“What do you want of me, sir?” the old man, having finally seated himself, said slowly, distinctly, sternly, but courteously.

Mitya gave a start, jumped up, and sat down again. Then all at once he began speaking loudly, quickly, nervously, gesticulating and decidedly in a frenzy. Here obviously was a man at the end of his rope, facing ruin and looking for a last way out, and if he did not find it, he might just go and drown himself. All this old Samsonov probably understood instantly, though his face remained unchanged and cold as an idol’s.

“The most honorable Kuzma Kuzmich has doubtless already heard more than once of my disputes with my father, Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, who robbed me of my inheritance after my own mother ... because the whole town is chattering about it ... because here everyone chatters about things they shouldn’t ... And besides, it might also have come to you from Grushenka ... I beg your pardon: from Agrafena Alexandrovna ... from Agrafena Alexandrovna who is so greatly respected and so greatly honored by me . . .” Thus Mitya began, and broke off at the first sentence. However, we will not quote his whole speech word for word, but will only give a summary of it. The thing was, he said, that three months ago, he, Mitya, had purposefully consulted (he precisely said “purposefully,” not “purposely”) a lawyer in the provincial capital, “a famous lawyer, Kuzma Kuzmich, Pavel Pavlovich Korneplodov, perhaps you’ve heard of him, sir? A vast brain, almost the mind of a statesman ... he knows you, too ... he has the highest opinion ... ,” Mitya broke off again. But these gaps did not deter Mitya, he immediately leaped over them and rushed ahead. This same Korneplodov, after questioning him in detail and examining all the documents Mitya could present to him (about the documents Mitya spoke vaguely, and became particularly hurried at this point), opined that with regard to the village of Chermashnya, which should, he said, belong to him, Mitya, from his mother, it would indeed be possible to start a court action and knock the pins out from under the old hooligan ... “because it’s impossible that all doors are locked, and the law knows all the loopholes.” In a word, he might hope for as much as an additional six thousand from Fyodor Pavlovich, maybe even seven, because after all Chermashnya is worth not less than twenty-five thousand—that is, certainly twenty-eight, “thirty, in fact, thirty, Kuzma Kuzmich, and just imagine, I never got even seventeen out of that cruel man...!” And then, he said, I, Mitya, dropped the whole business, because I can’t deal with the law, and when I came here, I was dumbstruck by a countersuit (here Mitya became confused again, and again leaped abruptly ahead): and so, most honorable Kuzma Kuzmich, he said, how would you like to take over all my claims against that monster, and give me just three thousand ... You can’t lose in any case, I swear it on my honor, and quite the opposite, you could make six or seven thousand instead of three ... And above all it must be settled “this same day.” “I’ll ... at the notary, is it, or whatever ... In a word, I’m ready for anything, I’ll supply all the documents you want, I’ll sign anything ... and we could draw up the paper right now, and if possible, if only it were possible, this morning ... You could let me have the three thousand ... because who else is a capitalist in this little town if not you ... and you would save me from ... in a word, you would save my poor head for a most honorable deed, for a most lofty deed, one might say ... for I cherish the most honorable feelings for a certain person, whom you know only too well, sir, and for whom you have a fatherly concern. Otherwise I wouldn’t have come, if it wasn’t fatherly. And here three men are at loggerheads, if you like, because fate is a grisly thing, Kuzma Kuzmich! Realism, Kuzma Kuzmich, realism! And since you should have been counted out long ago, there are two heads left, as I put it, awkwardly perhaps, but I’m not a literary man. That is, one of the heads is mine, and the other—that monster’s. So choose: me or the monster? Everything is in your hands now—three fates and two lots ... Forgive me, I’ve gotten confused, but you understand ... I can see by your venerable eyes that you understand ... And if you don’t understand, I’ll drown myself today, that’s it!”

Mitya broke off his absurd speech with “that’s it,” and jumping up from his seat, awaited the answer to his stupid offer. At the last phrase, he felt suddenly and hopelessly that everything had fallen through, and, above all, that he had produced a lot of terrible drivel. “Strange, on my way here it all seemed fine, and now it’s all drivel!” suddenly flashed through his hopeless head. All the while he was talking, the old man sat motionlessly and watched him with an icy expression in his eyes. However, after keeping him in suspense for a moment, Kuzma Kuzmich at last declared in the most resolute and cheerless tone:

“Excuse me, sir, we do not engage in that kind of business.”

Mitya suddenly felt his legs give way under him.

“What am I to do now, Kuzma Kuzmich?” he murmured, with a pale smile. “I’m done for now, don’t you think?”

“Excuse me, sir...”

Mitya went on standing, staring fixedly at the old man, and suddenly noticed a slight movement in his face. He gave a start. “You see, sir, such business is not in our line,” the old man said slowly, “there would be courts, lawyers, all kinds of trouble! But there is a man for that, if you like you can try him...”

“My God, who is he...! You’re my resurrection, Kuzma Kuzmich,” Mitya began babbling suddenly.

“He’s not a local man, the one I mean, and he’s not here now. He’s from peasants, he trades in timber, he’s called Lyagavy.^[235] He’s been bargaining for a year with Fyodor Pavlovich over that woodlot in Chermashnya, but they can’t agree on a price, as perhaps you’ve heard. Now he’s come back again and is staying with the priest in Ilyinskoye, about eight miles or so from Volovya station, in the village of Ilyinskoye. He also wrote here, to me, about the same business—that is, concerning the woodlot—asking my advice. Fyodor Pavlovich himself wants to go and see him. So if you were to get there ahead of Fyodor Pavlovich, and make Lyagavy the same offer you made me, he might just ...”

“A brilliant idea!” Mitya interrupted ecstatically. “It’s made for him, just made for him! He’s bargaining, the price is too high, and here is this document of ownership just made for him, ha, ha, ha!” Mitya burst into his clipped, wooden laugh, so unexpectedly that even Samsonov jerked his head.

“How can I thank you, Kuzma Kuzmich,” Mitya was bubbling over.

“It’s nothing, sir,” Samsonov inclined his head.

“But you don’t realize, you’ve saved me, oh, I was drawn to you by some presentiment ... And so, off to that priest!”

“No thanks are necessary, sir.”

“I hasten, I fly! I’ve abused your health. I will remember it always—it’s a Russian man saying it to you, Kuzma Kuzmich, a R-r-russian man!”

“Well, sir.”

Mitya seized his hand to shake it, but something malicious flashed in the old man’s eyes. Mitya drew his hand back, and at once reproached himself for his suspicion. “He must be tired ... ,” flashed through his mind.

“For her! For her, Kuzma Kuzmich! You understand it’s for her!” he roared suddenly to the rafters, then bowed, turned around sharply, and with the same long, quick strides 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,” raced through his mind. “And if such a businessman as this old man (a most honorable old man, and what bearing! ) has pointed out this course, then ... then this course must surely be a winner. I’ll fly immediately. I’ll be back before nightfall, by nightfall, but the thing will be won. Can the old man have been laughing at me?” Thus Mitya exclaimed, striding back to his lodgings, and of course to his mind it could not have appeared otherwise; that is, either it was businesslike advice, and from such a businessman, who knows business and knows this Lyagavy (strange name!), or—or the old man was laughing at him! Alas! only the second of these thoughts was true. Later, much later, when the whole catastrophe had already taken place, old Samsonov himself admitted, laughing, that he had made a fool of the “captain.” This was a spiteful, cold, and sarcastic man, full of morbid antipathies as well. Whether it was the rapturous look of the captain, the foolish conviction of this “wastrel and spendthrift” that he, Samsonov, might fall for something as wild as his “plan,” or jealousy over Grushenka, in whose name this “madcap” came with such a wild thing, asking for money—I cannot say what precisely prompted the old man at the time, but when Mitya stood before him, feeling his legs give way, and exclaimed senselessly that he was done for—-at that moment the old man looked upon him with boundless spite and decided to make a fool of him. Once Mitya had left, Kuzma Kuzmich, livid with spite, turned to his son and told him to give orders that not a hair of that ragamuffin was to be seen in the future, that he was not even to be allowed into the yard, or else . . .