the oaks and pines. Below, the Donets gleamed, reflecting the sun;
above, the rugged chalk cliff stood up white with bright green on
the top from the young foliage of oaks and pines, which, hanging
one above another, managed somehow to grow on the vertical cliff
without falling. The pilgrims trailed along the path in single file,
one behind another. The majority of them were Little Russians from
the neighbouring districts, but there were many from a distance,
too, who had come on foot from the provinces of Kursk and Orel; in
the long string of varied colours there were Greek settlers, too,
from Mariupol, strongly built, sedate and friendly people, utterly
unlike their weakly and degenerate compatriots who fill our southern
seaside towns. There were men from the Donets, too, with red stripes
on their breeches, and emigrants from the Tavritchesky province.
There were a good many pilgrims of a nondescript class, like my
Alexandr Ivanitch; what sort of people they were and where they
came from it was impossible to tell from their faces, from their
clothes, or from their speech. The path ended at the little
landing-stage, from which a narrow road went to the left to the
Hermitage, cutting its way through the mountain. At the landing-stage
stood two heavy big boats of a forbidding aspect, like the New
Zealand pirogues which one may see in the works of Jules Verne. One
boat with rugs on the seats was destined for the clergy and the
singers, the other without rugs for the public. When the procession
was returning I found myself among the elect who had succeeded in
squeezing themselves into the second. There were so many of the
elect that the boat scarcely moved, and one had to stand all the
way without stirring and to be careful that one's hat was not
crushed. The route was lovely. Both banks--one high, steep and
white, with overhanging pines and oaks, with the crowds hurrying
back along the path, and the other shelving, with green meadows and