The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (easy to read books for adults list .txt) 📕

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 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 greatcoat, 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