That the denoument did take a different turn, and pretty strictly in accordance with Zaleski’s forecast, is now matter of history, and the incidents, therefore, need no further comment from me in this place.

THE STONE OF THE EDMUNDSBURY MONKS

‘Russia,’ said Prince Zaleski to me one day, when I happened to be on a visit to him in his darksome sanctuary—­’Russia may be regarded as land surrounded by ocean; that is to say, she is an island.  In the same way, it is sheer gross irrelevancy to speak of Britain as an island, unless indeed the word be understood as a mere modus loquendi arising out of a rather poor geographical pleasantry.  Britain, in reality, is a small continent.  Near her—­a little to the south-east—­is situated the large island of Europe.  Thus, the enlightened French traveller passing to these shores should commune within himself:  “I now cross to the Mainland”; and retracing his steps:  “I now return to the fragment rent by wrack and earthshock from the Mother-country.”  And this I say not in the way of paradox, but as the expression of a sober truth.  I have in my mind merely the relative depth and extent—­the non-insularity, in fact—­of the impressions made by the several nations on the world.  But this island of Europe has herself an island of her own:  the name of it, Russia.  She, of all lands, is the terra incognita, the unknown land; till quite lately she was more—­she was the undiscovered, the unsuspected land.  She has a literature, you know, and a history, and a language, and a purpose—­but of all this the world has hardly so much as heard.  Indeed, she, and not any Antarctic Sea whatever, is the real Ultima Thule of modern times, the true Island of Mystery.’

I reproduce these remarks of Zaleski here, not so much on account of the splendid tribute to my country contained in them, as because it ever seemed to me—­and especially in connection with the incident I am about to recall—­that in this respect at least he was a genuine son of Russia; if she is the Land, so truly was he the Man, of Mystery.  I who knew him best alone knew that it was impossible to know him.  He was a being little of the present:  with one arm he embraced the whole past; the fingers of the other heaved on the vibrant pulse of the future.  He seemed to me—­I say it deliberately and with forethought—­to possess the unparalleled power not merely of disentangling in retrospect, but of unravelling in prospect, and I have known him to relate coming events with unimaginable minuteness of precision.  He was nothing if not superlative:  his diatribes, now culminating in a very extravaganza of hyperbole—­now sailing with loose wing through the downy, witched, Dutch cloud-heaps of some quaintest tramontane Nephelococcugia of thought—­now laying down law of the Medes for the actual world of to-day—­had oft-times the strange effect