17. At Gadiatch

The third day after they left the Dnieper, as we told in the preceding chapter, was Sunday, and the great bells of the city of Gadiatch, the residence of the Ataman protected by his Majesty the Tsar of Russia, were ringing a full peal, inviting the faithful to matins.

It was scarcely day, and the city of Gadiatch, with its narrow, winding streets, its low buildings and bushy gardens, seemed to be enveloped by a half-transparent veil. The people, hurrying from all its sides toward the cathedral, appeared to be wrapped in a shadow.

Nevertheless, in spite of the twilight, it was easy to see, by their determined gait and decided manners, that the greater part of the people were soldiers.

The day before, it had rained a great deal and the warm air was of a delicious freshness. Everything in nature was calm, everything silent among the people, so calm and so silent that the noise of the footsteps in the damp street could be heard; the imprudent foot which stepped into a pool made a loud splash, the drops of dew which fell from the foliage might have been counted.

The old cathedral seemed to be surrounded by a garden. One could see in bloom the alburnum, eglantine, elder-tree, roses, white, red and yellow acacia, apple, pear, plum and cherry trees, which promised a great abundance of fruit. The ground was covered with a velvety verdure strewn with all kinds of flowers.

A crowd of the faithful of goodly size were gathered near the cathedral, and, while waiting for the hour of service to begin, each one talked in a low voice of one thing or another.

The old wandering minstrel, whom the reader already knows, was in the midst of this crowd, accompanied, as usual, by his little friend, who was looking respectfully on the house of God.

He had seated himself on one of the church steps, like a man overcome with fatigue, and with a slow, grave voice was relating to a numerous assemblage, which surrounded him, through what trials the souls of the wicked must pass before attaining the heavenly place. “It is on the earth, by constant effort, that one must merit heaven,” he said at last.

Having finished his recital with a sigh, to which the sighs of the greater part of his audience responded, the old singer seemed to fall into a profound reverie, as often happens to pious persons who forget the earth for heaven, and his pensive eyes wandered without any object over the surrounding objects as they began to emerge from the darkness.

The silence which had fallen on the group was broken by the arrival of two young Cossacks. They attracted attention by their extremely long mustaches, their tall, graceful figures, and an elegance of manner peculiar to those who visit among the nobility and are seen at the receptions of the great.