one and a half, but at least three. This annoyed him, but he controlled himself.
They went into the hut. The forester lived in one half of the hut, and Gorstkin was lodging in the other, the better room the other side of the passage. They went into that room and lighted a tallow candle. The hut was extremely overheated.
On the table there was a samovar that had gone out, a tray with cups, an empty rum bottle, a bottle of vodka partly full, and some half-eaten crusts of wheaten bread. The visitor himself lay stretched at full length on the bench, with his coat crushed up under his head for a pillow, snoring heavily. Mitya stood in perplexity.
“Of course I must wake him. My business is too important. I’ve come in such haste. I’m in a hurry to get back today,” he said in great agitation.
But the priest and the forester stood in silence, not giving their opinion. Mitya went up and began trying to wake him himself; he tried vigorously, but the sleeper did not wake.
“He’s drunk,” Mitya decided. “Good Lord! What am I to do? What am I to do?”
And, terribly impatient, he began pulling him by the arms, by the legs, shaking his head, lifting him up and making him sit on the bench. Yet, after prolonged exertions, he could only succeed in getting the drunken man to utter absurd grunts, and violent, but inarticulate oaths.
“No, you’d better wait a little,” the priest pronounced at last, “for he’s obviously not in a fit state.”
“He’s been drinking the whole day,” the forester chimed in.
“Good heavens!” cried Mitya. “If only you