two heavy big boats of a forbidding aspect, like the New Zealand pirogues which one may see in the works of Jules Verne.  One boat with rugs on the seats was destined for the clergy and the singers, the other without rugs for the public.  When the procession was returning I found myself among the elect who had succeeded in squeezing themselves into the second.  There were so many of the elect that the boat scarcely moved, and one had to stand all the way without stirring and to be careful that one’s hat was not crushed.  The route was lovely.  Both banks—­one high, steep and white, with overhanging pines and oaks, with the crowds hurrying back along the path, and the other shelving, with green meadows and an oak copse bathed in sunshine—­looked as happy and rapturous as though the May morning owed its charm only to them.  The reflection of the sun in the rapidly flowing Donets quivered and raced away in all directions, and its long rays played on the chasubles, on the banners and on the drops splashed up by the oars.  The singing of the Easter hymns, the ringing of the bells, the splash of the oars in the water, the calls of the birds, all mingled in the air into something tender and harmonious.  The boat with the priests and the banners led the way; at its helm the black figure of a lay brother stood motionless as a statue.

When the procession was getting near the Monastery, I noticed Alexandr Ivanitch among the elect.  He was standing in front of them all, and, his mouth wide open with pleasure and his right eyebrow cocked up, was gazing at the procession.  His face was beaming; probably at such moments, when there were so many people round him and it was so bright, he was satisfied with himself, his new religion, and his conscience.

When a little later we were sitting in our room, drinking tea, he still beamed with satisfaction; his face showed that he was satisfied both with the tea and with me, that he fully appreciated my being an intellectual, but that he would know how to play his part with credit if any intellectual topic turned up. . . .

“Tell me, what psychology ought I to read?” he began an intellectual conversation, wrinkling up his nose.

“Why, what do you want it for?”

“One cannot be a teacher without a knowledge of psychology.  Before teaching a boy I ought to understand his soul.”

I told him that psychology alone would not be enough to make one understand a boy’s soul, and moreover psychology for a teacher who had not yet mastered the technical methods of instruction in reading, writing, and arithmetic would be a luxury as superfluous as the higher mathematics.  He readily agreed with me, and began describing how hard and responsible was the task of a teacher, how hard it was to eradicate in the boy the habitual tendency to evil and superstition, to make him think honestly and independently, to instil into him true religion, the ideas of personal dignity, of freedom, and so on.  In answer to this I said something to him.  He agreed again.  He agreed very readily, in fact.  Obviously his brain had not a very firm grasp of all these “intellectual subjects.”