Yes, Sappho and Phaon are we!
But one grief is weighing on me.
You don't know your way to the sea!
"They were still more offended and began abusing me in the most unseemly way for it. And as ill-luck would have it, to set things right, I began telling a very cultivated anecdote about Piron, how he was not accepted into the French Academy, and to revenge himself wrote his own epitaph:
Ci-git Piron qui ne fut rien,
Pas meme academicien,*
* Here lies Piron, who was nothing, not even an Academician.
They seized me and thrashed me."
"But what for? What for?"
"For my education. 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. The tall Pole rose upon his feet, and with the haughty air of a man, bored and out of his element, began pacing from corner to corner of the room, his hands behind his back.
"Ah, he can't sit still," said Grushenka, looking at him contemptuously. Mitya began to feel anxious. He noticed besides, that the Pole on the sofa was looking at him with an irritable expression.
"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? 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, raisin, 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!"
"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. 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.
"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 quarrelling!" cried Grushenka imperiously, and she stamped her foot on the floor. Her face glowed, her eyes were shining. 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.
Everyone sat down, all were silent, looking at one another.
"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!" Kalgonov mumbled lazily.
"Let's play faro again, as we did just now," Maximov tittered suddenly.
"Faro? Splendid!" cried Mitya. "If only the panovie-"
"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. Before came, Mitya, they were just as silent and kept turning up their noses at me."
"My goddess!" cried the Pole on the sofa, "I see you're not well-disposed to me, that's why I'm gloomy. I'm ready, panie," added he, addressing Mitya.
"Begin, panie," Mitya assented, pulling his notes out of his pocket, and laying two hundred-rouble notes on the table. "I want to lose a lot to you. Take your cards. Make the bank."
"We'll have cards from the landlord, panie," said the little Pole, gravely and emphatically.
"That's much the best way," chimed in Pan Vrublevsky.
"From the landlord? Very good, I understand, let's get them from him. Cards!" Mitya shouted to the landlord.
The landlord brought in a new, unopened pack, and informed Mitya that the girls were getting ready, and that the Jews with the cymbals would most likely be here soon; but the cart with the provisions had not yet arrived. Mitya jumped up from the table and ran into the next room to give orders, but only three girls had arrived, and Marya was not there yet. And he did not know himself what orders to give and why he had run out. He only told them to take out of the box the presents for the girls, the sweets, the toffee and the fondants. "And vodka for Andrey, vodka for Andrey!" he cried in haste. "I was rude to Andrey!"
Suddenly Maximov, who had followed him out, touched him on the shoulder.
"Give me five roubles," he whispered to Mitya. "I'll stake something at faro, too, he he!"
"Capital! Splendid! Take ten, here!"
Again he took all the notes out of his pocket and picked out one for ten roubles. "And if you lose that, come again, come again."
"Very good," Maximov whispered joyfully, and he ran back again. Mitya, too, returned, apologising for having kept them waiting. The Poles had already sat down, and opened the pack. They looked much more amiable, almost cordial. The Pole on the sofa had lighted another pipe and was preparing to throw. He wore an air of solemnity.
"To your places, gentlemen," cried Pan Vrublevsky.
"No, I'm not going to play any more," observed Kalganov, "I've lost fifty roubles to them just now."
"The pan had no luck, perhaps he'll be lucky this time," the Pole on the sofa observed in his direction.
"How much in the bank? To correspond?" asked Mitya.
"That's according, panie, maybe a hundred, maybe two hundred, as much as you will stake." "A million!" laughed Mitya.
"The Pan Captain has heard of Pan Podvysotsky, perhaps?"
"What Podvysotsky?"
"In Warsaw there was a bank and anyone comes and stakes against it. Podvysotsky comes, sees a thousand gold pieces, stakes against the bank. The banker says, 'Panie Podvysotsky, are you laying down the gold, or must we trust to your honour?' 'To my honour, panie,' says Podvysotsky. 'So much the better.' The banker throws the dice. Podvysotsky wins. 'Take it, panie,' says the banker, and pulling out the drawer he gives him a million. 'Take it, panie, this is your gain.' There was a million in the bank. 'I didn't know that,' says Podvysotsky. 'Panie Podvysotsky,' said the banker, 'you pledged your honour and we pledged ours.' Podvysotsky took the million."
"That's not true," said Kalganov.
"Panie Kalganov, in gentlemanly society one doesn't say such things."
"As if a Polish gambler would give away a million!" cried Mitya, but checked himself at once. "Forgive me, panie, it's my fault again; he would, he would give away a million, for honour, for Polish honour. You see how
I talk Polish, ha ha! Here, I stake ten roubles, the knave leads."
"And I put a rouble on the queen, the queen of hearts, the pretty little panienotchka [11] he! he!" laughed Maximov, pulling out his queen, and, as though trying to conceal it from everyone, he moved right up and crossed himself hurriedly under the table. Mitya won. The rouble won, too. "A corner!" cried Mitya. "I'll bet another rouble, a 'single' stake," Maximov muttered gleefully, hugely delighted at having won a rouble. "Lost!" shouted Mitya. "A 'double' on the seven!" The seven too was trumped. "Stop!" cried Kalganov suddenly. "Double! Double!" Mitya doubled his stakes, and each time he doubled the stake, the card he doubled was trumped by the Poles. The rouble stakes kept winning. "On the double!" shouted Mitya furiously. "You've lost two hundred, panie. Will you stake another hundred?" the Pole on the sofa inquired. "What? Lost two hundred already? Then another two hundred! All doubles!" And pulling his money out of his pocket, Mitya was about to fling two hundred roubles on the queen, but Kalgonov covered it with his hand. "That's enough!" he shouted in his ringing voice. "What's the matter?" Mitya stared at him. "That's enough! I don't want you to play anymore. Don't!" "Why?" "Because I don't. Hang it, come away. That's why. I won't let you go on playing." Mitya gazed at him in astonishment. "Give it up, Mitya. He may be right. You've lost a lot as it is," said Grushenka, with a curious note in her voice. Both the Poles rose from their seats with a deeply offended air. "Are you joking, panie?" said the short man, looking severely at Kalganov. "How dare you!" Pan Vrublevsky, too, growled at Kalganov. "Don't dare to shout like that," cried Grushenka. "Ah, you turkey-cocks!" Mitya looked at each of them in turn. But something in Grushenka's face suddenly struck him, and at the same instant something new flashed into his mind- a strange new thought! "Pani Agrippina," the little Pole was beginning, crimson with anger, when Mitya suddenly went up to him and slapped him on the shoulder. "Most illustrious, two words with you."cried Grushenka. "What do you want?" "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!" "Where are you going?" asked Grushenka, anxiously. "We'll be back in one moment," answered Mitya. There was a sort of boldness, a sudden confidence shining in his eyes. His face had looked very different when he entered the room an hour before. He led the Poles, not into the large room where the chorus of girls was assembling and the table was being laid, but into the bedroom on the right, where the trunks and packages were kept, and there were two large beds, with pyramids of cotton pillows on each. There was a lighted candle on a small deal table in the corner. The small man and Mitya sat down to this table, facing each other, while the huge Vrublevsky stood beside them, his hands behind his back. The Poles looked severe but were evidently inquisitive. "What can I do for you, panie?" lisped the little Pole. "Well, look here, panie, I won't keep you long. There's money for you," he pulled out his notes. "Would you like three thousand? 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. Here's the door, you go out of it. What have you got there, a great-coat, a fur coat? I'll bring it out to you. They'll get the horses out directly, and then-good-bye, panie!" Mitya awaited an answer with assurance. He had no doubts. An expression of extraordinary resolution passed over the Pole's face. "And the money, panie?" "The money, panie? Five hundred roubles I'll give you this moment for the journey, and as a first instalment, and two thousand five hundred to-morrow, in the town- I swear on my honour, I'll get it, I'll get it at any cost!" cried Mitya. The Poles exchanged glances again. The short man's face looked more forbidding. "Seven hundred, seven hundred, not five hundred, at once, this minute, cash down!" Mitya added, feeling something wrong. "What's the matter, panie? Don't you trust me? I can't give you the whole three thousand straight off. If I give it, you may come back to her to-morrow… . Besides, I haven't the three thousand with me. I've got it at home in the town," faltered Mitya, his spirit sinking at every word he uttered. "Upon my word, the money's there, hidden." In an instant an extraordinary sense of personal dignity showed itself in the little man's face. "What next?" he asked ironically. "For shame!" and he spat on the floor. Pan Vrublevsky spat too. "You do that, panie," said Mitya, recognising with despair that all was over, "because you hope to make more out of Grushenka? You're a couple of capons, that's what you are!" "This is a mortal insult!" The little Pole turned as red as a crab, and he went out of the room, briskly, as though unwilling to hear another word. Vrublevsky swung out after him, and Mitya followed, confused and crestfallen. He was afraid of Grushenka, afraid that the Pan would at once raise an outcry. And so indeed he did. The Pole walked into the room and threw himself in a theatrical attitude before Grushenka. "Pani Agrippina, I have received a mortal insult!" he exclaimed. But Grushenka suddenly lost all patience, as though they had wounded her in the tenderest spot. "Speak Russian! Speak Russian!" she cried, "not another word of Polish! You used to talk Russian. You can't have forgotten it in five years." She was red with passion. "Pani Agrippina-" "My name's Agrafena, Grushenka, speak Russian or I won't listen!" The Pole gasped with offended dignity, and quickly and pompously delivered himself in broken Russian: "Pani Agrafena, I came here to forget the past and forgive it, to forget all that has happened till to-day-" "Forgive? Came here to forgive me?" Grushenka cut him short, jumping up from her seat. "Just so, Pani, I'm not pusillanimous, I'm magnanimous. But I was astounded when I saw your lovers. Pan Mitya offered me three thousand, in the other room to depart. I spat in the pan's face." "What? He offered you money for me?" cried Grushenka, hysterically. "Is it true, Mitya? How dare you? Am I for sale?" "Panie, panie!" yelled Mitya, "she's pure and shining, and I have never been her lover! That's a lie… " "How dare you defend me to him?" shrieked Grushenka. "It wasn't virtue kept me pure, and it wasn't that I was afraid of Kuzma, but that I might hold up my head when I met him, and tell him he's a scoundrel. And he did actually refuse the money?" "He took it! He took it!" cried Mitya; "only he wanted to get the whole three thousand at once, and I could only give him seven hundred straight off." "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! I'll tell them to turn you out and you'll be turned out," cried Grushenka, furious. "I've been a fool, a fool, to have been miserable these five years! And it wasn't for his sake, it was my anger made me miserable. And this isn't he at all! Was he like this? It might be his father! Where did you get your wig from? He was a falcon, but this is a gander. He used to laugh and sing to me… . And I've been crying for five years, damned fool, abject, shameless I was! She sank back in her low chair and hid her face in her hands. At that instant the chorus of Mokroe began singing in the room on the left- a rollicking dance song. "A regular Sodom!" Vrublevsky roared suddenly. "Landlord, send the shameless hussies away!" The landlord, who had been for some time past inquisitively peeping in at the door, hearing shouts and guessing that his guests were quarrelling, at once entered the room. "What are you shouting for? D'you want to split your throat?" he said, addressing Vrublevsky, with surprising rudeness. "Animal!" bellowed Pan Vrublevsky. "Animal? And what sort of cards were you playing with just now? I gave you a pack and you hid it. You played with marked cards! I could send you to Siberia for playing with false cards, d'you know that, for it's just the same as false banknotes… And going up to the sofa he thrust his fingers between the sofa back and the cushion, and pulled out an unopened pack of cards. "Here's
my pack unopened!" He held it up and showed it to all in the room. "From where I stood I saw him slip my pack away, and put his in place of it- you're a cheat and not a gentleman!" "And I twice saw the pan change a card!" cried Kalganov. "How shameful! How shameful!" exclaimed Grushenka, clasping her hands, and blushing for genuine shame. "Good Lord, he's come to that!" "I thought so, too!" said Mitya. But before he had uttered the words, Vrublevsky, with a confused and infuriated face, shook his fist at Grushenka, shouting: "You low harlot!" Mitya flew at him at once, clutched him in both hands, lifted him in the air, and in one instant had carried him into the room on the right, from which they had just come. "I've laid him on the floor, there," he announced, returning at once, gasping with excitement. "He's struggling, the scoundrel! But he won't come back, no fear of that!… " He closed one half of the folding doors, and holding the other ajar called out to the little Pole: "Most illustrious, will you please to retire as well?" "My dear Dmitri Fyodorovitch," said Trifon Borissovitch, "make them give you back the money you lost. It's as good as stolen from you." "I don't want my fifty roubles back," Kalgonov declared suddenly. "I don't want my two hundred, either," cried Mitya, "I wouldn't take it for anything! Let him keep it as a consolation." "Bravo, Mitya! You're a trump, Mitya!" cried Grushenka, and there was a note of fierce anger in the exclamation. The little pan, crimson with fury but still mindful of his dignity, was making for the door, but he stopped short and said suddenly, addressing Grushenka: "Pani, if you want to come with me, come. If not, good-bye." And swelling with indignation and importance he went to the door. This was a man of character: he had so good an opinion of himself that after all that had passed, he still expected that she would marry him. Mitya slammed the door after him. "Lock it," said Kalganov. But the key clicked on the other side, they had locked it from within. "That's capital!" exclaimed Grushenka relentlessly. "Serve them right!"
Chapter 8 Delirium
Poor Folk Anthology Page 395