"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. It's very possible he'll take to his bed again during his first days in Petersburg, especially if he goes on a spree."
"So? It seemed so to you?" the general latched on to this idea.
"Yes, it did."
"And, anyhow, that kind of anecdote needn't take several days. Something may turn up even today, this same evening," Ganya smiled to the general.
"Hm! . . . Of course ... So it may, and then it all depends on what flashes through her head," said the general.
"And you know how she can be sometimes?"
"How do you mean?" the general, who by now was extremely disturbed, heaved himself up. "Listen, Ganya, please don't contradict her too much tonight, and try, you know, to ... in short, to humor . . . Hm! . . . Why are you twisting your mouth like that? Listen, Gavrila Ardalionych, it would be opportune, even very opportune, to say now: what's all this fuss about? You see, concerning the profit that's in it for me, I've long been secure; one way or another I'll turn it to my benefit. Totsky's decision is firm, and so I, too, am completely assured. And therefore, if there's anything I wish for now, it's your benefit. Judge for yourself—or don't you trust me? Besides, you're a man ... a man ... in short, a man of intelligence, and I've been counting on you . . . and in the present case that is . . . that is . . ."
"That is the main thing," Ganya finished, again helping out the faltering general, and contorting his lips into a most venomous smile, which he no longer cared to hide. He fixed his inflamed gaze directly on the general's eyes, as if he even wished to read the whole of his thought in them. The general turned purple and flared up.
"Well, yes, intelligence is the main thing!" he agreed, looking sharply at Ganya. "And what a funny man you are, Gavrila Ardalionych! You seem to be glad, I notice, of that little merchant, as a way out for yourself. But here you precisely should have gone by intelligence from the very beginning; here precisely one must understand and . . . and act honestly and directly on both sides, or else . . . give a warning beforehand, so as not to compromise others, the more so as there's been plenty of time for that, and even now there's still plenty of time" (the general raised his eyebrows meaningfully), "though there are only a few hours left . . . Do you understand? Do you? Are you willing or are you not, in fact? If you're not, say so and—you're welcome. Nobody's holding you, Gavrila Ardalionych, nobody's dragging you into a trap by force, if you do see this as a trap."
"I'm willing," Ganya said in a low but firm voice, dropped his eyes, and fell gloomily silent.
The general was satisfied. The general had lost his temper, but now apparently regretted having gone so far. He suddenly turned to the prince, and the uneasy thought that the prince was right there and had heard them seemed to pass over his face. But he instantly felt reassured: one glance at the prince was enough for him to be fully reassured.
"Oho!" cried the general, looking at the calligraphy sample the prince presented. "That's a model hand! And a rare one, too! Look here, Ganya, what talent!"
On the thick sheet of vellum the prince had written a phrase in medieval Russian script:
"The humble hegumen Pafnuty here sets his hand to it."
"This," the prince explained with great pleasure and animation, "this is the actual signature of the hegumen Pafnuty, copied from a fourteenth-century manuscript. They had superb signatures, all those old Russian hegumens and metropolitans, and sometimes so tasteful, so careful! Can it be you don't have Pogodin's book, 16General? Then here I've written in a different script: it's the big, round French script of the last century; some letters are even written
differently; it's a marketplace script, a public scrivener's script, borrowed from their samples (I had one)—you must agree, it's not without virtue. Look at these round d's and a's. I've transposed the French characters into Russian letters, which is very difficult, but it came out well. Here's another beautiful and original script, this phrase here: 'Zeal overcometh all.' 17This is a Russian script—a scrivener's, or military scrivener's, if you wish. It's an example of an official address to an important person, also a rounded script, nice and black,the writing is black, but remarkably tasteful. A calligrapher wouldn't have permitted these flourishes, or, better to say, these attempts at flourishes, these unfinished half-tails here—you notice—but on the whole, you see, it adds up to character, and, really, the whole military scrivener's soul is peeking out of it: he'd like to break loose, his talent yearns for it, but his military collar is tightly hooked, and discipline shows in the writing—lovely! I was recently struck by a sample of it I found—and where? in Switzerland! Now, here is a simple, ordinary English script of the purest sort: elegance can go no further, everything here is lovely, a jewel, a pearl; this is perfection; but here is a variation, again a French one, I borrowed it from a French traveling salesman: this is the same English script, but the black line is slightly blacker and thicker than in the English, and see—the proportion of light is violated; and notice also that the ovals are altered, they're slightly rounder, and what's more, flourishes are permitted, and a flourish is a most dangerous thing! A flourish calls for extraordinary taste; but if it succeeds, if the right proportion is found, a script like this is incomparable, you can even fall in love with it."