“Ah, you! What a fellow! Couldn’t have told me yesterday ... well, no matter, we’ll settle it now. Do me a great favor, old man, stop off at Chermashnya. You just have to turn left at the Volovya station, just eight short miles and you’re in Chermashnya.”
“I can’t, for pity’s sake! It’s fifty miles to the railway, and the train leaves for Moscow at seven in the evening—I barely have time to make it.”
“You’ll make it tomorrow, or the day after, but turn off to Chermashnya today. What will it cost you to placate your father! If I hadn’t been kept here, I’d have shot over there and back myself long ago, because the deal there is an urgent and special one, but now isn’t the right time for me ... You see, I have a woodlot there, two parcels, in Begichev and Dyachkina, on waste lands. The Maslovs, the old man and his son, merchants, are offering only eight thousand for it, to cut the timber, and just last year a buyer turned up who offered twelve thousand, but he wasn’t local, that’s the catch. Because there’s no dealing among the locals now: the Maslovs—father and son, worth a hundred thousand—have got everybody in their fist: you take whatever they offer, and none of the locals dares to compete with them. And suddenly the priest at Ilyinskoye wrote me last Thursday that Gorstkin has come along, another little merchant, I know him, but the precious thing is that he’s not a local, he comes from Pogrebovo, which means he’s not afraid of the Maslovs, because he isn’t local. Eleven thousand he says he’ll give for the lot, do you hear? But the priest writes that he’ll only be staying on for another week. So suppose you go and settle it with him ...” “Write to the priest; he’ll settle it with him.”
“He can’t do it, that’s the thing. This priest has no eye for business. He’s pure gold, I’d hand him twenty thousand right now for safekeeping, without a receipt, but he has no eye at all, as if he weren’t even a man, a crow could trick him. And he’s a learned man, just think of it! This Gorstkin looks like a peasant, wears a blue coat, only in character he’s a complete scoundrel, that’s the trouble for us: he lies, there’s the catch. Sometimes he lies so much that you wonder, why is he doing it? Two years ago he lied that his wife was dead and that he’d already married another one, and, imagine, not a word of it was true: his wife never died, she’s still alive and beats him once every three days. So we’ve got to find out whether he’s lying now, too, or really wants to buy and is offering eleven thousand.”
“But there’s no use sending me; I have no eye either.”
“No, no, you’ll do fine, because I’m going to tell you all his signs, Gorstkin’s, I mean; I’ve been dealing with him from way back. You see, you must watch his beard; he has a red, ugly, thin little beard. If his beard shakes and he looks angry when he talks—good, it means he’s telling the truth, he wants to do business; but if he strokes his beard with his left hand and chuckles to himself—no good, he’s swindling, he’s going to cheat you. Never watch his eyes, you can’t tell anything from his eyes, they’re murky water, he’s a rogue—but watch his beard. I’ll give you a note for him, and you show it. His name is Gorstkin, only it’s not Gorstkin but Lyagavy, so don’t tell him he’s Lyagavy or he’ll get offended.[186] If you settle with him and see that it’s all right, send me a note at once. Just write: ‘He’s not lying.’ Insist on eleven thousand; you can knock off a thousand, but not more. Think: from eight to eleven, it’s a difference of three thousand. It’s as if I just picked up three thousand, finding a buyer is hard, and I need money desperately. Let me know if it’s serious, then I’ll shoot over and back myself, I’ll snatch some time somehow. Why drive over there now, if the priest is only imagining things? Well, will you go or not?”
“Spare me, eh? I have no time.”
“Ahh, do it for your father, I won’t forget it! You have no hearts, any of you, that’s what! Will a day or two make any difference? Where are you off to— Venice? Your Venice won’t fall apart in two days. I’d send Alyoshka, but Alyoshka’s no use in such matters. It’s because you’re an intelligent man—don’t I know that? You’re not a timber dealer, but you have a good eye. The only thing is to see whether the man is talking seriously or not. Watch his beard, I tell you: if his little beard shakes, it’s serious.”
“So you yourself are pushing me to this damned Chermashnya, eh?” Ivan Fyodorovich cried with a malicious grin. Fyodor Pavlovich did not perceive or did not want to perceive the malice, but he did catch the grin.
“You’ll go, then, you’ll go? I’ll scribble a note for you right now.” “I don’t know if I’ll go, I don’t know, I’ll decide on the way.”
“Why on the way? Decide now. Decide, my dear! Make the deal, write me two lines, give the note to the priest, and he’ll send it to me at once. Then off to Venice—I won’t keep you any longer. The priest will deliver you to the Volovya station with his own horses ...”
The old man was simply delighted; he scribbled the note, the horses were sent for, cognac was served with a bite to eat. When the old man was pleased, he always became effusive, but this time he restrained himself, as it were. For instance, he did not say a single word about Dmitri Fyodorovich. And he was quite unmoved by the parting. He even seemed to have run out of things to talk about, and Ivan Fyodorovich was very much aware of it: “He’s sick of me really,” he thought to himself. Only when they were already saying good-bye on the porch did the old man begin to flutter about, as it were, and try to start kissing. But Ivan Fyodorovich quickly gave him his hand to shake, obviously backing away from the kisses. The old man understood at once and immediately checked himself.
“Well, God be with you, God be with you!” he kept repeating from the porch. “Will you come back again in this lifetime? Well, do come, I’ll always be glad to see you. Well, so Christ be with you!”
Ivan Fyodorovich got into the carriage.
“Farewell, Ivan! Don’t hold any grudges!” the father cried for the last time.
The whole household came out to see him off: Smerdyakov, Marfa, and Grigory. Ivan Fyodorovich presented each of them with ten roubles. When he was already seated in the carriage, Smerdyakov ran up to straighten the rug.
“You see ... I’m going to Chermashnya ... ,” somehow suddenly escaped from Ivan Fyodorovich; again, as the day before, it flew out by itself, accompanied by a kind of nervous chuckle. He kept remembering it for a long time afterwards.
“So it’s true what they say, that it’s always interesting to talk with an intelligent man,” Smerdyakov replied firmly, giving Ivan Fyodorovich a penetrating look.