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Take it and go your way.” The Pole gazed open-eyed at Mitya, with a searching look. “Three thousand, panie?” He exchanged glances with Vrublevsky. “Three, panovie, three! Listen, panie, I see you’re a sensible man. Take three thousand and go to the devil, and Vrublevsky with you—d’you hear? But, at once, this very minute, and for ever. You understand that, panie, for ever.
All drank the toast except the Poles, and Grushenka tossed off her whole glass at once. The Poles did not touch theirs. “How’s this, panovie?” cried Mitya, “won’t you drink it?” Pan Vrublevsky took the glass, raised it and said with a resonant voice: “To Russia as she was before 1772.” “Come, that’s better!” cried the other Pole, and they both emptied their glasses at once.
“In the next room, I’ve two words to say to you, something pleasant, very pleasant. You’ll be glad to hear it.” The little pan was taken aback and looked apprehensively at Mitya. He agreed at once, however, on condition that Pan Vrublevsky went with them. “The bodyguard? Let him come, and I want him, too. I must have him!” cried Mitya. “March, panovie!”
Drink, most illustrious, take your glass!” Mitya urged. “Pan Vrublevsky,” put in the Pole on the sofa. Pan Vrublevsky came up to the table, swaying as he walked. “To Poland, panovie!” cried Mitya, raising his glass. “Hurrah!” All three drank. Mitya seized the bottle and again poured out three glasses. “Now to Russia, panovie, and let us be brothers!”
“You’re fools, you panovie,” broke suddenly from Mitya. “Panie!” shouted both the Poles, menacingly, setting on Mitya like a couple of cocks. Pan Vrublevsky was specially furious. “Can one help loving one’s own country?” he shouted. “Be silent! Don’t quarrel! I won’t have any quarreling!” cried Grushenka imperiously, and she stamped her foot on the floor. Her face glowed, her eyes were shining.
“Gentlemen, I was the cause of it all,” Mitya began again, unable to make anything of Grushenka’s words. “Come, why are we sitting here? What shall we do ... to amuse ourselves again?” “Ach, it’s certainly anything but amusing!” Kalganov mumbled lazily. “Let’s play faro again, as we did just now,” Maximov tittered suddenly. “Faro? Splendid!” cried Mitya. “If only the panovie—”
The effects of the glass she had just drunk were apparent. Mitya was terribly alarmed. “Panovie, forgive me! It was my fault, I’m sorry. Vrublevsky, panie Vrublevsky, I’m sorry.” “Hold your tongue, you, anyway! Sit down, you stupid!” Grushenka scolded with angry annoyance. Every one sat down, all were silent, looking at one another.
“It’s lite, panovie,” the Pole on the sofa responded, as it were unwillingly. “That’s true,” assented Pan Vrublevsky. “Lite? What do you mean by ‘lite’?” asked Grushenka. “Late, pani! ‘a late hour’ I mean,” the Pole on the sofa explained. “It’s always late with them. They can never do anything!” Grushenka almost shrieked in her anger. “They’re dull themselves, so they want others to be dull.
“Panie!” cried Mitya, “let’s drink! and the other pan, too! Let us drink.” In a flash he had pulled three glasses towards him, and filled them with champagne. “To Poland, panovie, I drink to your Poland!” cried Mitya. “I shall be delighted, panie,” said the Pole on the sofa, with dignity and affable condescension, and he took his glass. “And the other pan, what’s his name?
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