Complete collection of poems. A message to the censor (Pushkin A.S.) Neither passionate feelings nor a brilliance of mind

The Letter to the Censor was written in 1822. During the poet's lifetime, it was not published, but became widespread in the lists.

The message is directed against the censor A. S. Birukov, whose activities Pushkin called "the autocratic punishment of a cowardly fool."

The gloomy watchman of the muses, my old persecutor,
Today I decided to argue with you.
Do not be afraid: I do not want, seduced by a false thought,
Abuse censorship with blasphemy;
What London needs is early for Moscow.
We have writers, I know what they are;
Their thoughts are not hindered by the censorship,
And a pure soul is right before you.

First, I sincerely confess to you
Often I regret your fate:
The jury interpreter of human nonsense,
Khvostova (1), Bunina (2) is the only reader,
You are forever obliged to disassemble for sins
That is stupid prose, then stupid poetry.
Russian authors will be alarmed by the hard:
Who will bring an English novel from French,
He will compose an ode, sweating and groaning,
Another tragedy will write to us in jest -
We don't care about them; and you read, rage,
Yawn, fall asleep a hundred times - and then sign.

So, the censor is a martyr; sometimes he wants
Refresh the mind with reading; Rousseau, Voltaire, Buffon,
Derzhavin, Karamzin beckon his desire,
And I must devote fruitless attention
On the ravings of some new lies,
Whose leisure is to sing groves and fields,
Yes, having lost the connection in them, look for it first
Or get it out of a skinny magazine
Rough ridicule and common language,
An intricate tribute to courteous wits.

But the censor is a citizen, and his dignity is sacred:
He must have a direct and enlightened mind;
He is accustomed to honor the altar and the throne with his heart;
But opinions are not crowded and the mind suffers.
Guardian of silence, decency and morals,
He does not violate the written statutes,
Devoted to the law, loving the fatherland,
He knows how to take responsibility;
It does not block the path of useful Truth,
Live poetry does not interfere with frolic.
He is a friend of the writer, not cowardly before the nobility,
Prudent, firm, free, fair.

And you fool and coward, what are you doing to us?
Where you ought to think, you blink;
Not understanding us, you mess and fight;
You call black white on a whim:
Satire with libel, poetry with debauchery,
The voice of truth by rebellion, Kunitsyna (3) Marat.
I decided, and then go, at least ask for you.
Say: is it not a shame that in holy Russia,
Thanks to you, have we not seen any books until now?
And if they talk, they think about the case,
That, loving Russian glory and a sound mind,
The emperor himself orders to print without you (4).
We are left with poems: poems, triolets.
Ballads, fables, elegies, couplets,
Leisure and love are innocent dreams,
Imagination minute flowers.
O barbarian! which of us, the owners of the Russian lira,
Didn't you curse your destructive poleaxe?
As a boring eunuch, you wander among the muses;
Neither passionate feelings, nor brilliance of mind, nor taste,
Not the singer's syllable Pirov (5), so pure, noble, -
Nothing touches your cold soul.
You throw a sidelong, wrong look at everything.
Suspecting everything, you see poison in everything.
Leave, perhaps, work, which is not in the least commendable:
Parnassus is not a monastery and not a sad harem,
And, really, never a skillful horseman
Pegasus did not deprive him of excessive ardor.
What are you afraid of? believe me, whose fun is
To ridicule the Law, government or morals,
He will not be subject to your punishment;
He is not familiar to you, we know why -
And his manuscript, without perishing in Summer,
Without your signature walks around in the world.
Barkov did not send joking odes to you,
Radishchev, enemy of slavery, escaped censorship,
And Pushkin's poems (6) were never in print;
What needs? and so others have read them.
But you carry yours, and in our wise age
Shalikov is hardly not a harmful person.
Why do you torment yourself and us for no reason?
Tell me have you read Order Catherine?
Read it, understand it; you will see clearly in it
Your duty, your rights, you will go a different way.
In the eyes of the monarch, an excellent satirist (7)
He executed ignorance in a folk comedy,
Though in the narrow head of a court fool
Kuteikin and Christ are two equal persons.
Derzhavin, the scourge of nobles, at the sound of a formidable lyre
Their proud idols exposed;
Chemnitser spoke the truth with a smile,
Darling's confidant (8) joked ambiguously,
Sometimes he showed Cypriot without a veil -
And censorship did not interfere with any of them.
You frown something; confess these days
Wouldn't they have dealt with you so easily?
Who is to blame for this? a mirror in front of you:
The Aleksandrovs' days are a great start.
See what made the seal in those days.
In the field of the mind, we must not retreat.
We are righteously ashamed of old foolishness,
Can we turn back to those years
When no one dared to name the Fatherland
And people and the press crawled in slavery?
No no! it has passed, a destructive time,
When Russia bore the burden of Ignorance.
Where the glorious Karamzin won a crown for himself,
There, a fool can no longer be a censor ...
Correct yourself: be smarter and make peace with us.

“It's all true,” you say, “I won't argue with you:
But can the censor judge by conscience?
I have to spare this and that.
Of course, you find it funny - but I often cry,
I read and baptized, I smear it at random -
Everything has a fashion, taste; happened, for example,
We have in great honor Bentham, Rousseau, Voltaire,
And now Milot has fallen into our nets.
I am a poor man; besides, my wife and children ... "

Wife and children, friend, believe me - a great evil:
All bad things happened from them.
But there is nothing to do; so if impossible
You hurry home to get out carefully
And by your service you are needed for the king,
Get yourself a secretary at least smart.

Note

1) Tails- Dmitry Ivanovich.

2) Bunina AP - a poet from the circle of "Conversations" Shishkov, a common subject of ridicule.

3) Kunitsyn- Lyceum professor, author of the course "Natural Law". This book was banned in 1821.

4) “The Emperor himself orders to print without you.” - “History of the Russian State” by Karamzin was published without censorship.

5) Singer "Feasts"- Baratynsky.

6) "And Pushkin's Poems" - "Dangerous Neighbor" by V.L. Pushkin.

7) Excellent satirist- Fonvizin.

8) Dear's Confidant- Bogdanovich.

The gloomy watchman of the Muses, my old persecutor, Today I decided to argue with you. Do not be afraid: I do not want, seduced by a false thought, Censorship to revile a careless blasphemy; What London needs is early for Moscow. We have writers, I know what they are: Their thoughts are not hindered by censorship, And a pure soul is right before you. Firstly, I sincerely confess to you, It is not uncommon for me to regret your fate: Human nonsense is a jury interpreter, Khvostova, Bunina is the only reader, You are always obliged to disassemble for sins That is stupid prose, then stupid poetry. Russian authors will be alarmed by the hard: Whoever brings an English novel from French, He will compose an ode, sweating and groaning, Another tragedy will write to us jokingly - We don't care about them: but you read, rage, Yawn, fall asleep a hundred times - and then sign. So, the censor is a martyr: sometimes he wants to refresh his mind with reading; Rousseau, Voltaire, Buffon, Derzhavin, Karamzin beckon his desire, And he must devote fruitless attention To some new nonsense lies, To whom the leisure of singing groves and fields, Yes, losing connection in them, look for it from the beginning, Or remove it from a skinny magazine Mockery rude and areal abuse, Intricate tribute to courteous wits. But the censor is a citizen, and his dignity is sacred: He must have a direct and enlightened mind; He is accustomed to honor the altar and the throne with his heart; But opinions do not constrict and the mind endures it. The guardian of silence, decency and morals, He does not violate the charters himself, The law is devoted, loving the fatherland, He knows how to take responsibility: He does not block the path of the Useful Truth, Does not interfere with living poetry. He is a friend of the writer, not cowardly before the nobility, Prudent, firm, free, fair. And you fool and coward, what are you doing to us? Where you ought to think, you blink; Not understanding us, you mess and fight; You call white black on a whim; Satire with libel, poetry with debauchery, Voice of truth with rebellion, Kunitsyn with Marat. I decided, and then go, at least ask for you. Tell me: is it not a shame that in holy Russia, Thanks to you, we do not see books until now? And if they think about business, Then, loving Russian glory and a sound mind, the Emperor himself orders to print without you. We are left with poems: poems, triolets, Ballads, fables, elegies, couplets, Innocent dreams of leisure and love, Imagination minute flowers. O barbarian! which of us, the owners of the Russian lyre, Did not curse your destructive ax? As an annoying eunuch, you wander among the Muses; Neither passionate feelings, nor brilliance of mind, nor taste, Nor the syllable of the singer Pir, so pure, noble - Nothing touches your cold soul. You throw a sidelong, wrong look at everything. Suspecting everything, you see poison in everything. Leave, perhaps, work, no less commendable: Parnassus is not a monastery and not a sad harem. And the right never skilful horseman The excessive ardor of Pegasus did not deprive him. What are you afraid of? Believe me, whose fun - To ridicule the Law, government or manners, He will not be subject to your punishment; He is not familiar to you, we know why - And his manuscript, without dying in Summer, Without your signature walks in the world. Barkov did not send joking odes to you, Radishchev, enemy slavery, escaped censorship, And Pushkin's poems were never in print; What needs? and so others have read them. But you carry yours, and in our wise age Shalikov is hardly not a harmful person. Why do you torment yourself and us for no reason? Tell me, have you read Catherine's Order? Read it, understand it; you will see clearly in him your duty, your rights, you will go a different way. In the eyes of the monarch, the excellent satirist Ignorance executed in a folk comedy, Although in the narrow head of the court fool Kuteikin and Christ are two equal faces. Derzhavin, the scourge of nobles, at the sound of a formidable lyre, Their proud idols were exposed; Chemnitzer spoke the Truth with a smile, Darling's Confidant joked ambiguously, sometimes he showed Cypride without a veil - And censorship did not interfere with any of them. You frown something; Admit it, these days Wouldn't they deal with you so easily? Who is to blame for this? a mirror in front of you: The days of the Alexandrovs are a great start. See what made the seal in those days. In the field of the mind, we must not retreat. We are righteously ashamed of ancient stupidity, Can it be that we will turn back to those years, When no one dared to name the Fatherland, And both people and the press crawled in slavery? No no! it has passed, a destructive time, When Russia bore the burden of Ignorance. Where the glorious Karamzin won a crown for himself, There can no longer be a fool as a censor ... Correct yourself: be smarter and make peace with us. “It's all true,” you say, “I won't argue with you: But can the censor judge by conscience? I have to spare this and that. Of course, you find it funny - and I often cry, I read and baptized, I smear for good luck - Everything has a fashion, taste; it used to be, for example, Bentham, Rousseau, Voltaire are in great honor, And now Milot has fallen into our snares. I am a poor man; besides, wife and children ... ”Wife and children, friend, believe me - a great evil: From them all the bad things happened with us. But there is nothing to do: so if it is impossible for you to get home quickly, carefully, And by your service you are needed for the king, Even if you have a clever secretary. 1822

The gloomy watchman of the muses, my old persecutor, Today I decided to argue with you. Do not be afraid: I do not want, seduced by a false thought, Censorship to revile the blasphemy of an incautious; What London needs is early for Moscow. We have writers, I know what they are; Their thoughts are not hindered by censorship, And a pure soul is right before you. First of all, I sincerely confess to you, I often regret your fate: Human nonsense is a jury interpreter, Khvostova, Bunina is the only reader, You are always obliged to disassemble for sins Either stupid prose or stupid poetry. Russian authors will be alarmed by the hard: Whoever brings an English novel from French, He will compose an ode, sweating and groaning, Another tragedy will write us jokingly - We do not care about them; and you read, rage, Yawn, fall asleep a hundred times - and then sign. So, the censor is a martyr; sometimes he wants to refresh his mind with reading; Rousseau, Voltaire, Buffon, Derzhavin, Karamzin beckon his desire, And he must devote fruitless attention To some new nonsense lies, To whom the leisure of singing groves and fields, Yes, losing connection in them, look for it from the beginning, Or remove it from a skinny magazine Mockery rude and areal abuse, Intricate tribute to courteous wits. But the censor is a citizen, and his dignity is sacred: He must have a direct and enlightened mind; He is accustomed to honor the altar and the throne with his heart; But opinions are not crowded and the mind suffers. Guardian of silence, decency and morals, He does not violate the charters himself, The law is devoted, loving the fatherland, He knows how to take responsibility; Useful truth does not block the path, Living poetry does not hinder frolic. He is a friend of the writer, not cowardly before the nobility, Prudent, firm, free, fair. And you fool and coward, what are you doing to us? Where you ought to think, you blink; Not understanding us, you mess and fight; You call white black on a whim; Satire with libel, poetry with debauchery, Voice of truth with rebellion, Kunitsyn with Marat. I decided, and then go, even ask for you. Tell me: is it not a shame that in holy Russia, Thanks to you, we do not see books until now? And if they think about business, Then, loving Russian glory and a sound mind, the Emperor himself orders to print without you. We are left with poems: poems, triolets, Ballads, fables, elegies, couplets, Leisure and love innocent dreams, Imagination minute flowers. O barbarian! which of us, the owners of the Russian lyre, Did not curse your destructive ax? As a boring eunuch, you wander among the muses; Neither passionate feelings, nor brilliance of mind, nor taste, Nor the syllable of the singer Pir, so pure, noble - Nothing touches your cold soul. At everything you throw a scythe, the wrong look. Suspecting everything, you see poison in everything. Leave, perhaps, work, not in the least commendable: Parnassus is not a monastery and not a sad harem, And the right never skilful horseman The excessive ardor of Pegasus did not deprive him. What are you afraid of? Believe me, whose fun - To ridicule the law, government or manners, He will not be subject to your punishment; He is not familiar to you, we know why - And his manuscript, without dying in Summer, Without your signature walks in the world. Barkov did not send joking odes to you, Radishchev, enemy slavery, escaped censorship, And Pushkin's poems were never in print; What needs? and so others have read them. But you carry yours, and in our wise age Shalikov is hardly not a harmful person. Why do you torment yourself and us for no reason? Tell me, have you read Catherine's Order? Read it, understand it; you will see clearly in him your duty, your rights, you will go a different way. In the eyes of the monarch, the excellent satirist Ignorance executed in a folk comedy, Although in the narrow head of the court fool Kuteikin and Christ are two equal faces. Derzhavin, the scourge of nobles, at the sound of a formidable lyre, Their proud idols were exposed; Chemnitzer spoke the truth with a smile, Darling's Confidant joked ambiguously, sometimes he showed Cypride without a veil - And censorship did not interfere with any of them. You frown something; Admit it, these days Wouldn't they deal with you so easily? Who is to blame for this? a mirror in front of you: The days of the Alexandrovs are a great start. See what made the seal in those days. In the field of the mind, we must not retreat. We are righteously ashamed of ancient stupidity, Can it be that we will turn back to those years, When no one dared to name the fatherland, And people and the press crawled in slavery? No no! it has passed, a destructive time, When Russia bore the burden of Ignorance. Where the glorious Karamzin won a crown for himself, There can no longer be a fool as a censor ... Correct yourself: be smarter and make peace with us. “Everything is true,” you say, “I will not argue with you: But can the censor judge by conscience? I have to spare this and that. Of course, you find it funny - and I often cry, I read and baptize, I mess at random - Everything has a fashion, taste; it happened, for example, Bentham, Rousseau, Voltaire are in great honor, And now Milot has fallen into our snares. I am a poor man; besides, wife and children ... ”Wife and children, friend, believe me - a great evil: From them all the bad things happened with us. But there is nothing to do; so if it is impossible for you to get home quickly, carefully, And by your service you are needed for the king, Even if you have a clever secretary.

The gloomy watchman of the muses, my old persecutor,
Today I decided to argue with you.
Do not be afraid: I do not want, seduced by a false thought,
Abuse censorship with blasphemy;
What London needs is early for Moscow.
We have writers, I know what they are;
Their thoughts are not hindered by the censorship,
And a pure soul is right before you.
First, I sincerely confess to you
Often I regret your fate:
The jury interpreter of human nonsense,
Khvostova, Bunina is the only reader,
You are forever obliged to disassemble for sins
Either stupid prose, or stupid poetry.
Russian authors will be alarmed by the hard:
Who will offer an English novel from a French,
He will compose an ode, sweating and groaning,
Another tragedy will write to us in jest -
We don't care about them; and you read, rage,
Yawn, fall asleep a hundred times - and then sign.
So, the censor is a martyr; sometimes he wants
Refresh the mind with reading; Rousseau, Voltaire, Buffon,
Derzhavin, Karamzin beckon his desire,
And I must devote fruitless attention
On the ravings of some new lies,
Whose leisure is to sing groves and fields,
Yes, losing the connection in them, look for it from the beginning,
Or get it out of a skinny magazine
Rough ridicule and common language,
An intricate tribute to courteous wits.
But the censor is a citizen, and his dignity is sacred:
He must have a direct and enlightened mind;
He is accustomed to honor the altar and the throne with his heart;
But opinions are not crowded and the mind suffers.
Guardian of silence, decency and morals,
He does not violate the written statutes,
Devoted to the law, loving the fatherland,
He knows how to take responsibility;
It does not block the path of useful truth,
Live poetry does not interfere with frolic.
He is a friend of the writer, not cowardly before the nobility,
Prudent, firm, free, fair.
And you fool and coward, what are you doing to us?
Where you ought to think, you blink;
Not understanding us, you mess and fight;
You call white black on a whim;
Satire with libel, poetry with debauchery,
The voice of truth by rebellion, Kunitsyna Marat.
I decided, and then go, at least ask for you.
Say: is it not a shame that in holy Russia,
Thanks to you, have we not seen any books until now?
And if they talk, they think about the case,
That, loving Russian glory and a sound mind,
The emperor himself orders to print without you.
We are left with poems: poems, triolets,
Ballads, fables, elegies, couplets,
Leisure and love are innocent dreams,
Imagination minute flowers.
O barbarian! which of us, the owners of the Russian lira,
Didn't you curse your destructive poleaxe?
As a boring eunuch, you wander among the muses;
Neither passionate feelings, nor brilliance of mind, nor taste,
Not the singer's syllable Pirov so pure, noble -
Nothing touches your cold soul.
At everything you throw a scythe, the wrong look.
Suspecting everything, you see poison in everything.
Leave, perhaps, work, not in the least commendable:
Parnassus is not a monastery and not a sad harem,
And right never a skillful horseman
Pegasus did not deprive him of excessive ardor.
What are you afraid of? believe me, whose fun is
To ridicule the law, government, or morals,
He will not be subject to your punishment;
He is not familiar to you, we know why -
And his manuscript, without perishing in Summer,
Without your signature walks around in the world.
Barkov did not send joking odes to you,
Radishchev, enemy of slavery, escaped censorship,
And Pushkin's poems were never in print;
What needs? and so others have read them.
But you carry yours, and in our wise age
Shalikov is hardly not a harmful person.
Why do you torment yourself and us for no reason?
Tell me have you read Order Catherine?
Read it, understand it; you will see clearly in it
Your duty, your rights, you will go a different way.
In the eyes of the monarch, an excellent satirist
He executed ignorance in a folk comedy,
Though in the narrow head of a court fool
Kuteikin and Christ are two equal persons.
Derzhavin, the scourge of nobles, at the sound of a formidable lyre
Their proud idols exposed;
Chemnitser spoke the truth with a smile,
Darling's confidant joked ambiguously,
Sometimes he showed Cypriot without a veil -
And censorship did not interfere with any of them.
You frown something; confess these days
Wouldn't they have dealt with you so easily?
Who is to blame for this? a mirror in front of you:
The Aleksandrovs' days are a great start.
See what made the seal in those days.
In the field of the mind, we must not retreat.
We are righteously ashamed of old foolishness,
Can we turn back to those years
When no one dared to name the fatherland,
And people and the press crawled in slavery?
No no! it has passed, a destructive time,
When Russia bore the burden of Ignorance.
Where the glorious Karamzin won a crown for himself,
There, a fool can no longer be a censor ...
Correct yourself: be smarter and make peace with us.
“Everything is true,” you say, “I will not argue with you:
But can the censor judge by conscience?
I have to spare this and that.
Of course, you find it funny - but I often cry,
I read and baptized, I smear it at random -
Everything has a fashion, taste; happened, for example,
We have in great honor Bentham, Rousseau, Voltaire,
And now Milot has fallen into our nets.
I am a poor man; besides, my wife and children ... "
Wife and children, friend, believe me - a great evil:
All bad things happened from them.
But there is nothing to do; so if impossible
You hurry home to get out carefully
And by your service you are needed for the king,
Get yourself a secretary at least smart.