He began bargaining, asking for a bill of the goods, and refused to be satisfied.
But he only succeeded in saving a hundred roubles.
In the end it was agreed that only three hundred roubles' worth should be sent.
"Well, you may go to the devil!" cried Pyotr Ilyitch, on second thoughts. "What's it to do with me?
Throw away your money, since it's cost you nothing."
"This way, my economist, this way, don't be angry." Mitya drew him into a room at the back of the shop. "They'll give us a bottle here directly. We'll taste it.
Ech, Pyotr Ilyitch, come along with me, for you're a nice fellow, the sort I like."
Mitya sat down on a wicker chair, before a little table, covered with a dirty dinner-napkin.
Pyotr Ilyitch sat down opposite, and the champagne soon appeared, and oysters were suggested to the gentlemen. "First-class oysters, the last lot in."
"Hang the oysters. I don't eat them. And we don't need anything," cried Pyotr Ilyitch, almost angrily.
"There's no time for oysters," said Mitya. "And I'm not hungry.
Do you know, friend," he said suddenly, with feeling, "I never have liked all this disorder."
"Who does like it?
Three dozen of champagne for peasants, upon my word, that's enough to make anyone angry!"
"That's not what I mean.
I'm talking of a higher order.
There's no order in me, no higher order. But... that's all over. There's no need to grieve about it.
It's too late, damn it!
My whole life has been disorder, and one must set it in order.
Is that a pun, eh?"
"You're raving, not making puns!
"Glory be to God in Heaven, Glory be to God in me. . .
"That verse came from my heart once, it's not a verse, but a tear.... I made it myself... not while I was pulling the captain's beard, though..."
"Why do you bring him in all of a sudden?"
"Why do I bring him in?
Foolery!
All things come to an end; all things are made equal. That's the long and short of it."
"You know, I keep thinking of your pistols."
"That's all foolery, too!
Drink, and don't be fanciful.
I love life. I've loved life too much, shamefully much.
Enough!
Let's drink to life, dear boy, I propose the toast.
Why am I pleased with myself?
I'm a scoundrel, but I'm satisfied with myself.
And yet I'm tortured by the thought that I'm a scoundrel, but satisfied with myself.
I bless the creation. I'm ready to bless God and His creation directly, but... I must kill one noxious insect for fear it should crawl and spoil life for others.... Let us drink to life, dear brother.
What can be more precious than life?
Nothing!
To life, and to one queen of queens!"
"Let's drink to life and to your queen, too, if you like."
They drank a glass each.
Although Mitya was excited and expansive, yet he was melancholy, too.
It was as though some heavy, overwhelming anxiety were weighing upon him.
"Misha... here's your Misha come!
Misha, come here, my boy, drink this glass to Phoebus the golden-haired, of to-morrow morn..."
"What are you giving it him for?" cried Pyotr Ilyitch, irritably.
"Yes, yes, yes, let me! I want to!"
"E- ech!"
Misha emptied the glass, bowed, and ran out.