His subsequent history is well known: he wrote Parasha, the Siberian Girl.
If a man cannot pass off the stage when his hour has struck and cannot adopt a new rôle, he had better die. That is what I felt when I looked at Polevói, and at Pius the Ninth, and at how many others!
§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.