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[Malcolm Muggeridge spent seven months in Russia from late 1932 to early 1933 as the Manchester Guardian’s Moscow correspondent. In the excerpt below from an article in 1958, he recalled some of his experiences from that time.]

When I think of Russia now I remember, not the grey, cruel, set faces of its present masters, but rather how kindly and humourous the people subjected to them managed to remain despite the appalling physical and mental suffering they had to endure. I remember a little painted church standing in the moonlight like an exquisite jewel, someone having managed in inconceivably difficult circumstances to keep its bright colours fresh and triumphant. I remember, too, seeing a superb production of The Cherry Orchard at the Stanislavsky Theatre in company with a Russian lady who had been through the Civil War and the terrible famine which followed, and how she remarked of the play: ‘I can’t understand what they’re all bothering about; they’ve got plenty to eat.’ Above all, I remember going to an Easter service in Kiev—the crowded cathedral, the overwhelmingly beautiful music, the intense sense which, as they worshipped, the congregation conveyed of eternity sweeping in like great breakers on the crumbling shores of Time.

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