“You do not trust me, Andreas V – . It is natural. You do not love me. It is possible that it is my fault. But I have sworn to save your life, and I will do it in your own despite. In order that I may succeed, I will forget that I am a woman, and I will forget that you regard me as a criminal. Come here! I will show you into my oratory, into which not even my confidential maid is ever allowed to penetrate. Perhaps what you will see there may convince you that I am neither a traitor nor a Delilah.”
With the proud step of an empress, she led the way into the adjoining room, which was a bedroom sumptuously enriched with everything that could allure the senses. The very curtains of the bed seemed to breathe out languorous odors, the walls were hung with ravishing groups of figures that might have come from a Pompeiian temple, the dressing-table was rich with gold and gems.
Without pausing for an instant the mistress of the chamber walked straight across it to a narrow door let into the farther wall, and secured by a tiny lock like that of a safe.
Drawing a small key from her bosom, the Princess inserted it in the lock, leaving me to follow in a state of the most intense expectation.
The apartment in which I found myself was a narrow, white-washed cell like a prison, lit only by the flames of two tall wax candles which stood on a table, or rather an altar, at the far end.
Besides the altar, the sole object in the room was a wooden step in front of it. Over the altar, in accordance with the rule of the Greek Church, there hung a sacred picture. And below, between the two candlesticks, there rested two objects, the sight of which fairly took away my breath.
One was a photograph frame containing a portrait of myself – how obtained I shall never know. The portrait was framed with immortelles, the emblems of death, and the artist had given my face the ghastly pallor and rigidity of the face of a corpse.
The other object on the altar was a small whip of knotted leather thongs.
Without uttering a word, without even turning her head to see if I had followed, the Princess Y – knelt down on the step, stripped her shoulders with a singular determined gesture, and then, taking the knout in one hand, began to scourge the bare flesh.
CHAPTER XIX
THE SPIRIT OF MADAME BLAVATSKY
At the hour appointed by the Czar I presented myself at the Winter Palace to assist at the spiritualist experiments of M. Auguste.
I shall not attempt to describe the impression left by the weird scene in the Princess Y – ’s oratory.
To those who do not know the Slav temperament, with its strange mixture of sensuality and devotion, of barbarous cruelty and over-civilized cunning, seldom far removed from the brink of insanity, the incident I have recorded will appear incredible. I have narrated it, simply because I have undertaken to narrate everything bearing on the business in which I was engaged. I am well aware that truth is stranger than fiction, and I should have little difficulty, if I were so disposed, in framing a story, full of plausible, commonplace incidents, which no one could doubt or dispute.
I have preferred to take a bolder course, knowing that although I may be discredited for a time, yet when historians in the future come to sift the secret records of the age, I shall be amply vindicated.
I shall only add that I did not linger a moment after the unhappy woman had begun her penance, if such it was, but withdrew from her presence and from the house without speaking a word.
The feelings with which I anticipated my encounter with the medium were very different. Whatever might be my doubts with regard to the unfortunate Sophia – and I honestly began to think that the suicide of Menken had affected her brain – I had no doubt whatever that M. Auguste was a thoroughly unscrupulous man.
The imperial servant to whom I was handed over at the entrance to the Czar’s private apartments conducted me to what I imagine to have been the boudoir of the Czaritza, or at all events the family sitting room.
It was comfortably but plainly furnished in the English style, and was just such a room as one might find in the house of a London citizen, or a small country squire. I noticed that the wall-paper was faded, and the hearth-rug really worn out.
The Emperor of All the Russias was not alone. Seated beside him in front of the English grate was the beautiful young Empress, in whose society he finds a refuge from his greedy courtiers and often unscrupulous ministers, and who, I may add, has skilfully and successfully kept out of any entanglement in politics.
Rising at my entrance, Nicholas II. advanced and shook me by the hand.
“In this room,” he told me, “there are no emperors and no empresses, only Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas.”
He presented me to the Czaritza, who received me in the same style of simple friendliness, and then, pointing to a money-box which formed a conspicuous object on the mantel-shelf, he added:
“For every time the word ‘majesty’ is used in this room there is a fine of one ruble, which goes to our sick and wounded. So be careful, M. V – .”
In spite of this warning I did not fail to make a good many contributions to the money-box in the course of the evening. In my intercourse with royalty I model myself on the British Premier Beaconsfield, and I regard my rubles as well spent.
We all three spoke in English till the arrival of M. Auguste, who knew only French and a few words of Russian. I remarked afterward that the spirit of Madame Blavatsky, a Russian by birth, who had spent half her life in England, appeared to have lost the use of both languages in the other world, and communicated with us exclusively in French.
The appearance of M. Auguste did not help to overcome my prejudice against him. He had too evidently made up for the part of the mystic.
The hair of M. Auguste was black and long, his eyes rolled much in their sockets, and his costume was a compromise between the frock coat and the cassock.
But it was above all his manner that impressed me disagreeably. He affected to be continually falling into fits of abstraction, as if his communings with the spirits were diverting his attention from the affairs of earth. Even on his entrance he went through the forms of greeting his host and hostess as though scarcely conscious of their presence. I caught a sly look turned on myself, however, and when I was presented to him as “Mr. Sterling” his reception of the name made me think that he had expected something else.
The Czar having explained that I was a friend interested in spiritualism, in whose presence he wished to hear again from Madame Blavatsky, M. Auguste rolled his eyes formidably, and agreed to summon the departed theosophist.
A small round table was cleared of the Czaritza’s work-basket – she had been knitting a soldier’s comforter – and we took our seats around it. The electric light was switched off, so that we were in perfect darkness, except for the red glow of the coal fire.
A quarter of an hour or so passed in a solemn silence, broken only by occasional whispers from “Mr. Nicholas” or the medium.
“It is a long time answering,” the Czar whispered at last.
“I fear there is a hostile influence,” M. Auguste responded in the jargon of his craft.
Hardly had the words left his lips when a perfect shower of raps seemed to descend on all parts of the table at once.
Let me say here, once for all, that I am not prepared to offer any explanation of what happened on this occasion. I have read of some of the devices by which such illusions are produced, and I have no doubt a practised conjurer could have very easily fathomed the secrets of M. Auguste. But I had not come there with any intention of detecting or exposing him.
The medium pretended to address the author of the raps.
“If there is any hostile influence which prevents your communicating with us, rap twice.”
Two tremendous raps nearly drowned the last word. The spirit seemed to be quick-tempered.
“If it is a woman, rap once – ”
No response. This was decidedly clever.
“If it is myself, rap.”
This time, instead of silence, there was a faint scratching under the surface of the table.
“The negative sign,” M. Auguste explained blandly, for our benefit.
Then, addressing himself once more to the invisible member of the party, he inquired:
“If it is Mr. Nicholas, rap.”
Silence.
“You must excuse me,” the medium said, turning his face in my direction. “If it is Mr. Sterling – ”
A shower of raps. I really thought the table would have given way.
This was discouraging. The Czar came to my rescue, however.
“I particularly wish Mr. Sterling to be present,” he observed with a touch of displeasure – whether intended for M. Auguste or the spiritual visitant I could not tell.
The hierophant no doubt saw that he must submit. His retreat was executed with great skill.
“If the obstacle is one that can be removed, rap once.”
A rap.
“Can you spell it for us?”
In the rather cumbrous alphabet in use among the shades, the visitor spelled out in French:
“Son nom.”
“Is there something you object to about his name?”
A rap.
“Is it an assumed name?”
A very loud rap. Decidedly the spirit was indignant.
“Can you tell us his real name? His initials will do?”
“A. V.” spelled the unseen visitor.
“Is that right?” M. Auguste inquired with well-assumed curiosity.
“It is marvelous!” ejaculated the Emperor. “You will understand, of course, Auguste, that this must be kept a secret among ourselves.”
“Ask if it is Madame Blavatsky,” said the Czar.
We learned that the apostle of theosophy was indeed present.
“Would you like to hear from any other spirits?” M. Auguste asked the company.
“I should be glad of a word with Bismarck,” I suggested.
In five minutes the Iron Chancellor announced himself. His rap was sharp, quick and decided, quite a characteristic rap.
“Ask if he approves of the present policy of the German Emperor?”
A hearty rap. Evidently the spirit had greatly changed its views in the other world.
“Ask if he remembers telling me, the last time I saw him, that Russia was smothering Germany in bed?”
“Do you refuse to answer that question?” M. Auguste put in adroitly.
An expressive rap.
“Will you answer any other questions from this gentleman?”
Then the spirit of Bismarck spoke out. It denounced me as a worker of evil, a source of strife, and particularly as one who was acting injuriously to the Russian Empire. I confess M. Auguste scored.
“In his lifetime he would have said all that, if he had thought I was working in the interest of Russia and against Germany,” I remarked in my own defence.
The spirit of the Iron Chancellor was dismissed, and that of Madame Blavatsky recalled.
It was evident that the Czar placed particular confidence in his late subject. Indeed, if the issues at stake had been less serious, I think I should have made an attempt to shake the Emperor’s blind faith in the performances of M. Auguste.
But my sole object was to read, if I could, the secret plans and intentions of a very different imperial character, whose agent I believed the spirit to be.
M. Auguste, I quickly discovered, was distracted between fear of offending Nicholas by too much reserve, and dread of enabling me to see his game. In the end the Czar’s persistence triumphed, and we obtained something like a revelation.
“Tell us what you can see, that it concerns the Emperor to know,” M. Auguste had adjured his familiar.
“I see” – the reply was rapped out with irritating slowness – I quite longed for a slate – “an English dockyard. The workmen are secretly at work by night, with muffled hammers. They are building a torpedo boat. It is to the order of the Japanese Government. The English police have received secret instructions from the Minister of the Interior not to interfere.”
“Minister of the Interior” was a blunder. With my knowledge of English politics I am able to say that the correct title of this personage should be “Secretary of State for the Domestic Department.” But few foreigners except myself have been able to master the intricacies of the British Constitution.
“For what is this torpedo boat designed?” M. Auguste inquired.
“It is for service against the Baltic Fleet. The Russian sailors are the bravest in the world, but they are too honest to be a match for the heathen Japanese,” the spirit pursued, with some inconsistency.
I could not help reflecting that Madame Blavatsky in her lifetime had professed the Buddhist faith, which is that of the majority in Japan.
“Do you see anything else?”
“I see other dockyards where the same work is being carried on. A whole fleet of warships is being prepared by the perfidious British for use against the fleet of Russia.”
“Ask her to cast her eye over the German dockyards,” I put in.
“Spirits have no sex,” M. Auguste corrected severely. “I will ask it.”
A succession of raps conveyed the information that Germany was preserving a perfectly correct course, as usual. Her sole departure from the attitude of strict neutrality was to permit certain pilots, familiar with the North Sea navigation, to offer their services to the Russian fleet.
“Glance into the future,” said the Czar. “Tell us what you see about to happen.”
“I see the Baltic Fleet setting out. The Admiral has issued the strictest orders to neutral shipping to retire to their harbors and leave the sea clear for the warships of Russia. He has threatened to sink any neutral ship that comes within range of his guns.
“As long as he is in the Baltic these orders are obeyed. The German, Swedish and Danish flags are lowered at his approach, as is right.
“Now he passes out into the North Sea. The haughty and hostile English defy his commands. Their merchant ships go forth as usual. Presuming on their knowledge of international law, they annoy and vex the Russian warships by sailing past them. The blood of the brave Russian officers begins to boil. Ask me no more.”
M. Auguste, prompted by the deeply interested Czar, did ask more.
“I see,” the obedient seeress resumed, “torpedo boats secretly creeping out from the British ports. They do not openly fly the Japanese flag, but lurk among the English ships, with the connivance of the treacherous islanders.
“The Baltic Fleet approaches. The torpedo boats, skulking behind the shelter of their friends, steal closer to the Russian ships. Then the brave Russian Admiral remembers his promise. Just in time to save his fleet from destruction, he signals to the British to retire.
“They obstinately refuse. The Russian fleet opens fire.
“I can see no more.”
The spirit of the seeress, it will be observed, broke off its revelations at the most interesting point, with the skill of a practised writer of serials.
But the Czar, fairly carried away by excitement, insisted on knowing more.
“Ask the spirit if there will be any foreign complications,” he said.
I had already remarked that our invisible companion showed a good deal of deference to the wishes of Nicholas II., perhaps in his character of Head of the Orthodox Church.
After a little hesitation it rapped out:
“The English are angry, but they are restrained by the fear of Germany. The German Michael casts his shield in front of Russia, and the islanders are cowed. I cannot see all that follows. But in the end I see that the Yellow Peril is averted by the joint action of Russia and Germany.”
This answer confirmed to the full my suspicions regarding the source of M. Auguste’s inspiration. I believed firmly that there was a spirit present, but it was not the spirit of the deceased theosophist, rather of a monarch who is very much alive.
The medium now professed to feel exhausted, and Madame Blavatsky was permitted to retire.
I rose to accompany M. Auguste as soon as he made a move to retire.
“If you will let me drive you as far as my hotel,” I said to him, “I think I can show you something which will repay you for coming with me.”
The wizard looked me in the face for the first time, as he said deliberately:
“I shall be very pleased to come.”
CHAPTER XX
THE DEVIL’S AUCTION
I said as little as possible during the drive homeward.
My companion was equally silent. No doubt he, like myself, was bracing himself for a duel of wits.
As soon as we were safe in my private room at the hotel, with a bottle of vodka and a box of cigars in front of us, I opened the discussion with my habitual directness.
“I need not tell you, M. Auguste, that I have not invited you here to discuss questions of psychology. I am a politician, and it matters nothing to me whether I am dealing with a ghost or a man, provided I can make myself understood.”
M. Auguste bowed.
“For instance, it is quite clear that the interesting revelations we have had to-night would not have been made without your good will. It is to be presumed, therefore, that if I can convince you that it is better to turn the Emperor’s mind in another direction, you will refuse to make yourself the medium of further communications of that precise character.”
M. Auguste gave me an intelligent glance.
“I am as you have just said, a medium,” he replied with significant emphasis. “As such, I need not tell you, I have no personal interest in the communications which are made through me.”
I nodded, and took out my pocket-book, from which I extracted a hundred ruble-note (about $75).
“I promised to show you something interesting,” I remarked, as I laid it on the table.
M. Auguste turned his head, and his lip curled slightly.
“I am afraid my sight is not very good,” he said negligently. “Is not that object rather small?”
“It is merely a specimen,” I responded, counting out nine others, and laying them beside the first.
“Ah, now I fancy I can see what you are showing me,” he admitted.
“There is a history attached to these notes,” I explained. “They represent the amount of a bet which I have just won.”
“Really! That is most interesting.”
“I now have another bet of similar nature pending, which I hope also to be able to win.”
“I am tempted to wish you success,” put in the medium encouragingly.
“The chances of success are so great that if you were a betting man I should be inclined to ask you to make a joint affair of it,” I said.
“My dear M. V – , I am not a bigot. I have no objection to a wager provided the stakes are made worth my while.”
“I think they should be. Well, I will tell you plainly, I stand to win this amount if the Baltic Fleet does not sail for another month.”
M. Auguste smiled pleasantly.
“I congratulate you,” he said. “From what I have heard the repairs will take at least that time.”
“But that is not all. This bet of mine is continuous. I win a similar stake for every month which passes without the fleet having left harbor.”
M. Auguste gazed at me steadily before speaking.
“If your bet were renewable weekly instead of monthly, you might become quite a rich man.”
I saw that I was dealing with a cormorant. I made a hasty mental calculation. Half of one thousand rubles was about $375 a week, and the information I had led me to believe that Port Arthur was capable of holding out for another six months at least. To delay the sailing of the Baltic Fleet till then would cost roughly $10,000 – say 15,000 rubles.
I decided that neither England nor Japan would grudge the price.
“I think your suggestion is a good one,” I answered M. Auguste. “In that case, should you be willing to share the bet?”
“I should be willing to undertake it entirely,” was the response.
The scoundrel wanted $20,000!
Had I been dealing with an honest man I should have let him have the money. But he had raised his terms so artfully that I felt sure that if I yielded this he would at once make some fresh demand.
I therefore shook my head, and began picking up the notes on the table.
“That would not suit me at all,” I said decidedly. “I do not wish to be left out altogether.”
M. Auguste watched me with growing uneasiness as I restored the notes one by one to my pocket-book.
“Look here!” he said abruptly, as the last note disappeared. “Tell me plainly what you expect me to do.”
“I expect you to have a communication from your friend Madame Blavatsky, or any other spirit you may prefer – Peter the Great would be most effective, I should think – every time the Baltic Fleet is ready to start, warning ‘Mr. Nicholas’ not to let it sail.”
M. Auguste appeared to turn this proposal over in his mind.
“And is that all?” he asked.
“I shall expect you to keep perfect secrecy about the arrangement. I have a friend at Potsdam, and I shall be pretty sure to hear if you try to give me away.”
“Potsdam!” M. Auguste seemed genuinely surprised, and even disconcerted.
“Do you mean to say that you didn’t know you were carrying out the instructions of Wilhelm II.?” I demanded, scarcely less surprised.
It was difficult to believe that the vexation showed by the medium was feigned.
“Of course! I see it now!” burst from him. “I wondered what she meant by all that stuff about Germany. And I – a Frenchman!”
It is extraordinary what unexpected scruples will display themselves in the most unprincipled knaves. Low as they may descend, there seems always to be some one point on which they are as sensitive as a Bayard.
M. Auguste, of all men in the world, was a French patriot! It turned out that he was a fanatical Nationalist and anti-Semite. He had howled in anti-Dreyfusite mobs, and flung stones at the windows of Masonic temples in Paris.
I was delighted with this discovery, which gave me a stronger hold on him than any bribe could.
But I had noted the feminine pronoun in his exclamation recorded above. I did not think it referred to the revealing spirit.
“You have been deceived by the woman who has given you your instructions,” I remarked to him, when his excitement had subsided a little. “I fancy I can guess her name.”
“Yes. It is the Princess Y – ,” he confessed.
Bewildering personality! Again, as I heard her name connected with an intrigue of the basest kind, a criminal conspiracy to influence the ruler of Russia by feigned revelations from the spirits of the dead, I recalled the sight I had last had of her, kneeling in her oratory, scourging herself before – my portrait!
There was no longer any fear that M. Auguste would prove obdurate on the question of terms. He pocketed his first five hundred rubles, and departed, vowing that the Baltic fleet should never get farther than Libau, if it was in the power of spirits to prevent it.
Desirous to relieve Lord Bedale’s mind as far as possible I despatched the following wire to him the next morning:
Sailing of Baltic Fleet postponed indefinitely. No danger for the present. Watch Germany.
I sent a fuller account of the situation to a son of Mr. Katahashi, who was in England, nominally attached to the staff of the Imperial Bank, but really on business of a confidential character which it would be indiscreet on my part to indicate.
I may say that I particularly cautioned the young Japanese to avoid any action calculated to give the least color to the German legends about warships being secretly manufactured in British yards to the order of the Mikado’s Government.
Every reader who has followed the course of the war with any attention will recollect the history of the fleet thus detained by my contrivance.
Week after week, and month after month, the Baltic Fleet was declared to be on the point of departure. Time after time the Czar went on board to review it in person, and speak words of encouragement to the officers and crew. And every time, after everything had been pronounced ready, some mysterious obstacle arose at the last moment to detain the fleet in Russian waters.
Journalists, naval experts, politicians and other ill-informed persons invented or repeated all sorts of explanations to account for the series of delays.
Only in the very innermost circles of the Russian Court it was whispered that the guardian spirit of the great Peter, the founder of Russia’s naval power, had repeatedly come to warn his descendant of disasters in store for the fleet, should it be permitted to sail.
