Part 32 (1/2)
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 amus.e.m.e.nts. 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 cla.s.ses” was carefully excluded. And one other circ.u.mstance 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 s.p.a.ce, a perfect town had been erected, with entire streets of booths, the princ.i.p.al 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 amus.e.m.e.nts 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 swis.h.i.+ng 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 cuc.u.mbers 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 ma.s.ses”; the ”cla.s.ses” are there also in all their magnificence. True, every precaution has been taken to prevent ”the ma.s.ses” from encroaching upon their betters. To this end the Summer Garden is enclosed, and there the world of fas.h.i.+on 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.