Part 4 — Chapter 33 A Police-Officer in the Part of a Valet—The Police-master Kokoshkin—‘Disorder in Order’—Dubbelt Once More—The Passport

A few months before my father’s death Count Orlov was appointed to succeed Benckendorf. I wrote at the time to Olga Alexandrovna to ask whether she could procure me a passport for abroad or permission on some pretext or other to visit Petersburg in order to get one for myself. My old friend answered that the latter was easier to manage, and a few days later I received from Orlov the ‘Most High’ permission to visit Petersburg for a short time to arrange my affairs. My father’s illness, his death, arranging my affairs in reality, and some months spent in the country delayed me till winter. At the end of November I set off for Petersburg, having first sent a petition for a passport to the governor-general. I knew that he could not grant it because I was still under strict police supervision, all I wanted was that he should send on the petition to Petersburg.

On the day of my departure I sent in the morning to get a permit from the police, but instead of a permit a policeman came to say that there were certain difficulties and that the local police-superintendent himself would come to me. He did come, and asking me to see him alone he mysteriously informed me that five years ago I had been forbidden to visit Petersburg and without the ‘Most High’ orders he could not sign the permit.

‘That won’t stand in our way,’ I said, laughing, and took the letter out of my pocket.

The police-superintendent, greatly astonished, read it, asked permission to show it to the police-master, and two hours later sent me my permit and the letter.

I must mention that my police-superintendent carried on half the conversation in extraordinarily polished French. How mischievous it is for a police-superintendent, or indeed any Russian policeman, to know French, he had learnt by very bitter experience.

Some years previously a French traveller, the legitimist Chevalier Preaux, arrived in Moscow from the Caucasus. He had been in Persia and in Georgia, had seen a great deal, and was so incautious as to criticise severely the military operations in the Caucasus, and still more severely the administration of government there. Afraid that Preaux would say the same thing in Petersburg, the governor-general of the Caucasus prudently wrote to the Minister of War that Preaux was a very dangerous military agent of the French government. Preaux was living quite happily in Moscow and was very well received by Prince D. V. Golitsyn, when suddenly the latter received orders to send the Frenchman from Moscow to the frontier accompanied by a police-officer. To do anything so stupid and so rude is always more difficult to an acquaintance, and so Golitsyn after two days of hesitation invited Preaux to his house, and beginning with an eloquent introduction told him at last that reports of some sort about him, probably from the Caucasus, had reached the Tsar, who had ordered that he should leave Russia, that they would, however, give him an escort....

Preaux, incensed, observed to Golitsyn that, seeing that the government had the right to eject him, he was prepared to go, but that he would not accept an escort, since he did not consider himself a criminal who needed to be guarded.

Next day when the police-master came to Preaux the latter met him with a pistol in his hand and told him point-blank that he would not permit a police-officer to enter his room or his carriage, and that he would send the bullet through his head if he attempted to enter by force.

Golitsyn was a very decent man, which made it the more difficult for him; he sent for Veiller, the French consul, to ask his advice. The latter found a way out of the difficulty; he asked for a police-officer who spoke French well and promised to present him to Preaux as a traveller who begged Preaux for a place in his carriage on condition of paying half the travelling expenses.

From the consul’s first words Preaux guessed what it meant.

‘I don’t sell seats in my carriage,’ he said to the consul.

‘The man will be in despair.’

‘Very well,’ said Preaux, ‘I will take him for nothing, but he must undertake a few little services in return; he’s not an ill-humoured fellow I suppose, if he is I will leave him on the road.’

‘The most obliging man in the world; he will be entirely at your disposition. I thank you on his behalf.’ And the consul galloped off to Prince Golitsyn to announce his success.

In the evening Preaux and the bona fide traveller set off. Preaux did not speak all the way; at the first station he went indoors and lay down on the sofa. ‘Hey,’ he shouted to his companion, ‘come here and take off my boots.’ ‘Upon my word, what next?’ ‘I tell you, take off my boots, or I will turn you out on the road; I am not going to keep you.’ The police-officer took off the boots. ‘Brush them and polish them!’ ‘That’s really too much!’ ‘Very well, you can stay here.’ The officer polished the boots.

At the next station there was the same story with his clothes, and so Preaux went on tormenting him till they reached the frontier. To console this martyr of the secret service, the Sovereign’s special attention was drawn to him and in the end he was made a police-superintendent.

The third day after my arrival in Petersburg the house porter came to ask me from the local police: ‘With what papers had I come to Petersburg?’ The only paper I had, the decree concerning my retirement from the service, I had sent to the governor-general with my petition for a passport. I gave the house-porter my permit, but he came back with the remark that it was valid for leaving Moscow but not for entering Petersburg. Then a police-officer arrived with a summons to the police-master’s office. I went to Kokoshkin’s office, which was lighted by lamps though it was daytime, and within an hour he arrived. Kokoshkin more than other persons of the same order was a servant of the Tsar, a man in favour, ready to do any dirty job, with no distinct aims, no conscience, no reflection. He served and made his pile as naturally as birds sing.

Pokrovsky told Nicholas that Kokoshkin was a terrible bribe-taker. ‘Yes,’ answered Nicholas, ‘but I sleep soundly at night knowing that he is police-master in Petersburg.’

I looked at him while he was talking to other people.... What a battered old decrepitly dissolute face he had; he was wearing a curled wig which was glaringly incongruous with his sunken features and wrinkles.

After conversing with some German women in German and with a familiarity showing that they were old acquaintances, which was evident, too, from the way the women laughed and whispered, Kokoshkin came up to me, and looking down asked in a rather gruff voice: ‘Why, are not you forbidden to enter Petersburg by the “Most High”?’

‘Yes, but I have a permit.’

‘Where is it?’

‘I have it here.’

‘Show it. How’s this? You are using the same permit twice.’

‘Twice?’

‘I remember that you came before.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘And what is your business here?’

‘I have business with Count Orlov.’

‘Have you been to the Count, then?’

‘No, but I have been to the secret police.’

‘Have you seen Dubbelt?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I saw Orlov himself yesterday and he told me that he had sent you no permit.’

‘You have it in your hand.’

‘God knows when that was written, and the time has passed.’

‘It would be strange on my part to come without permission and begin with a visit to General Dubbelt.’

‘If you don’t want to get into trouble you will kindly go back, and no later than within the next twenty-four hours.’

‘I was not proposing to remain here long ... but I must wait for Count Orlov’s answer.’

‘I cannot give you leave to do so, besides Count Orlov is much displeased at your coming without permission.’

‘Kindly give me my permit and I will go at once to the Count.’

‘It must remain with me.’

‘But it is a letter to me, addressed to me personally, the only document on the strength of which I am here.’

‘The document will remain with me as a proof that you have been in Petersburg. I seriously advise you to go to-morrow that nothing worse may befall you.’

He nodded and went out. Much good it is talking to them!

The old General Tutchkov had a lawsuit with the Treasury. His village elder undertook some government contract, he did something dishonest and made away with the money entrusted to him. The court ordered that the money should be paid by the landowner who had given the village elder the authorisation. But no authorisation in regard to the undertaking ever had been given and Tutchkov stated this in his answer. The case was brought before the Senate, and the Senate again decided:

‘Inasmuch as retired Lieutenant-General Tutchkov gave an authorisation ...’ and so on. To which Tutchkov again answered: ‘Inasmuch as retired Lieutenant-General Tutchkov gave no authorisation ...’ and so on. A year passed, again the police appeared with a stern repetition: ‘Inasmuch as retired Lieutenant-General, etc.,’ and again the old man wrote the same answer. I don’t know how this interesting case ended. I left Russia without waiting for the conclusion.

All that is not at all exceptional but quite the normal thing. Kokoshkin holds in his hands a document of the genuineness of which he has no doubt, on which there is a number and date so that it can be easily verified, in which it is written that I am permitted to visit Petersburg, and says: ‘Since you have come without permission you must go back,’ and puts the document in his pocket.

Tchaadayev was right indeed when he said of these gentry: ‘What rogues they all are!’

I went to the Third Section and told Dubbelt what had happened. He roared with laughter. ‘What a muddle they always make of everything! Kokoshkin told the Count you had come without permission and the Count said you were to be sent away, but I explained the position to him afterwards; you can stay as long as you like. I’ll have the police written to at once. But now about your petition; the Count does not think it would be of any use to ask permission for you to go abroad. The Tsar has refused you twice, the last time it was Count Strogonov who interceded for you; if he refuses a third time, you won’t get to the waters during this reign, for certain.’

‘What am I to do?’ I asked in horror, for the idea of travel and freedom had taken deep root in my heart.

‘Go to Moscow: the Count will write a private letter to the governor-general telling him that you want to go abroad for the sake of your wife’s health, assuring him that he knows nothing but what is good of you, and asking him whether he thinks it would be possible to relieve you from police supervision. He can make no answer but “yes” to such a question. We will report to the Tsar the removal of police supervision, and then you take a passport for yourself like anybody else, and you can go to any watering-place you like, and good luck to you.’

All this seemed to me extremely complicated, and indeed I fancied it was a device simply to get rid of me. They could not refuse me point-blank, it would have brought down upon them the wrath of Olga Alexandrovna, whom I visited every day. When once I had left Petersburg I could not come back again; corresponding with these gentry is a difficult business. I communicated some part of what I was feeling to Dubbelt; he began frowning, that is, grinning more than ever with his lips and screwing up his eyes.

‘General,’ I said in conclusion, ‘I do not know, but the fact is I do not feel certain that Strogonov’s representation reached the Tsar.’

Dubbelt rang the bell and ordered the papers relating to my case to be brought, and while waiting for them said to me good-naturedly: ‘The Count and I are suggesting to you the course of proceeding by which we think you most likely to get your passport; if you have better means at your disposal, make use of them, you may be sure that we will not hinder you.’

‘Leonty Vassilyevitch is perfectly right,’ observed a sepulchral voice. I turned round; beside me, looking older and more grey-headed than ever, stood Sahtynsky, who had received me five years before in the same Third Section. ‘I advise you to be guided by his opinion if you want to go.’ I thanked him.

‘And here’s the case,’ said Dubbelt, taking a thick manuscript from the hands of a clerk (what would I not have given to read the whole of it! In 1850 I saw my ‘dossier’ in Carlier’s office in Paris; it would have been interesting to compare them). Turning the pages, he handed it to me open; there was Benckendorf’s entry after Strogonov’s letter petitioning for permission for me to go for six months to a watering-place in Germany. On the margin was written in big letters in pencil: ‘Too soon.’ The pencil marks were glazed over with varnish, and below was written in ink: ‘“Too soon,” written by the hand of his Imperial Majesty.—Count A. Benckendorf.’

‘Do you believe now?’ asked Dubbelt.

‘Yes, I do,’ I answered, ‘and I believe in your advice so fully that I will go to-morrow to Moscow.’

‘Well, you can stay and amuse yourself here a little, the police will not worry you now, and before you go away, look in and I will tell them to show you the letter to Shtcherbatov. Good-bye. Bon voyage, if we don’t meet again.’

‘A pleasant journey,’ added Sahtynsky.

We parted, as you see, on friendly terms.

On reaching home I found a summons from the superintendent of the Second Admiralty Police-Station I believe it was. He asked me when I was going.

‘To-morrow evening.’

‘Upon my word, but I believe, I thought ... the general said to-day. His Excellency will put it off, of course. But will you allow me to make certain of it?’

‘Oh yes, oh yes; by the way, give me a permit.’

‘I will write it in the police-station and send it to you in two hours’ time. By what diligence are you thinking of going?’

‘The Serapinsky, if I can get a seat.’

‘Very good, and if you do not succeed in getting a seat kindly let us know.’

‘With pleasure.’

In the evening the policeman turned up again; the superintendent sent to tell me that he could not give me the permit, and that I must go at eight o’clock next morning to the chief police-master’s.

What a plague and what a bore! I did not go at eight o’clock, but in the course of the morning I looked in at the office of the chief police-master. The police-station superintendent was there; he said to me: ‘You cannot go away, there is an order from the Third Section.’

‘What has happened?’

‘I don’t know. The general gave orders you were not to be given a permit.’

‘Does the office-manager know?’

‘Of course he knows,’ and he pointed out to me a colonel in a uniform and wearing a sword sitting at a big table in another room; I asked him what was the matter.

‘To be sure,’ he said, ‘there was an order concerning you, and here it is.’ He read it through and handed it to me. Dubbelt wrote that I had a perfect right to come to Petersburg and could remain as long as I liked.

‘And is that why you won’t let me go? Excuse me, I can’t help laughing; yesterday the chief police-master was sending me away against my will, to-day he is keeping me against my will, and all this on the ground that the document gives me leave to remain as long as I like.’

The absurdity was so evident that even the colonel-manager laughed.

‘But why should I pay for a place in the diligence twice over? Please tell them to write me a permit.’

‘I cannot, but I will go and inform the general.’

Kokoshkin told them to write me a permit, and as he walked through the office said to me reproachfully: ‘It’s beyond anything. First you want to stay, then you want to go; why, you have been told that you can stay.’

I made no answer.

When we had driven out of the city gates in the evening and I saw once more the endless plain stretching in all directions, I looked at the sky and vowed with all my heart never to return to that city of the despotism of blue, green, and variegated police, of official muddle, of flunkeyish insolence, of gendarme romance, in which the only civil man was Dubbelt, and he a chief of the secret police.

Shtcherbatov answered Orlov somewhat reluctantly. He had at that time a secretary who was not a colonel but a pietist, who hated me for my articles as an ‘atheist and Hegelian.’ I went myself to talk to him. The pious secretary, in an oily voice and with Christian unction, told me that the governor-general knew nothing about me, that he did not doubt my lofty moral qualities, but that he would have to make inquiries of the head police-master. He wanted to drag the business out; moreover, this gentleman did not take bribes. In the Russian service disinterested men are the most terrible of all; the only ones who do not take bribes in all simplicity are Germans; if a Russian does not take money he will take it out in something else and be a villain and a terror into the bargain. Fortunately the head police-master Luzhin gave me a good character.

Ten days later on returning home I stumbled upon a gendarme at my door. The appearance of a police-officer in Russia is as bad as a tile falling upon one’s head, and therefore it was not without a particularly unpleasant feeling that I waited to hear what he had to say to me; he handed me an envelope. Count Orlov informed me that his Imperial Majesty commanded that I should be relieved from police supervision. With that I received the right to a foreign passport.

Six or seven sledges accompanied us as far as Tchorny Gryaz. There for the last time we clinked glasses and parted, sobbing.

It was evening, the covered sledge crunched through the snow ... you looked mournfully after us but did not guess that it meant a funeral and eternal separation. All were there, only one was missing, the nearest of the near: he was ill, and by his absence, as it were, washed his hands of my departure.

It was the 21st of January 1847....

The sergeant gave me back our passports: a small, old soldier in a clumsy casque covered with American leather, carrying a gun of disproportionate size and weight, lifted the barrier; an Ural Cossack with narrow little eyes and broad cheek-bones, holding the reins of his little, shaggy, dishevelled nag, which was covered all over with little icicles, came up to wish me a happy journey; the pale, thin, dirty little Jewish driver with rags twisted four times round his neck clambered on the box.

‘Good-bye! Good-bye!’ said our old acquaintance, Karl Ivanovitch, who was seeing us as far as Taurogen, while Tata’s wet nurse, a handsome peasant woman, dissolved in tears as she said farewell.

The little Jew whipped up his horses, the sledges moved off. I looked back, the barrier had been lowered, the wind swept the snow from Russia: on to the road and blew the tail and mane of the Cossack’s horse to one side.

The nurse in a sarafan and a sleeveless jacket was still looking after us and weeping; Sonnenberg, that symbol of the parental home, that comic figure from the days of childhood, waved his silk handkerchief—all around was the endless plain of snow.

‘Good-bye, Tatyana! Good-bye, Karl Ivanovitch!’

Here was a milestone and on it, covered with snow, a thin and single-headed eagle with outspread wings ... and it is so much to the good that it is one head less.