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You know, Vanya,” said the old man, more and more carried away by enthusiasm, “it’s a career, though it’s not the service. Even the highest in the land will read it. Here you tell me Gogol receives a yearly allowance and was sent abroad. What if it were the same with you, eh? Or is it too soon? Must you write something more? Then write it, my boy, write it as quick as possible. Don’t rest on your laurels. What hinders you?”
And he said this with such an air of conviction, with such good nature that I could not pluck up resolution to stop him and throw cold water on his fancies.
“Or they may be giving you a snuff-box directly, mayn’t they? Why not? They want to encourage you. And who knows, maybe you’ll be presented at court,” he added in a half whisper, screwing up his left eye with a significant air — “ or not? Is it too soon for the court?”
“The court, indeed!” said Anna Andreyevna with an offended air.
“In another minute you’ll be making me a general,” I answered, laughing heartily.
The old man laughed too. He was exceedingly pleased.
“Your excellency, won’t you have something to eat?” cried Natasha playfully. — she had meantime been getting supper for us.
She laughed, ran to her father and flung her warm arms round him.
“Dear, kind daddy!”
The old man was moved,
“Well, well, that’s all right! I speak in the simplicity of my heart. General or no general, come to supper. Ah, you sentimental girl!” he added, patting his Natasha on her flushed cheek, as he was fond of doing on every convenient occasion. “I spoke because I love you, Vanya, you know. But even if not a general (far from it!) you’re a distinguished man, an author.”