in exact detail that whole strange, scandalous scene that took place at Nastasya Filippovna's when Rogozhin brought his money. If you like, I'll analyze you for yourself, counting off on my fingers; I'll show you to yourself as in a mirror, so exactly do I know what it was about and why it turned out that way! You, a young man, longed for your native land in Switzerland, you strained towards Russia as towards a promised but unknown land; you read a lot of books about Russia, excellent books, perhaps, but harmful for you; you arrived with the initial fervor of the desire to act, you, so to speak, fell upon action! And so, on that same day they tell you a sad, heart-stirring story about an offended woman, they tell you, that is, a knight, a virgin, about a woman! On that same day you meet the woman; you're enchanted by her beauty, her fantastic, demonic beauty (I do agree that she's a beauty). Add nerves, add your falling sickness, add our nerve-shattering Petersburg thaw; add that whole day in an unknown and almost fantastic city, a day of encounters and scenes, a day of unexpected acquaintances, a day of the most unexpected reality, a day of the three Epanchin beauties, and Aglaya among them; add fatigue, dizziness; add Nastasya Filippovna's drawing room and the tone of that drawing room, and . . . what do you think you could have expected of yourself at that moment?"

"Yes, yes; yes, yes," the prince was shaking his head and beginning to blush, "yes, it was almost so; and, you know, I actually hardly slept all the previous night, on the train, or the night before, and I was very disconcerted ..."

"Well, of course, that's what I'm driving at," Evgeny Pavlovich went on vehemently. "It's clear that, drunk with rapture, you fell upon the opportunity of publicly proclaiming the magnanimous thought that you, a born prince and a pure man, did not find dishonorable a woman who had been disgraced through no fault of her own, but through the fault of a loathsome high-society debaucher. Oh, Lord, it's so understandable! But that's not the point, my dear Prince, the point is whether there was truth here, whether your feeling was genuine, was it natural, or was it only a cerebral rapture? What do you think: a woman was forgiven in the Temple,⁴⁶ the same sort of woman, but was she told that she had done well and was worthy of all honor and respect? Didn't common sense whisper to you, after three months, telling you what it was about? Let her be innocent now—I don't insist, because I have no wish to—but can all her adventures justify such unbearable

demonic pride as hers, such insolent, such greedy egoism? Forgive me, Prince, I'm getting carried away, but . . ."

"Yes, that all may be; it may be that you're right . . ." the prince began to murmur again, "she really is very edgy, and you're right, of course, but ..."

"She deserves compassion? Is that what you want to say, my good Prince? But for the sake of compassion and for the sake of her good pleasure, was it possible to disgrace this other, this lofty and pure girl, to humiliate her before those arrogant, before those hateful eyes? How far can compassion go, then? That is an incredible exaggeration! Is it possible, while loving a girl, to humiliate her so before her rival, to abandon her for the other one, right in front of that other one, after making her an honorable proposal yourself. . . and you did make her a proposal, you said it to her in front of her parents and sisters! Are you an honorable man after that, Prince, may I ask? And . . . and didn't you deceive a divine girl, after assuring her that you loved her?"

"Yes, yes, you're right, ah, I feel I'm to blame!" the prince said in inexpressible anguish.

"But is that enough?" Evgeny Pavlovich cried in indignation. "Is it sufficient merely to cry out: 'I'm to blame!' You're to blame, and yet you persist! And where was your heart then, your 'Christian' heart! You saw her face at that moment: tell me, did she suffer less than that one, than your other one, her rival? How could you see it and allow it? How?"

"But ... I didn't allow it . . ." murmured the unhappy prince.

"What do you mean you didn't?"

"By God, I didn't allow anything. I still don't understand how it all came about . . . I—I ran after Aglaya Ivanovna then, and Nastasya Filippovna fainted; and since then I haven't been allowed to see Aglaya Ivanovna."

"All the same! You should have run after Aglaya, even though the other one fainted!"

"Yes . . . yes, I should have . . . but she would have died! She would have killed herself, you don't know her, and ... all the same, I'd have told everything to Aglaya Ivanovna afterwards, and . . . You see, Evgeny Pavlych, I can see that you don't seem to know everything. Tell me, why won't they let me see Aglaya Ivanovna? I'd have explained everything to her. You see: neither of them talked about the right thing, not about the right thing at all, that's why it turned out like this . . . There's no way I can explain it to

you; but I might be able to explain it to Aglaya . . . Ah, my God, my God! You speak of her face at the moment she ran out. . . oh, my God, I remember! Let's go, let's go!" he suddenly pulled Evgeny Pavlovich's sleeve, hurriedly jumping up from his seat.

"Where?"

"Let's go to Aglaya Ivanovna, let's go right now! . . ."

"But I told you, she's not in Pavlovsk, and why go?"

"She'll understand, she'll understand!" the prince murmured, pressing his hands together in entreaty. "She'll understand that it's all not that, but something completely, completely different!"

"How is it completely different? Aren't you getting married all the same? That means you persist . . . Are you getting married or not?"

"Well, yes ... I am; yes, I am getting married!"

"Then how is it not that?"

"Oh, no, not that, not that! It makes no difference that I'm getting married, it doesn't matter!"

"It makes no difference and doesn't matter? It's not a trifling thing, is it? You're marrying a woman you love in order to make her happiness, and Aglaya Ivanovna sees and knows it, so how does it make no difference?"

"Happiness? Oh, no! I'm simply getting married; she wants it; and so what if I'm getting married, I . . . Well, it makes no difference! Only she would certainly have died. I see now that this marriage to Rogozhin was madness! I now understand everything I didn't understand before, and you see: when the two of them stood facing each other, I couldn't bear Nastasya Filippovna's face then . . . You don't know, Evgeny Pavlych" (he lowered his voice mysteriously), "I've never spoken to anyone about this, not even Aglaya, but I can't bear Nastasya Filippovna's face . . . You spoke the truth earlier about that evening at Nastasya Filippovna's; but there was one thing you left out, because you don't know it: I was looking at her face! That morning, in her portrait, I already couldn't bear it . . . Take Vera, Vera Lebedev, she has completely different eyes; I . . . I'm afraid of her face!" he added with extreme fear.

"Afraid?"

"Yes; she's—mad!" he whispered, turning pale.

"You know that for certain?" Evgeny Pavlovich asked with extreme curiosity.

"Yes, for certain; now it's certain; now, in these days, I've learned it quite certainly!"

"But what are you doing to yourself?" Evgeny Pavlovich cried out in alarm. "It means you're marrying out of some sort of fear? It's impossible to understand anything here . . . Even without loving her, perhaps?"