Our next visit to the old town was in search of a writer who had published a couple of volumes of agreeable sketches.  It was raining hard, so we engaged an izvostchik who was the fortunate possessor of an antiquated covered carriage, with a queer little drapery of scarlet cotton curtains hanging from the front of the hood, as though to screen the modesty of “the young person” from the manners, customs, and sights of the Fair,—­about which, to tell the truth, the less that is said in detail the better.  Certainly, more queer, old-fashioned carriages and cabmen’s costumes are to be seen at the Fair than anywhere else in the country.  As we were about to enter our antique conveyance, my mother’s foot caught in the braid on the bottom of her dress, and a long strip gave way.

“I must go upstairs and sew this on before we start,” said she, reentering the hotel.

The izvostchik ran after us.  “Let me sew it on, Your High Well-born,” he cried.  Seeing our surprise, he added, “God is my witness,—­yay Bogu! I am a tailor by trade.”

His rent and faded coat did not seem to indicate anything of the sort, but I thought I would try him, as I happened to have a needleful of silk and a thimble in my pocket.  I gave them to him accordingly.  He knelt down and sewed on the braid very neatly and strongly in no time.  His simple, friendly manner was irresistibly charming.  I cannot imagine accepting such an offer from a New York cabby,—­or his offering to do such a job.

When we reached the old town, I asked a policeman where to find my author.  I thought he might be able to tell me at once, as the town is not densely populated, especially with authors;—­and for other reasons.  He did not know.

“Then where is the police office or the address office?” I asked. (There is no such thing as a directory in Russian cities, even in St. Petersburg.  But there is an address office where the names and residences on passports are filed, and where one can obtain the address wanted by paying a small fee, and filling out a form.  But he must know the baptismal name and the patronymic as well as the surname, and, if the person wanted be not “noble,” his profession or trade in addition!)

“There is no address office,” he answered, “and the police office is closed.  It is after four o’clock.  Besides, if it were open, you could not find out there.  We keep no record here, except of soldiers and strangers.”

I thought the man was jesting, but after questioning him further, I was forced to conclude that it might be true, thought it certainly was amazing.  As the author in question had been sent to Siberia once or twice, on the charge of complicity in some revolutionary proceedings, it did seem as though the police ought to be able to give his address, if Russia meant to live up to the reputation for strict surveillance of every soul within her borders which foreigners have kindly bestowed upon her.