ple of
the neighbourhood there were only three; these with the monks formed
the whole congregation--there is no village at Pitsoonda. Imagine a
gigantic and noble building fit to be the living heart of a great
metropolis, and inside of it but a few little pictures, brightly
painted, and a diminutive rood-screen, scarcely higher than a
five-barred gate. On the ceiling of the great dome was painted a
lively and striking picture of Christ, probably done of old time, but
in countenance resembling, strangely enough, the accepted portrait of
Robert Louis Stevenson--a Christ with a certain amount of cynicism,
one who might have smoked upon occasion. No doubt it was painted by a
Greek: a Russian would never have done anything so Western.

The monks, looking ancient and dwarf-like, for they had never cut
their beards, were accommodated in little pews along the walls, and
they could stand and rest their shoulders upon the high arms of the
pews and doze, but could not sit, for there were no seats.

The service was beautiful, though I had little feeling of being
in church--one needs many people in such a cathedral. I was more
interested in the monks, their faces and appearances, and in the
atmosphere of the monastery. Most of the monks were peasants,
dedicated to the religion of Christ and leading particularly strict
lives. It was difficult to understand how they lived. Their faces all
bore witness to their religious exercises, and on some were evidences
of spiritual meditation. They were all naturally rather stupid, and
here more stupid than usual, because they were cut off from society,
even from the society of their native villages. They did not study, or
read, or write; they had no worldly life to occupy them--there was no
means for it. They could gossip--yes, but I doubt if they even did
that. Assuredly here the Middle Ages slept.

* * * * *

Round the monastery, behold, the ruins of a great fort, slowly
crumbling away under the hand of Time. No fleets now sail against
Pitius, no pirates land on the barren cape--there is nothing to steal.
Even the monastery is without gold.

VI

I cannot forget this walk of gloom and mystery, and my stay in this
strange, sleeping monastery of the Middle Ages. But over and against
it stands the bright morning of Gudaout, four days later.

Gudaout is encompassed by the highest Caucasus--its only refuge is the
sea. It is a place most wonderful in the page