It grew light. From afar the vague stirring sound
deepened and became louder, a steady and tremendous bass. The city
was rising. We set out down the Tverskaya, the banners flapping
overhead. The little street chapels along our way were locked and
dark, as was the Chapel of the Iberian Virgin, which each new Tsar
used to visit before he went to the Kremlin to crown himself, and
which, day or night, was always open and crowded, and brilliant with
the candles of the devout gleaming on the gold and silver and jewels
of the ikons. Now, for the first time since Napoleon was in Moscow,
they say, the candles were out.
The Holy Orthodox Church had withdrawn the light of its countenance
from Moscow, the nest of irreverent vipers who had bombarded the
Kremlin. Dark and silent and cold were the churches; the priests had
disappeared. There were no popes to officiate at the Red Burial,
there had been no sacrament for the dead, nor were any prayers to be
said over the grave of the blasphemers. Tikhon, Metropolitan of
Moscow, was soon to excommunicate the Soviets....
Also the shops were closed, and the propertied classes stayed at
home-but for other reasons. This was the Day of the People, the
rumour of whose coming was thunderous as surf....
Already through the Iberian Gate a human river was flowing, and the
vast Red Square was spotted with people, thousands of them.
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