ut some fennel
in the jar with the cucumbers! Fennel! Cover the cream up, gaping
laggard, or the flies will get into it!"

And the whole house seemed resounding with his shouts. When it was
ten or fifteen minutes to two the deacon would come in; he was a
lanky young man of twenty-two, with long hair, with no beard and a
hardly perceptible moustache. Going into the drawing-room, he crossed
himself before the ikon, smiled, and held out his hand to Von Koren.

"Good-morning," the zoologist said coldly. "Where have you been?"

"I've been catching sea-gudgeon in the harbour."

"Oh, of course. . . . Evidently, deacon, you will never be busy
with work."

"Why not? Work is not like a bear; it doesn't run off into the
woods," said the deacon, smiling and thrusting his hands into the
very deep pockets of his white cassock.

"There's no one to whip you!" sighed the zoologist.

Another fifteen or twenty minutes passed and they were not called
to dinner, and they could still hear the orderly running into the
kitchen and back again, noisily treading with his boots, and
Samoylenko shouting:

"Put it on the table! Where are your wits? Wash it first."

The famished deacon and Von Koren began tapping on the floor with
their heels, expressing in this way their impatience like the
audience at a theatre. At last the door opened and the harassed
orderly announced that dinner was ready! In the dining-room they
were met by Samoylenko, crimson in the face, wrathful, perspiring
from the heat of the kitchen; he looked at them furiously, and with
an expression of horror, took the lid off the soup tureen and helped
each of them to a plateful; and only when he was convinced that
they were eating it with relish and liked it, he gave a sigh of
relief and settled himself in his deep arm-chair. His face looked
blissful and his eyes grew moist. . . . He deliberately poured
himself out a glass of vodka and said:

"To the health of the younger generation."

After his conversation with Laevsky, from early morning till dinner
Samoylenko had been conscious of a load at his heart, although he
was in the best of humours; he felt sorry for Laevsky and wanted
to help him. After drinking a glass of vodka before the soup, he
heaved a sigh and said:

"I saw Vanya Laevsky to-day. He is having a hard time of it, poor
fellow! The material side of life is not encouraging for him, and
the worst of it is all this psychology is too much for him. I'm
sorry