afraid of being seen by the prince, not for fear of ill-usage by him but for fear of causing him to sin. To leave family, home, and all the cares of worldly welfare, in order without clinging to anything to wander in hempen rags from place to place under an assumed name, doing no one any harm but praying for all—for those who drive one away as well as for those who protect one: higher than that life and truth there is no life or truth!”
There was one pilgrim, a quiet pockmarked little woman of fifty called Fëdosyushka, who for over thirty years had gone about barefoot and worn heavy chains. Princess Márya was particularly fond of her. Once, when in a room with a lamp dimly lit before the icon Fëdosyushka was talking of her life, the thought that Fëdosyushka alone had found the true path of life suddenly came to Princess Márya with such force that she resolved to become a pilgrim herself. When Fëdosyushka had gone to sleep Princess Márya thought about this for a long time, and at last made up her mind that, strange as it might seem, she must go on a pilgrimage. She disclosed this thought to no one but to her confessor, Father Akínfi, the monk, and he approved of her intention. Under guise of a present for the pilgrims, Princess Márya prepared a pilgrim’s complete costume for herself: a coarse smock, bast shoes, a rough coat, and a black kerchief. Often, approaching the chest of drawers containing this secret treasure, Princess Márya paused, uncertain whether the time had not already come to put her project into execution.
Often, listening to the pilgrims’ tales, she was so stimulated by their simple speech, mechanical to them but to her so full of deep meaning, that several times she was on the point of abandoning everything and running away from home. In imagination she already pictured herself by Fëdosyushka’s side, dressed in coarse rags, walking with a staff, a wallet on her back, along the dusty road, directing her wanderings from one saint’s shrine to another, free from envy, earthly love, or desire, and reaching at last the place where there is no more sorrow or sighing, but eternal joy and bliss.