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 everyone’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