I went to church at St. Saviour’s, the big church beyond the bridge,
which was built with the private money of the Tsar as a thanksgiving for
deliverance from Napoleon. It has five gold domes which are a beacon to
me when I am lost. A service was going on and we mingled with the crowd,
which had an amazing preponderance of men. The richness of the church
with its golden and crimson robed priests seemed to throw into relief
the poverty of the people with their faces so full of sadness. What
absurdly stupid things animate one’s thoughts in the most precious
moments: for instance, when the priest made the sign of the Cross with
the three branched candlesticks in each hand, I instinctively looked to
see if he had dropped candle-grease on the carpet--he had! When the
contribution plate began to circulate I watched an old peasant next to
me. He drew out his pocket-book, and fumbled for a few roubles. He held
five of these like a card-hand and fingered them hesitatingly. It was
obvious that he was trying to make up his mind whether he could afford
to part with them all, or only with some of them. In the end he put them
all into the plate, a little act of sacrifice which I am sure will not
pass unblessed.