'Long may he li-i-i-ive . . .' rang out the crystalline descant.
'Long may . . . long may . . . long may . . .' the soprano soared up to the very dome of the cathedral.
'Look!
Look!
It's Petlyura
'Look, Ivan . . .'
'No, you fool, Petlyura's out in the square by now . . .'
Hundreds of heads in the choir-loft crowded one on another, jostling forward, hanging down over the balustrade between the ancient pillars adorned with smoke-blackened frescoes.
Craning, excited, leaning forward, pushing, they surged towards the balustrade trying to look down into the well of the cathedral, but could see nothing for the hundreds of heads already there, like rows of yellow apples.
Down in the abyss swayed a reeking, thousand-headed crowd, over which hovered an almost incandescent wave of sweat, steam, incense smoke, the lamp-black from hundreds of candles, and soot from heavy chain-hung ikon-lamps.
The ponderous gray-blue drape creaked along on its rings and covered the doors of the altar screen, floridly wrought in centuries-old metal as dark and grim as the whole gloomy cathedral of St Sophia.
Crackling faintly and swaying, the flaming tongues of candles in the chandeliers drifted upwards in threads of smoke.
There was not enough air for them.
Around the altar there was incredible confusion.
From the doors of side-chapels, down the worn granite steps, poured streams of gold copes and fluttering stoles.
Priestly headdresses, like short violet stovepipes, slid out of their cardboard boxes, religious banners were taken down, flapping, from the walls.
Somewhere in the thick of the crowd boomed out the awesome bass of Archdeacon Seryebryakov.
A headless, armless cope swayed above the crowd and was swallowed up again; then there rose up one sleeve of a quilted cassock, followed by the other as its wearer was enrobed in the cope.
Check handkerchiefs fluttered and were twisted into plaits.
'Tie up your checks tighter, Father Arkady, the frost outside is wicked. Please let me help you.'
Like the flags of a conquered army the sacred banners were dipped as they passed under the doorway, brown faces and mysterious gold words swaying, fringes scraping along the ground.
'Make way, there . . .'
'Where are they going?'
'Manya!
Look out! You'll be crushed . . .'
'What are they celebrating? (whisper:) Is it theUkrainian people's republic?'
'God knows' (whisper).
'That's not a priest, that's a bishop . . .'
'Look out, careful . . .'
'Long may he live . . .!' sang the choir, filling the whole cathedral.
The fat, red-faced precentor Tolmashevsky extinguished a greasy wax candle and thrust his tuning-fork into his pocket.
The choir, in brown heel-length surplices with gold braid, the swaying choirboys whose cropped fair hair made their little heads look almost bald, the bobbing of Adam's apples and horse-like heads of the basses streamed out of the dark, eerie choir-loft.
Thicker and thicker, jostling through all the doors, like a swelling avalanche, like water gushing from drainpipes flowed the murmuring crowd.
From the doors of the sacristy floated a stream of vestments, their wearers' heads wrapped up as if they all had toothache, eyes anxious and uneasy beneath their toylike, mauve stovepipe hats.
Father Arkady, dean of the cathedral, a puny little man, wearing a sparkling jewelled mitre above the gray check scarf wrapped around his head, glided along with little mincing steps.
There was a desperate look in his eyes and his wispy beard trembled.
'There's going to be a procession round the cathedral.
Out of the way, Mitya.'
'Hey, you - not so fast!
Come back!
Give the priests room to walk.'
'There's plenty of room for them to pass.'
'For God's sake - this child is suffocating . . .'
'What is happening?'
'If you don't know what's happening you'd better go home,where there's nothing for you to steal . . .'
'Somebody's cut the strap of my handbag!'
'But Petlyura's supposed to be a socialist, isn't he?
So why areall the priests praying for him?'
'Look out!'
'Give the fathers twenty-five roubles, and they'll say a mass for the devil himself