§13
To complete my chronicle of that sad time, I should record here some details about Polezháev.
Even at College he became known for his remarkable powers as a poet. One of his productions was a humorous poem called Sashka, a parody of Púshkin’s Onégin; he trod on many corns in the pretty and playful verse, and the poem, never intended for print, allowed itself the fullest liberty of expression.
When the Tsar Nicholas came to Moscow for his coronation in the autumn of 1826, the secret police furnished him with a copy of the poem.
So, at three one morning, Polezháev was wakened by the Vice-Chancellor and told to put on his uniform and appear at the office. The Visitor of the University was waiting for him there: he looked to see that Polezháev’s uniform had no button missing and no button too many, and then carried him off in his own carriage, without offering any explanation.
They drove to the house of the Minister of Education. The Minister of Education also gave Polezháev a seat in his carriage, and this time they drove to the Palace itself.
Prince Liven proceeded to an inner room, leaving Polezháev in a reception room, where, in spite of the early hour—it was 6 a.m.—several courtiers and other high functionaries were waiting. They supposed that the young man had distinguished himself in some way and began a conversation with him at once; one of them proposed to engage him as tutor to his son.
He was soon sent for. The Tsar was standing, leaning on a desk and talking to Liven. He held a manuscript in his hand and darted an enquiring glance at Polezháev as he entered the room. “Did you write these verses?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Polezháev.
“Well, Prince,” the Tsar went on, “I shall give you a specimen of University education; I shall show you what the young men learn there.” Then he turned to Polezháev and added, “Read this manuscript aloud.”
Polezháev’s agitation was such that he could not read it; and he said so.
“Read it at once!”
The loud voice restored his strength to Polezháev, and he opened the manuscript. He said afterwards that he had never seen Sashka so well copied or on such fine paper.
At first he read with difficulty, but by degrees he took courage and read the poem to the end in a loud lively tone. At the most risky passages the Tsar waved his hand to the Minister and the Minister closed his eyes in horror.
“What do you say, Prince?” asked Nicholas, when the reading was over. “I mean to put a stop to this profligacy. These are surviving relics of the old mischief,[[59]] but I shall root them out. What character does he bear?”
[59]. I.e., the Decembrist conspiracy.
Of course the Minister knew nothing about his character; but some humane instinct awoke in him, and he said, “He bears an excellent character, Your Majesty.”
“You may be grateful for that testimony. But you must be punished as an example to others. Do you wish to enter the Army?”
Polezháev was silent.
“I offer you this means of purification. Will you take it?”
“I must obey when you command,” said Polezháev. The Tsar came close up to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He said: “Your fate depends upon yourself. If I forget about you, you may write to me.” Then he kissed Polezháev on the forehead.
This last detail seemed to me so improbable that I made Polezháev repeat it a dozen times; he swore that it was true.
From the presence of the Tsar, Polezháev was taken to Count Diebitch, who had rooms in the Palace. Diebitch was roused out of his sleep and came in yawning. He read through the document and asked the aide-de-camp, “Is this the man?” “Yes,” was the reply.
“Well, good luck to you in the service! I was in it myself and worked my way up, as you see; perhaps you will be a field-marshal yourself some day.” That was Diebitch’s kiss—a stupid, ill-timed, German joke. Polezháev was taken to camp and made to serve with the colours.
When three years had passed, Polezháev recalled what the Tsar had said and wrote him a letter. No answer came. After a few months he wrote again with the same result. Feeling sure that his letters were not delivered, he deserted, his object being to present a petition in person. But he behaved foolishly: he hunted up some college friends in Moscow and was entertained by them, and of course further secrecy was impossible. He was arrested at Tver and sent back to his regiment as a deserter; he had to march all the way in fetters. A court-martial sentenced him to run the gauntlet, and the sentence was forwarded to the Tsar for confirmation.
Polezháev determined to commit suicide before the time of his punishment. For long he searched in the prison for some sharp instrument, and at last he confided in an old soldier who was attached to him. The soldier understood and sympathised with his wish; and when he heard that the reply had come, he brought a bayonet and said with tears in his eyes as he gave it to Polezháev, “I sharpened it with my own hands.”
But the Tsar ordered that Polezháev should not be flogged.
It was at this time that he wrote that excellent poem which begins—
“No consolation
Came when I fell;
In jubilation
Laughed fiends of Hell.”
He was sent to the Caucasus, where he distinguished himself and was promoted corporal. Years passed, and the tedium and hopelessness of his position were too much for him. For him it was impossible to become a poet at the service of the police, and that was the only way to get rid of the knapsack.
There was, indeed, one other way, and he preferred it: he drank, in order to forget. There is one terrible poem of his—To Whiskey.
He got himself transferred to a regiment of carabineers quartered at Moscow. This was a material improvement in his circumstances, but cruel consumption had already fastened on his lungs. It was at this time I made his acquaintance, about 1833. He dragged on for four years more and died in the military hospital.
When one of his friends went to ask for the body, to bury it, no one knew where it was. The military hospital carries on a trade in dead bodies, selling them to the University and medical schools, manufacturing skeletons, and so on. Polezháev’s body was found at last in a cellar; there were other corpses on the top of it, and the rats had gnawed one of the feet.
His poems were published after his death, and it was intended to add a portrait of him in his private’s uniform. But the censor objected to this, and the unhappy victim appears with the epaulettes of an officer—he was promoted while in the hospital.
PART II
PRISON AND EXILE
(1834-1838)