s there. I saw at once two
things, that he was very miserable, that he was a little drunk. His
misery showed itself in his strange, pathetic, gleaming eyes, that
looked so often as though they held unshed tears (this gave him an
unfortunate ridiculous aspect), in his hollow pale cheeks and the droop
of his mouth, not petulant nor peevish, simply unhappy in the way that
animals or very young children express unhappiness. His drunkenness
showed itself in quite another way. He was unsteady a little on his
feet, and his hands trembled, his forehead was flushed, and he spoke
thickly, sometimes running his words together. At the same time he was
not very drunk, and was quite in control of his thoughts and
intentions.

We went out together. It could not have been called a fine night--it was
too cold, and there was a hint of rain in the air--and yet there is
beauty, I believe, in every Russian Easter Eve. The day comes so
wonderfully at the end of the long heavy winter. The white nights with
their incredible, almost terrifying beauty are at hand, the ice is
broken, the new world of sun and flowers is ready, at an instant's magic
word, to be born. Nevertheless this year there was an incredible pathos
in the wind. The soul of Petrograd was indeed stirring, but mournfully,
ominously. There were not, for one thing, the rows of little fairy lamps
that on this night always make the streets so gay. They hang in chains
and clusters of light from street to street, blazing in the square,
reflected star-like in the canals, misty and golden-veiled in distance.
To-night only the churches had their lights; for the rest, the streets
were black chasms of windy desolation, the canals burdened with the
breaking ice which moved restlessly against the dead barges. Very strong
in the air was the smell of the sea; the heavy clouds that moved in a
strange kind of ordered procession overhead seemed to carry that scent
with them, and in the dim pale shadows of the evening glow one seemed to
see at the end of every street mysterious clusters of masts, and to hear
the clank of chains and the creak of restless boards. There were few
people about and a great silence everywhere. The air was damp and thick,
and smelt of rotten soil, as though dank grass was everywhere pushing
its way up through the cobbles and paving-stones.

As we walked Markovitch talked incessantly. It was only a very little
the talk of a drunken man, scarcely disconnected at all, but ev