The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  ‘To Russia, hurrah!’ he proposed again. All except the Polish gentlemen drank up, and Grushenka drained her glass in one gulp. The Polish gentlemen did not even touch their glasses.

  ‘What’s the matter, panowie?’ exclaimed Mitya. ‘What’s up?’

  Mr Wrublewski took his glass, raised it, and said in a booming voice:

  ‘To Russia, inside her pre-1772 borders!’*

  ‘Oto bardzo pięknie!’ (That’s better!) shouted the other Pole, and they both drained their glasses in one gulp.

  ‘You’re just a couple of fools, panowie!’ Mitya blurted out before he could check himself.

  ‘I beg your pardon!’ both the Poles shouted menacingly, confronting Mitya like a pair of turkeycocks. Mr Wrublewski was particularly agitated.

  ‘Ale nie można nie mieć słabosci do swojego kraju?’ (Why shouldn’t one love one’s country?) he vociferated.

  ‘Shut up!’ shouted Grushenka imperiously, and stamped her foot on the floor. ‘No quarrelling! I won’t have any quarrels.’ Her face was flushed and her eyes glinted. The wine was beginning to have an effect on her. Mitya became really worried.

  ‘Panowie, I’m sorry! It’s all my fault, I won’t do it again. Wrublewski, Pan Wrublewski, really I won’t!…’

  ‘I do wish you’d keep quiet,’ Grushenka snapped at him in exasperation, ‘why don’t you sit down, you’re so silly!’

  They all sat down, fell silent, and looked at one another.

  ‘Gentlemen, it’s all my fault!’ Mitya began once more, quite missing the sting in Grushenka’s remark. ‘Aren’t you bored just sitting here? Why don’t we do something… to cheer us all up, to cheer us all up again.’

  ‘True enough, it is unspeakably boring,’ Kalganov drawled.

  ‘A game of cards wouldn’t be a bad idea, like the other time…’ chortled Maksimov.

  ‘Cards? Splendid!’ echoed Mitya, ‘provided the panowie…’

  ‘Późno, panie!’ (It is late, sir!) the Polish gentleman on the settee responded reluctantly.

  ‘You right,’ agreed Mr Wrublewski.

  ‘ “Puzno”? What does “puzno” mean?’ asked Grushenka.

  ‘Means late, pani, late, late in day,’ explained the gentleman on the settee.

  ‘It’s always late for them, there’s always something the matter!’ Grushenka almost shrieked with exasperation. ‘They’re bored to death themselves, so they want others to be bored too. Before you arrived, Mitya, neither of them would say a word, just put on airs in front of me…’

  ‘Goddess!’ cried the gentleman on the settee, ‘co mówisz to sięstanie (everything shall be as you say). Widzę niełaskę, i jestem smutny (I can see you’re displeased, that’s why I’m sad). festem gotów, panie’ (I’m ready, sir), he concluded, turning to Mitya.

  ‘You start, pan!’ replied Mitya, pulling out the banknotes from his pocket, and laying two one-hundred rouble notes on the table. ‘I want you to win a lot of money from me, pan. Take the cards and deal!’

  ‘Landlord’s cards, if you please, pan,’ said the short gentleman firmly and seriously.

  ‘To najlepszy sposób’ (That’s the best way), said Mr Wrublewski approvingly.

  ‘The landlord’s? All right, I understand, the landlord’s they shall be! Good idea, panowie! Cards!’ Mitya commanded the landlord.

  The landlord brought a sealed pack of cards and announced to Mitya that the gypsy girls had just arrived, that the Jews with the dulcimer would probably also be there soon, but that the troika with the food and drink had not yet turned up. Mitya jumped to his feet and ran into the next room to issue instructions. But only three girls had arrived so far, and Marya was not among them. Besides, he himself did not know what instructions he should give or why he had rushed out; he merely ordered that the girls be given boiled sweets and toffees from the box. ‘And some vodka for Andrei, give him some vodka!’ he ordered hastily. ‘I offended him!’ Suddenly Maksimov, who had followed him, touched him on the shoulder.

  ‘Let me have five roubles,’ he whispered to Mitya, ‘I’d like to make a little bet too, he-he!’

  ‘Wonderful, splendid! Here you are, have ten!’ He pulled out the wad of notes from his pocket again and found ten roubles. ‘And if you lose, just ask for more…’

  ‘That I will, sir,’ Maksimov gasped with excitement and hurried back. Mitya too returned at once and apologized for having kept everybody waiting. The Polish gentlemen were already seated, and the pack had been opened. Their expressions were now a great deal more good-humoured, almost amiable. The gentleman on the settee lit himself a fresh pipe and made ready to deal; his face took on a look of solemnity.

  ‘Na miejsca, panowie!’ (Take your seats, gentlemen) called out Mr Wrublewski.

  ‘I don’t want to play any more,’ Kalganov responded, ‘I already lost fifty roubles to them earlier on.’

  ‘Pan był nieszczęśliwy (The gentleman was unlucky). Pan perhaps have better luck this time,’ remarked the gentleman on the settee.

  ‘How much is in the bank? What are the stakes?’ Mitya’s impatience was beginning to get the better of him.

  ‘Beg pardon, pan, hundred or two hundred, what you stake.’

  ‘A million!’ Mitya burst out laughing.

  ‘Perhaps the Pan Captain heard of Pan Podwysocki?’

  ‘What Podwysocki?’

  ‘In Warsaw, bank holds all bets and anyone can make a stake. Comes Podwysocki, sees thousand zlotys, and bets all. Banker says to him, “Pan Podwysocki, you betting with gold or you betting on your word?” “My word of honour, pan,” says Pan Podwysocki. “Is much better, pan.” Banker deals cards, Podwysocki takes thousand zlotys. “Wait a minute, pan,” says banker, and he pulls out a drawer and gives him million. “Take this, panie, oto jest twoj rachunek!” (here’s your winnings). There was million in bank. “I had not idea,” says Pan Podwysocki. “Pan Podwysocki,” says banker, “you bet on word of honour, and we bet on word of honour.” Podwysocki took million.

  ‘That’s not true,’ said Kalganov.

  ‘Panie Kalganov, w szlachetnej kompanii tak móvić nie przystoi’ (Mr Kalganov, you don’t contradict someone in polite company).

  ‘I’d like to see a Polish gambler give away a million!’ exclaimed Mitya, but stopped dead. ‘Sorry, panie, I really didn’t mean it, he’d pay up, he’d pay up a million, on his honour, on his polsky honour he would! How do you like my Polish, ha-ha! Here, ten roubles on the jack.’

  ‘And I’ll stick my little rouble on the queenie, the pretty red one, the Polish missy, he-he!’ giggled Maksimov, pushing forward his queen. Then, leaning right down to the table, as though attempting to conceal his action from everyone, he crossed himself hastily. Mitya won. So did Maksimov’s rouble.

  ‘Same again!’ shouted Mitya.

  ‘And I’ll bet one more little rouble again, one little, itsy-bitsy roubly-woubly,’ mumbled Maksimov blissfully, overjoyed that his little rouble had won.

  ‘Lost!’ yelled Mitya. ‘Double on seven!’

  He lost again.

  ‘Stop!’ said Kalganov suddenly.

  ‘Double again, double.’ Mitya kept doubling the stakes, and each time he did so, he lost. But the little ‘roubly-woubly’ went on winning.

  ‘Double!’ Mitya yelled in a rage.

  ‘Dwieście przegrałeś, panie. feszce stawisz dwieście?’ (You’ve lost two hundred, sir. Are you staking another two hundred?) enquired the gentleman on the settee.

  ‘What, I’ve lost two hundred? So what, here’s another two hundred! The whole two hundred, double or quits!’ and, pulling the money out from his pocket, he was about to put it on the queen, when Kalganov suddenly covered it with his hand.

  ‘Enough!’ he called out in a ringing voice.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ Mitya stared at him.

  ‘That’s enough, I don’t want you to! You’re not to play any more.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just because. Cut your losses and leave, that’s wha
t I’m telling you. I won’t let you play any more!’

  Mitya stared at him in astonishment.

  ‘Don’t, Mitya, perhaps he’s right; you’ve already lost a lot as it is,’ said Grushenka, with a strange note in her voice. Both Polish gentlemen suddenly rose to their feet, looking very offended.

  ‘Zartuyesz, panie?’ (You’re joking, sir?) said the little gentleman, staring hard at Kalganov.

  ‘fak się odważasz to robić, panie!’ (How dare you!) Mr Wrublewski also yelled at Kalganov.

  ‘Stop it, stop shouting!’ cried Grushenka. ‘Just look at them, the turkeycocks!’

  Mitya looked at each of them in turn; suddenly, something about Grushenka’s face struck him, and at the same instant an altogether new thought flashed through his mind.

  ‘Pani Agrippina!’ the little gentleman was about to launch forth, all hot and flustered, when Mitya suddenly came up to him and slapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Your High-and-Mightiness, a couple of words in your ear.’

  ‘Czego chcesz, panie?’ (What can I do for you, sir?)

  ‘Let’s go to the other room, over there, I want a couple of words with you, something to your advantage, you won’t be disappointed.’

  The little gentleman was surprised, and he looked apprehensively at Mitya. He agreed immediately, however, on the sole condition that Mr Wrublewski should accompany him.

  ‘Your bodyguard, is that it?’ exclaimed Mitya. ‘Yes, let him come too if he wants, we need him also! In fact, we can’t do without him! Let’s go, gentlemen!’

  ‘Where are you off to?’ asked Grushenka anxiously.

  ‘We’ll be back in just a minute,’ replied Mitya. His face expressed courage, an unexpected vitality; when he made his entry an hour before, he had looked altogether different. He took the Polish gentlemen into the room on the right, not into the large one where the gypsy-girl chorus was assembling and where the table was being laid, but into a bedroom containing trunks and travelling-cases and two large beds with a stack of pillows in chintz pillowcases on each. Here, on a small deal table in the far corner, a candle was burning. The little gentleman and Mitya settled themselves at this table, facing each other, while the huge Mr Wrublewski stood to one side, with his hands folded behind his back. The gentlemen looked stern, but noticeably curious.

  ‘Czym mogę służyć panu?’ (What can I do for you, sir?) muttered the little gentleman.

  ‘Here’s what, panie, I’ll keep it short: take this money,’ he pulled out his banknotes, ‘there’s three thousand there, just take it and clear off.’

  The gentleman looked at him enquiringly; his eyes seemed to bore into Mitya.

  ‘Trzy tysice, panie?’ (Three thousand, sir?) He exchanged glances with Wrublewski.

  ‘“Trzy, panowie, trzy”! (Three, gentlemen, three!) Listen, pan, I can see you’re a sensible man. Take the three thousand and get the hell out of here, and take Wrublewski with you—do you hear me? But at once, this very instant, do you understand, pan, there’s the door. What have you got in there—a coat, a fur coat? I’ll bring it out to you. They’ll harness a troika for you straight away and—do widzenia, panie! (Goodbye!) Well, what do you say?’

  Mitya waited confidently for an answer. He was sure of himself. A look of resolution flashed across the Pole’s face.

  ‘A ruble, panie?’ (What about the roubles?)

  ‘Roubles, pan?’ Mitya enquired. ‘Five hundred immediately as a deposit and payment for the coach, and two thousand five hundred tomorrow, in the town—on my honour, you’ll get them if I have to dig them out of the ground!’

  The Poles glanced at each other again. The little gentleman began to scowl.

  ‘Seven hundred; seven hundred now, not five hundred, cash in hand!’ Mitya raised the offer, sensing something untoward. ‘What’s up, pan? Don’t you believe me? You can’t expect me to give you the whole three thousand at once! If I give it to you, how do I know you’re not going to come back to her the very next day… Anyway, I haven’t got the three thousand on me just now, it’s at home in the town,’ Mitya prattled on with a sinking heart, his hopes ebbing with every word, ‘honest to God, it’s there, hidden away…’

  In a trice, the little gentleman’s face began to glow with dignity.

  ‘Czy nie potrzebujesz jeszcze czego?’ (You haven’t got any more requests, have you?) he enquired ironically. ‘Pff! Pff! Shame to you!’ And he spat in disgust. Mr Wrublewski did likewise.

  ‘Is it that you’re not satisfied, pan,’ said Mitya despairingly, realizing it was all up, ‘because you expect to get more out of Grushenka? You’re a couple of rogues, that’s what you are!’

  ‘festem do żywego dotknięty!’ (I am most grievously offended!) The little gentleman suddenly went as red as a beetroot and, apparently not wishing to hear another word, strutted out of the room in a state of extreme indignation. He was followed by Mr Wrublewski, swaying from side to side, and finally by Mitya, confused and disheartened. He was afraid for Grushenka, and he expected the Pole to start shouting. And that is exactly what happened. The Pole came into the room and adopted a theatrical pose in front of Grushenka.

  ‘Pani Agrippina, jestem do żywego dotknięty!’ (I’m cut to the quick!) he exploded, but Grushenka suddenly seemed to lose all patience, as though she had been touched on a raw nerve.

  ‘In Russian, speak Russian!’ she yelled at him. ‘I don’t want to hear a word of Polish! Your Russian was good enough then, you couldn’t have forgotten it in five years!’ Her face was red with rage.

  ‘Pani Agrippina…’

  ‘I’m Agrafena, I’m Grushenka; speak Russian, otherwise I’m not going to listen!’ The Pole began to puff with pride and, in broken Russian, said quickly and pompously:

  ‘Miss Agrafena, I came forgive and forget past, forgetting what happen before today…’

  ‘What do you mean “forgive”?’ Grushenka interrupted him, jumping to her feet. ‘You came to forgive me?’

  ‘Tak jest, pani’ (That’s right, my lady), I’m not coward, I am brave man. But I byłem zdziwiony (was surprised) when I saw your lovers. Pan Mitya offered me trzy tysice (three thousand) in that pokoju (room) to bribe me to leave. I spit in the pan’s visage.’

  ‘What? He offered you money for me?’ Grushenka yelled out hysterically. ‘Is that true, Mitya? How could you! Am I to be bought and sold?’

  ‘Panie, gentlemen,’ protested Mitya, ‘she’s pure and spotless, and I’ve never been her lover! It’s a lie…’

  ‘Don’t you dare defend me before him,’ shrieked Grushenka, ‘it was not because of virtue that I was pure, nor because I was afraid of Kuzma, but so I could keep my pride in front of him, so I could call him a scoundrel when I met him again. Has he really not accepted any money from you?’

  ‘He was going to, of course he was!’ exclaimed Mitya. ‘Only he wanted the whole three thousand at once, and I was only going to give him seven hundred in advance.’

  ‘Well, it’s pretty clear now: he heard I’d got money, that’s why he came to offer marriage!’

  ‘Pani Agrippina,’ cried the Pole, ‘I am chevalier, szlachcic,* I am not scoundrel! I przybył (came) to take you for wife, but I see different pani, not like formerly, uparty i bez wstydu (wilful and shameless).

  ‘Well then, go back to where you came from! If you’re not careful I’ll tell them to throw you out, and they will!’ shouted Grushenka, at the end of her tether. ‘What a fool, what a fool I’ve been to torture myself for five years! And it wasn’t really because of him that I tortured myself, I tortured myself out of spite! No, this can’t be him! He wasn’t like this at all! You’d think this one was his father! Where did you get that hairpiece from? That one was a hero, this one’s just nothing. That one laughed and sang songs to me… And there was I, crying my eyes out for five years, what a damned fool, I’m contemptible, I’ve made myself look ridiculous!’

  She slumped into her chair and buried her face in her hands. At this moment the Mokroye gypsy
girls, who had finally assembled, struck up a song in the room on the left—a lively dance-tune.

  ‘This is Sodom!’ Mr Wrublewski let out a roar. ‘Landlord, get rid of shameless ones!’

  The landlord, who had been standing near the door for some time shooting curious glances at them, heard the cries and, realizing that the guests had begun to quarrel, promptly entered the room.

  ‘What are you yelling blue murder for?’ he turned on Wrublewski with quite astonishing impoliteness.

  ‘Pig!’ yelled Mr Wrublewski.

  ‘Pig? What cards did you use to play with just now? I gave you a pack, but you hid it! You were using marked cards! I could have you sent to Siberia for card-sharping, do you know that, because it’s the same as forging money…’ And, going up to the settee, he thrust his hand between the backrest and a cushion and retrieved a still-sealed pack of cards.

  ‘Here’s my pack, unopened!’ He raised it for all to see. ‘From where I stood I saw him shove my pack down behind the cushion and substitute his own—you’re a cheat, not a gentleman!’

  ‘And I saw him cheat twice,’ cried Kalganov.

  ‘Oh, what a disgrace, oh, what a disgrace!’ exclaimed Grushenka, clasping her hands and genuinely blushing with shame. ‘Lord, how he’s changed!’

  ‘I had my suspicions,’ cried Mitya. But hardly had he spoken than Mr Wrublewski, embarrassed and enraged, turned to Grushenka and, threatening her with his fist, yelled out:

  ‘Common trollop!’

  Scarcely had he uttered the words, than Mitya pounced on him, seized him bodily, lifted him into the air, and, in a trice, carried him into the room on the right, where he had been with the two of them just before.

  He came straight back, puffing, and announced, ‘I’ve put him on the floor in there! He struggled, the dirty dog, but he won’t bother us again!…’ He shut one of the double doors and, holding the other open, called across to the little gentleman:

  ‘You wouldn’t like to go in there, too, Your High-and-Mightiness, would you? Przepraszam!’ (This way, sir, please!)

  ‘My dear Dmitry Fyodorovich,’ wailed Trifon Borisych, ‘why don’t you take the money from them, the money you lost to them! They might just as well have stolen it from you.’