[Illustration: Yours very sincerely]
William Le Queux
THINGS I KNOW
THINGS I KNOW
ABOUT KINGS, CELEBRITIES,
AND CROOKS
BY
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
LONDON
EVELEIGH NASH AND GRAYSON
LIMITED
1923
_Copyright in the United States of America
by William Le Queux, 1923._
_All translation rights reserved._
_Made and Printed in Great Britain by
Southampton Times Limited, Southampton._
To
MY DEAR FRIENDS
SIR WILLIAM & LADY EARNSHAW COOPER,
OF CASTLE CAREY, GUERNSEY,
I DEDICATE
THESE FEW REMINISCENCES OF
A WANDERING LIFE.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. WHAT I KNOW ABOUT KINGS 13
II. MORE ABOUT KINGS 31
III. AMONG REAL BRIGANDS 44
IV. IN SAVAGE EUROPE 57
V. THE LOVE ROMANCE OF KING PETER OF
SERBIA 67
VI. SOME SECRET HISTORY 77
VII. EVENINGS WITH “CARMEN SYLVA,” QUEEN OF
ROUMANIA 91
VIII. WHAT THE SULTAN OF TURKEY TOLD ME 105
IX. SECRETS OF WELL-KNOWN WOMEN 121
X. OTHER STORIES OF NOTABLE WOMEN 131
XI. ADVENTURES: HUMOROUS AND CURIOUS 147
XII. ADVENTURES IN JOURNALISM 162
XIII. AMONG EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS 187
XIV. CRIMINALS I HAVE MET 204
XV. MORE CRIMINALS I HAVE MET 222
XVI. SPIES AND SPYING 235
XVII. ABOUT OTHER SPIES AND THE TRUTH
CONCERNING “JACK THE RIPPER” 258
XVIII. STORIES OF FAMOUS FOLK 273
XIX. ADVENTURES IN CLUBLAND 286
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
WILLIAM LE QUEUX _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
PRINCESS LUISA OF SAXONY 35
VATT MARASHI, CHIEF OF THE SKRELI BRIGANDS 59
THE BRIGAND WOMAN WHO CARRIED ON THE BLOOD
FEUD 59
PETKOFF, PRIME MINISTER OF BULGARIA 88
MY BRIGAND BODYGUARD IN NORTHERN ALBANIA 88
KING NICHOLAS OF MONTENEGRO 105
TEWFIK PASHA 105
MR. LE QUEUX HELPING THE FRENCH POLICE TO
EXCAVATE AT LANDRU’S VILLA 230
CRIPPEN, THE POISONER 230
EXTRACTS OF LORD ROBERTS’ FAMOUS LETTER OF
WARNING 247
CARICATURE OF WILLIAM LE QUEUX 299
PREFACE
In writing of these episodes in the career of a wanderer over the
face of Europe, my object is to entertain and perhaps amuse many of
my unknown friends and correspondents who, scattered over the world,
have, from time to time, written me encouraging words of appreciation
concerning my works of fiction. To them, I would reveal certain
facts, some grave and some gay, which may be found of interest. To do
so, I propose to take my reader behind the scenes of some particular
phases of life with which he may be unfamiliar.
And let me say at the outset, these records of an eventful though
perhaps erratic life contain nothing but fact. I have led, and still
lead, a wandering life. My custom has ever been never to have even a
_pied-à-terre_ in one place longer than a year, and even during that
time to travel as much as possible. I may accurately call myself a
cosmopolitan, since when my hat is on my roof is on.
But these modest reminiscences are mainly about other people, and,
although I find myself compelled to use the first person singular
much more often than I desire, I pen them with the fervent hope that
they may be taken as a little arm-chair chat about modern men and
modern matters, rather than essays in autobiography.
Nobody, I am sure, cares a jot when I cut my first tooth or where
I learned to walk. No genealogical tree or tradition of race is
necessary--though my unusual name means in Norman-French “the King’s
head cook,” and I can trace my ancestors through centuries. But of
what use is it in these democratic days, when duke’s son and cook’s
son are on equality, and the “Red Flag” is sung in the House of
Commons?
However, while thus casually mentioning my name, it may not be
inappropriate to quote the following explanatory stanzas by a poet
unknown to me:
It troubles each sex,
So I put it to you,
Is it William Le Quex
Or William Le Queux?
I give you the cue,
So no longer perplex,
It is William Le Queux,
Not William Le Quex.
And for those who want to know who I am, I cannot do better than
refer them to the paragraph in that useful and entertaining annual,
_Who’s Who_.
=LE QUEUX, William Tufnell=; novelist; traveller; Commander
of the Orders of St. Sava of Serbia; Danilo of Montenegro;
Crown of Italy; San Marino Order, etc. Consul of Republic of
San Marino, retired; _b._ London, 2nd July, 1864; _e.s._ of
William Le Queux of Châteauroux, Indre. _Educ._: privately
in London; Pegli, near Genoa. Studied art in the Quartier
Latin; made a tour through France, Germany, and Italy on
foot; became journalist and special correspondent of _The
Globe_, 1891; special foreign correspondent of _The Times_;
resigned to devote his time to novel writing, 1893. Secretary
to British diplomatic mission to San Marino. Has travelled in
Russia, Algeria, Morocco, Tunisia, Siberia, the Areg region
of the Sahara Desert, Asia Minor, etc.; journeyed through
Macedonia, Montenegro, Serbia, Albania on special Government
Mission, 1907; Arctic (with Harry de Windt), 1908; Sûdan,
1909. Correspondent of the _Daily Mail_ in various capitals,
and war correspondent in the first Balkan War. Collector of
mediæval manuscripts, codices, and monastic seals, of which
he possesses a large and valuable collection; has intimate
knowledge of the Secret Service of other Continental Powers;
consulted by the Government in such matters. Forecasted the
Great War in his book, _The Invasion_, 1910. Is a keen student
of criminology, and also well known in wireless research.
Is a qualified wireless engineer, and was the first to
broadcast concerts over Great Britain and Ireland from his
powerful radio station 2AZ at Guildford in 1920–21 in the
early days of radio-telephony. Writes and lectures on wireless
research, and on spies and spying. Member of the Institute of
Radio Engineers. Author of over 130 novels and many kinema
films. President of the Wireless Alliance, Vice-President of
the Radio Association. President of many wireless research
societies.
_Recreations_: Pistol practice; ski-ing in Switzerland; the
study of Egyptology, and wireless research. _Clubs_: Mürren
Ski-Club; Swiss Alpine Club; British Ski Association; Crimes
Club; Tatlers’ Club. _Address_: Devonshire Club, London.
And with these words I make my bow, and set forth facts that,
without embellishment or distortion, may, I sincerely hope, prove
entertaining.
At all events, I simply tell of things I know.
WILLIAM LE QUEUX.
DEVONSHIRE CLUB,
LONDON, S.W.
CHAPTER ONE
What I Know about Kings--My Audience with the late Tzar--An
Emperor at Home--What he told me--A Chat with the King
of Italy--He gives me a Decoration--His Majesty’s
Troubles--King Edward and the Lost Letters--His Debts to
Baron Hirsch--Queen Victoria and her Sunshade.
My first acquaintance with any royalty was my presentation to the
Crown-Prince of Saxony, now King, by his wife, who, as Princess Luisa
of Tuscany, I had known as a girl--the pretty Austrian Archduchess,
who had charmed all hearts, nearly married King Ferdinand of
Bulgaria, and of whom I intend to gossip in another chapter. I was
asked by the Princess to call on her at the Royal Palace at Dresden
after her marriage, and spent a couple of pleasant hours with her and
her husband, then Crown Prince. The latter expressed himself charmed
to meet me, his wife having often spoken of me, and I thoroughly
enjoyed my visit, for after the first formal reception I was invited
to their private apartments, where the Princess made me thoroughly at
home.
We gossiped about such friends as we both knew in England and in
Italy, for Her Highness came to London each year _incognita_, and on
me had devolved the duty of looking after her general welfare. But
more of her adventurous life anon.
The second royal personage of whom I had audience was the late
Emperor of Russia.
Well I remember how one morning a tall, handsome officer of the
Imperial Guard entered my room at the Hôtel de l’Europe on the
Nevski, in Petrograd, and handed me a formidable envelope which
contained a command that I should present myself at the Palace of
Tzarskoye Selo (the Village of the Tzar) on the following afternoon
at three o’clock. And well also do I recollect being met at the
station by one of the Imperial carriages, and being driven to the
entrance of the great park, where I was met by an officer and
conducted past endless sentry-posts. I confess that I felt very ill
at ease when at last I stood in a small but gorgeous room, a pitiable
figure wearing my best dress-suit in the day-time. The two foreign
orders that I then possessed looked very much like brass, and I was
terribly conscious that in the daylight the ribbons had lost their
freshness.
With me was Count de Redetski, a fine, handsome man in uniform, with
a gold-braided tunic--one of the Imperial chamberlains, who chatted
with me as we waited.
“As this is a private audience, I do not expect His Majesty will
wear uniform,” he told me, which rather reassured me, for I think I
had visions of the Tzar of All the Russias wearing a golden robe and
perhaps a diamond crown.
A few moments later I was conducted along a softly-carpeted corridor
to a door, at which stood two statuesque sentries who saluted as we
passed, and I was shown in. Next moment a short bearded man, in a
rough brown shooting-suit, stood before me with a smile of welcome.
It was His Majesty the Tzar!
He expressed pleasure at my visit. Meanwhile I was conscious that I
was in His Majesty’s private cabinet, a magnificent blue-and-gold
apartment, with tables and chandelier of lapis lazuli, a parquet
floor, and pillars of violet glass. In the centre of the three long
windows, which gave an extensive view across the great lake, where
picturesque fountains were playing, was set a huge writing-table,
littered with papers, for the Emperor was, if nothing else, a busy
man.
“I have been told that you have been in Russia before,” he said
in English, with a gracious smile. “To Siberia, was it not--in my
father’s days?”
“Yes, your Majesty,” I replied, wondering who had told him of my
journey into Siberia by road many years before.
“And you have lately been in Russia with one of our good friends, Mr.
Harry de Windt,” he remarked. “I have read his books. He is always
very kind to us. And you, too, have always been kind to us--except
when you criticized our policy against the revolutionists,” said the
Tzar with a smile. “You have written a book warning us that war will
come between Germany and England. It was sent to me from London. I
may tell you that I agree entirely with Lord Roberts. Germany is
preparing for war, and Britain turns a blind eye to everything. But,
of course, I beg of you not to publish this. Our conversation is
entirely private, remember!” and he laughed.
I at once gave my word of honour not to publish a word of the
interview, and have not done so till now, when his tragic death has
removed the seal of secrecy from my pen.
Becoming reassured that I was not out for a sensational interview,
he spoke his mind freely. He did not criticize British politicians
or their politics, but it was quite evident to me that he distrusted
Germany. He referred to many facts of which I was in ignorance,
but which were of intense interest to the whole world, and such
sensational words, coming from the lips of the Tzar himself, would
have been eagerly read everywhere if only I had had permission to
publish them.
More than once he confessed that though he had given audiences to
several journalists, including the late Mr. W. T. Stead, he always
looked askance at everybody who wrote. Indeed, as he chatted,
displaying shrewd insight into the most difficult problems of
international politics, he twice repeated: “Of course I rely on your
promise of secrecy!”
He held Sir Edward Grey and Mr. A. J. Balfour in very high esteem;
and, referring to his own wide Empire, he said with a slight sigh of
regret:
“You British do not, I fear, understand us. We are not like you--we
are such a complex nation, such a mixture of European and Oriental,
and, alas! so far behind in civilization as you in England and in
America know it.”
He had seated himself at his table, while I, as etiquette demanded,
still stood.
The telephone rang, and he answered it.
He spoke so rapidly in Russian that I could only distinguish one or
two words. He seemed to become petulant at what he heard, for when he
replaced the instrument he turned to me, and smilingly said:
“Mr. Graham Bell was not really kind to us when he invented
telephones. I hate them!”
We chatted for a full half-hour, till I forgot that I was in the
presence of the ruler of over a hundred and fifty millions of
souls. While we were speaking, a beautiful Persian cat appeared
from nowhere, and with a leap landed on the Emperor’s knee. It was
evidently his pet, for he called it by name, and stroked it fondly as
he talked.
That was, perhaps, one of the most interesting half-hours in all my
crowded life; and when, to-day, I think of the gorgeousness of the
Imperial Palace of Tzarskoye Selo--and compare it with the horrible
fate of the Emperor and of his family--I sometimes feel that it is
impossible that the Romanoffs can have so completely and brutally
been exterminated by the poisonous serpent of Bolshevism.
I have the words still in my memory that the Tzar Nicholas spoke
before I backed out of his presence:
“The greatest misfortune,” said he, “is to have many wants and little
power; the greatest good fortune is to have much power and few wants.”
* * * * *
The next reigning monarch to accord me an audience was His Majesty
King Victor Emanuel of Italy. Again I was to be received privately,
not officially, and the presentation came from the Queen of Italy
herself, who was daughter of King Nicholas of Montenegro.
In the previous year I had been up in the Black Mountains, at
Cettigné, the Montenegrin capital, on a special mission from home,
and had there, in the peasant kingdom, met Her Majesty, who happened
to be on a visit to her father and mother. Therefore one winter’s day
at noon, I found myself driving in a car from the Grand Hotel to the
Quirinal Palace.
When a man wears evening dress at noon, he never feels comfortable.
I might have worn my gorgeous green-and-gold-embroidered uniform, as
Consul of the tiny Republic of San Marino, and felt that at least
I was cutting a pretty good figure among all the smartly-uniformed
officers and gorgeous flunkeys of the Royal Palace, but my uniform
is so gorgeous that I confess I dared not appear in it before His
Majesty! Only a few months before I had worn it at the Foreign Office
reception at Whitehall, and the Russian Ambassador, after inspecting
me, had said:
“Well, Mr. Le Queux, I thought I had a gorgeous uniform, but you
certainly beat me on all points! I especially like your feather!” He
referred to the white ostrich feather of my cocked hat.
But to resume. Feeling hopelessly badly dressed, and painfully
conscious that one button of my patent-leather boot was unfastened,
I passed into the Palace, between two rows of bowing servants, and
was met by a smart young officer, Count Gilardoni, who took me
to Marquis Mattioli Pasqualini, the acting Minister of the Royal
Household, whom I had known for several years.
“Ah! Here you are, my dear friend!” exclaimed the old official, who
was in a uniform that had grown rather tight for him. “I’ll let you
into a secret. His Majesty is going to bestow on you the Order of the
Crown of Italy! The Duke of the Abruzzi has recommended you for it,
because of your work regarding wireless, and for your translation of
the Duke’s book on his Polar travels, _The Stella Polare_.”
Ere I could reply to the old Marquis, a man of great personal charm
and a Court official to his finger-tips, I found myself ushered into
a long, narrow, old-fashioned room, of which the outstanding features
were several porcelain bowls, filled with freshly-cut yellow roses.
The sweet perfume of the flowers pervaded the apartment, though it
was winter and the room apparently a reception-room pure and simple.
There was no sign of a writing-table or of any business litter. In
the centre stood a man with an alert military figure, in a dark blue
serge suit, with the eager, clever face that is made familiar to one
by Italy’s postage-stamps.
He advanced to me with outstretched hand, and as I bent over it, he
exclaimed in Italian:
“I am very pleased to receive you, Signor Le Queux, because you have
so long been a good friend to Italy.”
“I fear I am not such a good friend as I should like to be, your
Majesty,” I replied. “I always do my best to place Italy in her true
light to my own people, and to those who read my books in America.”
“I know you do,” said he quickly. “I know how you have described in
such vivid language the beauties of my country and the charm of my
people. Yes, our _contadini_ have a charm all to themselves, one that
must appeal to you writers of romance. I told the same to Zola when
I saw him in Paris when I was Crown Prince. Your writer Ouida also
did very much for our Italy. She was the only one foreign writer who
really understood our _contadini_. Poor lady! She died in Lucca--did
she not?”
I replied in the affirmative.
“Yes, she was a little eccentric--eh? The Prefect told me how she
kept a dozen cats and dogs, and dressed as a _contadina_, and how Mr.
Labouchere tried to give her some work, but she refused it. Is that
true?”
I replied that it had unfortunately been so.
“Ah! And yet I recollect, when I was Crown Prince, that she reigned
queen of Society in Firenze. I was once taken to one of her
receptions in her palazzo, on the Lung’ Arno. I was only young then,
but I recollect wondering how a writer of fiction could make such a
social success.”
“Then your Majesty has perhaps read some of her books?” I inquired.
“I have them all in my library. They were my father’s. He loved them.
I think I like _Pascarel_ best of all, and _Signa_ next. She was
bitter against Mrs. Ross, wasn’t she?” he laughed.
All Italy knew the deadly feud between the two ladies, and it had
evidently reached the King’s ears.
“Among the learned, the most highly-born is not the greatest, but he
who knows the most. Do you agree, Signor Le Queux?” he laughed.
I agreed, feeling that the King of Italy, who was so gracious to me,
was one of the best-informed monarchs in Europe.
As I stood on that thick vieux-rose carpet, while he, dressed in
a dark blue lounge suit, sat on the arm of a big padded chair,
evidently his own pet chair, I watched his typically military
mannerisms.
“I have heard that it was due to your personal efforts that your
Mansion House Fund was started, for those who suffered by the
earthquake in Calabria,” he remarked suddenly. “I wish to thank you,
and also for your keen interest in Italy.”
“I did what I could, your Majesty,” I replied.
“Yes, I know that. But, oh!” and he drew a long breath and paused.
I wondered whether he knew the truth--a truth that I had
discovered--that bales upon bales of clothing, sent from England for
those rendered homeless by the terrible earthquake, had been for the
past year rotting on the quays at Naples.
“Yes,” he went on, “you English are always charitable. You are our
friends. But, alas! we have administrative scandals here, just as all
other countries have, and--well, perhaps ours may be even a little
worse.”
“I have lived much in Italy, your Majesty, and by observation I think
I must agree,” I said, smiling.
“Well, I will relate one. I don’t mind if you repeat what I tell
you,” he remarked suddenly, rising to his feet. “I went to Calabria
as soon as news of the earthquake reached me, and with some officials
motored through the devastated area. After two days my car came to a
fork in the road, one road an excellent, newly-made one running up to
the mountains, and the other, evidently an old road, going straight
on. Many of the mountain villages had been destroyed, so I determined
to take the higher road and explore. Now comes the scandal.”
His Majesty paused, and knit his brows.
“A member of my suite declared that there were no villages up there.
I asked why, if there were none, that the fine military road had
been made, evidently quite recently. My question nonplussed him, and
it became apparent that he had some motive in trying to prevent me
taking that road. Therefore I ordered the chauffeur to drive on, and
within ten minutes I realised the reason. The road came to a sudden
end! On my return to Rome I had searching inquiries made, and found
that though a large sum of public money had been expended to make a
new road for forty-eight kilometres across the mountains, only five
kilometres had been constructed, and the money for the remainder had
gone into somebody’s pocket! My countrymen are honest, Signor Le
Queux, but, alas! my politicians are very often the reverse!”
Those words were spoken to me shortly before the war, therefore those
who know the King of Italy were not surprised that in 1919 he had
serious thoughts of abdicating on account of the wholesale scandals
of his country’s administration, and the treachery and bribery
everywhere rampant. Italy fought as only patriots can fight. They
defeated the Austrians against overwhelming odds. But their successes
were negatived by the pack of unscrupulous financial adventurers
and jackals in the Chamber of Deputies at Rome. The King, alert and
intelligent as he is, knew it, and for that reason he has welcomed
with open hand Signor Mussolini, and the splendid Italian Fascisti,
who are known as “The Black Shirts.” Truly, wind, women, and fortune
change quickly.
On that occasion His Majesty invested me with the Order of the Crown
of Italy, and in doing so made some very kind remarks, saying:
“Whenever you wear this, Signor Le Queux, I hope you will always
remember it is given you by one who is very grateful to you for your
services.”
I had perhaps been able to be of service to the Kingdom and people I
love so well, but this praise was hardly deserved.
However, I confess that such words, coming from the mouth of a ruling
monarch, were very gratifying.
I have since been to a number of the gay Court functions at the
Quirinal, and on each occasion His Majesty has greeted me kindly, and
in other ways extended to me every consideration.
In another interview I had with the King at San Rossore, his summer
residence near Pisa, he received me under a big cedar, in the
beautiful grounds near the sea. And as we sat together, I recollect
one phrase he used:
“You are a friend of Italy, while I am a friend of England! If you
can still endeavour to attract English visitors to Italy, I really
hope you will. By that you will do me a personal favour. Tell the
English that I always welcome them to my country, for I regard them
as my friends, and without friends life is impossible.”
In a monarch’s life a single hair casts a shadow, and no monarch in
all the world, next to our own King George, is more devoted to his
country’s interests that is King Victor Emanuel.
He set out to eliminate scandals from the Government departments
within a week of ascending the throne.
A few days after his father’s death, being an early riser, he went
down to the Ministry of the Interior, and at nine o’clock took his
place in the office-chair of one of the highest officials. At ten the
official had not arrived, at eleven he had made no appearance. So the
King left a scribbled note on his desk dismissing him, and adding
that Italy paid her officials to administer her affairs, and expected
them to do so, adding that he hoped it would be a warning to others!
* * * * *
One of the unsolved mysteries that evolve around royalty, and in
which I have played a part, concerns King Edward. Not many weeks
after his accession, while walking in the noisy Via Balbi, in Genoa,
I met a well-known member of the British Foreign Office staff, whose
name I am not at liberty to mention. He explained that he had been
sent to Italy on a secret mission, and that, as I knew Italian, and
was also doing secret-service work, I might assist him.
Then he explained to me that the object of his journey from London
was to secure, at all costs, certain letters that King Edward desired
to repossess. Naturally I pricked up my ears. Could it be that some
of His Majesty’s private letters were in the hands of blackmailers?
What was the nature of the scandal that His Majesty desired to
suppress at any cost?
My friend told me that his instructions, and the name of the man
who was believed to have the letters in his possession, had come
direct from His Majesty himself. The name of the man who held the
documents was Enrico Brussi, who lived at a village called La Rocca.
But as there are several villages of the same name in Italy, and the
province was not given, I anticipated that our search would probably
be a long one.
It proved so. We visited three La Roccas, each of them mountain
villages; one near Ravenna, another not far from Cuneo, and a third
at a remote spot in Umbria. The fourth we tried was in the Province
of Lucca, and as our dusty carriage wound slowly up the steep road
we could see the little white village, with its square-towered
church, perched on a steep rocky precipice, with a background of blue
mountains behind.
After a two hours’ climb we arrived, and, leaving the carriage
outside the village (for the ancient, evil-smelling streets were
very narrow and uneven, almost tunnels in some places), we at last
found the house of Enrico Brussi. It was small, but clean-looking,
and, having knocked at the door, we were admitted by an old _donna di
casa_, who informed us that her master was at home.
In a few moments a well-dressed, middle-aged man appeared,
whereupon my friend--introducing himself as Mr. Henderson from
London--explained, in Italian, that we had ventured to call because
we had heard that he had some interesting English letters in his
possession. He added that we were collectors of autographs, and were
travelling about Italy endeavouring to discover autographs of famous
persons.
The man Brussi looked askance at us. I could see that he did not
swallow our somewhat lame story.
“I am afraid that I have nothing to interest you, _signori_,” was his
quiet reply.
“But you have some letters in English, have you not?” eagerly asked
my companion.
“Yes, I have,” was his reply.
“They are the letters I want,” said my companion, not quite sure of
his ground. For it was our firm belief that this man belonged to some
foreign gang of blackmailers.
“They would not interest you,” said he briefly.
“But if I offer to buy them, are you prepared to sell them--all, not
only a few?”
The man Brussi smiled, and shook his head in the negative.
“My friend here is prepared to give a very good price,” I remarked.
“Will you not reconsider your decision?”
But he declined, and I began to see that we should have considerable
difficulty in getting him to part with the letters.
Knowing the Italian character as I did, I knew that he would not
suggest a price, lest it be lower than that we were prepared to
give, so I urged my friend to offer two hundred lire for the letters
without seeing them.
The man looked at us with undisguised astonishment, a fact that
struck me as somewhat curious. Then, as though with great reluctance,
he said:
“Well, if the _signore_ really wants them, I will sell them for four
hundred lire!”
We both pretended that it was far too high a price, yet, as a matter
of fact, my friend had in his pocket a wad of bank-notes of the value
of a thousand pounds in English money, and would have paid even
double that sum if it had been demanded.
At last we consented to pay four hundred lire for the whole of the
letters. We impressed on him that we must have them all, and he
promised us that he would keep none back.
While we waited in breathless anxiety he went upstairs, and presently
returned with a packet of letters, which he handed to my friend in
exchange for four one-hundred-lire notes.
Then we both hurried from the house with our precious packet, and as
soon as we were out of sight eagerly opened it. My friend glanced at
the first letter; his face fell, and with an expression of disgust
exclaimed:
“Bah! Look what we’ve got! _Look!_” he cried, handing me one.
To my dismay, I found it to be a letter written by the old Duke of
Kent, the King’s grandfather, to his head gardener at Kew! And all
the letters were of the same character! Instead of relating to some
scandal, as we were convinced they would, they turned out to be
merely orders to a gardener!
We re-entered our carriage, both feeling extremely annoyed. Next day
I saw my friend off from Pisa to London, bearing the precious packet
that eventually found its way into King Edward’s hands.
But how His Majesty knew where those letters were, or the real reason
of the confidential mission, neither my friend nor myself could ever
imagine.
We had many theories, but I do not suppose any were correct. Only
King Edward himself knew the reason, but I somehow feel that the
letters we recovered were not the letters of which he had hoped to
regain possession.
Another mystery surrounded King Edward, but, this time, one I can
explain away.
King Edward, when Prince of Wales, like most princes, and, indeed,
nearly every commoner, frequently found himself short of money. But
how did he pay his debts? This question has puzzled many people, so
here let the truth be revealed.
Now, in common with many others, I have heard hard things said of
Jews, but, though I have known many, I have never experienced any
ill-will or ill-nature at their hands. The sins of the petty are
called great, and the sins of the great petty. It was so in the case
of King Edward. One of the wealthiest Jews of our time was the late
Baron de Hirsch, who, as most people know, was an intimate friend of
the King when he was still Prince of Wales--afterwards our splendid
sportsman-diplomat King, to whose memory every Briton lifts his hat.
His Royal Highness and the Baron were boon companions. They dined
together, shot together, and raced together, yet it is an open secret
that Queen Victoria, in her declining years, had conceived a very
great dislike for the successful financier, to whom the construction
of the Ottoman Railways had been due.
It was, in view of their friendship, therefore not surprising that,
when King Edward was short of funds, Baron Hirsch, like all Jews, was
ready to accommodate him. Notes of hand were signed time after time
by His Royal Highness. Thus the friendship between the pair became
a very close one, especially since Queen Victoria, though good, was
neither generous nor lavish, as you may judge from what I am about to
relate.
It was early spring on the Riviera, and I was, as usual, installed
in a little flat on the Promenade des Anglais, at Nice, where I was
working. The Queen had arrived, and was staying at the Excelsior
Hotel up at Cimiez, while the Prince of Wales and Baron Hirsch, who
travelled nearly every day to Monte Carlo, resided at Cannes.
I frequently saw them together at Ciro’s or in the Rooms. Sometimes
they would sit side by side on the pleasant _terrasse_ of the Café de
Paris, and listen to the Hungarian band. At others they would watch
the pigeon-shooting, or go for short cruises on the Baron’s big white
yacht, which usually lay in Villefranche Bay.
One day, while walking in the garden of the Casino at Monte Carlo
with my friend Monsieur B----, who was Baron Hirsch’s confidential
secretary, he introduced me to the great financier, and we
strolled together, chatting. The Baron seemed a charming and quite
unconventional man, and was particularly attached to his faithful
secretary, to whom he had made many handsome presents. Monsieur B----
was for ever praising the great millionaire’s generous treatment of
himself and others.
More than once he hinted to me about the large sums that the Prince
was borrowing from his chief. When in France, I was often Monsieur
B----’s guest at his beautiful house beside the lake at Enghien,
outside Paris, and our conversation usually drifted upon the same
subject. The public suspected the loans, but knew practically nothing.
Three years passed. The amount of the debt was gradually increasing,
when, quite unexpectedly, the Baron died.
I was in Paris at the time, and, one evening, went out to Enghien to
dinner. After the ladies had left the room, and Monsieur B---- and
myself were left alone, I mentioned the subject.
“Yes,” he said. “The will has been opened to-day, and the Baron has
left the sum of one million sterling to establish a colony for poor
Jews in Argentina. The money repaid by the Prince of Wales is to be a
portion of the sum.”
“Then the money will be called up?” I remarked.
“Undoubtedly! Everything is left in the hands of the Baroness, and
she holds the Prince’s notes,” he explained.
Weeks, nay months, went past.
The Baron’s executors wrote to His Royal Highness for repayment. On
hearing this the Baroness became furious. The executors, therefore,
went to the Baroness and demanded the one million sterling with
which to found the colony. They were compelled to do this before the
other legacies were paid. Negotiations ensued, and, to cut a long
story short, the Baroness called up my friend, Monsieur B----, and,
ascertaining from him the exact amount owed to her dead husband by
the Prince, she then and there wrote out a cheque for the whole in
favour of the executors!
The Baroness, wife of one of the despised race, thus paid the whole
of the late King Edward’s debt, out of her private fortune!
That same evening she wrote to His Royal Highness in London,
arranging a meeting, and suggesting dinner in her private suite at
Claridge’s Hotel. The appointment was kept, and the royal guest came.
They dined _à deux_, His Highness much mystified at the invitation,
and, of course, knowing nothing of the Baroness’s generous action.
But after dinner, when the servants had left, and they were alone,
the widow brought out her handbag, and from it produced the whole of
the Prince’s notes, and laid them on the table.
“Your Royal Highness had, I know, many financial transactions with my
husband,” his hostess said. “As his wife, I knew in what high esteem
he held your Highness. I feel that if he had lived he would never
have wished to call up the money advanced, therefore I do not like to
think that his executors should be forced by legal process to do so.”
The Prince gazed at her utterly astounded, for he had been very much
worried by the sudden death of his friend.
“But I understand that the money is part of a sum left to found a
colony for poor Jews?” he said.
“I am aware of that,” replied the Baroness. “But I have asked you
here to-night in order to extract one promise--in return for this,”
and she pointed to the heap of paper on the table representing her
husband’s loan to the Prince.
“A promise--what?”
“That when you succeed to the throne of Great Britain you will always
be kind to the Jews.”
“I can certainly promise that,” answered the Prince in a changed
voice, much impressed by the Baroness’s appeal.
“There is the fire,” said she, pointing to the grate. “Let us burn
the notes.”
His Royal Highness gathered up the papers, and, one by one, placed
them in the flames.
Then, with that exquisite courtliness which was one of King Edward’s
outstanding characteristics, he raised his hostess’s hand, and,
bending, kissed it.
They never met again, owing to the Baroness’s untimely end.
* * * * *
I do not wish to be accused of recording more ancient history than is
necessary, but it is my object to relate hitherto unknown incidents
and stories concerning some famous personages.
One of these concerns Queen Victoria during her last visit to Nice.
About a fortnight after her arrival, while passing up the Avenue de
la Gare, I met the well-known detective, Superintendent Fraser, of
Scotland Yard, who, with Monsieur Paoli, of the Paris Sûreté, was Her
Majesty’s personal protector.
When I asked him whither he was hurrying, he replied:
“Come with me. I am going on a--well, on a very confidential mission!”
At once I turned back with him. To my surprise, he stopped
before a cheap draper’s shop, and, pointing to a long string of
black-and-white striped sunshades, open and swaying in the wind, he
inquired their price.
“Five-francs-fifty,” replied the dark-eyed Provençal girl in French.
My police friend hesitated, and inquired if they were silk.
“No, m’sieur, they are cotton,” was the reply.
With that he turned away. Then he explained that the Queen, who had
been out for her afternoon drive, had just returned, and, calling
him, told him that in the Avenue de la Gare she had been attracted by
some sunshades hanging outside a shop.
“Go and buy me one, Fraser,” she had commanded. “They are the very
thing I want here.”
“But,” exclaimed my friend to me, “how can I take the Queen a
four-and-sevenpenny sunshade? Come back with me, and when I have told
her we will go out to the café!”
I walked back with him out to Cimiez, and waited while he passed
along the corridor of the great hotel to Her Majesty’s apartments,
which were guarded by French sentries and an idling assistant of my
friend.
His face had changed when, a few minutes later, he returned.
“I told the Queen,” he said, “but she has ordered me to go back at
once. She seemed quite indignant, and said:
“‘Fraser, you men know nothing about sunshades! Pray how much would
you expect me to give for a cotton sunshade? Go and get me one at
once!’”
We returned together and purchased one. That sunshade was a
prominent object in the streets of Nice, and country roads in the
neighbourhood, for each afternoon that season, when the Queen went
out, she held it proudly above her head for all to admire, the
passers-by no doubt believing it to be an expensive one of silk.
I afterwards learned from Superintendent Fraser that Her Majesty, on
her return to Windsor, gave it to Queen Alexandra, then Princess of
Wales, for use during the following summer!
CHAPTER TWO
More about Kings--I meet the Queen of Italy--King Nicholas of
Montenegro is kind to me--The Emperor Karl of Austria, who
stole his Mother’s Jewels and gave them to an Actress--The
Emperor Francis Josef and the Shah--Stories of my friend
Princess Luisa of Saxony--The Grand Duke and his False
Teeth.
I was on my first visit to Cettigné, the high-up little capital of
the peasant kingdom of Montenegro, approached by a ladder-like road
from Cattaro, on the Adriatic, when Princess Xenia of Montenegro--who
subsequently helped me in taking photographs for my book _An Observer
in the Near East_--presented me to her elder sister, Queen Elena of
Italy. Through the latter’s brother, Prince Mirko, I subsequently
received my first command to audience of that fine old peasant-ruler,
King Nicholas.
Cettigné is a quaint little place, scarcely more than a good-sized
mountain village, prosperous, clean, with broad streets. The people
by law are compelled to wear the national dress, the men with dark
blue baggy trousers, white woollen gaiters, raw-hide shoes, a short
scarlet jacket heavily braided with gold, and a small pork-pie cap
with black silk band, the crown of the same colour as the jacket,
bearing the King’s initials in Russian characters, “N.I.” The women,
who are particularly handsome, wear, when out of doors, beautifully
hand-embroidered blouses, and a kind of long coat, with open sleeves,
of soft dove-grey cloth. They are forbidden to wear European hats,
and wear the same as the men, except that the crowns are embroidered
in gold, and do not bear the royal cipher.
The fact that every man is armed, carrying a perfect arsenal of
weapons in his belt, is apt to give the stranger an uncanny feeling.
The man who brings you your morning coffee wears a couple or more
revolvers in his belt. And they are wise, for in that country,
bordering as it does upon savage Albania, peace and war walk ever
hand in hand.
At the time of my first visit my friend, Mr., now Sir, Charles Des
Graz, was British Minister to Montenegro. He afterwards, before his
retirement, was appointed to Peru, and during the war to Serbia. We
lived together at the Grand Hotel, and spent many pleasant days in
one another’s company.
He told me a good diplomatic story, of how a predecessor of his at
Cettigné had an intense hatred of rats. The hotel--which was also the
British Legation--was not devoid of them, and apparently they invaded
the Minister’s sitting-room, for one morning he found a rat had
devoured a whole box of his pet digestive tablets that had been sent
from London. Next night he waited for the intruder, no rat-trap being
obtainable in the capital, and soon after everyone had retired loud
shouts were heard from the dignified representative of Great Britain.
On rushing in, two waiters, in deshabille, found the Minister armed
with his diplomatic sword, in the midst of upset furniture, chasing a
rat. He had already made a lunge, and split a sofa, the stuffing of
which protruded, but amidst the hubbub the rat escaped.
My first private audience with King Nicholas of Montenegro was an
interesting one. At six o’clock one evening the royal _aide-de-camp_
called in a carriage, and drove me to the Palace, which was a long,
dark brown building, of somewhat plain exterior, as befitted the home
of the ruler of a fighting race, where I was received in the great
hall by half-a-dozen bowing servants in scarlet and gold.
Here I was met by the chamberlain, who, having told me his name,
conducted me up the grand staircase and into the audience-chamber,
with its fine old paintings of the Italian _cinquecento_ and highly
polished floor.
Then, after a moment, His Majesty--a brilliant figure with
deeply-lined, rugged face--entered, shook me by the hand, and
welcomed me to Montenegro.
It has always struck me how extremely punctual all royalties are, for
a person commanded to audience is never kept waiting as he so often
is in any business office.
The formal greetings ended, His Majesty said in Italian, in which we
conversed:
“Come, let us go into yonder room. We shall be able to talk more
comfortably.” And he led me into a smaller and more cosy chamber,
where he gave me a seat.
On the table, a great silver candelabra had been set, and by its
light I was enabled to obtain a good view of the ruler of Crnagora,
the “Land of the Black Mountains.” Of magnificent physique in spite
of his seventy years, his hair was only slightly grey. His fine
features were those of a mountain race, and his dark, keen eyes shot
quick, inquiring glances of alertness. Father of his people, he wore
the native costume--almost the same as that of his subjects passing
to and fro in the street; a costume of scarlet-blue-and-gold, with
a single cross in diamonds at the throat--the order of Danilo, of
which he was Master, and one which, at an audience a year later, he
bestowed on me.
After the first few minutes of regal formality His Majesty’s manner
had entirely changed. Putting ceremony aside, he produced his
well-worn cigarette case--of lizard skin, with the royal crown and
cipher in gold at the corner--offered me a Montenegrin cigarette,
took one himself, lit mine with his own hand, and then we fell to
chatting.
In this delightful manner we smoked together. I asked the
King-poet many questions, and learned many things. He explained
several difficult points in Balkan politics that I had never before
understood, and smiled and shrugged his shoulders when I mentioned
the question of Macedonia.
I was there with an object, mainly to sound His Majesty on his ideas
of the best way of settling the vexed question of Macedonia. When I
mentioned it he became grave.
“There will be war in the Balkans soon if the Powers remain
apathetic!” he said. Alas! how true were his words, for within
eighteen months I was at the Serbian front against the Turks,
attached to the staff of King Peter.
“There is but one way,” he said. “The Powers should call a conference
and place Macedonia under a Governor-General, who should be a
European prince. Reforms could then be carried out, and the Greek and
Bulgarian bands expelled from the country. Ah! if only the British
public knew what was happening in Macedonia, of the intrigues of
Turkey and Bulgaria, of the nearness we are to war, but”--and he
smiled and hesitated--“I almost forget myself. My position as a ruler
forbids me to talk politics, you know!” and he laughed.
Then later, when I had risen and was backing out of the room to
leave, His Majesty, who had also risen, said:
“When you return to Cettigné do not fail to let me know, and we will
have another chat. And give my kindest wishes to my old friend Chedo
Mijatovitch, in London.”
Count Chedo Mijatovitch was for a long time Serbian Minister at the
Court of St. James, and is well known in diplomatic and society
circles, having since made his home in London. He is one of my oldest
and best friends.
[Illustration: PRINCESS LUISA OF SAXONY.]
It was under his wing that I first entered the Balkans, for he had
given me a number of letters of introduction, written in scribbly
hieroglyphics that I could not understand, but which proved a
_passe-partout_ to everywhere, from the Adriatic to the Black Sea.
* * * * *
I have heard a good many stories of the old Emperor Francis Josef
of Austria, his successor the Emperor Karl, and of the Hapsburg
Archdukes, from the lips of the Emperor’s niece Princess Luisa of
Saxony. Her Highness possesses a fine sense of humour, and has a fund
of humorous anecdotes.
Her father, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, wanted her to marry Dom Pedro
of Brazil, whose praises had been sung to her constantly over the
dinner-table for weeks, and at last they were introduced at Baden.
They were pushed into each other’s society, both knowing that each
was to marry the other. One day Dom Pedro asked her whether she cared
for him, and she openly replied in the negative. Both laughed.
The Princess, in telling me the story, said:
“At once I saw that Dom Pedro was a young man to be trusted, and from
henceforth we both had a great game with our respective families.
When I pretended to go for lovers’ walks with him, he went out to
meet a pretty young café-singer, while I strolled about and had
many a chat with young men who had not the slightest inkling of my
identity--among them a young British diplomat who was on the staff of
the Embassy at Vienna, and who two years later recognized me at one
of the balls at the Imperial Palace.
“Poor Dom Pedro! Ultimately he went raving mad--about a year after
our escapades--and is now wearing out his life in one of the Imperial
castles in Austria, a hopeless lunatic.”
But for an incident which is not without humour, Princess Luisa,
instead of marrying the King of Saxony, would have been Queen of
Bulgaria.
One day, when we were motoring together from Florence to Rome
accompanied by her lady-in-waiting, Countess Függer, she related how
Prince Ferdinand was brought out for her inspection and approval by
his mother, old Princess Clémentine of Coburg, a sharp-tongued, ugly
old lady, with an ear-trumpet.
“From the first I hated the comic-opera Prince, with his huge nose,
perfectly trimmed beard, little pig-like eyes, and puffy cheeks,” she
told me. “He came to Salzburg wearing most horrible yellow boots, and
of course was a most superior person. Well, he soon grew amorous, and
I was warned by my brother Poldo that His Highness meant to marry me.
The Emperor had apparently declared to old Clémentine that Bulgaria
would not be safe till its reigning Princess was an Archduchess of
Austria.
“Poldo had really no need to warn me. I simply laid my plans, and
while Ferdinand, whose amours had been notorious, had already told me
that I was the only woman--the usual only woman--he could ever love,
I set about to prepare my own little bombshell.
“Aunt Clémentine had arrived at the castle with the special
ear-trumpet that she took out on visits, an ugly black affair with
gold lace hanging over its opening. How well I can recollect the way
she shouted back at one in that high-pitched, peevish voice. With
her came my brother-in-law, the Archduke Otto, with the Archduke
Sigismund, so that we were quite a family party, all assembled, I
suppose, to hear the glad announcement that I was betrothed to Prince
Ferdinand of Bulgaria.
“On the night of Aunt Clémentine’s arrival we all sat down to
dinner, Ferdinand being seated opposite me, elegant and happy, and
casting furtive glances that I mischievously disregarded, greatly
to my mother’s intense annoyance. During the meal, however, Aunt
Clémentine, with her ear-trumpet held over the table close to me,
suddenly exclaimed in her shrill voice:
“‘Ah, Luisa! What a delightful pair you will make when you marry my
Ferdinand! Really, you grow prettier every day.’