“The Apostle Paul says:  ’Do not apply yourself to strange and diverse studies.’  Of course, if it is black magic, unlawful arts, or calling up spirits from the other world, like Saul, or studying subjects that can be of no use to yourself or others, better not learn them.  You must undertake only what God has blessed.  Take example . . . the Holy Apostles spoke in all languages, so you study languages.  Basil the Great studied mathematics and philosophy—­so you study them; St. Nestor wrote history—­so you study and write history.  Take example from the saints.”

Father Christopher sipped the tea from his saucer, wiped his moustaches, and shook his head.

“Good!” he said.  “I was educated in the old-fashioned way; I have forgotten a great deal by now, but still I live differently from other people.  Indeed, there is no comparison.  For instance, in company at a dinner, or at an assembly, one says something in Latin, or makes some allusion from history or philosophy, and it pleases people, and it pleases me myself. . . .  Or when the circuit court comes and one has to take the oath, all the other priests are shy, but I am quite at home with the judges, the prosecutors, and the lawyers.  I talk intellectually, drink a cup of tea with them, laugh, ask them what I don’t know, . . . and they like it.  So that’s how it is, my boy.  Learning is light and ignorance is darkness.  Study!  It’s hard, of course; nowadays study is expensive. . . .  Your mother is a widow; she lives on her pension, but there, of course . . .”

Father Christopher glanced apprehensively towards the door, and went on in a whisper: 

“Ivan Ivanitch will assist.  He won’t desert you.  He has no children of his own, and he will help you.  Don’t be uneasy.”

He looked grave, and whispered still more softly: 

“Only mind, Yegory, don’t forget your mother and Ivan Ivanitch, God preserve you from it.  The commandment bids you honour your mother, and Ivan Ivanitch is your benefactor and takes the place of a father to you.  If you become learned, God forbid you should be impatient and scornful with people because they are not so clever as you, then woe, woe to you!”

Father Christopher raised his hand and repeated in a thin voice: 

“Woe to you!  Woe to you!”

Father Christopher’s tongue was loosened, and he was, as they say, warming to his subject; he would not have finished till dinnertime but the door opened and Ivan Ivanitch walked in.  He said good-morning hurriedly, sat down to the table, and began rapidly swallowing his tea.

“Well, I have settled all our business,” he said.  “We might have gone home to-day, but we have still to think about Yegor.  We must arrange for him.  My sister told me that Nastasya Petrovna, a friend of hers, lives somewhere here, so perhaps she will take him in as a boarder.”

He rummaged in his pocket-book, found a crumpled note and read: