With this ‘there you have it’, Mitya broke off his absurd speech, jumped to his feet, and waited for a reply to his ridiculous proposal. With his last phrase he had suddenly been overwhelmed by a feeling of hopelessness, that everything was lost and, worst of all, that he had been spouting the most incredible drivel. ‘Isn’t it funny,’ the thought suddenly flashed through his hopelessness, ‘when I was on my way here the whole idea seemed all right, but now it sounds utter nonsense!’ All the while he was speaking the old man had sat motionless, watching him with an icy stare. Having kept him waiting for about a minute, Kuzma Kuzmich finally said, in a most decisive and uncompromising tone of voice:
‘I’m sorry, sir, that is not our kind of business.’
Mitya suddenly felt his knees buckle.
‘What am I to do then, Kuzma Kuzmich?’ he mumbled with a faint smile. ‘I’m done for now, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I’m sorry…’
Mitya stood and stared straight ahead, and suddenly he noticed a change in the old man’s expression. He shuddered.
‘You see, my dear sir, we’d rather not get involved in such matters,’ the old man said slowly, ‘all the litigation, lawyers, there’ll be no end of trouble! But if you like, there is someone you could approach…’
‘My God, who?…’ Mitya started to babble. ‘You’ve given me a new lease of life, Kuzma Kuzmich.’
‘He’s not a local man, he doesn’t live in town. He’s a peasant, deals in timber, they call him Lurcher. He’s been haggling with Fyodor Pavlovich over a stretch of woodland in Chermashnya for more than a year now, but they can’t agree on the price, you may have heard about it. As it happens he’s back in the district just now, staying with Father Ilyinsky in the village of Ilyinsky, about twelve versts from the Volovya station. He wrote to me as well about the business, that stretch of forest land I mean, and wanted to know what I thought. Fyodor Pavlovich wants to go and see him himself. So if you were to get there first and offer Lurcher the same deal you mentioned to me just now, it might just…’
‘A brilliant idea!’ Mitya interrupted him enthusiastically. ‘That’s the very man I need, it’ll be just up his street! There he is, haggling over the price, and suddenly he’s presented with the deeds to the property itself, ha-ha-ha!’ And Mitya suddenly burst out laughing, a dry, forced laugh, which took Samsonov completely by surprise and made him start.
‘How can I thank you, Kuzma Kuzmich?’ said Mitya effusively.
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Samsonov with a nod.
‘But you’ve no idea, you’ve saved me, oh, it was a premonition that led me to you… Well then, I’m off to go and see this priest!’
‘Glad to have been of service.’
‘I’m off, I’m off. Sorry to have disturbed you when you’re not well. I’ll never forget this, you have the word of a Russian, Kuzma Kuzmich, of a real R-Russian!’
‘You don’t say.’
Mitya reached out to take his hand in order to shake it, but noticed a sudden, vicious glint in the old man’s eyes. Mitya drew his hand back, and immediately reproached himself for being too mistrustful. ‘It’s because he’s tired…’, he thought.
‘It’s for her sake! For her, Kuzma Kuzmich! Do you understand, it’s all for her sake!’ he yelled suddenly at the top of his voice, and bowed, turned abruptly on his heels and, without looking back, headed for the door with the same brisk, long strides. He was shaking with elation. ‘I thought I’d had it, but my guardian angel saved me,’ flashed through his mind. ‘And if a real businessman like this old man (a truly venerable old gentleman, and what a dignified bearing!) has advised me to take this course, then… then, of course, I’ve as good as won. Must hurry. Whether I get back before nightfall or during the night, the battle’s won. The old man couldn’t have been making a fool of me, could he?’ This is what Mitya was debating out loud as he approached his lodgings and, of course, it had to be one or the other: either it was sound business advice, coming from such a noted businessman, a man who was familiar with the case, who even knew that fellow Lurcher (what a funny name!), or—or the old man was sending him on a wild-goose chase! Alas, the latter supposition was the correct one. Subsequently, a long time later, after all the dust had settled, old Samsonov himself laughed as he boasted of having made a fool of the ‘Captain’. He was malicious, cold, and nasty, characteristics which were exacerbated by his illness. I do not know what provoked the old man—whether it was the Captain’s agitated behaviour, or the profligate spendthrift’s stupid conviction that he, Samsonov, would fall for such a hare-brained scheme in the first place, or whether it was his jealousy as regards Grushenka, in whose name this good-for-nothing had come to him with his ‘plan’ for raising money—save to say when Mitya stood before him, feeling his legs give way under him and repeating inanely that he was lost—at that moment the old man had regarded him with infinite hatred and decided to play a trick on him. After Mitya had left, Kuzma Kuzmich, pale with anger, turned to his son and commanded him to ensure that that ne’er-do-well should never darken his door again, nor even be allowed into the courtyard, or else…
He did not finish his threat, but even his son, who had often seen him angry, shuddered with fear. For a whole hour the old man shook with rage; towards evening he became ill and sent for the doctor.
2
LURCHER
HE would have to hurry of course, but he had no money to pay for horses; that was not quite true, he had two twenty-kopeck pieces left, but that was all—all that was left from so many years of previous prosperity! But he had an old silver watch which had long since stopped working. He fetched it and took it to a little shop run by a Jewish watchmaker on the market-place. He got six roubles for it. ‘I didn’t even expect to get that much!’ exclaimed Mitya in amazement (he was still exhilarated), grabbed his six roubles, and ran home. At home he supplemented this sum by borrowing three roubles from his landlord, who, although it was all he and his wife had, gave it to him willingly—such was their fondness for him. In his state of elation Mitya revealed to them on the spot that his fate was in the balance, and he recounted to them—in great haste, of course—nearly the whole of the ‘plan’ he had just proposed to Samsonov, then Samsonov’s decision, his future prospects, and so on and so forth. His landlords were already privy to many of his secrets and regarded him as one of the family, not at all the standoffish gentleman. Having thus scraped together nine roubles, Mitya sent for post-horses to take him to Volovya staging post. Thus, it subsequently came to light that at midday on the eve of a certain event Mitya did not even have a kopeck to his name, and in order to obtain some money sold his watch and borrowed three roubles from his landlord’s family, and all this in front of witnesses.
I am mentioning this in advance, and the reason why will become clear later.
Although, as he raced off in the cab to Volovya, Mitya was beaming in anticipation of finally settling ‘all these matters’, he was nevertheless also trembling with anxiety; what would Grushenka get up to in his absence? What if she were to go to Fyodor Pavlovich that very day? That is why he had left without letting her know, and had given his landlords strict instructions not to reveal where he had gone if anyone were to enquire. ‘Must be back by evening,’ he kept repeating as he jolted along in the cart, ‘as for this Lurcher, I might even have to drag him back here… to clinch the deal…’ Mitya speculated, his heart beating with nervous excitement, but, alas, things were fated not to work out according to his ‘plan’.
Firstly, by taking the country road from Volovya, he lost time. It turned out to be eighteen versts instead of twelve. Secondly, the Ilyinsky priest was out; he had gone to the neighbouring village. By the time Mitya found him, having set out for the neighbouring village with the same, exhausted horses, night had already fallen. The priest, to all appearances a meek and kindly man, immediately explained to him that though Lurcher had initially stayed with him, he had left for Sukhoy Posyolok, a little village, to spend the night in t
he forester’s hut, because he was negotiating a timber deal there too. Though the priest was initially reluctant to accede to Mitya’s urgent entreaties to take him to Lurcher forthwith and thereby, as it were, save him, he nevertheless agreed, his sense of curiosity having been aroused, to accompany him as far as Sukhoy Posyolok, though, as ill luck would have it, he suggested going on foot since it was only a verst and ‘not all that much more’ away. Mitya agreed, of course, and set off with giant strides, so that the poor priest almost had to run to keep up. He was a small man, not all that old, and exceedingly reserved. Mitya immediately began to tell him about his plans as well; he kept pressing him with nervous insistence for information about Lurcher, and talked incessantly the whole way. The priest listened attentively, but was unable to give much advice. His replies were evasive: ‘I don’t know, really I don’t. How would I know?’ and in a similar vein. When Mitya began to talk of his disputes with his father over the inheritance, the priest became downright frightened, for he happened to be involved with Fyodor Pavlovich in some business transactions. It must be noted that he enquired with surprise why Mitya referred to the peasant trader Gorstkin as Lurcher, when, as he explained at some length, this was actually only a nickname and was grossly offensive to him, and Mitya should definitely call him Gorstkin, ‘otherwise,’ concluded the priest, ‘you’ll get nowhere with him, and he won’t even listen to you.’ Mitya was somewhat nonplussed for a moment, and he explained that that was what Samsonov himself had called him. Hearing this, the priest promptly dropped the subject, though in fact it would have been better to have explained to Dmitry Fyodorovich there and then that, in his opinion, if Samsonov himself had sent him to this peasant and had referred to him as Lurcher, then might this not be a hoax and, if so, might there not be something sinister behind it? However, Mitya would not have had any time for such ‘trifles’ anyway. He was in a hurry and he strode on, and only when they reached Sukhoy Posyolok did he realize that they had covered not one, or one and a half, but more than three versts. He was annoyed about this, but said nothing. They entered the hut. The forester occupied one part of the hut, while Gorstkin occupied the larger part, by the entrance hall. They entered the latter part and lit a tallow candle. It was stiflingly hot inside. On the pine table stood an extinguished samovar, next to it a tray with some cups, an empty rum bottle, a half-empty bottle of vodka, and a few half-eaten slices of wheat bread. The occupant himself lay stretched out on the bench, his outer garments stuck under his head in place of a pillow, and was snoring loudly. Mitya stood there nonplussed. ‘Of course we must wake him up, it’s absolutely vital, I hurried to get here, I have to get back tonight.’ He was getting worried. But the priest and the forester, who were standing silently nearby, made no response. Mitya approached Gorstkin and tried quite violently to rouse him, but the sleeping man refused to wake up. ‘He’s drunk,’ concluded Mitya, ‘what am I to do, for God’s sake, what am I to do!’ and suddenly, losing his patience, he began pulling the man’s arms and legs, tugging his head, raising and propping him up on the bench, but, despite all his efforts, the man merely uttered coarse, incoherent oaths punctuated by oafish groans.
‘Wouldn’t it be better to wait a little?’ the priest said at last, ‘he doesn’t seem to be in a fit state at all.’
‘He’s been drinking the whole day,’ observed the forester.
‘God!’ exclaimed Mitya, ‘if only you knew how urgent it is that I talk to him, and how desperate I am.’
‘Honestly, it really would be best if you waited till the morning,’ repeated the priest.
‘Till the morning? What are you talking about? That’s out of the question!’ And, in desperation, he tried once again to wake the drunken man, but he stopped as soon as he realized the total futility of his efforts. The priest remained silent, and the half-asleep forester looked on morosely.
‘What terrible tragedies one is confronted with in life!’ exclaimed Mitya in complete despair. Sweat was pouring down his face. Sensing an opportune moment, the priest observed sensibly that even though one might eventually succeed in waking the sleeping man, being drunk he would be in no fit state to hold a conversation, ‘and as your business is so important, wouldn’t it be better to wait till the morning?…’ Letting his arms drop in resignation, Mitya agreed.
‘I’ll stay here and keep the candle, father, to wait for an opportune moment. When he wakes up, I’ll try again… I’ll pay for the candle’, he turned to the forester, ‘and the night’s lodging, you won’t be out of pocket on account of Dmitry Karamazov, rest assured. But what about you, father, where on earth will you sleep?’
‘No, I’d rather make tracks for home. His mare will get me there,’ he said, glancing at the forester. ‘So, goodbye, I wish you every success.’
Thus it was settled. The priest set off on the mare, glad to have extricated himself at last, but still shaking his head in perplexity and debating whether he ought to inform his benefactor Fyodor Pavlovich of this curious event in good time the next day, ‘otherwise, who knows, he might get to hear of it from someone else, have a fit and stop my benefits.’ The forester, scratching himself, withdrew in silence to his part of the hut, while Mitya sat down on the bench and began, as he had put it, to wait for an opportune moment. Deep melancholy enveloped his soul like a thick fog. Deep, terrible melancholy! He sat and cogitated, but was unable to gather his thoughts. The candle guttered, a cricket began to chirp, it was beginning to feel unbearably stuffy in the overheated room. Suddenly he imagined the garden, the back gate into the garden, the door to the house opening mysteriously, and Grushenka running in through the doorway… He leapt to his feet.
‘What a mess!’ he muttered, grinding his teeth, and automatically walked over to the sleeping man and began to stare down at him. The man was a muzhik, gaunt, not particularly old, with a very elongated face, light-brown curly hair, and a long, sparse, reddish beard; he wore a cotton shirt and a black waistcoat with a silver watch-chain protruding from its pocket. Mitya surveyed his face with hatred, and for some reason was particularly repelled by the fact that the fellow’s hair was curly. What exasperated him above all was that he, Mitya, should now find himself standing here, totally exhausted, having sacrificed and abandoned so much, while this idler, on whom his whole fate now depended, was snoring without a care in the world, as though he had just come from another planet! ‘Oh, the fateful irony of it all!’ Mitya exclaimed, and suddenly, losing his self-control completely, lunged forward once again to waken the drunken muzhik. He flew into a kind of rage, he tugged, he pushed, he even beat him, but after struggling for about five minutes and again achieving nothing, he sat down again on the bench in helpless desperation.
‘How stupid, how utterly stupid!’ he exclaimed, ‘and… how dishonourable!’ he added suddenly, on impulse. His head was beginning to throb terribly: ‘Shall I give up? Leave now?’ the thought flashed through his mind. ‘No, I’ll wait till the morning. I’ll stay, just to be bloody-minded! Otherwise what was the point in coming? Anyway, there’s no way of getting back tonight, how am I to get out of this place, oh, what a mess!’
His headache was getting steadily worse. He sat motionless, and did not notice that he was beginning to doze off, and suddenly he fell asleep sitting up. He must have slept for about two hours or more. He woke up with such a splitting headache that he almost cried out. His temples were pounding, the crown of his head was splitting with pain; for quite a while he was totally unable to collect his thoughts and realize exactly what had happened to him. Finally, it dawned upon him that the overheated room was full of fumes, and that he could have been asphyxiated. But the drunken muzhik was still lying there snoring; the candle was nearly spent and was about to go out. Mitya let out a cry and, stumbling, rushed across the entrance hall into the forester’s part of the hut. The latter did not take long to wake up, but although, on hearing that the next room was full of fumes, he was prepared to attend to the matter, he nevertheless greeted the news with amazing indiffer
ence, which surprised and annoyed Mitya.
‘But he’s dead, he’s dead, what shall we do… what now?’ Mitya kept shouting in a frenzy.
They flung open the door, and opened the window and the flue. Mitya dragged a bucket of water from the hall, first immersed his own head in it and then, having found some kind of a rag, dipped it in the water and applied it to Lurcher’s face. The forester continued to regard the whole procedure almost contemptuously and, having opened the window, said lugubriously: ‘That’ll do,’ and went back to sleep, leaving the iron lantern with Mitya, who then spent about half an hour repeatedly wetting the head of the asphyxiated drunk in an attempt to revive him. He had already resolved to stay up the whole night, but from sheer exhaustion sat down just for a moment to catch his breath, shut his eyes, quite unconsciously stretched himself out on the bench, and promptly fell asleep.
He woke up terribly late. It was already about nine in the morning. The sun was shining brightly into the hut through the two little windows. The curly-haired muzhik of the previous day was sitting on the bench, with his coat already on. Before him on the table stood a fresh samovar and a fresh bottle of vodka. Yesterday’s bottle was finished, and the new one was more than half empty. Mitya sprang to his feet and realized that the damned muzhik was drunk again, completely and utterly drunk. He stared at him for about a minute, his eyes almost bursting out of their sockets. The muzhik kept eyeing him craftily, without a word, insolently indifferent, and almost, it seemed to Mitya, with supercilious contempt. He rushed towards him.
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