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The old man waited for him, standing dignified and unbending, and Mitya felt at once that he had looked him through and through as he advanced. Mitya was greatly impressed, too, with Samsonov’s immensely swollen face. His lower lip, which had always been thick, hung down now, looking like a bun.
'Dear me, am I drunk? he asked himself. He had had a couple of bottles of wine, but it was not the wine alone that was having this effect on Olenin. He remembered the clasp of hands, glances, the moments of silence, and the sound of a voice saying, 'Good-bye, Mitya! when he was already in the sledge. He remembered his own deliberate frankness. And all this had a touching significance for him.
It was an instance of this simplicity that Mitya was seriously persuaded that, being on the eve of his departure for the next world, old Kuzma must sincerely repent of his past relations with Grushenka, and that she had no more devoted friend and protector in the world than this, now harmless old man.
Five hundred roubles I’ll give you this moment for the journey, and as a first installment, and two thousand five hundred to-morrow, in the town—I swear on my honor, I’ll get it, I’ll get it at any cost!” cried Mitya. The Poles exchanged glances again. The short man’s face looked more forbidding.
Then the prisoner was allowed to speak. Mitya stood up, but said very little. He was fearfully exhausted, physically and mentally. The look of strength and independence with which he had entered in the morning had almost disappeared.
“I have made you an awful confession,” Mitya said gloomily in conclusion. “You must appreciate it, and what’s more, you must respect it, for if not, if that leaves your souls untouched, then you’ve simply no respect for me, gentlemen, I tell you that, and I shall die of shame at having confessed it to men like you! Oh, I shall shoot myself! Yes, I see, I see already that you don’t believe me.
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.
One piece of evidence given by the Poles roused special interest in the lawyers: that was how, in that very room, Mitya had tried to buy off Pan Mussyalovitch, and had offered him three thousand roubles to resign his claims, seven hundred roubles down, and the remaining two thousand three hundred “to be paid next day in the town.” He had sworn at the time that he had not the whole sum with him at Mokroe, but that his money was in the town.
PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. If she weren't my own, then I shouldn't be weeping and wailing, and my heart wouldn't be breaking over her tears. MÍTYA. Why weep? It would be better not to marry her. Why are you ruining the girl's life, and giving her into slavery? Isn't this a sin? You will have to answer for it to God. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. I know, I know it all, but I tell you, Mítya, it's not my doing.
Besides, Mitya hardly looked upon him as a man at all, for it was known to every one in the town that he was only a shattered wreck, whose relations with Grushenka had changed their character and were now simply paternal, and that this had been so for a long time. In any case there was much simplicity on Mitya’s part in all this, for in spite of all his vices, he was a very simple-hearted man.
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