“Ah, he can’t sit still,” said Grushenka, looking at him contemptuously. Mitya began to feel anxious. He noticed besides, that the Pole on the sofa was looking at him with an irritable expression.
“ Panie! ” cried Mitya, “let’s drink! and the other pan , too! Let us drink.”
In a flash he had pulled three glasses towards him, and filled them with champagne.
“To Poland, panovie , I drink to your Poland!” cried Mitya.
“I shall be delighted, panie ,” said the Pole on the sofa, with dignity and affable condescension, and he took his glass.
“And the other pan , what’s his name? Drink, most illustrious, take your glass!” Mitya urged.
“ Pan Vrublevsky,” put in the Pole on the sofa.
Pan Vrublevsky came up to the table, swaying as he walked.
“To Poland, panovie! ” cried Mitya, raising his glass. “Hurrah!”
All three drank. Mitya seized the bottle and again poured out three glasses.
“Now to Russia, panovie , and let us be brothers!”
“Pour out some for us,” said Grushenka; “I’ll drink to Russia, too!”
“So will I,” said Kalganov.
“And I would, too … to Russia, the old grandmother!” tittered Maximov.
“All! All!” cried Mitya. “Trifon Borissovitch, some more bottles!”