Although they’ve cramped his style, Piotr sings joyfully; being joined by this choir is heavenly. Since the tune is repetitive, his mind begins to wander, thinking about what he’s seeing, and as he continues singing, he asks himself, Why are all these people in the streets? Because it’s Sunday? But there are too many of them. He sings and sings, weaving his way through the crowd as quickly as he can, though progress is slow. He leaves his choir behind. Soon he’s alone, and something tells him to stop singing. He looks up: the tsar’s Cossacks are just steps away, in military formation. He says aloud, “What is this? Am I drunk?”

The ones who have vodka (and a lot of it) in their veins are the soldiers who are guarding the Palace gates. They received a triple ration before they were sent into the street.

Why are they here? Piotr asks himself in silence. He’s in such high spirits he can’t take them seriously. Poor soldiers, they’re freezing! He gesticulates like a child pretending to be a baby chick. Brrr! Brrr!

He continues to approach. The head of the platoon, who’s always on guard at the palace door, recognizes him. He shouts, “Piotr! Back! Today we’re not receiving mail!”

“Back?”

He doesn’t want to go back. That means he won’t be able to go to the cathedral—no gossip, no prayers. Aren’t they going to let me through? he wonders.

“What do you mean? I’m coming from the Karenin Palace!” Which isn’t exactly true, because he’s coming from Sergei and Claudia’s house. But “Karenin Palace” sounds better when you’re standing in front of the Winter Palace. This doesn’t bode well…. Or maybe it could, he thinks. I’ll stay here until they take the letter, that way I don’t have to go back, and if I don’t go back, they won’t send me out into the street again to run who knows how many more errands.

“Back! Go back, Piotr! Go back!”