The Brothers Karamazov‘That’s a lie!’ said the peasant, calmly and confidently.
‘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 lying!’ Lyagavy blurted out again. Mitya’s legs
went cold.
‘For mercy’s sake! It isn’t a joke! You’re drunk, perhaps.
Yet you can speak and understand... or else... I understand
nothing!’
‘You’re a painter!’
‘For mercy’s sake! I’m Karamazov, Dmitri Karamazov. I
have an offer to make you, an advantageous offer... very ad-
vantageous offer, concerning the copse!’
The peasant stroked his beard importantly.
‘No, you’ve contracted for the job and turned out a scamp.
You’re a scoundrel!’
‘I assure you you’re mistaken,’ cried Mitya, wringing his
hands in despair. The peasant still stroked his beard, and
suddenly screwed up his eyes cunningly.
‘No, you show me this: you tell me the law that allows
roguery. D’you hear? You’re a scoundrel! Do you under-
stand that?’
Mitya stepped back gloomily, and suddenly ‘something
seemed to hit him on the head,’ as he said afterwards. In
an instant a light seemed to dawn in his mind, ‘a light was