When a man steals your wife, there is no better revenge than to

The French playwright and wit Sacha Guitry, master of irony and observation, once declared: “When a man steals your wife, there is no better revenge than to let him keep her.” At first, the words sound like jest, a sharp-tongued dismissal of betrayal. Yet beneath the humor lies a lesson in wisdom and dignity. Guitry speaks of a truth as old as the ancients: that when love departs, when loyalty is broken, vengeance is not found in reclaiming what is lost, but in releasing it. For what is taken without honor is not worth keeping, and what abandons you willingly is no treasure to guard.

The meaning of this phrase lies in its paradox. Betrayal often tempts men to wrath, to duel, to bitter retaliation. The wounded heart longs to prove its strength by striking back. Yet Guitry offers another path: indifference. To let the betrayer keep what he has stolen is the truest form of victory, for it denies him the drama of your rage and burdens him instead with the reality of what he has taken. The wife who abandons her husband for another is not a prize to cherish, but a trial to endure. Thus, the new man has inherited not triumph, but toil.

History bears witness to this truth. Consider the tale of King Menelaus of Sparta, whose wife Helen was carried off by Paris of Troy. Menelaus chose vengeance of the sword, and so the world was plunged into the fires of the Trojan War. Thousands perished, cities burned, and even when Helen was reclaimed, peace was not restored. Compare this to the wisdom of Guitry: had Menelaus let Paris keep her, the war would have been avoided, and the shame of betrayal would have rested not on him, but on those who chose disloyalty. In this contrast we see the folly of wrath and the power of letting go.

The deeper teaching is that no man can truly steal love. If a wife departs, it is because her loyalty and affection were already gone. The thief only reveals what was broken, what was fragile, what had already slipped away in spirit before it slipped away in body. Thus, to rage against the one who takes is to miss the greater truth: that love cannot be possessed like property, nor clutched like treasure. It must be given freely, and if it is withdrawn, the wise man releases it without chains.

Guitry’s wit is therefore not bitter, but liberating. He tells us that revenge is not in reclaiming, but in refusing to be diminished. By letting the new man keep the wife who betrayed, one demonstrates strength, dignity, and freedom. The betrayer inherits not joy but consequence, not triumph but the weight of another’s disloyalty. In this way, revenge becomes silent, subtle, and far more enduring than anger could ever be.

The lesson for us is clear: do not cling to what is lost, nor waste your soul in battles over love that has already fled. If betrayal comes, release it. If loyalty is broken, do not break yourself in return. Stand tall in dignity, and let those who chose dishonor live with their choice. For true revenge is not in fury, but in indifference. True victory is not in reclaiming, but in rising above.

Practical wisdom flows from this: when wronged in love, do not seek destruction, but freedom. Do not poison your heart with endless bitterness, but turn your gaze to new beginnings. Invest your strength not in reclaiming the faithless, but in building a life that honors your worth. For betrayal may wound, but it cannot define you unless you let it.

Thus let the words of Sacha Guitry endure, not only as jest but as counsel: “When a man steals your wife, there is no better revenge than to let him keep her.” In this, we are taught that the noblest revenge is not to fight for what has abandoned us, but to let it go, and by letting go, to remain whole, unbroken, and free.