After an interval of nearly forty years, I can without indiscretion say how this came about. The person in question, whom we will call Mr. Q., was an exceedingly enterprising journalist, the correspondent of a big London daily. He was also pretty unscrupulous as to the methods he employed in gathering information. It is quite obviously the duty of a newspaper correspondent to collect information for his paper. It is equally clearly the duty of those to whom official secrets are entrusted to prevent their becoming public property; so here we have conflicting interests. At times it happens that an "incident" arises between two Governments apparently trivial in itself, but capable of being fanned into such a fierce flame by popular opinion as to make it difficult for either Government to recede from the position they had originally taken up. The Press screams loudly on both sides, and every Government shrinks from incurring the unpopularity which a charge of betraying the national interests would bring upon it. Experience has shown that in these cases the difficulties can usually be smoothed down, provided the whole matter be kept secret, and that neither the public nor the Press of either of the two countries concerned have an inkling of the awkward situation that has arisen. An indiscreet or hysterical Press can blow a tiny spark into a roaring conflagration and work up popular feeling to fever-pitch. It may surprise people to learn that barely twenty years ago such a situation arose between our own country and another European Power (not Germany). Those in charge of the negotiations on both sides very wisely determined that the matter should be concealed absolutely from the public and the Press of both countries, and not one word about it was allowed to leak out. Otherwise the situation might have been one of extreme gravity, for it was again one of those cases where neither Government could give way without being accused of pusillanimity. As it was, the matter was settled amicably in a week, and to this day very few people know that this very serious difficulty ever occurred.
Nearly forty years ago, just such a situation had arisen between us and the Russian Government; but the Ambassador was convinced that he could smooth it away provided that the whole thing were kept secret.
Mr. Q. was a first-rate journalist, and his flair as a newspaperman told him that something was wrong. From the Russians he could learn nothing; they were as close as wax; so Mr. Q. turned his attention to the Chancery of the British Embassy. His methods were simple. He gained admission to the Chancery on some pretext or another, and then walking about the room, and talking most volubly, he cast a roving eye over any papers that might be lying about on the tables. In all Chanceries a book called the Register is kept in which every document received or sent out is entered, with, of course, its date, and a short summary of its contents. It is a large book, and reposes on its own high desk. Ours stood in a window overlooking the Neva. Mr. Q. was not troubled with false delicacy. Under pretence of admiring the view over the river, he attempted to throw a rapid eye over the Register. A colleague of mine, as a gentle hint, removed the Register from under Mr. Q.'s very nose, and locked it up in the archive press. Mr. Q., however, was not thin-skinned. He came back again and again, till the man became a positive nuisance. We always cleared away every paper before he was allowed admittance. I was only twenty-two or twenty-three then, and I devised a strictly private scheme of my own for Mr. Q.'s discomfiture. All despatches received from the Foreign Office in those days were kept folded in packets of ten, with a docket on each, giving a summary of its contents. I prepared two despatches for Mr. Q.'s private eye and, after much cogitation, settled that they should be about Afghanistan, which did not happen to be the particular point in dispute between the two Governments at that time. I also decided on a rhyming docket. It struck me as a pleasing novelty, and I thought the jingle would impress itself on Mr. Q.'s memory, for he was meant to see this bogus despatch. I took eight sheets of foolscap, virgin, spotless, unblackened, folded them in the orthodox fashion, and docketed them in a way I remember to this day. It ran: first the particular year, then "Foreign Office No. 3527. Secret and Confidential. Dated March 3. Received March 11." Then came the rhyming docket,
"General Kaufman's rumoured plan
To make Abdurrahman Khan
Ruler of Afghanistan."
Under that I wrote in red ink in a different hand, with a fine pen,
"Urgent. Instructions already acted on. See further instructions re Afghanistan in No. 3534."
I was only twenty-two then, and my sense of responsibility was not fully developed, or I should not have acted so flightily. It still strikes me though as an irresistibly attractive baited hook to offer to an inquisitive newspaperman. I grieve to say that I also wrote a "fake" decypher of a purely apocryphal code telegram purporting to have come from London. This was also on the subject of Afghanistan. It struck me at the time as a perfectly legitimate thing to do, in order to throw this Paul Pry off the scent, for the Ambassador had impressed on us all the vital importance of not disclosing the real matter in dispute. I put these flagrant forgeries in a drawer of my table and waited. I had not to wait long. My colleagues having all gone out to luncheon, I was alone in the Chancery one day, when Mr. Q.'s card was brought in to me. I kept him waiting until I had cleared every single despatch from the tables and had locked them up. I also locked up the Register, but put an eight-year-old one, exactly similar in appearance, in its place, opening it at a date two days earlier than the actual date, in order that Mr. Q. might not notice that the page (and "to-morrow's" page as well) was already filled up, and the bogus despatch and fake telegram from my drawer were duly laid on the centre table. At twenty-two I was a smooth-faced youth, in appearance, I believe, much younger than my real age. Mr. Q. came in. He had the "Well, old man" style, accompanied by a thump on the back, which I peculiarly detest. He must have blessed his luck in finding such a simple youth in sole charge of the Chancery. Mr. Q. pursued his usual tactics. He talked volubly in a loud voice, walking about the room meanwhile. The idiotic boy smoked cigarettes, and gaped inanely. Mr. Q. went as usual to the window where the Register lay in order to admire the view, and the pudding-brained youth noticed nothing, but lit a fresh cigarette. That young fool never saw that Mr. Paul Pry read unblushingly half a column of the eight-year-old Register (How it must have puzzled him!) under his very eyes. Mr. Q. then went to the centre table, where he had, of course, noticed the two papers lying, and proceeded to light a cigar. That cigar must have drawn very badly, for Mr. Q. had occasion to light it again and again, bending well over the table as he did so. He kept the unsuspicious youth engaged in incessant conversation meanwhile. So careless and stupid a boy ought never to have been left in charge of important documents. Finally Mr. Q., having gained all the information for which he had been thirsting so long, left in a jubilant frame of mind, perfectly unconscious that he had been subjected to the slightest crural tension.
When the Councillor of Embassy returned, I made a clean breast of what I had done, and showed him the bogus despatch and telegram I had contrived. Quite rightly, I received a very severe reprimand. I was warned against ever acting in such an irregular fashion again, under the direst penalties. In extenuation, I pointed out to the Councillor that the inquisitive Mr. Q. was now convinced that our difficulty with Russia was over Afghanistan.
I further added that should anyone be dishonourable enough to come into the Chancery and deliberately read confidential documents which he knew were not intended for his eye, I clearly could not be held responsible for any false impressions he might derive from reading them. That, I was told sharply, was no excuse for my conduct. After this "official wigging," the Councillor invited me to dine with him that night, when we laughed loudly over Mr. Q.'s discomfiture. That person became at length such a nuisance that "his name was put on the gate," and he was refused admission to the Embassy.
The great London daily which Mr. Q. represented at Petrograd published some strong articles on the grave menace to the Empire which a change of rulers in Afghanistan might bring about; coupled with Cassandra-like wails over the purblind British statesmen who were wilfully shutting their eyes to this impending danger, as well as to baneful Russian machinations on our Indian frontier. There were also some unflattering allusions to Abdurrahman Khan. I, knowing that the whole story had originated in my own brain, could not restrain a chuckle whilst perusing these jeremiads. After reading some particularly violent screed, the Councillor of Embassy would shake his head at me. "This is more of your work, you wretched boy!" After an interval of forty years this little episode can be recounted without harm.