As a result of this peculiarity, our passports came back from each trip to the police office indorsed with a brand-new version of our name.  We figured under Gepgud, Gapgod, Gabgot, and a number of other disguises, all because they persisted in spelling by the eye, and would not accept my perfect phonetic version.  The same process applied to the English name Wylie has resulted in the manufacture of Villie.  And the pleasant jest of it all was that we never troubled ourselves to sort our passports, because, although there existed not the slightest family resemblance even between my mother and myself, we looked exactly alike in those veracious mirrors.  This explained to our dull comprehension how the stories of people using stolen passports could be true.  However, the Russians were not to blame for this particular absurdity.  It was the fault of the officials in America.

On the occasion to which I refer, we had gone out of St. Petersburg, and had left a written order for the post-office authorities to forward our mail to our new address.  The bank officials, who should certainly have known better, had said that this would be sufficient, and had even prepared the form, on their stamped paper, for our signature.  Ten days elapsed; no letters came.  Then the form was returned, with orders to get our signatures certified to by the chief of police or the police captain of our district!  When we recovered from our momentary vexation, we perceived that this was an excellent safeguard.  I set out for the house of the chief of police.

His orderly said he was not at home, but would be there at eleven o’clock.  I took a little look into the church,—­my infallible receipt for employing spare moments profitably, which has taught me many things.  At eleven o’clock the chief was still “not at home.”  I decided that this was in an “official” sense only, when I caught sight of a woman surveying me cautiously through the crack of the opposite door to the antechamber.  I immediately jumped to the conclusion that a woman calling upon a chief of police was regarded as a suspicious character; and rightly, after various shooting incidents in St. Petersburg.  My suspicions were confirmed by my memory of the fact that I had been told that the prefect of St. Petersburg was “not at home” in business hours, though his gray lambskin cap—­the only one in town—­was lying before me at the time.  But I also recollected that when I had made use of that cap as a desk, on which to write my request, to the horror of the orderly, and had gone home, the prefect had sent a gendarme to do what I wanted.  Accordingly, I told this orderly my business in a loud, clear voice.  The crack of the door widened as I proceeded, and at my last word I was invited into the chief’s study by the orderly, who had been signaled to.