The Green Book Part 39

All those whom in the course of the previous night the Czar had rescued from the tottering houses in the suburbs--all those who, taken unawares in the tumult of the fair, did not know where to turn, the Czar had lodged in the western division of the Winter Palace, giving up that brilliant suite of rooms to the use of the poor and dest.i.tute. Such guests as these the Winter Palace had never harbored before! True, at New-year it was the custom for some forty thousand guests to a.s.semble in the Winter Palace; but they swept the floors with silk, and illuminated the marble halls with their diamonds. Now, however, it was the show-place for rags and tatters. An exhibition of misery and dest.i.tution! There were collected together all those who form the shady side of a capital, and of whom the fashionable world have no conception--an aggregate of bitter want and of shameless depravity. They who did not dare to creep forth by day from their dark cellars have given each other rendezvous in the Imperial Palace. The Czar sent them food and drink, and they spent the night singing the _Knife Song_, taught them by the frequenters of the Bear's Paw.

Czar Alexander heard it, and doubtless rejoiced to know his guests were in such good-humor. They opened their windows, and those in front put their heads out, and called to the others to tell them what they saw.

The facade of the Winter Palace had two projecting wings. The refugees were housed in the west wing. Between that and the east, like the middle stroke of the capital letter E, stretched the covered balcony from which the Czar had watched the panorama of destruction.

On seeing him his guests became mute.

He was an imposing figure, with expansive forehead bared to the fury of the storm. As long as he remained impa.s.sive his self-control communicated itself to the spectators. But when they saw him break down and shed tears, when they saw that the Czar was but a man after all, they grew furious. Weakness arouses indignation.

A man, brother to the French republican Marat, seizing his opportunity, sprang upon the window-sill and shouted to the Czar:

"Yes, you may cry! Cry for the loss of your fine city! The G.o.d of vengeance has sent this destruction upon us as a penalty for your sins!

Plague, drought, starvation--all have come upon us through you! For you are deaf to the cry of our glorious brothers the Greeks! Their innocent blood that has been shed cries out to Heaven for vengeance! You are the cause of this devastation! Heaven is punishing us for what you have done!"

The noisy voices of the people within drowned the concluding words; their yells outvied the storm. The mutinous speech had stirred up the already excited people to fury. The refrain of the _Song of the Knife_ resounded to an accompaniment of infuriated noise and confusion. They tried to burst open the strong doors communicating with the corridor leading to the Czar's apartments.

He, standing on the balcony, was rooted to the spot by a double terror--behind him the yelling populace clamoring for his blood; before him the approaching ship. It was one of the largest men-of-war in the navy. When frozen up in the winter the crew is paid off, and the few men left in charge had evidently escaped, so that it came along without guidance of any kind, and was apparently making direct for the Winter Palace.

At the sound of raised and fierce voices every window in the central portion of the palace opened suddenly, displaying a treble row of bayonets. At one of the windows stood Araktseieff, who shouted in his cruel, harsh voice to the rebels:

"Silence, instantly, you cubs of Gog and Magog, or I will have you cast back into the flood from which your sovereign lord saved you! Ungrateful savages that ye are!"

This was adding oil to the flames.

"Oh, oh, Araktseieff!" roared a thousand throats. "There's the evil genius!"

"Come on!" screamed Marat. "Let's just see if your thousand bayonets can conquer our ten thousand knives! Make a beginning, or we will!"

The ship came nearer and nearer.

As it reached within half a cable's length of the Winter Palace, the Czar perceived a man in the wheel-house turning the wheel.

"What are you about, man?" he shouted down angrily to him.

The man knew perfectly what he was about. It was Borbotuseff, a naval officer and a deserter. How came he on board? No one knew. He steered straight for the palace, with the one hope of crashing into it, in order that all within, and he himself, might be buried under it. A red flag was flying from the mast.

The struggling crowd and the guards saw nothing of all this; the balcony gallery cut off their view.

Now the moment had come to prove which was the stronger, the house of wood or the house of stone.

But the current was stronger than either, and instead of the bow of the ship striking the palace, it came broadside on. It drew so much water that its keel crashed on to the granite coping of the moat, throwing the vessel on its side; while, like a knight in a tournament with outstretched lance, it struck with its masts upon its stony adversary. A terrific crashing and grinding--two of the masts broke to pieces against the pillars; the third crashed through one of the windows, shaking the whole ma.s.sive structure from foundation to gable, yet the stone remained conqueror. The ponderous vessel broke in two; the bow half of the wreck was hurled on to Alexanderplatz; the afterpart, with the helmsman, fell back into the vortex, and was carried away with the current.

The concussion was like an earthquake. Of a sudden there was silence.

People, soldiers, even Araktseieff, fell upon their knees. The man upon the balcony alone remained standing. He had seen something in the air.

It was a dove.

The dove flew direct to him, hovered for a moment, and then alighted on his shoulder.

It was Sophie's carrier-dove.

Alexander found the letter under its wing, telling him that Sophie was in good keeping. Then, folding his hands in a prayer of thanksgiving, he raised them to Heaven.

But the dove is the sacred and wonder-working bird of Russia.

As it descended upon the shoulder of the Czar the fury of the people changed to superst.i.tious worship. In it they saw the embodiment of the Holy Ghost. He who would not be lost must be converted. It was a miracle from Heaven.

Bozse czarja chrani! An old mujik suddenly started the hymn of praise, and all present joined in it. Araktseieff's bayonets had become unnecessary. Marat's brother, leaving the rostrum, disappeared among the mult.i.tude. Who could have found him among the ten thousand there gathered? And even if they had he would have denied his ident.i.ty.

The flood lasted two days longer, leaving behind it three thousand houses totally wrecked and a countless list of dead.

The people firmly believed that Heaven's judgment had been wrought because the Czar had not come to the a.s.sistance of the Greeks in their War of Independence.

CHAPTER XXVI

UNDER THE PALMS

Without, ten degrees of cold, raging storm, flood, devastation, misery, revolution, scenes of horror. The palms knew nothing of all this. Upon the great, high elevation, under its glazed roof, reigned perpetual spring, where huge lamps with ground-gla.s.s globes replaced sunshine.

And the tropical world suffered itself to be deceived. King-ferns, brought hither from the East, forgot that they were not growing in their native soil, and that they were putting forward leaves, never blossoms.

The soil beneath them was heated with hot-air pipes and enriched by artificial aid.

And in this artificial garden of the tropics children were playing who had forgotten that their fathers and mothers were far away, perhaps not even caring. Here they neither got blows nor were hungry; but danced round the "mulberry-bush" and sang. Two beautiful young ladies--wards of the Queen of the Fairies--looked after them, just as in fairy tales.

Bethsaba had now a real true fairy tale to tell of her miraculous rescue from the terrible dangers; the sudden appearance of the handsome knight in her extremity, how his beautiful eyes, his look of daring, his heroic stature--

Sophie grew quite anxious to see him.

"You will soon see him, he is sure to come, he promised me he would.

Still it does seem to be a long time before he keeps his word!"

"He is not, on any account, to know who I am," said Sophie. "It is to be kept secret here. Our hostess wishes it."

"Then we will only call you Sophie."

"It is singular that we three have only one Christian name; neither you, nor I, nor Zeneida bear our mother's names in addition, as is usual among us. I cannot understand it."

"Nor I."

"Here he comes!"

"How do you know?"

"I know his footstep."

And, in truth, he came. Zeneida brought him in, more wet and muddy than the time before. His hair dishevelled; his face reddened by the cold wind. Withal, so handsome!