During the course of a one month’s residence in St. Petersburg Sala was robbed four times; first of a cigar-case, then of a purse, fortunately not very well lined, next of an overcoat, and lastly of a drawerful of nondescript articles, including shirts, cigars, and a pair of opera-glasses. This last robbery had been effected by breaking through a seemingly secure lock, and the victim suspected a certain chambermaid who attended to his room. He was on the point of laying the whole case before the police when a friend, a Frenchman who knew Russia by heart, interposed and strongly advised Sala to accept his loss; he would certainly recover nothing, and would as certainly be obliged to spend more than double the value of the property stolen, with the additional inconvenience of being nearly worried to death. The gist of this shrewd advice was that he should grin and bear it, buy new articles, but never complain. “Complaints will lead to your being replundered fourfold, hardly to the recovery of your possessions.”
This was no new experience. An earlier traveller, Herr Jerrmann, gives a curious instance of the extraordinary faculty the Russian police exhibited of retaining what came into their hands. It was always considered, he said, that the person robbed had never less chance of recovering his property than when the police had actually got the thief. The general feeling, in fact, was strong that thefts would be seldom if ever reported were it not that the law imperatively requires it to be done.
A certain nobleman, Von H——, lost some plate, silver spoons, knives and forks, which were abstracted from his plate-chest. A few weeks later one of his servants came and told him that he had seen the stolen property exhibited for sale in a pawnbroker’s shop. Von H—— went and identified his plate, then, calling the police in, required the silversmith to produce the goods. There could be no doubt as to ownership, for Von H——’s arms and initials had not been erased. The silversmith willingly admitted Von H——’s claim, and would have surrendered the property to him at once. But the police interposed, and declined to allow him to take away his property until he had formally proved his ownership. For this it was necessary to draw up a formal statement of the case, and submit it to the lieutenant of police, accompanied by a specimen article from his plate-chest in corroboration of his claim. While this was being done the police took charge of the pieces that had been stolen, and soon acquired more. Von H—— was apparently a novice then, for, in order to recover the few articles he had lost, he submitted the whole contents of his plate-chest for police inspection at the police bureau. From that time he never saw a single article again!
Jerrmann tells another story within his own experience. A silver table-spoon was stolen from his kitchen; his suspicions fell upon the baker who brought him bread, and the same day the thief was captured, and the spoon traced to a receiver’s shop. Justice was prompt in its action; the thief was duly punished, the receiver’s shop was closed. But the police took possession of the spoon! Herr Jerrmann valued the spoon, which was a christening gift, and he was determined to spare no pains to recover it. He was, however, referred from one person to another, hunted from place to place in the most vexatious way, and all without result. At last a commissary who was the custodian of the spoon asked him frankly why he was so persevering; the value of the spoon was trifling, and he must have spent more money in droschkies than the thing was worth, while he might confidently expect to be much more out of pocket still before he got back his property. Jerrmann, seeing how the land lay, suddenly decided upon a daring ruse. He told the commissary that he meant to have the spoon the very next day, and when he was asked mockingly what he proposed to do, he answered simply that he was going to dine that evening with Perovsky, the Minister of the Interior. “And I mean,” added Jerrmann, “to ask him a riddle, namely, how to recover one’s property when it is temporarily held by the police. If you will come to breakfast with me to-morrow morning I promise you that you shall make use of that very spoon. But whether you wear uniform or not will entirely depend upon how Perovsky deals with my riddle.” The commissary again laughed, but a little uneasily. He accepted the invitation to breakfast, and when he came the spoon was on the table; he had sent it in anticipation. The best part of this story is that the dinner with Perovsky was purely imaginary. But that famous Minister’s name was ever a terror to faithless officials.
This Perovsky, a man of singular ability and of the most straightforward character, had been appointed head of the police by the Czar Nicholas I. when that sovereign was roused to the consciousness that his police was a shame and a scandal to the empire. Perovsky did something, no doubt, towards reforming the most crying abuses, but he met with the most determined opposition from the great army of police officials, who bitterly resented his interference. Many stories are told of his methods of calling his subordinates to account. There was one occasion when he drew the attention of the chief of police to a certain mansion where gambling at prohibited games of chance was constantly carried on. He desired the police to surround the house and to depute two of their number to enter it. The officers were to make their way to a room indicated, and if they there found a party of gamesters at a faro table arrests should be made. All fell out as planned; the gamblers were caught in flagrante with piles of gold upon the table, sufficient proof of what was going on. But just as the players were about to be removed to the police
station one of them took the police officers aside and assured them that it was all a mistake, that they were not playing for the gold upon the table, which merely served as markers. Still, if the police officers cared to try their skill at écarté for a thousand roubles a game, some of those present would be glad to give them a chance of winning the money. This was only another excuse for making it a present to the officers of the law, who presently withdrew with their pockets well lined to inform their chief that there was nothing wrong in the house they had visited. This report was carried in due course to Perovsky, who summoned the two police agents before him, and, assuring them that he was not their dupe, opened another door and disclosed to view the very same gamblers of the night before sitting at a green table in the same order, playing the same, prohibited game. The whole affair was an artfully executed plot to entrap the police.
The police, it has been contended, is an indispensable wheel in the organisation of absolute monarchy. That power pretends to be paternal as well as repressive, and as long as it forbids the people to share in government, or express opinions on current events, it must be aided by some organ that replaces the public voice, speaking either in elective assemblies or in the Press. The police, acting for the central power, is supposed to control everything, to criticise conduct, to protect as well as correct, and it thus becomes possessed of very considerable power. In Russia, under Nicholas I., the police was well styled the mainspring of the State machinery; and although under Alexander II. more liberal principles obtained, the growth of Nihilism led to reaction, and the police recovered all its old authority. Great pains have been taken to perfect its processes, to give it increased strength and enlarge its action. With this in view an organisation was planned which lasted for some years, and which consisted mainly in the separation of all police into two principal and distinct branches—
1. The ordinary, everyday, regular police.