“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. 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 advantageous 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 understand 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