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 government or other appointment, on the
committee of censorship, for example,--some ratable position. Upon
this they can depend for a livelihood, aside from the product of their
brains; which is practical, and affords a firm foundation upon which to
execute caprices.)

He suggested various things which I was not, and I declined to accept
his suggestions. We got it settled at last, though he shook his head
over my extravagant obstinacy in paying two dollars, when I might have
got off with half the sum and a lie. He imparted a good deal of amusing
information as to the manner in which people deliberately evade the
passport tax with false statements; for example, governesses, who would
scorn to be treated as nurses, get themselves described as _bonnes_ to
save money. I have no doubt that the authorities amiably assist them by
friendly suggestions, as in my own case; only I decline to sail under
false colors, by the authority of my own government or any other; so his