Many of the Diplomatic Body were in the habit of attending the midnight Mass at St. Isaac's on Easter Day, on account of the wonderfully impressive character of the service. We were always requested to come in full uniform, with decorations and we stood inside the rails of the ikonostas, behind the choir. The time to arrive was about 11.30 p.m., when the great church, packed to its doors by a vast throng, was wrapped in almost total darkness. Under the dome stood a catafalque bearing a gilt coffin. This open coffin contained a strip of silk, on which was painted an effigy of the dead Christ, for it will be remembered that no carved or graven image is allowed in a church of the Eastern rite. There was an arrangement by which a species of blind could be drawn over the painted figure, thus concealing it. As the eye grew accustomed to the shadows, tens of thousands of unlighted candles, outlining the arches, cornices, and other architectural features of the cathedral, were just visible. These candles each had their wick touched with kerosine and then surrounded with a thread of guncotton, which ran continuously from candle to candle right round the building. When the hanging end of the thread of gun-cotton was lighted, the flame ran swiftly round the church, kindling each candle in turn; a very fascinating sight. At half-past eleven, the only light was from the candles surrounding the bier, where black-robed priests were chanting the mournful Russian Office for the Dead. At about twenty minutes to twelve the blind was drawn over the dead Christ, and the priests, feigning surprise, advanced to the rails of the ikonostas, and announced to an Archimandrite that the coffin was empty. The Archimandrite ordered them to search round the church, and the priests perambulated the church with gilt lanterns, during which time the catafalque, bier, and its accessories were all removed. The priests announced to the Archimandrite that their search had been unsuccessful, whereupon he ordered them to make a further search outside the church. They went out, and so timed their return as to arrive before the ikonostas at three minutes before midnight. They again reported that they had been unsuccessful; when, as the first stroke of midnight pealed from the great clock, the Metropolitan of Petrograd announced in a loud voice, "Christ is risen!" At an electric signal given from the cathedral, the great guns of the fortress boomed out in a salute of one hundred and one guns; the gun-cotton was touched off, and the swift flash kindled the tens of thousands of candles running round the building; the enormous congregation lit the tapers they carried; the "Royal doors" of the ikonostas were thrown open, and the clergy appeared in their festival vestments of cloth of gold, as the choir burst into the beautiful Russian Easter anthem, and so the Easter Mass began. Nothing more poignantly dramatic, more magnificently impressive, could possibly be imagined than this almost instantaneous change from intense gloom to blazing light; from the plaintive dirges of the Funeral Service to the jubilant strains of the Easter Mass. I never tired of witnessing this splendid piece of symbolism.
It sounds almost irreverent to talk of comical incidents in connection with so solemn an occasion, but there are two little episodes I must mention. About 1880 the first tentative efforts were made by France to establish a Franco-Russian alliance. Ideas on the subject were very nebulous at first, but slowly they began to crystallise into concrete shape. A new French Ambassador was appointed to Petrograd in the hope of fanning the faint spark into further life. He, wishing to show his sympathy for the nation amie, attended the Easter Mass at St. Isaac's, but unfortunately he was quite unversed in the ritual of the Orthodox Church. In every ikonostas there are two ikons on either side of the "Royal doors"; the Saviour on one side, the Madonna and Child on the other. The new Ambassador was standing in front of the ikon of the Saviour, and in the course of the Mass the Metropolitan came out, and made the three prescribed low bows before the ikon, previous to censing it. The Ambassador, taking this as a personal compliment to France, as represented in his own person, acknowledged the attention with three equally low bows, laying his hand on his heart and ejaculating with all the innate politeness of his nation, "Monsieur! Monsieur! Monsieur!" This little incident caused much amusement, as did a newly-arrived German diplomat, who when greeted by a Russian friend with the customary Easter salutation of "Christ is risen!" ("Kristos voskress!") wished to respond, but, being ignorant of the traditional answer, "He is verily risen," merely made a low bow and said, "Ich auch," which may be vulgarly Englished into "The same here."
The universal Easter suppers at the conclusion of the Mass play an important part in Russian life, for they mean the breaking of the long and rigorous Lenten fast of the Eastern Church, during which all meat, butter, milk, and eggs are prohibited. The peasants adhere rigidly to these rules, so the Easter supper assumes great importance in their eyes. The ingredients of this supper are invariable for high and low, for rich and poor—cold ham, hard-boiled eggs dyed red, a sort of light cake akin to the French brioche, and a sour cream-cheese shaped into a pyramid and decorated with little crosses of dried currants. I think that this cake and cream cheese (known as "Paskva") are prepared only at Easter-time. Even at the Yacht Club during Holy Week, meat, butter, milk, and eggs were prohibited, and still Armand, our incomparable French chef, managed to produce plats of the most succulent description. Loud praises were lavished upon his skill in preparing such excellent dishes out of oil, fish, flour, and vegetables, the only materials allowed him. I met Armand in the passage one day and asked him how he managed to do it. Looking round to see that no Russians could overhear, Armand replied with a wink, "Voyez-vous Monsieur, le bon Dieu ne regarde pas d'aussi près." Of course he had gone on using cream, butter, and eggs, just as usual, but as the members of the Club did not know this, and thought that they were strictly obeying the rules of their Church, I imagine that no blame could attach to them.
On Easter Eve the two-mile-long Nevsky Perspective was lined with humble folks standing by white napkins on which the materials for their Easter supper were arranged. On every napkin glimmered a lighted taper, and the long line of these twinkling lights produced a very charming effect, as of myriads of glow-worms. Priests would pass swiftly down the line, each attended by an acolyte carrying a pail of holy water. The priest would mutter a rapid blessing, sprinkle the food and its owner with holy water, pocket an infinitesimally small fee, and pass on again.
A friend of mine was once down in the fruit-growing districts of the Crimea. Passing through one of the villages of that pleasing peninsula, he found it decorated in honour of a religious festival. The village priest was going to bless the first-fruits of the orchards. The peasants stood in a row down the village street, each one with the first crop of his orchard arranged on a clean napkin before him. The red-bearded priest, quite a young man, passed down the street, sprinkling fruit and grower alike with holy water, and repeating a blessing to each one. The young priest approached, and my friend could hear quite plainly the words of his blessing. No. —— it was quite impossible! It was incredible! and yet he could not doubt the evidence of his own ears! The young priest was speaking in good Scots, and the words of the blessing he bestowed on each parishioner were, "Here, man! tak' it. If it does ye nae guid, it canna possibly dae ye any hairm." The men addressed, probably taking this for a quotation from Scripture in some unknown tongue, bowed reverently as the words were pronounced over them. That a Russian village priest in a remote district of the Crimea should talk broad Scots was a sufficiently unusual circumstance to cause my friend to make some further inquiries. It then appeared that when the Government dockyard at Sebastopol was reopened, several Scottish foremen from the Clyde shipbuilding yards were imported to supervise the Russian workmen. Amongst others came a Glasgow foreman with his wife and a son who was destined for the ministry of the Free Church of Scotland. Once arrived in Russia, they found that facilities for training a youth for the Presbyterian ministry were somewhat lacking in Sebastopol. Sooner than sacrifice their dearest wish, the parents, with commendable broadmindedness, decided that their offspring should enter the Russian Church. He was accordingly sent to a seminary and in due course was ordained a priest and appointed to a parish, but he apparently still retained his Scottish speech and his characteristically Scottish independence of view.
After a year in Petrograd I used to attempt to analyse to myself the complex Russian character. "We are a 'jelly-folk,'" had said one of my friends to me. The Russian term was "Kiselnui narod," and I think there is truth in that. They are an invertebrate folk. I cannot help thinking that Peter the Great was one of the worst enemies of his own country. Instead of allowing Russia to develop naturally on lines suited to the racial instincts of her people, he attempted to run the whole country into a West European mould, and to superimpose upon it a veneer imported from the France of Louis Quatorze. With the very few this could perhaps succeed, with the many it was a foregone failure. He tried in one short lifetime to do what it had taken other countries centuries to accomplish. He built a vast and imposing edifice on shifting sand, without any foundations. It might stand for a time; its ultimate doom was certain.
From the windows of our Embassy we looked upon the broad Neva. When fast bound in the grip of winter, sledge-roads were made across the ice, bordered with lamp-posts and marked out with sawn-off fir trees. Little wooden taverns and tea-houses were built on the river, and as soon as the ice was of sufficient thickness the tramcar lines were laid across it. A colony of Laps came yearly and encamped on the river with their reindeer, for the temperature of Petrograd rarely falling more than ten degrees below zero, it was looked upon as a genial winter climate for invalids from Lapland. A stranger from another planet might have imagined that these buildings were permanent, that the fir trees were really growing, and that all the life on the frozen river would last indefinitely. Everyone knew, though, with absolute certainty that by the middle of April the ice would break up, and that these little houses, if not removed in time, would be carried away and engulfed in the liberated stream. By May the river would be running again as freely as though these temporary edifices had never been built on it.
I think these houses built on the ice were very typical of Russia.