The general was very surprised.

"And you have no one in Russia, decidedly no one?" he asked.

"No one right now, but I hope . . . besides, I received a letter . . ."

"At least," the general interrupted, not hearing about the letter, "you have some sort of education, and your illness won't hinder you from occupying, for example, some undemanding post in some branch of the service?"

"Oh, certainly not. And concerning a post, I'd even like that very much, because I want to see for myself what I'm able to do. I studied constantly for four years, though not quite in a regular way but by his special system, and I also managed to read a great many Russian books."

"Russian books? So you're literate and can write without mistakes?"

"Oh, indeed I can."

"Splendid, sir. And your handwriting?"

"My handwriting is excellent. That's perhaps where my talent lies; I'm a real calligrapher. Let me write something for you now as a sample," the prince said warmly.

"Kindly do. And there's even a need for it . . . And I like this readiness of yours, Prince, you're really very nice."

"You have such fine handwriting accessories, and so many pencils, pens, such fine, thick paper . . . And it's such a fine office you have! I know that landscape, it's a view of Switzerland. I'm sure the artist painted it from nature, and I'm sure I've seen that spot: it's in canton Uri . . ."

"Quite possible, though I bought it here. Ganya, give the prince some paper; here are pens and paper, sit at this table, please. What's that?" the general turned to Ganya, who meanwhile had taken a large-format photographic portrait from his portfolio and handed it to him. "Bah! Nastasya Filippovna! She sent it to you herself, she herself?" he asked Ganya with animation and great curiosity.

"She gave it to me just now, when I came to wish her a happy birthday. I've been asking for a long time. I don't know, I'm not sure it's not a hint on her part about my coming empty-handed, without a present, on such a day," Ganya added, smiling unpleasantly.

"Ah, no," the general interrupted with conviction, "and really, what a turn of mind you've got! She wouldn't go hinting . . . and she's completely unmercenary. And besides, what kind of presents can you give: it's a matter of thousands here! Your portrait, maybe? And say, incidentally, has she asked you for your portrait yet?"

"No, she hasn't. And maybe she never will. You remember about this evening, of course, Ivan Fyodorovich? You're among those specially invited."

"I remember, I remember, of course, and I'll be there. What else, it's her birthday, she's twenty-five! Hm ... You know, Ganya— so be it—I'm going to reveal something to you, prepare yourself. She promised Afanasy Ivanovich and me that this evening at her place she will say the final word: whether it's to be or not to be! So now you know."

Ganya suddenly became so confused that he even turned slightly pale.

"Did she say it for certain?" he asked, and his voice seemed to quaver.

"She gave her word two days ago. We both badgered her so much that we forced her into it. Only she asked us not to tell you meanwhile."

The general peered intently at Ganya; he evidently did not like Ganya's confusion.

"Remember, Ivan Fyodorovich," Ganya said anxiously and hesitantly, "she gave me complete freedom of decision until she decides the matter herself, and even then what I say is still up to me . . ."

"So maybe you ... maybe you ..." The general suddenly became alarmed.

"Never mind me."

"Good heavens, what are you trying to do to us!"

"But I'm not backing out. Maybe I didn't put it right . . ."

"I'll say you're not backing out!" the general said vexedly, not even wishing to conceal his vexation. "Here, brother, it's not a matter of your not backing out, but of the readiness, the pleasure, the joy with which you receive her words . . . How are things at home?"

"At home? At home everything's the way I want it to be, only my father plays the fool, as usual, but it's become completely outrageous; I no longer speak to him, but I keep him in an iron grip, and, in fact, if it weren't for my mother, I'd have shown him the door. My mother cries all the time, of course, my sister's angry, but I finally told them straight out that I'm the master of my fate and at home I want to be . . . obeyed. I spelled it all out to my sister anyway, in front of my mother."

"And I, brother, go on not understanding," the general observed pensively, heaving his shoulders slightly and spreading his arms a

little. "Nina Alexandrovna—remember when she came to us the other day? She moaned and sighed. 'What's the matter?' I ask. It comes out that there's supposedly some dishonor in it for them. Where's the dishonor, may I ask? Who can reproach Nastasya Filippovna with anything or point at anything in her? Is it that she was with Totsky? But that's such nonsense, especially considering certain circumstances! 'You wouldn't let her meet your daughters, would you?' she says. Well! So there! That's Nina Alexandrovna! I mean, how can she not understand it, how can she not understand ..."

"Her position?" Ganya prompted the faltering general. "She does understand it; don't be angry with her. Besides, I gave them a dressing-down then, so they wouldn't poke their noses into other people's business. And anyhow, so far things are holding together at home only because the final word hasn't been spoken; that's when the storm will break. If the final word is spoken tonight, then everything will be spoken."

The prince heard this whole conversation, sitting in the corner over his calligraphic sample. He finished, went up to the desk, and handed over his page.

"So this is Nastasya Filippovna?" he said, gazing at the portrait attentively and curiously. "Remarkably good-looking!" he warmly added at once. The portrait showed a woman of extraordinary beauty indeed. She had been photographed in a black silk dress of a very simple and graceful cut; her hair, apparently dark blond, was done simply, informally; her eyes were dark and deep, her forehead pensive; the expression of her face was passionate and as if haughty. Her face was somewhat thin, perhaps also pale . . . Ganya and the general looked at the prince in amazement . . .

"How's that? Nastasya Filippovna! So you already know Nastasya Filippovna?" asked the general.

"Yes, just one day in Russia and I already know such a great beauty," the prince answered and at once told them about his meeting with Rogozhin and recounted his whole story.

"Well, that's news!" The general, who had listened to the story with extreme attention, became alarmed again and glanced searchingly at Ganya.

"It's probably just outrageous talk," murmured Ganya, also somewhat bewildered. "A merchant boy's carousing. I've already heard something about him."

"So have I, brother," the general picked up. "Right after the earrings, Nastasya Filippovna told the whole anecdote. But now

it's a different matter. There may actually be a million sitting here and ... a passion, an ugly passion, if you like, but all the same it smacks of passion, and we know what these gentlemen are capable of when they're intoxicated! . . . Hm! . . . Some sort of anecdote may come of it!" the general concluded pensively.