At Warsaw I had an adventure not unlike that which befell me at Vienna. The whole of Europe, remember, was in a state of political ferment. Poland was at least as ready to rise against its oppressor then as now; and the police was proportionately strict and arbitrary. An army corps was encamped on the right bank of the Vistula, ready for expected emergencies. Under these circumstances, passports, as may be supposed, were carefully inspected; except in those of British subjects, the person of the bearer was described—his height, the colour of his hair (if he had any), or any mark that distinguished him.
In my passport, after my name, was added ‘et son domestique.’ The inspector who examined it at the frontier pointed to this, and, in indifferent German, asked me where that individual was. I replied that I had sent him with my baggage to Dresden, to await my arrival there. A consultation thereupon took place with another official, in a language I did not understand; and to my dismay I was informed that I was—in custody. The small portmanteau I had with me, together with my despatch-box, was seized; the latter contained a quantity of letters and my journal. Money only was I permitted to retain.
Quite by the way, but adding greatly to my discomfort, was the fact that since leaving Prague, where I had relinquished everything I could dispense with, I had had much night travelling amongst native passengers, who so valued cleanliness that they economised it with religious care. By the time I reached Warsaw, I may say, without metonymy, that I was itching (all over) for a bath and a change of linen. My irritation, indeed, was at its height. But there was no appeal; and on my arrival I was haled before the authorities.
Again, their head was a general officer, though not the least like my portly friend at Vienna. His business was to sit in judgment upon delinquents such as I. He was a spare, austere man, surrounded by a sharp-looking aide-de-camp, several clerks in uniform, and two or three men in mufti, whom I took to be detectives. The inspector who arrested me was present with my open despatch-box and journal. The journal he handed to the aide, who began at once to look it through while his chief was disposing of another case.
To be suspected and dragged before this tribunal was, for the time being (as I afterwards learnt) almost tantamount to condemnation. As soon as the General had sentenced my predecessor, I was accosted as a self-convicted criminal. Fortunately he spoke French like a Frenchman; and, as it presently appeared, a few words of English.
‘What country do you belong to?’ he asked, as if the question was but a matter of form, put for decency’s sake—a mere prelude to committal.
‘England, of course; you can see that by my passport.’ I was determined to fence him with his own weapons. Indeed, in those innocent days of my youth, I enjoyed a genuine British contempt for foreigners—in the lump—which, after all, is about as impartial a sentiment as its converse, that one’s own country is always in the wrong.
‘Where did you get it?’ (with a face of stone).
Prisoner (naïvely): ‘Where did I get it? I do not follow you.’ (Don’t forget, please, that said prisoner’s apparel was unvaleted, his hands unwashed, his linen unchanged, his hair unkempt, and his face unshaven).
General (stonily): ‘“Where did you get it?” was my question.’