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The Higher Objectives of Islamic
Theology
REFLECTION AND THEORY IN THE STUDY OF
RELIGION

SERIES EDITOR
Vincent Lloyd, Villanova University
A Publication Series of
The American Academy of Religion
and
Oxford University Press

OPTING FOR THE MARGINS

Postmodernity and Liberation in Christian Theology
Edited by Joerg Rieger
MAKING MAGIC
Religion, Magic, and Science in the Modern World
Randall Styers
THE METAPHYSICS OF DANTE’S COMEDY
Christian Moevs
PILGRIMAGE OF LOVE
Moltmann on the Trinity and Christian Life
Joy Ann McDougall
MORAL CREATIVITY
Paul Ricoeur and the Poetics of Possibility
John Wall
MELANCHOLIC FREEDOM
Agency and the Spirit of Politics
David Kyuman Kim
FEMINIST THEOLOGY AND THE CHALLENGE OF DIFFERENCE
Margaret D. Kamitsuka
PLATO’S GHOST
Spiritualism in the American Renaissance
 Cathy Gutierrez
TOWARD A GENEROUS ORTHODOXY
Prospects for Hans Frei’s Postliberal Theology
Jason A. Springs
CAVELL, COMPANIONSHIP, AND CHRISTIAN THEOLOGY
Peter Dula
COMPARATIVE THEOLOGY AND THE PROBLEM OF RELIGIOUS
RIVALRY
Hugh Nicholson
SECULARISM AND RELIGION-MAKING
Markus Dressler and Arvind-Pal S. Mandair
FORTUNATE FALLIBILITY
Kierkegaard and the Power of Sin
Jason A. Mahn
METHOD AND METAPHYSICS IN MAIMONIDES’ GUIDE FOR THE
PERPLEXED
Daniel Davies
THE LANGUAGE OF DISENCHANTMENT
Protestant Literalism and Colonial Discourse in British India
Robert A. Yelle
WRITING RELIGION
The Making of Turkish Alevi Islam
Markus Dressler
THE AESTHETICS AND ETHICS OF FAITH
A Dialogue Between Liberationist and Pragmatic Thought
Christopher D. Tirres
VISIONS OF RELIGION
Experience, Meaning, and Power
Stephen S. Bush
STUDYING THE QURʾAN IN THE MUSLIM ACADEMY
Majid Daneshgar
SYNCRETISM AND CHRISTIAN TRADITION
Race and Revelation in the Study of Religious Mixture
Ross Kane
ASIAN AMERICANS AND THE SPIRIT OF RACIAL CAPITALISM
Jonathan Tran
THE HIGHER OBJECTIVES OF ISLAMIC THEOLOGY
Toward a Theory of Maqāṣid al-ʿAqīda
Mohammed Gamal Abdelnour
The Higher Objectives of Islamic
Theology
Toward a Theory of
Maqāṣid al-ʿAqīda

MOHAMMED GAMAL ABDELNOUR

Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the
University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by
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Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press

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© Oxford University Press 2022

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You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same
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ISBN 978–0–19–764863–6
eISBN 978–0–19–764865–0
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197648636.001.0001
‫ وليحسن‬،‫ إذا وجد فيه نقصًا أن ُيَكِّم ل‬، ‫ فحٌق على الناظِر المتأمِل‬،‫وعند ذلك‬
،‫ واستبَدل التعَب بالراحِة والَّس َه َر بالمنام‬،‫الظَّن بَمن حاَلف الليالي واأليام‬
‫ فقد َألقى إليه مقاليَد ما‬،‫ َوَوَه َب لهيتيمَة دهِره‬،‫حتى َأهَدى إليه نتيجَة ُع مِره‬
‫ َوَخ َرَج عن ُع هدة البيان فيما َوَجَب‬،‫ وَطَّوَقه طوَق األمانة التي في يديه‬،‫لديه‬
‫ وإنما لكل امرىء ما نوى‬،‫ وإنما األعمال بالنيات‬،‫عليه‬.
‫أبوإسحاقالشاطبي‬،)‫م‬1388 .‫—الموافقاتفيأصواللشريعة(ت‬

In the light of this, it is incumbent upon the mindful reader to

complement any deficiency that he may find in it [the present book].
He should harbour a good thought about the one who allied with the
nights and days and substituted weariness for ease and wakefulness
for sleep till he was able to gift him the sum total of his life and
present his entire precious time to him. He has now put the keys of
all that he has in front of him, placed around his neck the trust that
was in his own hand, and discharged himself of the duty of speaking
up by stating what is incumbent upon him [to state]. Indeed, actions
are but by intentions, and each person will have but that which he
intended.
—Abū Isḥāq al-Shāṭibī (d. 1388 CE), al-Muwāfaqāt fī uṣūl al-Sharīʿa
 Contents

Acknowledgments
Transliteration and Dating
Introduction
Important Definitions and Clarifications
The Monograph’s Epistemological Paradigm
Key Arguments
Structure of the Monograph
Important Caveats

CHAPTER 1: Historical Roots of Maqāṣid al-ʿAqīda

Maqāṣid al-ʿAqīda before al-Ghazālī
Maqāṣid al-ʿAqīda with al-Ghazālī
Maqāṣid al-ʿAqīda after al-Ghazālī
Muḥammad ʿAbduh’s Contributions to Maqāṣid al-ʿAqīda
Explaining the Underdevelopment of Maqāṣid al-ʿAqīda

CHAPTER 2: Sources and Methods of Maqāṣid al-ʿAqīda

The Qur’ān and Maqāṣid al-ʿAqīda
The Sunna and Maqāṣid al-ʿAqīda
Maqāṣid al-ʿAqīda between Exotericism and Esotericism

CHAPTER 3: From Maqāṣid al-Sharīʿa to Maqāṣid al-ʿAqīda

“Interrogating” the Classical “Theory” of Maqāṣid al-Sharīʿa
“Generating” the Higher Objective(s) of Islamic Theology
The Nature of the Islamic Truth
CHAPTER 4: “Integrating” the “Tools” of Maqāṣid al-Sharīʿa into
Maqāṣid al-ʿAqīda
Definition and Transmission
Al-Firqa al-Nājiya in al-Ḍarūriyyāt, al-Ḥājiyyāt, and al-Taḥsīniyyāt
Faith vis-à-vis Deeds in al-Ḍarūriyyāt, al-Ḥājiyyāt, and al-
Taḥsīniyyāt
The Prophet Muḥammad in al-Ḍarūriyyāt and al-Ḥājiyyāt

CHAPTER 5: Why Does Maqāṣid al-ʿAqīda Matter?

The Maqāṣidī-Oriented Approach and Treating the Wahhabi-
Shiite Conflict

Conclusions
The Way Forward

Notes
Bibliography
Index
 Acknowledgments

THIS MONOGRAPH WAS drafted while I was a Fellow of the Centre of

Islamic Studies at SOAS (2019/2020–2020/2021). Therefore, I thank
Muhammad Abdel Haleem (head of the Centre), Mustafa Shah, and
Abdul Hakim al-Matroudi, who provided me with an ideal
environment in which I could collect and dissect the data of this
monograph. I have benefited not only from their insights and
friendships but also from their students, whom I too taught in the
past five years. Also, I am grateful for Al-Azhar, my alma mater, and
the British Council in Egypt (who funded my PhD project) for
granting me a leave, allowing me to accept SOAS’s fellowship. I am
thankful also for the Philosophy Department at the University of
York, especially Tom Stoneham and David Worsley, who not only
allowed me to complete this manuscript by the time I joined their
department but also engaged with its ideas by holding seminar
series discussing its questions and potential.
In the writing process, I benefited greatly from discussions with
Ebrahim Moosa, Gavin D’Costa, Joshua Ralston, Khaled Abou El Fadl,
and Mona Siddiqui. Over the past five years, exchanges with this
cohort have helped me refine the arguments and check the evidence
presented here. I found the American Academy of Religion’s series,
Reflection and Theory in the Study of Religion, a great host for this
manuscript. Hence, I extend my thanks to Vincent Lloyd, the series
editor, for his encouragement and belief in the manuscript, and to
Cynthia Read, of Oxford University Press, for overseeing the
manuscript through the stages of review and production.
I have often been asked: How did you manage to finish your
second book a few months after publishing your first, with Brill? To
this I say that the ideas presented in this book were conceived
during the writing of the first book. By the time I published the first,
I already had material for the second. Also, I have been blessed with
a cohort of friends who have read this manuscript from A to Z and
offered some significantly detailed comments and suggestions that
have considerably contributed to the quick completion of this book.
These are Shoaib A. Malik, Claire Gallien, and Umran Khan. I am
much obliged to them.
As always, Mai Bakr, my beloved wife, was the first attentive
listener for all ideas presented in this book. I thank her for the
endless patience with which she helped me refine my ideas from the
earliest phases of thinking through the basic idea of the book to its
final submission. On top of that, she was perfectly looking after our
daughter, Leen, and our son, Abraham. May God bless her and
them.
 Transliteration and Dating

For rendering Arabic words in English, I have followed the IJMES

transliteration system (International Journal of Middle East Studies),
except in cases where I need to comply with sources of direct
quotations. As for dating figures and authors, I use the Gregorian
calendar. Therefore, historical figures and classical authors are
identified by their death dates using the Gregorian years only.
 Introduction

This monograph takes the well-known ḥadīth of Angel Gabriel

(ḥadīth Jibrīl)1 as its starting point. In this ḥadīth, Gabriel asks
Prophet Muḥammad about the three key dimensions of Islam: islām
(submission), īmān (faith), and iḥsān (excellence). While the first
dimension relates to the practical aspects of Islam, and the second
refers to its creedal doctrines, the third refers to its spiritual realm.
Islām in this ḥadīth is described with its five pillars (testimony of
faith, prayer, charity, fasting, and pilgrimage). Īmān is described with
its six articles (faith in God, His angels, His books, His messengers,
the Last Day, and Predestination). Iḥsān is described as worshiping
God as if you see Him, and if you do not see Him, then, to know that
He sees you. From those dimensions, respectively, Islamic law
(Fiqh/Sharīʿa), Islamic theology (ʿAqīda/Kalām), and Sufism
(Taṣawuf) emerged as integral disciplines of the Islamic tradition.
Due to the centrality of this ḥadīth to the Islamic tradition and the
holistic picture that it draws about it,2 I appeal to it to essentially
propose a value-based structure of the Islamic tradition. This value-
based structure can be summarized in three cardinal values: Truth,
Justice, and Beauty. I argue that while Islamic law’s primary
objective is the pursuit, preservation, and promotion of Justice, and
Sufism’s key objective is the pursuit, preservation, and promotion of
Beauty, Islamic theology’s cardinal objective is the pursuit,
preservation, and promotion of Truth. I also contend that those
three values lead to what the Qurʾān calls the “Good Life,” as
mentioned in Q. 16:97, which states, “Whoever does good, whether
male or female, while he is a believer—We will surely cause him to
live a Good Life, and We will surely give them their reward according
to the best of what they used to do.” Table I.1 summarizes this idea.

Table I.1 Three Cardinal Values of the Islamic Tradition

Islamic Theology Islamic Law Sufism

Higher Pursuit, Pursuit, Pursuit,
objective preservation, and preservation, and preservation, and
(maqṣūd) promotion of Truth promotion of Justice promotion of Beauty

However, while the three disciplines of theology, law, and Sufism

emerged primarily to serve those ethical values (Justice, Beauty, and
Truth), those disciplines often got distracted by other temporal
concerns, leading to the underestimation of the values to be served.
Fazlur Rahman (d. 1988) pointed out that Muslim theologians and
philosophers failed “to develop a theory of knowledge that would do
justice to religious facts and moral cognition.” He proceeded to say
that “when one scans the entire work of the Muslim philosophers,
one is struck by the peculiar inattention shown to ethics.”3 In his
Reasoning with God, Khaled Abou El Fadl observed that the Islamic
law tradition, for practical reasons, often did not wrestle with
questions of morality and ethics, due to the very nature and function
of legal systems. This attitude contributed to a de facto divorce of
Islamic ethics and morality from Islamic law, constituting a challenge
that contemporary Muslims need to address.4 Furthermore, in his
Jawāhir al-Qurʾān (Jewels of the Qurʾān) al-Ghazālī (d. 1111)
illustrated that much work has been done on Fiqh (Islamic law),
such that it has exceeded its needed measures.5 By implication,
morality and ethics were largely overshadowed and were not
actually given their due attention and space.
This overemphasis on and obsession with law (Justice) has largely
contributed, in my view, to the stagnation of theology (Truth) and
the marginalization of Sufism (Beauty). So discussions on the nature
of “truth” in Islamic theology and how it relates to non-Islamic
theories of truth are either absolutist or rudimentary. Additionally,
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on his hands and knees. He paused and listened. Certain nasal
sounds seemed to indicate that the Count was sleeping very
soundly. Roko carried a tiny little lantern, and he flashed a ray across
the sleeper’s face. Having satisfied himself that the Count was
asleep, he drew from his pocket a phial containing a colourless
liquid, and, approaching a night-table, on which stood a jug of barley-
tea, which the Count had in his room every night, as he said it had
been his custom for years always to drink barley-tea in the night-
time, the Creole poured the contents of the phial into the jug, and
having done that, he withdrew as stealthily as he had entered. Soon
afterwards the Count rose, procured a light, and took from his
portmanteau a large flask, into which he emptied the barley-tea.
Then he addressed himself to sleep again, and slept the sleep of the
just.
At the usual morning meal he did not put in an appearance; but he
sent a request to madame, asking her to be good enough to come
and see him. The request was speedily complied with. When she
appeared she looked as charming and as radiant as ever. He was
profuse in his apologies for having troubled her to come to his room,
but pleaded as an excuse a feeling of extreme illness. She displayed
great anxiety and concern, and wanted to send for a doctor; but he
told her it was nothing. He thought something had disagreed with
him; that was all. It would pass off. A doctor was not needed. She
declared, however, that if he felt no better in an hour’s time she
would insist on his seeing a doctor. An hour slipped by, and he was
still in the same condition, so a messenger was despatched for a
doctor, who speedily put in an appearance.
To the doctor’s inquiries, the patient said he believed he had eaten
or drunk something which had upset him. The doctor was of the
same opinion, and prescribed accordingly. In the course of the
afternoon the Count said he felt somewhat better, and though the
hostess tried to dissuade him from doing so, he announced his
intention of going out to get a breath of fresh air. He wanted her to
accompany him. That she stoutly refused to do; and when she saw
he was determined to go she withdrew her opposition, and
expressed a hope that he would speedily return. He assured her that
he would do so. He said he was going to have a drive in a sledge on
the Neva for two or three hours. Having put on his Shuba, his fur
gloves, fur-lined boots, and fur cap, he took his departure.
After an absence of about three hours, he returned, and declared
that he felt much better. He spent about an hour with the lady in her
boudoir, then retired. She was very anxious that Roko should sit up
with him, but he resolutely set his face against that, saying that there
was not the least necessity for it. He was an exceedingly sound
sleeper, and he was sure he would sleep as soundly as usual. About
midnight his door was opened silently, as on the previous night, and
once again Roko crept stealthily to the bed-table, and emptied the
contents of a phial into the barley-tea. Soon after he had withdrawn
the Count jumped up, poured the tea into another flask, which he
produced from his portmanteau, and then lay down in the bed again
until a neighbouring church clock solemnly and slowly tolled out two
o’clock. Almost immediately the Count rose, and dressed himself.
That done, he took from his portmanteau a revolver, and having
examined it to ascertain if it was properly loaded, he lighted a lantern
provided with a shutter, to shut off the light when required. Going to
the door, he opened it gently, and listened. All was silent. There
wasn’t a sound, save that made by the wind, which whistled
mournfully through the corridor. Having satisfied himself that nothing
human was stirring, the Count proceeded cautiously along the
corridor, descended a short flight of stairs to another corridor, along
which he passed, and gained the main door that gave access to the
street. He opened this door, though not without some difficulty, as
there were bolts and chains to be undone, and he worked cautiously
for fear of making a noise.
At last all obstacles were removed, and the heavy door swung on its
hinges, letting in a blast of icy air, and revealing the brilliant stars that
burned like jewels in the cloudless black sky. In a few minutes eight
men filed into the house noiselessly, and the door was closed, but
chains and bolts were left undone. The men exchanged a few
sentences in whispers. Then, following the Count, they proceeded to
the sleeping apartment of Madame Julie St. Joseph. In an anteroom,
through which it was necessary to pass to reach her room, Roko,
enveloped in furs, lay on a couch, locked in sleep. A shaded lamp
stood on a bracket against the wall.
Four men remained in this room; the other four and the Count
entered the lady’s chamber. Here, again, a shaded lamp burned on a
bracket, and close to it an ikon—or sacred picture—hung. The pretty
widow was also sleeping. By this time the Count had undergone a
strange transformation. His beard and moustache had disappeared,
revealing the smooth-shaved, mobile face of Michael Danevitch, the
detective. He shook the lady. With a start she awoke. The four
policemen had concealed themselves; Danevitch alone was visible.
It was some moments before madame realized the situation; then,
seeing a strange man by her bedside, she uttered a cry, and called
for Roko. He sprang up, and instantly found himself in the grip of two
stalwart men, while the revolver under his pillow, which he tried to
get, was seized.
‘Madame Julie St. Joseph,’ said Danevitch, ‘get up and dress
yourself.’
‘What does this mean?’ she asked, with a look of alarm on her pretty
face, as she thrust her hand under the pillow, where she likewise had
a revolver concealed. But in an instant Danevitch had seized her
wrist in his powerful grasp, and one of his colleagues removed the
weapon.
‘It means,’ he answered, ‘that your career of infamy has come to an
end. You are under arrest.’
A look of terror and horror swept across her face as she asked in a
choked sort of voice:
‘On what grounds am I arrested?’
‘That you will learn later on. Sufficient for you to know that you are a
prisoner. Come, rise and dress yourself.’
She recognised the hopelessness of resistance, and, of course, she
understood that her faithful watch-hound Roko had been rendered
powerless. She was trapped; that she knew. But it did not dawn upon
her then that the Count and Danevitch were one and the same.
Consequently she was puzzled to understand how her downfall had
been brought about.
With a despairing sigh she rose and put on her clothes. Half an hour
later she was being conveyed to the gaol with Roko, accompanied
by Danevitch and three of his colleagues. The other five had been
left in charge of the house. When madame had somewhat recovered
her presence of mind, she assumed a bravado which she was far
from feeling, and asked Danevitch airily if he knew how her guest the
Count was.
‘Oh yes,’ answered Danevitch. ‘He is perfectly well, as you may
judge for yourself; for I it was who played the part of the Count so
effectively.’
With an absolute scream madame bit her lip with passion, until the
blood flowed, and dug her nails into the palms of her hands.
‘What a fool, a dolt, an idiot I’ve been! But tell me, how was it Peter
Trepoff asked me to invite you to the ball?’
‘Peter Trepoff is my agent, madame.’
With a suppressed cry of maddening rage, the wretched woman
covered her face with her hands and groaned, as she realized how
thoroughly she had been outwitted.
That same night, or, rather, some hours before the widow and Roko
were swept into the net which had been so cleverly prepared for
them, Alexander Vlassovsky was arrested in Moscow. Danevitch
learned that fact by telegraph when he went out in the afternoon. He
had first begun to suspect Vlassovsky after that interview when he
was making inquiries about the death of Captain Baranoff. The result
was that he intercepted letters from Madame Julie St. Joseph, who
had returned to St. Petersburg. She had a small house in Moscow,
which she occasionally visited in order to secure victims. In Moscow,
where he was well known, the wily Vlassovsky did not go near her,
but he helped her as far as he could in her fiendish work. He had
been very cleverly trapped by the notes which he relieved the
supposed Count of. Those notes were not genuine, and when he
attempted to pass them he was arrested, for Danevitch had notified
the Moscow police.
Subsequent revelations brought to light that the wretched woman
had been in the habit of luring men to their doom by means of her
fatal beauty. She bled them of their money, her plan being to cajole
them into giving her a lien on any property they might possess. This
was most artfully worked by the aid of Vlassovsky, and when the
victim had been securely caught, he was poisoned. The poisons
were concocted by Madame St. Joseph herself, and when she could
not do it herself, Roko administered the fatal dose or doses. She had
picked up this man in Spanish America, where she had been for
some time, and, weaving her spell about him, had made him
absolutely her slave.
Vlassovsky, who, up to the time that he made her acquaintance, had
been an honest, industrious man, fell under the magic of her
influence, as most men did, and became her all-too-willing tool. His
nature once corrupted, all scruples were thrown to the winds, and he
hastened to try and enrich himself. It seemed that the miserable
woman really loved him, and though he was fatally fascinated with
her, he was afraid of her; and, as he confessed, his aim was to
accumulate money as quickly as possible, and then flee from her
and the country for ever. But unfortunately for himself, during that
memorable interview following Captain Baranoff’s death, he had
aroused the suspicions of Danevitch, whose marvellous perceptive
faculties had enabled him to detect something or another in
Vlassovsky’s manner, or answers to the questions put to him, which
made him suspicious. For Danevitch to become suspicious meant
that he would never rest until he had proved his suspicions justified
or unfounded.
It need scarcely be said that with her arrest in St. Petersburg
Madame St. Joseph’s career came to an end. From the moment that
Danevitch entered her house her doom was sealed. Believing him to
be the person he represented himself to be, she begged of him to
help her financially; and, seeming to yield to her entreaties, he drew
up a document which purported to make over to her at his death
certain estates in Poland. Of course, these estates had no existence.
Having secured him, as she thought, her next step was to poison
him by small doses of black hellebore, so that he might gradually
sicken and die. Her devilish cunning was evidenced in every step
she took. She would not appear in public with him, nor did she allow
any of the visitors to her house to see him. Consequently it would not
be generally known that she had associated with him. As his illness
developed by means of repeated doses, she would have had him
removed to a hotel, and she knew pretty well that, as in Colonel
Ignatof’s case, he would shrink from letting it be known that he had
been intimate with her. Her cunning, however, overreached itself;
she was defeated with her own weapons; Danevitch had been too
much for her. The poisoned barley-tea he submitted to analysis, and
the evidence against her was overwhelming. But when she found
that there was no hope, she was determined to defeat justice, and
one morning she was found dead in her cell: she had poisoned
herself with prussic acid. The acid was conveyed to her by a warder,
who was heavily bribed by one of her friends to do it. It cost him his
liberty, however, for he was sent to Northern Siberia for the term of
his natural life.
Roko died very soon afterwards from typhoid fever contracted in the
prison, but he was faithful to the last, for never a word could be
wrung from his lips calculated to incriminate the strange woman who
had thrown such a spell around him. Vlassovsky was deported to
Northern Siberia in company with the treacherous warder. He very
soon succumbed, however, to the awful hardships he was called
upon to endure and the rigours of the Arctic climate.
The number of Madame St. Joseph’s victims was never determined.
That they were numerous there was not the slightest doubt; and had
it not been for the cleverness of Danevitch she would probably have
continued to pursue her infamous career for years longer, and
ultimately have passed away in the odour of sanctity. Her downfall, it
need scarcely be said, caused great satisfaction in St. Petersburg
and Moscow, where she had destroyed so many of her victims.
 THE STRANGE STORY OF AN ATTACHÉ.
It can readily be understood that Danevitch led not only an active
life, but a varied one; and the cases he was called upon to deal with
revealed many remarkable phases of human nature. He never
attempted to pose as a moralist, but he frequently deplored the fact
that wickedness and evil should so largely predominate over
goodness. He was also apt to wax indignant against the vogue to
decry anything in the nature of sensation. He was in the habit of
saying that life from the cradle to the grave is full of sensations, and
that the inventions of the fictionist are poor, flat, and stale, when
compared with the realities of existence. But this is undoubtedly the
experience of everyone who knows the world and his kind. It is only
the cheap critic, the bigot, or the fool, who has the boldness to deny
the existence of sensation in real life, and to sneer at what he is
pleased to term melodramatic improbabilities. There is no such thing
as a melodramatic improbability. The only charge that can
legitimately be levelled at the so-called sensational writer is his
tendency to grotesque treatment of subjects which should simply be
faithful reproductions from life. The curious story of young Count
Dashkoff, the Russian attaché, with whom this narrative is
concerned, illustrates in a very forcible way the views advanced in
the foregoing lines. Indeed, as Danevitch himself says, if anyone had
invented the story and put it into print, he would have raised the ire
of the army of critics—the self-constituted high-priests of purity, who,
being unable to improve or even equal that which they condemn, are
all the more violent in their condemnation.
Count Dashkoff was a young man, a member of a very old Russian
family, who had in their day wielded great power, and before the
abolition of serfdom took place, had held sway over more serfs than
any other family in the whole of the empire. The Count had
distinguished himself in many ways. His career, up to the time of the
extraordinary events about to be recorded, had been marked by
brilliancy and shade. As a student and a scholar he had attracted the
attention of many notable men, more particularly by his well-known
and remarkable work, entitled ‘The Theory of Creation,’ which is
conspicuous for its erudition, its deep research, and its wide grasp
and clever treatment of a tremendous subject. The book is, and will
ever remain, a standard, and consequently an enduring monument
to the Count’s ability and industry. On the other hand, he had made
himself notorious by certain excesses, and a recklessness of
conduct which had shocked the proprieties and outraged the feelings
of those who were interested in him and hoped that he would
ultimately rise to power and position. Of course, excuses were
forthcoming on the grounds of his youth, and, as if trying to establish
a right by two wrongs, it was urged that he had simply done what
most Russian youths do who are born to high estate and have
control of wealth. As a stepping-stone to the future greatness
predicted for him by his friends, the Count, after a probationary
course in the diplomatic service at home, was sent as an attaché to
the Russian Embassy in Paris. As might be supposed, he took kindly
to Parisian life. He was what is usually termed an elegant young
man, with æsthetic tastes. When he first went to Paris he was about
eight-and-twenty, and, apart from the advantages of youth, he had
wealth, good looks, sound health, and a cheerful disposition. He
enjoyed life, and showed no disposition to mortify the flesh by an
austere or monastic régime. His private residence in the Champs
Élysées was conspicuous for the magnificence of its appointments,
and was the rendezvous of the élite of Paris society—that frivolous
section which lives for no higher purpose than to live, and is
attracted to wealth and luxury as bees are attracted to sugar. It
seemed that this apparently fortunate young man, who could be
serious enough when occasion required, was fond of attention and
homage. He loved to be surrounded with a crowd of admirers, who
flattered him, praised his bric-à-brac, and gorged themselves with
the good things he invariably set before them. He knew, no doubt,
that they were all fawners and sycophants, but, still, they made up a
little world over which he ruled, and wherever he led the noodles
would follow.
Two years of this sort of life passed, and then Danevitch was
instructed to proceed with all haste from Russia to try and discover
what had become of the Count, for he had suddenly and
mysteriously disappeared, and all efforts of the Paris police and the
boasted skill of the Parisian detectives had failed to reveal a trace of
him. The facts of the case were as follows: In the course of the
month of January the Count gave a grand ball and reception at his
elegant hotel, and the event drew together the gilded youth of both
sexes. These functions at the Count’s residence were always
marked by a magnificence of splendour and a lavish expenditure
which seemed hardly consonant with his position as a mere attaché.
But it must not be forgotten that he was the heir to great wealth, and
represented a noble family who had ever been distinguished for the
almost regal style in which they lived.
About two o’clock in the morning the Count drew an intimate friend of
his—a Monsieur Eugène Peon—on one side, and told him he
wanted to slip away for an hour, but he did not wish it to be known
that he had gone out. He would be sure to be back in about an hour,
he added. A few minutes later the concierge saw him leave the hall.
He was attired in a very handsome and costly fur coat, with a cap to
match; and though the weather was bitterly cold and the ground
covered with snow, he wore patent-leather shoes. The concierge,
who was much surprised at the fact of his master leaving the house
in the midst of the revels, asked him if he wanted a carriage. To this
question the Count answered curtly, and, according to the porter,
angrily, ‘No.’ The night wore itself out. The dancers danced
themselves into limpness and prostration, and began to depart.
Some surprise had been expressed at the Count’s absence, and
various inquiries had been made about him; but it was suggested
that the seductive influences of the wine-cup had proved too much
for him, and he had retired. This hint or suggestion appeared to
satisfy the light-headed revellers, who gave no further thought to the
matter. His friend, Eugène Peon, considered it very strange that the
Count should go away and remain away in such a manner, to the
neglect of his guests, for he was the most punctilious host. But Peon
set it down to an assignation, and thought that he had found the
society of some fair one more attractive than the glitter and glare of
the ballroom. The day had very well advanced before there was
anything like real surprise felt at the Count’s prolonged absence.
It appeared that Eugène Peon called at his friend’s hotel soon after
three o’clock in the afternoon, and, ascertaining that he was not at
home, went down to the Embassy to inquire for him there, but to his
astonishment was informed that the Count had not been there for
two days. Although astonished, Peon was not uneasy. He stated that
he saw no cause to be uneasy, although he had never known his
friend do such a thing before, and was aware that he was most
attentive to his duties. When he called again on the following
morning, however, and was informed that the Count was still absent,
he began then to fear that something was wrong, and he at once
communicated his fears to some of the Count’s close personal
friends; he had no relations in Paris at all. A consultation was held,
but there seem to have been divided counsels, and no steps were
taken to ascertain the Count’s whereabouts, though some inquiries
were made of the members of the household, but all that could be
elicited was that the concierge saw his master go out about two
o’clock, and that he was dressed in patent-leather boots, a heavy fur
coat, and a fur cap. From the tone in which he said ‘No,’ when asked
if he wanted a carriage, he appeared to be angry; but there was no
indication in his gait or speech that he was under the influence of
wine. It was not until another whole day had passed that anything
like real alarm had set in. The alarm by this time had reached the
Embassy, and it was decided that the police should be
communicated with. Strangely enough, the police did not at first
attach any serious importance to the matter. They made certain
inquiries in a perfunctory manner, and for some inscrutable reason—
unless it was sheer, downright pig-headedness, a quality often
enough conspicuous in the French police—they came to the
conclusion that ‘Monsieur le Comte’ had been guilty of some little
escapade, and would turn up very shortly. As this prediction had not
been fulfilled when another twenty-four hours had elapsed, a much
more serious view was taken of the young man’s absence, and dark
hints were let drop that he had been inveigled into one of the haunts
of vice which abound in the gay city, and had been murdered. The
murder theory was at once taken up; detectives were communicated
with, and the theory of murder found general acceptance.
As may be imagined, a gentleman, who by reason of his position and
his riches had cut a conspicuous figure in society, disappearing
suddenly in this way was bound to cause a sensation, and as the
Parisians dearly love a sensation and a scandal, the matter was a
fruitful topic of conversation for several days, while much ink was
expended over it by the journalists. But notwithstanding the publicity
given to the matter, and the efforts of police and detectives, another
week passed, and not a trace or sign of the missing man had been
obtained.
Up to this point the Count’s relatives in Russia had not been
communicated with, from a desire to avoid alarm, for there were
those who still hoped he would turn up again all right; but now his
Russian friends in Paris regarded the affair as too serious to be
longer withheld. As a preliminary, a message was at once sent
asking if the Count had returned home, and almost simultaneously
with the despatch of that message a courier set out for Russia with
the tidings and details.
As the Count—as far as was known—had not returned to Russia,
great consternation was caused amongst his friends by the report
that reached them, and no time was lost in securing the services of
Danevitch, who was instructed to leave for Paris without a moment’s
delay, and institute independent inquiries.
‘I found, on arriving in the French capital,’ says Danevitch, ‘that by
order of the Russian Ambassador all the Count’s things had been
sealed up and his house temporarily closed. My preliminary
investigations were directed to trying to discover if there were any
grounds for believing that the missing man had committed suicide.
This inquiry was necessarily forced upon one—at any rate upon me,
although I learnt that the possibilities of suicide had never entered
the heads of the French police. And though at first they had
suggested murder, they soon abandoned that idea, for no other
reason, as it appeared, than that they had not been able to find his
body. And in consequence of this they insisted that he had taken
himself off to some other country in order to avoid the results of
conduct unbecoming a gentleman and a member of the Embassy.
When they were asked to give a name to his conduct, they declined,
but darkly hinted at something very dreadful. I myself could find no
grounds for the theory of suicide, while everyone at the Embassy, as
well as all who knew him, indignantly repudiated the slur which was
sought to be cast upon the young gentleman’s character. I could find
no one who had a word to say against his honour. That he might
have had affaires d’amour, as the French call them, was readily
admitted; but as all is considered fair in love, as in war, these matters
were not supposed to reflect on the honour of a man.
‘As Monsieur Eugène Peon had been very intimate with the Count, I
questioned that gentleman very closely concerning his friend’s
movements, and elicited that he had been a pretty general lover, but,
so far as he knew, the Count had formed no serious attachment to
anybody. Peon could suggest no reason why the Count should have
left his guests so abruptly, unless it was to keep an assignation.
‘Now, it must be remembered that when he left his house it was
about two o’clock on a winter morning, and, according to the
concierge, he seemed angry when he went out. This seemed to me
to point to two things as absolutely certain. Firstly, the Count’s going
out at such an hour was not premeditated. Secondly, whatever
appointment he went to keep, it was not an agreeable one to him,
and, being annoyed, he displayed his irritation in the sharp answer
he gave the concierge. These points seemed to me of great
importance, and naturally led me to an inquiry directed to finding out
if one of his servants had delivered any message to him, or
conveyed any letter during the evening.
‘The servants had been dismissed, and it was not an easy matter to
reach them all; but by persevering I succeeded in doing so, and
found at last that the Count’s body-servant, a Frenchman, named
Auguste Chauzy, had been out all the evening, after having dressed
his master, and knowing that he would not be wanted again until the
morning. He returned, however, soon after midnight, and just as he
was about to enter the house, a man stepped up to him hurriedly,
and, putting a sealed envelope into his hand, said, “Give that
immediately to your master, Count Dashkoff. Fail not to do so, as it is
a matter of life and death.”
‘When Chauzy got into the hall, he glanced at the envelope, and saw
that it simply bore the Count’s name—no address; but in the left-
hand corner was the French word Pressant (Urgent) underlined. The
valet could not get near his master for some time after this, but as
soon as an opportunity occurred to do so, he handed him the note.
The moment the Count’s eye caught the superscription, a frown
settled on his face, and, with a gesture of annoyance, he thrust the
letter unopened in his pocket. About half an hour later, however, the
valet was informed by another servant that the Count required his fur
coat and cap. They were to be placed in his dressing-room ready for
him.
‘I questioned Chauzy about the man who had handed him the letter
in the street; but the only description he could give of him was that
he seemed to be well dressed, was of medium height, and had a
dark beard and moustache.’
Having brought to light the fact about the letter, Danevitch struck a
keynote, as it were—and one which had not been touched upon by
the French police. If that letter could have been found, it might have
revealed much; but it was almost certain that if the Count did not
destroy it before leaving the house he had it in his pocket when he
went out. Danevitch’s deduction from the letter incident was this: The
Count went out owing to some communication made to him in that
letter. He did not go willingly; consequently his errand was a
disagreeable one, and could hardly have been to keep a love tryst.
Whoever the writer of the letter was, he or she must have had some
powerful hold on the Count to induce him to leave his friends and
guests, and go out at two o’clock on a bitter winter morning. This line
of reasoning was one which Danevitch could not avoid, for it was his
wont to argue his subject from a given set of premises, and a strict
regard for probabilities. He was led—and it was but natural he
should be—to the conclusion that the Count’s disappearance was
due to conduct which had brought him in contact with unscrupulous
people, into whose power he had fallen. It was clear that if he was
still living he was forcibly detained somewhere or other, and was in
such a position that he could not communicate with those who were
so anxious about him. If this was not the case, it was hard to
understand why he should have remained silent, knowing well
enough the anxiety and distress his prolonged absence would
cause. The other hypothesis was—the idea of suicide not being
entertained—that he had been murdered. If that was the case, the
motive for the murder was either revenge or robbery. It seemed
almost absurd to think of robbery, for this reason: it was hardly likely
that anyone would have chosen such an inopportune moment; for, at
two o’clock in the morning, and entertaining a house full of guests,
he would scarcely have much valuable property on his person. If he
had been murdered, the crime had been prompted by feelings of
revenge, and committed by someone who believed he had a deadly
grievance against the young man—a grievance that could only be
compensated for by the shedding of the Count’s blood.
It was impossible to ignore what, on the face of it, seemed to be a
fact—that the writer of the letter was personally acquainted with the
Count, and possessed knowledge which placed a weapon in his
hand. Of course, the Count’s friends wouldn’t listen for a moment to
any suggestion that he had been guilty of conduct unbecoming a
gentleman, and, having discovered that, Danevitch kept his views to
himself; though he closely questioned Eugène Peon, who, while
admitting that he had had numerous little adventures with the Count,
declared that these adventures were only those which a young,
handsome, and rich man would engage in, and while they might be
described as foolish and reckless, they were never of a nature to
reflect upon his honour. They were, in short, simply the follies and
venial sins of youth, such as were common, in a greater or lesser
degree, to all young men. Nothing further than this could be elicited
from Peon, who appeared to be a reserved and reticent person,
giving Danevitch the impression that he always had something in
reserve—that he had an arrière pensée, and would not tell more
than it suited him to tell. At any rate, he declined to suggest any
theory that would account for his friend’s sudden and mysterious
disappearance.
‘Do you not know if he had any serious love affair?’ asked Danevitch
with some sharpness, as he came to the conclusion that Peon was
not as candid as he ought to be.
‘I don’t,’ answered Peon emphatically.
‘But surely, intimate as you were with him, you must know something
of your friend’s little gallantries?’
‘I do not, beyond what I have told you.’
Peon gave this answer with a sharpness and decisiveness which
made it clear that he would not submit to pumping, and would not be
drawn on the subject of his friend’s amours.
During the time that Danevitch was searching for a clue—without
avail up to this stage—the Count’s friends did not remain inactive.
Necessarily, they were impatient, and grew more restless as the
weeks sped by without bringing any tidings of the missing man. The
police confessed themselves baffled, and seemed to be at a loss to
suggest a feasible theory, and they urged the friends to offer a
substantial reward for information that would lead to the discovery of
the Count if living, and a lesser reward for his body if dead. The
friends yielded, and intimated that they would pay ten thousand
francs for the Count’s recovery living, or five thousand for his body.
The police quite believed this reward would have the desired effect,
and that they would be relieved from an embarrassing situation. Of
course, the human water-rats who haunt the Seine kept a very sharp
look-out indeed, and every corpse that they dragged from the foul
and reeking waters of the sluggish river was eagerly scrutinized in
the hope that it would turn out to be the body of the missing Count.
But though it was reported several times that the dead Count had
been fished out of the river, the report, on investigation, proved to be
false. Nor did the offer of the ten thousand francs prove more potent.
Not a trace of the missing man was discovered.
This failure of the substantial reward to bring forth any tidings
confirmed Danevitch in the opinion he had formed that the Count’s
disappearance was the result of some plot, and those engaged in it
were in a position which rendered them indifferent to the reward.
This did not imply that the detective considered it a certainty that the
Count was living. On the contrary, he inclined to the belief that he
had been murdered, but, necessarily, the murderers could not
produce his body for fear of betraying themselves. In his own way,
Danevitch worked away quietly and unostentatiously. He was
perfectly convinced that the clue to the mystery would be found in
the habits of the Count, or among some of his possessions. But the
friends in Paris opposed strong objections to any exhaustive search
of his effects being made, influenced thereby, no doubt, by a fear of
anything being made public calculated to reflect on the missing
man’s honour. This supersensitiveness was annoying, and at last
Danevitch applied to the relatives in Russia, and asked them to give
a peremptory order for him to be allowed to go through the Count’s
papers. In response to this application, the Count’s father came at
once to Paris, and took possession of everything belonging to his
son, and he and Danevitch went through the papers together. There
was a mass of official correspondence and business letters, but very
few private letters, except those from his parents and his near
relatives, and love letters from a young lady residing in Russia. She
was of high family, and well known to the Count’s people, who hoped
that he would ultimately make her his wife, as in every way the
match was a desirable one. The letters evinced a very strong
attachment on the lady’s part, and were in many instances couched
in warm, even extravagant, phrases of love. But there was nothing in
them calculated to throw light on the mystery. She knew of her
lover’s disappearance, and was prostrated with grief and anxiety, so
the Count’s father asserted.
The result of the examination of the papers so far was very
disappointing, but a small diary was found in which were some rather
remarkable passages. It was not a diary of doings and events from
day to day, but seemed to be the outpourings of the writer’s feelings
and emotions, written in a fitful and irregular manner. Those which
struck Danevitch the most were as follows:

‘I often wonder whether we are really free and responsible beings;

whether the evil we do is the result of deliberate sinning, or whether
it is due to some inward promptings which we are absolutely
powerless to resist. If the latter, to what extent can we be held liable
for our sins? I am sorely troubled at times with this thought, and
yearn for someone to whom I could appeal with a hope of receiving
such an answer as would seem to me satisfactory. The teachings of
my Church do not satisfy me. The Church says that to do evil is to
incur the wrath of Heaven; but if I cannot resist doing evil, is it right
that I should be held responsible? Of course, the world would say
that this is sophistry, but when I find myself on the one hand trying
with all my might to avoid doing anything which, according to the
laws of ethics and the canons of the Church, could be construed into
wrong-doing, and, on the other, being drawn by some vaguely
defined power, which I am too weak to resist, into doing that which I
am conscious it is not right to do, I ask myself if I can really be held
responsible. It seems to me that I have two distinct characters,
clearly separated, and entirely antagonistic to each other. The one
leads me into paths that I would fain avoid; the other causes me to
weep for my frailty. I wonder if all men are constituted like this?
Perhaps they are, but are less sensitive than I am.

‘If a man entangles himself in a net, he may exhaust himself in his

struggles to get free again, and it may even be that the more he
struggles the more tightly he may enmesh himself, until he realizes
the horror that he is doomed to remain powerless until death itself
releases him. This is figurative language, but it is by such language
that we can best convey our true meaning. It is but speaking in
parables, and parables better than anything else often enable us to
understand and grasp what would otherwise be obscure. Unhappily,
I am entangled in a net, and I have struggled in vain to free myself. If
I could undo the past, I might know true happiness once more; but
that which is done is done, and though we weep tears of blood, we
can never obliterate the record which is written on the tablets of
memory. I wonder what the pure being in Russia, to whom I gave my
heart, would say if she knew how I had wronged her. Can I ever look
into her clear honest eyes again with the frank, unflinching gaze of
the happy days past and gone? I fear not. Indeed, I feel that I dare
not meet her again. I have dug a gulf between us, and that gulf can
never be bridged. But I suffer agony of mind when I think how she
will suffer when she knows my baseness, as know she must, sooner
or later. It is hard to have to live two lives, as I am doing. To my
friends I appear all they would believe me to be; but in the solitude of
my chamber my heart bleeds as I realize how false I am.

‘I have been weak, but am growing strong again. Desperation is

lending me strength, in fact; and I shall burst these accursed bonds
asunder. I have still youth and energy, and must make an effort to
climb to higher heights. I have been walking blindly hitherto, and
have missed my way, but I see it clear enough now; and a resolute
and determined man, who finds himself surrounded by obstacles,
should sweep them away. He who hesitates is lost; I have hesitated,
but will do so no longer. Great things are expected from me, and I
must not disappoint those who have placed their hopes upon me.
Marie must not be allowed to keep me bound down in the gutter. It is
not my place. I was destined to walk on higher heights; and since it
is impossible for me to raise her, she must be cut adrift. It may seem
cowardly; it may be cruel for me to do this; but it must be done, for I
cannot endure the double life any longer. Is a man to suffer all his life
for one false step? Am I justified in breaking the hearts of parents
and betrothed? No. It must not be—shall not be. In a few weeks I
shall send in my resignation, and quit Paris for ever. It will cause a
nine days’ wonder, but what of that? People will say I am a fool, but it
won’t affect me. I shall plead that I know my own affairs best, and
that circumstances of a private and pressing nature necessitate my
hasty return to Russia. This I am determined to do, cost what it may.
I have taken Eugène Peon into my confidence. He will help me, and
satisfy the curious when I am gone.’
There was a significance in the foregoing passages which was not
lost upon Danevitch. The Count gave himself away, though, of
course, he never expected that any eyes but his own would read
what he had written. It will be said, of course, that it was foolish for
him to have committed his thoughts to paper; though it must be
remembered that there are some men who seem to derive a strange
pleasure in recording their evil deeds. It is a well-known fact that
some of the greatest criminals have kept diaries, in which they have
written the most damning evidence of their guilt. The Count’s diary
proved conclusively that there were certain ugly passages in his life,
and two points were made clear—there was a woman in the case,
and Eugène Peon knew more of the Count’s affairs than he cared to
own to, and confirmed Danevitch in his belief that Peon was a crafty
man, and by no means carried his heart upon his sleeve.
As may be imagined, the Count’s father was much cut up, as he
realized that his son had been guilty of evil which was calculated to
reflect upon the honour of the family, that honour of which the old
man was so proud, and which he would gladly have died to shield.
Of course it became necessary now to find out who the ‘Marie’
referred to in the diary was; for it was obvious that she was directly
or indirectly responsible for the Count’s disappearance. No letters
could be discovered which were calculated to throw any light on the
subject, but in a small drawer of the Count’s desk there was found
the photograph of a young woman, and on the back, in a scrawling
hand, was the following:
‘For ever and ever thine.
Marie.’
The likeness was that of a singularly handsome girl of about two-
and-twenty; but the handwriting was so bad it suggested that the
writer was not educated.
Danevitch felt now that he was in possession of a clue—a vague
one, it was true, but it was possible it might lead to very important
results. Marie must be found, though he did not know at the moment
how he was going to find her. Paris was a big place; Marie was a
very common name. Danevitch, however, having once got on the
scent, was not likely to go very far astray, and he generally found
some means of bringing down his quarry at last. He was not
indifferent to the self-evident fact that in this case there were no
ordinary difficulties to contend against; this was proved by the large
reward having failed to bring forth any information. It showed that
those who were responsible for the Count’s disappearance had very
powerful motives for keeping their secret; and whether few or many
were interested in that secret, ten thousand francs was not strong
enough to tempt one of them; and it seemed as if it was not the
Count’s money that was responsible for his disappearance. He kept
a banking account in Paris, but this had not been drawn upon since
the week before he went away, when he cashed a cheque for three
thousand francs. But at this stage a curious incident was brought to
light, which put a new complexion on the matter altogether.
The incident was this: It appeared that the Count also kept a
considerable account at the Moscow branch of the Bank of Russia.
He owned a good deal of property in and about Moscow, part of it
being a flourishing flax-mill, which turned over a princely revenue.
His Moscow affairs were managed by an agent who had been
connected with the family for nearly half a century. It was his duty to
pay all money that he received into the bank without delay.
Consequently, there was generally a large balance standing to the
Count’s credit. One day a three months’ bill of exchange, purporting
to be drawn on the Count by Paul Pavlovitch and Co., flax
merchants, at Riga, for one hundred thousand francs, and accepted
by the Count and payable at the bank in Moscow, was duly
presented by an individual, who stated that he was a member of the
firm. As all seemed right, the bill was paid, and a receipt given in the
name of Peter Pavlovitch, who represented himself as the son of
Paul. A week later the cancelled bill passed into the hands of the
Count’s agent, and he at once declared it to be a forgery. Pavlovitch
and Co., of Riga, were immediately communicated with, and they
denied all knowledge of the Count, had never had any business
transactions with him, had never drawn a bill upon him, and knew
nothing of Peter Pavlovitch. This was a revelation indeed, and
pointed conclusively to a conspiracy. It seemed to Danevitch pretty
evident that the person who forged the bill knew a good deal about
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