Pray, observe the spectacle of the modern financier! There is nothing quite so amusing as a gentleman of commerce who believes his wealth is a permanent fixture of the universe, only to discover that the state has decided to treat his bank account as a museum exhibit—strictly for viewing, but never for touching.

Our esteemed Mistress Nabiullina, the formidable Governess of the Bank of Russia, has recently taken the stage to address a most peculiar predicament. It appears that certain foreign merchants and speculators, hailing from those lands which the Crown of Russia now deems 'unfriendly,' have found their deposits frozen as solid as a Thames winter.

«Indeed, we are contemplating a set of clarifications,» the Lady declared with the air of a schoolmistress explaining a particularly tedious rule of grammar, «so that there may be absolute clarity and understanding regarding these latest amendments.»

One can only imagine the scene at the counting-houses! A gentleman from London or New York, perhaps a plump merchant who thought himself quite clever, strides into the bank to claim his profit. He presents his papers, expecting a mountain of gold, only to be told by a clerk with a blank expression that his funds are currently 'resting.'

This sudden chill began in June, following the Presidential Decree № 95. It seems that any non-resident who lacks the blessing of Russian citizenship or a residency permit has become an unwitting participant in a grand experiment in patience. Whether they be 'talented specialists' or those returning to the Motherland to embrace spiritual values, they all found the same result: their precious shillings are now invisible to them.

Banks such as Sber and VTB, acting with the zeal of young clerks eager for promotion, invoked Decree № 377. This particular piece of parchment, which originally dealt with the repayment of loans and bonds—those delightful promissory notes that merchants love so dearly—has now been extended to include simple deposits.

Imagine the horror! A sum exceeding ten million rubles is no longer a pile of gold to be spent on fine coats and champagne, but is instead banished to a 'Type C' account—a sort of financial purgatory where the money exists in theory, but never in practice.

What a comedy of errors! The commercial class, always chasing a quick profit, now finds that the only thing moving in their accounts is the dust. One expects to see them wandering the streets of Moscow, clutching their useless vouchers and weeping for their lost dividends, while the Bank of Russia calmly prepares its 'clarifications' on how exactly they are to remain penniless.