, recommendations of the celebrated
Mr. Princhipi, sworn foe of all beetles in the world, not only Russian but
even foreign, such as Prussian cockroaches, and so on.

But Ivan Andreyitch had an adventure, which has never hitherto been
described. There flew down on his--as already stated, somewhat bald--head,
not a playbill; I confess I am actually ashamed to say what did fly down
upon his head, because I am really loath to remark that on the respectable
and bare--that is, partly hairless--head of the jealous and irritated Ivan
Andreyitch there settled such an immoral object as a scented love-letter.
Poor Ivan Andreyitch, utterly unprepared for this unforeseen and hideous
occurrence, started as though he had caught upon his head a mouse or some
other wild beast.

That the note was a love-letter of that there could be no mistake. It was
written on scented paper, just as love-letters are written in novels, and
folded up so as to be treacherously small so that it might be slipped into
a lady's glove. It had probably fallen by accident at the moment it had
been handed to her. The playbill might have been asked for, for instance,
and the note, deftly folded in the playbill, was being put into her hands;
but an instant, perhaps an accidental, nudge from the adjutant, extremely
adroit in his apologies for his awkwardness, and the note had slipped from
a little hand that trembled with confusion, and the civilian youth,
stretching out his impatient hand, received instead of the note, the empty
playbill, and did not know what to do with it. A strange and unpleasant
incident for him, no doubt, but you must admit that for Ivan Andreyitch it
was still more unpleasant.

"Prédestiné," he murmured, breaking into a cold sweat and squeezing the
note in his hands, "prédestiné! The bullet finds the guilty man," the
thought flashed through his mind. "No, that's not right! In what way am I
guilty? But there is another proverb, 'Once out of luck, never out of
trouble.'..."

But it was not enough that there was a ringing in his ears and a dizziness
in his head at this sudden incident. Ivan Andreyitch sat petrified in his
chair, as the saying is, more dead than alive. He was persuaded that his
adventure had been observed on all sides, although at that moment the whole
theatre began to be filled with uproar and calls of encore. He sat
overwhelmed with confusion, flushing crimson and not daring to raise his
eyes, as though some unpleasant surprise, something out of keeping with the
brilliant assembly had happened to him. At last he ventured to lift his
eyes.

"Charmingly sung," he observed to a dandy sitting on his left side.

The dandy, who was in the last stage of enthusiasm, clapping his hands and
still more actively stamping with his feet, gave Ivan Andreyitch a cursory
and absent-minded glance, and immediately putting up his hands like a
trumpet to his mouth, so as to be more audible, shouted the prima donna's
name. Ivan Andreyitch, who had never heard such a roar, was delighted. "He
has noticed nothing!" he thought, and turned round; but the stout gentleman
who was sitting behind him had turned round too, and with his back to him
was scrutinising the boxes through his opera-glass. "He is all right too!"
thought Ivan Andreyitch. In front, of course, nothing had been seen.
Timidly and with a joyous hope in his heart, he stole a glance at the
baignoire, near which was his stall, and started with the most unpleasant
sensation. A lovely lady was sitting there who, holding her handkerchief to
her mouth and leaning back in her chair, was laughing as though in
hysterics.

"Ugh, these women!" murmured Ivan Andreyitch, and treading on people's
feet, he made for the exit.

Now I ask my readers to decide, I beg them to judge between me and Ivan
Andreyitch. Was he right at that moment? The Grand Theatre, as we all know,
contains four tiers of boxes and a fifth row above the gallery. Why must he
assume that the note had fallen from one particular box, from that very box
and no other? Why not, for instance, from the gallery where there are often
ladies too? But passion is an exception to every rule, and jealousy is the
most exceptional of all passions.

Ivan Andreyitch rushed into the foyer, stood by the lamp, broke the seal
and read:

"To-day immediately after the performance, in G. Street at the corner of X.
Lane, K. buildings, on the third floor, the first on the right from the
stairs. The front entrance. Be there, sans faute; for God's sake."

Ivan Andreyitch did not know the handwriting, but he had no doubt it was an
assignation. "To track it out, to catch it and nip the mischief in the
bud," was Ivan Andreyitch's first idea. The thought occurred to him to
unmask the infamy at once on the spot; but how could it be done? Ivan
Andreyitch even ran up to the second row of boxes, but judiciously came
back again. He was utterly unable to decide where to run. Having nothing
clear he could do, he ran round to the other side and looked through the
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