Among my acquaintances was the abbess of a nunnery in the province of Twer. Her reason for having embraced the sacred profession was one which we found common enough in Russia: “Je n’avais pas de succès dans le monde, ainsi je me suis faite religieuse,” was her candid confession. She was of high family, but the generality of those who thus devote themselves to a convent life are not of noble birth; indeed, we were told that by so doing those who are of gentle blood lose their rank. We frequently went to pay her a visit, and were always received kindly and with true Russian hospitality; but as the monks and nuns of the Greek Church are forbidden to eat any kind of meat, they can only furnish their table with fish cooked in different ways, generally in oil, and with pastry, sweetmeats, and so on; and, to confess the truth, I was not very fond of dining at the convent. The abbess was a lady well accustomed to the _politesse_ of the world; it made no difference to her that I was a busermanca or heretic; she very politely took me over her establishment and explained their mode of life: most of the nuns were either the daughters or widows of priests. “Those young girls,” said the superior, throwing open the door of a large apartment, “are the orphan children of priests; they are being brought up in the convent as the proper asylum for such. They are, as you perceive, very busy in embroidering the church vestments.” “But what becomes of them in after life, ma mère?” “Oh,” replied the abbess, “some of them are married off to young priests, for, of course, you are aware that no pope[6] can have a cure unless he be married. Those who have not a chance of becoming so settled remain in the convent, and when they are of the proper age they take the veil; but as no one can do so until she is forty, they hold the position of novices until then.”