Preface

The romantic adventures of Mata Hari stirred a certain section of public opinion to a sympathy rarely accorded to spies. The men and women of that profession are usually the object of general execration from their enemies and a somewhat furtive admiration from others who extract pleasure or consolation from the pursuit of danger, where the degree and not the motive is the standard. Why, then, should this vaudeville “star” have excited a contrary emotion? Why should she have as defenders: princes, statesmen, savants, and artists, as well as genial boulevardiers who, if lacking in a supersensitive morality, are without doubt loyal citizens of the nation to which Mata Hari did incalculable harm?

In the first place, Mata Hari was a woman of unusual beauty, moving within a veil of sensual mysticism; in the second place, her chosen forum was Paris. The attention she had drawn as an artist and her subtle personality account for much of the interest she aroused. The fact that a Frenchman is never too fat, too old, or too ugly to be interested in a pretty (and frail) woman supplies the remainder viiiof the answer to the problem. The average woman spy, outside of the popular romances, is not a lovable creature. But, endowed with a romantic nature, a rich imagination, a flair for the sensational, the sentimental, and the poetic, preaching a gospel of love which had to be communicated in whispered confidences, has this woman not all the characteristics of an ideal heroine for a successful novel?

Since the life and death of Mata Hari have become the common property of writers for the stage and more particularly for the screen, her fascinating history as a super-spy, dancer, courtesan, and high-priestess of a lascivious love cult with its wealth of drama, romance, and bitter tragedy, has been submerged beneath a torrent of highly imaginative literature which almost completely obscures the truth. No spy story is too absurd to be associated with her name; no deep-rooted intrigue too treacherous but that it becomes the more sinister by being made to revolve about her person. For the most part these flights of the artistic imagination bear too unmistakably the stamp of their manufacture to be worth exposing, but others, more subtly constructed, have passed into the current coin of espionage legend without any better ixclaim to authenticity. The life of Mata Hari is romantic enough to require no embellishment, so that in the following narrative imagination plays no part in the drama it unfolds. No effort has been made to invent situations or conversations to promote the easy flow of the story.

Certain phases of Mata Hari’s life are inexplicable to those unaccustomed to the methods and practices of the secret services, and for this reason I have tried to illustrate the story with examples of other spies’ experiences. This knowledge of the German espionage work was collected while a regimental intelligence officer in Ireland, England, and France. The quoted examples of other spies are stories told me, for the most part, by men who were actually engaged in the work of counter-espionage which revealed their activities. It has been suggested that the narrative would be more convincing if the names of certain actors in the sensational story had appeared in the text. This could only have been done if the great game had terminated with the other hostilities on November 11, 1918. Unfortunately, that is not so. The scenes change, the task varies, but the work goes on. Reticence on certain points became not merely a matter of discretion, but of life and death to some xof the men still engaged in the work of counter-espionage.

For instance, allusion is made in the text to a Russian courier who carried a draft treaty in the barrel of his fountain pen. I have been asked who was the courier and what treaty did he carry. To reveal these details would most certainly lead to the imprisonment, possibly the death, of a man who is still actively engaged in this dangerous work. It might be urged that the mere mention of the extraordinary hiding-place is evidence enough to betray the main characters. Happily it is not. But danger lies in the explanation. For purely diplomatic reasons other details may not yet be revealed, as will be understood from a reading of the text; too many trusted and influential people are involved. It is a great gulf that separates the foyers of the elegant Champs-Élysées from the bivouac fires; the vicious luxury of the demi-monde, sipping its cocktail with nice enjoyment, from the beer-swigging soldiers in the canteens; the lascivious dances of the worship of Siva from the grim Dance of Death on the crumbling parapets, where riven bodies were a commonplace. Yet over this yawning gulf between selfish lust and heroic self-sacrifice went the fluttering feet of the xiRed Dancer and her partner, Death, and the injury she did was tragic enough without adding to it by exposing people who, through accident or indiscretion, became involved.

T. C.

Mata Hari

COURTESAN AND SPY

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