alled 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 p