"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.