took off their caps, taking me probably for Turgenev; my driver jumped
every minute off the box to put the harness to rights, or to crack his whip
at the boys who ran after the carriage.... There were strings of pilgrims
along the road. On all sides there were white hills, big and small. The
horizon was bluish-white, the rye was tall, oak copses were met with here
and there--the only things lacking were crocodiles and rattlesnakes.

I came to the Holy Mountains at twelve o'clock. It is a remarkably
beautiful and unique place. The monastery stands on the bank of the river
Donets at the foot of a huge white rock covered with gardens, oaks, and
ancient pines crowded together and over-hanging, one above another. It
seems as if the trees had not enough room on the rock, and as if some force
were driving them upwards.... The pines literally hang in the air and look
as though they might fall any minute. Cuckoos and nightingales sing night
and day.

The monks, very pleasant people, gave me a very unpleasant room with a
pancake-like mattress. I spent two nights at the monastery and gathered a
mass of impressions. While I was there some fifteen thousand pilgrims
assembled because of St. Nicolas' Day; eight-ninths of them were old women.
I did not know before that there were so many old women in the world; had I
known, I would have shot myself long ago. About the monks, my acquaintance
with them and how I gave medical advice to the monks and the old women, I
will write to the _Novoye Vremya_ and tell you when we meet. The services
are endless: at midnight they ring for matins, at five for early mass, at
nine for late mass, at three for the song of praise, at five for vespers,
at six for the special prayers. Before every service one hears in the
corridors the weeping sound of a bell, and a monk runs along crying in the
voice of a creditor who implores his debtor to pay him at least five
kopecks for a rouble: