Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 263, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 5 November 1915 — Page 2

The Montenegrin Ciphers

Revelations of An A mbassador-at- Large

Transcribed by H. M. Egbert from the private papers of an who for a time woe an unofficial diplomat in the most secret service of the British Government.

It la no diplomatic achievement of my own that I have now to record, but the cleverest trick ever played In all the annals of International relations, and by no less a personage than his highness. Prince Nlklas of Montenegro, or Chernagara. as the inhabitants of the* barren district call their country. Prince Niklas has always been, for me at least, one of the moat fascinating personalities in Europe. It is the complex nature of the man that appeals to me, that Is to say the many characters that he possesses and that crop out in him at unexpected moments. A warrior ruler, bearing the scars of Innumerable battles, a poet of high renown, chivalrous, ardent, the hero of his little people, he is also famed for his financial necessities and his willingness to accept monetary as slstance from any Quarter in which it presents itself. The greatest coup of his reign was, of course, the arrangement of the marriage of his charming and accomplished daughter Helena to the crown prince of Italy. Victor Emmanuel, now ruling as Victor Emmanuel 111. By this master-stroke of policy he secured one of the great powers as a firm prop for his rather unstable throne, and bound the dynasty of Italy securely to the wheels of the chariot of his own fortunes. Ever since the marriage Victor Emmanuel has allowed his father-in-law a certain fixed annual stipend. There is nothing Indiscreet in mentioning this; It is a matter of common knowledge. When war between Germany and Austria, on the one hand, and Prance, and England on the other was seen to be inevitable, Niklas was in great perplexity. Austria had also Invaded Serbia and bombarded Belgrade, the capital. Montenegro, allied to Serbia by blood and treaty, had not yet declared herself upon her side, as she was shortly to do. And the cause of Niklas’ hesitation was that Italy, as the third partner of the triple alliance, was expected to take sides with her Teutonic confederates. If she did so. the first fruits of the alliance would be the invasion of Montenegro by Italian troops. Of course we all know now how promptly Italy disavowed her responsibilities toward her allies, on the ground that the triple alliance was for defense and not aggression. We know how ardently Italy’s decision to remain neutral was greeted in France and England. Still, the unprejudiced person may candidly confess that Italy’s game was a very shrewd one, and dictated more by fear of the British fleet than by qualms of conscience. Perhaps Italy might legitimately have stretched a point In favor of her partnera So. at least, thought Victor Emmanuel 111. In those first dayß of the war Italy’s decision was awaited with the most intense anxiety by all the warring nations. And it is an open secret that King Victor was in favor of carrying out, at any sacrifice, what he considered to be his treaty obligations. Picture, then, the Quirinal. rent by dissension, the Marquis di San Giovanni upon the anxious seat and irresolute, Victor demanding war, and his own household, In the person of his gracious consort, frantically appealing to him not to engage in a struggle which must mean the invasion of her father’s little country. Upon this scene enters old, rugged Prince Niklas of Chernagara, bent upon securing Victor’s neutrality. I got the story of his exploit from a friend of mine at the Italian courtone of the Black aristocracy, that is to say, a sponsor of the Papal claims who, with a foot in either camp, Quirinal and Vatican, was not averse from telling a tale for the confounding of King Victor. Pietro Della Campagna’s clever Italian mind was, In fact, the first to penetrate the mystery of the Montenegrin cipher, before the dispatch from the Italian minister at Vienna convulsed the Quirinal —all except King Victor —with laughter. But I had better tell the story impersonally—for the first portion, at any rate. You see the spectacle in the Quirinal: Victor pressed on all sides to declare neutrality, and obstinately resolved to vindicate what he considered to be his country’s faith, by joining Austria and Germany; Di San Giovanni prophesying revolution should he comply; and the beautiful queen for the first time in her life at odds with her husband. Enter, then, old Niklas, who, with the suaveness of a father-in-law and the leverage of a fellow-ruler, demanded audience. He got It, two hours after his arrival in the large audience room In the west wing of the Quirinal, looking out down the muddy Tiber. The Marcbese di H«n Giovanni was the third of the party, ■"<* the only witness. Yet somehow the report of the meeting was spread abroad with tolerable accuracy afterward. Probably the old man babbled to hie cronies in the one-story palace at Cettinje. Niklas had not been idle during those two hours of waiting. He went AiaL of course, to find his daughter,

(Copyright. UU, by W. O. Chapman.)

tumbling up the stairs and calling her by her childish diminutive. Finding her in tears, he surmised at once that his mission was going to be a hard one. He found a maid of honor in the corridor, and grasping her by the wrist, dragged her into the queen’s apartment, and stood by, his rugged faoe wrinkled with anxiety, while she applied eau de cologne and smelling salts. Nothing ever satisfied old Niklas during his visits to Rome unless her majesty evidenced signs of fainting, a high-bred accomplishment, in the old fellow’s opinion, unknown in Montenegro, and proof positive of gentle manners. I have spoken of the acute Italian mind of Pietro Della Campagna, my friend. At that time he had an affair with a certain maid of honor the same whom old Niklas had dragged so unceremoniously into his daughter’s rooms. Whether she jilted him or married him I do not know; perhaps the affair is still dragging its slow length along. Anyway, about ten minutes after the application of the smelling salts, Pietro, ignorant of what is happening inside, goes on duty outside her majesty’s apartments. Then out comes the maid of honor, stops, considers, and, in turn, drags the valiant sentryman bodily inside the queen’s drawing room. There he found old Niklas pacing up and down and glancing anxiously at an inner door, behind which, he understood, her majesty was resting. “This gentleman and I, sir, are her majesty's most faithful servants,” said the maid of honor to the prince. “That doesn’t help,” stormed the old man. “Who’s going to make the king see that he’s on the wrong track? Who’s going to stop him from losing his crown if the queen can’t?” His language was simpler and more elementary than that, but I translate it diplomatically. Then he sat down and explained the entire situation to the maid of honor and the young officer. Naturally Pietro felt proud. When a man thinks a good deal of himself ideas flow quickly. It did not take Pietro long before he got the germ which was to prove the undoing of the Germanic confederation. When he expounded it Niklas was at first aghast. Then he swore and blew his nose, and clapped the young fellow on the shoulder and offered him the premiership of Montenegro if his scheme succeeded. So the three sat down at a table, and soon three inventive minds were running along the same groove. Niklas learned from Pietro that King Victor was determined to draw the sword In aid of Austria. The idea of the cipher, as I have said, was Pietro’s. but the maid of honor gave it the touches of verisimilitude. It was a bold thing and a clever one, and Pietro said that it made his head feel like a mill-race for dajs afterward. However, the scheme was practically worked out when a page tapped at the door and announced that his majesty would be pleased to see Prince Niklas in the audience room in the west wing. Prince Niklas snatched up the paper, which had Just been completed, and bestowed a kiss upon the cheek of my friend Pietro. Pietro went down on his knee and kissed the prince’s hand. Then, after the door had closed upon them, he kidsed the maid of honor, but not on the hand. After this had been done, wince the maid of honor was growing anxious to attend upon her mistress. Pietro resumed his post outside the apartment, looking, as can be imagined, unusually well pleased with himself. Meanwhile Niklas was on his way to the audience room. There a stormy scene ensued. King Victor, conscious that he was being pressed on all sides against his v ill and conscience, stood as stifT as a poker when Prince Niklas saluted him. He took the offensive, too, like a good tactician, and poured hot shot into the arguments which the old man pressed upon him, that he should declare his neutrality. “My duty lies where my conscience lies.” declared his majesty. “I am bound by treaty to support Germany and Austria, and if I fail now I shall deserve to be called a poltroon, as well as faithless. Besides,” he added irritably, “what the devil do you come to me with arguments about the affairs of Italy for?” “Because the balance of power is at stake/’ answered Prince Niklas. It may he doubted whether he knew what that was, or whether he did not have in his mind a scale loaded with gold pieces. However, he had not become a constitutional sovereign during the past few years for nothing., The old man floundered along, cunningly giving the impression that he was pleading a weak cause, and conscious of It, and that he had nothing pise in mind. His majesty grew more and more angry- Prince Niklas was clumsily flicking him on the row, and the Marchese hi San Giovanni sat glum and silent at the table. He knew his master —hut then he did not. know the driving force behind Niklas’ words. At

THE EVENING REPUBLICAN. RENSBELAER. INP.

toast. It Is necessary to assume that he did not. ‘lt seems to me,” said the king at last, with frank brutality, “that a ruler who does not scruple to accept a subsidy from Italy, and whose every visit to my court of recent years has had for Its one object the borrowing of fresh funds, should not press me on matters of policy. In fact,” he said concluding, “it Is Impertinent, and I resent It in the strongest possible manner.” The rough old man controlled his indignation. Prince Niklas has the saving grace of humor, which lends a finishing touch to a rough character. “My dear son-in-law,” he answered, in the Calabrian peasant dialect of Italy, which he had mastered daring a long sojourn in the south at an early and unchronicled period of his life, “it is the privilege of a father-in-law to remonstrate with a young man who is about to lose his situation and become unable to support his daughter in her proper station of life. You are aware, Victor,” he added, “that Italia Irredenta is not forgotten among your people.” I imagine that all my readers are acquainted with the meaning of this expression, but for the benefit of any who are not I will explain that Italia Irredenta —unredeemed Italy—ls the name given to that portion of the Austrian dominations on the north and east shores of the Adriatic which Is inhabitated by Italians and has not yet been regained by the Italian people. It is, of course, the existence under Austrian rule of this strip of territory that is the cause of all Italy’s heartburnings against the dual monarchy. “Now, Victor,” continued the old man grimly, “if you go too far in support of Austria and Germany you are going to lose your throne. You haven’t any job. And how do you expect to support my daughter as a connoisseur of coins?” This bantering allusion to the king’s well-known hobby of coin collecting

"Forgive Me, Victor!" He Exclaimed in Penitence, Catching the Kings Hand and Raising it to His Lips. “Do What You Wish So Long as You Pardon Me for My Indiscreet Bluntness of Speech. I Was Thinking Only of My Daughter’s Future.”

roused his majesty to white-hot fury. He jumped out of his chair. “I have heard enough!” he exclaimed. “You will leave Italy at once and never presume to return. The meeting is at an end,” he added, speaking to the Marchese di San Giovanni, who had been trying vainly to catch Niklas’ eye. But, as he was stalking indignantly out of the room, yrith one of those dramatic changes of mood that characterize the southern Slav, Prince Niklas threw himself upon his knees before him. barring his way to the door. “Forgive me, Victor!” he exclaimed in penitence, catching at the king s hand and raising it to his lips. “Do what you wish so long as you pardon me for my. indiscreet bluntness of speech. I was thinking only of my daughter’s future.” “I can attend to that,” replied his majesty stiffly, trying to get past the importunate old man. “But you will forgive me?” pleaded Niklas, rising to his feet. “I will accept your apology,” answered Victor, now half relenting. "There was another matter I wanted to speak to you about,” said Prince Niklas. “You know that the mobilization of the Montenegrin troops has cost me a lot of money.” “You are a fool to go to war, Niklas,” said the king bluntly. “I shall be compelled to occupy your territory.” “But, my dear son-in-law, we have not yet gone to war,” replied Niklas suavely. “Mobilization does not necessarily mean war. However, as I was saying, it has cost me a good round sum —a hundred thousand liras, in fact, and if I have to call on you to preserve my throne for me, when I fly in the face of my country’s wish and refuse to fight—” “So you * want a hundred thousand liras ?” demanded King Victor. “Immediately,” responded the old man. “The bank at Vienna wires me that my account is overdrawn. I thought I had some money left, hut —

I don’t know how I am going to ret home, in fact." King Victor reflected. Having refused one favor, he was naturally to the mood to bestow another in compensation. His ambassador at Vienna had telegraphed him that day that Niklas’ account was overdrawn. If Niklas went to war with Austria his Vienna funds would at once be confiscated; to place a sum of money to his credit there would insure the crafty old man’s keeping the peace. Prince Niklas saw his Irresolution, and produced a piece of paper from h}s waistcoat pocket. “If you will send that to the ambassador at Vienna,” he said, “you will earn my eternal gratitude, and I assure you you shall hear no more pleas for neutrality on the part of Italy.” King Victor read the paper as follows: "Place In the Chernagara vaults liras 100,000 at par Paris our order, and we demand be promptly entered to H. H. account and be credited all allowance.” “Di San Giovanni,” said the king, tossing the paper toward tta* marquis, “what do you think of this?” The Marquis shrugged his shoulders. “If your majesty wishes it to be paid, It will not seriously affect your revenues,” he answered. “Then wire it to our ambassador at Vienna,” said the king, and, ignoring the old prince’s protestations of gratitude, he stalked out of the room. As soon as he had gone old Niklas who, besides being a poet, prides himself upon his penmanship, sat down to embellish the document with much flourishing of capitals and chirographic idiosyncrasies. Now, whether the marchese suspected something, whether he was privy to the conspiracy, or whether he was merely taken in, Della Campagna did not inform me. But the form in which the document went ultimately to the telegraph office was as follows: “Place in the Chernagara vaults

liras 100,000 at par Paris our order, and we demand be promptly entered to a H. account and be credited all allowance. Under H. M. signature. Di Giovanni. “By Our Royal Warrant, 4th. Aug. It. R. V.” Why was the dispatch sent in English? Because English has begun to supplant French as the language of diplomacy. But to an Italian ambassador? There I can enlighten no one. Prince Niklas was proud of his English, and, as soon as the Marchese had signed and had affixed the royal seal, he took the precious paper in his hands and ran like a boy to the telegraph office. And that was the innocent dispatch which sent Europe wild with wrath and joy a few hours later, when the news ran that the Italian ambassador at Vienna had called upon the Emperor Franz Joseph and informed him that Italy would maintain neutrality in the impending struggle. This done, the outburst of threats against Italy prevented Victor from disavowing his ambassador’s statement. As for old Niklas, he had hurried back to Montenegro by the first boat, and was already massing his fighting men upon the slopes of Ctaernagara, to lead them in aid of Serbia against the hereditary foeman, across the border. • Who betrayed the royal cipher? There Della Campagna, graceless scamp though he proved himself in betraying Niklas’ confidence, Would not budge an inch. In vain I pleaded my past assistance to him in a certain diplomatic embroilment. Della Campagna was adamant. But he did expound to me the cipher, which was changed on the following day. “Do you see anything strange about that message, Mr. X V he asked. 1 scanned it closely. The letters, of course, were the customary abbreviations. H. H. stood for his highness. H. M. represented his majesty. It. R. V. meant merely "Italiae Rex Victor,'’ or “Victor, king of Italy.** Yet there

was one peculiarity. The marches* had been written down “D 1 Giovanni,” Instead of “D 1 San Giovanni.” "Half a minftte, and I would have inserted the San,” admitted Della Campagna ruefully. “But you know lam poor at English, In spite of five years at St James’, and there wasn’t time." ‘The marches* waa privy to the whole thing, you scoundrel!” I shouted fiercely. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. There was no getting around that affectation of naive simplicity. "Well, my friend," I said, “I have studied the cipher In a hundred ways, and I can’t find in that any declaration of Italy’s neutrality. Of course I started by presuming that the letter appearing most frequently stood for ‘e.’ But that carried me nowhere. Now, if It is a code cipher, all I can say Is you have refined the code to a degree unknown among *other nations. Besides, what code would have’Chernagara’ in it, or the name of the mar chese?” Della Campagna sat down beside me and drew a pad from his pocket. He placed it on his knee and took out a pencil. "The essence of all codes is that they must be undecipherable without a key,” he said. "No code hgs ever been Invented which cannot be decoded, unless the letters are interchangeable. The key gives the order of change. Our key is—or was, rather —the day of the month. This being the fourth day of August, the key to all code messages sent on that day was 4. “Now we have to consider another factor. The body of the message contains twenty-six words, but by reading ‘one hundred thousand’ instead of 100,000, as this system demands, although In decoding we adhere to the exact form of the message, we get 28 words. Twenty-eight words, then, make up the message, sans signature and phraseology. '"We have now the two numbers, 28 and 4. Add 4 to 2 and we get 6. Add 4 to 8 and we get 12, or 2 beyond the ten. In place of 28, therefore, we have a new number, G 2. The sixth letter of the telegram forms the first letter of the real message. The second letter forms the second letter. "Take our number 62 and repeat the process, which gives us 10 and 6. The tenth letter following, therefore, forms the third letter of the real message. The sixth letter after that forms the fourth letter. “Repeating the process still once more, we take our number 106, by adding 4to each portion we-get 4 and 10. Ndw, my friend, observe how it works out in practice.” Figuring upon his pad, he wrote down the following series of numbers: 6,2, 10, 6,4, 10, 8,4, 2,8, 6,2, 10, 6,4, 10, 8,4, 2,8, 6,2, 10, 6,4, 10, 8, 4, 2. “All even numbers, you see,“ Della Campagna continued. "On odd- days of the month, of course, the figures are odd. You will observe that we have a complete cycle of ten numbers before the process repeats itself. In other words, where one might decodify the code had we fixed values for the letters, he now finds himself under the necessity of decodifying a code in which each letter may stand for any other, and may be from two to ten spaces apart from its neighbor on either hand. It is a good system, and far better than a code book, which always gets stolen in the end.” Resuming his pencil, Della Campagna wrote out the telegraphed message again, dividing it, not between the words, but after each series of letters corresponding to the series of figures, and capitalizing the end letters instead of those at the beginning oi the words. The message now read as follows: , T placel nT he ChernagA ravauLi, tsll ras IOO.OOOA tparparl souß oR derandwE demanD bE promptlyeN teredT ohhA ccountandß ecreditE dalL lowanceU nderhM si gnaturediG iovanN ibyO urroyalwaß rant4thA ugiT rV. “What do you make out of that?” inquired Della Campagna, handing the pad to me with a smile. “Pretty good English for an Italian, even if I did spend five years as an attache at the Court of St. James —don’t you think so?” I put the capital letters together and found the following line upon my pad:

IT ALIAIRREDENT ABELLUMIGN OR ATV I stared ,at it in perplexity. It seemed strangely familiar to me; *yet for the life of me I could not make it out, or think of any word ending in the letter V. “Surely, my dear friend, you have not forgotten your Latin?" Della Campagna demanded. And then the puzzle existed no longer. Mechanically my eye sorted out the words: ITALIA IRREDENTA BELLUM IGNORAT. V. “The V at the end stands for ’Victor.' It is customary in sending a message to append one’s name or initials, you know,” explained Della Campagna patiently. i “Italia Irredenta Ignores the war,” I translated. “Well, I don’t think much of your Latin, Della Campagna. It sounds more like mediaeval Latin than the language of Virgil and Cicero, but, as an arch-plotter I award the cake to you.” “I thought yon would be amused, replied the young fellow suavely. “And now, excuse me. I have an appointment with a lady.” I watched the young fellow swing away with his graceful stride, and i confess I hoped that it was the maid

of honor, and that aha would remain true to him. It is not often that tha destinies of Europe are changed by * young officer's prank. I could picture the deadly wrath of the Emperor Franz Joseph when he received the message—if, indeed, the Italian ambassador did not discreetly modify It* purport. And I think Prince Niklas, who sacrificed his financial needs for the sake of his fatherland, will find himself the most impoverished monarch in Europe if he comes home safe from the war.

REAL SECRET OF HAPPINESS

Many Things Contribute to Condition Which It Was Meant All Bhould Enjoy. It would be well with us all if we could.learn that happiness is an ascetic thing. It is the science of sacrifice. It is the art of denial. It la the gospel of simplicity. Try to accustom yourself to the great, grand, grave realities of being, and Joy will roll over you in billows. The greatest, grandest, and gravest reality in life of man is that old, sweet splendor called love. It has a thousand forms, but in every form love is an asceticthing. It is a giving up and a giving out. It is the enduring harmony of life for man in the mass and for man as an adventurer in search of Joy. If we had the courage to solve all our political and social and domestic problems by resorting fearlessly to the touchstone of love, there would be very little suffering left in the state and in the separate soul. But we have not the courage, cowards that we are. Yet we need not be cowards all our lives long. We can attain the valiant peace that love confers if we resolve to live in single and separate moments dominated by its law. Our soul can be set like an Aeolian harp, ready to be breathed upon by the wind of hope that blows across the good salt sea. The things that corrode our hearts are easily abandoned. The rapture that is born of stem denial costs nothing. It is free to all. It is not to be bought with gold. All that we need is the strength of will to make our lives clear and clean and sane in the service and adoration of selfless love. Can we do it as nations? Can we do it as men? —James Douglas.

ONE PRIVILEGE OF DYSPEPTIC

At Least He Has Keen Enjoyment In the Satisfaction of Quenching Thirst. It is one of the few privileges of tha dyspeptic that he thoroughly understands what thirst is, and consequently thoroughly enjoys the quenching of it. Not for him the moderation of the exasperatingly well-balanced man who. in the hottest weather, only moistens his lips with a little water, or at the most washes out his mouth, but does not swallow the cooling liquid. No, the dyspeptic requires his drinks to be very long, and either very cold or very hot, and when in hot weather the dyspeptic hears the tinkle of ice and glass, and sees the dullness of frost on the outside of a tumbler, he knows that one of the pleasantest physical sensations procurable for him in this world is at hand. His imagination is stirred, not only by the thought of liquid matter passing down his throat, but by the artificial differences of temperature which he is about to produce, by the idea of a cold glacial stream being poured into the arid desert of his system.

The Men of the Aran Islands.

Later I met a man from the Aran islands, which lie oft the coast of Galway, far out of the world in the wind and the rain, and he told me proudly of the place. “They’re good people there,” he said. “I don't suppose you’d find any better people anywhere in the world. And they’re old-fashioned, too; maybe that's the reason for it. You’d see them wearing clothes they made themselves, grown and woven right there in the islands, and the women wear shawls they’ve made themselves. You’d see the pampooties, shoes made of cowskin, that they use for walking on the rocks. They’re bold sailors, too, and daring; sure, they have to be, and they go right out in the Atlantic itself. They have Bkin boats they go fishing in, with a high bow to them, the like of that one there. My uncle had a hooker he used to run, and he was lost off her —he wan anchoring one time, and somehow he got the chain around his leg, and it pulled him overboard, and drowned him. But he was a damn fool to get caught so, God save him.” —A. S. Hildebrand in the Forum.

Convincing Evidence.

Lord Morley used to tell a quaint story of a man who wi® arrested by the French during the Franco-Prus-sian war. They found upon him a letter from his mother, dated Berlin, and jumping to the conclusion that he was a German spy, in spite of his ve- * hement protestations that he was an Englishman, condemned him to death. As he was being led to the place of execution he insisted that he had left something behind him and must go back for it He was told that he could not possibly go back, and was about to be shot “By all means,” he replied, “but I must go back and fetch what 1 have left behind.” “What is It?” he was asked. “I have,” he replied, "left my umbrella.” Straightway the French became convinced that no one but an Englishman could be so interested in an umbrella, »nd accordingly liberated him.