A COMEDY OF PASSPORTS--MYTHICAL POLICE ESPIONAGE.
Travelers are told that, the farther they go into Russia, the more
they are subjected to police espionage. Whenever at St. Petersburg
I casually alluded to the informality of the passport examinations,
any English tourist with whom I was conversing would be sure to say,
with a knowing smile, “Wait till you get to Moscow.” “But, my dear
sir,” I would rejoin, “the time to be strict is when one is entering
the country. The object of requiring passports, as I understand it,
is to guard against returning Nihilists and dangerous characters
generally. I do believe that any other man could have come in on my
passport, for nobody attempted to identify me by my own--perhaps
flattering--description of myself. When it was finally handed back
to me at Wirballen, the only sign that it had been inspected was a
little round stamp next to the _visé_ of the Russian consul-general at
Berlin.”
“Just like the rascals,” an Englishman once said to me, lowering his
voice a little. “I wonder if in America you ever heard the song about
‘The Spider and the Fly’? ‘Come into my parlor,’ you know, and all that
sort of thing.”
I told him that it was not entirely unfamiliar to me, at which he
seemed surprised.
“Well,” he continued, “Russia is the spider, and you are the fly. She
will bleed you in your pocket if not in your veins.” He stopped to
laugh at his own joke. “It’s easy enough to get in; but, when you want
to get out, and go to the police-office for a permit, you’ll see--”
He did not say what would be seen; but the vagueness of his unfinished
remark implied something terrible.
I had heard that the rooms at Russian hotels assigned to foreigners
were all provided with Judas-holes, through which an EYE watched the
inmates with the hope of surprising them in the act of loading up bombs
with dynamite. The thought of this scrutiny was horrible. I could not
help glancing uneasily around my apartment to discover the treacherous
orifice. The stucco-work next to the high ceiling seemed to be a mighty
snug place for a spy-hole, the dark shadows and the festooned cobwebs
lending themselves to its concealment. Once I seized an umbrella, and
stood on a chair tip-toe, and reached up just far enough to punch the
ferule into a spot which had crumbled away a little and looked like a
hole. If there was an EYE on the other side, its owner must take the
consequences. I heard no scream as the weapon pierced the ceiling. As
it was withdrawn, a shower of fine plaster followed, powdering my hair
in the true style of the last century. The absurdity of this incident
dispelled, once and for all, any real fear of being watched in that way.
If the St. Petersburg police took any notice of my comings and goings,
I was unaware of it, though always seeking to discover some indication
of their surveillance. At the Hôtel d’Europe I had surrendered my
passport to the head-porter by request, and it pleased me to think that
I was not neglected by a paternal government. Next day, when it was
politely returned, it bore no fresh pen-mark, seal, or stamp, or even
the impression of a dirty thumb, to show that it had been opened. Since
the police did not seem to be looking after me, I determined to look
after the police.
The execution of this design was reserved for Moscow; for it is in
that city, according to the best obtainable information, that the
odious features of the Russian police system may be seen at their
worst. That is the phase of it with which I most ardently desired to
become acquainted. I wanted to see the originally immaculate passport
still further soiled. It was really provoking that, up to the time of
reaching the Holy City, the following were the only indorsements upon
it, as translated from the Russian:
No. 4,710.
Seen at the Imperial Russian Consulate for going to Russia.
BERLIN, _July 3/13, 1886_.
_Consul-General_, KUDRIAVTZEFF.
And, adjoining, was the stamp affixed at the frontier, containing in
a circle the words “Seen at Verjbolovo (Wirballen) when coming, July
5/17, 1886.”
At Moscow, the passport, having been surrendered at the hotel as usual,
came back next day with two Russian superscriptions. There was a formal
entry as follows:
_July 11/23, 1886._
City precinct. In the house No. 9, presented and recorded.
For the captain (signed),
RALIKHIN.
The other was personal and cordial, and produced a gentle thrill of
gratitude in the bosom of the recipient of the courtesy:
_July 11/23, 1886._
It is permitted to John Bouton, an American citizen, and wife, to
remain in Russia until January 5/17, 1887. For further stay he is
bound to obtain a passport, under the regulations established for
foreigners wishing to live in Russia.
For the senior clerk (signed),
VOLYNIA.
(_Gratis._)
The omission of my middle name was noticeable. At first, I explained
it on the theory of official carelessness, from which no country is
exempt. Then I remembered that, in the Russian nomenclature, there is
no recognized middle name, except that derived from the father. This
is constructed by adding “_vitch_” (son of) to the father’s Christian
name. In the case of the present writer, it would be _Nathanielóvitch_
(son of Nathaniel), and thus it appears in the Russian version of the
title-page of this book. And the present place may be as good as any
to give the English pronunciation of the first six Slavic words there
displayed. They read, “OKOLNYM POOTEM VŬ MOSKVOO--EPIKOORÁYSKOYE
POOTESHESTVEEYE.”
Except for the slight immaterial defect already noted, the police
indorsement at Moscow defies the most unfriendly criticism, even of
Englishmen. Here is a favor extended to me without asking. It exacts
no conditions. It clothes me with a six months’ residence in Russia,
and with all the protection of her laws. And to this truly hospitable
concession is attached no stamp requiring the payment of any fee.
Great is my surprise to see, instead of the customary _timbre_, the
familiar word “_gratis_.” I rub my eyes hard and look again. Yes, it
is no accidental combination of Russian characters reading “gratis,”
and meaning something widely different. It is the good old Latin word,
English by adoption, and known even in far-away Russia, which we often
see coupled with samples of garden-seeds, or specimen newspapers, or
bits of dress-patterns, or something else seeking free introduction
and circulation. But one may travel round the world, and find not
many places, if any, besides Russia, where this welcome word adorns
government paper in lieu of a stamp for fees. It is like a shake of the
hand, and makes one feel at home among strangers.
And this same word “gratis” started another train of thought not wholly
complimentary to the United States. Up to this time my total outlay
to Russian officials, for the privilege of entering and moving freely
about their country, footed up less than forty-five cents. But my
American passport had cost me five dollars from first hands. True,
that without this magic document I could not have entered Russia. But
had I not been intending to visit that empire, I probably should not
have taken out a passport, for in previous trips to Europe it had been
found as superfluous for exhibition purposes as a college diploma. In
point of fact, therefore, I had paid our State Department, for the
right of going to Russia, more than ten times as much as Russia herself
had charged for throwing her doors wide open! Now, it seems to me that
a government with an annual surplus which encourages the most foolish
extravagance and waste, might afford to discard this tax upon those
of its citizens who desire to go abroad. The American passport-fee
should be abolished, if for no other reason than because it deters our
people from visiting their good friends, the Russians. I wonder if the
boast “_Civis Romanus sum_”--that warning to all the barbarian world
not to molest a Roman citizen--was uttered by a man with a five-dollar
passport stuck in the folds of his toga?
Notwithstanding this most agreeable incident at Moscow, I could
not forget the unpleasant things reported about the Russian police
system. I could think of no surer way to ascertain the truth than to
go to police-headquarters, observe the manners of the chief and his
subordinates in their official den, and note their treatment, not
merely of an American citizen, but of natives whom one might chance
to see there. For this purpose a good occasion soon presented itself.
Instead of profiting by the gracious permission for a six months’ stay
in Russia, I was ungratefully meditating an early departure; and, in
order to leave the country without hindrance, must secure a police
permit. With this business as the pretext, perhaps the depth of the
mystery could be plumbed.
One morning, I mentioned this purpose to one of the hotel staff, who
could speak a little French or English as required, and who stood for
all we ever saw of the “administration,” except the cashier in the
settlement of bills. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders,
expressing at once surprise and dissuasion. Then he explained in a
dignified way that the guests never visited the police bureau in
person--that the house had “an agent,” “a representative,” “a man”
(these were some of the descriptive phrases used), who was authorized
to act in such delicate matters, with the consent and indeed with
the wish of the police, and that this person would take charge of my
passport, and save me a great deal of time and trouble.
But my mind was made up to interview the chief of police, and so I
cut short the conversation by peremptorily requesting the call of a
droschky. The man smiled, with another shrug of the shoulders, and,
beckoning to one of those boys whose smooth chin, flowing hair parted
in the middle, pork-pie cap, and long, blue tunic strapped tightly
about the waist, make them look like girls, spoke to him in Russian.
I followed the little fellow to the sidewalk, where he ordered the
droschky for me, explaining the destination to the driver, and then he
started off on a run.
As usual, the carriage dashed through the streets like a meteor. But,
however great our speed, I always saw on the sidewalk, just ahead, the
girlish dress and streaming hair of the hotel-boy. I wondered what
imperative business caused his race against time--or was it against the
droschky? Not the latter evidently, for in a few minutes he disappeared
down an alley. A quarter of an hour later, after quite a circuit of
stony streets, we entered a little court-yard, and halted opposite a
door with a Russian inscription on the lintel. The driver signaled
me to descend and go in. Opening the door, I saw before me a narrow
stairway, and, at the head thereof--the hotel-boy. His round, innocent
face was flushed, and he puffed audibly. That last half-mile had nearly
done for him. He looked down and beamed at me as I climbed the steps. I
playfully shook my finger at him, at the same time taking my passport
from a side-pocket.
With a roguish laugh, he snatched it from my hand and scampered away
before I could stop him. I followed as fast as possible through some
half-lighted passages into what seemed an anteroom, where I caught
a glimpse of his flying blue tunic and tossing locks as he entered
a larger apartment beyond. Before me was a soldier or policeman
(convertible terms in Russia), who motioned me to a seat, which was
a rude bench. Upon my heels, as I entered the anteroom, trod another
policeman, who drew up inside as if awaiting further orders. To a
casual observer, ignorant of the truth, I should have appeared to be
under arrest, with these two sworded _gorodovois_ mounting guard.
I could do nothing but wait till the boy had executed the commission
of obtaining my leave for departure, for which it was then evident he
had been privately sent from the hotel ahead of me, contrary to my
expressed wish. So I philosophically improved the occasion to look
about the place. From my position one could see into the adjoining
large room. There, at a square table, sat a middle-aged man with a
refined face, a mustache artistically curled, and a delicate white
hand, on the little finger of which sparkled a large diamond that
shone to great advantage as he raised it to his lips and withdrew or
replaced a cigarette. Before him was a pile of papers, which he was
signing, or indorsing, or stamping with official seals, and looking
somewhat bored as he performed that automatic task. Men came and bowed
to him deferentially, and took orders which issued languidly from his
lips between the whiffs. That imp of a boy stood in the background,
with the precious passport opened out wide, so that I could see the
spread-eagle water-mark (about two feet square) through it against
a window. He grinned as he caught my eye, and, though I now feared
that he had baffled my cherished design of penetrating the _sanctum
sanctorum_, I could not help smiling back at him; observing which act,
one of the policemen standing near looked hard at me as if to check the
display of any levity in that place. So I became grim again, and fell
to contrasting the stylish and genial appearance of the police magnate
yonder with the serious, gruff, heavy-bearded, and cruel-eyed person
who would have seemed (according to English reports) the most natural
occupant of that chair.
Meanwhile my curiosity was also excited in another quarter. Just
in front of me, within a space inclosed by an iron railing with an
elaborate pattern of cross-bars, was a little crowd of Russians. They
were all looking by turns at me and at the two policemen. “Can it be
possible,” I thought, “that they--evidently prisoners themselves,
penned up there and awaiting orders which will consign them to dungeons
or to Siberia--suppose me also to be under arrest? I certainly detect
in their faces marks of sympathy and fellow-feeling.”
I study the motley group at leisure. One of the number may have been
a student, for he had a thoughtful face; but I was pained to remark
a fierce expression in his eyes, as if he had absorbed the deadly
virus of Nihilism. “Rash boy! most likely implicated in the latest
plot (for full particulars, see highly imaginative dispatches in the
London press) for assassinating the Tsar. And there is a young girl
with a pretty face; another Nihilist, probably--the misguided student’s
sweetheart, it may be. They say that women are the most fanatical
disciples of the new dispensation. By her side stands a priest of the
Greek Church in his cylindrical black cap and full robes, which he
has disgraced by some offense--trivial, let us hope. But he, too, may
be a Nihilist, for we are told that the gospel of anarchy draws some
recruits from the ranks of the priesthood.” A soldier in fatigue-dress,
and some other men or women whose station in life one could not fix,
composed the rest of the company behind that grill, all (perhaps)
arrested for alleged Nihilism. This gave them, in my eyes, a tragic
interest which the common ruck of misdemeanants would have lacked. Who
can tell what they thought of me, as they reciprocated the curiosity
bestowed upon them?
Engrossed in these interesting speculations, I had clean forgotten the
object of my visit until recalled from the reverie by the apparition
of the ever-smiling boy. He stood before me with the passport open,
and pointed out a new streak of inscription running down the back.
It had been obligingly furnished without any further information
about my identity than he had supplied. Thus ended ingloriously the
only opportunity which had presented itself to learn from personal
observation anything about the police system of Russia. I folded the
passport with a sigh, and thrust it into its pocket. As I did so, one
of the _gorodovois_ courteously indicated that my departure was now in
order. His long forefinger pointed to the door.
As I rose to go, an official-looking personage came out of the chief’s
audience-room and walked briskly to the little knot of expectant
culprits behind that iron railing, which needed only a roof to make it
a cage. I halted a moment to see what would happen next. The Nihilists
began to look anxious, and I shared their emotions. What followed
was interpreted to me by gestures which could not be mistaken. The
official personage shook his head at the group, as if he were denying
them something. They seemed to entreat him. He only shook his head more
determinedly. As they persisted in trying to overcome his objections,
he brandished both hands at them in a manner which plainly said: “It’s
no use; go away; out of this now!” And this with so much energy that
the party in the pen instinctively fell back; and, as they did so, the
door behind them was flung open, disclosing, not a perspective of cells
as I had expected, but an outside stairway, the blue sky, and a tree in
leaf, all belonging to the free world, into which they hastened for the
labors or pleasures of the day! Putting this and that fact together, I
was impelled to the conclusion that these people were, after all, not
Nihilists or offenders of any rank, but only respectable citizens of
Moscow, who had called at the chief’s office to lay some request before
him, and that he had either decided to deny it, or else had put off
their reception to another day. And I never came any nearer than this
to identifying a Nihilist in Russia.
Translated into English, this final indorsement of the passport reads
as follows:
_July, 15/27, 1886._
On behalf of the local police, there is no objection to John
Bouton and wife, American citizens named in this passport, leaving
Moscow for abroad.
Captain of the city precinct,
(Signed) DVORONIN.
There was quite a galaxy of stamps affixed, making a total charge
of ninety-five kopecks--less than fifty cents gold value. The hotel
assumed the payment of this fee, and, adding a trifle for the services
of its “representative,” or “agent,” or “man” (the small boy), inserted
in my bill a lump item of one ruble fifty kopecks on “passport”
account. And I advise all American tourists to transact this kind of
business by proxy instead of wasting droschky-fares in unproductive
visits to the chief of police.