ience and
observation she had of life, the greater was her wonder at the
short-sightedness of men who seek enjoyment and happiness here on earth:
toiling, suffering, struggling, and harming one another, to obtain that
impossible, visionary, sinful happiness. Prince Andrew had loved his
wife, she died, but that was not enough: he wanted to bind his happiness
to another woman. Her father objected to this because he wanted a more
distinguished and wealthier match for Andrew. And they all struggled
and suffered and tormented one another and injured their souls, their
eternal souls, for the attainment of benefits which endure but for an
instant. Not only do we know this ourselves, but Christ, the Son of God,
came down to earth and told us that this life is but for a moment and is
a probation; yet we cling to it and think to find happiness in it. "How
is it that no one realizes this?" thought Princess Mary. "No one except
these despised God's folk who, wallet on back, come to me by the back
door, afraid of being seen by the prince, not for fear of ill-usage by
him but for fear of causing him to sin. To leave family, home, and all
the cares of worldly welfare, in order without clinging to anything to
wander in hempen rags from place to place under an assumed name, doing
no one any harm but praying for all--for those who drive one away as
well as for those who protect one: higher than that life and truth there
is no life or truth!"

There was one pilgrim, a quiet pockmarked little woman of fifty called
Theodosia, who for over thirty years had gone about barefoot and worn
heavy chains. Princess Mary was particularly fond of her. Once, when in
a room with a lamp dimly lit before the icon Theodosia was talking of
her life, the thought that Theodosia alone had found the true path of
life suddenly came to Princess Mary with such force that she resolved to
become a pilgrim herself. When Theodosia had gone to sleep Princess Mary
thought about this for a long time, and at last made up her mind that,
strange as it might seem, she must go on a pilgrimage. She disclosed
this thought to no one but to her confessor, Father Akinfi, the monk,
and he approved of her intention. Under guise of a present for the
pilgrims, Princess Mary prepared a pilgrim's complete costume for
herself: a coarse smock, bast shoes, a rough coat, and a black kerchief.
Often, approaching the chest of drawers containing this secret treasure,
Princess Mary paused, unce