To an Englishman, accustomed to move as freely as the air he breathes, without any one daring to ask his business, under fear of being sent about his own business, the passport system is one of the greatest nuisances in existence.
The Russian passport, in addition to the owner’s name, address, profession, and so forth, contains a minute description of his personal appearance. Sometimes, in this description, curious mistakes are made. A passport, which I had in St. Petersburg, some time ago, depicted me in terms which led to unpleasant consequences. It so happened, that seven years after I originally received it, I had occasion to return to Russia. I took my passage by the steamer which plies between London and Cronstadt; but we had not lost sight of the shores of England, before I remembered that I had not provided myself with a new passport, and I knew very well that, without it, I could gain no admission into Russia, except as a suspected personage. The next few days were anxious ones for me. At first, the weather being rough and stormy, a touch of sea-sickness made it a matter of supreme indifference to me whether I had a duly attested label or not; but as the weather cleared up, and my mind cleared up with it, I became thoroughly awake to the awkward scrape in which my forgetfulness had placed me. I spoke to no one about it; I kept the secret locked up in my own bosom. But, after much inward musing, I fixed upon a line of action. We were to stay some hours at Copenhagen on our way, and I resolved to spend those hours in an attempt to procure a posthumous passport there.
Unfortunately it was six o’clock in the morning when we landed at Copenhagen, and the captain of our steamer distinctly forewarned us all that he would start precisely at ten. I had only four hours to work in—and so early in the morning, too! I hired the first car I saw, and, promising the driver a double fare, ordered him to gallop off to the English embassy. I had become acquainted with the Secretary of Legation during a former visit to Copenhagen; but the Ambassador, the late Sir Henry Wynn, who had been in England at that time, unfortunately I had never seen. My great hope was, of course, in the secretary. What was my dismay when I found that he was not at home! I inquired for Sir Henry, and ascertained, for my consolation, that he was at that moment comfortably dreaming of diplomacy in all the luxury of eider-down quilts, and would not be visible till nine o’clock. Off to the Russian embassy, to see if early rising is a virtue universally abjured in the diplomatic world! Alas, I found that his Russian Excellency was as comfortably preserved from the toil of office as his brother of England. The only hope left to sustain my patience was, that the Russian Excellency would be visible an hour earlier than the English. Full of gratitude to the Russian diplomatic world for being a-head of the English in the virtue of early rising, but otherwise in no very pleasant frame of mind, I went to renew my acquaintance with Thorwaldsen’s celebrated group of statues, the Christ and the Twelve Apostles. The sublime composure, the serene majesty of the Christ (in which, by-the-bye, Thorwaldsen’s own magnificent head is reproduced), with the Divine promise inscribed above,—“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest”;—did certainly calm my angry feelings, and made me heartily ashamed of giving way to petty annoyances. I left the church in a serener frame of mind than I had entered it, and better fitted patiently to bear whatever might be my lot.
As it turned out there was enough to endure: two of my precious four hours were gone; and I had not yet advanced a single step towards obtaining the indispensable passport, and only two short hours remained before the steamer would start positively for Cronstadt, and I should perhaps be left behind.
The clock was striking eight when I re-entered the Russian Embassy. As I was sitting in the reception-room, a shabby-looking man, robed in a dirty old dressing-gown, passed by me and entered a room.
“Why did you not speak to his Excellency?” asked an attendant.
“Is that the ambassador?”
“Of course it is; what did you expect?”
I could scarcely realise it. I knew that the baron was one of the most accomplished diplomatists of Russia, a thorough classical scholar, a master of most of the modern languages, and the idol of the drawing-room; and, accustomed though I was to the negligence of a Russian déshabillé, I could scarcely imagine that the shabby-looking old gentleman, whom I had seen, was really the elegant and polished representative of majesty. So much for judging by outward appearance. When the baron re-appeared, I scrutinised him more closely; a massive projecting brow, thick, bushy eyebrows, stern piercing grey eyes, and a most hard and resolute mouth and chin, gave no small indication of intellectual power, and, at the same time, proclaimed that that power was under the control of a stern and relentless will.
When I had explained my business, he severely and almost angrily asked me, why I troubled him about a passport.
“Go to the office,” he added, “and give it to one of the clerks; he will see that it is properly viséd.”
“Ah, but, your excellency, I have no passport,” said I, seeing that my only chance was to be perfectly frank with him.
“What do you mean?”
“The fact is, I forgot to procure one in England.”
“And you have the impudence to come here and expect me to give you one, without knowing anything about you!”
I frankly told him my history.
“And you expect to palm off that plausible tale on me!” he said. “It sounds very pretty; but I would recommend you to go on the stage—there is a sphere for your talents! A very likely story! An Englishman, coming to Russia, which the press of his country is every day crying down as the most despotic and restrictive country in the world, actually forgets his passport! A very likely story, indeed! I know why you have no