XIII
THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD
At Easter I was at my old home, Vladikavkaz, and
on the second Tuesday after Easter Sunday went
through one of the most characteristic of Russian
holidays—Krasnagorka. It is half-Christian, half-pagan—a
festival of spring and of new life,
but celebrated almost entirely in graveyards and
cemeteries. At Krasnagorka almost the whole
population of the town goes on an outing or a picnic—to
the cemetery.
Early in the morning I received a message from a Russian friend, "Come to our church; you'll see an interesting sight." The church was crowded, but I got in, for nobody objects to your pushing. It was an unusual service. The whole centre of the floor of the church, a space of some twenty feet by seven, was covered with napkins in which lay lumps of cake, brightly coloured eggs, basins of rice and strawberry jam, basins of rice and raisins. In each basin, and there were some hundreds of them, a lighted wax candle was stuck in the rice and gave a little flame, and beside each lay the little red
