The Englishwoman in Russia

by A lady

Such of Shakspere’s plays as Julius Cæsar, and others containing sentiments of freedom, are not permitted to be performed, and are not even translated.

The Russian stage is very destitute of good pieces, but I saw one which, being truly national, may serve to give an idea of their plays. It was the best I ever witnessed on the Russian stage, and it gives too true a picture of the unjust extortion and bribery which are also truly national, for they pervade all ranks in an equal degree. I was in perfect astonishment that the piece was allowed to be played at all; one would think that pride alone would have prevented such an exposure of their prevailing vice to the foreigners with whom the capital is crowded.

It was called the ‘Reviseur,’ that being the title of an officer sent from time to time into the provinces to examine into the state of the government, and to report concerning the manner in which it is carried on.

The play opened by a domestic scene, in which the police-master, his wife and daughter, are all eagerly conversing on the shortly-expected visit of the Reviseur, and we are let into the secret of various amiable weaknesses and domestic plans to keep up an appearance of propriety, in the midst of which the elder lady suddenly sees a carriage pass, which she is sure can be no other than that of the great man himself. An extraordinary bustle ensues: the police-master, in all haste, gives various absurd orders to the employés under him, one of which is that “the soldiers should not on any account be seen without their coats, as it would be then discovered that they had no shirts on,”—the money furnished by the crown for providing them has of course been pocketed by himself and the colonel. After taking all the precautions he can think of, he hastens to inform the other principal men of the arrival of the Reviseur.

The next scene introduces us to the servant of the supposed functionary, who is no Reviseur at all, but a poor gentleman who is running away from St. Petersburg, on account of certain bills which he has not the means of paying. The miserable lodging, and the hungry lamentations of the unlucky servant, give us to understand the state of his master’s finances, that he has actually expended the very last of his cherished rubles, nor does there appear to be any probability of his purse being replenished: how they will be enabled to continue the journey is a casse-tête. Thereupon the master himself enters, and, being quite as famished as his man, orders him to go and get something for dinner, for it appears he has been to an eating-house, and they refused to give him credit. The servant refuses to go without the money. At last, with the help of a great deal of blustering, he is persuaded to “try his luck:” he soon returns; he has been successful in some measure, for he is accompanied by the boy from the cook-shop, who has brought two dishes and—the bill. The savoury smell of the soup and beef drives the hungry pair almost mad, but the purse, unlike that of Fortunatus, is as empty as their stomachs, and, unless the boy gets the money, he is ordered by no means to leave the dinner. Now, here was a dreadful dilemma; but in the midst of it the police-master arrives: the distressed traveller is in fearful trouble, for he is convinced that the dreaded officer is come to arrest him; “he has doubtless heard of his flight from St. Petersburg, and has received orders to take him prisoner.” The police-master, on his side, is equally sure that he is in the presence of the real Reviseur, but that he travels thus in disguise that he may take them unawares, and so detect their numerous acts of dishonesty and corruption: consequently, a most laughable dialogue ensues—the official trembles as he addresses the supposed great man, and is ready to cringe in the dust at his feet. At last the latter begins to see “which way the wind blows,” and, perceiving to what profit he may turn the mistake, informs the other as a very great secret that he is really the Reviseur, and compliments him on his extreme penetration, which alone could have discovered him under such a disguise. No sooner has he done so than the police-master slips an excessively heavy purse into his hand, the contents of which have been furnished by himself and the other chief government officers, to blind his eyes, and to act as golden spectacles. Here the boy from the cook-shop re-enters to be paid for the dinner; the traveller takes out his newly-acquired riches, and is on the point of paying for it, when the police-master politely interferes, and orders the boy to put it down “to his account;” the latter casts a terrified look at the two, and, seeing what a powerful friend his customer has acquired, rushes off in extreme dismay. The official, then turning to the traveller, expresses the hope that they shall have the honour of his company at his house, and respectfully begs permission to write a few words to his wife to inform her of the intended visit; on its being graciously accorded, he sits down and indites a note, in which he bids her strain every nerve for the reception of the distinguished guest, for that she was quite right, it was really the Reviseur that she had seen.

In the following scene the wife and daughter are gravely consulting concerning the toilet proper for the occasion, as they have some sly matrimonial designs on the stranger’s heart. The police-master returns home accompanied by all the chief officials in the place; they have been all “oppressors and unjust judges alike,” and every scheme is canvassed to ensure concealment. The soi-disant Reviseur arrives, and is received with all the slavish obsequiousness of which only Russians are capable. The poor shopkeepers, who come, according to the national custom, to present the bread and salt, and who have been fleeced by the authorities, are summarily dismissed, and can obtain no hearing for their complaints. As for the supposed Reviseur, he knows well the character of his countrymen, and takes care to profit by it by receiving bribes from every one. The inferior officers, whose turn to be introduced is not yet arrived, are all assembled outside the door, determined to listen to what is going on, and to see as much as the keyhole will permit them. Their anxiety is so great that they push the door down and roll over each other on the floor, to the great damage of their noses. Order being restored, the Reviseur gives audience to one at a time: they have received such severe contusions in the fall that most of them have patches on, and one has a black one covering the whole of his nose. Each gives a bribe to the great man, according to his rank: a great deal of laughter is produced by the one with the black nose not being able to find more than eightpence; but the Reviseur takes it, being resolved to get all he can. After all these people are dismissed there is a grand flirtation with the police-master’s daughter, whose visions of a splendid match can only be equalled by the exultation of the mother.

Having obtained as much as he can, our traveller thinks it “high time to be off,” lest by any untoward chance his deception should be discovered. He pockets the money, in all eight hundred roubles, protests his entire satisfaction of everything, his eternal devotion to the daughter, and his fixed intention of shortly returning to marry her, in the midst of which the kabitka drives up to the door; he takes his leave, and the traveller’s bell is soon heard; everybody runs to the window to take a last look at the retreating sledge; the tinkling of the bell becomes fainter, and the act is finished.

The last act opens with a scene between the police-master and the shopkeepers, whom he most bitterly upbraids for daring to complain of his oppression, and refuses to be pacified until they have promised to send him various valuable offerings, so many arsheens of cloth, and so on, to act as peace-makers. At last, on this consideration, he consents to “think no more of it,” and the poor people take their leave. They are replaced by the numerous friends of the family, who have heard of the intended marriage, and have come to congratulate them upon it. A shower, or rather a deluge, of compliments greets them on all sides, in the midst of which the police-master sneezes. When such an accident occurs, the Russians always exclaim, “I wish you well.” It may therefore be imagined what a chorus of voices, each desirous to be remarked above the other; is heard simultaneously. Various grand plans are discussed for the future couple, and the whole family seem ready to die with triumphant exultation, when in comes the postmaster so much out of breath that he cannot speak. On recovering his voice he informs them that he has opened the letter that the traveller had forwarded to St. Petersburg, that he is no Reviseur, and that he had turned them all into ridicule, calling them asses, dupes, and fools, and had given a detailed account of everything that had passed. The distress of the whole company is inconceivable; the police-master is frantic with despair, the daughter and mother faint, the ladies scream, the confusion becomes greater and greater the more they have time to reflect on their position. In the midst of all this terror, consternation, recrimination, and misfortune, enters a chasseur, who announces that the real Reviseur has just arrived. Their despair is now excessive; it becomes deeper and deeper, whereupon the curtain drops and leaves them to their fate.

The acting was admirable throughout. I forget the name of the artiste who performed the first character, but he did it in a manner beyond praise. The comic actors in Russia are excellent; there are not many first-rate actresses; Mlle. Samoiloff was the best—she has since quitted the stage.

Perhaps it may be thought that the preceding play is but a burlesque, an extremely exaggerated picture of what really passes in Russia. Far from it. The Count Z. was sitting next to me, and we were conversing upon the excessive truth of the whole, when Madame P. turned and entreated us, “pour l’amour de Dieu,” not to pass such remarks, for if we were heard we might have a visit from the police before the next morning; so we waited until we returned home, when every one acknowledged that the picture was by no means overdrawn.