Pack on back, staff in hand, no one took me for other than a Russian pilgrim till I showed my passport.  I entered the monastery, asked one of the monks where to go, and was at once shown to a room, a little square whitewashed apartment with four hard couches; the room looked upon the hostelry yard, and was lit within by electric light—­the monks’ own manufacture.  No one asked me any questions—­they were too hospitable to do that.  I was at once taken for granted as one might be by one’s own family after returning home from a week-end in the country.  When I had disposed my clothes, brushed away some of the dust, changed boots, and washed, the novice who had shown me my room tapped at the door and, looking in with a smile, told me I had come just in time for dinner.  All along the many corridors I heard the tinkling of a dinner-bell and a scuttling of many feet.

The dinner was served in three halls:  two of them were more exclusive apartments where those might go who did not care to rub shoulders with the common people; but the other was a large barn where any one who liked to come took the chances of his fellow-man, be he peasant or pilgrim.  It was in the barn that I took my seat among a great crowd of folk at two long, narrow tables.  Round about us on the walls were a multiplicity of brightly coloured ikons, pictures of the abbot, of Tsars, of miraculous happenings and last judgments.  On the tables at regular intervals were large iron saucepans full of soup, platters of black bread, and flagons of red wine.

A notice on the wall informed that without prayer eating or drinking was forbidden, and I wondered what was going to happen; for although we had all helped ourselves in Russian fashion, no one had as yet said grace, and there was an air of waiting among the party.  Suddenly a voice of command cried “Stand!” and we all stood like soldiers on drill.  We all faced round to the ikons, and to a monk standing in front of them.  A long prayer was said in a very military fashion, and then we all crossed ourselves and took our places at the tables once more.  Five of the brethren were in attendance, and fluttered up and down, shifting the bread or refilling the wine bowls.

We were a mixed company—­aged road-worn pilgrims, bright boys come from a local watering-place by coach, red-kerchiefed peasant women, pleasant citizens’ wives in town-made blouses, Caucasians, a Turk, a Jew, an Austrian waiter, and many others that I took no stock of.

The diet is a fast one, just as the hard beds are penance beds, and no one can procure anything different at Novy Afon for any amount of money.  Even in the hall reserved for dignitaries and officials the fare was the same as for us in the tiers etat.  The soup was of vegetables only, and much inferior to what the tramp makes for himself by the roadside.  The second course was cold salt fish or boiled beans and mushrooms, and the third was dry maize-meal porridge.  As each plate was put on the table the brother told us it came from God, and whispered a blessing.