reaching us, walked away from each other until they were forty or fifty feet apart, and then advanced on converging lines to meet us. Upon looking around I found that the first pair had left their carriages and separated in a similar way behind us, and were converging upon us from that direction. Then for the first time it flashed upon my mind that they were police officers, and that we, for some inconceivable reason, were objects of suspicion, and were about to be arrested. As they closed in upon us, one of them, a good-looking gendarme officer about thirty years of age, bowed to us stiffly, and said, "Will you permit me to inquire who you are?"
"Certainly," I replied; "we are American travelers."
"Where are you from?"
"Of course from America."
"I mean where did you come from last?"
"From St. Petersburg, Moscow, and Nízhni Nóvgorod."
"Where are you going?"
"To Siberia."
"Ah! To Siberia! To what part of Siberia?"
"To all parts."
"Allow me to inquire what you are going to Siberia for?"
"We are going there to travel."
"What is the object of your travels?"
"To see the country and the people."
"But tourists [with a contemptuous intonation] are not in the habit of going to Siberia. You must have some particular object in view. Tell me, if you please, exactly what that object is."
I explained to him that American travelers—if not tourists—are in the habit of going everywhere, and that the objects they usually have in view are the study of people and places, and the acquirement of knowledge. He did not seem, however, to be satisfied with this vague general statement, and plied me with all sorts of questions intended to elicit a confession of our real aims and purposes in going
