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it, to set things right, I began telling a very cultivated anec-
dote about Piron, how he was not accepted into the French
Academy, and to revenge himself wrote his own epitaph:
Ci-git Piron qui ne fut rien,
Pas meme academicien,*
* Here lies Piron, who was nothing, not even an Acade-
mician.
They seized me and thrashed me.’
‘But what for? What for?’
‘For my education. People can thrash a man for anything,’
Maximov concluded, briefly and sententiously.
‘Eh, that’s enough! That’s all stupid, I don’t want to listen.
I thought it would be amusing,’ Grushenka cut them short,
suddenly.
Mitya started, and at once left off laughing. The tall Pole
rose upon his feet, and with the haughty air of a man, bored
and out of his element, began pacing from corner to corner
of the room, his hands behind his back.
‘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

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