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The three Poles were tremendously excited and were continually shouting at him: "The pan is a lajdak!" and muttering threats in Polish. Sonia had been listening with strained attention, though she too seemed unable to grasp it all; she seemed as though she had just returned to consciousness. She did not take her eyes off Raskolnikov, feeling that all her safety lay in him.
“Leave off laughing at Poland,” said Kalganov sententiously. He too was drunk. “Be quiet, boy! If I call him a scoundrel, it doesn’t mean that I called all Poland so. One lajdak doesn’t make a Poland. Be quiet, my pretty boy, eat a sweetmeat.” “Ach, what fellows! As though they were not men. Why won’t they make friends?” said Grushenka, and went forward to dance.
“I see: he heard I had money, and came here to marry me!” “Pani Agrippina!” cried the little Pole. “I’m—a knight, I’m—a nobleman, and not a lajdak. I came here to make you my wife and I find you a different woman, perverse and shameless.” “Oh, go back where you came from!
Tell them I’m going to dance. Let them look on, too....” Mitya walked with a drunken swagger to the locked door, and began knocking to the Poles with his fist. “Hi, you ... Podvysotskys! Come, she’s going to dance. She calls you.” “Lajdak!” one of the Poles shouted in reply. “You’re a lajdak yourself! You’re a little scoundrel, that’s what you are.”
“The pan is a lajdak!” the tall Pole on the chair growled suddenly and crossed one leg over the other. Mitya’s eye was caught by his huge greased boot, with its thick, dirty sole. The dress of both the Poles looked rather greasy. “Well, now it’s lajdak! What’s he scolding about?” said Grushenka, suddenly vexed.
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