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When Alexey Alexandrovitch had made up his mind that he must talk

to his wife about it, it had seemed a very easy and simple

matter. But now, when he began to think over the question that

had just presented itself, it seemed to him very complicated and

difficult.

Alexey Alexandrovitch was not jealous. Jealousy according to his

notions was an insult to one's wife, and one ought to have

confidence in one's wife. Why one ought to have confidence-that

is to say, complete conviction that his young wife would always

love him-he did not ask himself. But he had no experience of lack

of confidence, because he had confidence in her, and told himself

that he ought to have it. Now, though his conviction that

jealousy was a shameful feeling and that one ought to feel

confidence, had not broken down, he felt that he was standing

face to face with something illogical and irrational, and did not

know what was to be done. Alexey Alexandrovitch was standing face

to face with life, with the possibility of his wife's loving

someone other than himself, and this seemed to him very

irrational and incomprehensible because it was life itself. All

his life Alexey Alexandrovitch had lived and worked in official

spheres, having to do with the reflection of life.