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.
"You're afraid of a million?" Ganya grinned.
"And you're not, of course?"
"How did it seem to you, Prince?" Ganya suddenly turned to him. "Is he a serious man or just a mischief maker?
What's your personal opinion?"
Something peculiar took place in Ganya as he was asking this question.
It was as if some new and peculiar idea lit up in his brain and glittered impatiently in his eyes.
The general, who was genuinely and simple-heartedly worried, also glanced sidelong at the prince, but as if he did not expect much from his reply.
"I don't know, how shall I put it," replied the prince, "only it seemed to me there's a lot of passion in him, and even some sort of sick passion.
And he seems to be quite sick himself.