Now, the person of the Tzar is so sacred that it is forbidden by law
even to represent him on the stage, and as to photographing him--a
Russian faints at the mere thought. Nevertheless, we wished very much
to photograph this pageant, so we determined, if possible, to take our
camera. Everything else that we wanted had been done for us ever since
we started, and our faith was strong that we would get this. At first
the stout heart of Baron Elsner quailed at our suggestion. Then he
said to take the camera with us, which we did with joy. His card
parted the crowd right and left, and our carriage drove through long
lines of soldiers, and between throngs of people held in check by
mounted police, and by rows of infantry, who locked arms and made of
themselves a living wall, against which the crowd surged.

To our delight we found our places were not twenty feet from the
entrance to the Winter Palace. We noticed Baron Elsner speaking to
several officials, and we heard the word "Americanski," which had so
often opened hearts and doors to us, for Russia honestly likes
America, and presently the Baron said, in a low tone, "When the
Emperor passes out you may step down here; these soldiers will
surround you, and you may photograph him."

I could scarcely believe my ears. I was so excited that I nearly
dropped the camera.

The procession moves only about one hundred feet--a crimson carpet
being laid from the entrance of the Winter Palace, across the street,
and up into a pavilion which is built out over the Neva.

First came the metropolitans and the priests; then the Emperor's
celebrated choir of about fifty voices; then a detachment of picked
officers bearing the most important battle-flags from the time of
Peter the Great, which showed the marks of sharp conflict; then the
Emperor's suite, and then--the Emperor himself. They all marched with
bared heads, even the soldiers.

My companion had the opera-glasses, I had the camera. "Tell me when,"
I gasped. They passed before me in a sort of haze. I heard the band in
the Winter Palace and the singing of the choir. I heard the splash of
the cross which the Archbishop plunged into the opening that had been
cut in the ice. I heard the priests intone, and the booming of the
guns firing the imperial salute. I saw that the wind was blowing the
candles out. Then came a breathless pause, and then she said, "Now!" A
little click. It was done; I had photographed Nicholas II., the Tzar