between the inflowing stream and the outflowing stream. Some were
going in, others going out and soon coming back again to stand still
for a little and begin moving again. People were scurrying from
place to place, lounging about as though they were looking for
something. The stream flowed from the entrance all round the church,
disturbing even the front rows, where persons of weight and dignity
were standing. There could be no thought of concentrated prayer.
There were no prayers at all, but a sort of continuous, childishly
irresponsible joy, seeking a pretext to break out and vent itself
in some movement, even in senseless jostling and shoving.

The same unaccustomed movement is striking in the Easter service
itself. The altar gates are flung wide open, thick clouds of incense
float in the air near the candelabra; wherever one looks there are
lights, the gleam and splutter of candles. . . . There is no reading;
restless and lighthearted singing goes on to the end without ceasing.
After each hymn the clergy change their vestments and come out to
burn the incense, which is repeated every ten minutes.

I had no sooner taken a place, when a wave rushed from in front and
forced me back. A tall thick-set deacon walked before me with a
long red candle; the grey-headed archimandrite in his golden mitre
hurried after him with the censer. When they had vanished from sight
the crowd squeezed me back to my former position. But ten minutes
had not passed before a new wave burst on me, and again the deacon
appeared. This time he was followed by the Father Sub-Prior, the
man who, as Ieronim had told me, was writing the history of the
monastery.

As I mingled with the crowd and caught the infection of the universal