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.