"Good heavens, I understand your question and appreciate it very much. So far I have no property, nor any occupation either,
and I should have, sir. And the money I now have isn't mine, it was given to me by Schneider, the professor who treated me and taught me in Switzerland, for the trip, and he gave me just enough, so that now, for instance, I have only a few kopecks left. I have one bit of business, it's true, and I'm in need of advice, but . . ."
"Tell me, how do you intend to subsist meanwhile, and what were your intentions?" the general interrupted.
"I wanted to do some sort of work."
"Oh, so you're a philosopher! But still . . . are you aware of having any talents, any abilities, at least of some sort, that could earn you your daily bread? Again, I apologize . . ."
"Oh, don't apologize. No, sir, I don't think I have any talents or special abilities; even the contrary, because I'm a sick man and have had no regular education. As for daily bread, it seems to me . . ."
The general interrupted again, and again began to ask questions. The prince told him once more all that has already been told. It turned out that the general had heard of the late Pavlishchev and had even known him personally. Why Pavlishchev had concerned himself with his upbringing, the prince himself was unable to explain—however, it might simply have been out of old friendship for his late father. The prince, at his parents' death, was left still a little child; all his life he lived and grew up in the country, since his health also called for village air. Pavlishchev entrusted him to some old lady landowners, his relations; first a governess was hired for him, then a tutor; he said, however, that though he remembered everything, he was hardly capable of giving a satisfactory account of it, because he had been unaware of many things. The frequent attacks of his illness had made almost an idiot of him (the prince actually said "idiot"). He told, finally, how one day in Berlin, Pavlishchev met Professor Schneider, a Swiss, who studied precisely such illnesses, had an institution in Switzerland, in canton Valais, used his own method of treatment by cold water and gymnastics, treated idiotism, insanity, also provided education, and generally attended to spiritual development; that Pavlishchev had sent him to Schneider in Switzerland about five years ago, and had died himself two years ago, suddenly, without making any arrangements; that Schneider had kept him and gone on with his treatment for another two years; that he had not cured him but had helped him very much; and that, finally, by his own wish and owing to a certain new circumstance, he had now sent him to Russia.
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 notbacking 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 dishonorin 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 ..."