finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_10_part_1.txt
The Brothers Karamazov.book 8.chapter 1
book 8, chapter 1
{"name": "book 8, Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section11/", "summary": "Kuzma Samsonov Dmitri is desperate for money. Even if he could persuade Grushenka to marry him, he would still be bound to repay the 3,000 rubles he owes Katerina first. But he is unable to obtain from his father the money he believes to be rightfully his, and he has no real income. In a last-ditch effort to raise the funds he needs, he visits Samsonov and attempts to strike a deal with him. He says that if the old merchant will give him the money, Dmitri will give him the rights to some land that he might be able to win from his father in court. Samsonov has no interest in this shabby deal, and cruelly attempts to dupe Dmitri. He suggests that the young man visit a different merchant to sell his land--a merchant who, unbeknownst to Dmitri, is even now planning to buy this same property from Fyodor Pavlovich", "analysis": ""}
Book VIII. Mitya Chapter I. Kuzma Samsonov


But Dmitri, to whom Grushenka, flying away to a new life, had left her
last greetings, bidding him remember the hour of her love for ever, knew
nothing of what had happened to her, and was at that moment in a condition
of feverish agitation and activity. For the last two days he had been in
such an inconceivable state of mind that he might easily have fallen ill
with brain fever, as he said himself afterwards. Alyosha had not been able
to find him the morning before, and Ivan had not succeeded in meeting him
at the tavern on the same day. The people at his lodgings, by his orders,
concealed his movements.

He had spent those two days literally rushing in all directions,
"struggling with his destiny and trying to save himself," as he expressed
it himself afterwards, and for some hours he even made a dash out of the
town on urgent business, terrible as it was to him to lose sight of
Grushenka for a moment. All this was explained afterwards in detail, and
confirmed by documentary evidence; but for the present we will only note
the most essential incidents of those two terrible days immediately
preceding the awful catastrophe, that broke so suddenly upon him.

Though Grushenka had, it is true, loved him for an hour, genuinely and
sincerely, yet she tortured him sometimes cruelly and mercilessly. The
worst of it was that he could never tell what she meant to do. To prevail
upon her by force or kindness was also impossible: she would yield to
nothing. She would only have become angry and turned away from him
altogether, he knew that well already. He suspected, quite correctly, that
she, too, was passing through an inward struggle, and was in a state of
extraordinary indecision, that she was making up her mind to something,
and unable to determine upon it. And so, not without good reason, he
divined, with a sinking heart, that at moments she must simply hate him
and his passion. And so, perhaps, it was, but what was distressing
Grushenka he did not understand. For him the whole tormenting question lay
between him and Fyodor Pavlovitch.

Here, we must note, by the way, one certain fact: he was firmly persuaded
that Fyodor Pavlovitch would offer, or perhaps had offered, Grushenka
lawful wedlock, and did not for a moment believe that the old voluptuary
hoped to gain his object for three thousand roubles. Mitya had reached
this conclusion from his knowledge of Grushenka and her character. That
was how it was that he could believe at times that all Grushenka's
uneasiness rose from not knowing which of them to choose, which was most
to her advantage.

Strange to say, during those days it never occurred to him to think of the
approaching return of the "officer," that is, of the man who had been such
a fatal influence in Grushenka's life, and whose arrival she was expecting
with such emotion and dread. It is true that of late Grushenka had been
very silent about it. Yet he was perfectly aware of a letter she had
received a month ago from her seducer, and had heard of it from her own
lips. He partly knew, too, what the letter contained. In a moment of spite
Grushenka had shown him that letter, but to her astonishment he attached
hardly any consequence to it. It would be hard to say why this was.
Perhaps, weighed down by all the hideous horror of his struggle with his
own father for this woman, he was incapable of imagining any danger more
terrible, at any rate for the time. He simply did not believe in a suitor
who suddenly turned up again after five years' disappearance, still less
in his speedy arrival. Moreover, in the "officer's" first letter which had
been shown to Mitya, the possibility of his new rival's visit was very
vaguely suggested. The letter was very indefinite, high-flown, and full of
sentimentality. It must be noted that Grushenka had concealed from him the
last lines of the letter, in which his return was alluded to more
definitely. He had, besides, noticed at that moment, he remembered
afterwards, a certain involuntary proud contempt for this missive from
Siberia on Grushenka's face. Grushenka told him nothing of what had passed
later between her and this rival; so that by degrees he had completely
forgotten the officer's existence.

He felt that whatever might come later, whatever turn things might take,
his final conflict with Fyodor Pavlovitch was close upon him, and must be
decided before anything else. With a sinking heart he was expecting every
moment Grushenka's decision, always believing that it would come suddenly,
on the impulse of the moment. All of a sudden she would say to him: "Take
me, I'm yours for ever," and it would all be over. He would seize her and
bear her away at once to the ends of the earth. Oh, then he would bear her
away at once, as far, far away as possible; to the farthest end of Russia,
if not of the earth, then he would marry her, and settle down with her
incognito, so that no one would know anything about them, there, here, or
anywhere. Then, oh, then, a new life would begin at once!

Of this different, reformed and "virtuous" life ("it must, it must be
virtuous") he dreamed feverishly at every moment. He thirsted for that
reformation and renewal. The filthy morass, in which he had sunk of his
own free will, was too revolting to him, and, like very many men in such
cases, he put faith above all in change of place. If only it were not for
these people, if only it were not for these circumstances, if only he
could fly away from this accursed place--he would be altogether
regenerated, would enter on a new path. That was what he believed in, and
what he was yearning for.

But all this could only be on condition of the first, the _happy_ solution
of the question. There was another possibility, a different and awful
ending. Suddenly she might say to him: "Go away. I have just come to terms
with Fyodor Pavlovitch. I am going to marry him and don't want you"--and
then ... but then.... But Mitya did not know what would happen then. Up to
the last hour he didn't know. That must be said to his credit. He had no
definite intentions, had planned no crime. He was simply watching and
spying in agony, while he prepared himself for the first, happy solution
of his destiny. He drove away any other idea, in fact. But for that ending
a quite different anxiety arose, a new, incidental, but yet fatal and
insoluble difficulty presented itself.

If she were to say to him: "I'm yours; take me away," how could he take
her away? Where had he the means, the money to do it? It was just at this
time that all sources of revenue from Fyodor Pavlovitch, doles which had
gone on without interruption for so many years, ceased. Grushenka had
money, of course, but with regard to this Mitya suddenly evinced
extraordinary pride; he wanted to carry her away and begin the new life
with her himself, at his own expense, not at hers. He could not conceive
of taking her money, and the very idea caused him a pang of intense
repulsion. I won't enlarge on this fact or analyze it here, but confine
myself to remarking that this was his attitude at the moment. All this may
have arisen indirectly and unconsciously from the secret stings of his
conscience for the money of Katerina Ivanovna that he had dishonestly
appropriated. "I've been a scoundrel to one of them, and I shall be a
scoundrel again to the other directly," was his feeling then, as he
explained after: "and when Grushenka knows, she won't care for such a
scoundrel."

Where then was he to get the means, where was he to get the fateful money?
Without it, all would be lost and nothing could be done, "and only because
I hadn't the money. Oh, the shame of it!"

To anticipate things: he did, perhaps, know where to get the money, knew,
perhaps, where it lay at that moment. I will say no more of this here, as
it will all be clear later. But his chief trouble, I must explain however
obscurely, lay in the fact that to have that sum he knew of, to _have the
right_ to take it, he must first restore Katerina Ivanovna's three
thousand--if not, "I'm a common pickpocket, I'm a scoundrel, and I don't
want to begin a new life as a scoundrel," Mitya decided. And so he made up
his mind to move heaven and earth to return Katerina Ivanovna that three
thousand, and that _first of all_. The final stage of this decision, so to
say, had been reached only during the last hours, that is, after his last
interview with Alyosha, two days before, on the high-road, on the evening
when Grushenka had insulted Katerina Ivanovna, and Mitya, after hearing
Alyosha's account of it, had admitted that he was a scoundrel, and told
him to tell Katerina Ivanovna so, if it could be any comfort to her. After
parting from his brother on that night, he had felt in his frenzy that it
would be better "to murder and rob some one than fail to pay my debt to
Katya. I'd rather every one thought me a robber and a murderer, I'd rather
go to Siberia than that Katya should have the right to say that I deceived
her and stole her money, and used her money to run away with Grushenka and
begin a new life! That I can't do!" So Mitya decided, grinding his teeth,
and he might well fancy at times that his brain would give way. But
meanwhile he went on struggling....

Strange to say, though one would have supposed there was nothing left for
him but despair--for what chance had he, with nothing in the world, to
raise such a sum?--yet to the very end he persisted in hoping that he would
get that three thousand, that the money would somehow come to him of
itself, as though it might drop from heaven. That is just how it is with
people who, like Dmitri, have never had anything to do with money, except
to squander what has come to them by inheritance without any effort of
their own, and have no notion how money is obtained. A whirl of the most
fantastic notions took possession of his brain immediately after he had
parted with Alyosha two days before, and threw his thoughts into a tangle
of confusion. This is how it was he pitched first on a perfectly wild
enterprise. And perhaps to men of that kind in such circumstances the most
impossible, fantastic schemes occur first, and seem most practical.

He suddenly determined to go to Samsonov, the merchant who was Grushenka's
protector, and to propose a "scheme" to him, and by means of it to obtain
from him at once the whole of the sum required. Of the commercial value of
his scheme he had no doubt, not the slightest, and was only uncertain how
Samsonov would look upon his freak, supposing he were to consider it from
any but the commercial point of view. Though Mitya knew the merchant by
sight, he was not acquainted with him and had never spoken a word to him.
But for some unknown reason he had long entertained the conviction that
the old reprobate, who was lying at death's door, would perhaps not at all
object now to Grushenka's securing a respectable position, and marrying a
man "to be depended upon." And he believed not only that he would not
object, but that this was what he desired, and, if opportunity arose, that
he would be ready to help. From some rumor, or perhaps from some stray
word of Grushenka's, he had gathered further that the old man would
perhaps prefer him to Fyodor Pavlovitch for Grushenka.

Possibly many of the readers of my novel will feel that in reckoning on
such assistance, and being ready to take his bride, so to speak, from the
hands of her protector, Dmitri showed great coarseness and want of
delicacy. I will only observe that Mitya looked upon Grushenka's past as
something completely over. He looked on that past with infinite pity and
resolved with all the fervor of his passion that when once Grushenka told
him she loved him and would marry him, it would mean the beginning of a
new Grushenka and a new Dmitri, free from every vice. They would forgive
one another and would begin their lives afresh. As for Kuzma Samsonov,
Dmitri looked upon him as a man who had exercised a fateful influence in
that remote past of Grushenka's, though she had never loved him, and who
was now himself a thing of the past, completely done with, and, so to say,
non-existent. 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. 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.

After his conversation with Alyosha, at the cross-roads, he hardly slept
all night, and at ten o'clock next morning, he was at the house of
Samsonov and telling the servant to announce him. It was a very large and
gloomy old house of two stories, with a lodge and outhouses. In the lower
story lived Samsonov's two married sons with their families, his old
sister, and his unmarried daughter. In the lodge lived two of his clerks,
one of whom also had a large family. Both the lodge and the lower story
were overcrowded, but the old man kept the upper floor to himself, and
would not even let the daughter live there with him, though she waited
upon him, and in spite of her asthma was obliged at certain fixed hours,
and at any time he might call her, to run upstairs to him from below.

This upper floor contained a number of large rooms kept purely for show,
furnished in the old-fashioned merchant style, with long monotonous rows
of clumsy mahogany chairs along the walls, with glass chandeliers under
shades, and gloomy mirrors on the walls. All these rooms were entirely
empty and unused, for the old man kept to one room, a small, remote
bedroom, where he was waited upon by an old servant with a kerchief on her
head, and by a lad, who used to sit on the locker in the passage. Owing to
his swollen legs, the old man could hardly walk at all, and was only
rarely lifted from his leather arm-chair, when the old woman supporting
him led him up and down the room once or twice. He was morose and taciturn
even with this old woman.

When he was informed of the arrival of the "captain," he at once refused
to see him. But Mitya persisted and sent his name up again. Samsonov
questioned the lad minutely: What he looked like? Whether he was drunk?
Was he going to make a row? The answer he received was: that he was sober,
but wouldn't go away. The old man again refused to see him. Then Mitya,
who had foreseen this, and purposely brought pencil and paper with him,
wrote clearly on the piece of paper the words: "On most important business
closely concerning Agrafena Alexandrovna," and sent it up to the old man.

After thinking a little Samsonov told the lad to take the visitor to the
drawing-room, and sent the old woman downstairs with a summons to his
younger son to come upstairs to him at once. This younger son, a man over
six foot and of exceptional physical strength, who was closely-shaven and
dressed in the European style, though his father still wore a kaftan and a
beard, came at once without a comment. All the family trembled before the
father. The old man had sent for this giant, not because he was afraid of
the "captain" (he was by no means of a timorous temper), but in order to
have a witness in case of any emergency. Supported by his son and the
servant-lad, he waddled at last into the drawing-room. It may be assumed
that he felt considerable curiosity. The drawing-room in which Mitya was
awaiting him was a vast, dreary room that laid a weight of depression on
the heart. It had a double row of windows, a gallery, marbled walls, and
three immense chandeliers with glass lusters covered with shades.

Mitya was sitting on a little chair at the entrance, awaiting his fate
with nervous impatience. When the old man appeared at the opposite door,
seventy feet away, Mitya jumped up at once, and with his long, military
stride walked to meet him. Mitya was well dressed, in a frock-coat,
buttoned up, with a round hat and black gloves in his hands, just as he
had been three days before at the elder's, at the family meeting with his
father and brothers. 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. He bowed to his guest in dignified silence,
motioned him to a low chair by the sofa, and, leaning on his son's arm he
began lowering himself on to the sofa opposite, groaning painfully, so
that Mitya, seeing his painful exertions, immediately felt remorseful and
sensitively conscious of his insignificance in the presence of the
dignified person he had ventured to disturb.

"What is it you want of me, sir?" said the old man, deliberately,
distinctly, severely, but courteously, when he was at last seated.

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 honored 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 every one'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
for 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 summarize 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
honored 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 honor, my honor, 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 ...
would save me, in fact ... for a good, I might say an honorable action....
For I cherish the most honorable 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? Now he's come back again and
is staying with the priest at Ilyinskoe, about twelve versts from the
Volovya station. He wrote to me, too, about the business of the copse,
asking my advice. Fyodor Pavlovitch means to go and see him himself. 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!"

And Mitya suddenly went off into his short, wooden laugh, startling
Samsonov.

"How can I thank you, Kuzma Kuzmitch?" cried Mitya effusively.

"Don't mention it," said Samsonov, inclining his head.

"But you don't know, you've saved me. Oh, it was a true presentiment
brought me to you.... So now to this priest!"

"No need of thanks."

"I'll make haste and fly there. I'm afraid I've overtaxed your strength. I
shall never forget it. It's a Russian says that, Kuzma Kuzmitch, a R-r-
russian!"

"To be sure!"

Mitya seized his hand to press it, but there was a malignant gleam in the
old man's eye. Mitya drew back his hand, but at once blamed himself for
his mistrustfulness.

"It's because he's tired," he thought.

"For her sake! For her sake, Kuzma Kuzmitch! You understand that it's for
her," he cried, his voice ringing through the room. He bowed, turned
sharply round, and with the same long stride walked to the door without
looking back. He was trembling with delight.

"Everything was on the verge of ruin and my guardian angel saved me," was
the thought in his mind. And if such a business man as Samsonov (a most
worthy old man, and what dignity!) had suggested this course, then ...
then success was assured. He would fly off immediately. "I will be back
before night, I shall be back at night and the thing is done. Could the
old man have been laughing at me?" exclaimed Mitya, as he strode towards
his lodging. He could, of course, imagine nothing, but that the advice was
practical "from such a business man" with an understanding of the
business, with an understanding of this Lyagavy (curious surname!). Or--the
old man was laughing at him.

Alas! The second alternative was the correct one. Long afterwards, when
the catastrophe had happened, old Samsonov himself confessed, laughing,
that he had made a fool of the "captain." He was a cold, spiteful and
sarcastic man, liable to violent antipathies. Whether it was the
"captain's" excited face, or the foolish conviction of the "rake and
spendthrift," that he, Samsonov, could be taken in by such a cock-and-bull
story as his scheme, or his jealousy of Grushenka, in whose name this
"scapegrace" had rushed in on him with such a tale to get money which
worked on the old man, I can't tell. But at the instant when Mitya stood
before him, feeling his legs grow weak under him, and frantically
exclaiming that he was ruined, at that moment the old man looked at him
with intense spite, and resolved to make a laughing-stock of him. When
Mitya had gone, Kuzma Kuzmitch, white with rage, turned to his son and
bade him see to it that that beggar be never seen again, and never
admitted even into the yard, or else he'd--

He did not utter his threat. But even his son, who often saw him enraged,
trembled with fear. For a whole hour afterwards, the old man was shaking
with anger, and by evening he was worse, and sent for the doctor.





book 8, Chapter 1
Kuzma Samsonov Dmitri is desperate for money. Even if he could persuade Grushenka to marry him, he would still be bound to repay the 3,000 rubles he owes Katerina first. But he is unable to obtain from his father the money he believes to be rightfully his, and he has no real income. In a last-ditch effort to raise the funds he needs, he visits Samsonov and attempts to strike a deal with him. He says that if the old merchant will give him the money, Dmitri will give him the rights to some land that he might be able to win from his father in court. Samsonov has no interest in this shabby deal, and cruelly attempts to dupe Dmitri. He suggests that the young man visit a different merchant to sell his land--a merchant who, unbeknownst to Dmitri, is even now planning to buy this same property from Fyodor Pavlovich