The Brothers Karamazov
rooms were entirely empty and unused, for the old man kept to one room,
a small, remote bedroom, where he was waited upon by an old servant
with a kerchief on her head, and by a lad, who used to sit on the
locker in the passage. Owing to his swollen legs, the old man could
hardly walk at all, and was only rarely lifted from his leather
arm-chair, when the old woman supporting him led him up and down the
room once or twice. He was morose and taciturn even with this old
woman.
When he was informed of the arrival of the “captain,” he at once
refused to see him. But Mitya persisted and sent his name up again.
Samsonov questioned the lad minutely: What he looked like? Whether he
was drunk? Was he going to make a row? The answer he received was: that
he was sober, but wouldn’t go away. The old man again refused to see
him. Then Mitya, who had foreseen this, and purposely brought pencil
and paper with him, wrote clearly on the piece of paper the words: “On
most important business closely concerning Agrafena Alexandrovna,” and
sent it up to the old man.
After thinking a little Samsonov told the lad to take the visitor to
the drawing-room, and sent the old woman downstairs with a summons to
his younger son to come upstairs to him at once. This younger son, a
man over six foot and of exceptional physical strength, who was
closely-shaven and dressed in the European style, though his father
still wore a kaftan and a beard, came at once without a comment. All
the family trembled before the father. The old man had sent for this
giant, not because he was afraid of the “captain” (he was by no means
of a timorous temper), but in order to have a witness in case of any
emergency. Supported by his son and the servant-lad, he waddled at last
into the drawing-room. It may be assumed that he felt considerable
curiosity. The drawing-room in which Mitya was awaiting him was a vast,
dreary room that laid a weight of depression on the heart. It had a
double row of windows, a gallery, marbled walls, and three immense
chandeliers with glass lusters covered with shades.
Mitya was sitting on a little chair at the entrance, awaiting his fate
with nervous impatience. When the old man appeared at the opposite
door, seventy feet away, Mitya jumped up at once, and with his long,
military stride walked to meet him. Mitya was well dressed, in a
frock-coat, buttoned up, with a round hat and black gloves in his
hands, just as he had been three days before at the elder’s, at the
family meeting with his father and brothers. The old man waited for
him, standing dignified and unbending, and Mitya felt at once that he
had looked him through and through as he advanced. Mitya was greatly
impressed, too, with Samsonov’s immensely swollen face. His lower lip,
which had always been thick, hung down now, looking like a bun. He
bowed to his guest in dignified silence, motioned him to a low chair by
the sofa, and, leaning on his son’s arm he began lowering himself on to
the sofa opposite, groaning painfully, so that Mitya, seeing his
painful exertions, immediately felt remorseful and sensitively
conscious of his insignificance in the presence of the dignified person
he had ventured to disturb.
“What is it you want of me, sir?” said the old man, deliberately,
distinctly, severely, but courteously, when he was at last seated.
Mitya started, leapt up, but sat down again. Then he began at once
speaking with loud, nervous haste, gesticulating, and in a positive
frenzy. He was unmistakably a man driven into a corner, on the brink of
ruin, catching at the last straw, ready to sink if he failed. Old
Samsonov probably grasped all this in an instant, though his face
remained cold and immovable as a statue’s.
“Most honored sir, Kuzma Kuzmitch, you have no doubt heard more than
once of my disputes with my father, Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov, who
robbed me of my inheritance from my mother ... seeing the whole town is
gossiping about it ... for here every one’s gossiping of what they
shouldn’t ... and besides, it might have reached you through Grushenka
... I beg your pardon, through Agrafena Alexandrovna ... Agrafena
Alexandrovna, the lady for whom I have the highest respect and esteem
...”
So Mitya began, and broke down at the first sentence. We will not
reproduce his speech word for word, but will only summarize the gist of
it. Three months ago, he said, he had of express intention (Mitya
purposely used these words instead of “intentionally”) consulted a
lawyer in the chief town of the province, “a distinguished lawyer,
Kuzma Kuzmitch, Pavel Pavlovitch Korneplodov. You have perhaps heard of
him? A man of vast intellect, the mind of a statesman ... he knows you,
too ... spoke of you in the highest terms ...” Mitya broke down again.
But these breaks did not deter him. He leapt instantly over the gaps,
and struggled on and on.
This Korneplodov, after questioning him minutely, and inspecting the
documents he was able to bring him (Mitya alluded somewhat vaguely to
these documents, and slurred over the subject with special haste),
reported that they certainly might take proceedings concerning the
village of Tchermashnya, which ought, he said, to have come to him,
Mitya, from his mother, and so checkmate the old villain, his father
... “because every door was not closed and justice might still find a
loophole.” In fact, he might reckon on an additional sum of six or even
seven thousand roubles from Fyodor Pavlovitch, as Tchermashnya was
worth, at least, twenty-five thousand, he might say twenty-eight
thousand, in fact, “thirty, thirty, Kuzma Kuzmitch, and would you
believe it, I didn’t get seventeen from that heartless man!” So he,
Mitya, had thrown the business up, for the time, knowing nothing about
the law, but on coming here was struck dumb by a cross-claim made upon
him (here Mitya went adrift again and again took a flying leap
forward), “so will not you, excellent and honored Kuzma Kuzmitch, be
willing to take up all my claims against that unnatural monster, and
pay me a sum down of only three thousand?... You see, you cannot, in
any case, lose over it. On my honor, my honor, I swear that. Quite the
contrary, you may make six or seven thousand instead of three.” Above
all, he wanted this concluded that very day.
“I’ll do the business with you at a notary’s, or whatever it is ... in
fact, I’m ready to do anything.... I’ll hand over all the deeds ...
whatever you want, sign anything ... and we could draw up the agreement
at once ... and if it were possible, if it were only possible, that
very morning.... You could pay me that three thousand, for there isn’t
a capitalist in this town to compare with you, and so would save me
from ... would save me, in fact ... for a good, I might say an
honorable action.... For I cherish the most honorable feelings for a
certain person, whom you know well, and care for as a father. I would
not have come, indeed, if it had not been as a father. And, indeed,
it’s a struggle of three in this business, for it’s fate—that’s a
fearful thing, Kuzma Kuzmitch! A tragedy, Kuzma Kuzmitch, a tragedy!
And as you’ve dropped out long ago, it’s a tug-of-war between two. I’m
expressing it awkwardly, perhaps, but I’m not a literary man. You see,
I’m on the one side, and that monster on the other. So you must choose.
It’s either I or the monster. It all lies in your hands—the fate of
three lives, and the happiness of two.... Excuse me, I’m making a mess
of it, but you understand ... I see from your venerable eyes that you
understand ... and if you don’t understand, I’m done for ... so you
see!”
Mitya broke off his clumsy speech with that, “so you see!” and jumping
up from his seat, awaited the answer to his foolish proposal. At the
last phrase he had suddenly become hopelessly aware that it had all
fallen flat, above all, that he had been talking utter nonsense.
“How strange it is! On the way here it seemed all right, and now it’s
nothing but nonsense.” The idea suddenly dawned on his despairing mind.
All the while he had been talking, the old man sat motionless, watching
him with an icy expression in his eyes. After keeping him for a moment
in suspense, Kuzma Kuzmitch pronounced at last in the most positive and
chilling tone:
“Excuse me, we don’t undertake such business.”
Mitya suddenly felt his legs growing weak under him.
“What am I to do now, Kuzma Kuzmitch?” he muttered, with a pale smile.
“I suppose it’s all up with me—what do you think?”
“Excuse me....”
Mitya remained standing, staring motionless. He suddenly noticed a
movement in the old man’s face. He started.
“You see, sir, business of that sort’s not in our line,” said the old
man slowly. “There’s the court, and the lawyers—it’s a perfect misery.
But if you like, there is a man here you might apply to.”
“Good heavens! Who is it? You’re my salvation, Kuzma Kuzmitch,”
faltered Mitya.
“He doesn’t live here, and he’s not here just now. He is a peasant, he
does business in timber. His name is Lyagavy. He’s been haggling with
Fyodor Pavlovitch for the last year, over your copse at Tchermashnya.
They can’t agree on the price, maybe you’ve heard? Now he’s come back
again and is staying with the priest at Ilyinskoe, about twelve versts
from the Volovya station. He wrote to me, too, about the business of
the copse, asking my advice. Fyodor Pavlovitch means to go and see him
himself. So if you were to be beforehand with Fyodor Pavlovitch and to
make Lyagavy the offer you’ve made me, he might possibly—”
“A brilliant idea!” Mitya interrupted ecstatically. “He’s the very man,
it would just suit him. He’s haggling with him for it, being asked too
much, and here he would have all the documents entitling him to the
property itself. Ha ha ha!”
And Mitya suddenly went off into his short, wooden laugh, startling
Samsonov.
“How can I thank you, Kuzma Kuzmitch?” cried Mitya effusively.
“Don’t mention it,” said Samsonov, inclining his head.
“But you don’t know, you’ve saved me. Oh, it was a true presentiment
brought me to you.... So now to this priest!”
“No need of thanks.”
“I’ll make haste and fly there. I’m afraid I’ve overtaxed your
strength. I shall never forget it. It’s a Russian says that, Kuzma
Kuzmitch, a R-r-russian!”
“To be sure!”
Mitya seized his hand to press it, but there was a malignant gleam in
the old man’s eye. Mitya drew back his hand, but at once blamed himself
for his mistrustfulness.
“It’s because he’s tired,” he thought.
“For her sake! For her sake, Kuzma Kuzmitch! You understand that it’s
for her,” he cried, his voice ringing through the room. He bowed,
turned sharply round, and with the same long stride walked to the door
without looking back. He was trembling with delight.
“Everything was on the verge of ruin and my guardian angel saved me,”
was the thought in his mind. And if such a business man as Samsonov (a
most worthy old man, and what dignity!) had suggested this course, then
... then success was assured. He would fly off immediately. “I will be
back before night, I shall be back at night and the thing is done.
Could the old man have been laughing at me?” exclaimed Mitya, as he
strode towards his lodging. He could, of course, imagine nothing, but
that the advice was practical “from such a business man” with an
understanding of the business, with an understanding of this Lyagavy
(curious surname!). Or—the old man was laughing at him.
Alas! The second alternative was the correct one. Long afterwards, when
the catastrophe had happened, old Samsonov himself confessed, laughing,
that he had made a fool of the “captain.” He was a cold, spiteful and
sarcastic man, liable to violent antipathies. Whether it was the
“captain’s” excited face, or the foolish conviction of the “rake and