“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* 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.
- Little miss.
“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
