“And what is the effect of an inhibition?”

“The effect is that I cannot perform the ordinary rites of our religion.  It is really very unjust,” he added, assuming an indignant tone, “and very annoying.  Think of all the hardship and inconvenience to which it gives rise.”

As I thought of the hardship and inconvenience to which the parishioners must be exposed through the inconsiderate conduct of the old mother-in-law, I could not but sympathise with my new acquaintance’s indignation.  My sympathy was, however, somewhat cooled when I perceived that I was on a wrong tack, and that the priest was looking at the matter from an entirely different point of view.

“You see,” he said, “it is a most unfortunate time of year.  The peasants have gathered in their harvest, and can give of their abundance.  There are merry-makings and marriages, besides the ordinary deaths and baptisms.  Altogether I shall lose by the thing more than a hundred roubles!”

I confess I was a little shocked on hearing the priest thus speak of his sacred functions as if they were an ordinary marketable commodity, and talk of the inhibition as a pushing undertaker might talk of sanitary improvements.  My surprise was caused not by the fact that he regarded the matter from a pecuniary point of view—­for I was old enough to know that clerical human nature is not altogether insensible to pecuniary considerations—­but by the fact that he should thus undisguisedly express his opinions to a stranger without in the least suspecting that there was anything unseemly in his way of speaking.  The incident appeared to me very characteristic, but I refrained from all audible comments, lest I should inadvertently check his communicativeness.  With the view of encouraging it, I professed to be very much interested, as I really was, in what he said, and I asked him how in his opinion the present unsatisfactory state of things might be remedied.

“There is but one cure,” he said, with a readiness that showed he had often spoken on the theme already, “and that is freedom and publicity.  We full-grown men are treated like children, and watched like conspirators.  If I wish to preach a sermon—­not that I often wish to do such a thing, but there are occasions when it is advisable—­I am expected to show it first to the Blagotchinny, and—­”

“I beg your pardon, who is the Blagotchinny?”

“The Blagotchinny is a parish priest who is in direct relations with the Consistory of the Province, and who is supposed to exercise a strict supervision over all the other parish priests of his district.  He acts as the spy of the Consistory, which is filled with greedy, shameless officials, deaf to any one who does not come provided with a handful of roubles.  The Bishop may be a good, well-intentioned man, but he always sees and acts through these worthless subordinates.  Besides this, the Bishops and heads of monasteries, who monopolise the higher places in the ecclesiastical