by Mór Jókai
CHAPTER XIII
A CANNIBAL
The devourer of human flesh is called a cannibal, but what shall we callhim who feeds upon the souls of men?--who breakfasts off flights ofyouthful imagination, dines off great thoughts, and sups on the heart'sblood of genius--what shall we call such an one? A censor? A man whosits 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 themimmortality.
Herr Sujukin revised Homer's _Iliad_, made Venus into an irreproachablelady and Mars an officer of unquestionable morality, and changed thecapital letters of all the false gods into small type. Only Mars waspermitted to retain the capital M, out of respect to the Czar, who wasalso the god of war.
He struck out "unknown heaven" from the works of a poet, because thereis but one heaven where the saints dwell; consequently it is notunknown. From another he struck out the passage, "I despise the world!"It is a treasonable offence to despise the world in which Czar and GrandDukes, foreign rulers and their ministers, delight to dwell.
In the love sonnets of a third, beginning, "Worshipped being, creator ofmy bliss!" the solitary word "being" alone found grace in the eyes ofthe arbitrary Censor. We may only "worship" Divinity; there is but oneCreator. "Bliss" is only to be known in eternity for such as have endedtheir lives as true Christians. Thus the adjuration "being" wasaccounted fully sufficient for the lady of the poet's thoughts.
And this was the man to whose tender mercies Pushkin must perforcecommit his poem! Knocking at his door, he courteously requested him todo him the favor of first reading through his poem, which request was ascourteously conceded, a holy Friday being the day appointed for the nextinterview.
Never yet had the youth looked forward to a meeting with his lady-loveso ardently as he did to this appointment. He knew his man, and that heshould have a hard fight for it--for there was no forgetting that thoughthere were many censors there was no possibility of choice. Each had hisspecial province: one the press, another religion, the third education,the fourth advertisements, the fifth theatrical programmes andannouncements, and, lastly, the sixth, poetical effusions.
Herr Sujukin, who represented the earthly providence of the poeticalworld, had exercised that function in Czar Paul's time. He was now anaged man, with perfectly bald head, and, his face being alsoclean-shaven, he looked for all the world like a death's-head, only thathis skull was still provided with every imaginable expression oftorture; his contemptuous grimaces could galvanize the luckless poetstanding before him; and many a one felt a death sentence passed uponhim as he encountered the glare of those little red eyes, fixed upon himfrom out their wrinkled sockets.
"Well, dear son Pushkin!" Every poet was "son" to him. "I have read yourpapers through from beginning to end. I am truly sorry for you. What hasinduced you to mix with the lower orders and select a pack of gypsiesfor the subject of your poetical labors? Have you no higher associates?Are you desirous to bring shame on your noble father by this versifyingof gypsydom?"
Here Pushkin calmed him by informing him that his father was dead longago--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 theyread 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 themtrue to nature, thus sinning against the first rules of poetry. Nor isthis your grossest fault. But, in the name of all the poets, whatversification 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 norhythm, the lines rhyme in all directions, as if the smith had threehammers working together on his anvil; one line is too long, another tooshort! That I could not allow; where I have found a line too short Ihave lengthened it with an interjection: because; namely; but; however."And the death's-head beamed with self-satisfaction. "Yes, yes, my son, Ihave helped out many a poet. Derschavin owes the greater part of hisfame 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 tomy 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 ofwant of cutting. Do you see this red pencil in my hand? It ishistorical. It has never been pointed; that is done effectually by theconstant striking out it performs. Since the year 1796--before you wereborn--I have been engaged, with this very pencil, striking out words,lines--ay, whole pages! And what it has struck out has been condemned toeternal 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 fromdegeneration, conspiracies, epidemics. It is more precious than thephilosopher's stone; more powerful than a marshal's staff. It is thepillar on which rests the peace of the whole land."
"Just let me hear what miracles your enchanted wand has effected on mypoor verses?"
"It has done its duty. Do you suppose that lines like 'Men enclosedwithin 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 beashamed! Running after gypsy girls, without the sanction of a priest,without wedlock--all unfettered--a pretty incentive to the young whowould read it!"
"But, my dear sir, that is not my intention. As the dramatic developmentproceeds, I purpose to show up my hero's wrong-doing, for which he hasto 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 afoot-note stating that they are not the author's views, and that theoffender will atone for them later on. But listen again: 'He' (that is,the citizen) 'basely sells his freedom, bows his head to the dust beforehis 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 revolutionaryappeal. An incitement to anarchy! A proclamation! And then, 'bows hishead to the dust before his fetich.' Who is this fetich? The Czar or theholy images? Do you want to provoke the people to iconoclasm? But it isworse than blasphemy. In former times you would have had your tonguetorn out for such words. And again: 'By importunity wrests gold andfetters.' A calumny upon our thirteen official grades! Fetters! ThoroughJacobin heresy! So the fetters offend you? Without them you were wolvesand no men! Nor do you need to importune for them; they are concededwithout it, of grace! You must have fetters--_must_, I say! It is invain to versify against them! Did not my red pencil strike out thosethree lines, I should deserve to have it bored through my nose!"
And, upon this awful possibility, he began applying the said fatefulpencil with dire force to expunge the offending lines.
"But I do not permit you to strike those lines out of my poem. I wouldrather withdraw it from publication."
"But I will not give it back!" returned the death's-head, placing a handupon the manuscript. "What is once presented to my censure can no morebe withdrawn! It must receive the deserved castigation!"
"And I protest against the striking out of any single letter of it! Themanuscript is mine; it is as much my individual property as is that redpencil yours. You are at liberty to reject my writings, but not todeface them with your confounded chalk!"
"Deface! Confounded chalk!" screamed the death's-head, rigid withhorror. "Audacity like this has no superlative."
"By heavens, it has!" shouted Pushkin, on his side; and to substantiatehis words, snatching the red pencil from the Censor's hand he threw itso violently to the ground th
at the precious relic was shattered to athousand pieces; at which awful result Pushkin himself was so terrifiedthat 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-powerfulpencil shattered to atoms! He could scarce believe it. Such a thing hadnever before happened in civilized Europe. What would men leave sacredand untouched in future, when even that hallowed implement could bedashed to the ground?
Herr Sujukin did not call his servant, but himself, kneeling down,began collecting the precious fragments, weeping so bitterly as he didso that his chin trembled.
"My faithful--my treasure--pride of my life--thou art no more!" Heendeavored 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, rolledPushkin's poem round it, and hastened off to Araktseieff's Palace,mentally conning the speech the while with which he should make hispatron acquainted with the abominable assault.
Araktseieff's palace was just then being decorated with those historicfrescos by which the celebrated Doyen perpetuated the deeds of CzarAlexander. The master was even then himself at work on the immensecircle which formed the cupola of the domed reception-room, and in whichthe Czar appears in the midst of his generals and surrounded bymythological and allegorical figures.
The furious Censor had to pass through this saloon. He glanced up at themaster, who, astride on the plank, was touching up the figures, alreadydesigned, with color. It was just what he wanted. He would let off someof his rage upon him.
"Is it Master Doyen, or one of his assistants, who is painting upthere?" 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 ofEnlightenment to his Majesty." Such was the Censor's title.
"A jolly good thing you have come. There is precious little light inthis city with its confounded fogs."
"Learn, sir, that this is no 'confounded' fog. A St. Petersburg fog ispurer 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 tothe 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 insuch a costume!"
"Ha, my friend, in the period of Roman-Greek mythology stockings werenot in fashion."
"But we are in Russia, where ladies who have been presented do not goabout barefoot. I forbid you to bring women in such _negligee_ incontact 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 isthat 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 manwho has one arm shorter than the other deformed!"
"But I cannot paint my characters with stretched-out arms as if theywere on a crucifix!"
"I don't see why not."
The artist here, giving up the discussion, began touching up the face ofthe 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 mustshine, be radiant, brilliant. And then, look here, one-half of theimperial 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 fullface."
The artist was nigh to springing off his plank with brush and palette,and alighting on the head of the dictatorial Counsellor ofEnlightenment. But, controlling himself, he took up a large brush andbegan painting in the clouds in the background. This thoroughly provokedthe 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 personof the Czar. It might seem to some to have an allegorical meaning, asthough 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 foryour 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? Withus the sun shines far more brilliantly than in any other country."
The artist looked round to see which paint-pot he could aim at theEnlightened Counsellor's head. Then a better idea struck him.
"Stop a bit, Herr Counsellor! Here at the feet of the Czar is to be afigure, 'Death Conquered.' Your head will make a capital model. Just letme jot down a sketch of it."
The Counsellor of Enlightenment once more felt his reason staggered. Hecould not at the moment decide whether it were a compliment or animpertinence that his physiognomy should be perpetuated on one canvaswith that of the Czar as "Death Conquered." But his brutish instinctswhispered him that it would be doing the Frenchman a service to stand ashis model; so he did not do it. Leaving him in the lurch, he passed onto his patron's apartments.