The Land of Foam

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fresh autumn breeze swept over the ruffled surface of the Neva. In the bright sunshine the tall, slim spire on the Fortress of Peter and Paul was a streak of gold piercing the blue canopy of the sky. Below it Palace Bridge gracefully curved its broad back over rising and falling waves that sparkled and splashed against the granite steps of the embankment.

A young sailor sitting on a bench glanced at his watch, jumped up and walked off rapidly along the embankment past the Admiralty building whose yellow walls reared their crown of white columns high into the transparent autumn air. He walked quickly, paying no attention to the holiday atmosphere that surrounded him. He strode along with a light and confident step, the exercise warmed him, and he pushed his sailor cap on to the back of his head. He crossed a garden whose trees were aflame with autumn tints, passed along one side of an open space and for a moment stood before the entrance to the Hermitage Museum where two polished granite giants supported a massive balcony raised over a humped pavement. Scars made by German bombs were still to be seen on the giant bodies. The young man entered the heavy doors, took off his greatcoat and hurried towards a white marble staircase leading from the semi-gloom of the vestibule to a brightly-lit colonnade surrounded by a row of marble statues.

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