The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (easy to read books for adults list .txt) 📕

Lyagavy

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 marketplace. 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