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“Do you know, that’s the truth, he’s not lying now,” exclaimed Kalganov, turning to Mitya; “and do you know, he’s been married twice; it’s his first wife he’s talking about. But his second wife, do you know, ran away, and is alive now.” “Is it possible?” said Mitya, turning quickly to Maximov with an expression of the utmost astonishment. “Yes. She did run away.
If he used Russian words, he always distorted them into a Polish form. “But I was married to a Polish lady myself,” tittered Maximov. “But did you serve in the cavalry? You were talking about the cavalry. Were you a cavalry officer?” put in Kalganov at once. “Was he a cavalry officer indeed?
Rakitin, of course, was a person of too little consequence to be invited to the dinner, to which Father Iosif, Father Païssy, and one other monk were the only inmates of the monastery invited. They were already waiting when Miüsov, Kalganov, and Ivan arrived. The other guest, Maximov, stood a little aside, waiting also. The Father Superior stepped into the middle of the room to receive his guests.
To Nikolay Parfenovitch’s direct question, had he noticed how much money Dmitri Fyodorovitch held in his hand, as he must have been able to see the sum better than any one when he took the note from him, Maximov, in the most positive manner, declared that there was twenty thousand. “Have you ever seen so much as twenty thousand before, then?” inquired Nikolay Parfenovitch, with a smile.
The monk, with an extremely courteous, profound bow, announced: “The Father Superior invites all of you gentlemen to dine with him after your visit to the hermitage. At one o’clock, not later. And you also,” he added, addressing Maximov.
“I’m sorry.... Forgive me....” “The lady’s been drinking. The pretty lady has been drinking,” voices were heard saying. “The lady’s drunk too much,” Maximov explained to the girls, giggling. “Mitya, lead me away ... take me,” said Grushenka helplessly. Mitya pounced on her, snatched her up in his arms, and carried the precious burden through the curtains.
Kalganov did not want to drink, and at first did not care for the girls’ singing; but after he had drunk a couple of glasses of champagne he became extraordinarily lively, strolling about the room, laughing and praising the music and the songs, admiring every one and everything. Maximov, blissfully drunk, never left his side. Grushenka, too, was beginning to get drunk.
People can thrash a man for anything,” Maximov concluded, briefly and sententiously. “Eh, that’s enough! That’s all stupid, I don’t want to listen. I thought it would be amusing,” Grushenka cut them short, suddenly. Mitya started, and at once left off laughing.
They’ve broken out from the Father Superior’s. And look, Father Isidor’s shouting out something after them from the steps. And your father’s shouting and waving his arms. I expect he’s swearing. Bah, and there goes Miüsov driving away in his carriage. You see, he’s going. And there’s old Maximov running!—there must have been a row. There can’t have been any dinner.
“Pour out some for us,” said Grushenka; “I’ll drink to Russia, too!” “So will I,” said Kalganov. “And I would, too ... to Russia, the old grandmother!” tittered Maximov. “All! All!” cried Mitya. “Trifon Borissovitch, some more bottles!” The other three bottles Mitya had brought with him were put on the table. Mitya filled the glasses. “To Russia! Hurrah!” he shouted again.
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