“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 As it was withdrawn, a shower of fine plaster followed, powdering my hair in the true style of the last century.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: