The Green Book; Or, Freedom Under the Snow: A Novel

"And that is what they need! The Russian's iron neck only bends to the hand of iron."

"Well, let them have it; but Heaven preserve me from them, and them from me!"

"But every true man sets his hopes upon your Highness!"

"Eh! Time enough for that. But why are we talking such folly? Why should I survive him? I am but eighteen months his junior. Fill your glass. Long life to my brother his Majesty, the Czar! And what else brings you hither? We will speak no more of that."

"I came with a commission from his Imperial Majesty. It is his pleasure that the succession be now settled. The Czar has no heir."

"Well, no more have I! But one may be on the way—as you see I have recently married."

"So I see; but only left-handed. A morganatic marriage."

"So far. But as soon as my wife bears me a child I will make her my legitimate wife."

"That is not possible to your Highness."

"Why not?"

"Because your Highness's first wife, Anna Feodorovna, is still living."

"But the Synod has granted me a separation, and she has already renounced the name of Anna Feodorovna and resumed that of Juliana of Saxe-Coburg; moreover, my fresh marriage was entered upon with the sanction of the Czar."

"But it was only a left-handed marriage."

"Then we will convert it into a right-handed one."

"That is impossible. In the State Archives is a ukase of Czar Alexander to the effect that only women descending from reigning families may be raised to the imperial throne, and the descendants of those who are not of royal birth may not inherit the throne."

"Then when I—which Heaven forbid—come to the throne I will promulgate another ukase annulling that one."

"But there is a further obstacle, which not even the Czar's ukase can overcome. Your Highness is aware that a woman may not ascend the imperial throne unless she be of the Orthodox faith. Does your Highness believe that Johanna Grudzinska would abjure the Roman Catholic faith for a crown?"

"Not for all the crowns in Europe! The heart of that woman is so stanch that she would scarce change a horse grown old in her service for a young one! Still less would she change her religion. I would not advise any one to try it on her."

"And there is yet another still greater obstacle than even that of religion—society. Is St. Petersburg society to be exiled from the Czar's palace? Johanna Grudzinska may be a very angel of light, but she would by no means make a Czarina whom the Ghedimins, Narishkins, Trubetzuois, Muravieffs, and whatever all their names may be, would be willing to acknowledge to stand on a par with themselves, still less to whom they may pay allegiance."

"Then let them keep it."

"What does your Highness mean by that?"

"A very simple meaning. Let them keep their crown. I keep my wife!"

"Your Highness does not mean that in earnest?"

"In thorough earnest and in cold blood," said the Grand Duke, laying his hand on Araktseieff's arm. "All my life through I had never known what it was to be loved. I verily believe that the nurse who nursed me thrashed me for being such a piece of deformity. Not even a dog have I ever been able to attach to me. Look where I will, I see that every one shrinks back from me. My very voice, which I try in vain to moderate, is rough and grating, as if I were perpetually scolding. I have never heard an endearing epithet since I was out of the nursery. And suddenly Fate, like a blind hen, casts in my way a pearl of women, a tender soul who loves me with all her being. She does not say it, she feels it—nay, she lets me feel it. She lives in me like the very soul and thought of me. The little good there is in me she awakens and makes me reconciled to myself. She alone of all the world has brought sunshine into my dark life. When I am ill she nurses me; when I am violent she pacifies me. She is my better self! And do you believe that I would renounce her for any prize the earth could give? That for any throne in the whole world I would exchange this easy-chair where she has sat nestling up to me? Ah, what fools you must be to think it!"

"Your Highness! I have long made the human mind an object of study, and it is not new to find that love is the most powerful factor we have to deal with on earth. It is strong, but not lasting. To-day your Highness may be feeling as you say; but the human heart is as variable as the sky; and earth, the fatherland, is its antipodes. To-day we may feel as though we had cast away a whole paradise of bliss in descending from heaven to earth; to-morrow we discover that our supposed heaven was but a cloud which glistened in the sun and disappeared, leaving 'not a wrack behind.' Earth, on the contrary, remains firm beneath our feet; it never loses its power of gravity. What? Could your Imperial Highness stand by with folded arms and see the whole monarchy, a prey to the flames, sink into ashes at your feet, that your head might rest undisturbed on the lap of the woman you love?"

"Well, and even then?"

"Even then? Even in that case I have my clear instructions. Your Highness is the master of your own future. But the Russian Empire is the master of its own fate. If the Czarevitch prizes the prosaic domestic life of a citizen higher than the maintenance of the empire he has received from his ancestors, I have yet one other proposition to make to him. His Majesty the Czar will elevate the morganatic wife of the Czarevitch, Johanna Grudzinska, to the rank of a Polish princess, with the family name of 'Lovicz'! In perpetual lien he will make over to her the royal Lovicz domain of Masover Voivodeship upon the Grand Duke declaring her to be his legitimate wife; her children to be Princes of Lovicz and heirs to their mother's kingdom, with the rank of Russian bojars—in virtue of which Grand Duke Constantine will resign the title of Czarevitch and the right of succession to the Russian Empire, for himself and his heirs, forever, in favor of his brother."

Constantine struck the table emphatically with his fist.

"Rather to-day than to-morrow!"

"I entreat your Highness not to reply too hastily! The sky is ever changing; not so the earth. I am convinced of the truth of your Imperial Highness's words; but a short delay cannot be of any vital importance. Let your Highness try absence from the lady, say, for a week or a month. Or send her for a time, as in truth her delicate health requires, to Ems or Carlsbad. Separate yourself from her, so that you are not seeing each other daily, hourly; that she may not always be your centre, but that you may both come in contact with other people, other surroundings, other interests—"

"And do you suppose that absence, whether longer or shorter, could estrange us from one another?"

"It is an old story, yet ever new."

"That one short month could suffice to cause some new face to blot out the other from our hearts? You are a fool, man!"

"It is but giving it a trial."

"I may do it! But I tell you beforehand that you will find yourself mistaken. Do not dream for an instant that your plan will be successful. We do not stumble, like ordinary mortals. For a woman to love me is akin to madness—it is incredible! But once to love me is never to part from me! And to expect me to forget that woman is an absurdity. Then, of a truth, should I be the blind fowl pecking at a grain of oats instead of the pearl before her. Is the Act of Renunciation ready? Of course you have brought it with you? Give it here. To-day, to-morrow, or as long as my life lasts, you will receive from me but the one answer—'I will sign it.'"

"Let us agree to delay the decision, your Highness. The subject in question is no child's play; nor is it the fighting down any youthful love affair. Let your Imperial Highness weigh well what you are renouncing—the nineteen crowns of Russia! From Ivan Alexievitch's crown, inlaid with its nine hundred brilliants, to the simple 'cap' of Peter the Great; the Novgorod crown with the Deissus, crown of the Republic, worn by Ruric; the Astrakhan cap of Michael Feodorvitch; the Siberian hat of Fedor Alexievitch; lastly, the ancient, most sacred relic, the crown of Monomachos, who dates from legendary times. And would my illustrious chief renounce all this splendor for the sake of a 'woman's charms'?"

Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Chevalier Galban, who appeared in the doorway humming a ballet air.

"Well, Galban," shouted the Grand Duke, as he appeared, "how do you like the Belvedere?"

"Grand!" returned the Chevalier, "and, moreover, an impregnable fortress!" The two last words were directed to Araktseieff, accompanied with a meaning look. Possibly the Grand Duke intercepted it, for with sharp intonation he repeated:

"An impregnable fortress? I did not know that you concerned yourself with the storming of fortresses among other things."

"Oh yes," retorted the Chevalier, in a tone equally sarcastic. "I have had the good-fortune to succeed in storming many a castle hitherto held to be impregnable."

Araktseieff here cut short the allegory by interposing, abruptly:

"I know the castles in the taking of which you have won your spurs—Château Lafitte and Château Margot!"—both well-known Bordeaux wines—at which the Grand Duke, with a laugh, rose from the table.

CHAPTER XX
THE BLIND HEN'S GENUINE PEARL

"A lovely view, is it not?" said Johanna to Chevalier Galban, as, having reached the highest terrace of Belvedere, they let their eyes wander round.

"A magnificent prison," returned the Chevalier.

Johanna looked in astonishment at him with her large brown eyes, which, neither dazzling nor enticing, were full of soul.

"A prison—for whom?" she asked, surprised.

"For a saint and martyr, who is ready to sacrifice herself for her nation."

"And who may this be, and wherein her sacrifice? I do not understand you."

"Truly, it is not martyrdom to be tortured with red-hot iron if that torture be borne in patience; but it is martyrdom to give one's heart to be tortured in a manner more cruel than human imagination has yet conceived. And to be torn in pieces by a wild beast is not so ghastly a death as to kiss and embrace such a monster. Such a sacrifice could only be conceived by a Polish woman and for the Polish nation!"

"Either I fail to understand you, or you are laboring under some mistake," returned Johanna, handing the Chevalier a cup of fragrant mocha as they seated themselves.

Chevalier Galban was a practised strategist at such storming operations. He knew at once where the fortress was weakest.

"Duchess! wherever the name of the Polish Viceroy is heard, that of Johanna Grudzinska is named with it; with adoration and affection people utter it, for she is the guardian angel of all who are oppressed and afflicted."

"I know nothing of all this. Here only criminals are punished; and such punishment I can do nothing to hinder."

"Perhaps not in words; perhaps only unconsciously. Yet the whole world knows that Poland's terror has changed under the magic of your influence. He has sane periods in which he treats his people with clemency. And for these Poland has to thank you!"

"Herr Galban! Do you not see that any praise must be repugnant to me which reflects upon my husband?"

"Far be it from me in any way to reflect upon the Czarevitch, my master. He is as nature and circumstances have made him. The ruling of a nation is no poetry, nor is it a matter of Scriptural teaching; it has its established laws. Diplomacy is heartless, and a thorough-going statesman must be heartless likewise. Every one knows that the Czarevitch is a tyrant to his subjects."

"But to me he is my husband, to whom I am bound by every law of love and duty."

"It is just that which makes my blood boil. I can talk openly to you. I must confess, when I undertook the mission intrusted me by Araktseieff, I had conceived a very different idea of you from what I do, now that I am face to face with you. In the different courts I have visited I have come across many ladies who have deluded themselves with the belief that the love of crowned heads is quite another thing from the love of ordinary mortals. Once their mistake found out, they have been able to console themselves; and when higher state interests have demanded the sacrifice of their affections, they have accepted the title of countess or princess, with its accompanying estate as compensation, and have survived it."

"But what analogy is there between their and my position? I was solemnly married to my husband. At the altar I first placed my hand in his. I bear his name, and I know he loves me truly."

"Ah, Princess, you have no conception at present of the heartless nature of diplomacy! What you say is perfectly true; but you certainly did not notice that in the marriage ceremony the priest placed the Grand Duke's left—not his right—hand in yours. This was no treachery, no deception; it is customary with princes of the blood, and their wives and children can hold up their heads without shame. But—and here comes in the infamy—Araktseieff is set upon proclaiming the Grand Duke as the Czar's successor to the throne, because he is his ideal. But to this end it is imperative that the Grand Duke should take back his first wife, who is still living, and who is a member of a reigning dynasty; for the fundamental laws of the empire allow no other woman to ascend the throne. Do you now see the fate awaiting you?"

"However hard it be, I will endure it silently."

"You will be deprived of your husband's name; and as Count Grudzinski cannot give you back his, you will be made Princess of Lovicz. Can you not now picture to yourself what your future lot will be?"

"Patience and resignation!"

"Did you not notice the cruel smile on Araktseieff's face as, when kissing your hand, he said, 'The sight of this happiness reminds me of mine'? By that he intended to put you on a par with the woman called Daimona, who is only his paramour and was a vivandière."

"I do not feel the intended insult."

"No, no; it is impossible! When I heard the scheme, I too thought, 'After all, what will it matter? She, like other women, will receive compensation, and, like them, will—survive it.' But since I have been brought face to face with those clear, pure eyes, which so faithfully mirror the noble heart within, I ceased to consult my reasoning powers, for they counselled me to take myself a hundred miles away and to make myself believe that I had been dreaming. Since that moment I have been pondering how—at the risk of my own life—I could save you. It must not be that such an angel should fall a victim to such devilish intrigues! It must not be that a Polish woman be forced to see her father's name and coat of arms tarnished without any one to protect her—without means of revenge!"

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean? To tell you how you can revenge yourself! You must anticipate those intriguers, and, in answer to their dishonoring proposal, say, 'Keep your princedom of Lovicz for high-born courtesans. I, a Polish noblewoman, will find a husband ready to give me the protection of his honorable name and whole heart—a true man, who loves and respects me!'"

Face, eyes, the Chevalier's dramatic action, all tended to illustrate his words. It was not difficult for Johanna to divine whom he meant as the "true man." Not the shadow of a blush tinted her cheek as, with great composure, she replied:

"Chevalier Galban, do you see those walls surrounding Belvedere and Lazienka? Within those walls you are my guest, and you have the right to do exactly as you please, even to the length of insulting me; but only within these walls, as my guest. As soon, however, as you are without them, your immunity ceases. I will confide to no one what you have just said to me. A Polish woman betrays no one, not even to her husband; she revenges herself! So, once you have passed without these walls, for this unpardonable insult I will order my people to give you a sound thrashing! May I offer you a little more sugar in your coffee?"

Chevalier Galban burst into a peal of laughter.

"Ma foi! the fate of war. Out of three assaults, one may come off conqueror twice and yet be beaten the third time. Thank you, I will take another piece of sugar."

Then he strolled out with Johanna into the park, admired her tulip-bed, and, deferentially taking leave of her, went back to his chief, as already related.

"Where did you leave my wife?" the Grand Duke asked, as he rose from table.

"I accompanied her into the park. We parted at the Hermitage."

"Come, Araktseieff, let us go and find her! You take one way; I will take the other. Whoever first finds her brings her back to Belvedere."

The Grand Duke was lucky. He was first to find Johanna. She was kneeling on the grass feeding his pet rabbits; he let himself down clumsily beside her.

"Take care!" he said; "the grass is wet with dew; you will take a chill."

"It will not hurt me—I am strong."

"That's a story," he growled, "you are very delicate. I do not know how to wait the season to send you to Ems, that you may take the baths for which you are longing."

"I do not want to go there now."

"Why not?"

"I have been thinking it over. You would be unable to leave your post to go with me; and to be weeks, months, away from you, not ever to see you, is more than I could bear. I would so much rather stay here. Indeed, I am quite well."

"What!" cried the Grand Duke, with a wild outburst of joy. "You love me so much that you cannot live without me? that you would care for nothing if you were away from me? Oh, my own true pearl of women!" And taking up his wife in his strong arms he laughed, caressed, and covered her with a shower of fiery kisses. "And they would separate me from my wife! A fine idea, eh? Shall I throw you into this pond?" And he swung her in his arms like a little child. "Are you afraid that I shall throw you in? Ha, ha, ha! and do you think I would let them make you Princess of Lovicz and be parted from you? That I would repay you for your love and faithfulness with a title, and take another to wife? Are you afraid of it? Shall I toss you into the pond? Hush!"

Johanna twined her arms round her husband's neck, kissed him, and murmured, softly:

"Were you to dishonor me and chase me from you, I would come back to you again. Were you to humiliate me from your wife into your mistress or maid-servant, I would still serve and love you. I cannot do otherwise."

"Ha, ha, ha! And from such a woman they would have torn me. Hallo! Araktseieff! This way, man. I've found her."

When Araktseieff, turning into the winding path, caught sight of the Grand Duke with Johanna in his arms, he knew what had happened.

"Tell them," shouted the Czarevitch when he was still at some distance, and in a voice hoarse with emotion—"tell them that I do not give up a wife who loves me for a whole empire that hates me! When are you and your Chevalier Galban going back?"

"With your Imperial Highness's permission, I will stay the night. But Chevalier Galban has left the castle already, I see from a note he left for me. He says he was compelled to hasten his departure; the ground was burning under his feet, for Duchess Johanna had threatened him with a horsewhipping for a speech which had displeased her."

"A horsewhipping!" cried the Grand Duke. "What! my Johanna order any one to be horsewhipped? Come on my right hand, wife!" And releasing Johanna from the embrace in which he still held her, he offered her his right arm, with face beaming with joy.

"Go back to those who sent you, my good friend, and tell them that I am about to wed Princess Lovicz in right-handed marriage. And as she may not accompany me to St. Petersburg, I will go with her to Ems, with the Czar's permission. And now get ready your trumpery papers that I have to sign."

With these words he turned away, and what he had further to say to Johanna was inaudible from kisses and laughter.

That which Krizsanowski had promised in the sitting of the Szojusz Blagadenztoiga had come about—the incredible fact that a man could voluntarily resign his succession to the throne of the mightiest empire in the world, and in such a manner that, did he ever repent, he might never undo his act. That incredible fact had become not a possibility, but a thing accomplished. The solution to the riddle was, as Zeneida had divined at the time, Johanna. For the present, however, none knew of it save the participators and the trees of the ancient forest about them.

Ah! what a terrific, world-wide catastrophe was this idyl to bring about!

CHAPTER XXI
THE MOST POWERFUL RULER OF THEM ALL

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.

CHAPTER XXII
THE DEVIL

Suddenly a glow of light illumined the dark waves; a red gleam, reflected on the street of houses, was seen advancing towards them. From a side street a boat was approaching, with a torch stuck in its bow. Two men were pulling; a third, boat-hook in hand, was staving off the floating masses of ice; a fourth was at the rudder. In the middle of the boat stood a woman, her head and face entirely enveloped in a bashlik, engaged in covering up a group of children of all ages, distributing biscuit among them, and soothing their cries for papa and baba (little Russian children say "baba" instead of mamma). Papa and baba do not take the children to the fair, but lock up the poor little mites in the houses before they go out. If any sudden calamity occurs papa and baba escape. But what becomes of the little ones? Does a fire break out they are burned to death; a flood, then let Providence send some good-natured gentry-folk, such as take pleasure in rescuing children through roof or windows. It is as good sport as wild-duck shooting. So this boat was filled to overflowing.

The boatmen were the first to see the desperate position of the carriage and its occupants, and they rowed towards it. The torch showered sparks in the high wind, illuminating the face of the youth who, as he stood in the prow of the boat gliding over the dark waters, looked like some hero of antiquity. Masses of ice grated under the keel. The young man, steering dexterously through the ice, reached the carriage. It was but just in time, for Bethsaba could scarce maintain her seat upon the horse. Without a second's hesitation he had seized the half-frozen girl, who clutched with both hands at his arm, and the next instant she was in the boat.

Bethsaba looked into the youth's eyes, and in that moment she knew the exquisite joy of losing one's self in a look. Once before she had met the fire of those eyes—then they had singed her wings; now her heart was the victim.

"Wrap her in this fur cloak," said the lady standing in the middle of the boat to the young man, and threw her own cloak to the girl, who was shivering with cold; then going alongside the carriage, held out her hand to help the lady sitting in it into the boat. As she did so the bashlik fell back, and Bethsaba recognized the face. It was that of Zeneida Ilmarinen—the devil! The Duchess also recognized her.

Like a fury she struck back her enemy's helping hand, crying, in a voice hoarse with passionate excitement:

"Away, away! I will not have your help! Rather perish in the flood than in hell with you!" And, snatching the whip from her coachman's hand, she administered some smart lashes to the horses, who, madly rearing, plunged deeper into the foaming waves, already up to their chests. She would have none of Zeneida's help.

Bethsaba remained in the boat, trembling, not with cold, but at the thought that she had fallen into the devil's clutches, who already was making off with her as his prey. Of course he had given her his own fur wrap in order to get more sure hold of her. How warm it was! It must come direct from the lower regions.

"You will take cold," said the man with the boat-hook to Zeneida.

"I will row to keep myself warm," she answered; and, taking an oar in her firm grasp, began rowing vigorously, her chest heaving with the exertion, as does the devil when hastening off with his prey. Of course he takes all the little children he can get hold of to hell. The boat flew like the wind down the dark lanes.

At length they came to a large garden, the high walls of which kept back the seething waters. Bethsaba recognized the gilded railings that surmounted them. It was here the stag had been shot that they were hunting last spring. The evil spirit was bringing her to his lair.

The boat pulled up to the very threshold of the castle, for the water covered the marble steps. But the castle itself was built on such high ground that it was secure from all inundation.

The hall was brilliantly lighted, and an army of liveried footmen with lighted lamps hastened out to receive the party. From one end of the long ballroom to the other were rows of beds; in the centre of the room a table spread with food and steaming samovars. A number of beds were already occupied by children; another group was in the act of being fed with tea and soup. Bethsaba recognized many well-known faces among the helpers. They were those of members of the Society of the Green Book, who had been utilizing the Feast of St. Michael to hold a sitting, for that is one of the days when the attention of the police is otherwise engaged. Scarce had the sitting begun when Pushkin had burst in among them with the alarming news that the Neva had overflowed its banks.

The common danger at once put politics, new constitutions, and conspiracy out of their heads. Their one thought was to save those imperilled.

In Zeneida's grounds was an immense fish-pond, on which her guests were wont to hold regattas in the spring. In winter boats and punts were laid up in the boat-houses. These were got out in all haste, the conspirators told off to them with oars and boat-hooks, and they were quickly rowed off in all directions to carry help to the inundated city. Their first work was to rescue the children out of endangered houses, and those women who had stayed at home with them. Zeneida placed her castle, staff of servants, and wardrobe at the disposal of the rescuing party; but the lion's share of the work fell to her, and she gave herself heart and soul to it. She herself carried the young Circassian Princess in her arms into a well-warmed apartment hung with rich tapestries. Bethsaba had not strength to resist; she suffered herself to be carried like a baby. Besides, what is the use of resistance to the Prince of Darkness?

First Zeneida cut away and removed the frozen clothing from Bethsaba's numbed body—so does the Evil One with his prey! Here the king's daughter experienced a sensation of surprise, for she was accustomed to bathe very often with Korynthia, who never failed to admire her form, and to say to her god-daughter, "How lovely are you!" But Zeneida instead, with frowning brow, as if angry with her, clothed her rapidly in a woollen garment, then commenced rubbing her limbs vigorously until the numbness yielded and a pleasant sense of warmth was infused into her frame. Then, wrapping her in well-warmed blankets, she laid Bethsaba in a delicious soft bed and covered her up. Yes, so the Evil One treats his poor victims before he takes them to the nether regions!

Then Zeneida brought a steaming drink in a delicate porcelain cup, from which Bethsaba, taking one sip, felt warmed through as though with fire. This must certainly be the devil's potion! And having once tasted it she wanted more, and did not stop until she had emptied the cup. Then her eyes closed, and, fiercely as she resisted it, sleep overpowered her. In her dreams the Prince of Darkness led her through fairy-like places which, narrow at first, widened out farther and farther until they changed into one great Paradise, where people flew about instead of walking. Once in her dreams she saw the Evil One gently attending to her wants and removing her saturated garments. And next morning, when she awoke, true enough, her coverings had been changed. If that was no dream, were the other dreams equally true?

Bethsaba, sitting up in bed, looked about her. Yes; it must be the Evil One's room. No image of a saint to be seen; only Chinese and Japanese idols of every form and shape. Most likely images of Beelzebub and Asmodeus!

But what most astonished her was to find her own clothes folded on a low chair by her bedside. How could that be? Last night the Spirit of Darkness had certainly cut and torn them to shreds; and now here they were, whole and dry. Certainly he has numberless agents who can work like magic? Timorously she put on the mysterious clothing, not failing to ejaculate a "Kyrie eleison!" at each garment, in order to dispel the power of the Evil One.

And when thus dressed she tried to find her way out of the room she was in. Two or three of the rooms she passed through were very unlike those of her godmother, rich princess as she was. One of these was full of living birds; another of stuffed animals. Suddenly she heard a whimpering of children. This must be the place where the Evil Spirit tortures the little ones he has stolen. Curiosity made her follow the voices, and advancing she came to a half-open door, where, looking in, she saw Zeneida occupied in washing, combing, and dressing a group of tiny children. Some, who were being washed, were whimpering; but others, already dressed, were chattering, and admiring their pretty, new frocks. Surely an odd occupation for the Evil One. They were in Zeneida's bath-room. Bethsaba boldly entered. Curiosity begets courage.

"Ah, dressed already, little Princess?" said Zeneida.

"What are you doing to the children?" asked Bethsaba, with desire for knowledge.

"As you see, washing and dressing them; one cannot tell where their mother may be, poor little mites. The flood is rising higher and higher; the whole city is under water. As long as the danger lasts we must look after these little ones. Those who dress quickly," continued she, turning to the children, "may run into the dining-hall, and the housekeeper will give them some nice soup for breakfast."

Bethsaba thought she would put the Evil One to the proof.

"But who hears them say their prayers before their breakfast?"

"Nobody, dear child; for they are more hungry than devout."

"But prayer is good," returned the king's daughter.

"For what?"

"In order to avert further misfortune from the city."

"My dear little Princess!" exclaimed Zeneida, "the wind which sends the Neva over St. Petersburg is called Auster, and were the whole twelve hundred millions of people who inhabit the earth to blow together it would not avail to blow back the Auster!"

This was a speech worthy of its maker. To liken the efficacy of prayer to a blowing of breath! Bethsaba now plunged into the extreme of audacity. She would name the Deity, and surely then the devil, amid sulphur and brimstone, would strip himself of his seductive exterior and appear in his conventional form of horns and goat's feet.

"So you do not believe that God has sent this awful calamity upon mankind?"

"No, dear child. For were it God who had sent this visitation upon the earth the flood would have destroyed the houses of the wicked and not those of the honest, hard-working people."

Bethsaba thought, "You must be he, or you would never have dared to utter such blasphemy." She went further; she wanted to catch the Evil One in his own net.

"You have too much to do; may I not help you? If you would let me, I would wash and dress the children, too. I should like to do it; it is so amusing."

"Yes, indeed," said Zeneida, merrily. "Why not? It will give you something to do; and I, by-the-way, must go and see that we have enough to eat for all our multitude. I leave you in charge of the nursery."

So saying she gave up her seat to Bethsaba, and, bidding the many unwashed little folk to be good, left the bath-room with a smile. Bethsaba's first care was to make the children all kneel down. Then, kneeling in their midst, she said the Lord's Prayer with them—"Deliver us from the Evil One. Amen."

Now he must be effectually quashed!

Then she began her task of washing and dressing the little ones.

CHAPTER XXIII
THE STORY OF THE MAN WITH THE GREEN EYES

But the small mites were not as good with their new nurse as they had been with the old one. A look from Zeneida had been enough to still their moanings and whimperings; but Bethsaba was little more than a child herself, they were not in the least awed by her. One child set up the cry, the others following in chorus, "Where is baba? where is pata?" and she might have gone on forever washing the tears from the little faces.

Well, pata and baba she could not give back to them; but she remembered what her nurses had done when she was a little child and used to cry for her mamma. They had told her fairy tales.

"Don't cry! Be good and sensible, and I will tell you the story of The Man with the Green Eyes. It's such a lovely story. Now listen!"

The children were quiet as mice; they clustered up to Bethsaba, clinging to her dress, resting their chins on her knees, and listened.

"A long, long time ago there was a little prince, as little as you are, Struwelpeter, here at my feet. He had a good papa and a good baba, who loved him very much. But one day they had to go a long journey, and were laid in long metal boxes, and the lids were shut down upon them. Then they were carried out and placed upon two grand gold and silver coaches, each drawn by six horses, and, amid bands of music, firing of cannons, and great crowds of people, they were driven away.

"When the little prince was left alone he asked his Grand Vizier, 'To what land did my father and mother go?'

"And the Grand Vizier answered, 'Ah, little prince, to a land far away. To another world.'

"'And why did they go to that other world?'

"'Because it is much better there than in ours!' the vizier explained.

"Upon which the little king's son asked, 'If that world is so much better, why did they not take me with them?'

"'Because you have yet much to work, battle, and suffer in this world before you will be worthy to reach that other one whither your father and mother went.'

"This admonition did not please the little prince at all, and he thought to himself, 'We'll see. I will get to papa and baba in the other world, whatever he may say!'

"And, taking his little gun, he went out into the woods, as if to shoot birds. There he stayed so long that he was caught in a thunder-shower; and to avoid getting wet he looked about for a hollow tree to shelter in. He had found one, and was looking in, when he saw that some one was already there. Now, Struwelpeter, what would you have done in such a case?"

"I should have cried out loud."

"Well, now, the little king's son did not do that; but, like a man, he spoke up to the intruder: 'I say, you fellow, this wood is my wood, and this tree is my tree, and I don't allow you to live in it. But if you can tell me where that better land is to which papa and baba have gone I will make you a present of wood and tree, and you shall live in them.'

"And the stranger in the hollow tree answered, 'Not so, little king's son! I lived here before this wood existed, and no one has power to drive me away. You want to know where the better land is? That I can only tell you when I love you and you love me. Already I love you.'

"'But I don't love you, naughty man,' said the little prince.

"'Why not?' asked the wood sprite.

"'Because you've got green eyes.'

"The stranger's eyes, in truth, gleamed like two green beetles.

"'Then Heaven be with you!' said the stranger; by which the little prince knew he was no evil spirit, else he dared not name the holy place.

"'I'm going!' returned the little king's son; 'and I will find the better land without you. I have often heard which way to take.'

"The little prince had often heard tell that far off, among the rocks, lived a fierce, bloodthirsty tiger, who had despatched many a huntsman and goatherd to the other world. He would take him along too.

"So he went on till he came to the wild beast's den. He knew it by the many human bones strewn about on the ground. The tiger was in his den; his growling could be heard without.

"Now, you obstreperous little man, would you have dared to go into his den?"

"Not even if my ball had fallen in!"

"Well, then, the king's son was more courageous. He shouted into the den, 'Heh! you tiger, come out! I am the king's son! Bear me at once across to the better land!'

"The monster came slowly out of his lair, licking his bloody muzzle and striking his long tail against his haunches, and preparing to make one spring on the boy. (Don't cry, little snub-nose!) He did not gobble him up; for at that instant a gigantic snake darted out of a cleft in the rock, threw itself round the tiger, and, encircling neck and body, bit the monster in the throat. The tiger uttered an awful roar, and wrestled with the snake on the ground. Now began a battle for life and death between the two animals, until both together they fell down the rocky precipice. They had killed each other. The prince had to go home to his palace.

"On his way home he met a huntsman, his bow and quiver slung on his back.

"'That's an odd huntsman who hunts nowadays with bow and arrow,' thought the little prince, and looked straight into his eyes. It was the man with the green eyes!

"'So you can't find the way to the better land unless you love me, eh?' said he, and disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him up.

"'We'll see,' thought the little prince. 'I heard once that there is a great sea, and that many people who went on that sea in ships found the way to that land. Perhaps I may succeed in finding that big sea.'

"So he commanded his Grand Vizier to fit out a great ship on the Black Sea for him; and in this they sailed to the country of the fire-worshippers, which had been the home of the prince's mother. The voyage out was propitious; but coming back they were caught in a terrific storm. It thundered and lightened, the sky grew quite dark, and as the lightning lit it up and the rifts of cloud opened, they could clearly see in the sky beyond the radiant angel host; and as the storm-winds made clefts in the sea they could see the sea-nymphs at the bottom.

"'At last!' thought the king's son. 'Whether from above or below, I shall find the way to the better land.'

"The waves ran so high they had already broken the ship's rudder; the man at the helm had been washed overboard; the ship was fast running on to a huge mass of rocks; there was no doubt but that it must inevitably go to pieces.

"At that moment the prince saw some one by the steering-gear, a stranger, who began steering the ship with an old-fashioned helm.

"'That's an odd sort of man who thinks to steer this great ship with that old-fashioned gear!'

"Suddenly the storm ceased; sky and sea quieted down, the ship ran unharmed past the threatening rocky shore, and reached its homeward destination in safety.

"The little prince looked round for the stranger steersman, whom no one on board knew; but he, with a laugh, said:

"'You will not find the better land before you get to love me, eh?'

"And the little king's son, looking still more closely, recognized in him the man with the green eyes; but he disappeared as if the sea had swallowed him up.

"And now the little prince began to be very angry.

"'Can there be no road for me to the better land? Oh yes, there is. I have heard that many a hero has found it on the battle-field.'

"So he commanded his Grand Vizier, then and there, to declare war against the King of the Tartars.

"And the Grand Vizier, with his army, invaded Tartary; but its king was very powerful. He let the little prince's army go farther and farther into the heart of his country, then surrounded them on all sides.

"The Grand Vizier was frightened.

"'We are lost, little king's son! The Tartar knows no mercy; he will either kill us or make us slaves. His army is countless as an army of locusts.'

"The little king's son exulted.

"'Give the signal for attack at once, that it may be the sooner over.'

"But the Grand Vizier was so frightened that he disguised himself as a common soldier, and hid himself, not daring to lead on his army. So the whole army, becoming demoralized, were ready to lay down their arms to the enemy, when suddenly there appeared at their head an unknown general in a uniform they had never yet seen. His sword was like a flaming fire or a serpent. He encouraged the men, and led them against the Tartars; and scarce had the trumpet sounded for the attack before the King of Tartary advanced towards the prince, sword in hand, barefoot, in a raiment of goat's hair, and humbly offered him costly presents, beseeching peace. 'For,' he said, 'I cannot fight. My soldiers are dying off by thousands; they fall as they stand, their hands and feet writhing and convulsed.'

"And once more the prince recognized the man with the green eyes in the unknown general. This grieved him greatly. He began to see that, without his help, never could he find that land where his father and mother were. Thus he made up his mind to seek out the man with the green eyes in his hiding-place, and to tell him he loved him. He went and called him out of the hollow tree. The man with the green eyes had a garment of tinder, a hat of tinder bound with green mildew; his face was yellow as wax, his lips blue as mulberries.

"'Well, dear child, do you love me at last?' he asked the little king's son.

"'Yes, yes; I love you. Only show me, at last, the road to the better land.'

"'Never fear! I will show it you. But first you must eat one of the plums from my basket and kiss me.'

"I must tell you he had a basket in his hand, filled with plums, as waxen yellow as was his face. The little king's son took a plum and ate it.

"'Now, just one kiss!' and he kissed him.

"'Huh! how cold your lips were!' said the little prince, with a shudder.

"And by means of that one plum and that kiss the king's son found, what he had long sought so yearningly, the way to that better land where his father and mother were awaiting him. He is still there, and sends you his greetings."

While she told her story the king's daughter had been busily combing the fair locks of a little girl, who, with eyes and mouth wide open, took in every word of the fable. When it came to an end she asked:

"And what is that other world?"

"Where good people live; where the sun ever shines and it is perpetual spring-time; where man labors and every day is the Feast of St. Michael; where all people are glad and love one another; where none are hungry or thirsty; and where the children play with the baby angels."

"Oh, I say," quoth the little fair-haired maid, "if people must not eat or drink in the better land, I am sure papa and baba won't go there!"

This set Bethsaba off laughing, as she covered the little speaker with kisses. Upon which there was a loud clapping of hands from the next room.