The famous mass held on Christmas Eve in the cathedral of St. Isaac was one of the most beautiful services I ever attended.  In the first place, St. Isaac’s is the richest church in all Russia.  It has, too, the most wonderful choir, for the Tzar loves music, and wherever in all his Empire a beautiful voice is found, the boy is brought to St. Petersburg and educated by the State to enter the Emperor’s choir.  When we entered the church the service had been in progress for five hours.  That immense church was packed to suffocation.  In the Greek church every one stands, no matter how long the service.  In fact, you cannot sit down unless you sit on the floor, for there are no seats.

By degrees we worked our way towards the space reserved for the Diplomatic Corps, where we were invited to enter.  Our wraps were taken and chairs were given to us.  We found ourselves on the platform with the priest, just back of the choir.  What heavenly voices!  What wonderful voices!  The bass holds on to the last note, and the rumble and echo of it rolls through those vaulted domes like the tones of an organ.  The long-haired priest, too, had a wonderful resonant voice for intoning.  He passed directly by us in his gorgeous cloth of gold vestments, as he went out.

The instant he had finished, the little choir boys began to pinch each other and thrust their tapers in each other’s faces, and behaved quite like ordinary boys.  The great crowd scattered and huge ladders were brought in to put out the hundreds of candles in the enormous chandeliers.  Religion was over, and the world began again.

The other art which is maintained at the government expense is the ballet.  We went several times, and it was very gorgeous.  It is all pantomime—­not a word is spoken—­but so well done that one does not tire of it.

Every one sympathized so with us because we could not see the ceremony of the Blessing of the Waters of the Neva, and our ambassador apologized for not being able to arrange it, and we said, “Not at all,” and “Pray, do not mention it,” at the same time secretly hoping that our Russian friends, who were putting forth strenuous efforts on our behalf, would be able to manage it.

On the morning of the 18th of January a note came from a Russian officer who was on duty at the Winter Palace, saying that Baron Elsner, the Secretary of the Prefect of Police, would call for us with his carriage at ten o’clock, and we would be conducted to the private space reserved just in front of the Winter Palace, where the best view of everything could be obtained.  My companion and I fell into each other’s arms in wild delight, for it had been most difficult to manage, and we had not been sure until that very moment.