“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.