him attentively, without blinking, as if studying him; and he felt vexed with himself for being unable, despite all his dislike of von Koren, to drive the ingratiating smile from his face.
‘‘Though I must confess,’’ he went on, ‘‘there were more immediate causes of the fit, and rather substantial ones. My health has been badly shaken lately. Add to that the boredom, the constant lack of money...the lack of people and common interests . . . My situation’s worse than a governor’s.’’
‘‘Yes, your situation’s hopeless,’’ said von Koren.
These calm, cold words, containing either mockery or an uninvited prophecy, offended Laevsky. He remembered the zoologist’s gaze yesterday, full of mockery and squeamishness, paused briefly, and asked, no longer smiling:
‘‘And how are you informed of my situation?’’
‘‘You’ve just been talking about it yourself, and your friends take such a warm interest in you that one hears of nothing but you all day long.’’
‘‘What friends? Samoilenko, is it?’’
‘‘Yes, him, too.’’
‘‘I’d ask Alexander Davidych and my friends generally to be less concerned about me.’’
‘‘Here comes Samoilenko, ask him to be less concerned about you.’’
‘‘I don’t understand your tone . . .’’ Laevsky murmured; he was gripped by such a feeling as though he had only now understood that the zoologist hated him, despised and jeered at him, and that the zoologist was his worst and most implacable enemy. ‘‘Save that tone for somebody else,’’ he said softly, unable to speak loudly from the hatred that was already tightening around his chest and neck, as the desire to laugh had done yesterday.
Samoilenko came in without his frock coat, sweaty and crimson from the stuffiness of the kitchen.
‘‘Ah, you’re here?’’ he said. ‘‘Greetings, dear heart. Have you had dinner? Don’t be ceremonious, tell me: have you had dinner?’’
‘‘Alexander Davidych,’’ said Laevsky, getting up, ‘‘if I turned to you with an intimate request, it did not mean I was releasing you from the obligation of being modest and respecting other people’s secrets.’’
‘‘What’s wrong?’’ Samoilenko was surprised.
‘‘If you don’t have the money,’’ Laevsky went on, raising his voice and shifting from one foot to the other in agitation, ‘‘then don’t give it to me, refuse, but why announce on every street corner that my situation is hopeless and all that? I cannot bear these benefactions and friendly services when one does a kopeck’s worth with a rouble’s worth of talk! You may boast of your benefactions as much as you like, but no one gave you the right to reveal my secrets!’’
‘‘What secrets?’’ asked Samoilenko, perplexed and beginning to get angry. ‘‘If you came to abuse me, go away. You can come later!’’
He remembered the rule that, when angry with your neighbor, you should mentally start counting to a hundred and calm down; and he started counting quickly.
‘‘I beg you not to be concerned about me!’’ Laevsky went on. ‘‘Don’t pay attention to me. And who has any business with me and how I live? Yes, I want to go away! Yes, I run up debts, drink, live with another man’s wife, I’m hysterical, I’m banal, I’m not as profound as some are, but whose business is that? Respect the person!’’
‘‘Excuse me, brother,’’ said Samoilenko, having counted up to thirty-five, ‘‘but . . .’’
‘‘Respect the person!’’ Laevsky interrupted him. ‘‘This constant talk on another man’s account, the ohs and ahs, the constant sniffing out, the eavesdropping, these friendly commiserations . . . devil take it! They lend me money and set conditions as if I was a little boy! I’m treated like the devil knows what! I don’t want anything!’’ cried Laevsky, reeling with agitation and fearing he might have hysterics again. ‘‘So I won’t leave on Saturday,’’ flashed through his mind. ‘‘I don’t want anything! I only beg you, please, to deliver me from your care! I’m not a little boy and not a madman, and I beg you to relieve me of this supervision!’’
The deacon came in and, seeing Laevsky, pale, waving his arms, and addressing his strange speech to the portrait of Prince Vorontsov, stopped by the door as if rooted to the spot.
‘‘This constant peering into my soul,’’ Laevsky went on, ‘‘offends my human dignity, and I beg the volunteer detectives to stop their spying! Enough!’’
‘‘What . . . what did you say, sir?’’ asked Samoilenko, having counted to a hundred, turning purple, and going up to Laevsky.
‘‘Enough!’’ said Laevsky, gasping and taking his cap.
‘‘I am a Russian doctor, a nobleman, and a state councillor!’’ Samoilenko said measuredly. ‘‘I have never been a spy, and I will not allow anyone to insult me!’’ he said in a cracked voice, emphasizing the last words. ‘‘Silence!’’
The deacon, who had never seen the doctor so majestic, puffed up, crimson, and fearsome, covered his mouth, ran out to the front room, and there rocked with laughter. As if through a fog, Laevsky saw von Koren get up and, putting his hands in his trouser pockets, stand in that pose as if waiting for what would happen next. Laevsky found this relaxed pose insolent and offensive in the highest degree.
‘‘Kindly take back your words!’’ cried Samoilenko.
Laevsky, who no longer remembered what words he had spoken, answered:
‘‘Leave me alone! I don’t want anything! All I want is that you and these Germans of Yid extraction leave me alone! Otherwise I’ll take measures! I’ll fight!’’
‘‘Now I see,’’ said von Koren, stepping away from the table. ‘‘Mr. Laevsky wants to divert himself with a duel before his departure. I can give him that satisfaction. Mr. Laevsky, I accept your challenge.’’
‘‘My challenge?’’ Laevsky said softly, going up to the zoologist and looking with hatred at his swarthy forehead and curly hair. ‘‘My challenge? If you please! I hate you! Hate you!’’
