VIII
And yet with all our worries thick upon us it was quite impossible toresist the sweetness and charm and mystery of that service.
I think that perhaps it is true, as many have said, that people did notcrowd to the churches on that Easter as they had earlier ones, but ourchurch was a small one, and it seemed to us to be crammed. We stumbledup the dark steps, and found ourselves at the far end of the very narrownave. At the other end there was a pool of soft golden light in whichdark figures were bathed mysteriously. At the very moment of ourentering, the procession was passing down the nave on its way round theoutside of the church to look for the Body of Our Lord. Down the navethey came, the people standing on either side to let them pass, andthen, many of them, falling in behind. Every one carried a lightedcandle. First there were the singers, then men carrying the colouredbanners, then the priest in stiff gorgeous raiment, then officials anddignitaries, finally the crowd. The singing, the forest of lightedcandles, the sudden opening of the black door and the blowing in of thecold night wind, the passing of the voices out into the air, the soft,dying away of the singing and then the hushed expectation of the waitingfor the return--all this had in it something so elemental, so simple,and so true to the very heart of the mystery of life that all troubleand sorrow fell away and one was at peace.
How strange was that expectation! We knew so well what the word must be;we could tell exactly the moment of the knock of the door, the deepsound of the priest's voice, the embracings and dropping of wax overevery one's clothes that would follow it--and yet every year it was thesame! There _was_ truth in it, there was some deep response to the humandependence, some whispered promise of a future good. We waited there,our hearts beating, crowded against the dark walls. It was a verydemocratic assembly, bourgeoisie, workmen, soldiers, officers, women inevening dress and peasant women with shawls over their heads. No onespoke or whispered.
Suddenly there was a knock. The door was opened. The priest stood there,in his crimson and gold. "Christ is risen!" he cried, his voicevibrating as though he had indeed but just now, out there in the darkand wind, made the great discovery.
"He is risen indeed!" came the reply from us all. Markovitch embracedme. "Let us go," he whispered, "I can't bear it somehow to-night."
We went out. Everywhere the bells were ringing--the wonderful deep boomof St. Isaac's, and then all the other bells, jangling, singing, crying,chattering, answering from all over Petrograd. From the other side ofthe Neva came the report of the guns and the fainter, more distant echoof the guns near the sea. I could hear behind it all the incessant"chuck-chuck, chuck-chuck," of the ice colliding on the river.
It was very cold, and we hurried back to Anglisky Prospect. Markovitchwas quite silent all the way.
When we arrived we found Vera and Uncle Ivan and Semyonov waiting for us(Bohun was with friends). On the table was the _paskha_, a sweet pastemade of eggs and cream, curds and sugar, a huge ham, a large cake orrather, sweet bread called _kulich_, and a big bowl full of Easter eggs,as many-coloured as the rainbow. This would be the fare during the wholeweek, as there was to be no cooking until the following Saturday--andvery tired of the ham and the eggs one became before that day. There wasalso wine--some of Semyonov's gift, I supposed--and a tiny bottle ofvodka.
We were not a very cheerful company. Uncle Ivan, who was reallydistinguished by his complete inability to perceive what was going onunder his nose, was happy, and ate a great deal of the ham and certainlymore of the _paskha_ than was good for him.
I do not know who was responsible for the final incident--Semyonovperhaps--but I have often wondered whether some word or other of mineprecipitated it. We had finished our meal and were sitting quietlytogether, each occupied with his own thoughts. I had noticed thatMarkovitch had been drinking a great deal.
I was just thinking it was time for me to go when I heard Semyonov say:
"Well, what do you think of your Revolution now, Nicholas?"
"What do you mean--my Revolution?" he asked.
(The strange thing on looking back is that the whole of this scene seemsto me to have passed in a whisper, as though we were all terrified ofsomebody.)
"Well--do you remember how you talked to me?... about the saving of theworld and all the rest of it that this was going to be? Doesn't seem tobe quite turning out that way, does it, from all one hears? A good dealof quarrelling, isn't there? And what about the army--breaking up a bit,isn't it?"
"Don't, Uncle Alexei," I heard Vera whisper.
"What I said I still believe," Nicholas answered very quietly. "LeaveRussia alone, Alexei--and leave me alone, too."
"I'm not touching you, Nicholas," Semyonov answered, laughing softly.
"Yes you are--you know that you are. I'm not angry--not yet. But it'sunwise of you--unwise...."
"Unwise--how?"
"Never mind. 'Below the silent pools there lie hidden many devils.'Leave me alone. You are our guest."
"Indeed, Nicholas," said Semyonov, still laughing, "I mean you no harm.Ask our friend Durward here whether I ever mean any one any harm. Hewill, I'm sure, give me the best of characters."
"No--no harm perhaps--but still you tease me.... I'm a fool to mind....But then I am a fool--every one knows it."
All the time he was looking with his pathetic eyes and his pale face atVera.
Vera said again, very low, almost in a whisper: "Uncle Alexei...please."
"But really, Nicholas," Semyonov went on, "you under-rate yourself. Youdo indeed. Nobody thinks you a fool. I think you a very lucky man. Withyour talents--"
"Talents!" said Nicholas softly, looking at Vera. "I have no talents."
"--And Vera's love for you," went on Semyonov--
"Ah! that is over!" Nicholas said, so low that I scarcely heard it. I donot know what then exactly happened. I think that Vera put out her handto cover Nicholas'. At any rate I saw him draw his away, very gently. Itlay on the table, and the only sound beside the voices was the tinyrattle of his nails as his hand trembled against the woodwork.
Vera said something that I did not catch.
"No..." Nicholas said. "No... We must be true with one another, Vera.I have been drinking too much wine. My head is aching, and perhaps mywords are not very clear. But it gives me courage to say what I have inmy mind. I haven't thought out yet what we must do. Perhaps you canhelp me. But I must tell you that I saw everything that happened here onthat Thursday afternoon in the week of the Revolution--"
Vera made a little movement of distress
"Yes, you didn't know--but I was in my room--where Alexei sleeps now,you know. I couldn't help seeing. I'm very sorry."
"No, Nicholas, I'm very glad," Vera answered quietly.
"I would have told you in any case. I should have told you before. Ilove him and he loves me, just as you saw. I would like IvanAndreievitch and Uncle Ivan and every one to know. There is nothing toconceal. I have never loved any one before, and I'm not ashamed ofloving some one now.... It doesn't alter our life, Nicholas. I care foryou just as I did care, and I will do just as you tell me. I will neversee him again if that's what you wish, but I shall always love him."
"Ah, Vera--you are cruel." Nicholas gave a little cry like a hurtanimal, then he went away from us, standing for a moment looking at us.
"We'll have to consider what we must do. I don't know. I can't thinkto-night.... And you, Alexei, you leave me alone...."
He went stumbling away towards his bedroom.
Vera said nothing to any of us. She got up slowly, looked about her fora moment as though she were bewildered by the light and then went afterNicholas. I turned to Semyonov.
"You'd better go back to your own place," I said.
"Not yet, thank you," he answered, smiling.
The Secret City Page 44