The music was heavenly as it swelled through the great building. No wonder the moujiks were so quiet and absorbed. Compared with their monotonous and sordid daily lives, this gorgeous church, with its jewelled icons, its colored pillars, its gold, silver, and incense, and its priests in splendid array, must seem like some glorious vision in the Apocalypse. Their music is very old; some of it dates back to the fifth century. They have a sermon about once a year in the Greek Church. What a sensible custom!
Yesterday we went to service at the English Chapel, which is on the Quay. It looks, on the outside, like anything rather than a church, being part of a block. The building is always crowded, for there is a large English colony here, and about a third of the congregation is composed of English governesses. The ambassador has a "high seat in the synagogue," on the right of the altar.
After church we had a long drive in the country. It was the most dismal excursion we have taken since we reached Russia. The day was dull, Judith was quiet, and Tom evidently homesick. It would have been touching, if it had not been so funny, to hear the despairing sighs which he heaved, and to see the doleful glances cast by him over the surrounding landscape, which certainly was not cheerful.
We went to the islands, the drive which is said to be so beautiful in summer, crossed innumerable bridges
