was just then expecting the "message," and was much
relieved that Mitya had not been to see her that day or the day before.
She hoped that "please God he won't come till I'm gone away," and he
suddenly burst in on her. The rest we know already. To get him off her
hands she suggested at once that he should walk with her to Samsonov's,
where she said she absolutely must go "to settle his accounts," and when
Mitya accompanied her at once, she said good-by to him at the gate, making
him promise to come at twelve o'clock to take her home again. Mitya, too,
was delighted at this arrangement. If she was sitting at Samsonov's she
could not be going to Fyodor Pavlovitch's, "if only she's not lying," he
added at once. But he thought she was not lying from what he saw.

He was that sort of jealous man who, in the absence of the beloved woman,
at once invents all sorts of awful fancies of what may be happening to
her, and how she may be betraying him, but, when shaken, heartbroken,
convinced of her faithlessness, he runs back to her; at the first glance
at her face, her gay, laughing, affectionate face, he revives at once,
lays aside all suspicion and with joyful shame abuses himself for his
jealousy.

After leaving Grushenka at the gate he rushed home. Oh, he had so much
still to do that day! But a load had been lifted from his heart, anyway.

"Now I must only make haste and find out from Smerdyakov whether anything
happened there last night, whether, by any chance, she went to Fyodor
Pavlovitch; ough!" floated through his mind.

Before he had time to reach his lodging, jealousy had surged up again in
his restless heart.

Jealousy! "Othello was not jealous, he was trustful," observed Pushkin.
And that remark alone is enough to show the deep insight of our great
poet. Othello's soul was shattered and his whole outlook clouded simply
because _his ideal was destroyed_. But Othello did not begin hiding,
spying, peeping. He was trustful, on the contrary. He had to be led up,
pushed on, excited with great difficulty before he could entertain the
idea of deceit. The truly jealous man is not like that. It is impossible
to picture to oneself the shame and moral degradation to which the jealous
man can descend without a qualm of conscience. And yet it's not as though
the jealous were all vulgar and base souls. On the contrary, a man of
lofty feelings, whose love is pure and full of self-sacrifice, may yet
hide under tables, bribe the v