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From your very first years at school, you were taught that a bad guy named Dantes simply showed up and shot Pushkin.
Moreover, those very same teachers make you memorize Lermontov’s poem “The Death of the Poet.”
And it is, in fact, not really about that bad guy at all.
It literally says that Russia killed Pushkin!
There you have it!
Everyone had been bought off!
Pushkin’s wound was not fatal.
But no one helped him.
From the very beginning—from the moment he was wounded.
His body was literally dragged along because no one helped.
It was as if everyone had conspired.
Even when doctors arrived two hours later—which was very late—all they did was put on a bandage!
And that was it!
And the real doctor who started doing something arrived only at about 8:00 p.m.—and he did not treat him, but merely pretended to, making the problem worse.
Look: the duel took place at about 4:30 p.m.
At about 8:00 p.m., a doctor arrived who supposedly undertook Pushkin’s treatment.
At the same time, there was also a family doctor, who had vanished without a trace and appeared only after 8:00 p.m.
And immediately after his death, they elevated him and arranged everything so that Pushkin supposedly revered the existing Russian government and Orthodoxy.
There had never been either of those things in his life!
But everything was rewritten as if there had been.
Despite the fact that he had been exiled, punished, and was quite a notorious brawler!
And suddenly he became “our everything”—someone who revered the Church and the Russian authorities...
Everything was stolen and remade.
The man had just died.
You would think—what was there left to fear?
But then some astonishing activity began around his memory.
The tsar instructed Zhukovsky to go through Pushkin’s papers and destroy anything that might damage his posthumous image.
Think about that.
The man died—and his biography was already being edited.
What to leave to posterity.
What not to leave.
Which Pushkin to show Russia.
And which one would be better forgotten.
And gradually, an entirely different Alexander Sergeyevich emerged.
No longer the man who had been exiled.
Not the man who wrote bold political poems.
Not the man who mocked the authorities.
Not the man who associated with the future Decembrists.
Not the hot-tempered, азартный, scandalous man constantly getting involved in duels.
But an almost exemplary Orthodox poet of the state.
A believer.
One who revered the tsar.
Reconciled before death with everything with which he had spent his whole life in very complicated relations.
The funeral, too, turned out to be astonishingly quiet.
The coffin was moved to another church at night.
He was buried practically in darkness and almost without witnesses.
A strange story for a man who would soon be declared one of Russia’s greatest symbols.
It creates quite a paradox.
The living Pushkin was inconvenient.
He was exiled.
He was watched.
His poems were censored.
He was hated...
He was mired in debts, scandals, cards, women, duels, and political antics.
But the dead Pushkin suddenly turned out to be extremely convenient.
Because the dead can no longer write anything.
They cannot object.
They cannot cause another scandal.
They cannot send someone to a duel.
And most importantly, they cannot say:
“Guys, actually, that’s not what I meant at all.”
At last, a monument can be made out of a living, contradictory person.
And the deeper you dig into the history of his final days, the less it resembles the schoolbook fairy tale:
“There was a great poet. The evil Dantes arrived. He fired. The poet died.”
No.
There are too many people involved.
Too many interests.
Too much inaction.
Too many strange things before his death.
And far too much editing afterward.
Moreover, those very same teachers make you memorize Lermontov’s poem “The Death of the Poet.”
And it is, in fact, not really about that bad guy at all.
It literally says that Russia killed Pushkin!
“You, greedy crowd standing around the throne,
Executioners of Freedom, Genius, and Glory!
You hide beneath the shelter of the law,
Before you, judgment and truth—everything is silent!..
But there is also God’s judgment, confidants of depravity!
There is a terrible judgment: it awaits;
It cannot be reached by the ringing of gold,
And it knows thoughts and deeds in advance.
Then you will appeal in vain to slander:
It will not help you again,
And you will not wash away, with all your black blood,
The poet’s righteous blood!”
There you have it!
Everyone had been bought off!
Pushkin’s wound was not fatal.
But no one helped him.
From the very beginning—from the moment he was wounded.
His body was literally dragged along because no one helped.
It was as if everyone had conspired.
Even when doctors arrived two hours later—which was very late—all they did was put on a bandage!
And that was it!
And the real doctor who started doing something arrived only at about 8:00 p.m.—and he did not treat him, but merely pretended to, making the problem worse.
Look: the duel took place at about 4:30 p.m.
At about 8:00 p.m., a doctor arrived who supposedly undertook Pushkin’s treatment.
At the same time, there was also a family doctor, who had vanished without a trace and appeared only after 8:00 p.m.
And immediately after his death, they elevated him and arranged everything so that Pushkin supposedly revered the existing Russian government and Orthodoxy.
There had never been either of those things in his life!
But everything was rewritten as if there had been.
Despite the fact that he had been exiled, punished, and was quite a notorious brawler!
And suddenly he became “our everything”—someone who revered the Church and the Russian authorities...
Everything was stolen and remade.
The man had just died.
You would think—what was there left to fear?
But then some astonishing activity began around his memory.
The tsar instructed Zhukovsky to go through Pushkin’s papers and destroy anything that might damage his posthumous image.
Think about that.
The man died—and his biography was already being edited.
What to leave to posterity.
What not to leave.
Which Pushkin to show Russia.
And which one would be better forgotten.
And gradually, an entirely different Alexander Sergeyevich emerged.
No longer the man who had been exiled.
Not the man who wrote bold political poems.
Not the man who mocked the authorities.
Not the man who associated with the future Decembrists.
Not the hot-tempered, азартный, scandalous man constantly getting involved in duels.
But an almost exemplary Orthodox poet of the state.
A believer.
One who revered the tsar.
Reconciled before death with everything with which he had spent his whole life in very complicated relations.
The funeral, too, turned out to be astonishingly quiet.
The coffin was moved to another church at night.
He was buried practically in darkness and almost without witnesses.
A strange story for a man who would soon be declared one of Russia’s greatest symbols.
It creates quite a paradox.
The living Pushkin was inconvenient.
He was exiled.
He was watched.
His poems were censored.
He was hated...
He was mired in debts, scandals, cards, women, duels, and political antics.
But the dead Pushkin suddenly turned out to be extremely convenient.
Because the dead can no longer write anything.
They cannot object.
They cannot cause another scandal.
They cannot send someone to a duel.
And most importantly, they cannot say:
“Guys, actually, that’s not what I meant at all.”
At last, a monument can be made out of a living, contradictory person.
And the deeper you dig into the history of his final days, the less it resembles the schoolbook fairy tale:
“There was a great poet. The evil Dantes arrived. He fired. The poet died.”
No.
There are too many people involved.
Too many interests.
Too much inaction.
Too many strange things before his death.
And far too much editing afterward.
