break into a dancing song at the first signal. Maximov, hearing that Grushenka wanted to dance, squealed with delight, and ran skipping about in front of her, humming:
And its little tail curled tight.”
But Grushenka waved her handkerchief at him and drove him away.
“Sh-h! Mitya, why don’t they come? Let every one come … to look on. Call them in, too, that were locked in. … Why did you lock them in? Tell them I’m going to dance. Let them look on, too …”
Mitya walked with a drunken swagger to the locked door, and began knocking to the Poles with his fist.
“Hi, you … Podvysotskys! Come, she’s going to dance. She calls you.”
“Lajdak!” one of the Poles shouted in reply.
“You’re a lajdak yourself! You’re a little scoundrel, that’s what you are.”
“Leave off laughing at Poland,” said Kalganov sententiously. He too was drunk.
“Be quiet, boy! If I call him a scoundrel, it doesn’t mean that I called all Poland so. One lajdak doesn’t make a Poland. Be quiet, my pretty boy, eat a sweetmeat.”
“Ach, what fellows! As though they were not men. Why won’t they make friends?” said Grushenka, and went forward to dance. The chorus broke into “Ah, my porch, my new porch!” Grushenka flung back her head, half opened her lips, smiled, waved her handkerchief, and suddenly, with a violent lurch, stood still in the middle of the room, looking bewildered.
“I’m weak …” she said in an exhausted voice. “Forgive me. … I’m weak, I can’t. … I’m sorry.”
She bowed to the chorus, and then began bowing in all directions.
“I’m sorry. … Forgive me. …”
“The lady’s been drinking. The pretty lady has been drinking,” voices were heard saying.
“The lady’s drunk too much,” Maximov explained to the girls, giggling.
“Mitya, lead me away … take me,” said Grushenka helplessly. Mitya pounced on her, snatched her up in his arms, and carried the precious burden through the curtains.
“Well, now I’ll go,” thought Kalganov, and walking out of the blue room, he closed the two halves of the door after him. But the orgy in the larger room went on and grew louder and louder. Mitya laid Grushenka on the bed and kissed her on the lips.
“Don’t touch me …” she faltered, in an imploring voice. “Don’t touch me, till I’m yours. … I’ve told you I’m yours, but don’t touch me … spare me. … With them here, with them close, you mustn’t. He’s here. It’s nasty here …”
“I’ll obey you! I won’t think of it … I worship you!” muttered Mitya. “Yes, it’s nasty here, it’s abominable.”
And still holding her in his arms, he sank on his knees by the bedside.
“I know, though you’re a brute, you’re generous,” Grushenka articulated with difficulty. “It must be honourable … it shall be honourable for the future … and let us be honest, let us be good, not brutes, but good … take me away, take me far away, do you hear? I don’t wait it to be here, but far, far away …”