"You look as though you were coming to arrest me," said Von Koren,
seeing Samoylenko coming in, in his full-dress uniform.
"I was passing by and thought: 'Suppose I go in and pay my respects
to zoology,'" said Samoylenko, sitting down at the big table,
knocked together by the zoologist himself out of plain boards.
"Good-morning, holy father," he said to the deacon, who was sitting
in the window, copying something. "I'll stay a minute and then run
home to see about dinner. It's time. . . . I'm not hindering you?"
"Not in the least," answered the zoologist, laying out over the
table slips of paper covered with small writing. "We are busy
copying."
"Ah! . . . Oh, my goodness, my goodness! . . ." sighed Samoylenko.
He cautiously took up from the table a dusty book on which there
was lying a dead dried spider, and said: "Only fancy, though; some
little green beetle is going about its business, when suddenly a
monster like this swoops down upon it. I can fancy its terror."
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Is poison given it to protect it from its enemies?"
"Yes, to protect it and enable it to attack."
"To be sure, to be sure. . . . And everything in nature, my dear
fellows, is consistent and can be explained," sighed Samoylenko;
"only I tell you what I don't understand. You're a man of very great
intellect, so explain it to me, please. There are, you know, little
beasts no bigger than rats, rather handsome to look at, but nasty
and immoral in the extreme, let me tell you. Suppose such a little
beast is running in the woods. He sees a bird; he catches it and
devours it. He goes on and sees in the grass a nest of eggs; he
does not want to eat them--he is not hungry, but yet he tastes
one egg and scatters the others out of the nest with his paw. Then
he meets a frog and begins to play with it; when he has tormented
the frog he goes on licking himself and meets a beetle; he crushes
the beetle with his paw . . . and so he spoils and destroys everything
on his way. . . . He creeps into other beasts' holes, tears up the
anthills, cracks the snail's shell. If he meets a rat, he fights
with it; if he meets a snake or a mouse, he must strangle it; and
so the whole day long. Come, tell me: what is the use of a beast
like that? Why was he created?"
"I don't know what animal you are talking of," said Von Koren; "most
likely one of the insectivora. Well, he got hold of the bird because
it was incautious; he broke the nest of eggs because the bird was
not skilful, had made the nest badly and did not know how to conceal
it. The frog probably had some defect in its colouring or he would
not have seen it, and so on. Your little beast only destroys the
weak, the unskilful, the careless--in fact, those who have defects
which nature does not think fit to hand on to posterity. Only the
cleverer, the stronger, the more careful and developed survive; and
so your little beast, without suspecting it, is serving the great
ends of perfecting creation."
"Yes, yes, yes. . . . By the way, brother," said Samoylenko carelessly,
"lend me a hundred roubles."
"Very good. There are some very interesting types among the
insectivorous mammals. For instance, the mole is said to be useful
because he devours noxious insects. There is a story that some
German sent William I. a fur coat made of moleskins, and the Emperor
ordered him to be reproved for having destroyed so great a number
of useful animals. And yet the mole is not a bit less cruel than
your little beast, and is very mischievous besides, as he spoils
meadows terribly."
Von Koren opened a box and took out a hundred-rouble note.
"The mole has a powerful thorax, just like the bat," he went on,
shutting the box; "the bones and muscles are tremendously developed,
the mouth is extraordinarily powerfully furnished. If it had the
proportions of an elephant, it would be an all-destructive, invincible
animal. It is interesting when two moles meet underground; they
begin at once as though by agreement digging a little platform;
they need the platform in order to have a battle more conveniently.
When they have made it they enter upon a ferocious struggle and
fight till the weaker one falls. Take the hundred roubles," said
Von Koren, dropping his voice, "but only on condition that you're
not borrowing it for Laevsky."
"And if it were for Laevsky," cried Samoylenko, flaring up, "what
is that to you?"
"I can't give it to you for Laevsky. I know you like lending people
money. You would give it to Kerim, the brigand, if he were to ask
you; but, excuse me, I can't assist you in that direction."
"Yes, it is for Laevsky I am asking it," said Samoylenko, standing
up and waving his right arm. "Yes! For Laevsky! And no one, fiend
or devil, has a right to dictate to me how to dispose of my own
money. It doesn't suit you to lend it me? No?"
The deacon began laughing.
"Don't get excited, but be reasonable," said the zoologist. "To
shower benefits on Mr. Laevsky is, to my thinking, as senseless as
to water weeds or to feed locusts."
"To my thinking, it is our duty to help our neighbours!" cried
Samoylenko.
"In that case, help that hungry Turk who is lying under the fence!
He is a workman and more useful and indispensable than your Laevsky.
Give him that hundred-rouble note! Or subscribe a hundred roubles
to my expedition!"
"Will you give me the money or not? I ask you!"
"Tell me openly: what does he want money for?"
"It's not a secret; he wants to go to Petersburg on Saturday."
"So that is it!" Von Koren drawled out. "Aha! . . . We understand.
And is she going with him, or how is it to be?"
"She's staying here for the time. He'll arrange his affairs in
Petersburg and send her the money, and then she'll go."
"That's smart!" said the zoologist, and he gave a short tenor laugh.
"Smart, well planned."
He went rapidly up to Samoylenko, and standing face to face with
him, and looking him in the eyes, asked: "Tell me now honestly: is
he tired of her? Yes? tell me: is he tired of her? Yes?"
"Yes," Samoylenko articulated, beginning to perspire.
"How repulsive it is!" said Von Koren, and from his face it could
be seen that he felt repulsion. "One of two things, Alexandr
Daviditch: either you are in the plot with him, or, excuse my saying
so, you are a simpleton. Surely you must see that he is taking you
in like a child in the most shameless way? Why, it's as clear as
day that he wants to get rid of her and abandon her here. She'll
be left a burden on you. It is as clear as day that you will have
to send her to Petersburg at your expense. Surely your fine friend
can't have so blinded you by his dazzling qualities that you can't
see the simplest thing?"
"That's all supposition," said Samoylenko, sitting down.
"Supposition? But why is he going alone instead of taking her with
him? And ask him why he doesn't send her off first. The sly beast!"
Overcome with sudden doubts and suspicions about his friend,
Samoylenko weakened and took a humbler tone.
"But it's impossible," he said, recalling the night Laevsky had
spent at his house. "He is so unhappy!"
"What of that? Thieves and incendiaries are unhappy too!"
"Even supposing you are right . . ." said Samoylenko, hesitating.
"Let us admit it. . . . Still, he's a young man in a strange place
. . . a student. We have been students, too, and there is no one
but us to come to his assistance."
"To help him to do abominable things, because he and you at different
times have been at universities, and neither of you did anything
there! What nonsense!"
"Stop; let us talk it over coolly. I imagine it will be possible
to make some arrangement. . . ." Samoylenko reflected, twiddling
his fingers. "I'll give him the money, you see, but make him promise
on his honour that within a week he'll send Nadyezhda Fyodorovna
the money for the journey."
"And he'll give you his word of honour--in fact, he'll shed tears
and believe in it himself; but what's his word of honour worth? He
won't keep it, and when in a year or two you meet him on the Nevsky
Prospect with a new mistress on his arm, he'll excuse himself on
the ground that he has been crippled by civilisation, and that he
is made after the pattern of Rudin. Drop him, for God's sake! Keep
away from the filth; don't stir it up with both hands!"
Samoylenko thought for a minute and said resolutely:
"But I shall give him the money all the same. As you please. I can't
bring myself to refuse a man simply on an assumption."
"Very fine, too. You can kiss him if you like."
"Give me the hundred roubles, then," Samoylenko asked timidly.
"I won't."
A silence followed. Samoylenko was quite crushed; his face wore a
guilty, abashed, and ingratiating expression, and it was strange
to see this pitiful, childish, shamefaced countenance on a huge man
wearing epaulettes and orders of merit.
"The bishop here goes the round of his diocese on horseback instead
of in a carriage," said the deacon, laying down his pen. "It's
extremely touching to see him sit on his horse. His simplicity and
humility are full of Biblical grandeur."
"Is he a good man?" asked Von Koren, who was glad to change the
conversation.
"Of course! If he hadn't been a good man, do you suppose he would
have been consecrated a bishop?"
"Among the bishops are to be found good and gifted men," said Von
Koren. "The only drawback is that some of them have the weakness
to imagine themselves statesmen. One busies himself with Russification,
another criticises the sciences. That's not their business. They
had much better look into their consistory a little."
"A layman cannot judge of bishops."
"Why so, deacon? A bishop is a man just the same as you or I."
"The same, but not the same." The deacon was offended and took up
his pen. "If you had been the same, the Divine Grace would have
rested upon you, and you would have been bishop yourself; and since
you are not bishop, it follows you are not the same."
"Don't talk nonsense, deacon," said Samoylenko dejectedly. "Listen
to what I suggest," he said, turning to Von Koren. "Don't give me
that hundred roubles. You'll be having your dinners with me for
three months before the winter, so let me have the money beforehand
for three months."
"I won't."
Samoylenko blinked and turned crimson; he mechanically drew towards
him the book with the spider on it and looked at it, then he got
up and took his hat.
Von Koren felt sorry for him.
"What it is to have to live and do with people like this," said the
zoologist, and he kicked a paper into the corner with indignation.
"You must understand that this is not kindness, it is not love, but
cowardice, slackness, poison! What's gained by reason is lost by
your flabby good-for-nothing hearts! When I was ill with typhoid
as a schoolboy, my aunt in her sympathy gave me pickled mushrooms
to eat, and I very nearly died. You, and my aunt too, must understand
that love for man is not to be found in the heart or the stomach
or the bowels, but here!"
Von Koren slapped himself on the forehead.
"Take it," he said, and thrust a hundred-rouble note into his hand.
"You've no need to be angry, Kolya," said Samoylenko mildly, folding
up the note. "I quite understand you, but . . . you must put yourself
in my place."
"You are an old woman, that's what you are."
The deacon burst out laughing.
"Hear my last request, Alexandr Daviditch," said Von Koren hotly.
"When you give that scoundrel the money, make it a condition that
he takes his lady with him, or sends her on ahead, and don't give
it him without. There's no need to stand on ceremony with him. Tell
him so, or, if you don't, I give you my word I'll go to his office
and kick him downstairs, and I'll break off all acquaintance with
you. So you'd better know it."
"Well! To go with her or send her on beforehand will be more
convenient for him," said Samoylenko. "He'll be delighted indeed.
Well, goodbye."
He said good-bye affectionately and went out, but before shutting
the door after him, he looked round at Von Koren and, with a ferocious
face, said:
"It's the Germans who have ruined you, brother! Yes! The Germans!"