“How unseemly to use such language in front of ladies!”

“And the ladies can go to hell too! I don’t give a flying hoot for your ladies! I can feed and clothe a thousand of them! And . . . you, Katya, stay out of this! Why did he insult me when I didn’t do anything to him?”

A dandy sporting a gigantic cravat hurries over to the pale merchant and takes him by the hand.

“Mitya! Your papa is here!”

“He c-c-can’t be!”

“Upon my word, he is! He’s sitting at a table with Sonya—he almost saw me, the old devil! We have to get out of here!”

Mitya glares at his opponent one last time, shakes his fist at him, and retreats.

“Tsvirintelkin! Come here! Raissa’s looking for you!”

“I’m not interested in her, she looks like a weasel! I’ve found another one—Fräulein Luisa!”

“What? That tub of lard?”

“A tub of lard she might be, but she’s a lot of woman, and a triple helping, too! Try getting your arms around her!”

Fräulein Luisa is sitting at a table. She is big, fat, sluggish as a snail, and covered in sweat. Before her on the table are a bottle of beer and Tsvirintelkin’s hat. The outline of her corset bulges over the expanse of her gigantic back. She prudently hides her hands and legs; her hands are large, rough, and red. Only a year ago she was still living in Prussia, where she washed floors, made beer soup for the Herr pastor, and looked after the little Schmidts, Müllers, and Schultzes. Fate decided to disturb her peace: she fell in love with Fritz, and Fritz fell in love with her. But Fritz could not marry a poor woman. In his eyes he would have been a fool to marry a poor woman. Luisa vowed eternal love to Fritz, and left her beloved Vaterland for the cold steppes of Russia in order to earn herself a dowry. And so she goes to the Salon des Variétés every night. During the day, she makes little boxes and crochets tablecloths. Once she has got together the agreed-upon amount of money, she will return to Prussia and marry Fritz.

“Si vous n’avez rien à me dire . . .” comes echoing from the stage. There is a rumpus, applause for whoever happens to be performing. A feeble cancan is underway: in the front rows mouths are watering in delight. Look at the audience as the women onstage shout “Down with men!” Give the audience a lever, and it would turn the whole world upside down. There is roaring, shouting, howling.

“Sss! Sss! Sss!” a little officer in the front row hisses at a girl.

The audience rises against the officer in furious indignation, and the whole of Bolshaya Dimitrovka Street rattles with applause. The little officer gets up, and, his head high, leaves the hall with a haughty flourish, his self-respect intact.

The Hungarian orchestra launches into a thunderous melody. What fat louts these Hungarians are, and how badly they play! They are an embarrassment to their country.

The bar has been taken by storm. Behind the counter is Monsieur Kuznetsov in person, standing next to a lady with dark eyebrows. Monsieur Kuznetsov is pouring glasses of wine, and the lady is collecting the money.

“A g-g-glass of vodka! You hear me? V-v-vodka!”

“Grab a glass, Kolya! Bottoms up!”

A man with short-cropped hair stares dully at his glass, shrugs his shoulders, and avidly downs the vodka. “I shouldn’t, Ivan Ivanich, I have a heart condition.”

“Nonsense! Nothing will happen to your heart condition with a few drinks!”

The man with the heart condition downs another glass.

“Have another!”

“No, I’ve got a heart condition, and I’ve already had seven!”

“Nonsense!”

The young man downs another glass.