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‘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 knew how im-
portant it is to me and how desperate I am!’
‘No, you’d better wait till morning,’ the priest repeated.
‘Till morning? Mercy! that’s impossible!’ And in his de-
spair he was on the point of attacking the sleeping man
again, but stopped short at once, realising the uselessness
of his efforts. The priest said nothing, the sleepy forester
looked gloomy.
‘What terrible tragedies real life contrives for people,’ said
Mitya, in complete despair. The perspiration was streaming
down his face. The priest seized the moment to put before
him, very reasonably, that, even if he succeeded in wak-
ening the man, he would still be drunk and incapable of
conversation. ‘And your business is important,’ he said, ‘so
you’d certainly better put it off till morning.’ With a gesture
of despair Mitya agreed.
‘Father, I will stay here with a light, and seize the favour-
able moment. As soon as he wakes I’ll begin. I’ll pay you for
the light,’ he said to the forester, ‘for the night’s lodging, too;
you’ll remember Dmitri Karamazov. Only Father, I don’t
know what we’re to do with you. Where will you sleep?’
‘No, I’m going home. I’ll take his horse and get home,’ he
said, indicating the forester. ‘And now I’ll say good-bye. I
wish you all success.’
So it was settled. The priest rode off on the forester’s

The Brothers Karamazov