Next night, however, a thrill went through the Court, as well as through the Russian people, by the six-word announcement in the Exchange newspapers, which coldly said:

"Gregory Rasputin has ceased to exist."

I read the statement aghast. I saw Anna Vyrubova, who was beside herself with grief and anxiety, and for a moment I spoke with the distracted Empress. Then I left with all haste for the capital.

On arrival I learnt at the Ministry of the Interior that a policeman on night duty along the Moika Canal had heard shots and cries coming from a house belonging to the young Prince Felix Youssoupoff, who had married a cousin of the Tsar, and who was well known in London, where he passed each "season." In the house were the Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovitch, ex-Minister of the Interior Kvostov, Deputy Purishkevitch, and others. When the policeman went to ask what had happened, he received no explanation.

A little later two motor-cars drove up to the door. In one of the cars a large bundle was placed. It was the body of Rasputin. Beside this bundle a man took his seat and ordered the chauffeur to drive to an island at the mouth of the Neva. Traces of blood were left in the garden. There were also marks of blood on the ice of the frozen Neva, where the car had stopped. Near these marks was a freshly made hole, and close to the hole lay a pair of blood-stained rubber shoes.

Alexandra Feodorovna, frantic and bewildered, informed the Emperor by telegraph, and by the time he had returned the monk's body had been recovered from the river. I was present at the Mass served by the Petrograd Metropolitan Pitirim, an evil-liver of Rasputin's creation, after which I went with the body, which was conveyed to Tsarskoe-Selo. There, at the burial, Protopopoff was one of the chief mourners, and he, together with General Voyeykoff, Fredericks, and the Emperor himself, carried the silver coffin containing the remains of one of the worst rascals in Christendom, while the Tsaritza, Anna, and the whole Court followed in deep mourning.

Such a scandal roused the ire of the people to fever heat, but it freed me of my hateful compact, and I cut myself adrift for ever from the fascinating Madame Vyrubova and her vicious circle.

Perhaps, in concluding this volume of strange and amazing reminiscences, which I have written with the sole purpose of revealing the truth to Europe, I cannot do better than summarise the career of Rasputin as Alexander Yablonovski, one of our ablest Russian critics, has done. He declared that the part of the Black Monk in history was an era in itself.

Practically the entire historic rôle of Rasputin consisted of the fact that he united all Russia in a general hatred for the dark, irresponsible forces.

The Imperial Duma, the Imperial Council, the united nobility, the social organisations, the Press—all were permeated by the same conviction, namely, that it was high time to remove from the Russian political arena the Government gamblers.

More than that, Rasputin became even a matter of concern to Europe. The foreign Press printed articles about him. The foreign ambassadors cabled long reports in code to their Governments in connection with him. But, of course, to Europe he was more of a sad anecdote than an historical fact. To Russia, on the other hand, he was not only a fact, he was an era.

Russia has experienced immeasurable humiliation on account of him. But this humiliation has fused the Empire into a single body, creating citizens out of human pulp.

Russians all their lives have fought the irresponsible bureaucracy. Her literature, Press, science, parties, all, according to their resources, plucked the roots of this rotten plant. But how big were the results of their half-century of labour?

And then a Siberian mujik appeared, and against his own will he cut the arteries of the dark force, he stamped it in the mud, spitting at the very principle, the very idea, of autocratic bureaucracy.

Rasputin was killed for the purpose of cleansing Russia of the dark forces. Yet, alas! his evil influence lived to bear fruit in Germany's favour even after the Revolution and the downfall of the Romanoffs.

No more sinister or astounding figure has ever appeared in all history, and the memory of no one is more bitterly hated in Russia than that of Gregory the ne'er-do-well, the erotic scoundrel and assassin, who held the fate of the Russian Empire within the hollow of his hand.

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