The domes, under Western influence, during the many centuries when Kieff was divorced from Russia, under Polish and Lithuanian rule, assumed forms which lack the purity and grace of those in Russia proper.  Octagonal cupolas supported on thick, sloping bases involuntarily remind one of the cup-and-ball game.  Not content with this degenerate beginning, they pursue their errors heavenward.  Instead of terminating directly in a cross, they are surmounted by a lantern frescoed with saints, a second octagonal dome, a ball, and a cross.  These octagons constitute a feature in all South Russian churches.

Along the sides of the court leading to the great Assumption Cathedral stood long, plain one and two story buildings, the cells of the monks.  Rugs of fine coloring and design were airing on the railings in front of them.  I examined their texture, found it thick and silky, but could not class it with any manufacture of my acquaintance.  I looked about for some one to question.  A monk was approaching.  His long, abundant hair flowed in waves from beneath the black veil which hung from his tall, cylindrical klobuk, resembling a rimless silk hat.  His artistically cut black robe fell in graceful folds.  I should describe him as dandified, did I dare apply such an adjective to an ecclesiastical recluse.  I asked him where such rugs were to be found.  He answered that they were of peasant manufacture, and that I could probably find them in Podol, the market below the cliffs.  These specimens had been presented to the monastery by “zealous benefactors.”

Then he took his turn at questioning.  I presume that my accent was not perfect, or that I had omitted some point of etiquette in which an Orthodox Russian would have been drilled, such as asking his blessing and kissing his hand in gratitude, by way of saying “good-morning,” or something of that sort.  His manner was that of a man of the world, artistically tinged with monastic conventionality, and I wondered whether he were not an ex-officer of the Guards who had wearied of Court and gayeties.  He offered to show us about, and took us to the printing-house, founded in the sixteenth century.  It is still one of the best and most extensive in the country, with a department of chromo-lithography attached for the preparation of cheap pictures of saints.  One of the finest views in town is from the balcony at the rear of this building, and the monk explained all the points to us.

There was an air of authority about our impromptu guide, and the profound reverences bestowed upon him and upon us by the workmen in the printing-house, as well as by all the monks whom we met, prompted me to inquire, as we parted from him, to whom we were indebted for such interesting guidance and explanations.

“I am otetz kaznatchei,” he replied, with a smile, as he not only offered his hand, but grasped mine and shook it, with an expression of his cordial good wishes, instead of bestowing upon me a mechanical cross in the air, and permitting me to kiss his plump little fingers in return, as he would undoubtedly have done had I been a Russian.  I understood the respect paid, and our reflected importance, when I discovered that the “Father Treasurer” occupies the highest rank next to the permanent head of the monastery officially, and the most important post of all practically.