he had studied medicine,
he had rarely seen a German and had not read a single German book,
but, in his opinion, every harmful idea in politics or science was
due to the Germans. Where he had got this notion he could not have
said himself, but he held it firmly.

"Yes, the Germans!" he repeated once more. "Come and have some tea."

All three stood up, and putting on their hats, went out into the
little garden, and sat there under the shade of the light green
maples, the pear-trees, and a chestnut-tree. The zoologist and the
deacon sat on a bench by the table, while Samoylenko sank into a
deep wicker chair with a sloping back. The orderly handed them tea,
jam, and a bottle of syrup.

It was very hot, thirty degrees Reaumur in the shade. The sultry
air was stagnant and motionless, and a long spider-web, stretching
from the chestnut-tree to the ground, hung limply and did not stir.

The deacon took up the guitar, which was constantly lying on the
ground near the table, tuned it, and began singing softly in a thin
voice:

"'Gathered round the tavern were the seminary lads,'"

but instantly subsided, overcome by the heat, mopped his brow and
glanced upwards at the blazing blue sky. Samoylenko grew drowsy;
the sultry heat, the stillness and the delicious after-dinner
languor, which quickly pervaded all his limbs, made him feel heavy
and sleepy; his arms dropped at his sides, his eyes grew small, his
head sank on his breast. He looked with almost tearful tenderness
at Von Koren and the deacon, and muttered:

"The younger generation. . . A scientific star and a luminary of
the Church. . . . I shouldn't wonder if the long-skirted alleluia
will be shooting up into a bishop; I dare say I may come to kissing
his hand. . . . Well . . . please God. . . ."

Soon a snore was heard. Von Koren and the deacon finished their tea
and went out into the street.

"Are you going to the harbour again to catch sea-gudgeon?" asked
the zoologist.

"No, it's too hot."

"Come and see me. You can pack up a parcel and copy something for
me. By the way, we must have a talk about what you are to do. You
must work, deacon. You can't go on like this."

"Your words are just and logical," said the deacon. "But my laziness
finds an excuse in the circumstances of my present life. You know
yourself that an uncertain position has a great tendency to make
people apathetic. God only knows whether I have been sent here for
a time or permanently. I