The defence which all idlers make of themselves is always the same. They have passed in every other subject with distinction, and failed only in mine, which is all the more strange because they had always studied my subject most diligently and know it thoroughly. They failed through some inconceivable misunderstanding. “Forgive me, my friend,” I say to my guest. “But I can’t give you a ‘satis’--impossible. Go and read your lectures again, and then come. Then we’ll see.” Pause. I get a desire to torment the student a little, because he prefers beer and the opera to science; and I say with a sigh: “In my opinion, the best thing for you now is to give up the Faculty of Medicine altogether. With your abilities, if you find it impossible to pass the examination, then it seems you have neither the desire nor the vocation to be a doctor.” My sanguine friend’s face grows grave. “Excuse me, Professor,” he smiles, “but it would be strange, to say the least, on my part. Studying medicine for five years and suddenly--to throw it over.” “Yes, but it’s better to waste five years than to spend your whole life afterwards in an occupation which you dislike.” Immediately I begin to feel sorry for him and hasten to say: “Well, do as you please. Read a little and come again.” “When?” the idler asks, dully. “Whenever you like. To-morrow, even.” And I read in his pleasant eyes. “I can come again; but you’ll send me away again, you beast.” “Of course,” I say, “you won’t become more learned because you have to come up to me fifteen times for examination; but this will form your character. You must be thankful for that.” Silence. I rise and wait for my guest to leave. But he stands there, looking at the window, pulling at his little beard and thinking. It becomes tedious. My sanguine friend has a pleasant, succulent voice, clever, amusing eyes, a good-natured face, rather puffed by assiduity to beer and much resting on the sofa. Evidently he could tell me many interesting things about the opera, about his love affairs, about the friends he adores; but, unfortunately, it is not the thing. And I would so eagerly listen! “On my word of honour, Professor, if you give me a ‘satis’ I’ll....” As soon as it gets to “my word of honour,” I wave my hands and sit down to the table. The student thinks for a while and says, dejectedly: “In that case, good-bye.... Forgive me!” “Good-bye, my friend.... Good-bye!” He walks irresolutely into the hall, slowly puts on his coat, and, when he goes into the street, probably thinks again for a long while; having excogitated nothing better than “old devil” for me, he goes to a cheap restaurant to drink beer and dine, and then home to sleep. Peace be to your ashes, honest labourer!