university and spend two years at home doing nothing.  But this was all for the best.  At home he made friends with a widow who advised him to leave the Faculty of Jurisprudence and go into the Faculty of Arts.  And so he did.  When he had taken his degree, he fell passionately in love with his present . . . what’s her name? . . . married lady, and was obliged to flee with her here to the Caucasus for the sake of his ideals, he would have us believe, seeing that . . . to-morrow, if not to-day, he will be tired of her and flee back again to Petersburg, and that, too, will be for the sake of his ideals.”

“How do you know?” growled Samoylenko, looking angrily at the zoologist.  “You had better eat your dinner.”

The next course consisted of boiled mullet with Polish sauce.  Samoylenko helped each of his companions to a whole mullet and poured out the sauce with his own hand.  Two minutes passed in silence.

“Woman plays an essential part in the life of every man,” said the deacon.  “You can’t help that.”

“Yes, but to what degree?  For each of us woman means mother, sister, wife, friend.  To Laevsky she is everything, and at the same time nothing but a mistress.  She—­that is, cohabitation with her—­ is the happiness and object of his life; he is gay, sad, bored, disenchanted—­on account of woman; his life grows disagreeable —­woman is to blame; the dawn of a new life begins to glow, ideals turn up—­and again look for the woman. . . .  He only derives enjoyment from books and pictures in which there is woman.  Our age is, to his thinking, poor and inferior to the forties and the sixties only because we do not know how to abandon ourselves obviously to the passion and ecstasy of love.  These voluptuaries must have in their brains a special growth of the nature of sarcoma, which stifles the brain and directs their whole psychology.  Watch Laevsky when he is sitting anywhere in company.  You notice:  when one raises any general question in his presence, for instance, about the cell or instinct, he sits apart, and neither speaks nor listens; he looks languid and disillusioned; nothing has any interest for him, everything is vulgar and trivial.  But as soon as you speak of male and female—­for instance, of the fact that the female spider, after fertilisation, devours the male—­his eyes glow with curiosity, his face brightens, and the man revives, in fact.  All his thoughts, however noble, lofty, or neutral they may be, they all have one point of resemblance.  You walk along the street with him and meet a donkey, for instance. . . .  ‘Tell me, please,’ he asks, ’what would happen if you mated a donkey with a camel?’ And his dreams!  Has he told you of his dreams?  It is magnificent!  First, he dreams that he is married to the moon, then that he is summoned before the police and ordered to live with a guitar . . .”

The deacon burst into resounding laughter; Samoylenko frowned and wrinkled up his face angrily so as not to laugh, but could not restrain himself, and laughed.