'He's studying marine life.'
'No, no, that's not it, old man,' sighed Layevsky. 'From what I gathered from a passcnger on the steamer, a scientist, the Black Sea's poor in fauna, and organic life can't cxist in its depths owing to thc excess of hydrogen sulphidc. All serious students of the subject work in the biological stations of Naples or Villcfranche. But Von Korcn's independent and stubborn. He works on the Black Sea because no one else does. He has broken with the university, and will have nothing to do with scicntists and colleagues bccause he's first and foremost a tyrant, and only secondly a zoologist. And he'll go far, you'll find. He sees himself smoking all intrigucs and mediocrity out of oqr universi- ties when he gets back from his expedition—dreams of making mince- meat of thosc acadcmics. Tyranny is just as potent in the acadcmic world as it is in war. But he's now spcnding his second summer in this stinking dump, because it's bctter to be first man in a vilhige than play second fiddle in town. Hcrc hc's monarch of all he siirveys. He keeps a tight rein on all the locals, crushing them with his authority. He has taken everyone in hand, he mcddles in other peoplc's affairs, he makes everything his own conccni, and hc has evcryone scared of him. I'm now slipping out ofhis clutches—he scnses that and hates me. Hasn't he told you that I should bc exterminated or made to do forced labour for the community?'
'Yes,' laughed Samoylenko.
Layevsky also laughcd and drank some winc.
'His ideals arc tyrannical too,' he said, laughing and nibbling a peach. 'When ordinary mortals work for the common weal, they're thinking of their neighbour—mc, you . . . human beings, in a word. But for Von Koren pcople arc small fry, nobodies—crcatures too petty to form his purposc in lifc. His work, this cxpedition on which he'll break his neck—thcsc things arcn't done out of love for his neighbour, but in the name of abstractions likc mankind, future generations, an ideal racc of mcn. His job is to improve thc human breed, in which context wc'rc no more than slaves in his eycs—cannon- fodder, beasts of burden. Some of us hc'd exterminate, or put to hard labour, on others he'd imposc rigid discipline, making them gct up and go to bed to driim rolls likc Arakcheycv. He'd post eunuchs to guard our ch.nstity and moralitv, and give orders to fire at anyonc who steppcd outside the circlc of our narrow, conscrvative morality— all this in thc namc ofbettcring the human race. But what is thc human racc? An illusion, a mirage. Tyrants have always bcen illusionists. I undcrstand him through and through, old man. I appreciatc him, I don't deny his importance. The world depends on such people. Were it handed ovcr entircly to our sort, wc'd make as big a hash ofit as the flies are making of that picturc, for all our kindncss and good intcntions. Ycs indced.'
Layevsky sat down by Samoylcnko's side.
'I'm a paltry, trivial wreck of a man,' he said with real fccling. 'The air I breathc, this winc, lovc—the whole of lifc, in sum—I have so far purchased thcse things with lies, laziness and cowardicc. So far I've bcen cheating others and myself, and I'vc suflcred in consequencc. But my vcry sufferings havc bccn chcap and second-rate. I meekly bow my head to Von Koren's hatrcd because there are times whcn I hatc and despise myself.'
Layevsky again paced thc room cxcitedly.
'I'm glad I sec my own faults so clearly and admit thcm,' he said. 'This will help mc to be born ancw and make a fresh start. If you knew how ardently, v.:ith what ycaming I long to be transformcd, old man. I shall be a propcr person, I shall—I swear it! I don't know whether it's the effect of the \vinc, or whcthcr it really is so, but it's ages since I remember having momcnts as bright and pure as I'm now enjoying here with you.'
'It's bed-time, old boy,' said Samoylcnko.
'Yes, yes—forgivc me, I'll only be a moment.'
Layevsky bustled round the furniture and windows looking for his cap.
'Thanks,' he muttered with a sigh. 'Thank you. Affection and kind words—there's no better charity than those. You've made me a new man.'
He found his cap, paused and looked guiltily at Samoylenko.
'Alexander!' he implorcd.
'What is it?'
'May I spend the night here, old man?'
'You're most welcome—certainly.'
Layevsky lay down to sleep on the sofa, and his conversation with the doctor continued for some time.
X
Three days after the picnic, Mary Bityugov unexpectedly called on Nadezhda Fyodorovna. Without uttering a word of grecting or removing her hat, she seized N adezhda by both hands and pressed them to her bosom.
'My dear, I'm so excited, I'm thunderstruck,' she said with tremen- dous emotion. 'Yesterday our nice, kind doctor told my Nicodemus that your husband has died. Tell me, tell me, dear—is this true?'
'Yes, it's true,' answered Nadezhda. 'He died.'
'How simply frightful, darling! But every cloud has its silver lining. Your husband was probably a wonderful, splendid, saintly person, but such are more necded in heaven than on earth.'
Every point and feature on Mary Bityugov's face quivered, as if tiny needles were leaping under her skin. She gave her sugary smile.
'This means you're free, dear,' she said in brcathless ecstasy. 'Now you can hold your head up and look people in the eye. Henceforward God and man will bless your union with Ivan Layevsky. How per- fectly sweet! I'm trembling withjoy, I'm lost for words. I shall arrange your wedding, dear. Nicodemus and I -have always been so fond of you, you must allow us to bless your lawful, chaste union. When, oh when is the wedding day?'
'I haven't given it a thought,' said Nadezhda, freeing her hands.
'That can't be so, dear. You have thought, now haven't you?'
'I haven't, honestly,' laughed Nadezhda. 'Why should we marry? I see no need—we'll carry on as we have so far.'
'What words are these?' Mary Bityugov was horrified. 'What are you saying, in God's name?'
'Marrying won't improve things—far from it. It would make them worse, actually—\ve'd lose our freedom.'
'How can you talk like that, dearest?' cried Mary Bityugov, stepping backwards and flinging up her arms. 'You're quite outrageous! Think what you're saying! Compose yourself!'
'Compose myself? I havcn't lived yet, and you want me to compose myself!'
Nadezhda reflected that shc really hadn't had much of a life so far. She had bcen to a girls' boarding school, and married a man whom she didn't love. Then she had gone off with Layevsky, and spent her time with him on this boring, deserted coast in hopes of something better. Could you call that living?
'We should gct marricd, though,' she thought—but chcn remembercd Kirilin and Achmianov and blushed.
'No, it's impossiblc,' she sa!d. 'Even if Ivan asked me on bendcd knee, I'd still refuse.'
Mary Bityugov sac sadly and solc^^y on the sofa for a minute without speaking, staring fixedly at one point. Thcn she stood up.
'Good-byc, dear,' shc said coldly. 'I'm sorry I bothered you. Now, this isn't easy for mc to say, but I must tcll you that all is over between us from now on. Dcspitc my great rcspcct for Mr. Layevsky, the door of my home is closed to you.'
She brought this out solcmnly, herself overcome by her o^ earnest- ncss. Then hcr facc quivcrcd again, adopting its soft, sugary exprcssion, and she stretched out her hands to the tcrrified, cmbarrassed Nadezhda.
'My dcar,' she implored, 'pernit mc to speak to you for a minute as your mothcr or clder sister. I'll be as outspokcn as a mother.'