For the sake of sociability and from sympathy for the hard plight of newcomers without families, who, as there was not an hotel in the town, had nowhere to dine, Dr. Samoylenko kept a sort of table d’hote.  At this time there were only two men who habitually dined with him:  a young zoologist called Von Koren, who had come for the summer to the Black Sea to study the embryology of the medusa, and a deacon called Pobyedov, who had only just left the seminary and been sent to the town to take the duty of the old deacon who had gone away for a cure.  Each of them paid twelve roubles a month for their dinner and supper, and Samoylenko made them promise to turn up at two o’clock punctually.

Von Koren was usually the first to appear.  He sat down in the drawing-room in silence, and taking an album from the table, began attentively scrutinising the faded photographs of unknown men in full trousers and top-hats, and ladies in crinolines and caps.  Samoylenko only remembered a few of them by name, and of those whom he had forgotten he said with a sigh:  “A very fine fellow, remarkably intelligent!” When he had finished with the album, Von Koren took a pistol from the whatnot, and screwing up his left eye, took deliberate aim at the portrait of Prince Vorontsov, or stood still at the looking-glass and gazed a long time at his swarthy face, his big forehead, and his black hair, which curled like a negro’s, and his shirt of dull-coloured cotton with big flowers on it like a Persian rug, and the broad leather belt he wore instead of a waistcoat.  The contemplation of his own image seemed to afford him almost more satisfaction than looking at photographs or playing with the pistols.  He was very well satisfied with his face, and his becomingly clipped beard, and the broad shoulders, which were unmistakable evidence of his excellent health and physical strength.  He was satisfied, too, with his stylish get-up, from the cravat, which matched the colour of his shirt, down to his brown boots.

While he was looking at the album and standing before the glass, at that moment, in the kitchen and in the passage near, Samoylenko, without his coat and waistcoat, with his neck bare, excited and bathed in perspiration, was bustling about the tables, mixing the salad, or making some sauce, or preparing meat, cucumbers, and onion for the cold soup, while he glared fiercely at the orderly who was helping him, and brandished first a knife and then a spoon at him.

“Give me the vinegar!” he said.  “That’s not the vinegar—­it’s the salad oil!” he shouted, stamping.  “Where are you off to, you brute?”

“To get the butter, Your Excellency,” answered the flustered orderly in a cracked voice.

“Make haste; it’s in the cupboard!  And tell Daria to put 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.