You want to be an archbishop? Don a surplice, above it let a gorgeous chasuble adorn your body, put a golden chain[132] around your neck, cover your head with a high hat, your belly with a beard, order the crosier to be carried in pomp before you; place yourself comfortably in your carriage and, as your heart bursts with anger, cast your benedictions to the right and left. By these signs you will easily be recognised as the archpriest, and they will reverently call you “Father.” But science? What has the Church to gain from it? Some priest might forget a part, if he wrote out his sermon, and thus there would be a loss of the Church’s revenues, and these are the Church’s main privileges and greatest glory.
Do you wish to become a judge? Don a wig full of locks, scold him who comes with a complaint but with empty hands, let your heart firmly ignore the tears of the poor, and sleep in your arm-chair when the clerk reads the brief. When someone mentions to you the civil code, or the law of nature, or the people’s rights, spit in his face; say that he lies at random and tries to impose an intolerable burden on the judges; that it is the clerk’s business to rummage through mountains of documents, but that it suffices for a judge to announce his sentence.
The time has not come down to us when Wisdom presided over everything and distributed wreaths, and was the only means for advancement. The golden age has not come down to our generation. Pride, indolence, wealth, have vanquished wisdom; ignorance has taken the place of wisdom: it glorifies itself under the mitre, walks in embroidered gowns, sits in judgment behind the red cloth, boldly leads armies. Science trudges along in rags and patches, and is driven from nearly all houses with contumely; they do not want to know her and evade her friendship, just as those who have suffered upon the sea avoid service on a ship. All cry: “We see no good in science; the heads of learned men are full, but their hands are empty.”
If one knows how to shuffle cards, to tell the flavours of various wines, can dance, plays three pieces on the flute, cleverly matches the colours in his apparel, for him, even in his tender years, all high honours are but a small reward, and he regards himself to be the equal of the Seven Sages.
“There is no justice in the world!” cries the brainless subdeacon. “They have not yet made me a bishop, though I read fluently the Book of the Hours,[133] the Psalter and the Epistles, and even Chrysostom without stumbling, although I do not understand him.”
The warrior grumbles because he has not yet charge of his regiment, though he knows how to sign his name. The scribe is angry because he is not yet seated behind the red cloth, though he is able to make a copy in a clear hand. He thinks it an insult to grow old in obscurity, though he counts seven boyárs in his family and is possessed of two thousand village houses, even though he can neither read nor write.
Hearing such words, and seeing such examples, be silent, Mind, complain not of your obscurity. His life has no terrors, though he may deem it hard, who silently retires to his quiet nook. If gracious Wisdom has taught you anything, rejoice in secret, meditating by yourself over the advantages of learning. Explain it not to others, lest, instead of praises which you expect, you be roundly scolded.
FOOTNOTES:
[127] Peter II., born 1715; ascended the throne in 1729, the year the satire was written in.
[128] Immediately upon arriving in Moscow, Peter II. confirmed the privileges of the Academy of Sciences.