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 			<p>Nikolái Pávlovich Smirnov had literary tastes. At that time, under the wild censorship of Nicholas <span epub:type="z3998:roman">I</span>, many quite inoffensive works by our best writers could not be published; others were so mutilated as to deprive some passages in them of any meaning. In the genial comedy by Griboyedov, <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Misfortune from Intelligence</i>, which ranks with the best comedies of Molière, Colonel Skalozúb had to be named “<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Skalozúb,” to the detriment of the sense and even of the verses; for the representation of a colonel in a comical light would have been considered an insult to the army. Of so innocent a book as Gogol’s <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Dead Souls</i> the second part was not allowed to appear, nor the first part to be reprinted, although it had long been out of print. Numerous verses of Pushkin, Lermontov, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">A. K.</abbr> Tolstoy, Ryleyev, and other poets were not permitted to see the light; to say nothing of such verses as had any political meaning or contained a criticism of the prevailing conditions. All these circulated in manuscript, and Smirnov used to copy whole books of Gogol and Pushkin for himself and his friends, a task in which I occasionally helped him. As a true child of Moscow he was also imbued with the deepest veneration for those of our writers who lived in Moscow⁠—some of them in the Old Equerries’ Quarter. He pointed out to me with respect the house of the Countess Saliàs (Eugénie Tour), who was our near neighbor, while the house of the noted exile Alexander Hérzen always was associated with a certain mysterious feeling of respect and awe. The house where Gogol lived was for us an object of deep respect, and though I was not nine when he died (in 1851), and had read none of his works, I remember well the sadness his death produced at Moscow. Turgenev well expressed that feeling in a note, for which Nicholas <span epub:type="z3998:roman">I</span> ordered him to be put under arrest and sent into exile to his estate.</p>
 			<p>Pushkin’s great poem, <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Evghéniy Onyéghin</i>, made but little impression upon me, and I still admire the marvelous simplicity and beauty of his style in that poem more than its contents. But Gogol’s works, which I read when I was eleven or twelve, had a powerful effect on my mind, and my first literary essays were in imitation of his humorous manner. An historical novel by Zagóskin, <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Yuriy Miloslávskiy</i>, about the times of the great uprising of 1612, Pushkin’s <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Captain’s Daughter</i>, dealing with the Pugachev uprising, and Dumas’s <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Queen Marguerite</i> awakened in me a lasting interest in history. As to other French novels, I have only begun to read them since Daudet and Zola came to the front. Nekrasov’s poetry was my favorite from early years; I knew many of his verses by heart.</p>
 			<p>Nikolái Pávlovich early began to make me write, and with his aid I wrote a long “History of a Sixpence,” for which we invented all sorts of characters, into whose possession the sixpence fell. My brother Alexander had at that time a much more poetical turn of mind. He wrote most romantic stories, and began early to make verses, which he did with wonderful facility and in a most musical and easy style. If his mind had not subsequently been taken up by natural history and philosophical studies, he undoubtedly would have become a poet of mark. In those years his favorite resort for finding poetical inspiration was the gently sloping roof underneath our window. This aroused in me a constant desire to tease him. “There is the poet sitting under the chimney-pot, trying to write his verses,” I used to say; and the teasing ended in a fierce scrimmage, which brought our sister Hélène to a state of despair. But Alexander was so devoid of revengefulness that peace was soon concluded, and we loved each other immensely. Among boys, scrimmage and love seem to go hand in hand.</p>
-			<p>I had even then taken to journalism. In my twelfth year I began to edit a daily journal. Paper was not to be had at will in our house, and my journal was in <abbr>32º</abbr> only. As the Crimean war had not yet broken out, and the only newspaper which my father used to receive was the Gazette of the Moscow police, I had not a great choice of models. As a result my own Gazette consisted merely of short paragraphs announcing the news of the day: as, “Went out to the woods. <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">N. P.</abbr> Smirnov shot two thrushes,” and so on.</p>
+			<p>I had even then taken to journalism. In my twelfth year I began to edit a daily journal. Paper was not to be had at will in our house, and my journal was in <abbr>32º</abbr> only. As the Crimean war had not yet broken out, and the only newspaper which my father used to receive was the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Gazette</i> of the Moscow police, I had not a great choice of models. As a result my own <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Gazette</i> consisted merely of short paragraphs announcing the news of the day: as, “Went out to the woods. <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">N. P.</abbr> Smirnov shot two thrushes,” and so on.</p>
 			<p>This soon ceased to satisfy me, and in 1855 I started a monthly review, which contained Alexander’s verses, my novelettes, and some sort of “varieties.” The material existence of this review was fully guaranteed, for it had plenty of subscribers; that is, the editor himself and Smirnov, who regularly paid his subscription, of so many sheets of paper, even after he had left our house. In return, I accurately wrote out for my faithful subscriber a second copy.</p>
 			<p>When Smirnov left us, and a student of medicine, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">N. M.</abbr> Pavlov, took his place, the latter helped me in my editorial duties. He obtained for the review a poem by one of his friends, and⁠—still more important⁠—the introductory lecture on physical geography by one of the Moscow professors. Of course this had not been printed before: a reproduction would never have found its way into the review.</p>
 			<p>Alexander, I need not say, took a lively interest in the paper, and its renown soon reached the corps of cadets. Some young writers on the way to fame undertook the publication of a rival. The matter was serious: in poems and novels we could hold our own; but they had a “critic,” and a “critic” who writes, in connection with the characters of some new novel, all sorts of things about the conditions of life, and touches upon a thousand questions which could not be touched upon anywhere else, makes the soul of a Russian review. They had a critic, and we had none! He wrote an article for the first number, and his article was shown to my brother. It was rather pretentious and weak. Alexander at once wrote an anti-criticism, ridiculing and demolishing the critic in a violent manner. There was great consternation in the rival camp when they learned that this anti-criticism would appear in our next issue; they gave up publishing their paper, their best writers joined our staff, and we triumphantly announced the future “exclusive collaboration” of so many distinguished writers.</p>

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 			<p>It was not an easy task to go up the Sungarí. The great river in its lower parts, where it flows through the same low lands as the Amúr, is very shallow, and although our steamer drew only three feet, we often could not find a channel deep enough for us. There were days when we advanced but some forty miles, and scraped as many times the sandy bottom of the river with our keel; over and over again a rowboat was sent out to find the necessary depth. But our young captain had made up his mind that he would reach Ghirín that autumn, and we progressed every day. As we ascended higher and higher, we found the river more and more beautiful, and more and more easy of navigation; and when we had passed the sandy deserts at its junction with its sister river, the Nónni, progress became easy and pleasant. In a few weeks we thus reached the capital of that province of Manchuria. An excellent map of the river was made by the topographers. There was no time to spare, unfortunately, and so we very seldom landed in any village or town. The villages along the banks of the river are few and far between, and on its lower parts we found only low lands, which are inundated every year; higher up we sailed for a hundred miles amidst sand dunes; and it was only when we reached the upper Sungarí and began to approach Ghirín that we found a dense population.</p>
 			<p>If our aim had been to establish friendly relations with Manchuria, and not simply to learn what the Sungarí is, our expedition might well have been considered a dead failure. The Manchurian authorities had it fresh in their memories how, eight years before, the “visit” of Muravyov ended in the annexation of the Amúr and the Usurí, and they could not but look with suspicion on this new and uncalled-for visitation. The twenty-five rifles concealed in the coal, which had been duly reported to the Chinese authorities before we left, still more provoked their suspicions; and when our steamer cast her anchor in front of the populous city of Ghirín, we found all its merchants armed with rusty swords from some old arsenal. We were not prevented, however, from walking in the streets, but all shops were closed as soon as we landed, and the merchants were not allowed to sell anything. Some provisions were sent to us on board the steamer as a gift, but no money was taken in return.</p>
 			<p>The autumn was rapidly coming to its end, the frosts had begun already, and we had to hurry back, as we could not winter on the Sungarí. In short, we saw Ghirín, but spoke to no one but the two interpreters who came every morning on board our steamer. Our aim, however, was fulfilled: we had ascertained that the river is navigable, and an excellent map of it was made, from its mouth to Ghirín, with the aid of which we were able to steam on our return journey at full speed without any accident. At one time our steamer ran upon a sandbank. But the Ghirín officials, desirous above all things that we should not be compelled to winter on the river, sent two hundred Chinese, who aided us in getting off. When I jumped into the water, and, taking a stick, began to sing our river-song, “Dubínushka,” which helps all present to give a sudden push at the same moment, the Chinese enjoyed immensely the fun of it, and after several such pushes the steamer was soon afloat. The most cordial relations were established between ourselves and the Chinese by this little adventure. I mean, of course, the people, who seemed to dislike very much their arrogant Manchurian officials.</p>
-			<p>We called at several Chinese villages, peopled with exiles from the Celestial Empire, and were received in the most cordial way. One evening especially impressed itself on my memory. We came to a picturesque little village as night was already falling. Some of us landed, and I went alone through the village. A thick crowd of about a hundred Chinese soon surrounded me, and although I knew not a word of their tongue, and they knew as little of mine, we chatted in the most amicable way by mimicry, and we understood one another. To pat one on the shoulders in sign of friendship is decidedly international language. To offer one another tobacco and to be offered a light is again an international expression of friendship. One thing interested them⁠—why had I, though young, a beard? They wear none before they are sixty. And when I told them by signs that in case I should have nothing to eat I might eat it, the joke was transmitted from one to the other through the whole crowd. They roared with laughter, and began to pat me even more caressingly on the shoulders; they took me about, showing me their houses; everyone offered me his pipe, and the whole crowd accompanied me as a friend to the steamer. I must say that there was not one single <i xml:lang="und">boshkó</i> (policeman) in that village. In other villages our soldiers and myself always made friends with the Chinese, but as soon as a <i xml:lang="und">boshkó</i> appeared, all was spoiled. In return, one should have seen what “faces” they used to make at the <i xml:lang="und">boshkó</i> behind his back! They evidently hated this representative of authority. This expedition has since been forgotten. The astronomer <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">Th.</abbr> Usoltsev and I published reports about it in the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.journal">Memoirs of the Siberian Geographical Society</i>; but a few years later a terrible conflagration at Irkutsk destroyed all the copies left of the Memoirs, as well as the original map of the Sungarí and it was only last year, when work upon the Trans-Manchurian Railway was beginning, the Russian geographers unearthed our reports, and found that the great river had been explored five-and-thirty years ago by our expedition.</p>
+			<p>We called at several Chinese villages, peopled with exiles from the Celestial Empire, and were received in the most cordial way. One evening especially impressed itself on my memory. We came to a picturesque little village as night was already falling. Some of us landed, and I went alone through the village. A thick crowd of about a hundred Chinese soon surrounded me, and although I knew not a word of their tongue, and they knew as little of mine, we chatted in the most amicable way by mimicry, and we understood one another. To pat one on the shoulders in sign of friendship is decidedly international language. To offer one another tobacco and to be offered a light is again an international expression of friendship. One thing interested them⁠—why had I, though young, a beard? They wear none before they are sixty. And when I told them by signs that in case I should have nothing to eat I might eat it, the joke was transmitted from one to the other through the whole crowd. They roared with laughter, and began to pat me even more caressingly on the shoulders; they took me about, showing me their houses; everyone offered me his pipe, and the whole crowd accompanied me as a friend to the steamer. I must say that there was not one single <i xml:lang="und">boshkó</i> (policeman) in that village. In other villages our soldiers and myself always made friends with the Chinese, but as soon as a <i xml:lang="und">boshkó</i> appeared, all was spoiled. In return, one should have seen what “faces” they used to make at the <i xml:lang="und">boshkó</i> behind his back! They evidently hated this representative of authority. This expedition has since been forgotten. The astronomer <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">Th.</abbr> Usoltsev and I published reports about it in the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.journal">Memoirs of the Siberian Geographical Society</i>; but a few years later a terrible conflagration at Irkutsk destroyed all the copies left of the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.journal">Memoirs</i>, as well as the original map of the Sungarí and it was only last year, when work upon the Trans-Manchurian Railway was beginning, the Russian geographers unearthed our reports, and found that the great river had been explored five-and-thirty years ago by our expedition.</p>
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