1 The Brothers Karamazov
dignity and affable condescension, and he took his glass.
‘And the other pan, what’s his name? Drink, most illus-
trious, 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, raisin, his glass. ‘Hur-
rah!’
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 Rus-
sia, too!’
‘So will I,’ said Kalganov.
‘And I would, too... to Russia, the old grandmother!’ tit-
tered Maximov.
‘All! All!’ cried Mitya. ‘Trifon Borissovitch, some more
bottles!’
The other three bottles Mitya had brought with him were
put on the table. Mitya filled the glasses.
‘To Russia! Hurrah!’ he shouted again. All drank the
toast except the Poles, and Grushenka tossed off her whole
glass at once. The Poles did not touch theirs.
‘How’s this, Panovie?’ cried Mitya, ‘won’t you drink it?’
Pan Vrublevsky took the glass, raised it and said with a
resonant voice:
‘To Russia as she was before 1772.’
‘Come, that’s better!’ cried the other Pole, and they both
emptied their glasses at once.