“Solomon, go away!” he said shortly. “Go away!” and he added something in Yiddish. Solomon gave an abrupt laugh and went out.

“What was it?” Moisey Moisevitch asked Father Christopher anxiously.

“He forgets himself,” answered Kuzmitchov. “He’s rude and thinks too much of himself.”

“I knew it!” Moisey Moisevitch cried in horror, clasping his hands. “Oh dear, oh dear!” he muttered in a low voice. “Be so kind as to excuse it, and don’t be angry. He is such a queer fellow, such a queer fellow! Oh dear, oh dear! He is my own brother, but I have never had anything but trouble from him. You know he’s⁠ ⁠…”

Moisey Moisevitch crooked his finger by his forehead and went on:

“He is not in his right mind;⁠ ⁠… he’s hopeless. And I don’t know what I am to do with him! He cares for nobody, he respects nobody, and is afraid of nobody.⁠ ⁠… You know he laughs at everybody, he says silly things, speaks familiarly to anyone. You wouldn’t believe it, Varlamov came here one day and Solomon said such things to him that he gave us both a taste of his whip.⁠ ⁠… But why whip me? Was it my fault? God has robbed him of his wits, so it is God’s will, and how am I to blame?”

Ten minutes passed and Moisey Moisevitch was still muttering in an undertone and sighing:

“He does not sleep at night, and is always thinking and thinking and thinking, and what he is thinking about God only knows. If you go to him at night he is angry and laughs. He doesn’t like me either.⁠ ⁠… And there is nothing he wants! When our father died he left us each six thousand roubles. I bought myself an inn, married, and now I have children; and he burnt all his money in the stove. Such a pity, such a pity! Why burn it? If he didn’t want it he could give it to me, but why burn it?”