One nobleman who passed by had a cap with a red band on his head; he was saying with calm and deliberation:
“The divine right of ownership should be inviolable. We and our ancestors have built up the Russian land.”
Another of the same class, who walked beside him, remarked:
“My motto—autocracy, orthodoxy, and nationality. My credo—a strong redeeming power.”
A priest in a black vestment swung a censer, and cried in a tenor voice:
“Every soul should submit to sovereign dominion. The hand that gives will not grow poorer.”
A wise muzhik passed by muttering:
“We know everything, but are not saying anything just yet. When you don’t know anything they leave you alone. Only you can’t cover up your mouth with a handkerchief.”
Several soldiers walked past together. They bawled their indecorous songs. Their faces were grey-red in colour. They stank of sweat, putrescence, bad tobacco, and vodka.
“I have laid down my stomach for my faith, my Tsar, and my Fatherland,” a smart young colonel was saying.