A Russian Easter in the Year of Our Lord 1915

As observed by an English woman, Etheldred Mary M. Hewlett, and printed in the Rochester Diocesan Chronicle, 1918

Reprinted in The Lion (newsletter of St. Mark’s Parish), June 1995

Panoramic view of East Moscow and St. Basil’s Cathedral from the Ivan Veliky bell tower, from a postcard circa 1900

Part I

At the present time, when we hear so much of the Orthodox Eastern Church, it may be of interest to some to read a short account of an Easter spent in Moscow three years back; an Easter, whose memory remains ever fresh and beautiful like a vision of Paradise in the midst of the dull and unenthusiastic work a day world of the West.

Who could ever forget his first glimpse of Moscow, the city of a thousand shrines! A fit setting to this cluster of jewels that are the glorious forests of pine and birch which you traverse almost interuptedly after leaving Warsaw. Virgin forests—vast, limitless, entrancing—here carpeted with wood anemones, there again bare of flowers, here a patch of kingcups on some marshy ground, and there a clearing, with stacks of cut wood down, and at rare intervals a village with its picturesque huts and little domed church.

After an absorbing and delightful journey through these solitudes, which appeal to the imagination (so it seemed to us) in a way not the grandest Alpine or most radiant Italian scenery could do—suddenly Moscow of the golden domes flashes into view and you hold your breath with the thrill of it, and wonder whether this may not be a faint foreshadowing of the entrance into that City of gold and jasper, whose foundations are the twelve Apostles, and whose Maker and Builder is God.

Golden domes, green domes, blue domes with gold stars, against a sky of vivid blue; such were our first impressions of Moscow.

And then the droschkies and their drivers waiting in lines outside the station! Who could fail to be charmed with those quaint coachmen in their long and thickly padded coats of saxe blue with sashes and fez caps, and such smiling good-humoured faces under the caps? Add to this, the vehicles themselves, like miniature victorias, the game little horses with their high collars, plunging gaily and recklessly forward to the accompaniment of cracking whips and encouraging expressions of endearment from their drivers, and you have a picture as thoroughly Russian as heart could wish.

As we drove from the station our happiness and excitement grew at every step. We passed churches and shrines and ikons—glorious ikons of the blessing Christ, of the Holy Mother with the Divine Child, dear St. Nicholas, Bishop and wonderworker, the Archangel St. Michael, and hosts of other friends. Why, this was no strange country, it was home! this was la patrie, here was a really Christian land at last!

What was the fatigue of a long journey, and who could think of dinner? Such a thing was not to be dreamed of, so we deposited our luggage at the hotel, hailed a droschky, and drove straight to St. Basil’s in the Tverskaia-Yamskaia, one of the largest churches in Moscow.

It was Wednesday in the Holy Week. Three or four priests were hearing confessions, each behind a temporary screen erected for the purpose. One of these was Father Nicholas, to whom we had an introduction, a priest with a singularly beautiful face, and who showed, us with much kindness. A devout throng filled the church; most were waiting to make their confessions, many children among them. They stood intent and quiet, seeming to think neither of themselves nor of other people, but only of the King’s Presence. Gloriously sweet singing came from the Royal Doors and we could hear Gospodi Pomilui (Kyrie eleison) repeated over and over again. Tapers gleamed before the rich ikons, hundreds of lamps glowed red against the gold, and there in this beautiful sanctuary, standing to pray like the Russians, we offered out thanksgiving for our safe and happy journey to Moscow. Maundy Thursday morning found us again at St. Basil’s, which was crowded with the same devout throng of people, only there were more of them, including, a good number of babies, and they all came to make their Communion on the beautiful feast of the Institution of the Blessed Sacrament. There were all sorts and conditions of people, all in their best attire. Officers in full uniform with medals and orders, ladies in silk dresses, young girls and children in muslin, peasant women with handkerchiefs round their heads, and moujiks with their picturesque kilted coats and high boots.

After receiving Communion (in both kinds) at the Royal Doors, each communicant goes to a table set in the middle of the church and receives a small piece of blessed bread (the antidoron, corresponding to the French pain benit), and a sip of wine from a large silver cup. This no doubt is a relic of the ancient Agape.

The Communion of the babies (which up to the age of seven years is received under the species of wine only), was a beautiful and touching sight and surely most pleasing to the Lord, who said Suffer the little children to come unto me. Here is a little group, father, mother, and baby-in-arms. The mother carries the little thing up to the Royal Doors to receive the Sacred Gift, and on returning, hands it to the father, who kisses it affectionately. The baby gives the sweetest of smiles and looks straight at us with eyes of speedwell blue. Who shall dare to say that these guileless souls are incapable of receiving divine grace? And how can we help thinking with sorrow of our English Altars, from which, contrary to our Prayer Book directions, Christ’s lambs are too often debarred till they are past childhood?

The glorious Liturgy continues; not till twelve o’clock is it over, having lasted three full hours. In the afternoon and evening the churches are again crowded to the doors with devout worshippers.

We went to church after church with ever-increasing edification and wonder. It was the expression of a whole people’s fervent and whole-hearted gratitude for the wonderful gift of the Blessed Sacrament. It was impossible not to feel and to say, Oh, if English Christians could but see how the Russians keep Maundy Thursday (and one might add, also, how the devout Italians and French keep it), they would be ashamed of their empty Churches and deserted Altars on the day of the Institution of God’s greatest Gift to man.

The Cathedral of Christ the Saviour, from a postcard, circa 1910. It was destroyed by Stalin’s regime in 1931, and has since been rebuilt.

Part II

The Cathedral of the Saviour, where we attended the Great Vespers of Good Friday, is modern, but very beautiful, and though it has not the interest of the Cathedrals of the Kremlin, rich in ancient ikons and historical associations, yet it impressed us with dignity and solemnity.

The singing was exquisite, and absolutely unearthly; one could imagine such music from the celestial choir who sang the new song that none could learn save the forty and four thousand redeemed from the earth. If such was the singing at Constantinople when Vladimir sent his envoys thither, who can wonder that they returned saying, We are persuaded the religion of the Greeks is the true religion, for shining ones from Heaven came down and mingled their voices with the choir. The Metropolitan of Moscow, in a black Mitre set with pearls, gave his blessing at the end, and passed through the Royal Doors.

An Easter Sepulchre was set up in the midst of the Cathedral, and people filed past and kissed the figure of the Dead Christ. All were quiet and deeply reverent, and we noticed that the congregation was largely composed of men of all classes and ages.

Easter Eve, like the rest of the week, was bright and hot. Everywhere were to be seen the most marvelous Easter Eggs in all varieties, some made of wood and elaborately carved and painted, others of cheap composite material but beautifully embossed and gilded. Besides these, there were real eggs, dyed deep red, and boiled hard, and on each egg are the letters XB, being the initials of the well known Easter salutation, Christ is risen. Our kind friend, Father Nicholas, tried to get us places for the great midnight service in the Uspensky Sobor, the Cathedral of the Falling Asleep of the Mother of God, where the Tsars were crowned, but this was found to be impossible as the space is very limited, and so we had to be content with our tapers in the crowd outside the gates of the historic church. It was not too easy to get inside the Kremlin, so dense was the crowd. In fact, we were almost carried off our feet when passing through the Saviour Gate, under the ikon, before which every man removes his hat.

It was a cheerful, picturesque scene outside the Uspensky Sobor. Bengal lights burning, bells booming, and, as midnight approached, the tapers of the faithful, like little stars, began lighting up all over the great square.

It was such a good-tempered, orderly crowd! We did not see a single noisy or rough individual. All seemed to realize that this was the night of holy Easter, and that they had come together with the sole object of hearing the great feast of the Resurrection announced by the priest. People came up in a friendly way and lit their tapers at yours, and courteously made room if you wished to change your position.

Coming back from the Kremlin about two o’clock on Easter morning we passed church after church all crowded, with large numbers of men, soldiers, students, and all manner of people. From Matins they go to the Great Easter Liturgy at daybreak, thus spending the whole night and early morning in worship.

Wonderful people! O si sic omnes!

Russians are not like English Churchmen, who after keeping Easter Day itself with more or less rejoicing, seem invariably to sink back again into apathy on Easter Monday. No, in Russia during the whole of Christ’s Bright Week, as they beautifully call the Easter Octave, they keep high festival and a continual round of worship goes on.

The afternoon of Easter Sunday is devoted to happy and quiet holiday making. We went by tram to the Sparrow Hills outside Moscow, from whence there was a glorious view of the beautiful city with its golden domes. There, among lovely woods of silver birch in palest green, is a tiny village of wooden huts and a little white church.

Crowds of cheerful, happy people were here enjoying the spring afternoon, strolling about or sitting at little booths drinking tea with slices of lemon in it out of glasses, and eating Easter cakes. We must not forget those Easter cakes! The shops were full of them on Easter Eve, decorated with flowers, sometimes also with candles, and quite as good to taste as to look at! It is the custom for the priest to go round to peoples’ houses and bless the Easter Table at which these cakes figure largely, and it is one of the delightful aspects of Russian religion, that every act is by it blessed and consecrated to God. Not only the worship in Church, but one’s going out and coming in, the sitting down to table, and starting on a journey and so forth.

Easter Monday found us again at St. Basil’s standing for two solid hours tightly packed into a crowd of devout people at the Holy Liturgy.

With some little knowledge of the construction of ancient liturgies it is quite easy to follow the service, especially if you have an English translation on opposite pages of your book.

The Epistle, the Little Entrance with the Book of the Gospels in its embossed and jewelled binding, the reading of, the Holy Gospel, the Great Entrance with the bread and wine for the Oblations, preceded by lights and incense, during which the beautiful Cherubic Hymn is sung, the Nicene Creed, Sursum Corda and Sanctus, the Anaphora (or Canon), containing, the Invocation of the Holy Spirit and words of Institution, the Lord’s Prayer, Communion and final Dismissal. All these are quite simple to follow and join in.

But it is impossible to describe the mystical beauty and wonder of these Eastern services. After experiencing them most other worship seems cold and bare in comparison. This Easter Monday we found there was a special Communion of the Babies (that touching custom inherited from the Primitive Church). More and more babies kept arriving in their mothers’ or their fathers’ arms, and it was a moving sight to watch these infants carried to the Royal Doors to make their Easter Communion. The officiating priest held a large golden Chalice and gave each little child the Holy Sacrament out of a golden spoon. Some were tiny babies in long clothes, others were tots of two or three years of age, and it was a pretty sight to see groups of these approaching the Royal Doors together, an elder child often lifting up a tiny one to the priest, while the deacon placed his hand on each little head and wiped each baby’s mouth with a silk handkerchief.

At the end of the Liturgy it became evident that we were to have the privilege of walking in a Russian Easter procession. Having taken part in many religious processions is other lands: English Church processions on Palm Sunday and Patronal Feasts : Rogationtide, Corpus Christi, and other processions, in France; and an Easter procession in Italy, I can confidently say that none approached in joyful exhilaration this beautiful Eastertide procession of the Orthodox Church. Huge ikons were carried instead of banners, a golden Greek cross led the way, and the fragance of the incense mingled with the scent of bay, boughs of which are much used on festivals in the East.

Clang, clang, clang, jingle, jangle went the bells, light-hearted merry bells like those in Italy, but more so! Indeed no description could possibly do justice to these delicious bells of Russia, or the wild joy and jubilation of them, crashing and jangling and tumbling over each other in the clear, pure, resonant atmosphere of Holy Moscow.

The same afternoon we had been invited to tea by Father Nicholas and his charming wife, who gave us the warmest welcome to their cosy little Rectory near the Church. As we entered, the good priest, in a grey cassock with leather girdle, came forward to greet us with a beaming smile Holding out both hands, he said, You know our Russian greeting, Christ is risen, after which he kissed my cousin three times and shook my friend and me warmly by the hand. He and his wife both speak English and we spent an interesting and delightful afternoon. Their four dear little children were duly introduced to us, and as we took our leave Madame presented each of us with a pretty Easter Egg.

Through the kindness of Father Nicholas we saw the Troltsa Monastery under very favourable auspices. It is about 60 versts from Moscow. The day was brilliantly fine, and the first glimpse of the monastery was like a picture from some gorgeously illustrated Eastern fairy tale. Its fortress-like walls, with towers of dull red, enclose a multitude of white buildings, and churches with domes innumerable, golden, green and vivid blue, all gleaming in the brilliant sunshine, the graceful Greek crosses with their long gilt chains sharply outlined against an azure sky.

This monastery was successfully held for 16 months by the brave monks against a besieging force of no less than 30,000 Poles, in 1608. Outside the walls were numbers of wooden huts built of logs, and wooden booths where all manner of goods were to be sold, varying from costly ikons to wooden dolls and spoons. Streams of Pilgrims in costumes were mounting the hill to the monastery and it was all cheerful and Eastern and mediaeval like some romance of days gone by. The Russian monks are kindly folk, simple and courteous, and of great dignity of manner. We found we might wander where we would, and it was a delight to join the devout pilgrims at their devotions, following them into the churches and chapels and sacred shrines, all shining with rich ikons. At the door of each chapel sits a monk with flowing hair and beard, and wearing the high shaped Kalemavkion with its long black veil. Each pilgrim, as he enters, crosses himself three times in Easternwise from right to left and then advances to kiss the holy ikons. They have a wonderful grace and dignity, and their deep devotion is most edifying. Even the beggars, whose name is legion, are wonderfully clean and attractive. Their smiling open faces tempt the kopecks from your pocket, while their sheepskins and patched wallets give them such a strangely oldtime air that you begin to fancy them not mere mortals after all but beings from the land of Faerie, who in return for your humble offering, may give some magic gift of wondrous power. We visited the shrine of St. Sergius, founder of the monastery, which, adorned with many burning lamps, was reverently approached by a dense crowd of pilgrims. Finally, with great reluctance we left this interesting place, filled with wonder at its unique beauty and many marvels.

Space forbids more than a few passing words about the visitation of the Metropolitan of Moscow to St. Basil’s on Wednesday in the Bright Week, and the Pontifical Liturgy at which we had the privilege of being placed quite close to the Royal Doors and of receiving the blessing of the venerable-looking prelate. Quite in the middle of the service we were startled by hearing a small voice on our left remark Good Marning and there, with a droll smile on his face, stood a quaint little server in his vestment of silver tissue, who could not resist this opportunity, however inappropriate, of airing his English!

Space forbids, also, to dwell upon the glorious Cathedrals of the Kremlin, the ancient ikons encrusted with jewels, and the streams of devout pilgrims who crowd these holy places through the week, especially the Cathedral of the Annunciation, Blagovieshchenski Sobor, where the mothers love to take their babies and press their little faces to the ikons. But one observation I must needs make before concluding this account of an Orthodox Easter. It is this. The spirit of Russia is just simply the joy and light of a warm and intense faith in the living loving Christ, the ever present Friend. The ikon of the blessing Christ is everywhere, the grave, kind face of the Saviour, with uplifted hand, greets you at every turn. It is in the stations, in the streets, in the people’s houses, and in all public buildings. One is reminded of Ruskin’s saying in his book The Bible of Amiens, how it is not the Dead Christ but the Living One that we need to contemplate, and that is the beautiful happy lesson of Christianity. Of course there is, and must be, a place for the crucifix in all devout minds, but surely we in the West have too much neglected the joyful thought of the Living Christ, which is the very life of the Church in Russia. May not this be the secret of the fervent and joyous faith which permeates everything in that Christ loving country?

Our happy visit to Moscow is ended! Our best beloved little shrines in the Nikolski Street know us no more, we have bid farewell to the Kremlin and to the quaintly curious edifice known as Vasili-Blajenni with its turnip-like and pineapple shaped domes. We must sorrowfully turn our faces westward. And there at the station is the great ikon of the Blessed Mother with her Divine Child, a lamp ever burning before it, and all in the bustle of getting luggage registered, and tickets stamped, and paying porters, we must needs offer one more taper and breathe a last prayer on Russian soil that God would prosper our homeward way and bring us once again some day to this land of colour and romance, of golden domes and shining ikons, and fervent vivid faith.