“England,” I am often told, “has no agents in the Balkan Peninsula,” which is quite true. She only has there agents provocateurs, firebrands. And it is not in the Balkans only where British “agents provocateurs” do all in their power to stir up strife, to provoke war, and to force Russia and England into that war to the death which Russian agents, as you call them in this country at least, do all in their power to avert. There is really something sublime in the audacity—will they pardon me if I say in the effrontery?—with which English journalists talk of Russian intrigue, as it every Russian, from General Ignatieff downward, intrigued in the shameless fashion that British agents have done and have been commended for doing even in this last year or two.

Of course we in Russia know all about it, and it is not our fault if sometimes we cannot suppress a smile of contempt when we listen to your denunciations of some innocent Russian who in a more or less blundering straightforward way endeavours to recall adventurous usurpers to a sense of their true position. But in England so very few, even of the best informed, are aware of the kind of mischief-making that is encouraged by your Foreign Office, that I hope you will allow me to extract from British authorities some striking testimonies as to the kind of evil work which renders it so difficult for us, with the best will in the world, to preserve sympathy with your Government, and to point out its noble and generous deeds, which undoubtedly are often seen in English private life. Upon the latter I could write volumes, but this time I have the painful task of showing the dark spots of English officialism. So let us return to politics.

My first witness shall be Mr. Minchin—who was Consul-General in Servia, and in England now is an arch-Jingo. His work—published a few months ago—has the interesting title of “The Growth of Freedom in the Balkan Peninsula.” It contains, among many other startling revelations, a very sympathetic account of the counter-revolution which brought Prince Alexander back to Sophia, and very nearly embroiled us in a war. Mr. Minchin, although prejudiced, like a nervous woman, is at least truthful enough to admit that two-thirds of the native Bulgarian officers in the Bulgarian army were privy to the deposition of the Prince, as well as the clergy. That is to say, in Prince Alexander’s own opinion nearly all the educated and patriotic men in the service of Church or State approved what Mr. Minchin calls his “kidnapping.” However, let that pass. The removal of a Prince who had made himself intolerable had been peacefully accomplished. Everything was settling down quietly. A successor would have been chosen in accordance with the Constitution of Bulgaria and the Treaty of Berlin, when suddenly everything was upset and a counterrevolution was set on foot; the Prince was brought back to an impossible position, and an opening was made for the pseudo-Regents who since then have brought Europe to the verge of war.

Every one knows all that, but what everybody does not know is that we have only an English agent to thank for all the trouble, all the risk of war—a risk, unfortunately, not yet entirely at an end. I confess—in spite of all they wrote to me from Russia—I hesitated to believe until I read Mr. Minchin’s book how far your agent had gone in this matter. Let me quote what he says on this subject, upon which he seems to be as well informed as he is badly informed and wrong when he explains the deeds and views of Russia. Is it sheer ignorance or bad faith, I wonder? The result is the same: it is misleading to the last degree. Russia was not “about to pounce upon her prey.” No one demanded from the national party “passive obedience to the Tzar,” and the only danger of a Russian occupation has been, not in the quiet removal of Prince Battenberg, but in the illegal and violent proceedings of his nominees, the pseudo Regents. These mistakes, however, only suffice to show that he is at any rate not prejudiced in favour of Russian policy, while he bears this damning, witness as to the extent to which the British Consul played the part of an agent provocateur in the most critical time in the Bulgarian crisis, Mr. Minchin says (p. 268):

. . . The press of Europe seemed disposed to treat the abdication—for such it was represented to be by the Zankoff party—as brought about by a union of both parties in Bulgaria. Russia appeared to be about to pounce upon her prey with the tacit approval of the Great Powers; all, in fact, seemed lost. The disloyal Bulgarians were jubilant. At this dark hour in Bulgaria’s history one man remained true to her. At the time when the blotting out of Bulgaria as an independent country from the map of Europe seemed certain, this one man began the counter-revolution at Philippopolis which utterly routed the kidnappers of Sophia. That man was Captain Henry Jones, V.C., her Majesty’s Consul-General in Southern Bulgaria. Every Bulgarian nationalist knows that to this brave Englishman he owes the salvation of his country’s honour. Had Captain Jones been sick, or absent, or bad he shared the general apathy, or had he been afraid of acting on his own responsibility, and waited for instructions from our Foreign Office, the Prince would never have returned and the national party would have been cowed into passive obedience to the Tzar. General Kaulbars would have had very easy work to prepare the way for the Tzar. It would emphatically have been over with Bulgaria then. She would have been first occupied and then annexed by a Russian army in the approved style. Our Consul-General has won the Victoria Cross by gallantry on the field; but on the field of diplomacy he has won the Victoria Cross ten times over.

That is tolerably plain speaking. But Mr. Minchin enters into details; The very day when the news of Prince Alexander’s deposition reached Philippopolis the English Consul-General rushed off to Mr. Mouktouroff and asked him if he intended to take the oath to the rebel Government Mouktouroff had not made up his mind (pp, 269 and 270). “Then the Consul-General made a vigorous appeal to him: It would be a disgrace if the Bulgarian army, which had covered itself with glory and won the good opinion of Europe, were to take the oath of allegiance to a band of traitors who had perjured themselves and betrayed their country. If you refuse to take the oath and boldly declare for the Prince you will be honoured all over Europe, and your name will be in every man’s mouth. If, however, you take the oath and the Russian party come into office, all who (like yourself) took an action in the revolution of last September and in uniting the two Bulgarias will not only be deprived of their rank, but they will be driven from the country.”

The next day Mouktouroff declared for the Prince. The English Consulate was soon surrounded by Bulgarian soldiers, wildly cheering, “For England and the Prince.” Poor fellows! they little knew what Mr. Goschen was going to say as to “the calumny that England had ever supported the Prince.”

“All midnight the British Consul and Mouktouroff were closeted in the telegraph office, and remained there till the sun rose. It was at this midnight consultation that Mouktouroff was induced to march on Sophia in order to drive the rebel Government out of the capital.”

Can anything be more explicit? Could there be a greater breach of good faith among nations which are at the same time talking of  “friendly relations”? And yet Lord Salisbury—innocent Minister that he is—“cannot understand how every one in Russia and at home outside his own Cabinet believes that he is a Battenberger,” who endangered the peace of Europe for the sake of pleasing…those he wanted to please! Sometimes—do pardon my frank remark—it seems to me there is a great similarity between English statesmen and the good-natured bird who, hiding its head, actually fancies that its tail is not at all seen. Why do they nourish illusions of that sort? Oh! let England have agents—agents all over the world—but agents of peace, of generous mutual help, of real Christian civilization!…Or, is it only those beloved, who, are left on the battle-field who realize all the horrors of war?

O.K.

48, Dover-street, Piccadilly, Feb. 1.