The Peter and Paul Fortress, the towers
of the Mohammedan Mosque were thin, immaterial, ghostly, and the whole
line of the town was simply a black pencilled shadow against the ice,
smoke that might be scattered with one heave of the force of the river.
The Neva was silent, but beneath that silence beat what force and power,
what contempt and scorn, what silent purposes?
I saw then, near me, and gazing, like myself, on to the river the tall,
broad figure of a peasant, standing, without movement, black against the
sky.
He seemed to dominate the scene, to be stronger and more contemptuous
than the ice itself, but also to be in sympathy with it.
I made some movement, and he turned and looked at me. He was a fine man,
with a black beard and noble carriage. He passed down the Quay and I
turned towards home.
XII
About four o'clock on Christmas afternoon I took some flowers to Vera
Michailovna. I found that the long sitting-room had been cleared of all
furniture save the big table and the chairs round it. About a dozen
middle-aged ladies were sitting about the table and solemnly playing
"Lotto.
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