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 put some fennel
in the jar with the cucumbers! Fennel! Cover the cream up, gaping
laggard, or the flies will get into it!"

And the whole house seemed resounding with his shouts. When it was
ten or fifteen minutes to two the deacon would come in; he was a