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suddenly and crossed one leg over the other. Mitya’s eye
was caught by his huge greased boot, with its thick, dirty
sole. The dress of both the Poles looked rather greasy.
* Scoundrel.
‘Well, now it’s lajdak! What’s he scolding about?’ said
Grushenka, suddenly vexed.
‘Pani Agrippina, what the gentleman saw in Poland were
servant girls, and not ladies of good birth,’ the Pole with the
pipe observed to Grushenka.
‘You can reckon on that,’ the tall Pole snapped contemp-
tuously.
‘What next! Let him talk! People talk, why hinder them?
It makes it cheerful,’ Grushenka said crossly.
‘I’m not hindering them, pani,’ said the Pole in the wig,
with a long look at Grushenka, and relapsing into dignified
silence he sucked his pipe again.
‘No, no. The Polish gentleman spoke the truth.’ Kalgonov
got excited again, as though it were a question of vast im-
port. ‘He’s never been in Poland, so how can he talk about
it? I suppose you weren’t married in Poland, were you?’
‘No, in the Province of Smolensk. Only, a Uhlan had
brought her to Russia before that, my future wife, with her
mamma and her aunt, and another female relation with a
grown-up son. He brought her straight from Poland and
gave her up to me. He was a lieutenant in our regiment, a
very nice young man. At first he meant to marry her him-
self. But he didn’t marry her, because she turned out to be
lame.’
‘So you married a lame woman?’ cried Kalganov.

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