in
vain to find us by this means, and was informed that we did not exist.
This was owing to some eccentricity in the official spelling of our
name. An application to the American Legation, as a desperate final
resort, served the purpose at last. The same thing happened when the
telegraph messenger tried to find us, to deliver an important cablegram.
Still, in spite of this experience, I always regarded my passport as an
important means of protection. In case of accident, one could be traced
by it. A traveler's passport once registered at the police office, the
landlord or lodging-house keeper is responsible for the life of his
guest. If the landlord have any bandit propensities, this serves as a
check upon them, since he is bound to produce the person, or to say what
has become of him. In the same way, when one is traveling by imperial
post carriage, the postilion must deliver his passenger safe and sound
at the next post station, or be promptly arrested. The passport serves
here as a sort of waybill for the human freight. When a foreigner's
passport is registered for the first time, he receives permission to
remain six months in the country. At the expiration of that period, on
formal application, a fresh permit is issued, which must be paid for,
and which covers one year. This takes the form of a special document,
attached to the foreign passport with cord and sealing-wax; and attached
to it, in turn, is a penalty for cutting the cord or tampering with the
official seal. These acts must be done by the proper officials. I
thought it might be interesting to attend to securing this special
permit myself instead of sending the _dvornik_ (the yard porter), whose
duties comprise as many odds and ends as those of the prime minister of
an empire.

At the office I was questioned concerning my religion and my occupation,
which had not been inquired into previously. The question about religion
was a mere formality, as they care nothing for one's creed. I stated, in
reply to the last question, that I was merely "a traveler."

"Don't say that; it's too expensive," returned the official, in a
friendly way.

"To whom? How?" I asked.

"To you, of course. A traveler, as a person of leisure, pays a huge
tax."

"Call me a literary person, then, if you like."

"That's not an occupation!" (Observe the delicate, unconscious sarcasm
of this rejoinder! As a matter of fact, the Russian idea of literary men
is that they all hold some g