When there were only ten or fifteen minutes remaining before two o’clock, the deacon would arrive, a young man, around twenty-two years of age, lanky, long-haired, sans beard and with barely detectable whiskers. Entering the drawing room he crossed himself before the icon, and then, smiling, extended his hand to Von Koren.

“Hello,” the zoologist coldly replied. “Where have you been?”

“Fishing for gobies on the pier.”

“Well, of course … From the look of it, Deacon, you’re never going to get to work.”

“Why say that? Work’s not a bear, it won’t wander off into the woods,” said the deacon, smiling and inserting his hands into the deep pockets of his white cassock.

“There’s no one here to whip you!” sighed the zoologist.

Another fifteen to twenty minutes passed, but dinner had still not been served, they could hear the valet running from the hall to the kitchen and back, his boots knocking as Samoylenko yelled:

“Put it on the table! Where are you sticking it? Go wash it first.”

The deacon’s and Von Koren’s hunger growing, they began to knock their heels on the floor, expressing their impatience as audience members in a theater box would. Finally, the door opened and the tortured valet announced: “Food’s ready!” They were met in the dining room by an angry Samoylenko, who was scarlet and had been thoroughly steamed by the stifling kitchen. He glared at them furiously and with an expression of horror on his face lifted the soup tureen from the pot of soup and poured them each a bowl, and only when he was certain that they were eating heartily, and that the food was to their liking, did he sigh relief and sit down in his own deep armchair. His face became languid, buttery … Not rushing, he poured himself a small glass of vodka and said:

“To the health of the younger generation.”

After his conversation with Laevsky, Samoylenko constantly felt something weighing in the depths of his soul, from morning right up to dinner, regardless of his excellent mood. He felt sorry for Laevsky and wanted to help him. Drinking his small glass of vodka before having the soup, he sighed and said:

“I saw Vanya Laevsky today. The man’s having a hard time of it. The material half of his life doesn’t bode well, but more importantly his psychological state is getting the best of him. I feel sorry for the fellow.”

“If there’s anyone that I don’t pity!” said Von Koren. “If that gentle man were drowning, I’d get a stick to help him along: drown, brother, drown …”

“Not true. You wouldn’t do that.”

“Why do you think I wouldn’t?” The zoologist shrugged his shoulders. “I’m just as capable of doing a good deed as you are.”

“And drowning a man is a good deed?” the deacon asked, laughing.

“If it’s Laevsky? Yes.”

“I think the okroshka is missing something …” said Samoylenko, trying to change the subject.

“Words can’t describe how malevolent Laevsky is, he’s as malevolent to society as the cholera microbe,” continued Von Koren. “To drown him would be a service.”

“You’re not winning accolades by venting like that about your fellow man. Tell me: why do you hate him?”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Doctor. To hate and feel contempt for a microbe is foolish, but to consider it a fellow man, refusing to distinguish between anyone and everyone that you meet no matter what—that, with all due respect, shows a lack of judgment, and a refusal to relate with people in a fair-minded manner, to wash your hands of it, so to speak. I consider your Laevsky to be a miscreant, I don’t hide it and I treat him as I would a miscreant, in all my good conscience. Yet you consider him to be a fellow man—greeting him with a kiss. To consider him a fellow man means that you treat him the same as you would myself and the deacon. That is unacceptable. You make no distinction in your feelings toward anyone.”

“To call a man a miscreant,” muttered Samoylenko, cringing disdainfully, “is so absolutely wrong, that I can’t even begin to explain to you how wrong it is!”

“People are judged by their deeds,” continued Von Koren. “So, Deacon, judge for yourself … I’m talking to you now, Deacon. Mr. Laevsky’s actions have candidly been laid out before you, like a long Chinese scroll, and you may read it from beginning to end. What’s he done in the two years since he’s been living here? Let’s use our fingers to count. First of all, he’s taught the residents of the town to play Vint; two years ago the game was unknown here, but now everyone plays Vint from morning to night, even the women and adolescents. Second, he’s taught the locals to drink beer, which was also unknown here. The locals are also obliged to him for their knowledge of different types of vodka, so that they can now distinguish between Kosheleva and Smirnov No. 21 blindfolded.