In a very ancient, rattling, but roomy hired carriage, with a pair of old pinkish gray horses that lagged far behind Miusov’s carriage, Fyodor Pavlovich also drove up with his boy Ivan Fyodorovich. Dmitri Fyodorovich had been informed of the time and length of the visit the day before, but he was late. The visitors left their carriages at the guest house outside the walls and entered the gates of the monastery on foot. With the exception of Fyodor Pavlovich, none of the other three seemed ever to have seen any monastery before; as for Miusov, he probably had not even been to church for some thirty years. He looked around with a sort of curiosity that was not without a certain assumed familiarity. But his observant mind was presented with nothing inside the monastery walls except a church and some outbuildings, which were in any case quite ordinary. The last worshippers were leaving the church, taking off their hats and crossing themselves. Among the common people were a few from higher society, two or three ladies, one very old general; they were all staying at the guest house. Beggars immediately surrounded our visitors, but no one gave them anything. Only Petrusha Kalganov took a ten-kopeck piece from his purse and, embarrassed for some reason, hastily shoved it at one woman, saying quickly: “To be shared equally.” None of his companions said anything to him, so there was no point in his being embarrassed; which, when he noticed it, made him even more embarrassed.

It was odd, however; they should, in fact, have been met, perhaps even with some sort of honor: one of them had recently donated a thousand roubles, and another was the richest landowner and, so to speak, the best-educated man, on whom everyone there somewhat depended as far as catching fish in the river was concerned, subject to what turn the trial might take. And yet none of the official persons came to meet them. Miusov gazed distractedly at the tombstones near the church, and was on the point of remarking that these tombs must have cost the relatives a pretty penny for the right to bury their dead in such a “holy” place, but he said nothing: mere liberal irony was transforming itself in him almost into wrath.

“But, devil take it, isn’t there someone we can ask in all this muddle? Something must be done, we’re wasting time,” he said suddenly, speaking, as it were, to himself.

Suddenly an elderly, balding gentleman in a loose summer coat, and with sweet little eyes, came up to them. Tipping his hat and speaking in a honeyed lisp, he introduced himself as the Tula landowner, Maximov. He entered at once into our wayfarers’ difficulty.

“The elder Zosima lives in the hermitage ... shut up in the hermitage . . about four hundred paces from the monastery ... through the woods . . through the woods ...”

“I myself know, sir, that it is through the woods,” Fyodor Pavlovich replied. “But we do not quite remember the way, it’s a long time since we were here.”

“Out the gate here, and straight through the woods, through the woods, follow me. If I may ... I myself ... I, too, am ... This way, this way...”

They went out the gate and through the woods. The landowner Maximov, a man of about sixty, was not so much walking but, more precisely, almost running alongside, staring at them all with contorted, almost impossible curiosity. His eyes had a pop-eyed look.

“You see, we have come to this elder on a private matter,” Miusov remarked sternly. “We have, so to speak, been granted an audience with this ‘said person,’ and therefore, though we thank you for showing us the way, we cannot invite you to go in with us.”

“I’ve been, I’ve been already ... Unchevalier parfait!“^[23] And the landowner loosed a snap of his fingers into the air.

“Who is a chevalier?” asked Miusov.

“The elder, the splendid elder, the elder ... The honor and glory of the monastery. Zosima. Such an elder...!”

But his disjointed talk was cut short by a little monk in a cowl, very pale and haggard, who overtook them. Fyodor Pavlovich and Miusov stopped. The monk, with an extremely courteous, deep bow, announced:

“The Father Superior humbly invites you, gentlemen, to dine with him after your visit to the hermitage. In his rooms, at one o’clock, not later. And you, too,” he turned to Maximov.

“That I shall certainly do!” cried Fyodor Pavlovich, terribly pleased at the invitation. “Certainly! And you know, we’ve all given our word to behave properly here ... And you, Pyotr Alexandrovich, will you go?”

“Why not? Did I not come here precisely to observe all their customs? Only one thing bothers me, and that is being in your company, Fyodor Pavlovich ...”

“Yes, Dmitri Fyodorovich doesn’t exist yet.”

“And it would be excellent if he failed to come at all. Do you think I like it, all this mess, and in your company, too? So we shall come to dinner, thank the Father Superior,” he turned to the little monk.

“No, it is my duty now to conduct you to the elder,” the monk replied.

“In that case, I shall go meanwhile to the Father Superior, straight to the Father Superior,” chirped the landowner Maximov.

“The Father Superior is busy at the moment. However, as you please ... ,” the monk said hesitantly.

“A most obnoxious old fellow,” Miusov remarked aloud, as the landowner Maximov ran back to the monastery.

“He looks like von Sohn,”^[24] Fyodor Pavlovich declared suddenly.

“Is that all you can think of ... ? Why should he look like von Sohn? Have you ever seen von Sohn?”

“I’ve seen his photograph. It’s not his features, but something inexplicable. He’s the spit and image of von Sohn. I can always tell just by the physiognomy.”

“Well, maybe so; you’re an expert in such things. But see here, Fyodor Pavlovich, you yourself were just pleased to mention that we’ve given our word to behave properly, remember? I’m telling you—control yourself. If you start any buffoonery, I have no intention of being put on the same level with you here. You see what sort of man he is,” he turned to the monk. “I’m afraid to appear among decent people with him.”

A thin, silent little smile, not without cunning of a sort, appeared on the pale, bloodless lips of the monk, but he made no reply, and it was all too clear that he remained silent from a sense of his own dignity. Miusov scowled even more.

“Oh, the devil take the lot of them, it’s just a front, cultivated for centuries, and underneath nothing but charlatanism and nonsense!” flashed through his head.

“Here’s the hermitage, we’ve arrived!” cried Fyodor Pavlovich. “The fence and gates are shut.”

And he started crossing himself energetically before the saints painted above and on the sides of the gates.

“When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” he remarked.^[25] “Here in the hermitage there are altogether twenty-five saints saving their souls, looking at each other and eating cabbage. And not one woman ever goes through these gates, that’s what’s so remarkable. And it’s really true. Only didn’t I hear that the elder receives ladies?” he suddenly addressed the monk.

“There are some peasants of the female sex here even now, over there, lying near the porch, waiting. And for higher ladies two small rooms were built on the porch, but outside the wall—you can see the windows—and the elder `omes to them by an inner passage, when he feels well enough, so it is still outside the wall. Right now there is a lady, a landowner from Kharkov, Madame Khokhlakov, waiting there with her paralyzed daughter. Probably he has promised to come out to them, although lately he’s been so weak that he’s hardly shown himself even to the common people.”

“So, after all, a little hole has been made from the hermitage to the ladies. Not that I’m implying anything, holy father, I’m just ... You know, on Mount Athos—have you heard?—not only are the visits of women not allowed, but no women at all, no female creatures of any kind—no hens, no hen-turkeys, no heifers ...”