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The Minister of Evil
The Secret History of
RASPUTIN'S
Betrayal of Russia
William Le Queux
Cassell and Company, Ltd
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
First Published August 1918.
_Reprinted September 1918._
Copyright, 1917, by William Le Queux, in the United States of America.
TO THE READER
AFTER the issue to the public of the curious chronicle of "Rasputin the
Rascal Monk," based upon official documents, and its translation into a
number of languages, I received from the same sources in Russia a bulky
manuscript upon very thin paper which contained certain confessions,
revelations, and allegations made by its writer, Féodor Rajevski, who
acted as the mock-saint's secretary and body-servant, and who, in
consequence, was for some years in a position to know the most inner
secrets of Rasputin's dealings with those scoundrelly men and women who
betrayed Holy Russia into the hands of the Hun.
This manuscript, to-day before me as I write, is mostly in Italian, for
Rajevski, the son of a Polish violinist, lived many years of his youth in
Bologna, Florence, and old-world Siena, hence, in writing his memoirs, he
used the language most familiar to him, and one perhaps more readily
translated by anyone living outside Russia.
In certain passages I have been compelled to disguise names of those who,
first becoming tools of the mock-saint, yet afterwards discovering him to
be a charlatan, arose in their patriotism and--like Rajevski who here
confesses--watched patiently, and as Revolutionists became instrumental
in the amazing charlatan's downfall and his ignominious death.
These startling revelations of the secretary to the head of the "dark
forces" in Russia, as they were known in the Duma, are certainly most
amazing and unusually startling, forming as they do a disgraceful secret
page of history that will prove of outstanding interest to those who come
after us.
I confess that when first I read through the bald statements of fact,
which I have here endeavoured to place in readable form for British
readers, I became absorbed--therefore I venture to believe that they will
be just as interesting to others who read them.
WILLIAM LE QUEUX.
DEVONSHIRE CLUB, LONDON,
_January, 1918_.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
1. RASPUTIN MEETS THE EMPRESS 1
2. RASPUTIN ENTERS TSARSKOE-SELO 19
3. THE POTSDAM PLOT DEVELOPS 36
4. THE MURDER OF STOLYPIN 53
5. THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE 68
6. RASPUTIN IN BERLIN 85
7. SCANDAL AND BLACKMAIL 100
8. RASPUTIN THE ACTUAL TSAR 116
9. THE TRAGEDY OF MADAME SVETCHINE 132
10. TRAITOROUS WORK 148
11. POISON PLOTS THAT FAILED 163
12. RASPUTIN AND THE KAISER 180
13. THE "PERFUME OF DEATH" 197
14. MILIUKOFF'S EXPOSURE 214
15. THE TRAITORS DENOUNCED 229
CHAPTER I
RASPUTIN MEETS THE EMPRESS
THE Spanish author Yriarte wrote those very true words:
"_Y ahora digo yo; llene un volumen_
_De disparates un Autor famoso,_
_Y si no alabaren, que me emplumen._"
For those who do not read Spanish I would translate the passage as:
"Now I say to you; let an author of renown fill a book with
twaddle, and if it is not praised by the critics, you may tar and
feather me."
I am not an author of renown. Indeed, I make no pretence of the
delicacies of literary style, or the turning of fine phrases of elegant
diplomacy. My object is merely to record in these pages the truth
regarding the crumbling of Russia, and the downfall of our Imperial
Throne.
Anyone who cares to search the voluminous records in the Bureau of Police
in the long Bibikovsky Boulevard, in Kiev, will find my _dossier_ neatly
filed and tabulated, as are those of most Russians. You will find that I,
Féodor, son of Féodor Rajevski, musician temporarily abroad, and his wife
Varvara, was born in the Via Galliera, at Bologna, in Italy, on July 8,
1880, and on March 3, 1897, entered the University in the Vladimirskaya.
I venture to think that the police have but little inscribed to my
detriment save perhaps a few students' pranks in the Kreshtchatik, and
the record of that memorable night when we daubed with blue and white
paint the equestrian statue in front of the Merchants' Club, and I was
fined twenty roubles by the bearded old magistrate for the part I played
in the joke.
Had there been anything serious against me I doubt whether I should have
occupied, as I did for some years, the post of confidential secretary to
"Grichka," that saintly unwashed charlatan whose real name was Gregory
Novikh, and whom the world knew by the nickname of "Rasputin."
Of my youth I need say but little. After my student days I obtained,
through the influence of a high Government official named Branicki, a
friend of my father, a clerical post in the bureau of political police of
the Empire, a department of the Ministry of the Interior, and for several
years pursued a calm, uneventful life in that capacity. In consequence of
a grave scandal discovered in my department--for my chief had secured the
conviction of a certain wealthy nobleman named Tiniacheff, in Kharkoff,
who was perfectly innocent of any offence--I was one day called as
witness by the court of inquiry sitting in Moscow.
It was at that inquiry early in 1903 that I first met General
Kouropatkine, who at that time had risen to high favour with Her Majesty
the Empress and was--as was afterwards discovered--urging the Tsar to
make war against Japan, well knowing that any attacks by us would be
foredoomed to failure. At the General's instigation I was transferred to
the Ministry of War as an under-secretary in his Cabinet, and he sent
me--on account of my knowledge of Italian--upon a confidential mission to
Milan. This, I presume, I carried out entirely to his satisfaction, for
on two other occasions I was sent to Italy with messages to a certain
Baron Svereff, a rich Russian financier living in San Remo, and with whom
no doubt Kouropatkine was engaged in traitorous dealings.
One day, having been called by telephone to the house of His Excellency,
I found, seated in his big luxuriously furnished room, and chatting
confidentially, a strange-looking, unkempt, sallow-faced man of thirty or
so, with broad brow, narrow sunken cheeks, and long untrimmed beard, who,
as soon as he turned his big deep-set eyes upon mine, held me in
fascination.
His was a most striking countenance, broad in the protruding forehead
which narrowed to the point of his black beard, and being dressed as a
monk in a long, shabby, black robe I recognised at once he was one of
those fakirs we have all over Russia, one of those self-sacrificing bogus
"holy" men who wander from town to town obsessed by religious mania, full
of fictitious self-denial, yet collecting kopecks for charity.
Religion of all creeds has its esoteric phases, and our own Greek Church
is certainly not alone in its "cranks."
"Rajevski, this is the Starets, Gregory Novikh," said the General, who
was in uniform with the cross of St. Andrew at his throat.
I stood for a few seconds astounded. On being introduced to me, the
unkempt, uncleanly fellow crossed his arms over his chest, bowed, and
growled in a deep voice a word of benediction.
I expressed pleasure at meeting him, for all Russia was at the moment
ringing with the renown of the modest Siberian "saint" who could work
miracles. For the past month or so the name of "Grichka" had been upon
everyone's lips. The ignorant millions from the Volga to Vladivostok had
been told that a new saint had arisen in Russia; one possessed of Divine
influence; a man who lived such a clean and blameless life in imitation
of Christ that he was destined as the spiritual Guide and Protector of
Russia, and to eclipse even Saint Nicholas himself.
As one level-headed and educated I had always had my doubts concerning
all "holy" wanderers who meander across the steppes collecting alms.
Knowing much of the evil life lived in our Russian monasteries and
convents, and the warm welcome given to every charlatan who grows his
beard, forgets to wash, lifts his eyes heavenwards, and begs, I had, I
confess at the outset, but little faith in this new star in Holy Russia's
firmament now introduced to me by His Excellency the Minister of War.
"I have been speaking with the Starets concerning you," the Minister
said, as he turned in his padded chair, and flicked the ash from his
exquisite Bogdanoff cigarette. "I have detached you from my department to
become secretary to the Starets. Yours will be an enviable post, my dear
Féodor, I assure you. Russia is in her degeneration. The Starets has been
sent to us by Divine Providence to regenerate and reform her."
"But, your Excellency, I am very content in my present post--I----"
"I issued the decree from the Ministry this morning," he interrupted in
his fierce, blustering manner, that manner which, years later, carried
him through the war with Japan. "It is all arranged. You are the
secretary of our protector whom Almighty God has sent to Russia for our
salvation."
My eyes met the piercing gaze of the unkempt scoundrel, and, to my
surprise, I found myself held mystified. Never before had any man or
woman exercised such an all-powerful influence over me by merely gazing
at me. That it was hypnotic was without doubt. The fellow himself with
his sallow cheeks, his black beard, his deep-set eyes, and his broad brow
was the very counterpart of those portraits which the old cinquecento
artists of Italy painted of criminal aristocrats.
In the Pitti and the Uffizi in Florence, in the great gallery in Siena;
in Venice, Rome, and Milan hung dozens of portraits resembling closely
that of Gregory Novikh, the man who, to my own knowledge as I intend to
here show, betrayed Russia, and destroyed the Imperial House of Romanoff.
In that look I had foreseen in him something terrible; I had read the
whole of his destiny in his glance. His gaze for the moment overwhelmed
me. Once or twice in my life--as it comes to most men--I have met with
that expression in the countenances of those I have come across: it
presaged crime, and the prophecy, alas! has been verified. Crime was in
Gregory Novikh.
Perhaps Rasputin--as the world called him and as I will call him--knew
that crime was in him. I think he did. By his eyes I knew him to be a
criminal sensualist with murder in his heart.
I had heard a whisper of his sordid and miserable elemental passions,
even though the Starets was, next to His Majesty the Tsar, the most
popular man in all the Empire.
To be appointed his confidential secretary was surely great advancement
at a single bound, for though sensuality was to him as natural as the air
he breathed, yet he had the highest society of Petrograd already at his
feet.
Compelled to accept my unwanted appointment, I bowed, and expressed
gratification that I should have been chosen for such a post.
"You must be discreet, my dear Féodor," said His Excellency, throwing his
cigarette end into the great bronze bowl at his elbow. "When I have sent
you upon confidential missions you have been as dumb as an oyster. This
new post I give to you because I know that you are a true patriotic
Russian, and if you see and know certain things you will never chatter
about them to the detriment of myself, or of our very good friend
Grichka. To him, remember, everything is permitted. You will learn much,
but rather than speak let your tongue be cut out. And that," he added,
looking at me very seriously as he lowered his voice, "and that, I warn
you, will be the judgment upon you in the fortress of Schlüsselburg if
you dare to divulge a single secret of Russia's saviour!"
I stood aghast between this all-powerful War Minister in his glittering
decorations, the Emperor's right hand and confidant, and the unkempt,
ragged, wandering collector of kopecks--the man whose eyes held me in
their fascination each time they met my gaze.
The suddenness of it all bewildered me. The salary I was to receive, as
mentioned by His Excellency, was most generous, indeed, more than double
that which I had been paid by the Ministry of War. It meant luxury beyond
my wildest dreams; a life of ease, affluence, and influence.
Is it any wonder therefore that I accepted it, little knowing in those
days of peace that I was a pawn in the great game of the Hun?
How shall I describe Rasputin? My pen fails me. He was one of a few great
charlatans of saintly presence and of specious words, fascinators of
women, and domineerers of men, who have been sent to the world at
intervals through all the ages. Had he lived in the twelfth or thirteenth
century of our era he would no doubt have been canonised. This rough,
uncouth, illiterate Siberian peasant, who had been convicted of
horse-stealing, and of immorality, who had served years of imprisonment
in the gaol at Tobolsk, and who had only a month before we met been flung
out of a monastery in Odessa and kicked half to death by its inmates as a
fraud, had actually become the most popular person in Petrograd.
With the women of the aristocracy he was well-known, but to the Imperial
Court he had not risen. Yet, being a _protégé_ of Kouropatkine, matters
were no doubt being arranged, although I was, of course, in ignorance of
the traitorous plans in progress.
On the following morning, according to my instructions given me by my new
chief, I called upon him at the small ground-floor flat which he occupied
in the Poltavskaya, close to the Nicholas Station. The house, the
remaining rooms of which were unoccupied, was a dark forbidding-looking
one, with a heavy door beneath a portico, and containing deep cellars
into which nobody ever penetrated save the Starets himself.
On the morning of my first visit there, I was, from the beginning, much
mystified. The dining-room was quite a luxurious apartment, so was the
"saint's" study--a den with a soft Eastern carpet, a big writing-table, a
high porcelain stove of chocolate and white, and silk-upholstered
settees. From this den a door opened into the "holy" man's
sleeping-room, an apartment of spartan plainness save for its big stove,
a replica of the one in the study.
The household, I found, consisted of one other person, an old Siberian
peasant woman of about sixty, named Anna, who came from Pokrovsky, the
"saint's" native village. She acted as housekeeper and maid-of-all-work.
That first morning spent with Rasputin was full of interest. He was a
dirty, uncouth, illiterate fellow who repelled me. His hands were hard,
his fingers knotty, his face was of a distinctly criminal type, and yet
in my bewilderment I remembered that General Kouropatkine had declared
him to be sent by the Almighty as the Protector of Russia.
His conversation was coarse and overbearing, and interlarded by
quotations from Holy Writ. He mentioned to me certain ladies in high
society, and related, with a broad grin upon his saintly countenance,
scandal after scandal till I stood aghast.
Truly the "saint" was a most remarkable personality. From the first I had
been compelled to admit that whatever the Russian public had said, there
was a certain amount of basis for the gossip. His was the most weird and
compelling personality that I had ever met. Even Stolypin had been
impressed by him, though the Holy Synod had declared him to be a fraud.
My work consisted of reading to him and replying to letters from hundreds
of women who had become attracted by his peculiar distorted emotional
religion, many of whom desired to enter the cult which he had
established. As secretary it was also my duty to arrange for the weekly
reunions of the "sister-disciples," held in a big bare upstairs room, in
which hung a holy ikon and several sacred pictures, and in which the
mysteries of his "religion" were practised.
Ere long, I found that to those weekly séances there flocked many of the
wealthiest and most cultured women in Petrograd, who actually held the
ex-horse-stealer in veneration, and believed, as the peasants believed,
that he could work miracles.
One afternoon, after I had been nearly a month in Rasputin's service,
Boris Stürmer, a well-known Court sycophant, with bristling hair and a
sweeping goatee beard, was brought to the monk by Kouropatkine. Both were
in uniform, and after ushering them into Rasputin's study I felt that
some dark conspiracy was on foot.
They remained in council for nearly an hour when I was called into the
room, and to me, as the monk's right hand, the plot was explained so that
I could assist in it.
To me the German Stürmer, who afterwards rose to be Prime Minister of
Russia, was no stranger. Indeed, it was he who, inviting me to be seated,
explained what was in progress.
"It is necessary, Rajevski, that the Father should meet Her Majesty the
Empress. He is our saviour, and it is but right that he should come to
the Imperial Court. But he cannot be introduced by any of the ordinary
channels. Her Majesty must be impressed, and her curiosity aroused."
I bowed in assent, little dreaming of the devilish scheme which,
instigated from Potsdam, and paid for by German gold, was about to be
worked. Already Germany had decided to conquer Russia, and already the
far-seeing Kaiser had watched and recognised that he could use Rasputin's
undoubted influence in our priest-ridden country for his own dastardly
ends.
"Now," continued Stürmer, stroking his beard as he looked at me. "We have
just discovered that Her Majesty intends to pay a visit incognita next
Friday to the shrine of Our Lady at Kazan, in order to pray for the birth
of an heir to the Romanoffs. We have therefore decided that our Father
shall go to Kazan, and be found by the Empress praying before the shrine
beseeching the Almighty to grant Her Majesty her fond desire. He will
appear to her a perfect stranger uttering exactly the same prayer as that
in her mind."
"They will not speak," Kouropatkine added. "Our Father will apparently
take no notice of her save to glance into her face, for why should he
recognise in her the Empress?"
I saw with what ingenuity the plan was being laid, for well I knew the
amazing and quite uncanny fascination for women of all classes possessed
by the Starets.
At the time I naturally believed that Stürmer and his friend Kouropatkine
were both convinced that it would be to the advantage of Russia if the
holy man gained admission to the Imperial Court as spiritual guide to
Nicholas II. Such a widely popular figure had the Starets become, and so
deeply impressed had been the people of Moscow and Warsaw, where he had
performed some mysterious "miracles," that there were hundreds of
thousands of all classes who, like the two Ministers of the Crown who sat
in that room, really believed that he was possessed of Divine power.
As we walked in the Nevski, people, mostly women, would rush to him and
kiss his dirty hand, or raise the hem of his greasy kaftan to their lips,
asking for the Father's blessing. By the enlightened Western peoples the
ignorance and superstitions of our great Russian people cannot be
understood. You, who have travelled in our Holy Russia, know our
trackless country where settlements are to distances, as one of our
writers has put it, as fly-specks upon window-panes, where whole villages
are the prey of disease, and where seventy-nine people out of every
hundred cannot read or write. You also know how in the corner of every
room hangs the ikon, how the gold or blue-domed basilica strikes you in
every street, the long-haired priests chanting in their deep bass, the
passer-by ceaselessly crossing himself, the peasantry crushed and
down-trodden, and the middle and upper classes lapped in luxury and
esteeming good manners more highly than morals. Such is Russia of
to-day--Russia in the age of my employer Rasputin, the era of the
downfall of the Imperial Romanoffs, and the fierce struggle with the
barbaric Hun.
In accordance with the plan formed by Boris Stürmer I next day
accompanied the Starets by rail direct to Nijni Novgorod, by way of
Moscow, thence taking steamer down the great Volga, a twelve-hour
journey, to that city where they make bells and ikons, Kazan.
Rasputin had put on his oldest and most ragged monk's habit, and carried
a staff. Over his threadbare dress he wore another of finer texture which
it was his intention to discard ere entering before the shrine, in order
to appear most lowly and humble in the eyes of the shrewd Tsaritza. We
left Petrograd at night, that our departure should not be known and
commented upon, but ere we did so I received a note from the General to
the effect that the director of Secret Police at Tsarskoe-Selo had
telephoned that Her Majesty was not leaving till the following day.
Hence we were travelling a day ahead of the Empress.
Kazan is a city full of the odour of sanctity if judged by the number of
priests and monks one meets in its streets. It is situated about seven
versts from the river, an old-world picturesque place wherein one rubs
shoulders with people in all sorts of curious costumes, especially in the
Tartar suburb where the low houses border upon narrow unpaved streets
dotted here and there with mosques.
On arrival we drove up the hill to the great Preobrazhensky Monastery
where Rasputin, as became a holy man, sought hospitality and was
immediately very warmly welcomed, while I afterwards went on to the Hotel
Frantsiya, in the long busy Vozkrensenkaya, where I took a room in order
to watch the arrival of Alexandra Feodorovna, who would travel incognita,
and of whose coming I was to give warning to Grichka.
For two days I waited, ever on the alert, and, of course, interested in
the adventure. It is not always that one waits in an hotel in expectation
of the arrival of an empress. Meanwhile I had made friends with the hotel
clerk, without, of course, explaining my business, and he had promised to
tell me of all new arrivals.
The Frantsiya is a very comfortable hotel, conducted upon French lines,
and the two days I spent in Kazan were certainly quite enjoyable ones.
On the evening of the third day my friend the hotel clerk sent a message
to my room, and in response I at once descended to the bureau, when he
informed me that the ladies had just arrived, a Madame Strepoff, and her
maid Mademoiselle Kamensky. He described the first-named, and I at once
recognised her as the Tsaritza herself, though, of course, the tall, pale
young man had no idea of her identity. I had merely told him that I
expected the arrival of a lady whom I had met in Moscow some time ago.
"Madame has taken the best suite of rooms in the hotel," the clerk said.
"She is evidently an aristocrat though she is only Madame Strepoff. I
have just sent their passports to the police."
The hour was immediately before dinner, therefore I lounged about the
entrance hall awaiting the appearance of the two travellers who, the
clerk had told me, had not ordered dinner in their rooms, so evidently
they intended to dine in the public restaurant.
Just after half-past seven they descended the broad staircase. There was
but little difference in their ages. In an instant I recognised the
handsome Empress by the many photographs I had seen. The other, dark and
also good-looking, was evidently a lady-in-waiting, a lady whom I
afterwards met at Court.
The pair, dressed inconspicuously in black, seated themselves at a little
_table à deux_ in the window, while I followed, and having selected a
table opposite, ate my meal as I watched.
The Empress in incognita seemed in high spirits, perhaps because she had
escaped from the Imperial Court. She chatted confidentially with her
companion, and more than once cast an inquiring glance in my direction,
as though wondering whether I were not an agent of the Okhrana, the
ubiquitous secret police of the Empire. It is only too true that wherever
one goes in Russia one is "shadowed" by the police, and Her Majesty knew
full well that the bureau of "personal police" at Tsarskoe-Selo would
know that she had left the palace and would keep an eye upon her, because
just about that period the air was full of plots against the dynasty.
The Empress and her bosom friend Mademoiselle Zéneide Kamensky--whom I
afterwards knew her to be--finished their meal unrecognised by the
servants, or any of those in the restaurant, and then returned to their
rooms. Afterwards I took a droshky up to the Preobrazhensky Monastery,
which I reached about ten o'clock. The old monk who answered my ring at
the barred door returned with a message from Rasputin to the effect that
I was to tell him the object of my visit. This I refused to do, and
became insistent upon seeing him. Such hesitation on Rasputin's part
greatly surprised me. Indeed, it was not before nearly half an hour had
elapsed that the long-bearded old janitor unwillingly conducted me
through the long, bare corridors of the monastery where my footsteps on
the flags awakened the echoes, and after several turns ushered me into a
small, well-furnished room, wherein, in an armchair before the stove, sat
the charlatan who was posing as the Saviour of Russia.
In an instant I realised that he was in an advanced state of
intoxication. As I entered he rose unsteadily, and addressing me declared
that life in the Spasso-Preobrazhensky was most pleasant, and at once
began singing a ribald song.
I stood aghast. This was the man who, by the scheming of Stürmer and his
catspaw, was to be introduced to the Imperial Court! So fuddled was he by
vodka that he was unable to understand the purport of my visit. He merely
laughed inanely and began to repeat parrot-like those curious prayers
which he recited at the weekly reunions of the sister-disciples--passages
culled haphazard from Holy Writ, interspersed with the most obscene and
ribald allegations, a jumble of piety and blasphemy that none could ever
understand.
Soon I realised the hopelessness of the situation. This was the first I
knew that the "saint" was addicted to alcohol, although he drank wine
freely at meals and always kept champagne for his friends, paid for out
of his collections for charity. In his inebriated state his wild-looking
eyes glowed like coals, and as he looked at me I experienced once more
the strange sensation of being enthralled. Truly, there was something
mesmeric about that gaze of his, a mystery that I have never solved.
A priest entered after I had been there a few minutes, and to him I
remarked that the Father being "rather unwell" I would return early next
day. He smiled meaningly, and I departed.
Having no knowledge of what hour the Empress intended to visit the shrine
of Our Lady, I was back again at the monastery at dawn when I found the
Starets had quite recovered. As soon as I told him of the presence of the
Tsaritza he bustled about, and in his oldest robe, rusty, travel-worn and
frayed, he accompanied me to the fine church of Bogoroditsky.
It was then only seven o'clock, and we found the church with its many
candles and its much venerated shrine quite deserted save for one or two
peasant women who had halted to pray on their way to work.
Outside we stood together gazing down the long white road which led from
the direction of the Hotel Frantsiya.
"Alexandra Feodorovna must certainly come this way," remarked the ragged
"saint" as I stood at his side. "Remain here and keep watch. I shall go
to yonder house and speak with the people. When the carriage approaches,
let me know quickly."
Then leaving me the Starets crossed to a small house which he entered to
give its inmates his blessing--blessing forsooth from such an unholy,
unwashed scoundrel!
Through an hour I waited in patience, until in the distance I saw a
carriage approaching, and at once gave warning, whereupon the Father
entered the church and threw himself upon his knees devoutly before the
holy shrine and began to pray earnestly aloud in his deep bass.
I had entered after him, and secreting myself behind one of the massive
pillars watched the arrival of the two females in dead black, who,
crossing themselves as they entered, approached the shrine.
As they did so Rasputin, apparently unconscious of their presence, cried
in a loud voice:
"O God! in Thy gracious bounty give unto our Imperial House of Romanoff a
son--one who shall in due time wear the glorious crown of the Tsars and
become the Sovereign Defender of All the Russias against our enemies. In
this my prayer I most humbly echo the voice of Russia's millions, whose
dearest wish is that a son be born unto our Imperial House. O God, I
beseech thee to grant us our request!"
From my place of concealment I saw the Tsaritza start visibly. She wore a
veil, so that I could not see her countenance. She had halted, entranced
by overhearing that prayer uttered by the unkempt stranger. I noticed
that she whispered a word to her companion, who, like herself, was
veiled, and then Her Majesty threw herself upon her knees, an example
followed by Mademoiselle Kamensky.
The Empress, her head bowed in silence, knelt before the weird impressive
shrine, side by side with the Starets. The great church was dark save for
the light of the myriad candles, and silent save for the twittering of a
bird, yet I could see that the pious exhortation of Rasputin had been
taken as an omen by Her Majesty.
Suddenly, the mock saint's voice again rang out clearly in the great
cavernous basilica as he repeated the prayer in clear impassioned
words--that same prayer which the Empress was repeating in silence.
Only the three knelt there. For a full ten minutes silence again reigned.
Neither of the kneeling figures stirred until Rasputin crossed himself
slowly, and for a third time, raising his voice still higher he besought
the Almighty to grant Russia an heir to the Throne.
Then, at last, he rose with slow dignity as became a saintly priest, and
again he made the sign of the cross.
As he did so the Empress who had raised her veil turned her head,
whereupon he halted for several seconds and gazed straight into her face
with that intense, hypnotic stare which always held women in such
mysterious fascination. I saw that the Empress was again startled, but
folding his hands across his breast, an attitude habitual to him, the
Starets passed out of the church without a second glance at her, leaving
her breathless and trembling.
When he had gone she turned in alarm and whispered with her
lady-in-waiting. Both women rose, and, following the monk, stood gazing
at his receding figure as he went down the long white road.
"A strange man surely, Zéneide!" I heard the Empress exclaim. "How
curious that, unconscious of my presence, he should be here, praying for
me--a holy man without a doubt! We must discover who he is. What eyes!
Did you notice them?"
"Yes. His gaze really frightened me," her companion admitted.
"Ah! His is the face of a true saint--a wonder-worker! Of that I am
certain. We must make inquiries concerning him," remarked Her Majesty. "I
must see him again and speak with him!"
Then the pair, entering the carriage, drove rapidly away.
While standing upon the church steps they had discussed the Starets while
I had lounged close by unnoticed, believing that we were alone.
As the carriage moved off, however, I was startled to feel strong hands
laid heavily upon me, as a rough voice exclaimed:
"Halt! You are under arrest!"
Next second I became aware that I was in the hands of two rather well
dressed men, no doubt agents of the Okhrana.
"You have been loitering here with evil intent!" exclaimed the elder of
the pair. "We have been watching you ever since you entered behind that
good Father. We saw you secrete yourself. Have you any firearms?"
I unfortunately had a revolver, and at once produced it.
"Ah!" exclaimed the brown-bearded agent of Secret Police as he took
possession of it. "I thought so! You had discovered the identity of the
lady with the long veil, and have been here awaiting an opportunity to
fire at her!"
"What?" I gasped, aghast at the serious charge levelled against me. "I am
no revolutionist! I carry that weapon merely for my self-protection."
The bearded man gave a low whistle, and next moment three grey-coated
policemen in uniform sprang up from nowhere, and I was unceremoniously
marched through the streets to the head police bureau in the Gostiny
Dvor, well knowing the seriousness of the allegation against me.
Two hours later I was taken to the dark-panelled room of the Chief of
Police, a bald-headed, flabby-faced functionary in a dark blue uniform
glittering with decorations. Before his big table, standing between two
policemen, I answered question after question he put to me, my replies
being carefully noted by a clerk who sat at a side table. In the room
were also the two officers of the Okhrana who had travelled, unknown to
the Empress, in order to keep Her Majesty beneath their surveillance.
"Why did you arrive at the Frantsiya and await the coming of the two
ladies?" snapped the Chief of Police in his peculiarly offensive manner.
I was at loss what to say. I was unable to tell the truth lest I should
betray the plot of Boris Stürmer and General Kouropatkine. I recollected
my friendship with the hotel clerk, and my eagerness for the arrival of
the travellers.
"Ah! You hesitate!" said the all-powerful functionary with a sinister
grin, and knowing what I did of the political police and their arbitrary
measures towards those suspected, I realised that I was in very grave
danger.
"You had secret knowledge of Her Majesty's journey incognita, or you
would not have been watching in the church with a loaded revolver in your
pocket," he went on. "Your Brothers of Freedom, as you term them, never
lack knowledge of Their Majesties' movements," my inquisitor said.
"I deny, your Excellency, that I was there with any evil intent," I
protested. "Such a thing as you suggest never for a second entered my
mind."
The man in the brilliant uniform laughed, saying:
"I have heard that same declaration before. It is a clever plot, no
doubt, but fortunately you were watched, and the knowledge that you were
being watched prevented you from putting your plans into execution.
Come--confess!"
"I had no idea that I was being watched until I was arrested," I
declared.
"But you cannot explain the reason why you travelled from Petrograd to
Kazan. Let us hear your excuse," he said with increased sarcasm.
"I have no excuse," was my very lame reply. I was wondering what had
become of the Starets. It was quite evident that they knew nothing of my
double journey up to the monastery, and further, there was no suspicion
against Rasputin. That being so I hesitated to explain the truth, in the
faint hope that Kouropatkine, as Minister of War, would hear of my
arrest, and contrive to obtain my release. I saw that, at least, I ought
to remain loyal to those who employed me, and further, even if I told the
truth it would not be believed.
"It will be best to make some inquiries in Petrograd regarding this
individual," suggested the police agent who had arrested me.
"I really don't think that is necessary," replied the Chief of Police of
Kazan, tapping his desk impatiently with his pen, as he turned to me and
said:
"Now, tell me quickly, young man. Why are you here?"
What could I reply?
"Ah!" he said, smiling. "I see that there are others whom you refuse to
implicate. It is useless to send such people as you for trial."
"But I demand a fair trial!" I cried in desperation, a cold sweat
breaking out on my brow, because I knew that he had power to pass
sentence upon me as a political suspect who refused information--and that
his order would certainly be confirmed by the Minister of the Interior.
Too well did I know the drastic powers of the Chiefs of Police of the
principal cities.
At my demand the bald-headed man simply smiled, and replied:
"My order is that you be conveyed to Schlüsselburg. You will there have
plenty of leisure in which to repent not having replied to my questions."
To Schlüsselburg! My heart fell within me. Once within that dreaded
fortress, the terrible oubliettes of which are below the surface of the
Lake Ladoga, my identity would be lost and I should be quickly forgotten.
From Schlüsselburg no prisoner ever returned!
Would any of the conspiring trio, whose tool I had been, raise a finger
to save me? Or would they consider that having served their purpose it
would be to their advantage if my lips were closed?
"Schlüsselburg!" I gasped. "No--no, not that!" I cried. "I am
innocent--quite innocent!"
"You give no proof of it," coldly replied the Chief of Police, rising as
a sign that the inquiry was at an end. "My orders are that you be sent to
Schlüsselburg without delay." Then, turning to the two agents of the
Okhrana, he added: "You will report this to your director at
Tsarskoe-Selo. I will send my order to the Ministry for confirmation
to-night. Take the prisoner away!"
And next moment I was bundled down to a dirty cell in the basement, there
to await conveyance to that most dreaded of all the prisons in the
Empire.
By a single stroke of the pen I had been condemned to imprisonment for
life!