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So if you were to be beforehand with Fyodor Pavlovitch and to make Lyagavy the offer you’ve made me, he might possibly—” “A brilliant idea!” Mitya interrupted ecstatically. “He’s the very man, it would just suit him. He’s haggling with him for it, being asked too much, and here he would have all the documents entitling him to the property itself. Ha ha ha!”
But if he strokes his beard with his left hand and grins—he is trying to cheat you. Don’t watch his eyes, you won’t find out anything from his eyes, he is a deep one, a rogue—but watch his beard! I’ll give you a note and you show it to him. He’s called Gorstkin, though his real name is Lyagavy ; but don’t call him so, he will be offended.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
Forgive me, gentlemen, I’m making such an outcry because I’ve had that thought in my mind so lately, only the day before yesterday, that night when I was having all that bother with Lyagavy, and afterwards yesterday, all day yesterday, I remember, till that happened ...” “Till what happened?” put in Nikolay Parfenovitch inquisitively, but Mitya did not hear it.
“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 l-lying!” Lyagavy blurted out again.
“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.
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