There would remain, I believe, for ever those dull Jaeger
undergarments in the windows of the bazaar, and the bound edition of
Tchekov in the book-shop just above the Moika, and the turtle and the
gold-fish in the aquarium near Elisseieff; and whilst those things were
there I could not believe in melodrama.
And we did not believe. We dug our feet into the snow, and leaned over
the balcony railings absorbed with amused interest. The procession
consisted of a number of motor lorries, and on these lorries soldiers
were heaped. I can use no other word because, indeed, they seemed to be
all piled upon one another, some kneeling forward, some standing, some
sitting, and all with their rifles pointing outwards until the lorries
looked like hedgehogs. Many of the rifles had pieces of red cloth
attached to them, and one lorry displayed proudly a huge red flag that
waved high in air with a sort of flaunting arrogance of its own. On
either side of the lorries, filling the street, was the strangest mob of
men, women, and children. There seemed to be little sign of order or
discipline amongst them as they were all shouting different cries: "Down
the Fontanka!" "No, the Duma!" "To the Nevski!" "No, no, _Tovaristchi_
(comrades), to the Nicholas Station!"
Such a rabble was it that I remember that my first thought was of
pitying indulgence.
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