There may be those in official circles who will suggest that a case
of mistaken identity is exhibited in the following quotation from
the letter. "It is in a sort of arboreal enclosure, with all sorts of
flowers and vigorous vegetation that characterizes this region," the
letter reads. "Behind the ivy-covered wall that extends around the
gardens and shuts out all intruders, I got a glimpse of that man
through the heavy iron gate. He was smooth-shaven, slightly drooped,
sprinkled with gray and with a scar upon his forehead near the roots
of his hair--a little to one side. He was twirling a pruning knife in
his left hand and speaking in _English_ to a boy who scampered up to
him ahead of four beautiful girls and a very dignified woman moving
leisurely over the lawn in the direction of the gate.
"When the women reached the man's side they paused for a moment and
asked a few questions in _Russian_. He seemed to be listening very
attentively and answering only in monosyllables.
"Then I noticed the elder of the women unfold a well-known London
newspaper and move closer to his side. They began glancing over its
pages together and seemed to be deeply moved by an article they,
apparently, were reading as they walked slowly toward the gate.
Finally, when they were about ten feet from where I stood concealed
behind one of the massive palms, the man raised his head from the page
and, looking earnestly into the woman's eyes, exclaimed in a skeptical
tone: '_Il n'aurait jamais cru le fait si ces messieurs n'avaient
pu lui jurer L'avoir vu!... Tout ce que j'ai prédit!... Les faux
nobles,--les plagiaires_!' which means in English, "He couldn't have
believed the thing unless these gentlemen had sworn they witnessed
it!... All that I predicted!... The sham nobles!... the stealing
authors!" The comment set me thinking.
"Who _is_ he? I asked myself. Inside of five minutes I had heard him
speak in English, in Russian and in French! I am certain that he is
not a Frenchman,--although his accent would have proclaimed him a
native of the Avenue des Champs Elysées. He had a Danish countenance,
the eyes of English Royalty and the forehead of an early Christian
martyr.
"No one I have talked to on the island seems certain of his identity.
Some take the view that he is a retired millionaire, judging from the
refined simplicity of his family and the strict guard the Government
has furnished to protect his undisturbed retirement. Others hint that
he may be, possibly, some very high dignitary, judging from the
almost Royal homage that some people in the city pay to his person and
family.
"The only reliable information I got about him was that he arrived
upon the island aboard a man-o'-war accompanied by one of the richest
tea merchants in the Empire. He declines all membership in any of the
clubs, apparently satisfied to spend the time among his orchids and
the lovely white-robed debutantes I saw blooming in that fascinating
garden.
"Naturally I was very curious about the identity of this secluded
family. But the only information given out about them by the
chivalrous tea merchant or the Government officials is simply, 'Oh,
the family have friends in India and are living in retirement.'"
One would be very bold to say, after reading the foregoing, that the
personages described were the same people who had been driven out of
the Winter Palace upon the ebb-tide of their Imperial splendor a
few months before. Yet a long and somewhat intimate interest in the
underground diplomacy of the world will lead one thus engaged to piece
together stray bits of gossip that come from different sources to
check up the information that some others may possess. In this way
will the letter of an American who was held incommunicado at Geneva by
the Swiss Government in the latter part of 1919, be found exceedingly
persuasive in the process of reconstructing the tragic comedy which
struts around the vacant Russian throne. The American was en route to
Turkestan under proper credentials from the United States; yet there
were certain powerful combinations sufficiently interested in his
mission to cause his imprisonment for a time sufficiently lengthy to
enable their emissaries to precede him beyond the Caspian, where other
secret combinations were incubating that American foreign traders
would have given much to understand.
It was during this period of restraint that the American, whose name
we will call Fox, wrote to a friend in the United States: "You have
often heard me speak of my brother who was in Turkestan when the
Russian Revolution burst upon the world. He is now resting in Tasmania
after going through one of the most remarkable experiences ever given
to an ordinary _tea merchant_ intrusted with some secrets of _the
greatest land monopoly in the world_. You may call it a fairy tale;
and if you did not know me as a business man of ordinary sense, I
should hesitate to intimate that Nicholas R---- and all the family are
quite well, I thank you, not a million miles distant from my brother."
Fox had learned from his experience at Geneva that governments are
sometimes cajoled by diplomatic pressure to do undreamed-of things.
The dispatch of an expeditionary force to Siberia by the United States
without a declaration of war against the Revolutionists struck him
as an instance of this kind, and he knew his correspondent to be
sufficiently versed in the underground politics of Europe to look for
a connection between some member of that expedition and the subject
mentioned in the two foregoing letters. This connection was innocently
revealed by a newspaper report from a Western city concerning
a wounded soldier who had recently returned to an American Army
hospital. The particular name being given, it was easy enough for
Fox's correspondent to meet the soldier on some errand of mercy and to
obtain the revelations that are hereinafter made.
The soldier was a young commissioned officer who was having an
artificial jaw supplied to replace the one shot off in a Bolshevik
encounter. He had greatly recovered when the call was made and an
opening naturally presented for the soldier to recount the part he
played in the adventure of his country in the Revolutionary drama of
that hour.
"I'm as certain as I'm living," the wounded soldier said, "that a
Bolshevik is as 'nutty' as a rabbit. The fellow I had by the neck
before my lights went out was putting up a holler, in German, and
claiming to be a personal friend of some personal friend of the
missing Czar. Before he finally passed in his chips he gave me a
bundle of paper _diaries_ he had stolen down in China, and he asked me
to return them to their rightful owner so that he might die without
a sin upon his conscience. Honestly, that chap was dead in earnest
in this matter of his conscience. I took the stuff, of course; but I
never thought about them until the other day. Since then they seem to
haunt me. I wonder if you'd mind looking them over if the nurse'd get
them out?"
"With pleasure," was the reply.
The nurse brought in an old leather bag, from which the Captain
extracted two begrimed and blood-smeared rolls written in a very small
but strong and vigorous hand.
While looking over the documents in a casual way a loose leaf fell to
the floor. Upon picking it up, there was found to be written on one
side in bold underscored letters:
"Make no belief in the evidence that was manufactured to
satisfy some bloodthirsty men in Russia. What I have seen with
my own eyes I know is true. For the sake of Russia I stoled
these papers from the man come from the West who was with them
all the way from 'Yekaterinburg to Chunking. What he write is
true.
"DONETSKY"
"That's his name," the Captain said, "and if you don't find that he
was as crazy as a bedbug I'll say I'm General Graves."
"This diary seems to be written in very good English."
"Yes," said the Captain, "all those fellows keep one. They're like the
Germans--give 'em a pencil and a piece of paper and they'll scribble
all day."
"Did he say who wrote this?"
"No; he cashed in, as I told you; but you'll see the name of Fox here
and there through the diary that's written in the small hand."
"_Fox_--who was 'Fox'?"
"Search me! Some Johnny, I suppose."
"May I take these with me?"
"Sure thing! I'll make you a present of 'em. All I ask is, if you find
out whether that fellow 'Fox' grabs the peacherino from the Métropole
or the one called 'Maria' you'll send me an invitation."
The bargain was struck. Then the question was asked: "Any idea who
wrote this diary--the one written in a quick running hand?'
"Sounds like some fellow with a grouch against Kerensky and Lvov. I
know enough Russian to make out that much--"
"Evidently one of the Revolutionary officials?"
"Seems so," the Captain said. "You'll notice what he has to say about
the mixup with the Russian Royal family at Tobolsk and Tumen. There's
a lot of our fellows who don't take any stock in that assassination
business at 'Katerinburg."
"I began to read: 'I had walked from Euston Station to Madame
Tussaud's, when the messenger jumped from his motorcycle and rushed up
to me--' Your diarist starts out in London, I see."
"Yes, he is some globe trotter--"
"'"Go to Birdcage and walk slowly back to Queen Victoria Memorial.
As you pass Buckingham, observe the heavily veiled lady wearing white
lace wristlets who will follow on behind. Let her overtake you. If she
utters _the correct phrase_, go with her at once to Admiralty Arch
and follow the Life Guard to the War Office. Meet number ... there;
receive a small orange-colored packet, _wear the shirt he gives you_,
and cross the Channel at once"'--I see! From Buckingham Palace to the
War Office; sounds interesting."
"It is; that fellow is all there!" complimented the Captain.
"'The meeting at the _Huis ten-Bosch_ points to Wilhelmstrasse.
Nothing can be done here. They suspect Downing Street.'--Ah, at The
Hague, and at the _ten-Bosch_ too, where the Czar and Andrew Carnegie
held their first Peace Conference in 1899; this looks significant!"
"Keep going," said the Captain; "that fellow's got 'The Man in the
Iron Mask' brushed off the map."
"Here is something singular about Berlin. Your man walks through the
lines like a wraith--"
"Not always. As you get into his stuff you'll hear things sizzle."
And thus the Imperial dead return to life through the pages of these
stolen diaries.
While the temptation is great to revise the manuscript, so as to make
it read more smoothly, it has been decided not to alter a line or
letter. Truth will be better served by publishing what is prudent,
under the complicated political circumstances of our times, _word_ for
_word_ as it was written by its daring author.