The Green Book Part 18

"To Severin. He was only just telling me how all the world of fashion was besieging his doors to know when Pushkin's poem of _The Gypsy Girl_, that he had read at Fraulein Ilmarinen's, was coming out. He said he would give any amount for it. So my thousand rubles are safe. If I can, I will squeeze something more out of him, and honorably share the surplus with you. I kiss your hand, sir. Pardon any annoyance I may have caused you. Command me when you are in want of more money. I shall be only too happy to be at your service."

The money-lender had said the half of this speech as he looked back on the threshold. Pushkin thought the man had gone mad. Angrily throwing himself back on his bed, he forbade his man-servant to admit the fellow again; then slept till noon. When he awoke he rang for his man.

"That fellow came again, sir."

"But you did not let him in?"

"No. But he pushed this packet under the door. Shall I throw it into the fire, sir?"

"No. Give it me."

And, opening the packet, Pushkin found in it a copy of his romance, _The Gypsy Girl_, two bank-notes for one hundred rubles each, and a letter from the publisher, Severin, informing him that he had bought his poem for twelve hundred rubles, of which he herewith enclosed two hundred, and had paid the rest to the person who brought the ma.n.u.script. He forwarded a copy to Pushkin that he might obtain the necessary permission to publish.

It was a queer story; and especially that he should have made money for what he had merely scribbled down for his own amus.e.m.e.nt. Absurd! A gambler had more right to the acc.u.mulated gains of a gambling club than a man to extort money from the mult.i.tude for permission to read what he had written! An author's fee! Surely a hybrid betwixt the degrading and the ridiculous! Did it most savor of theft or deception? or was it but a loan?

These thoughts pa.s.sed through Pushkin's head as he read the letter. Now he had to go to the Censor--he, a military man, to humiliate himself to a scurvy civil official, and acknowledge him to be his judge and superior! In all else the army has its own court-martial. Poetry is truly an unsavory implement when it so demeans a smart officer to defer to a civilian. Pushkin decided to make this sacrifice to Apollo.

CHAPTER XIII

A CANNIBAL

The devourer of human flesh is called a cannibal, but what shall we call him who feeds upon the souls of men?--who breakfasts off flights of youthful imagination, dines off great thoughts, and sups on the heart's blood of genius--what shall we call such an one? A censor? A man who sits in judgment on the G.o.ds!

At that period there were certain especially renowned censors in St.

Petersburg, at the head of whom was Magnitsky, Araktseieff's right hand, if one may use the word _right_ to either of his hands.

Certain anecdotes which have gone the round about these men insure them immortality.

Herr Sujukin revised Homer's _Iliad_, made Venus into an irreproachable lady and Mars an officer of unquestionable morality, and changed the capital letters of all the false G.o.ds into small type. Only Mars was permitted to retain the capital M, out of respect to the Czar, who was also the G.o.d of war.

He struck out "unknown heaven" from the works of a poet, because there is but one heaven where the saints dwell; consequently it is not unknown. From another he struck out the pa.s.sage, "I despise the world!"

It is a treasonable offence to despise the world in which Czar and Grand Dukes, foreign rulers and their ministers, delight to dwell.

In the love sonnets of a third, beginning, "Worshipped being, creator of my bliss!" the solitary word "being" alone found grace in the eyes of the arbitrary Censor. We may only "worship" Divinity; there is but one Creator. "Bliss" is only to be known in eternity for such as have ended their lives as true Christians. Thus the adjuration "being" was accounted fully sufficient for the lady of the poet's thoughts.

And this was the man to whose tender mercies Pushkin must perforce commit his poem! Knocking at his door, he courteously requested him to do him the favor of first reading through his poem, which request was as courteously conceded, a holy Friday being the day appointed for the next interview.

Never yet had the youth looked forward to a meeting with his lady-love so ardently as he did to this appointment. He knew his man, and that he should have a hard fight for it--for there was no forgetting that though there were many censors there was no possibility of choice. Each had his special province: one the press, another religion, the third education, the fourth advertis.e.m.e.nts, the fifth theatrical programmes and announcements, and, lastly, the sixth, poetical effusions.

Herr Sujukin, who represented the earthly providence of the poetical world, had exercised that function in Czar Paul's time. He was now an aged man, with perfectly bald head, and, his face being also clean-shaven, he looked for all the world like a death's-head, only that his skull was still provided with every imaginable expression of torture; his contemptuous grimaces could galvanize the luckless poet standing before him; and many a one felt a death sentence pa.s.sed upon him as he encountered the glare of those little red eyes, fixed upon him from out their wrinkled sockets.

"Well, dear son Pushkin!" Every poet was "son" to him. "I have read your papers through from beginning to end. I am truly sorry for you. What has induced you to mix with the lower orders and select a pack of gypsies for the subject of your poetical labors? Have you no higher a.s.sociates?

Are you desirous to bring shame on your n.o.ble father by this versifying of gypsydom?"

Here Pushkin calmed him by informing him that his father was dead long ago--which, be it known, was not strictly in accordance with the truth; but it is not necessary to tell the truth to a censor.

"Then you have certainly n.o.ble relatives who will feel ashamed as they read these lines! Why, they will think you have become a gypsy yourself!

Now, if you had at least idealized gypsy life! But you have drawn them true to nature, thus sinning against the first rules of poetry. Nor is this your grossest fault. But, in the name of all the poets, what versification is this? The like I have never come across before!

Virgilius Mars wrote in hexameters; Horatius Flaccus in alcaic, sapphic, and anapestic verse. But what do you call yours? There is no rhythm, the lines rhyme in all directions, as if the smith had three hammers working together on his anvil; one line is too long, another too short! That I could not allow; where I have found a line too short I have lengthened it with an interjection: because; namely; but; however."

And the death's-head beamed with self-satisfaction. "Yes, yes, my son, I have helped out many a poet. Derschavin owes the greater part of his fame to me; and I shall make something out of you!"

"All right, make what you like out of me, but not one iota do you add to my verses! Your office is to cut out what does not please you."

"Now, don't flare up, my child. You will have no need to complain of want of cutting. Do you see this red pencil in my hand? It is historical. It has never been pointed; that is done effectually by the constant striking out it performs. Since the year 1796--before you were born--I have been engaged, with this very pencil, striking out words, lines--ay, whole pages! And what it has struck out has been condemned to eternal death!"

"By Jove! that pencil, then, is a very guillotine."

"Eh, eh! A young man such as you should not p.r.o.nounce the word 'guillotine!' This red lead, my son, preserves society from degeneration, conspiracies, epidemics. It is more precious than the philosopher's stone; more powerful than a marshal's staff. It is the pillar on which rests the peace of the whole land."

"Just let me hear what miracles your enchanted wand has effected on my poor verses?"

"It has done its duty. Do you suppose that lines like 'Men enclosed within narrow walls are ashamed to love one another' may see the light?

Humph! to love in the sense of your fine heroes one might well be ashamed! Running after gypsy girls, without the sanction of a priest, without wedlock--all unfettered--a pretty incentive to the young who would read it!"

"But, my dear sir, that is not my intention. As the dramatic development proceeds, I purpose to show up my hero's wrong-doing, for which he has to atone."

The death's-head was discomfited. He was not prepared for this reply.

"Oh, so they are the adventurer's opinions? Then you should have made a foot-note stating that they are not the author's views, and that the offender will atone for them later on. But listen again: 'He' (that is, the citizen) 'basely sells his freedom, bows his head to the dust before his fetich, and by his importunity wrests from it gold and fetters!'

Now, is it permissible to put this in black and white? What 'freedom'

does he sell? and to whom does he sell it? No one in Russia has freedom; consequently neither can he sell it to any one! It is a revolutionary appeal. An incitement to anarchy! A proclamation! And then, 'bows his head to the dust before his fetich.' Who is this fetich? The Czar or the holy images? Do you want to provoke the people to iconoclasm? But it is worse than blasphemy. In former times you would have had your tongue torn out for such words. And again: 'By importunity wrests gold and fetters.' A calumny upon our thirteen official grades! Fetters! Thorough Jacobin heresy! So the fetters offend you? Without them you were wolves and no men! Nor do you need to importune for them; they are conceded without it, of grace! You must have fetters--_must_, I say! It is in vain to versify against them! Did not my red pencil strike out those three lines, I should deserve to have it bored through my nose!"

And, upon this awful possibility, he began applying the said fateful pencil with dire force to expunge the offending lines.

"But I do not permit you to strike those lines out of my poem. I would rather withdraw it from publication."

"But I will not give it back!" returned the death's-head, placing a hand upon the ma.n.u.script. "What is once presented to my censure can no more be withdrawn! It must receive the deserved castigation!"

"And I protest against the striking out of any single letter of it! The ma.n.u.script is mine; it is as much my individual property as is that red pencil yours. You are at liberty to reject my writings, but not to deface them with your confounded chalk!"

"Deface! Confounded chalk!" screamed the death's-head, rigid with horror. "Audacity like this has no superlative."

"By heavens, it has!" shouted Pushkin, on his side; and to substantiate his words, s.n.a.t.c.hing the red pencil from the Censor's hand he threw it so violently to the ground that the precious relic was shattered to a thousand pieces; at which awful result Pushkin himself was so terrified that he took to flight, leaving the terrible man alone with the pieces.

The Censor was aghast with rage and horror at the deed. His all-powerful pencil shattered to atoms! He could scarce believe it. Such a thing had never before happened in civilized Europe. What would men leave sacred and untouched in future, when even that hallowed implement could be dashed to the ground?

Herr Sujukin did not call his servant, but himself, kneeling down, began collecting the precious fragments, weeping so bitterly as he did so that his chin trembled.

"My faithful--my treasure--pride of my life--thou art no more!" He endeavored to fasten the larger portions together, but in vain.

Such an offence needed a special punishment.

The aggrieved Censor, wrapping the _corpus delicti_ in a paper, rolled Pushkin's poem round it, and hastened off to Araktseieff's Palace, mentally conning the speech the while with which he should make his patron acquainted with the abominable a.s.sault.