But Pushkin had a guardian angel—his Muse—who did not suffer him to remain silent and abashed.
"As satisfied as one is with an illness, sire."
"Do not bear him a grudge. He is a well-meaning man, but with certain old-fashioned notions. That is not his fault. I have read your poem; it is very fine. The Censor had struck out some portions; but that you did not allow?"
"No, sire."
"And do not allow their suppression?"
"No, sire."
"You are right. They are the best passages in the whole poem. But what are we to do about it? I cannot go against the Censor; for were I to permit what he forbids, the whole institution would be overturned; and it is a necessary one. What do you think?"
"Sire, I will take back my poem and burn it."
"No, no. I think we will send it to Leipsic, have it printed there, and then import it."
"And the frontier custom-house, sire?" asked Pushkin.