SO he must drive at full speed, and he had not the money for

horses. He had forty copecks, and that was all, all that was left

after so many years of prosperity! But he had at home an old silver

watch which had long ceased to go. He snatched it up and carried it to

a Jewish watch maker who had a shop in the market-place. The Jew

gave him six roubles for it.

    "And I didn't expect that cried Mitya, ecstatically. (He was still

in a state of ecstasy.) He seized his six roubles and ran home. At

home he borrowed three roubles from the people of the house, who loved

him so much that they were pleased to give it him, though it was all

they had. Mitya in his excitement told them on the spot that his

fate would be decided that day, and he described, in desperate

haste, the whole scheme he had put before Samsonov, the latter's

decision, his own hopes for the future, and so on. These people had

been told many of their lodger's secrets before, and so looked upon

him as a gentleman who was not at all proud, and almost one of

themselves. Having thus collected nine roubles Mitya sent for

posting-horses to take him to the Volovya station. This was how the

fact came to be remembered and established that "at midday, on the day

before the event, Mitya had not a farthing, and that he had sold his

watch to get money and had borrowed three roubles from his landlord,

all in the presence of witnesses."

    I note this fact, later on it will be apparent why I do so.

    Though he was radiant with the joyful anticipation that he would

at last solve all his difficulties, yet, as he drew near Volovya

station, he trembled at the thought of what Grushenka might be doing

in his absence. What if she made up her mind to-day to go to Fyodor

Pavlovitch? This was why he had gone off without telling her and why

he left orders with his landlady not to let out where he had gone,

if anyone came to inquire for him.

    "I must, I must get back to-night," he repeated, as he was

jolted along in the cart, "and I dare say I shall have to bring this

Lyagavy back here... to draw up the deed." So mused Mitya, with a

throbbing heart, but alas! his dreams were not fated to be carried

out.

    To begin with, he was late, taking a short cut from Volovya

station which turned out to be eighteen versts instead of twelve.

Secondly, he did not find the priest at home at Ilyinskoe; he had gone

off to a neighbouring village. While Mitya, setting off there with the

same exhausted horses, was looking for him, it was almost dark.

    The priest, a shy and amiable looking little man, informed him

at once that though Lyagavy had been staying with him at first, he was

now at Suhoy Possyolok, that he was staying the night in the

forester's cottage, as he was buying timber there too. At Mitya's

urgent request that he would take him to Lyagavy at once, and by so

doing "save him, so to speak," the priest agreed, after some demur, to

conduct him to Suhoy Possyolok; his curiosity was obviously aroused.

But, unluckily, he advised their going on foot, as it would not be

"much over" a verst. Mitya, of course, agreed, and marched off with

his yard-long strides, so that the poor priest almost ran after him.

He was a very cautious man, though not old.

    Mitya at once began talking to him, too, of his plans, nervously

and excitedly asking advice in regard to Lyagavy, and talking all

the way. The priest listened attentively, but gave little advice. He

turned off Mitya's questions with: "I don't know. Ah, I can't say. How

can I tell?" and so on. When Mitya began to speak of his quarrel

with his father over his inheritance, the priest was positively

alarmed, as he was in some way dependent on Fyodor Pavlovitch. He

inquired, however, with surprise, why he called the peasant-trader

Gorstkin, Lyagavy, and obligingly explained to Mitya that, though

the man's name really was Lyagavy, he was never called so, as he would

be grievously offended at the name, and that he must be sure to call

him Gorstkin, "or you'll do nothing with him; he won't even listen

to you," said the priest in conclusion.

    Mitya was somewhat surprised for a moment, and explained that that

was what Samsonov had called him. On hearing this fact, the priest

dropped the subject, though he would have done well to put into

words his doubt whether, if Samsonov had sent him to that peasant,

calling him Lyagavy, there was not something wrong about it and he was

turning him into ridicule. But Mitya had no time to pause over such

trifles. He hurried, striding along, and only when he reached Suhoy

Possyolok did he realise that they had come not one verst, nor one and

a half, but at least three. This annoyed him, but he controlled

himself.

    They went into the hut. The forester lived in one half of the hut,

and Gorstkin was lodging in the other, the better room the other

side of the passage. They went into that room and lighted a tallow

candle. The hut was extremely overheated. On the table there was a

samovar that had gone out, a tray with cups, an empty rum bottle, a

bottle of vodka partly full, and some half-eaten crusts of wheaten

bread. The visitor himself lay stretched at full length on the

bench, with his coat crushed up under his head for a pillow, snoring

heavily. Mitya stood in perplexity.

    "Of course, I must wake him. My business is too important. I've

come in such haste. I'm in a hurry to get back to-day," he said in

great agitation. But the priest and the forester stood in silence, not

giving their opinion. Mitya went up and began trying to wake him

himself; he tried vigorously, but the sleeper did not wake.

    "He's drunk," Mitya decided. "Good Lord! What am I to do? What

am I to do?" And, terribly impatient, he began pulling him by the

arms, by the legs, shaking his head, lifting him up and making him sit

on the bench. Yet, after prolonged exertions, he could only succeed in

getting the drunken man to utter absurd grunts, and violent, but

inarticulate oaths.

    "No, you'd better wait a little," the priest pronounced at last,

"for he's obviously not in a fit state."

    "He's been drinking the whole day," the forester chimed in.

    "Good heavens!" cried Mitya. "If only you knew how important it is

to me and how desperate I am!"

    "No, you'd better wait till morning," the priest repeated.

    "Till morning? Mercy! that's impossible!" And in his despair he

was on the point of attacking the sleeping man again, but stopped

short at once, realising the uselessness of his efforts. The priest

said nothing, the sleepy forester looked gloomy.

    "What terrible tragedies real life contrives for people," said

Mitya, in complete despair. The perspiration was streaming down his

face. The priest seized the moment to put before him, very reasonably,

that, even if he succeeded in wakening the man, he would still be

drunk and incapable of conversation. "And your business is important,"

he said, "so you'd certainly better put it off till morning." With a

gesture of despair Mitya agreed.

    "Father, I will stay here with a light, and seize the favourable

moment. As soon as he wakes I'll begin. I'll pay you for the light,"

he said to the forester, "for the night's lodging, too; you'll

remember Dmitri Karamazov. Only Father, I don't know what we're to

do with you. Where will you sleep?"

    "No, I'm going home. I'll take his horse and get home," he said,

indicating the forester. "And now I'll say good-bye. I wish you all

success."

    So it was settled. The priest rode off on the forester's horse,

delighted to escape, though he shook his head uneasily, wondering

whether he ought not next day to inform his benefactor Fyodor

Pavlovitch of this curious incident, "or he may in an unlucky hour

hear of it, be angry, and withdraw his favour."

    The forester, scratching himself, went back to his room without

a word, and Mitya sat on the bench to "catch the favourable moment,"

as he expressed it. Profound dejection clung about his soul like a

heavy mist. A profound, intense dejection! He sat thinking, but

could reach no conclusion. The candle burnt dimly, a cricket

chirped; it became insufferably close in the overheated room. He

suddenly pictured the garden, the path behind the garden, the door

of his father's house mysteriously opening and Grushenka running in.

He leapt up from the bench.

    "It's a tragedy!" he said, grinding his teeth. Mechanically he

went up to the sleeping man and looked in his face. He was a lean,

middle-aged peasant, with a very long face, flaxen curls, and a

long, thin, reddish beard, wearing a blue cotton shirt and a black

waistcoat, from the pocket of which peeped the chain of a silver

watch. Mitya looked at his face with intense hatred, and for some

unknown reason his curly hair particularly irritated him.

    What was insufferably humiliating was that, after leaving things

of such importance and making such sacrifices, he, Mitya, utterly worn

out, should with business of such urgency be standing over this dolt

on whom his whole fate depended, while he snored as though there

were nothing the matter, as though he'd dropped from another planet.

    "Oh, the irony of fate!" cried Mitya, and, quite losing his

head, he fell again to rousing the tipsy peasant. He roused him with a

sort of ferocity, pulled at him, pushed him, even beat him; but

after five minutes of vain exertions, he returned to his bench in

helpless despair, and sat down.

    "Stupid! Stupid!" cried Mitya. "And how dishonourable it all

is!" something made him add. His head began to ache horribly.

"Should he fling it up and go away altogether?" he wondered. "No, wait

till to-morrow now. I'll stay on purpose. What else did I come for?

Besides, I've no means of going. How am I to get away from here now?

Oh, the idiocy of it" But his head ached more and more. He sat without

moving, and unconsciously dozed off and fell asleep as he sat. He

seemed to have slept for two hours or more. He was waked up by his

head aching so unbearably that he could have screamed. There was a

hammering in his temples, and the top of his head ached. It was a long

time before he could wake up fully and understand what had happened to

him.

    At last he realised that the room was full of charcoal fumes

from the stove, and that he might die of suffocation. And the

drunken peasant still lay snoring. The candle guttered and was about

to go out. Mitya cried out, and ran staggering across the passage into

the forester's room. The forester waked up at once, but hearing that

the other room was full of fumes, to Mitya's surprise and annoyance,

accepted the fact with strange unconcern, though he did go to see to

it.

    "But he's dead, he's dead! and... what am I to do then?" cried

Mitya frantically.

    They threw open the doors, opened a window and the chimney.

Mitya brought a pail of water from the passage. First he wetted his

own head, then, finding a rag of some sort, dipped it into the

water, and put it on Lyagavy's head. The forester still treated the

matter contemptuously, and when he opened the window said grumpily:

    "It'll be all right, now."

    He went back to sleep, leaving Mitya a lighted lantern. Mitya

fussed about the drunken peasant for half an hour, wetting his head,

and gravely resolved not to sleep all night. But he was so worn out

that when he sat down for a moment to take breath, he closed his eyes,

unconsciously stretched himself full length on the bench and slept

like the dead.

    It was dreadfully late when he waked. It was somewhere about

nine o'clock. The sun was shining brightly in the two little windows

of the hut. The curly-headed peasant was sitting on the bench and

had his coat on. He had another samovar and another bottle in front of

him. Yesterday's bottle had already been finished, and the new one was

more than half empty. Mitya jumped up and saw at once that the

cursed peasant was drunk again, hopelessly and incurably. He stared at

him for a moment with wide opened eyes. The peasant was silently and

slyly watching him, with insulting composure, and even a sort of

contemptuous condescension, so Mitya fancied. He rushed up to him.

    "Excuse me, you see... I... you've most likely heard from the

forester here in the hut. I'm Lieutenant Dmitri Karamazov, the son

of the old Karamazov whose copse you are buying."

    "That's a lie!" said the peasant, calmly and confidently.

    "A lie? You know Fyodor Pavlovitch?"

    "I don't know any of your Fyodor Pavlovitches," said the

peasant, speaking thickly.

    "You're bargaining with him for the copse, for the copse. Do

wake up, and collect yourself. Father Pavel of Ilyinskoe brought me

here. You wrote to Samsonov, and he has sent me to you," Mitya

gasped breathlessly.

    "You're lying!" Lyagavy blurted out again. Mitya's legs went cold.

    "For mercy's sake! It isn't a joke! You're drunk, perhaps. Yet you

can speak and understand... or else... I understand nothing!"

    "You're a painter!"

    "For mercy's sake! I'm Karamazov, Dmitri Karamazov. I have an

offer to make you, an advantageous offer... very advantageous offer,

concerning the copse!"

    The peasant stroked his beard importantly.

    "No, you've contracted for the job and turned out a scamp.

You're a scoundrel!"

    "I assure you you're mistaken," cried Mitya, wringing his hands in

despair. The peasant still stroked his beard, and suddenly screwed

up his eyes cunningly.

    "No, you show me this: you tell me the law that allows roguery.

D'you hear? You're a scoundrel! Do you understand that?"

    Mitya stepped back gloomily, and suddenly "something seemed to hit

him on the head," as he said afterwards. In an instant a light

seemed to dawn in his mind, "a light was kindled and I grasped it

all." He stood, stupefied, wondering how he, after all a man of

intelligence, could have yielded to such folly, have been led into

such an adventure, and have kept it up for almost twenty-four hours,

fussing round this Lyagavy, wetting his head.

    "Why, the man's drunk, dead drunk, and he'll go on drinking now

for a week; what's the use of waiting here? And what if Samsonov

sent me here on purpose? What if she- ? Oh God, what have I done?"

    The peasant sat watching him and grinning. Another time Mitya

might have killed the fool in a fury, but now he felt as weak as a

child. He went quietly to the bench, took up his overcoat, put it on

without a word, and went out of the hut. He did not find the

forester in the next room; there was no one there. He took fifty

copecks in small change out of his pocket and put them on the table

for his night's lodging, the candle, and the trouble he had given.

Coming out of the hut he saw nothing but forest all round. He walked

at hazard, not knowing which way to turn out of the hut, to the

right or to the left. Hurrying there the evening before with the

priest, he had not noticed the road. He had no revengeful feeling

for anybody, even for Samsonov, in his heart. He strode along a narrow

forest path, aimless, dazed, without heeding where he was going. A

child could have knocked him down, so weak was he in body and soul. He

got out of the forest somehow, however, and a vista of fields, bare

after the harvest, stretched as far as the eye could see.

    "What despair! What death all round!" he repeated, striding on and

on.

    He was saved by meeting an old merchant who was being driven

across country in a hired trap. When he overtook him, Mitya asked

the way and it turned out that the old merchant, too, was going to

Volovya. After some discussion Mitya got into the trap. Three hours

later they arrived. At Volovya, Mitya at once ordered posting-horses

to drive to the town, and suddenly realised that he was appallingly

hungry. While the horses were being harnessed, an omelette was

prepared for him. He ate it all in an instant, ate a huge hunk of

bread, ate a sausage, and swallowed three glasses of vodka. After

eating, his spirits and his heart grew lighter. He flew towards the

town, urged on the driver, and suddenly made a new and "unalterable"

plan to procure that "accursed money" before evening. "And to think,

only to think that a man's life should be ruined for the sake of

that paltry three thousand!" he cried, contemptuously. "I'll settle it

to-day." And if it had not been for the thought of Grushenka and of

what might have happened to her, which never left him, he would

perhaps have become quite cheerful again.... But the thought of her

was stabbing him to the heart every moment, like a sharp knife.

    At last they arrived, and Mitya at once ran to Grushenka.