uble
and 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 deep
sound of the priest's voice, the embracings and dropping of wax over
every one's clothes that would follow it--and yet every year it was the
same! There _was_ truth in it, there was some deep response to the human
dependence, some whispered promise of a future good. We waited there,
our hearts beating, crowded against the dark walls. It was a very
democratic assembly, bourgeoisie, workmen, soldiers, officers, women in
evening dress and peasant women with shawls over their heads. No one
spoke 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 voice
vibrating as though he had indeed but just now, out there in the dark
and wind, made the great discovery.

"He is risen indeed!" came the reply from us all. Markovitch embraced
me. "Let us go," he whispered, "I can't bear it somehow to-night."

We went out. Everywhere the bells were ringing--the wonderful deep boom
of St. Isaac's, and then all the other bells, jangling, singing, crying,
chattering, answering from all over Petrograd. From the other side of
the Neva came the report of the guns and the fainter, more distant echo
of 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. Markovitch
was 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 paste
made of eggs and cream, curds and sugar, a huge ham, a large cake or
rather, 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 whole
week, as there was to be no cooking until the following Saturday--and
very tired of the ham and the eggs one became before that day. There was
also wine--some of Semyonov's gift, I supposed--and a tiny bottle of
vodka.

We were not a very cheerful company. Uncle Ivan, who was really
distinguished by his complete inability to perceive what was going on
under his nose, was happy, and ate a great deal of the ham and certainly
more of the _paskha_ than was good for him.

I do not know who