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 honoured 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 everyone'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 of 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 summarise 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 honoured 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 honour, my honour, 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...save me, in fact...for a good, Imight say an honourable action....For I cherish the most honourable 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?
