FÉDYA. I say it because there was never anything about her that made her creep into my soul as Másha did. But that's not what I meant to say. When she was pregnant, or nursing her baby, I used to vanish, and come home drunk; and of course, just because of that, I loved her less and less. Yes, yes! [in ecstasy] I have it! The reason I love Másha is that I did her good and not harm. That's why I love her. The other one I tormented, and therefore I don't like her.... No, after all, I simply don't like her! Was I jealous? Yes, but that too is past....
Enter Artémyev, with a cockade on his cap, dyed moustaches, and old renovated clothes.
ARTÉMYEV. Wish you a good appetite! [Bows to Fédya] I see you've made acquaintance with our painter, our artist.
ARTÉMYEV [to Petushkóv] And have you finished the portrait?
ARTÉMYEV [Sits down] I'm not in your way?
PETUSHKÓV. Theodore Vasílyevich was telling me about his life.
ARTÉMYEV. Secrets? Then I won't disturb you--go on? I'm sure I don't want you. Swine! [Goes to next table and calls for beer. He listens all the time to Fédya's conversation with Petushkóv, and leans towards them without their noticing it.]
FÉDYA. Well, let him be! I can't stand him. He is such a fellow, my words won't come when he is there. Now with you I feel at ease, and comfortable. Well, what was I saying?
PETUSHKÓV. You were speaking about your jealousy. And how was it you parted from your wife?
FÉDYA. Ah! [Pauses and considers] It's a curious story. My wife is married ...
FÉDYA. I mean that she's a widow! I don't exist.
FÉDYA. No, I'm a corpse! Yes ... [Artémyev leans over, listening] Well, you see--I _can_ tell _you_ about it; and besides, it happened long ago; and you don't know my real name. It was this way. When I had tired out my wife and had squandered everything I could lay my hands on, and had become unbearable, a protector turned up for her. Don't imagine that there was anything dirty or bad about it--no, he was my friend and a very good fellow--only in everything my exact opposite! And as there is far more evil than good in me, it follows that he was a good--a very good man: honourable, firm, self-restrained and, in a word, virtuous. He had known my wife from her childhood, and loved her. When she married me he resigned himself to his fate. But later, when I became horrid and tormented her, he began to come oftener to our house. I myself wished it. They fell in love with one another, and meanwhile I went altogether to the bad, and abandoned my wife of my own accord. And besides, there was Másha. I myself advised them to marry. They did not want to, but I became more and more impossible, and it ended in ...