Then louder and louder, nearer and more joyous they sounded.
At last the doors of the Cathedral opened wide, and together with the noise of the returning multitude rang forth the triumphant song, which shook the very earth and the heavens:—
“Christ hath risen: by His death He hath overcome death, and hath given life to those who were in the darkness of the grave.”
And such fulness of joy was in this hymn that nothing could resist it: it was as though all those things were about to be accomplished, which creation had been awaiting from the beginning of time; as if a miracle were about to take place.
The Tsarevitch grew pale, his hands trembled, he very nearly let his candle fall. In spite of himself his whole being was pervaded by an all-pervading sense of joy. Life, suffering, death itself seemed to him to fade and become of no account before it.
He burst into tears, and, in order to conceal his emotion, he went out upon the flight of steps in front of the Cathedral.
The April night was mild and serene. A smell of thawing snow, of moist bark and of unopened buds filled the air. The church was surrounded by people; below, in the dark square, the wax tapers shone like stars, while above, in the dark heavens, the stars gleamed like tapers. Clouds, light as angels’ wings, floated past. The ice was thawing on the Neva. The joyous sound of the rumbling of breaking ice floes mingled with the peal of church bells. It seemed as though both earth and sky were chanting: “Christ is risen!”
After Mass, the Tsar, coming out upon the Cathedral steps, exchanged the Easter Greeting not only with the Ministers and senators but also with all his servants, down to the meanest kitchen boy.
The Tsarevitch looked at his father from a distance, not daring to draw near. Peter, however, saw his son and himself came up to him:—
“Christ is risen, Aliósha,” he said, with the old kindly smile.