Rasputin the Rascal Monk
“You are in grave danger. Mother Superior Paula, of the Novo-Devitsky Nunnery, has disclosed something to me. Come to Tsarskoe-Selo at once. Nikki is eager to consult you. – A.”
The monk was quick to realise by this telegram his true position in the Imperial household. Only a few weeks before Anna Vyrubova, the high-priestess of his disgraceful cult, had warned him of his waning influence. But he had not cared one jot, because, in his safe, he had stowed hundreds of letters and telegrams from society women compromising themselves. By the sale of these he could obtain sufficient money to establish a fortune for the rest of his life.
Here, however, a new phase had arisen.
He was in active communication with Germany, he had already wrecked Russia’s splendid offensive, and was gradually bringing the Empire into bad odour with neutrals. For this he had, in secret, received the heartfelt thanks of his Imperial paymaster the Kaiser. German money was flowing to him from all quarters, and German agents were swarming in Petrograd, as well as across the Russian front. Brusiloff was doing his best, but having gauged the position, had realised that it was becoming hopeless. German influence was eating the heart out of Russia as a canker-worm – and that canker-worm was Gregory Rasputin himself.
In consequence of the telegram from the Empress, followed by a letter sent by Imperial messenger by the Grand Duchess Olga, the monk hastened to the Palace and had a long interview with Her Majesty.
He left with Anna Vyrubova soon after noon in one of the Imperial cars which were always at his disposal, in consequence of the séance arranged at his house in Petrograd, and more especially because the Baroness Mesentzoff had sent him a photograph of Nadjezda Boldyieff, who was anxious to join the “disciples.”
Notwithstanding the critical situation, the séance was held, and the handsome Nadjezda was admitted to the “sisterhood.”
Truly those were critical days in Russia. The rascal had been warned, but did not heed. The Allies, fighting for the just cause, were in ignorance of the fierce resentment now aroused in the hearts of the Russian people by the denunciation in the Duma by those who were bold enough to speak their minds and defy the camarilla. The news allowed out of Russia during the last month of the year was most meagre. Protopopoff, the Kaiser’s silk-hatted creature, controlled it, and only allowed intelligence of the most optimistic character to filter through to us. Hence while the British, American, and French Press were publishing wholly fictitious accounts of Russia’s gains, the “miracle-worker” was daily driving the Imperial House of Romanoff towards the abyss of oblivion.
Chapter Twelve
The True Story of Rasputin’s End
Events were now proceeding apace.
The Grand Duke Nicholas Michailovitch had dared to seek audience of the Tsar, at which he had handed him a memorandum of protest. In this letter, which is still upon record, the Grand Duke wrote:
“Where is the root of the evil? Let me explain it in a few words.
“So long as your manner of choosing Ministers was known to narrow circles, things could muddle along, but when it became a matter of public knowledge and all classes in Russia talked about it, it was senseless to attempt to continue to govern Russia in this fashion. Often did you tell me that you could put faith in no one, and that you were being deceived.
“If this is so, then it applies particularly to your wife, who loves you and yet led you into error, being surrounded by evil-minded intimates. You believe in Alexandra Feodorovna. This is natural. But the words she utters are the product of skilful machinations, not of truth. If you are powerless to liberate her from these influences, then at all events be on your guard against constant and systematic influence of intriguers who are using your wife as their instrument… If you could remove the persistent interference of dark forces in all matters, the regeneration of Russia would instantly be advanced, and you would regain the confidence of the enormous majority of your subjects, which you have forfeited.”
This was pretty outspoken. But further, during the course of the conversation, the Grand Duke spoke of Protopopoff and asked Nicholas II whether he was aware that this politician had been palmed off on him by the agency of Rasputin, whom Protopopoff had first met at the home of the charlatan Badmayeff, the man who secretly practised so-called “Thibetan” medicine and who supplied the “Saint” with his drugs.
The Emperor smiled and declared that he was already acquainted with the facts.
The Emperor took the memorandum to the Empress and read it aloud to her. When he came to the passage dealing with the evil influences surrounding her, she flew into a rage, seized the document, and tore it up in the Tsar’s face!
Meanwhile the camarilla were still plotting further the downfall of Russia, and endeavouring to implicate Stürmer’s successor.
Suddenly, on December 26th, the greatest consternation was caused both in society circles in Petrograd and at the Palace of Tsarskoe-Selo, owing to rumours that Rasputin was missing.
He had been absent from the capital on many occasions, travelling upon his supposed pilgrimages, but there was persistent gossip on the Nevski that something had happened.
After the débâcle three telegrams in English were found in the Department of Posts and Telegraphs. They had been sent by the Empress from Tsarskoe-Selo to the Emperor, and read as follows:
“Tsarskoe-Selo, December 26th.
“I am worried by the awful rumours. No details. Remember what I wrote to you. – Alec.”
Four days later Her Majesty telegraphed again to the Tsar:
“Tsarskoe-Selo, December 30th, 4:37 p.m.
“Can you send Voyeipoff to me at once? I want his help and advice. We still hope for the best. Dmitri and Felix are implicated. – Alec.”
Six hours later she again telegraphed frantically:
“Tsarskoe-Selo, December 30th, 10:24 p.m.
“Nothing discovered yet. Felix stopped on his way to Crimea. How I wish you were here. – Alec.”
And again at midnight she sent two further telegrams. The first read:
“Tsarskoe-Selo, December 30th, 11:47 p.m.
“Father (Rasputin) is no more. Punish the enemies of Russia and of our House. Come back at once. I can bear it no longer. – Alec.”
The second was addressed:
“To Father Makarius, Verkhotursky Monastery, Perm.
“December 30th, midnight.
“Great misfortune. Something happened to Father (Rasputin). Pray for him and for us. Those responsible will be punished. Come at once to us. – Alexandra.”
For days the sensational affair was hushed-up from the public by order of the Tsar, and with the connivance of Protopopoff. Many fictitious accounts have appeared in the Press regarding the final hours of the amazing rascal who, as tool of the Emperor William, brought to an end the Imperial House of Romanoff.
I am here enabled, however, to explain the truth from an authentic source, namely, from the statement of a lady – a Russian nursing-sister – who was an eye-witness and who is in London at the moment when I write. The lady in question is well known in London, and I have begged her to allow me to disclose her name, but for certain reasons she has held me to my promise of secrecy. There are, one must remember, still influential friends of Rasputin in Russia, and as she is returning there, her objection is obvious.
It seems that on December 15th (Russian style) the “Saint” had been invited to the elegant house of Prince Youssoupoff to a merry supper. The penchant of the monk for a pretty face and a mysterious adventure being well-known, it had been hinted to him that a certain lady who desired to remain incognito, wished to meet him.
Now the house of Prince Youssoupoff in Petrograd – who, by the way, had a house in London before the war and was well-known in Mayfair – runs from the Moskaya to the Offitzerskaya, where at a back entrance, the wine from the famous estate in the Crimea is sold, just as wine is sold at the mediaeval palaces of Florence.
The Prince was supposed to be alone to meet his guest and this mysterious young and pretty lady who desired to enter the cult of the “Sister-Disciples.” As a matter of fact, however, there were assembled in a room on the first floor several persons determined to rid Russia of this erotic traitor who was daily betraying her into the hands of the Huns.
They were the Prince Youssoupoff, the Grand Duke Dmitri (who was suspected by the Empress), the Deputy of the Extreme Right, Pourichkevitch, a man named Stepanoff, a well-known danseuse (the mysterious lady who acted as decoy, named Mademoiselle C – ), and the lady who has described the scene to me.
Eleven o’clock struck. It was a dramatic scene. All were anxious for Rasputin’s arrival, but he did not come.
The Prince went to the telephone and asked for the monk at his house.
The reply was that the Father had gone out to dine somewhere early in the evening.
Would he come? Would he walk into the trap so cunningly baited for him?
The moments seemed hours as the little assembly sat waiting and discussing whether any one could have given him warning, for it was known that the “miracle-worker” had, through his catspaw Protopopoff, spies set everywhere.
At twenty minutes past eleven a car was heard at the back-door in the Offitzerskaya, and his host, rushing down, admitted him mysteriously. The monk removed his big sable-lined coat, disclosing his black clerical garb and big bejewelled cross suspended around his neck. Then he removed his galoshes, for it was snowing hard outside.
“You need not be afraid, Father,” said his host. “We are alone, except for my friend Stepanoff. He is one of us,” he laughed merrily.
Then he conducted the “Saint” into the large handsome dining-room, where a tall, fair-bearded man, Paul Stepanoff, came forward to meet him.
Upon the table were two bottles of wine. Into one cyanide of potassium had been introduced, and its potency had an hour before been tried upon a dog, which at the moment was lying dead in the yard outside.
After Stepanoff had been introduced, the Prince said in a confidential tone:
“The lady I mentioned has not yet arrived. I shall go to the door to await her so that the servants are not disturbed.”
Thus the Father was left with his merry, easy-going fellow-guest, who at a glance he saw was a bon viveur like himself.
The two men began to talk of spiritualism, in which Stepanoff declared himself to be much interested, and a few minutes later he poured out some wine, filling the Father’s glass from the poisoned bottle while he attracted his attention to a picture at the end of the room.
They raised their glasses, and drank. Some dry biscuits were in a silver box, and after Rasputin had drained his glass, he took a biscuit and munched it.
But to Stepanoff’s amazement the poison took no effect! Was the monk after all under some divine or mysterious protection? Stepanoff was expecting him to be seized by paroxysms of agony every moment.
On the contrary, he was still calm and expectant regarding the mysterious lady whom he was to meet.
Suddenly, however, Rasputin, slightly paler than usual, exclaimed: “Curious! I do not feel very well!”
And he crossed the room to examine an ancient crucifix, beautifully jewelled, which was standing upon a side table.
Stepanoff rose and followed him, remarking on the beauty of the sacred emblem, yet aghast that the “Saint” could take such a dose of poison and yet remain unharmed.
Prince Youssoupoff with the others, was standing silent in the upstairs room eagerly awaiting Stepanoff’s announcement that the traitor was no more. Those moments were breathless ones. What, they wondered, was happening below! They listened, and could hear the voices of the pair below still in conversation.
“Ah! That spasm has passed!” Rasputin was heard to declare.
Passed! Was he immune from the effects of that most deadly poison? They looked at each other astounded. The fact was that he had only sipped the wine, and having had sufficient already to drink he had contrived to empty his glass into a dark porcelain flower-bowl.
The monk had taken the big crucifix in his hand to examine it the more closely, when Stepanoff, seeing that Rasputin was still unharmed suddenly drew a big Browning pistol, and, placing it under the monk’s arm and against his breast, fired.
The others above, hearing the shot, rushed out upon the wide balcony, while Stepanoff dashed up the stairs to meet them, crying:
“The Saint is dead at last! Russia is freed of the scoundrel!”
The others shouted joy, and re-entering the room, toasted the liberation and regeneration of Russia. Suddenly, they heard a noise and went out upon the balcony again, when, to their horror, they saw the door of the dining-room opened, and Rasputin, haggard and blood-stained, staggering forth, with an imprecation upon his lips, to the door opening to the street, in an effort to escape!
The attempt at poisoning him had failed, and he had only been wounded.
The tension was breathless. Was he after all endowed with some supernatural power?
“You have tried to kill me!” shrieked the monk, his hands stained with blood. “But I still live – I live! – and God will give me my revenge!” With his hands clasped over the spot where he had been wounded, he gave vent to a peal of demoniacal laughter, which held the little knot of witnesses on the balcony utterly dumbfounded and appalled.
Only one man seemed to have courage to stir.
According to the lady who was present and who gives me the description which I here reproduce – the only true and authentic account of the affair – Stepanoff, his revolver still in his hand, again dashed down the stairs, and preventing the monk from opening the outer door, sprang upon him and emptied the contents of his weapon, barrel after barrel, into the monk’s head.
At last the spy and traitor was dead!
Ten minutes later a closed car arrived containing Doctor Stanislas L – , and driven by a soldier in uniform named Ivan F – . In the car the body of the monk was placed by the doctor, the soldier, and the patriotic executioner Stepanoff.
Leaving the Prince and those who had assembled to witness the death of the hated agent of the Kaiser who had so misled the Russian Imperial family and the Russian people, and who had been directly and indirectly responsible for the death of thousands of brave men, British and French, on the various battle-fronts, the men drove with the fellow’s body, the great golden cross still dangling around its neck, to the Petrovsky Bridge.
It was very dark and snowy. Nobody was about, therefore the doctor, the soldier, and the man who had that night lopped off the tentacle of the German octopus in Russia, carried the body to a point between the second and third arches of the bridge. Here it had been ascertained earlier in the night that the ice was broken, and a large hole existed.
They raised the body to cast it over when, horror! The dead hand caught in the soldier’s shoulder-strap!
“Is this a curse upon me?” gasped Ivan.
“Curse or not, he goes!” cried Stepanoff, and all three hurled him over the parapet.
There was a loud splash. Then all was silent again, and the trio, re-entering the car, drove hurriedly away.
For six days there were rumours everywhere in Petrograd that “something” had happened. Frédéricks, Stürmer, and Protopopoff were frantic. The Secret Police, at orders of the Emperor, were making every inquiry, for the Holy Father was missing!
On December 31st, at 3 p.m., the Tsaritza despatched the following telegram to Nicholas II.
“Order Maksimovitch arrest Dmitri (the Grand Duke) in your name. Dmitri waited to see me to-day. I refused. The body has not yet been found. – Alec.”
To this His Majesty replied that he was taking every measure, and that he had ordered the Grand Duke Nicholas into exile to his estates.
Then, on the following day, the distracted Empress, who was grief-stricken and inconsolable at the tragedy, telegraphed “Thanks for your wire. Body found in the river.”
An abandoned motor-car soaked in blood had been found miles out of the city. It was believed to belong to a Grand Duke. The entire police and detective force of the capital had in the meantime been afoot, and raked through all the houses of ill-fame, gipsy singers’ haunts, and in fact every conceivable place, until the finding of a blood-stained galosh, proved to have belonged to Rasputin, gave evidence of a tragedy.
The ice on the river and canals was, of course, several feet thick, but it is the custom in Russia to cut openings where water is obtained and linen is rinsed by laundresses. Divers went down, but discovered nothing; eventually, however, the body was picked up near the bank, not far from where it had been thrown in.
When it was discovered the Empress saw it in secret and knelt before it, crying hysterically for half-an-hour. Anna Vyrubova standing in silence at her side.
Then, at the Empress’s orders, it was buried privately and at night at Tsarskoe-Selo.
In the meantime the Emperor had arrived post-haste from the front, and for three days extremely guarded references to an “interesting murder” appeared in the Petrograd and foreign Press. Alongside were printed some biographical notes regarding the chief actors in the tragedy. No mention, however, was allowed to be made of Rasputin.
Suddenly, however, the public were told that the notorious monk had “ended his life.” But nothing was said as to when or by what means.
Thus closed the infamous career of the dark force in Russia, and by the tragedy the whole amazing truth which I have here disclosed became revealed. The secret plotting of Germany, and the using of the mock-monk to sap the power of Russia’s offensive, will live ever in history, and will, no doubt, be the theme of many future historians. But all will agree that the words of the weak, neurotic Empress, when she was told by Anna Vyrubova of Rasputin’s death, were prophetic.
“Dead!” she gasped, her face blanched to the lips. “If the Holy Father is dead, then, alas! the Dynasty of the Romanoffs is dead also!”
Those words of hers were true indeed, for within three months the Tsar had signed his abdication, and the Imperial pair, together with the camarilla of traitors, were prisoners in the hands of those who intended that Russia should yet be re-born and freed of its Teuton taint, and of the disgraceful cult of that blasphemous and scheming rascal Rasputin.
The End
