'I bought these as I was passing the fishmonger's,' said Father Christopher. 'It's an ordinary weekday and no occasion for a treat, but there's a sick person back there, thinks I to meself, so it may be forgiven. And the caviare is good—real sturgeon's roe.'
The waiter in the white shirt brought a samovar and a tray of crockery.
'Have some.' Father Christopher spread caviare on a piece of bread and gave it to the boy. 'Eat now and enjoy yourself, and in fullneu of time you will study. But mind you do so with attention and zeal, that good may come of it. What you need to learn by heart, you learn by heart. And when you have to describe a basic concept in your o^ words without touching on its outer form, then you do it in your o^ words. And try to master all subjects. Some know mathematics well, but they've never heard of Peter Mogila, and there's those as know about Peter Mogila but can't tell you about the moon. No, you study so you understand everything. Learn Latin, French, German— geography, of course, and history, theology, philosophy and mathe- matics. And when you've mastered everything—slowly, prayerfully and zealously—then you go and take up a profesion. When you know everything things will be easier for you in every walk of life. Do but study and acquire grace, and God will show you your path in life—a doctor it might be, or a judge or an engineer.'
Father Christopher spread a little caviare on a small piece of bread and put it in his mouth. 'The Apostle Paul says: "Be not carried about with divers and strange doctrines." Of course if so be you study the black arts, blasphemy, conjuring up spirits from the other world like Saul, or such-like lore—which is no good to you nor to anyone else, either—then better not study at all. You must apprehend only that which God has blessed. Take good thought. The holy apostles spoke in all tongues, so you learn languages. Basil the Great studied mathema- tics and philosophy, so you study them too. St. Nestor wrote history, so you study and write history. Take example from the saints.'
Father Christopher sipped tea from his saucer, wiped his whiskers, flexed his neck. 'Good,' said he. 'I'm one of the old school. I've for- gotten a lot, but even so my way of life is different from others'— there's no comparison. For instance, in company—at dinner, say, or at a meeting—one may pass a remark in Latin, or bring in history or philosophy. It gives other people ple.'ISure and me too. Or, again, when the assizes come round and you have to administer the oath, the other priests are all a bit bashful like, but me—I'm completely at home with the judges, prosecutors and iawyers. You say something in the learned line, you have tea with them, you have a laugh, and you ask them things you don't know. And they like it. That's the way of it, old son. Learning is light and ignorance is darkness. So you study. It won't be easy, mind, for it doesn't come cheap nowadays, learning doesn't. Your mother's a widow on a pension. And, well, obviously '
Father Christopher looked fearfully at the door. 'Your Uncle Ivan will help,' he went on in a whisper. 'He won't abandon you. He has no children of his o^ and he'll take care of you, never fear.' He looked grave and began whispering even more quietly. 'Now, boy, as God may pres^e you, see you never forget your mother and your Uncle Ivan. The co^rnandment bids us honour our mother, and Mr. Kuzmichov's your benefactor and guardian. If you go in for book- learning and then—God forbid !—get irked with folks and look do^ on them because they're stupider than you, then woe, woe unto you!'
Father Christopher raised his hand aloft. 'Woe, woe unto you!' he repeated in a reedy voice. Having warmed to his theme, he was reaUy getting into his stride, as they say, and would have gone on till dinner- time. But the door opened, and in came Uncle Ivan, who hastily greeted them, sat do"wn at table and began rapidly gulping tea.
'Well, I've settled all my business,' said he. 'We might have gone home today, but there's more bother with Yegorushka here. I must fi.x him up. My sister says her friend Nastasya Toskunov lives some- where round about, and she might put him up.'
He felt inside his wallet, removed a cr^pled letter and read it. ' "Mrs. Nastasya Toskunov, at her o^ house in Little Nizhny Street.'' I must go and look her up at once. What a nuisance!'
Soon after breakfast Uncle Ivan and Yegorushka left the in. 'A nuisance,' muttered Uncle. 'Here I am stuck with you, confound you. It's studying to be a gentleman for you and your mother, and nothing but trouble for me.'
When they crossed the yard the wagons and carters were not there, having all gone off to the quay early in the morning. In a far corner of the yard was the dark shape of the familiar britzka. Near it stood the bays, eating oats.
'Good-bye, carriage,' thought the boy.
First came a long climb up a broad avenue, and then they cro^ed a big market square, where Uncle Ivan asked a policeman the way to Little Nizhny Street. The policeman grinned. '.Ar! That be far away. Out towards the common, that be.'
They met several cabs on the way, but Uncle Ivan permitted himself such weaknesses as cab drives only on exceptional occasions and major holidays. He and the boy walked along paved streets for a long time, and then along unpaved streets with paved sidewalks until they finally reached streets lacking both amenities. When their legs and tongues had got them to Little Nizhny Street both were red in the face, and they took their hats off to wipe away the sweat.
'Tell me, please!' Uncle Ivan was addresing a little old man sitting on a bench by a gate. 'Where is Nastasya Toskunov's house here- abouts?'
'No Toskunovs round here,' the old man answered, after some thought. 'Perhaps it's the Timoshenkos you want?'
'No, Mrs. Toskunov.'
'Sorry, there ain't no such miuus.'
Uncle Ivan shrugged his shoulders and trudged on.
'No need to go a-looking,' the old man shouted from behind. 'When I say ain't I mean ain't.'
Uncle Ivan spoke to an old woman who was standing on a comer selling s^^ower seeds and pears from a tray. 'Tell me, my dear, where's Nastasya Toskunov's house hereabouts?'
The old woman looked at him in surprise. 'Why, does Nastasya live in a house of her o^ then?' she laughed. 'Lord, it be seven years since she married off her daughter and gave the house to the son-in- law. It's him lives there now.' And her eyes asked how they could be such imbeciles as not to know a simple thing like that.
'And where does she live now?' Kuzmichov asked.
'Lord love us!' The old woman threw up her arms in surprise. 'She moved into lodgings ever so long ago. Nigh on eight years it be. Ever since she made her house over to the son-in-law. What a thing to ask!'
She probably expected that Kuzmichov would be equally sur- prised, and would exclaim that it was 'out of the question'. But he asked very calmly where her lodgings were.
The fruit-seller rolled up her sleeves, and pointed with her bare arm. 'You walk on, on, on,' she shouted in a shriU, piercing voice. 'You'll pass a little red cottage, and then you'll see a little alley on your left. Go downwn the alley and it will be the third gate on the right.'
Kuzmichov and Yegorushka reached the little red cottage, turned left dowi the alley and headed for the third gate on the right. On both sides of this ancient grey gate stretched a grey fence with wide cracks. It had a heavy outward list on the right, threatening to collapse, while the left side was twisted back towards the yard. But the gate itself stood erect, apparently still debating whether it was more convenient to fall forwards or backwards. After Uncle Ivan had opened a small wicket-gate he and the boy saw a big yard overgrownwn with burdock and other coarse weeds. There was a small red-roofed cottage with green shutters a hundred paces from the gate, and in the middle of the yard stood a stout woman with her sleeves rolled up and her apron held out. She was scattering something on the ground, shouting 'Chick, chick, chick!' in a voice as shrill and piercing as the ^mt- seller's.