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 everyone’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 tonight.”
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 was responsible for the final incident—Semyonov perhaps—but I have often wondered whether some word or other of mine precipitated it. We had finished our meal and were sitting quietly together, each occupied with his own thoughts. I had noticed that Markovitch 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 seems to me to have passed in a whisper, as though we were all terrified of somebody.)
“Well—do you remember how you talked to me? … about the saving of the world and all the rest of it that this was going to be? Doesn’t seem to be quite turning out that way, does it, from all one hears? A good deal of 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. “Leave Russia 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’s unwise 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 anyone any harm. He will, 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—everyone knows it.”
All the time he was looking with his pathetic eyes and his pale face at Vera.
Vera said again, very low, almost in a whisper: “Uncle Alexei … please.”
“But really, Nicholas,” Semyonov went on, “you underrate yourself. You do indeed. Nobody thinks you a fool. I think you a very lucky man. With your 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 do not know what then exactly happened. I think that Vera put out her hand to cover Nicholas’. At any rate I saw him draw his away, very gently. It lay on the table, and the only sound beside the voices was the tiny rattle 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
