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 gods!
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 gods into small type. Only Mars was
permitted to retain the capital M, out of respect to the Czar, who was
also the god 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 passage, "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 advertisements, 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 passed 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 associates?
Are you desirous to bring shame on your noble 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 noble 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 pronounce 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 manuscript. "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
manuscript 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, snatching 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 assault.
Araktseieff's palace was just then being decorated with those historic
frescos by which the celebrated Doyen perpetuated the deeds of Czar
Alexander. The master was even then himself at work on the immense
circle which formed the cupola of the domed reception-room, and in which
the Czar appears in the midst of his generals and surrounded by
mythological and allegorical figures.
The furious Censor had to pass through this saloon. He glanced up at the
master, who, astride on the plank, was touching up the figures, already
designed, with color. It was just what he wanted. He would let off some
of his rage upon him.
"Is it Master Doyen, or one of his assistants, who is painting up
there?" asked he.
To this singular question the artist made reply:
"And pray what may be your business down there?"
"I have no 'business,' but am Vasul Sujukin Sergievitch, Counsellor of
Enlightenment to his Majesty." Such was the Censor's title.
"A jolly good thing you have come. There is precious little light in
this city with its confounded fogs."
"Learn, sir, that this is no 'confounded' fog. A St. Petersburg fog is
purer than that of any other city. We allow no complaints of our skies.
But, look! who is that woman up there in the picture, standing close to
the Czar, with leg bared to the knee?"
"It is Fame, the goddess of novelty."
"But what indecency for any one to stand in proximity to the Czar in
such a costume!"
"Ha, my friend, in the period of Roman-Greek mythology stockings were
not in fashion."
"But we are in Russia, where ladies who have been presented do not go
about barefoot. I forbid you to bring women in such _negligée_ in
contact with the person of the Czar!"
"All right! I will give her sandals."
"And let down her dress!"
"It is going to have a border to it."
"Mind, then, that it is a broad one that covers the knee. And who is
that with a roll of papers in his hand?"
"General Kutusoff."
"Why is his right arm shorter than the left?"
"It is not shorter; only his position makes it appear so. We call that
_scorzo_ in Italian."
"_Scorzo_ here, _scorzo_ there! We are not Italians! Here we call a man
who has one arm shorter than the other deformed!"
"But I cannot paint my characters with stretched-out arms as if they
were on a crucifix!"
"I don't see why not."
The artist here, giving up the discussion, began touching up the face of
the Czar.
"What is that black you are smearing over the countenance of the Czar?"
"_Terra di Siena._ It gives the shadows."
"But there must be no shadow on the countenance of the Czar! It must
shine, be radiant, brilliant. And then, look here, one-half of the
imperial face is broader than the other."
"Of course it is; because it is taken in three-quarter profile."
"But why do you take the Czar in three-quarter profile?"
"Because he could not otherwise be looking straight at Kutusoff."
"Then turn Kutusoff's head so that the Czar may look at him in full
face."
The artist was nigh to springing off his plank with brush and palette,
and alighting on the head of the dictatorial Counsellor of
Enlightenment. But, controlling himself, he took up a large brush and
began painting in the clouds in the background. This thoroughly provoked
the Censor's severity.
"Halt! What are you doing? What is that?"
"A cloud."
"I can under no conditions permit you to paint clouds behind the person
of the Czar. It might seem to some to have an allegorical meaning, as
though our political horizon were threatened with dark clouds."
"But, my dear sir, clouds are necessary to make the figure stand out."
"The Czar stands out by himself! You must paint in a twilight sky for
your background."
"Impossible! Light is thrown on to the figures from the other side,
where the sun is shining."
"Where is the sun? How are you going to paint it--in what colors? With
us the sun shines far more brilliantly than in any other country."
The artist looked round to see which paint-pot he could aim at the
Enlightened Counsellor's head. Then a better idea struck him.
"Stop a bit, Herr Counsellor! Here at the feet of the Czar is to be a
figure, 'Death Conquered.' Your head will make a capital model. Just let
me jot down a sketch of it."
The Counsellor of Enlightenment once more felt his reason staggered. He
could not at the moment decide whether it were a compliment or an
impertinence that his physiognomy should be perpetuated on one canvas
with that of the Czar as "Death Conquered." But his brutish instincts
whispered him that it would be doing the Frenchman a service to stand as
his model; so he did not do it. Leaving him in the lurch, he passed on
to his patron's apartments.