who was holding a consultation with one of the visitors inquired my
business. I stated it briefly, and shortly afterwards he retired into an
adjoining room, which formed the beginning of a vista of apartments and
officials. While I waited, a couple of men were attended to so near me
that I heard their business. It consisted in obtaining official
permission to print the bills and programmes of a musical and variety
entertainment. To this end they had brought not only the list of
performers and proposed selections, but also the pictures for
advertisement, and the music which was to be given. As the rare traveler
who can read Russian is already aware, the programme of every public
performance bears the printed authorization of the censor, as a matter
of course, quite as much as does a book. It is an easy way of
controlling the character of assemblages, the value of which can hardly
be disputed even by those prejudiced persons who insist upon seeing in
this Russian proceeding something more arbitrary than the ordinary city
license which is required for performances elsewhere, or the Lord
Chancellor's license which is required in England. In Russia, as
elsewhere, an ounce of prevention is worth fully a pound of cure. This,
by the way, is the only form in which a foreigner is likely to come in
contact with the domestic censure in Russia, unless he should wish to
insert an advertisement in a newspaper, or issue printed invitations to
a gathering at his house, or send news telegrams. In these cases he may
be obliged to submit to delay in the appearance of his advertisement, or
requested to go to the elegance and expense of engraved invitations, or
to detain his telegram for a day or two. Such things are not unknown in
Germany.
Just as these gentlemen had paid their fee, and resigned their documents
to the official who had charge of their case, another official issued
from the inner room, approached me, requested me to sign my name in a
huge ledger, and, that being done, thrust into my hands a bulky
manuscript and departed. The manuscript had a taking title, but I did
not pause to examine it. Penetrating the inner sanctum, I brought out
the official and endeavored to return the packet. He refused to take it,
--it was legally mine. This contest lasted for several minutes, until I
saw a literary-looking man enter from the anteroom and look rather
wildly at us. Evidently this was the owner, and, elevating the
manuscript, I inquired if it were his. He hastened to my assistance and
proved his rights. But as erasures do not look well in account-books,
and as my name already occupied the space allotted to that particular
parcel, he was not requested to sign for it, and I believe that I am
still legally qualified to read, perform, or publish--whatever it was
--that talented production.
A dapper little gentleman, with a dry, authoritative air, then emerged
and assumed charge of me. I explained my desire to receive, uncensured,
a journal which was prohibited.
"Certainly," said he, without inquiring how I knew the facts. "Just
write down your application and sign it."
"I don't know the form," I answered.
He seemed surprised at my ignorance of such an every-day detail, but
fetched paper and dictated a petition, which I wrote down and signed.
When we reached the point where the name of the publication was to be
inserted, he paused to ask: "How many would you like?"
"How many copies of the 'Century'? Only one," said I.
"No, no; how many periodical publications would you like?"
"How many can I have on this petition?" I retorted in Yankee fashion.
"As many as you please. Do you want four--six--eight? Write in the
names legibly."
I gasped, but told him that I was not grasping; I preferred to devote my
time to Russian publications while in Russia, and that I would only add
the name of the weekly which I was already receiving, merely with the
object of expediting its delivery a little. The document was then
furnished with the regulation eighty-kopek stamp (worth at that time
about thirty-seven cents), and the business was concluded. As I was in
summer quarters out of town, and it was not convenient for me to call in
person and inquire whether permission had been granted, another stamp
was added to insure the answer being sent to me. The license arrived in
a few days, and the magazine began to come promptly, unopened. I was not
even asked not to show it to other people. I may state here that, while
I never circulated any of the numerous prohibited books and manuscripts
which came into my possession during my stay in Russia, I never
concealed them. I showed the "Century" occasionally to personal friends
of the class who could have had it themselves had they taken any
permanent interest in the matter; but it is certain that they kept their
own counsel and mine in all respects.
Everything proceeded satisfactorily until I went to Moscow to stay for a
time. It did not occur to me to inform the censor of my move, and the
result was that the first number of the magazine which I received there
was as fine a "specimen" as heart could desire. The line on the
title-page which referred to the obnoxious article had been scratched
out; the body of the article had been cut out; the small concluding
portion at the top of a page had been artistically "caviared." Of
course, the article ending upon the back of the first page extracted had
been spoiled. On this occasion I was angry, not at the mutilation as
such, but at the breach of faith. I sat down, while my wrath was still
hot, and indited a letter to the head censor in Petersburg. I do not
recollect the exact terms of that letter, but I know I told him that he
had no right to cut the book after granting me leave to receive it
intact, without first sending me word that he had changed his mind, and
giving valid reasons therefor; that the course he had adopted was
injudicious in the extreme, since it was calculated to arouse curiosity
instead of allaying it, and that it would be much better policy to
ignore the matter. I concluded by requesting him to restore the missing
article, if he had preserved it, and if he had not, to send at once to
London (that being nearer than New York) and order me a fresh copy of
the magazine at his expense.
A month elapsed, no answer came; but at the end of the month another
mutilated "Century" arrived. This time I waited two or three days in the
hope of inventing an epistle which should be more forcible--if such a
thing were possible--than my last, and yet calm. The letter was half
written when an official envelope made its appearance from Petersburg,
containing cut pages and an apologetic explanation to the effect that
the Moscow censor, through an oversight, had not been duly instructed in
his duty toward me. A single glance showed me that the inclosed sheets
belonged to the number just received, not to the preceding number. I
drove immediately to the Moscow office and demanded the censor. "You can
tell me what you want with him," said the ante-room Cerberus. "Send me
the censor," said I. After further repetition, he retired and sent in a
man who requested me to state my business. "You are not the censor," I
said, after a glance at him. "Send him out, or I will go to him." Then
they decided that I was a connoisseur in censors, and the proper
official made his appearance, accompanied by an interpreter, on the
strength of the foreign name upon my card. Convinced that the latter
would not understand English well, like many Russians who can talk the
language fluently enough, I declined his services, produced my documents
from the Petersburg censor, and demanded restitution of the other
confiscated article. I obtained it, being allowed my pick from a neatly
labeled package of contraband goods. That scratched, cut, caviared
magazine is now in my possession, with the restored sheets and the
censor's apology appended. It is my proof to unbelievers that the
Russian censor is not so black as he is painted.
As we shook hands with this Moscow official, after a friendly chat, I
asked him if he would be a little obtuse arithmetically as to the old
and new style of reckoning, and let me have my January "Century" if it
arrived before my departure for Petersburg, as my license expired
January 1. He smilingly agreed to do so. I also called on the Moscow
book censor, to find some books. The courtesy and readiness to oblige me
on the part of the officials had been so great, that I felt aggrieved
upon this occasion when this censor requested me to return on the
regular business day, and declined to overhaul his whole department for
me on the spot. I did return on the proper day, and watched operations
while due search was being made for my missing property. It reached me a
few days later, unopened, the delay having occurred at my banker's, not
in the post-office or censor's department.
On my return to Petersburg, my first visit was to the censor's office,
where I copied my original petition, signed it, and dismissed the matter
from my mind until my February "Century" reached me with one article
missing and two articles spoiled. I paid another visit to the office,
and was informed that my petition for a renewal of permission had not
been granted.
"Why didn't you send me word earlier?" I asked.
"We were not bound to do so without the extra stamp," replied my dapper
official.
"But why has my application been refused?"
"Too many people are seeing that journal; some one must be refused."
"Nonsense," said I. "And if it is really so, _I_ am not the proper
person to be rejected. It will hurt some of these Russian subscribers
more than it will me, because it is only a question of _when_ I shall
read it, not of whether I shall read it at all. I wonder that so many
demoralizing things do not affect the officials. However, that is not
the point; pray keep for your own use anything which you regard as
deleterious to me. I am obliged to you for your consideration. But you
have no right to spoil three or four articles; and by a proper use of
scissors and caviare that can easily be avoided. In any case, it will be
much better to give me the book unmutilated."
The official and the occupants of the reception-room seemed to find my
view very humorous; but he declared that he had no power in the matter.
"Very well," said I, taking a seat. "I will see the censor.
"I am the censor," he replied.
"Oh, no. I happen to be aware that the head censor is expected in a few
minutes, and I will wait."
My (apparently) intimate knowledge of the ways of censors again won the
day. The chief actually was expected, and I was granted the first
audience. I explained matters and repeated my arguments. He sent for the
assistant.
"Why was not this application granted?" he asked impressively.
"We don't know, your Excellency," was the meek and not very consistent
reply.
"You may go," said his Excellency. Then he turned graciously to me. "You
will receive it."
"Uncut?"
"Yes."
"But will they let me have it?"
"Will--they--let--you--have--it--when--I--say--so?" he
retorted with tremendous dignity.
Then I knew that I should have no further trouble, and I was right. I
received no written permission, but the magazine was never interfered
with again. Thus it will be seen that one practically registers
periodicals wholesale, at a wonderfully favorable discount.
During the whole of my stay in Russia I received many books unread,
apparently even unopened to see whether they belonged on the free list.
In one case, at least, volumes which were posted before the official
date of publication reached me by the next city delivery after the
letter announcing their dispatch. Books which were addressed to me at
the Legation, to assure delivery when my exact address was unknown or
when my movements were uncertain, were, in every case but one, sent to
me direct from the post-office. I have no reason to suppose that I was
unusually favored in any way. I used no "influence," I mentioned no
influential names, though I had the right to do so.
An incident which procured for me the pleasure of an interview with the
chief censor for newspapers and so forth will illustrate some of the
erroneous ideas entertained by strangers. I desired to send to some
friends in Russia a year's subscription each of a certain American
magazine, which sometimes justly receives a sprinkling of caviare for
its folly, but which is not on the black list, and is fairly well known
in Petersburg. After some delay I heard from home that the publishers
had consulted the United States postal officials, and had been informed
that "_no_ periodical literature could be sent to Russia, this being
strictly prohibited." I took the letter to the newspaper censor, who
found it amusingly and amazingly stupid. He explained that the only
thing which is absolutely prohibited is Russian text printed outside of
Russia, which would never be delivered. He did not explain the reason,
but I knew that he referred to the socialistic, nihilistic, and other
proscribed works which are published in Geneva or Leipzig. Daily foreign
newspapers can be received regularly only by persons who are duly
authorized. Permission cannot be granted to receive occasional packages
of miscellaneous contents, the reason for this regulation being very
clear. And _all_ books must be examined if new, or treated according to
the place assigned them on the lists if they have already had a verdict
pronounced upon them. I may add, in this connection, that I had the
magazines I wished subscribed for under another name, to avoid the
indelicacy of contradicting my fellow-countrymen. They were then
forwarded direct to the Russian addresses, where they were duly and
regularly received. Whether they were mutilated, I do not know. They
certainly need not have been, had the recipients taken the trouble to
obtain permission as I did, if they were aware of the possibility. It is
probable that I could have obtained permission for them, had I not been
pressed for time.
I once asked a member of the censorship committee on foreign books on
what principle of selection he proceeded. He said that disrespect to the
Emperor and the Greek Church was officially prohibited; that he admitted
everything which did not err too grossly in that direction, and, in
fact, _everything_ except French novels of the modern realistic school.
He drew the line at these, as pernicious to both men and women. He asked
me if I had read a certain new book which was on the proscribed list. I
said that I had, and in the course of the discussion which ensued, I
rose to fetch the volume in question from the table behind him to verify
a passage. (This occurred during a friendly call.) I recollected,
however, that that copy had not entered the country by post, and that,
consequently, the name of the owner therein inscribed would not be found
on the list of authorized readers any more than my own. I am sure,
however, that nothing would have happened if he had seen it, and he must
have understood my movement. My business dealings were wholly with
strangers.
It seems to be necessary, although it ought not to be so, to remind
American readers that Russia is not the only land where the censorship
exists, to a greater or less extent. Even in the United States, which is
popularly regarded as the land of unlicensed license in a literary
sense,--even in the Boston Public Library, which is admitted to be a
model of good sense and wide liberality,--all books are not bought or
issued indiscriminately to all readers, irrespective of age and so
forth. The necessity for making special application may, in some cases,
whet curiosity, but it also, undoubtedly, acts as a check upon unhealthy
tastes, even when the book may be publicly purchased. I have heard
Russians who did not wholly agree with their own censorship assert,
nevertheless, that a strict censure was better than the total absence of
it, apparently, in America, the utterances of whose press are regarded
by foreigners in general as decidedly startling.*
* From _The Nation_
IV.
BARGAINING IN RUSSIA.
In Russia one is expected to bargain and haggle over the price of
everything, beginning with hotel accommodations, no matter how
obtrusively large may be the type of the sign "_Prix Fixe_" or how
strenuous may be the assertions that the bottom price is that first
named. If one's nerves be too weak to play at this game of continental
poker, he will probably share our fate, of which we were politely
apprised by a word at our departure from a hotel where we had lived for
three months--after due bargaining--at their price. "If you come
back, you may have the corresponding apartments on the floor below [the
_bel etage_] for the same price." In view of the fact that there was no
elevator, it will be perceived that we had been paying from one third to
one half too much, which was reassuring as to the prospect for the
future, when we should decide to return!
If there be a detestable relic of barbarism, it is this custom of
bargaining over every breath one draws in life. It creates a sort of
incessant internal seething, which is very wearing to the temper and
destructive of pleasure in traveling. One feels that he must chaffer
desperately in the dark, or pay the sum demanded and be regarded as a
goose fit for further plucking. So he forces himself to chaffer, tries
to conceal his abhorrence of the practice and his inexperience, and
ends, generally, by being cheated and considered a grass-green idiot
into the bargain, which is not soothing to the spirit of the average
man. When I mention it in this connection I do not mean to be understood
as confining my remarks exclusively to Russia; the opportunities for
being shorn to the quick are unsurpassed all over the continent, and
"one price" America's house is too vitreous to permit of her throwing
many stones at foreign lands. Only, in America, the custom is now
happily so obsolete in the ordinary transactions of daily life that one
is astonished when he hears, occasionally, a woman from the country ask
a clerk in a city shop, "Is that the least you'll take? I'll give you so
much for these goods." In Russia, the surprise would be on the other
side.
The next time I had occasion to hire quarters in a hotel for a sojourn
of any length I resorted to stratagem, by way of giving myself an object
lesson. I looked at the rooms, haggled them down, on principle, to what
seemed to me really the very lowest notch of price; I was utterly worn
out before this was accomplished. I even flattered myself that I had
done nearly as well as a native could have done, and was satisfied. But
I sternly carried out my experiment. I did not close the bargain. I
asked Princess----to try her experienced hand. Result, she secured the
best accommodations in the house for less than half the rate at which I
had been so proud of obtaining inferior quarters! When we moved in, the
landlord was surprised, but he grasped the point of the transaction, and
seemed to regard it as a pleasant jest against him, and to respect us
the more for having outwitted him. The Princess apologized for having
made such bad terms for us, and meant it! I suspect that that was a very
fair sample of the comparative terms obtained by natives and outsiders
in all bargains.
It is one of those things at which one smiles or fumes, according to the
force of the instinct for justice with which he has been blessed--or
cursed--by nature. Nothing, unless it be a healthy, athletic
conscience, is so wofully destructive of all happiness and comfort in
this life as a keen sense of justice!
There are, it is true, persons in Russia who scorn to bargain as much as
did the girl of the merchant class in one of Ostrovsky's famous
comedies, who was so generous as to blush with shame for the people whom
she heard trying to beat down exorbitant prices in the shops, or whom
she saw taking their change. The merchant's motto is, "A thing is worth
all that can be got for it." Consequently, it never occurs to him that
even competition is a reason for being rational. One striking case of
this in my own experience was provided by a hardware merchant, in whose
shop I sought a spirit lamp. The lamps he showed me were not of the sort
I wished, and the price struck me as exorbitant, although I was not
informed as to that particular subject. I offered these suggestions to
the fat merchant in a mild manner, and added that I would look elsewhere
before deciding upon his wares.
"You will find none elsewhere," roared the merchant--previously soft
spoken as the proverbial sucking dove--through his bushy beard, in a
voice which would have done credit to the proto-deacon of a cathedral.
"And not one kopek will I abate of my just price, _yay Bogu!_ [God is my
witness!] They cost me that sum; I am actually making you a present of
them out of my profound respect for you, _sudarynya!_ [He had called me
Madame before that, but now he lowered my social rank to that of a
merchant's wife, out of revenge.] And you will be pleased not to come
back if you don't find a lamp to suit your peculiar taste, for I will
not sell to you. I won't have people coming here and looking at things
and then not buying!"
It was obviously my turn to retort, but I let the merchant have the last
word--temporarily. In ten minutes another shopkeeper offered me lamps
of identical quality and pattern at one half his price, and I purchased
one, such as I wished, of a different design for a small sum extra. I
may have been cheated, but, under the circumstances, I was satisfied.
Will it be believed? Bushybeard was lying in wait for me at the door,
ready to receive me, wreathed in smiles which I can describe only by the
detestable adjective "affable," as I took pains to pass his
establishment on my way back. Then the spirit of mischief entered into
me. I reciprocated his smiles and said: "Ivan Baburin, at shop No. 8,
round the corner, has dozens of lamps such as you deal in, for half the
price of yours. You might be able to get them even cheaper, if you know
how to haggle well. But I'm afraid you don't, for you seem to have been
horribly cheated in your last trade, when you bought your present stock
at the price you mentioned. How could any one have the conscience to rob
an honest, innocent man like you so dreadfully?"
He looked dazed, and the last time I cast a furtive glance behind me he
had not recovered sufficiently to dash after me and overwhelm me with
protestations of his uprightness, _yay Bogu!_ and other lingual
cascades.
From the zest with which I have beheld a shopman and a customer waste
half an hour chaffering an article up and down five kopeks (two and a
half cents or less), I am convinced that they enjoy the excitement of
it, and that time is cheap enough with them to allow them to indulge in
this exhilarating practice.
What is the remedy for this state of things? How are foreigners, who
pride themselves on never giving more than the value of an article, to
protect themselves? There is no remedy, I should say. One must haggle,
haggle, haggle, and submit. Guides are useless and worse, as they
probably share in the shopkeeper's profit, and so raise prices.
Recommendations of shops from guides or hotels are to be disregarded.
Not that they are worthless,--quite the reverse; only their value does
not accrue to the stranger, but to the other parties. It may well be, as
veteran travelers affirm, that one is compelled to contribute to this
mutual benefit association in any case; but there is a sort of
satisfaction after all in imagining that one is a free and independent
being, and going to destruction in his own way, unguided, while he gets
a little amusement out of his own shearing.
Any one who really likes bargaining will get his fill in Russia, every
time he sets foot out of doors, if he wishes merely to take a ride.
There are days, it is true, when all the cabmen in town seem to have
entered into a league and agreed to demand a ruble for a drive of half a
dozen blocks; and again, though rarely, they will offer to carry one
miles for one fifth of that sum, which is equally unreasonable in the
other direction. In either case one has his bargaining sport, at one end
of the journey or the other. I find among my notes an illustration of
this operation, which, however, falls far short of a conversation which
I once overheard between a lower-class official and an _izvostchik_, who
could not come to terms. It ended in the uniformed official exclaiming:
"You ask too much. I'll use my own horses," raising a large foot, and
waving it gently at the cabmen.