“Send for them, do send for them!” Mitya cried. “And you can wake up the girls like the other time, Maria especially, and Stepanida, Arina. Two hundred roubles for the chorus!”
“For that money I’ll wake up the whole village, though they’ve probably all dropped off by now. But are they worth such pampering, our peasants, or the girls, Dmitri Fyodorovich? To lay out so much for such coarseness and crudeness? It’s not for our peasant to smoke cigars—and you did give them out. They all stink, the bandits. And the girls have lice, every last one of them. Why spend so much? I’ll wake up my daughters for you for nothing, they just went to bed, I’ll kick them in the backside and make them sing for you. Last time you gave the peasants champagne to drink, agh!”
Trifon Borisich had no call to feel sorry for Mitya: he himself had hidden half a dozen bottles of champagne from him last time, and had picked up a hundred-rouble bill from under the table and clutched it in his fist. And in his fist it remained.
“I ran through more than one thousand that time, do you remember, Trifon Borisich?”
“You did, my dear, how could I forget it? Must have been three thousand you left here.”
“So, I’ve come with as much again, do you see?”
And he took out his wad of money and held it right under the innkeeper’s nose.
“Now listen and understand: in an hour the wine will arrive, appetizers, pâté, and candies—send everything upstairs at once. That box in Andrei’s cart should also go upstairs at once, open it and serve the champagne immediately ... And above all, the girls, the girls, and especially Maria...”
He turned back to the cart and took the case with the pistols from under the seat.
“Your pay, Andrei, take it! Fifteen roubles for the troika, and fifty for vodka ... for your willingness, your love ... Remember the honorable Karamazov!”
“I’m afraid, your honor ... ,” Andrei hesitated. “Give me five roubles for a tip, if you like, but I won’t take more. Trifon Borisich, be my witness. Forgive my foolish words ...”
“What are you afraid of?” Mitya looked him up and down. “To hell with you, then!” he cried, tossing him five roubles. “Now, Trifon Borisich, take me in quietly and let me first have a look at them all, so that they don’t notice me. Where are they, in the blue room?”
Trifon Borisich looked warily at Mitya, but at once obediently did as he was told: he carefully led him to the front hall, and himself went into the first large room, adjacent to the one in which the guests were sitting, and removed the candle. Then he quietly led Mitya in and put him in a corner, in the darkness, from where he could freely watch the company without being seen by them. But Mitya did not look for long, and could not simply look: he saw her, and his heart began to pound, his head swam. She was sitting at the end of the table, in an armchair, and next to her, on a sofa, sat Kalganov, a pretty and still very young man; she was holding him by the hand and seemed to be laughing, and he, without looking at her, was saying something loudly, apparently irritably, to Maximov, who sat across the table from Grushenka. Maximov was laughing very much at something. He sat on the sofa, and next to the sofa, on a chair by the wall, was some other stranger. The one on the sofa sat casually, smoking a pipe, and it flashed through Mitya that he was a sort of plumpish, broad-faced little man, who must be short and seemed to be angry about something. His companion, the other stranger, appeared to Mitya to be exceedingly tall; but he could make out nothing more. His breath failed him. Unable to stand still a moment longer, he put the case on a chest and, turning cold and with a sinking heart, walked straight into the blue room among them.
“Aie!” Grushenka shrieked in fear, noticing him first.
Chapter 7:
Mitya, with his long, quick strides, went right up to the table.
“Gentlemen,” he began loudly, almost shouting, but stammering at each word, “it’s ... it’s nothing! Don’t be afraid,” he exclaimed, “it’s really nothing, nothing,” he suddenly turned to Grushenka, who was leaning towards Kalganov in her armchair, firmly clutching his hand. “I ... I am traveling, too. I’ll stay till morning. Gentlemen, may a passing traveler ... stay with you till morning? Only till morning, for the last time, in this same room?”
These final words he addressed to the fat little man with the pipe who was sitting on the sofa. The latter imposingly removed the pipe from his lips and observed sternly:; “Panie,[247] this is a private gathering. There are other rooms.”
“But it’s you, Dmitri Fyodorovich! But what’s the matter?” Kalganov responded suddenly. “But do sit down with us! Good evening!”
“Good evening, my dear ... and priceless fellow! I’ve always respected you ... ,” Mitya joyfully and impetuously responded, holding his hand out to him at once across the table.
“Aie, what a grip! You’ve quite broken my fingers,” Kalganov laughed.
