Page:Dostoyevsky - The House of the Dead, Collected Edition, 1915.djvu/145

 Here were two convicts disputing which should treat the other. Evidently they had been wrangling for a long time and this was not their first quarrel. One in particular seemed to have an old grudge against the other. He was complaining and speaking thickly, was struggling to prove that the other had been unfair to him: some sheepskin coat had been sold, a sum of money had been made away with somehow, a year before at carnival. There was something else besides He was a tall muscular fellow of peaceable disposition and by no means a fool. When he was drunk he was disposed to make friends with anyone and to open his heart to him. He even swore at his opponent and got up a grievance against him in order to be reconciled and more friendly afterwards. The other, a short, thick-set, stubby man, with a round face, was a sharp and wily fellow. He had drunk more than his companion, perhaps, but was only slightly drunk. He was a man of character and was reputed to be well off, but it was for some reason to his interest just now not to irritate his expansive friend, and he led him up to the vodka dealer; while the friend kept repeating that he should and must treat him “if only you are an honest man.”

The “publican” with a shade of respect for the short man, and a shade of contempt for his expansive companion, because the latter was being treated and not drinking at his own expense, brought out some vodka and poured out a cupful.

“No, Styopka, you owe it me,” said the expansive friend, seeing he had gained his point, “for it’s what you owe me.”

“I am not going to waste my breath on you!” answered Styopka.

“No, Styopka, that’s a lie,” protested the other, taking the cup from the “publican,” “for you owe me money, you’ve no conscience! Why, your very eyes are not your own but borrowed. You are a scoundrel, Styopka, that’s what you are; that’s the only word for you!”

“What are you whining about, you’ve spilt your vodka. One stands you treat, so you might as well drink,” cried the publican to the expansive friend. “You can’t keep us standing here till to-morrow!”

“But I am going to drink it, what are you shouting about! A merry Christmas to you, Stepan Dorofeitch!” cup in hand he turned politely, and made a slight bow to Styopka whom half a minute before he had called a scoundrel. “Good health