THE MOST POWERFUL RULER OF THEM ALL
While the members of "the green book" were at work on their
wide-spreading plans, those of the Bear's Paw had made others to their
way of thinking. Passing over the military, and turning their backs upon
the league of the aristocrats, they took up a ground of their own,
calling themselves "Napoleonists!" What induced them to choose that
extraordinary name for themselves?
Well, it is easy enough to make the poor believe their lot to be a hard
one; it was at that time that the Russian Volkslied was written--
"My soul I give to God;
My head I give the Czar;
My body beneath my master's feet;
The grave is all I call my own!"
Within the last four years especially the iron hand of adversity had
pressed heavily on the country. The earth no longer gave back the seed
sown upon it; terrific fires had reduced the large cities to ashes; and
a pestilence, hitherto unknown in the land, had crept over the frontier
and devastated the population. The streams and rivulets had become
floods, carrying away whole towns at a moment's notice; locusts,
caterpillars of a kind and species never seen before, came down in
shoals, tormenting man and beast; great war-ships out at sea sank with
all their men and ammunition on board.
And all this was Heaven's retribution because the Czar had not gone to
the assistance of the Greeks fighting for their freedom. Against
miracles, counter-miracles alone can be effectual.
And the present century had produced a miracle in the form of a man: his
name, Napoleon.
It was all a lie that the English had taken him prisoner at Waterloo!
All a lie that he was being kept in confinement on the island of St.
Helena! He was in hiding, though the whereabouts must not at present be
divulged. Where was that place? Only so much might be known, that it was
somewhere in the neighborhood of Irkutsk. Thence he would come, as soon
as the people's cup of bitterness was filled to the brim, to tread down
the mighty, and free every people under the sun.
This rumor was extensively circulated everywhere. Among the conspirators
of the Bear's Paw was a plaster-modeller (our "Canova") who,
single-handed, sent out of his workshop over two hundred thousand busts
of Napoleon. These busts were worshipped by the mujiks as if they were
pictures of saints; they took the place of the crucifix to them. He was
the deliverer, before whom the mujik and his family bent the knee; he
would bring them relief from all their troubles.
Even at the present time these plaster casts are to be seen in many a
Russian peasant's hut: the well-known form, cocked hat, arms crossed
upon the breast, in overcoat or short-waisted military tunic. Forty
years after his death they still awaited his coming.
Hence the words "Only wait till Napoleon comes!" were a cry which spread
through the land.
The people only remembered that twelve years before, when Napoleon
really did come, their masters were terribly frightened, and so merciful
to the peasants. How fast they cleared out, leaving their castles as
booty behind! and money then was as plentiful as blackberries. No price
was high enough for corn and oats. And such brilliant promises were
scattered about in all directions. The mujik was led to expect
everything under heaven and earth; but his expectations were never
realized. So let Napoleon come again!
And to hasten this was the plan of the leader of the Bear's Paw party.
The 8th of November, according to the Russian calendar, is the Feast of
the Archangel Michael. On that day it is the custom to have great
rejoicings in Isaacsplatz and on the Neva. The whole population of St.
Petersburg, from the highest to the lowest, take part in it. Now when
the throng should be at its thickest, and aristocrat and plebeian well
mixed up together, suddenly at the corner of every street and square
there should arise the cry, "Here comes Napoleon!" And in the midst of
the crowd, borne on the shoulders of the enthusiastic people, should
appear the well-known figure of the Corsican hero, to be represented by
Dobujoff, one of the Bear's Paw community--a man the very image of the
great Napoleon, and an admirable mimic. The rest would follow of itself.
At the words "Napoleon has come" all St. Petersburg would be at their
mercy, and the wave, thus started, would not stop until it reached
Novgorod, where the brotherhood of "Ancient Republic" would at once
swell the tide, overflowing Moscow and all that ventured to oppose it.
They looked upon their plan as sure of success. The people may suffer
themselves to be deprived of freedom, even of bread, but no one may
deprive them of their amusements. With the days set apart as holidays no
power on earth may meddle. The plan of campaign was devised cunningly
enough. Every one having anything to do with "the classes" was carefully
excluded. And one other circumstance was favorable to the audacious
originators. The Neva that year had frozen over in October, a succession
of hard frosts had followed, but no snow, while ordinarily in November
house-roofs were covered a foot deep in snow, which lasted into May. It
would be, therefore, no difficult task to set fire to the city in
various quarters, a thing not usually so possible in the winter in St.
Petersburg as in Moscow, built as it was entirely of wooden houses. With
fire breaking out in ten or twelve places simultaneously the panic would
be complete.
The Feast of St. Michael was at that time still celebrated in the
Isaacsplatz. In one night, in the vast, usually empty space, a perfect
town had been erected, with entire streets of booths, the principal
booth being the People's Theatre. And what a theatre it was! in which
marionettes acted like real people and fought in real battles! And then
the troops of artists of all kinds, whose patron is not Apollo, but Pan,
who amuse the people, and are not at the beck and call of the rich and
learned, but are to be seen at fairs and in holiday places, and who do
not think it beneath their dignity to come down among the crowd to
collect kopecs after the performance. Then there are the people's
favorites, the Bajazzos, who are not so ambitious as to work for
posterity, but are perfectly content if they can earn to-day their
yesterday's score at the inn, playing the while, so the populace think,
every whit as well as Talma or Macready. They eat tow, draw whole
bundles of rags out of their noses, swallow red-hot coals and sharp
swords, and can scratch their ears with their toes, which is more than
either Sullivan or Kean, or even Dimitriefsky, more celebrated than
either, can do. In one booth is shown the "real original sea-maiden with
a fish's tail, who lives on live fish, and can only say 'Papa,' 'Mama.'"
In another the big drum is being beaten to call attention to the
elephants walking on a tight rope; next door to them are to be seen men
of the woods, with four hands and tusk-like teeth. The giantess is also
on view, under whose arm the tallest man can stand, although she wears
no high heels to her shoes, and, when desired, shows that the calves of
her legs are not wadded. The showman of a panorama describes, in singing
voice to an astonished public, great battles, eruptions of Vesuvius,
storms at sea, and ghastly tales of murders, the faithful representation
of all which is to be seen in his booth for the sum of two kopecs. Then,
how endless are the amusements hidden by no jealous tent! Here a group
of cornet-players, each playing a different note, and so forming a
melody; there a set of gypsies dancing and singing; windmill-like swings
swishing through the air with their delighted occupants; while crowds in
their holiday best glide over the smooth ice in sledges or on skates.
High above all these earthly delights is to be seen a rope slung across
between the tower of St. Isaac's Cathedral to the balcony of the
Admiralty, upon which a tight-rope dancer is to wheel his little son in
a wheelbarrow.
Wild spirits reign among the crowd! The samovars are inexhaustible with
their supplies of hot tea, and epicures who know how to enjoy life
swallow mountains of sweet ices, and salt cucumbers immediately after.
The people listen to Volkslied singers, and join in with them; while
those who have brought their three-sided balalaikas with them accompany
the voices--no very difficult art, as it is an instrument with only two
strings.
And it is not only a day for "the masses"; the "classes" are there also
in all their magnificence. True, every precaution has been taken to
prevent "the masses" from encroaching upon their betters. To this end
the Summer Garden is enclosed, and there the world of fashion is to be
seen driving in every variety of equipage, from the barouche to the
national _proledotky_, the owners exhibiting their costly furs and
running Bolognese dogs.
The frozen Neva, open to all, is alive with thousands and thousands of
sledges, from smart gilded ones with their English thoroughbreds to
those of simple Lapland construction drawn by reindeer, crossing and
recrossing each other on the polished surface of the river. The Northern
Babel is in full force.
As evening comes on, the terrace of the pavilion is illuminated with
Bengal lights, and huge pitch bonfires spring into flame, showing up the
animated picture of the people's feast in varied coloring.
After the fireworks three salvoes of cannon from the citadel give the
signal for the bells in all the churches to begin ringing in honor of
St. Michael.
These three salvoes and ringing of church bells are to serve as a signal
to the conspirators. At the first sound they are to rush forward, armed
with knives and torches, with the cry, "Napoleon is here! Here is
Napoleon!" When, under cover of the noise of the pealing bells, they
have forced a way into the midst of the aristocrats and soldiers, it
will be easy for them, in the universal chaos, to push on to the palace
and murder him of whom the _Song of the Knife_ was written.
The thing was plain, a foregone conclusion. That afternoon a strong
southwest wind from the sea had sprung up, to the discomfort of many.
True, the St. Petersburger is accustomed, if one fur coat be not
sufficient, to put on two; but the poor performers suffered much damage
from the wind, which blew down their booths and stopped their
performances. The tight-rope dancer dared not venture upon his
neck-breaking exhibition, for the storm would have carried off him and
his son bodily like a couple of flies. Aristocratic ladies in the
enclosure lamented that the wind tore their veils off their bonnets.
Greater still were the lamentations anent the fireworks, for none but
Bengal lights and wheels could succeed on such a night.
Towards evening the gale rose to a perfect hurricane. Suddenly came the
roar of the cannon from the citadel, and simultaneously the peal of
bells. Three hundred bells at one and the same time! A carillon truly.
The roar of the cannon deadened the bells. It is the people's habit to
count the salvoes. Three were the signal for the lighting up of the
Bengal lights.
But the cannon thundered on.
When the reports had reached twenty-one, people whispered under their
breath, "What! can it be the birth of a princess in the Winter Palace?"
No. Still the cannons thundered on.
At the fiftieth report the rumor arose that a successful naval
engagement was being celebrated.
But still the cannons continued their volley, amid the crash of church
bells.
When the iron tongue had roared for the hundred and first time, people
began to ask themselves, "Can this be the Czar's birthday?"
No; not even that. The iron monsters thundered on--102, 103, 104. At the
hundred and fifth time none asked any more what it meant; for the whole
city with one voice sent up a despairing cry, deadening even the crash
of the three hundred bells.
"It is coming! It is coming!"
But it was not the approach of Napoleon's army which aroused the voice
of panic, but that of a far mightier lord--the Neva! which, rushing back
upon the city, brings the sea with it, and with foaming, roaring,
resistless waves breaks up the ice of the river, flinging it abroad on
all sides.
That was the meaning of the incessant firing of cannon from the citadel.
* * * * *
When Czar Peter I. first began to put into form his idea of building a
capital in the midst of the Finnish morass, and, to that end, had the
vast forest there standing exterminated, he came upon an old fir-tree,
on whose bark were cut deep lines. "What is the meaning of these lines?"
he asked an old countryman. "_These lines denote the height of the Neva
when it leaves its banks and floods the whole surrounding land._" The
Czar gave orders for tree and peasant to be cut down; but both had
spoken truly. The Neva remained the sworn enemy of the mighty city of
the Czar.
* * * * *
Yes. It is coming, rushing on with backward movement; it has left the
river-bed and increases mightily; it is no longer the Neva, but the
sea--the salt sea in all its awful immensity! And once it has gone down,
the walls of palaces and houses, as far as the water has reached, will
be covered with salt.
The sledgers on the ice were the first to become aware of the extent of
the danger. Those of them who took refuge on the right bank of the river
might esteem themselves lucky, for there the streets were clear; but
those seeking the left side spread mad panic among the unconscious
throng of pleasure-seekers with their cry, "The Neva is coming!"
The very words sufficed to strike dismay into the hearts of the bravest
and to paralyze the cowardly with terror; for in such danger there is no
way of escape. When the Neva rises it overflows the whole city, and he
who would flee the danger meets it at the next turning.
Confusion reigned supreme. The crowds of carriages in the railed-in
Summer Garden had but one way of egress, and collision was inevitable;
those which at last forced a passage came into the midst of a maddened
press of people, who carried them along, regardless of the crest upon
the panels and the supercilious lackey on the box. There were for the
time being no princes and no mujiks, only a panic-stricken mob. And
before disentanglement was possible the flood was upon them.
The first huge wave washed down the booths in Isaacsplatz. The terrified
owners came rushing out of the beer-houses, and, clambering on the tops
of their dismantled booths, shrieked for help. The giantess pushed head
and shoulders out of her tent, frightened to death. Boys dressed like
performing apes flew up their poles; the sea-maiden found her feet, and,
discarding tail, made for dry land. The performing elephant waddled
through the crowd, his roaster on his back; and the wild beasts in the
menagerie roared as if they were in their native forests. At that
instant, as though in mockery of this scene of terror, the red and green
lights on the terrace of the Summer Garden pavilion shone forth,
lighting up the flood in all its horror. The men in charge of the
fireworks were ignorant of what was happening. Only when the festive
peals of bells had died away in distant reverberations did they become
aware of their danger; and hastily putting out their lights, left the
whole city in darkness. For the slippery pavements impeded the
lamp-lighters; nor, indeed, could they have lighted their lamps in the
storm that was raging. Darkness added the final touch of horror to the
scene of danger! Among the terrified refugees were Duchess Ghedimin and
Bethsaba; their carriage, in Russian style, drawn by two horses tandem.
The first horse was wellnigh unmanageable; it was a spirited English
mare, which the Duchess had specially chosen that day to show that her
equipage was superior to Zeneida's. Only she had not attained her aim,
for Fräulein Ilmarinen had not entered an appearance.
"Drive down one of the side streets," the Duchess said, peremptorily, to
her coachman.
Easy to command, but not so easy to carry out! The mob surrounded them
on all sides.
"Get down," she ordered her jäger, "and force a way through the people!"
The jäger, a gigantic young fellow, a Finlander, seized the foremost
horse by the bridle, and, dealing out blows roundly with his other arm
on the mujiks, thought to steer the carriage in this way through the
crush. All very well; that kind of thing may do with the mujik, who is
accustomed to the lash; but your thoroughbred has noble blood in his
veins, and does not suffer himself to be led by the bridle. Violently
shaking himself loose, the horse dealt the jäger such a blow on the head
that he fell senseless to the ground.
"Oh, what are we to do now?" asked the Duchess, terror-stricken,
bursting into tears.
"I know a way," said Bethsaba. "Have the leader led in the saddle."
"But who would venture to mount it?" asked the Duchess, wringing her
hands.
"I will!" returned Bethsaba; "I am used to riding."
"Very well, then," said the Duchess.
Selfish to the last degree, she never considered that in order to reach
the farthermost horse Bethsaba would have to wade through the icy water
up to her knees, and in her light carriage-wrap expose herself to the
bitter cold of the stormy night, and to the maddened populace, who, in
the darkness and panic, recognized neither lord nor master. Also, in her
emergency, Princess Ghedimin utterly forgot that Bethsaba was, moreover,
a king's daughter, who had not been committed to her care to act as
postilion for her.
So she merely said, "Very well, then."
And the girl, throwing off her fur-lined cloak, jumped from the carriage
into the water, ran to the foremost horse, calling it by its name as she
ran; then, stroking its mane with one hand, sprang lightly upon its
back, using the leading-reins for bridle.
And now they moved on once more.
With her soft voice saying to the on-pressing crowd, "Dear cousin,
please make way! Heaven be with you!" she effected more than any amount
of violence would have done. The people made way for her, and she
succeeded in guiding the carriage into a side street, clear as yet from
the flying masses.
But there was a reason which made advance impracticable. The flood was
already ahead of them; and the farther they proceeded the more imminent
grew their danger. The waves were already washing into the carriage; the
Duchess had to take refuge on the coachman's box to keep her feet dry.
There she was so far secure, but Bethsaba was soaked to the skin from
the spray dashed up by the horses' feet, while the water covered her
knees.
"If only we could get to Nevski Prospect," gasped the Duchess.
"Hurry--hurry on! There is our castle."
At length they reached it. But what a sight met their eyes! It was as
though they were in the very midst of the Neva, with its fields of ice.
Not water alone was round them, but ice--great icebergs floating on the
black expanse of water. Through the Moika Canal the flood was coming
down upon them.
"Holy Archangel Michael!" screamed the coachman at the sight, "save us
on this your day!"
"Don't pray now, but push on the horses," commanded the Duchess,
peremptorily.
"From this only St. Michael or the devil can save us!"
"Hold your tongue!" cried the Duchess, giving him a smart blow on the
head. "I trust neither in St. Michael nor the devil, but in my good
horses, which will take me home in safety. Drive on!"
And the Duchess struck the coachman, the coachman the horses, and the
horses' feet the raging element. All three were furious. The king's
daughter alone prayed:
"My God!--oh, dear God, send some one to help us!"
She felt that she could not hold out much longer, that her limbs were
growing numb with cold.