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conspirators included the Grand Duke Dimitri Pavlovich and Pourishkevich, leader of the right wing of the Duma. The body was bundled into a blanket; a dog was killed to explain the pistol shot and account for the blood; the body finally was conveyed to the Neva in the automobile of a very high personage, and pushed under the ice.

When the news spread through Russia that Rasputin was no more, men breathed freely, and hope mounted in their breasts. But the hope was shortlived. The domineering will of the Empress was unbroken, and a period of depression ensued. The Prince and the other nobles implicated in the taking off of Rasputin were banished, some to their estates in Russia and one to distant Persia. Practically all the members, near and distant, of the royal family united in beseeching the Emperor and the Empress to profit by the manifestations of popular unrest. Seventeen members of the royal family signed this protest. But the Tsarina was unmoved and the Tsar was obliged to request his own mother, the Dowager Empress, to leave the city and retire to her estates in the Crimea. The

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Romanovs, like the Bourbons, learned nothing and forgot nothing. The Tsarina became more resentful, more bitter, more autocratic than ever.

Three weeks before the final debacle, in February 1917, a faint ray of hope flickered through the thickening gloom. But once more the invisible forces or was it the Tsarina? - intervened. Rodzianko narrates the incident:

The Duma was in session for nearly a week. I learned casually that the Emperor had summoned several of the ministers, including Golitsyn, and expressed his desire to discuss the question of a responsible ministry. The conference ended in the Emperor's decision to go to the Duma next day and proclaim his will to grant a responsible ministry. Prince Golitsyn was overjoyed and came home in high spirits. That same evening he was again summoned to the Palace, where the Emperor

announced to him his intention to leave for the Stavka.

'How is that, Your Majesty?' asked Golitsyn, amazed. 'What about a responsible ministry? You intended to go to the Duma to-morrow.'

'I have changed my mind. leaving for the Stavka to-night.'

Russia was doomed.

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(A second paper by Father Walsh, The End of the Monarchy,' will appear in the

February number)

THE HURRICANE

BY GRACE ZARING STONE

THE evening of August 28 was very hot and windless, with light rain. Father G― and O called, and while we were talking a marine orderly brought a radio message from the weather bureau in San Juan saying that a hurricane was making up in Dominica.

"That's funny,' said Father G———. 'I just passed one of my old souls in the garden and she told me there was a bad gale making up in Dominica. How in the world did she know?'

'She smells it,' said O

Ellis said many of the Cha-Chas had beached their boats that day. He added that while the weather was threatening, the gale, if it made up, would probably shift its course before reaching us.

It rained all night very gently and softly, falling straight down and enclosing us as in a curtained airless room.

At 6 A.M. the phone rang. I heard Ellis talking to the harbor master, a Saba man and an old sailor. Ellis said: "Falling barometer and a steady wind? Better hoist the first storm warning.'

It was a white morning of rain and clouds, but a light wind had come up, blowing out of the south. Low mists moved across the mountain tops. I leaned over the gallery rail looking into my drowned garden and saw, down at the Fort, a red flag with a black centre being limply hoisted.

I had to go down to the barracks to help the Colonel's widow pack for the next transport. The Colonel's quarters are on the sea side of the Fort, close to the water. I moved through the dim,

hot rooms with the feeling that m body was dissolving with heat.

No one spoke of the gale, so as n to disturb the poor woman any mo than she already was. About noon went on to the gallery to rest and smol a cigarette. The harbor was as cal as if all the water in it were oil, bu every now and then an almost invisib swell broke in a diffused sound on th rocks below. It was still raining.

From where I sat I could see th signal station at the entrance to th harbor, where approaching boats a signaled and where the storm flag wa hoisted as well as over the For Captain S talking to me. As he talked the ex pression of his eyes changed, and following his look, I saw a second fla being hoisted over the station. W went inside and found Captain Ctalking to the Colonel's widow. He wa telling her that the marines woul close up her quarters and she ha better come to his house. When I lef they were already banging at he hurricane windows. I ran along King Wharf. Paymaster M- picked m up in his Ford, which was in front of th Commissary. We went skidding up the wet hill to our quarters. Alread the town had an air of panic. Peopl were running, autos splashed past doors were being banged. When reached our door Eleanor waited me dancing up and down.

stood in the doorwa

'Are we going to have a hurricane Are we going to have a hurricane?' sh shouted.

Alfred was driving the iron bolts in the windows and doors to the east. I went out to the gallery and looked over the town. Denmark Hill, across from us, had a blind aspect; most of the hurricane doors and windows were already closed. As I stood there the cannon at the Fort gave the final signal-two shots in rapid succession, a pause, and then two more. In this harbor, walled like a room, it split the air, thundering back and forth.

Ellis came home. He said he had seen an old negro down by the Navy Building who had said to him: "You can't run away from God, sir, you can't run away from God.' To him it would be the voice of God speaking out of a whirlwind and he would not be afraid.

All afternoon, as I supervised the taking down of pictures and the stowing of silver and rugs in case we should lose our roof, I tried to decide whether I was really afraid, or just enjoying the idea of being afraid. Pricklings and shudders, almost a physical cramp, passed through my nerves, but it was not really, taken in itself, a disagreeable sensation. After I had all the potted plants brought inside, had covered my piano with mattresses, sent out for laundry and provisions, for some sewing being done by a woman living in a flimsy shack, had all the iron bars and bolts driven in the twenty-eight windows and doors of the house, I was physically tired and it was nearly six o'clock.

There was very little change, apparently. It still rained, it still blew, but not with any unusual violence. The house was so close and swarming with mosquitoes we decided to get a breath of air in the car. Eleanor and I got in and Ellis drove us down Main Street toward the beach. Every door was bolted but that of the apothecary, and there people had gathered, looking

anxiously out and discussing possibilities. I noticed in the deserted street, bolted and barred, what beautiful mottled colors the walls were, washed and stained by the rain. The country outside the town was equally deserted; the road was even clear of pigs, fowls, and goats- these precious ones having been gathered to safety.

At John Brewer's Bay enormous waves broke all up and down the coast. The sky seemed very close. Ellis got out to get our bath suits from the bathhouse, but when he tried to start. the car again the engine was wet and it refused duty. For the first time the wind began to come in sharp gusts, quite violent and with a sort of terrifying rhythm. We finally got the car started and blew a tire. While Ellis laboriously changed it I felt myself growing intensely irritable. We were three miles from town and I had visions of carrying Eleanor to the Moravian Mission of Nisky, a mile away. But the tire was changed at last and we started for home.

The town was dark by now. We drove up to Father G's house, which was bolted. He came out, sat in our car a moment, and smoked a cigarette with us. I noticed his hands shook ever so little. In his house were eighteen of his oldest parishioners, — black, of course, telling tales of former hurricanes. He said that about half an hour earlier a long level sun ray had come through the clouds and they had all given themselves up for lost. They said it was a sign. A woman wrapped in sacking, carrying a child, passed us on her way to the parish hall. All the hovels were being abandoned for the churches, Fort, and stronger buildings.

'What will happen to the ChaCha settlement on the North Shore?' asked Father G———.

Ellis replied that the always faithful

and dependable Kjeldsen, an employee of the Public Works and an old Danish ex-sergeant, had ridden on horseback to warn the people there. He was certainly the man for it. A smoke signal had been lit on Castle Hill to warn St. John and Tortola and the Kays between, but because of the rain the fire had repeatedly gone out. We talked until the wind became too strong, and then drove home.

After dinner, about nine o'clock, Father G phoned. While Ellis shouted at him all the lights went out. We lit the hurricane lanterns. I tried to persuade the servants to stay in our solidly built house, but they all went home, even old Maria, who had a bedridden sister to look after. Alfred led the procession with a hurricane lantern we let him have. Though they could scarcely stand up, he was shouting with joy, singing a sort of chant: 'Oh, de big gale, de big gale!'

We left one door on the lee side open, the one on the western gallery. The town, seen from this door, was a solid wall of darkness. The flicker of our lantern showed only the sharp lines of rain. We finally had to close this door. I looked through the tiny pane of glass, just big enough for an eye, in one of the doors on the harbor side and saw a few lights from the ships. They were moored to buoys and had full steam up to ride it out.

Our last phone call was from the harbor master. He said the barometer was falling and water was coming up over the harbor building. I tried to read Gertrude Atherton's description of a hurricane in The Conqueror, but the noise was becoming too terrible. In fact, while I tried to shut it out, it gradually filled all my consciousness. It was impossible to think of anything else. It still came in rhythmical gusts which seemed to break over us like tremendous waves. We put out the

lanterns and lay down, dressed, on t bed. I took Eleanor, who was wi awake, by me, and Ellis, to my disgu fell asleep. From years of watc keeping, I suppose, he can fall asle at any time it seems desirable to hi to do so. But this was beyond m I found I could only concentrate the noise, trying to burrow into t centre of this fear, to be inside of somehow and so no longer feel It was impossible to wait those gusts the dark. I lit a candle by the be I began to distinguish other soun along with the wind-the falling walls, trees, light and telephone polo and the shrieking of galvanized roofi torn loose and driven across our rod Every time these sheets struck o roof, it sounded as if it must be goin But Eleanor derived great comfo from this. She would cry, 'Mama, that the garvanize?' and, on being tol that it was, was mysteriously console

About two in the morning a shudde passed over us in the house, in th earth, in the air, in my own nerves. could not tell, but many people tol me afterward that they felt an earth quake at that hour.

The only steady thing in the worl seemed the flame of my candle besid the bed. For Eleanor's amusement made, with my fingers held up to th light, absurd shadows of beasts an bogies on the walls. While I wa doing this, we both must have gone t sleep.

When I woke, the candle was out; i was black and hot enough to choke Someone was pounding on our door I opened it. The street was filled with ashy, green light like under-sea light and I looked out on a mutilated, dis torted world. The wind still blew, bu not intolerably, and no rain fell. Out side stood Estella. She comes every morning at seven-thirty and she was here now. It was seven-thirty.

ERICH VON FALKENHAYN

BY CAPTAIN B. H. LIDDELL HART

No man in all history has controlled such vast forces as Erich von Falkenhayn, and on his qualities and limitations, more than on those of any other man, turned the issue of the greatest -in scale of all wars. He was born on September 11, 1861, at Burg Belchau in the district of Thorn, now ceded to Poland. It is a strange requital of Fate that the birthplaces of the two greatest directors of Germany at war, Falkenhayn and Ludendorff, should both rest now on alien soil. Entering, through the cadet schools, an ordinary line regiment, he was singled out for distinction when he passed out from the Kriegsakademie in 1890, third of his class. Six years later he went to the Far East as instructor to Chinese troops, selected as a missionary in propagating the gospel of German world power and as an agent in the plan of converting China into a useful military ally, with a view to the future. But the method which succeeded in Turkey was a failure in China. It would even seem from his later career that, instead of impressing German military ideas on China, he allowed the Chinese doctrine of war to gain a hold on himself.

He served on the staff of the German expeditionary force in the Boxer troubles and then, returning to Germany, spent three years in command of a battalion and five years as chief of staff of an army corps. Suddenly, early in 1911, he was promoted to command a

I

Guard regiment, a move of great significance. To soldierly gifts and the subtlety of a courtier, Falkenhayn now added a social hallmark which was almost essential to attain high position under the régime of William II. With Falkenhayn the effect was magical, for two years later he was promoted lieutenant general and became Minister of War. Such a rise at the early age of fifty-one was an astonishing tribute to his ability and influence. For in the German army youth might wield the power behind the throne, but the nominal authority and the posts of high distinction were customarily reserved for either royalty or old age, so old that it verged sometimes on senile decrepitude.

The Kaiser has much to answer for, but from a strictly German point of view his worst sin was perhaps that by his lack of military judgment and by his military selections he undermined the strength of Germany's armed power, and so prepared her downfall. The more one studies the history of the war, the more does one realize how many times she had victory almost within her grasp, and that only through crass incapacity and, still more, lack of character at the top did she forfeit the repeated chances. The greatest military machine ever created was in the hands of men morally and physically, even more than mentally, unfitted for the control. William II undoubtedly thought more of birth than of ability

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