The Brothers Karamazov (68 page)

This younger son was a huge man of well over six foot and exceptionally strong. He was clean-shaven and dressed in European style, unlike Samsonov himself who was bearded and wore a kaftan. He came at once and waited in silence for, like all the rest of them, he lived in awe of his father. Samsonov had sent for this giant not because he was really afraid of Dmitry—he was not one to be easily frightened—but because he thought it would be better to have a witness and, well, just in case . . . And so, supported by his son and his valet, Samsonov finally hobbled into the living room, probably rather curious about the man he would find there.

The living room where Mitya waited was vast, bleak, and depressing. It had two big windows, a gallery around it, imitation marble wallpaper, and three huge cut-glass chandeliers in covers. Mitya sat on a straight chair by the door. He was obviously waiting with nervous impatience. When the old man appeared at the opposite end of the room, about sixty feet away from him, Mitya stood up at once and walked toward the old man with his long, firm military stride. He was dressed very correctly that morning—a frock-coat buttoned up all the way and black gloves, and with a top-hat in his hands, exactly the same clothes as he had worn three days earlier at the elder’s, when he had met with his father and brothers at the monastery. The old man, dignified and stern, stood waiting for him and, as he walked toward him, Mitya felt that Samsonov had thoroughly appraised him. Mitya was very struck by Samsonov’s face, the lower part of which had lately become so swollen that his lower lip, always naturally thick, now protruded like a saucer. Samsonov bowed to him in dignified silence and, gesturing him to an armchair by the sofa, started slowly installing himself on the sofa facing Mitya, groaning and leaning heavily on his son’s arm as he did so. Watching this obviously painful effort, Mitya now felt sorry for having imposed such exertions on this venerable and important man and, at the same time, felt ashamed of his own insignificance.

“What can I do for you, sir?” the old man said when he was finally installed. He spoke slowly, articulating his words clearly, but without rudeness.

Mitya gave a start, jumped up without thinking, and sat down again. Then he spoke hurriedly and nervously, in a loud voice, gesticulating in his excitement, becoming more and more agitated . . . It was obvious that this was a man on the brink of disaster, looking desperately for a way out, without which there would be nothing left for him but to plunge into the abyss. Kuzma Samsonov must have seen all this within a minute, although his face remained cold and expressionless, like the face of an idol.

“I suppose you must have heard, sir, about my disagreements with my father, Fyodor Karamazov, who has cheated me out of my inheritance from my mother . . . It has been the talk of the town for quite a while now . . . for people here like to talk about things that are really none of their business. Besides, Grushenka—I’m sorry, I mean Miss Svetlov—may have told you about it . . .” Mitya started out, interrupting himself all the time. We will not bother to reproduce his speech verbatim, however, but will just report the gist of it. What he wanted to say was that three months earlier he had gone on purpose to see (he deliberately avoided the word “consult”) a lawyer in the provincial capital (“Pavel Korneplodov—I’m sure you must have heard of him, sir. A tremendous mind, the intelligence of a statesman almost . . . he knows you . . . thinks very highly of you”). Mitya became sidetracked again but these diversions did not stop him. He just skipped back from them to his story. Well, then, that great lawyer, after having questioned Mitya thoroughly and studied the documents (Mitya was rather vague about these documents and seemed in a hurry to get this part of his story over with), declared that Chermashnya should really be Mitya’s as it was part of his mother’s estate and that Mitya could claim it by legal action, which would make things very unpleasant for “my unbearable old father,” because, Mitya said, “he has not established his rights to it very firmly and a good lawyer would soon find a loophole.” In brief, there was a good chance of getting another six or perhaps even seven thousand out of the old man, for Chermashnya was worth “at least twenty-five, I mean, twenty-eight thousand . . . no, no, it’s worth all of thirty thousand, sir, while, I—would you believe it?—I haven’t even had seventeen thousand rubles for it out of that stone-hearted man!” And Mitya went on to say that, while he was away, he had dropped the matter “because I’m no good at these legal matters,” but now, having come back, he was dumbfounded by his father’s counter-claim. At this point he got mixed up again and, instead of pursuing this subject, concluded his speech with his proposition: Wouldn’t “the highly esteemed Mr. Samsonov” be interested in acquiring Mitya’s rights to Chermashnya for just three thousand rubles? “I give you my word of honor, you won’t lose anything on the deal. Indeed, I’m absolutely certain, I swear on my honor, that you’ll get back six or seven thousand for these three . . .” What Mitya wanted, though, was “to settle this whole thing no later than today.”

“We could meet at a notary’s, or wherever you say . . . In short, I’ll hand over all the papers to you, everything, whatever you want. I’ll sign anything . . . And then we can draw up a legal agreement and . . . if it is possible . . . if you think it is feasible, I’d like to have . . . the three thousand . . . this morning. For no one but you in this town has such a large sum at his disposal . . . And you’d save me from . . . I mean you’d save my poor head, so that I could act like an honorable man, I dare say—for I have very honorable feelings toward someone you know very well and in whom you take a fatherly interest . . . For I wouldn’t be here if I were not aware that your interest in her was fatherly, sir. If I may put it this way, sir, three men have collided head-on—that’s fate for you, Mr. Samsonov, a horrible fate! But that’s realism, sir, sheer realism! Well, since you haven’t been involved in it for a long time now, that leaves two heads . . . Perhaps I’m not expressing it very clearly, but then I have no literary talent. What I was trying to say was that my head is there and also the head of that monster . . . And so you choose—who is it to be—the monster or me? Everything is in your hands now—three men and two lots to draw . . . forgive me, I am a bit mixed up, but I can see by your highly esteemed eyes that you are following me . . . And if you are not, I’ll have to jump in the lake this very day. So that’s it.”

And with this “So that’s it,” Mitya rested his absurd plea. Jumping up from his seat, he waited for Samsonov’s answer to his preposterous proposition. As he was uttering his closing phrase, it suddenly dawned on him that it had not worked and that he had been talking utter nonsense. “That’s strange,” the thought flashed through his head. “It all seemed so reasonable when I was on my way here, and now it makes no sense . . .” While he had been talking, the old man had kept an icy, immobile gaze fixed on him, and once Mitya had finished, Samsonov waited for a minute or so and then said in a firm tone that left no room for hope:

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t go in for that sort of business.”

Mitya felt his legs giving way under him.

“But, sir . . .” he said with a wan, helpless smile, “that means, then . . . means that I’m lost now, don’t you think so?”

“I am sorry, sir.”

Mitya was still standing there, gaping straight into the old man’s face, when suddenly he thought he saw something move in it. He gave a violent start.

“You see, that is really not our line of business at all,” the old man said very slowly. “Getting involved with lawyers, hearings, all that, is too much trouble . . . But I know a man who might be interested. Perhaps you should address yourself to him.”

“Oh! . . .” Mitya felt life returning to him. “What’s his name? Oh, Mr. Samsonov, you’ve given me a new lease on life!”

“He’s not a local man and he’s not in town at the moment. He sells lumber to peasants and they call him ‘the Hound.’ He’s been trying to buy that Chermashnya wood of yours from your father for a year, but they have not been able to agree on the price. You may have heard about it. Now he’s in Chermashnya again and is staying at the priest’s house in Ilyinskoye village, about eight miles from the Volovya railroad station. He wrote me too about that business. I mean, he wanted my advice on it. I believe your father is planning to go and see him himself. So I suppose if you got there before him and made the Hound the same offer you’ve just made me, who knows, he might possibly consider it . . .”

“What an inspired idea!” Mitya interrupted him enthusiastically. “Yes, right, that would suit him fine! He’s interested in buying it, the price he’s been asked for it is too high and here, all of a sudden, he’ll have a document showing his ownership! Ha-ha-ha!” Mitya suddenly burst into wooden laughter that was so unexpected that Samsonov started.

“I don’t even know how to thank you, sir,” Mitya muttered excitedly.

“Please don’t mention it,” Samsonov said, slightly lowering his head.

“You don’t realize what you’ve done for me—you’ve actually saved me! Oh, I had a feeling you’d help me! . . . So I’m off to the priest’s now!”

“There’s really nothing to thank me for.”

“I’ll hurry over there right away! I’m sorry to have imposed on you when you were not feeling well, and I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me. You have my word for that, the word of a 
Russian
 man.”

“I see, I see.”

Mitya was about to seize the old man’s hand and shake it, but a hostile glint appeared in Samsonov’s eye and Mitya hurriedly pulled his hand back, and then at once reproached himself for being overly suspicious: “He’s just tired,” he thought.

“It’s for her, Mr. Samsonov! You understand, I’m doing all this for her!” he suddenly roared so that his voice resounded through the huge room. Then he turned about face and marched off toward the door with the same long soldier’s stride. He was wound up and trembling. “Everything seemed lost and then, all of a sudden, my guardian angel saved me.” Thoughts whirled around in his head. “But if a big businessman like him—ah, what a dignified figure of a man!—advises me to do it this way, I’m sure the deal is as good as settled . . . unless . . . no, surely he couldn’t be pulling my leg, could he? . . .” And Mitya kept exclaiming under his breath all the way to his lodgings; and, indeed, there were only these two alternatives: either this was sound business advice from a solid businessman, who knew all the facts of the business at hand, moreover, and also that man, the Hound—what a peculiar name!—or the old man was sending him on a fool’s errand.

Alas, it turned out that the second alternative was the right one. Much later, after the catastrophe, old Samsonov admitted laughingly that he had deliberately played a trick on “the Captain.” For Samsonov was a cold, cruel, mocking man, who sometimes took violent dislikes to people. It could have been the enthusiastic look on Mitya’s face, or perhaps “that useless spendthrift’s” notion that he, Samsonov, could be taken in by such idiotic ravings as Mitya’s “plan,” or he may even have felt jealous over Grushenka, in whose name this “good-for-nothing” had come to him with a cock and bull story about needing money—it’s hard to say exactly what made Samsonov do it, but at the moment that Mitya’s legs had given way under him in despair and he had explained that he was lost, the old man had glanced at him with immense hatred and had decided to play a cruel trick on him.

When Mitya had left, Samsonov, pale with rage, told his son to see to it that that “good-for-nothing” was never allowed into the house again, otherwise . . .

He did not say what would happen otherwise, but even his son, who had often seen him angry, shuddered in fear. And for a whole hour after that, the old man shook with rage. In the evening he felt ill and sent for a doctor.

Chapter 2: The Hound

AND SO Mitya rushed off “at a gallop.” But he did not have even enough money to pay for horses. Altogether he had forty kopeks, the remains of his years of prosperity! Ah yes, he also had an old silver watch that had stopped long before. He dashed off to a Jewish watchmaker who had a little shop on the market place, and got six rubles for it. “I never expected to get that much!” Mitya cried enthusiastically (he was still in the same exhilarated state) and ran back home. There he increased the sum by borrowing three rubles from his landlord and his wife, who gave it to him gladly, although it was all they had, because they had such great affection for their lodger. In his excitement, Mitya revealed to them that his fate was being decided and told them—to be sure, in a tremendous hurry—just about everything, including the “plan” he had offered Samsonov and the advice Samsonov had given him; he explained to them his hopes for the future, and so on. Mitya had confided many of his secrets to these people before, and for that very reason they felt as if he were one of them rather than a haughty gentleman.

Having collected nine rubles, Mitya ordered post-horses to take him to Volovya station. And thus it was later to be established and recorded that “at noon, on the day preceding the event, Dmitry Karamazov had no money at all and, in order to get some, had to sell his watch and borrow three rubles from his landlord—both of which facts are confirmed by witnesses.”

I mention this beforehand and later it will become clear why I do so.

On his way to Volovya, Mitya was beaming in joyful anticipation of “getting all this business over and done with,” although shivers ran up and down his spine when he imagined all the things that might happen to Grushenka in his absence. What if, just that day, she decided to go to his father’s? That was why he had left without telling anyone, except the people in his house, whom he had asked expressly not to tell anyone of his whereabouts, whoever asked for him. “I must be back tonight without fail and, if I have to, I’ll drag that fellow the Hound back by force with me to complete the deal here,” Mitya repeated to himself, as he jogged along in the carriage, hoping breathlessly that everything would turn out well. But alas, his hopes were not destined to be fulfilled according to his “plan.”