But from the
Liteiny--just over the bridge--came a confused jumble of shouts, cries,
and then the sharp, unmistakable rattle of a machine-gun. It was funny
to see the casual life in front of one suddenly pause at that sound. The
doll-like skaters seemed to spin for a moment and then freeze; one
figure began to run across the ice. A small boy came racing down our
street shouting. Several men ran out from doorways and stood looking up
into the sky, as though they thought the noise had come from there. The
sun was just setting; the bubble clouds were pink, and windows flashed
fire. The rattle of the machine-gun suddenly stopped, and there was a
moment's silence when the only sound in the whole world was the clatter
of the wood-cart turning the corner. I could see to the right of me the
crowds in the Nevski, that had looked like the continual unwinding of a
ragged skein of black silk, break their regular movement and split up
like flies falling away from an opening door.
We were all on the balcony by now--the stout Burrows, Peroxide, and
another lady typist, Watson, the thin and most admirable secretary (he
held the place together by his diligence and order), two Russian clerks,
Henry, and I.
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