“I don’t know her, but I’ve heard of her and seen her. Did she really give you three thousand? Did she really?” said Pyotr Ilyitch, eyeing him dubiously.
“As soon as the sun rises tomorrow, as soon as Phoebus, ever young, flies upwards, praising and glorifying God, you go to her, this Madame Hohlakov, and ask her whether she did stump up that three thousand or not. Try and find out.”
“I don’t know on what terms you are … since you say it so positively, I suppose she did give it to you. You’ve got the money in your hand, but instead of going to Siberia you’re spending it all. … Where are you really off to now, eh?”
“To Mokroe.”
“To Mokroe? But it’s night!”
“Once the lad had all, now the lad has naught,” cried Mitya suddenly.
“How ‘naught’? You say that with all those thousands!”
“I’m not talking about thousands. Damn thousands! I’m talking of the female character.
Fickle is the heart of woman Treacherous and full of vice;
I agree with Ulysses. That’s what he says.”
“I don’t understand you!”
“Am I drunk?”
“Not drunk, but worse.”
“I’m drunk in spirit, Pyotr Ilyitch, drunk in spirit! But that’s enough!”