them why there were no empty rooms, at what o’clock the service was to be where holy bread was sold, and so on.  They had to run, to carry, to talk incessantly, but more than that, they had to be polite, too, to be tactful, to try to arrange that the Greeks from Mariupol, accustomed to live more comfortably than the Little Russians, should be put with other Greeks, that some shopkeeper from Bahmut or Lisitchansk, dressed like a lady, should not be offended by being put with peasants There were continual cries of:  “Father, kindly give us some kvass!  Kindly give us some hay!” or “Father, may I drink water after confession?” And the lay brother would have to give out kvass or hay or to answer:  “Address yourself to the priest, my good woman, we have not the authority to give permission.”  Another question would follow, “Where is the priest then?” and the lay brother would have to explain where was the priest’s cell.  With all this bustling activity, he yet had to make time to go to service in the church, to serve in the part devoted to the gentry, and to give full answers to the mass of necessary and unnecessary questions which pilgrims of the educated class are fond of showering about them.  Watching them during the course of twenty-four hours, I found it hard to imagine when these black moving figures sat down and when they slept.

When, coming back from the evening service, I went to the hostel in which a place had been assigned me, the monk in charge of the sleeping quarters was standing in the doorway, and beside him, on the steps, was a group of several men and women dressed like townsfolk.

“Sir,” said the monk, stopping me, “will you be so good as to allow this young man to pass the night in your room?  If you would do us the favour!  There are so many people and no place left—­it is really dreadful!”

And he indicated a short figure in a light overcoat and a straw hat.  I consented, and my chance companion followed me.  Unlocking the little padlock on my door, I was always, whether I wanted to or not, obliged to look at the picture that hung on the doorpost on a level with my face.  This picture with the title, “A Meditation on Death,” depicted a monk on his knees, gazing at a coffin and at a skeleton laying in it.  Behind the man’s back stood another skeleton, somewhat more solid and carrying a scythe.

“There are no bones like that,” said my companion, pointing to the place in the skeleton where there ought to have been a pelvis.  “Speaking generally, you know, the spiritual fare provided for the people is not of the first quality,” he added, and heaved through his nose a long and very melancholy sigh, meant to show me that I had to do with a man who really knew something about spiritual fare.

While I was looking for the matches to light a candle he sighed once more and said: 

“When I was in Harkov I went several times to the anatomy theatre and saw the bones there; I have even been in the mortuary.  Am I not in your way?”