“I don’t understand, Kolya, what it is that you hope to gain from him,” said Samoylenko, no longer looking at the zoologist in anger but guiltily. “He’s the same kind of man, as everyone else. Of course, he’s not without his weaknesses, but he’s abreast of contemporary thought, he serves, benefits his motherland. Ten years ago, there was a little old envoy stationed here with us, a person of superior intellect. Here’s what he used to say—”
“Enough, enough!” the zoologist interrupted. “You say he serves. Well, how does he serve? As a result of his appearance here, have things started running more smoothly or has the efficiency, integrity and politeness among civil servants improved? It’s just the opposite; with the authority of an intelligent, university-educated man, he has only sanctioned their libertine behavior. There are times when he’s industrious, such as the twentieth of the month when he receives his salary, every other day he drags his shoes around the house and tries his best to impart onto himself the illusion that he’s doing the Russian government a tremendous favor by living in the Caucasus. No, Alexander Davidich, don’t stand up for him. You have not been earnest from beginning to end. If you really did love him and considered him a close friend, there would be no way that you could be so apathetic about his weaknesses, you wouldn’t kowtow to them, you would try to neutralize him for his own good.”
“What’s that?”
“Neutralize him. But since he is incorrigible, there’s only one way of neutralizing him …”
Von Koren drew a finger across his throat.
“Or we can drown him, perhaps …” he continued. “For the good of all mankind and in their own respective interests, such people must be annihilated. It’s necessary.”
“What are you saying?!” muttered Samoylenko, rising and casting his shocked expression on the calm, cold face of the zoologist. “Deacon, what is he saying? Are you out of your mind?”
“I don’t stand firm on capital punishment,” Von Koren said. “If it’s been proven to be harmful, then come up with something else. Since we can’t annihilate Laevsky, then let’s quarantine him, disenfranchise him, send him to hard labor …”
“What are you saying?” Samoylenko recoiled. “With pepper, with pepper!” he shouted in a desperate voice, noticing that the deacon was eating stuffed squash without pepper. “You’re a man of superior intellect, what are you saying?! You want to give our friend, a proud, intelligent man, over to hard labor?!”
“If he’s proud, then he’ll resist—they’ll have to shackle him!”
Samoylenko could not say a single word; all he could do was fidget his fingers. The Deacon took one look at his dumbfounded and, in all actuality, funny face and burst into laughter.
“We can stop talking about this,” the zoologist said. “But remember one thing, Alexander Davidich, primitive mankind was protected from the likes of Laevsky by the battle for survival and natural selection; now our culture has significantly weakened the battle and natural selection, and we ourselves must take on the responsibility of annihilating the weak and the worthless, or else, when Laevsky reproduces, civilization will collapse and mankind will completely deteriorate. We will be to blame.”
“If it is people who are doing the drowning and the hanging,” Samoylenko said, “then to hell with your civilization, to hell with mankind! To hell with it! Here’s what I’d like to say to you: you are well educated, a man of superior intellect and the pride of your motherland, but the Germans ruined you. Yes, the Germans! The Germans!”
Ever since he’d left Dorpat, where he was educated in medicine, Samoylenko rarely saw Germans, nor had he read a single German book, but in his opinion, all the vice in politics and science transpired as a result of the Germans. He himself couldn’t explain where he’d gotten this idea from, but he held on to it dearly.
“Yes, the Germans!” he repeated one more time. “Let’s go have tea.”
All three rose and, putting on their hats, went out into the small front garden and took seats there beneath the pale maple, pear and chestnut trees. The zoologist and the deacon sat on a bench near the little table, but Samoylenko cascaded into a wicker armchair with a broad, sloping back. The valet brought tea, preserves and a bottle of syrup.
It was very hot, nearly thirty degrees in the shade. The sultry air was stagnant, immobile, and a long spider’s web that had been strung from the chestnut tree to the ground weakly hung there and did not stir.
The deacon picked up the guitar that perpetually lay on the ground near the table, tuned it and began to sing softly, in a thin voice, “The lads from the seminary are lining up at the tavern …” but immediately fell silent from the heat, whipping sweat from his brow and glancing up at the hot, blue sky. Samoylenko began to dream. He slackened and grew inebriated from the swelter, the quiet and the sweet post-dinner drowsiness, which quickly overtook all his limbs. His hands dropped to his sides. His eyes became very small. His chin rested on his chest. With teary-eyed tenderness he surveyed Von Koren and the deacon and muttered: