“I don’t insist on the death penalty,” said Von Koren.  “If it is proved that it is pernicious, devise something else.  If we can’t destroy Laevsky, why then, isolate him, make him harmless, send him to hard labour.”

“What are you saying!” said Samoylenko in horror.  “With pepper, with pepper,” he cried in a voice of despair, seeing that the deacon was eating stuffed aubergines without pepper.  “You with your great intellect, what are you saying!  Send our friend, a proud intellectual man, to penal servitude!”

“Well, if he is proud and tries to resist, put him in fetters!”

Samoylenko could not utter a word, and only twiddled his fingers; the deacon looked at his flabbergasted and really absurd face, and laughed.

“Let us leave off talking of that,” said the zoologist.  “Only remember one thing, Alexandr Daviditch:  primitive man was preserved from such as Laevsky by the struggle for existence and by natural selection; now our civilisation has considerably weakened the struggle and the selection, and we ought to look after the destruction of the rotten and worthless for ourselves; otherwise, when the Laevskys multiply, civilisation will perish and mankind will degenerate utterly.  It will be our fault.”

“If it depends on drowning and hanging,” said Samoylenko, “damnation take your civilisation, damnation take your humanity!  Damnation take it!  I tell you what:  you are a very learned and intelligent man and the pride of your country, but the Germans have ruined you.  Yes, the Germans!  The Germans!”

Since Samoylenko had left Dorpat, where 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: