“He is the son of my sister, Olga Ivanovna,” answered Kuzmitchov.

“And where is he going?”

“To school.  We are taking him to a high school.”

In his politeness, Moisey Moisevitch put on a look of wonder and wagged his head expressively.

“Ah, that is a fine thing,” he said, shaking his finger at the samovar.  “That’s a fine thing.  You will come back from the high school such a gentleman that we shall all take off our hats to you.  You will be wealthy and wise and so grand that your mamma will be delighted.  Oh, that’s a fine thing!”

He paused a little, stroked his knees, and began again in a jocose and deferential tone.

“You must excuse me, Father Christopher, but I am thinking of writing to the bishop to tell him you are robbing the merchants of their living.  I shall take a sheet of stamped paper and write that I suppose Father Christopher is short of pence, as he has taken up with trade and begun selling wool.”

“H’m, yes . . . it’s a queer notion in my old age,” said Father Christopher, and he laughed.  “I have turned from priest to merchant, brother.  I ought to be at home now saying my prayers, instead of galloping about the country like a Pharaoh in his chariot. . . .  Vanity!”

“But it will mean a lot of pence!”

“Oh, I dare say!  More kicks than halfpence, and serve me right.  The wool’s not mine, but my son-in-law MikhailOs!”

“Why doesn’t he go himself?”

“Why, because . . .  His mother’s milk is scarcely dry upon his lips.  He can buy wool all right, but when it comes to selling, he has no sense; he is young yet.  He has wasted all his money; he wanted to grow rich and cut a dash, but he tried here and there, and no one would give him his price.  And so the lad went on like that for a year, and then he came to me and said, ’Daddy, you sell the wool for me; be kind and do it!  I am no good at the business!’ And that is true enough.  As soon as there is anything wrong then it’s ‘Daddy,’ but till then they could get on without their dad.  When he was buying he did not consult me, but now when he is in difficulties it’s Daddy’s turn.  And what does his dad know about it?  If it were not for Ivan Ivanitch, his dad could do nothing.  I have a lot of worry with them.”

“Yes; one has a lot of worry with one’s children, I can tell you that,” sighed Moisey Moisevitch.  “I have six of my own.  One needs schooling, another needs doctoring, and a third needs nursing, and when they grow up they are more trouble still.  It is not only nowadays, it was the same in Holy Scripture.  When Jacob had little children he wept, and when they grew up he wept still more bitterly.”