‘‘I’ll pay it back!’’ she said to herself, and in her delirium it seemed to her that she was sitting by some sick woman and in her recognized herself. ‘‘I’ll pay it back. It would be stupid to think it was for money that I... I’ll go away and send him money from Petersburg. First a hundred ... then a hundred ... and then another hundred...’
Laevsky came late at night.
‘‘First a hundred...’ Nadezhda Fyodorovna said to him, ‘‘then another hundred...’
‘‘You should take some quinine,’’ he said and thought: ‘‘Tomorrow is Wednesday, the steamer leaves, and I’m not going. That means I’ll have to live here till Saturday.’’
Nadezhda Fyodorovna got up on her knees in bed.
‘‘Did I say anything just now?’’ she asked, smiling and squinting because of the candle.
‘‘Nothing. We’ll have to send for the doctor tomorrow morning. Sleep.’’
He took a pillow and went to the door. Once he had finally decided to go away and abandon Nadezhda Fyodorovna, she had begun to arouse pity and a feeling of guilt in him; he was slightly ashamed in her presence, as in the presence of an old or ailing horse slated to be killed. He stopped in the doorway and turned to look at her.
‘‘I was annoyed at the picnic and said something rude to you. Forgive me, for God’s sake.’’
Having said this, he went to his study, lay down, and for a long time was unable to fall asleep.
The next morning, when Samoilenko, in full dress uniform with epaulettes and decorations on occasion of the feast day, was coming out of the bedroom after taking Nadezhda Fyodorovna’s pulse and examining her tongue, Laevsky, who was standing by the threshold, asked him worriedly:
‘‘Well, so? So?’’
His face expressed fear, extreme anxiety, and hope.
‘‘Calm down, it’s nothing dangerous,’’ said Samoilenko. ‘‘An ordinary fever.’’
‘‘I’m not asking about that,’’ Laevsky winced impatiently. ‘‘Did you get the money?’’
‘‘Forgive me, dear heart,’’ Samoilenko whispered, glancing back at the door and getting embarrassed. ‘‘For God’s sake, forgive me! Nobody has ready cash, and so far I’ve only collected by fives or tens—a hundred and ten roubles in all. Today I’ll talk with someone else. Be patient.’’
‘‘But Saturday’s the last day!’’ Laevsky whispered, trembling with impatience. ‘‘By all that’s holy, before Saturday! If I don’t leave on Saturday, I’ll need nothing ... nothing! I don’t understand how a doctor can have no money!’’
‘‘Thy will be done, O Lord,’’ Samoilenko whispered quickly and tensely, and something even squeaked in his throat, ‘‘they’ve taken everything I’ve got, I have seven thousand owing to me, and I’m roundly in debt. Is it my fault?’’
‘‘So you’ll get it by Saturday? Yes?’’
‘‘I’ll try.’’
‘‘I beg you, dear heart! So that the money will be in my hands Friday morning.’’
Samoilenko sat down and wrote a prescription for quinine in a solution of kalii bromati, infusion of rhubarb, and tincturae gentianae aquae foeniculi—all of it in one mixture, with the addition of rose syrup to remove the bitterness, and left.
XI
‘‘YOU LOOK AS though you’re coming to arrest me,’’ said von Koren, seeing Samoilenko coming into his room in full dress uniform.
‘‘I was passing by and thought: why don’t I pay a call on zoology?’’ said Samoilenko, sitting down by the big table the zoologist himself had knocked together out of simple planks. ‘‘Greetings, holy father!’’ he nodded to the deacon, who was sitting by the window copying something. ‘‘I’ll sit for a minute and then run home to give orders for dinner. It’s already time ... I’m not bothering you?’’
‘‘Not at all,’’ replied the zoologist, laying out scraps of paper covered with fine writing on the table. ‘‘We’re busy copying.’’
‘So... Oh, my God, my God ...’ sighed Samoilenko; he cautiously drew from the table a dusty book on which lay a dead, dry phalangid, and said: ‘‘However! Imagine some little green bug is going about his business and suddenly meets such an anathema on his way. I can picture how terrifying it is!’’
‘‘Yes, I suppose so.’’
‘‘It’s given venom to defend itself from enemies?’’
‘‘Yes, to defend itself and to attack.’’
‘‘So, so, so... And everything in nature, my dear hearts, is purposeful and explainable,’’ sighed Samoilenko. ‘‘Only here’s what I don’t understand. You’re a man of the greatest intelligence, explain it to me, please. There are these little beasts, you know, no bigger than a rat, pretty to look at but mean and immoral in the highest degree, let me tell you. Suppose such a beast is walking along through the forest; it sees a little bird, catches it, and eats it up. It goes on and sees a nest with eggs in the grass; it doesn’t want any more grub, it’s not hungry, but even so, it bites into an egg and throws the others out of the nest with its paw. Then it meets a frog and starts playing with it. It tortures the frog to death, goes on, licking its chops, and meets a beetle. Swats the beetle with its paw... And it ruins and destroys everything in its way... It crawls into other animals’ holes, digs up anthills for nothing, cracks open snail shells... It meets a rat and gets into a fight with it; it sees a snake or a mouse and has to strangle it. And this goes on all day. So tell me, what is the need for such a beast? Why was it created?’’
‘‘I don’t know what beast you’re talking about,’’ said von Koren, ‘‘probably some insectivore. Well, so what? It caught a bird because the bird was careless; it destroyed the nest of eggs because the bird wasn’t skillful, it made the nest poorly and didn’t camouflage it. The frog probably had some flaw in its coloring, otherwise it wouldn’t have seen it, and so on. Your beast destroys only the weak, the unskilled, the careless—in short, those who have flaws that nature does not find it necessary to transmit to posterity. Only the more nimble, careful, strong, and developed remain alive. Thus your little beast, without suspecting it, serves the great purposes of perfection.’’
‘‘Yes, yes, yes... By the way, brother,’’ Samoilenko said casually, ‘‘how about lending me a hundred roubles?’’
‘‘Fine. Among the insectivores, very interesting species occur. For instance, the mole. They say it’s useful because it destroys harmful insects. The story goes that a German once sent the emperor Wilhelm I a coat made of moleskins, and that the emperor supposedly reprimanded him for destroying so many of the useful animals. And yet the mole yields nothing to your little beast in cruelty, and is very harmful besides, because it does awful damage to the fields.’’
Von Koren opened a box and took out a hundred-rouble bill.
‘‘The mole has a strong chest, like the bat,’’ he went on, locking the box, ‘‘its bones and muscles are awfully well developed, its jaw is extraordinarily well equipped. If it had the dimensions of an elephant, it would be an all-destructive, invincible animal. It’s interesting that when two moles meet underground, they both begin to prepare a flat space, as if by arrangement; they need this space in order to fight more conveniently. Once they’ve made it, they start a cruel battle and struggle until the weaker one falls. Here, take the hundred roubles,’’ said von Koren, lowering his voice, ‘‘but only on condition that you’re not taking it for Laevsky.’’
‘‘And what if it is for Laevsky!’’ Samoilenko flared up. ‘‘Is that any business of yours?’’
‘‘I can’t give money for Laevsky. I know you like lending. You’d lend to the robber Kerim if he asked you, but, excuse me, in that direction I can’t help you.’’