A DINNER WITH THE ENEMY
Readers of that prince of romancers, Poe, will recollect a celebrated
story in which he describes the device employed by a man of uncommon
shrewdness to conceal a stolen letter from the perquisitions of the
police, and the elaborate argument by which the writer proves that
the highest art of concealment is to thrust the object to be hidden
under the very nose of the searcher.
But that argument is one of the many mystifications in which the
weird genius of Poe delighted. It is easy to see, in short, that the
theory was invented to suit the story, and not the story to suit the
theory. I now had before me the practical problem of concealing a
document of surpassing importance, from enemies who were already on
my scent, and keeping it concealed during a journey of some thousands
of miles.
The ordinary hiding-places of valuable papers, such as the lining of
clothes, or a false bottom to a trunk, I dismissed without serious
consideration. My luggage would probably be stolen, and I might be
drugged long before I reached Dalny.
The problem was all the more difficult for me because I have
generally made it a rule to avoid charging myself with written
instructions. I am sufficiently well known by reputation to most
European sovereigns to be able to dispense with ordinary credentials.
But in approaching the Mikado of Japan, a ruler to whom I was
personally unknown, it was clearly necessary for me to have something
in writing from the Russian Emperor.
All at once an idea flashed on my mind, so simple, and yet so
incapable of detection (as it seemed to me), that I almost smiled in
the face of the man who was dogging my steps along the street, no
doubt under instructions from the War Syndicate.
That afternoon I was closeted with the Emperor of All the Russias in
his private cabinet for nearly an hour.
It is not my habit to repeat details of private conversations, when
they are not required to illustrate the progress of public events,
and therefore I will say merely that the Czar was evidently in
earnest in his desire to avoid war, but greatly hampered and
bewildered by the difficult representations made to him by, or on
behalf of, those to whose interests war was essential.
It was melancholy to see the destinies of half Europe and Asia, and
the lives of scores of thousands of brave men, hanging on the will of
an irresolute young man, depressed by the consciousness of his own
infirmity, and desperately seeking for some stronger mind on which to
lean. Had I not been placed by my Polish sentiment in a position of
antagonism to the Czardom, perhaps--but it is useless to indulge in
these reflections.
One thing in the course of the interview struck me as having great
significance for the future. I found that his majesty, who had
entertained at one time a strong dislike of the German Emperor, a
dislike not untinged with jealousy, had now completely altered his
opinion. He spoke to me of Wilhelm II. in terms of highest praise,
declared that he was under the greatest obligations to him for useful
warnings and advice, said that he believed he had no truer or more
zealous friend.
When I drove to the house of M. Petrovitch that evening I carried,
carefully sewn between the inner and outer folds of my well-starched
shirt-front, where no sound of crackling would excite remark, a sheet
of thin note-paper covered in a very small handwriting with the text
of the Czar's letter to the ruler of Japan.
M. Petrovitch was not alone. Around his hospitable board he had
gathered some of the highest and proudest personages of the Russian
Court, including the Grand Duke Staniolanus, generally believed to be
the heart and soul of the War Party. His imperial highness was
well-known to be a desperate gambler, up to the neck in debts
contracted at the card-table, and bent on recouping himself out of
the wealth of Korea and Manchuria.
I was duly presented to this royal personage (whom I had met once
before under widely different circumstances) in the character of a
Peace Crusader, an emissary of the philanthropists of Great Britain.
At the dinner-table, where I found myself placed on my host's left
hand, while the Grand Duke was on his right, the conversation
continued to be in the same strain. That Petrovitch believed me to be
an English peace fanatic I did not believe any longer, but I could
not tell if any, or how many, of the others were in his confidence.
As soon as the solid part of the feast was disposed of, Petrovitch
rose to his feet, and after a bow to the Grand Duke, launched out
into a formal speech proposing my health.
He commenced with the usual professions in favor of peace, spoke of
the desire felt by all Russians to preserve the friendship of
England, eulogized the work done by my friend the editor, and by
other less disinterested friends of Russia in London, and wound up by
asking all the company to give me a cordial welcome, and to send a
message of congratulation and good-will to the British public.
Knowing as I did, that the man was a consummate rogue, who had
probably invited me to his house in order to keep me under
observation, and possibly to prevent my getting scent of the
intrigues pursued by his friend and ally, Princess Y----, I was still
at a loss to understand the reason for this performance.
I have learned since that an account of the proceedings, with
abstracts from this hypocritical speech, was telegraphed to England,
and actually found its way into some of the newspapers under the
heading, "Peace Demonstration in St. Petersburg: No Russian Wants
War."
There was one of the guests, however, who made no pretense of
listening with pleasure to the smooth speech of M. Petrovitch. This
was a dark young man of about thirty, in a naval uniform. He sat
scowling while his host spoke, and barely lifted his glass from the
table at the conclusion.
A minute or two later I took an opportunity to ask the promoter the
name of this ungracious officer.
"That?" my host exclaimed, looking 'round the table, "Oh, that is
Captain Vassileffsky, one of our most distinguished sailors. He is a
naval aide-de-camp to the Czar."
I made a note of his name and face, being warned by a presentiment
which I could not resist that I should come across him again.
The champagne now began to flow freely, and as it flowed the tongues
of many of the company were unloosed by degrees. From the subject of
peace the conversation passed rapidly to the possibilities of war,
and the Japanese were spoken of in a way that plainly showed me how
little those present understood the resolution and resources of the
Island Empire.
"The Japanese dare not fire the first shot and, since we will not,
there will be no war," declared my left-hand neighbor.
"The war will be fought in Japan, not in Manchuria," affirmed the
Grand Duke with a condescending air. "It will be a case of the Boers
over again. They may give us some trouble, but we shall annex their
country."
M. Petrovitch gave me a glance of alarm.
"Russia does not wish to add to her territory," he put in; "but we
may find it necessary to leave a few troops in Tokio to maintain
order, while we pursue our civilizing mission."
I need not recount the other remarks, equally arrogant.
Abstemious by habit, I had a particular reason for refraining from
taking much wine on this night. It was already past nine o'clock, the
train for Moscow, which connected there with the Siberian express,
started at midnight, and I had to be at the police bureau by eleven
at the latest to make the changes necessary for my disguise.
I therefore allowed my glass to remain full, merely touching it with
my lips occasionally when my host pressed me to drink. M. Petrovitch
did not openly notice my abstinence, but presently I heard him give
an order to the butler who waited behind his chair.
The butler turned to the sideboard for a moment, and then came
forward bearing a silver tray on which stood a flagon of cut-glass
and silver with a number of exquisite little silver cups like
egg-shells.
"You will not refuse to taste our Russian national beverage, Mr.
Sterling," the head of the War Syndicate said persuasively, as the
butler began filling the tiny cups.
It was a challenge which I could not refuse without rudeness, though
it struck me as rather out of place that the vodka should be offered
to me before to the imperial guest on my host's right.
The butler filled two cups, M. Petrovitch taking the second from the
tray as I lifted the first to my lips.
"You know our custom," the financier exclaimed smilingly. "No
heeltaps!"
He lifted his own cup with a brave air, and I tossed off the contents
of my own without stopping.
As the fiery liquor ran down my throat I was conscious of something
in its taste which was unlike the flavor of any vodka I had ever
drunk before. But this circumstance aroused no suspicion in my mind.
I confess that it never occurred to me that any one could be daring
enough to employ so crude and dangerous a device as a drugged draft
at a quasi-public banquet, given to an English peace emissary, with a
member of the imperial family sitting at the board.
I was undeceived the next moment. Petrovitch, as soon as he saw that
my cup had been emptied, sat down his own untasted, and, with a
well-acted movement of surprise and regret, turned to the Grand Duke.
"I implore your pardon, sir. I did not ask if you would not honor me
by taking the first cup!"
The Grand Duke, whom I readily acquitted of any share in the other's
design, shrugged his shoulders with an indifferent air.
"If you wish your friends to drink vodka, you should not put
champagne like this before us," he said laughing.
Petrovitch said something in reply; he turned and scolded the butler
as well, I fancy. But my brain was becoming confused. I had just
sufficient command of my faculties left to feign ignorance of the
true situation.
"I am feeling a little faint. That _pâté_"--I contrived to murmur.
And then I heard Captain Vassileffsky cry out in an alarm that was
unmistakably genuine--"Look out for the Englishman! He is
swooning"--and I knew no more.