down in a corner of the britchka, I duly recited my orisons, and
unobtrusively signed the sign of the cross beneath my coat. Yet all the
while a thousand different objects were distracting my attention, and
more than once I inadvertently repeated a prayer twice over.

Soon on the little footpath beside the road became visible some slowly
moving figures. They were pilgrims. On their heads they had dirty
handkerchiefs, on their backs wallets of birch-bark, and on their feet
bundles of soiled rags and heavy bast shoes. Moving their staffs in
regular rhythm, and scarcely throwing us a glance, they pressed onwards
with heavy tread and in single file.

"Where have they come from?" I wondered to myself, "and whither are they
bound? Is it a long pilgrimage they are making?" But soon the shadows
they cast on the road became indistinguishable from the shadows of the
bushes which they passed.

Next a carriage-and-four could be seen approaching us. In two seconds
the faces which looked out at us from it with smiling curiosity had
vanished. How strange it seemed that those faces should have nothing
in common with me, and that in all probability they would never meet my
eyes again!

Next came a pair of post-horses, with the traces looped up to their
collars. On one of them a young postillion-his lamb's wool cap cocked to
one side-was negligently kicking his booted legs against the flanks
of his steed as he sang a melancholy ditty. Yet his face and attitude
seemed to me to express such perfect carelessness and indolent ease that
I imagined it to be the height of happiness to be a postillion and to
sing melancholy songs.