The Telescope, No. 15, 1831, Moscow.
A FEW WORDS ABOUT MR. BULGARIN’S PINKY AND RELATED MATTERS
I do not belong to the ranks of appeasable writers who, having publicly berated each other, embrace afterwards nationally like Prolaz and Vysonos, speaking vaingloriously of themselves and of reconciliation:
Indeed, it seems, we are in full conflict.
No, once annoyed, I long remain angry and calm down only after exhausting an entire arsenal of offensive comments, foreign anecdotes, and similar things. For the maintenance of myself in this grim disposition of soul, I carefully re-read the copied-into-a-special-notebook article that gave me reason for such exasperation. Thus, reviewing the other day the uncritical criticism that gave me reason to stand up for my venerable friend A.A. Orlov, I attacked the following passage:
I decided to do these things (in defense of Mr. Bulgarin) - not in order to justify and defend Bulgarin, who in this has no need, but because in his little finger he has more intelligence and talent, actually, than in the heads of the majority of the reviewers (see № 27 Son of the Fatherland, published by Messieurs Grech and Bulgarin).
I was astounded how I could let pass without notice these eloquent, but ill-considered lines! I began to count with my fingers all possible reviewers who have less intelligence in their heads, actually, than has Mr. Bulgarin in his little finger, and now I can guess to whom Nikolai Ivanovich (Grech) thought to threaten with the pinky of Thaddeus Venediktovich (Bulgarin).
In fact, to whom can one make this pinkiful expression? Who are our manuscript reviewers?
You, Mr. Publisher of The Telescope? Probably the vindictive decree and the little finger points to you: I submit to you yourself to defend your own head.1 But who are the others?
Mr. Spiritfield? But despite earlier discord, the letter of Brigadiersha, the mockery of the glorious Gripuse, a recent nickname Verkhoglyad, etc. And so, the whole of Europe knows that his Telegraph is in good agreement with Northern Bee and Son of the Fatherland: It's not him that the little finger touches.
Mr. Voyeikov? But this wonderful writer little concerns himself with reviews and is known more for the publication of Chameleon Stories, a witty collection of articles in which are shown, so to speak, on purified waters, so to speak, a few literary tricksters. The artful publishers of Northern Bee would probably not, so to speak, stick a finger in his mouth, even if this finger were to be the illustrious aforementioned pinky.
Mr. Somov? But it seems that The Literary Gazette having attained its only achievement (the total literary annihilation of the glory of Bulgarin)— rests on its laurels, and Mr. Grech probably will not dare to disturb this happy slumber by tickling the newspaper with an impish little finger.
Who then did this little finger scratch? Who are these reviewers, who have ... and so forth? The enlightened reader has already guessed that the matter is about me, about Feofilakt Kosichkin.
To the entire world it is known that no one has been more constant than me in following the gigantic progress of our age. Many deep and brilliant creations on the part of politics, science, and pure literature emerged in installments from our presses over the last decade (which have leaped so far forward), and deservedly turned towards us the attention of a justly-envious-of-us Europe! Not one of those phenomena do I let out of my sight; about all of it, as you know, I wrote in articles, which are notable for scholarship, profundity and wit. Since an obligation for impartiality requires that I point on occasion to inadequacies of the articles analyzed by me, then how can any of the Messignors of Russian Writing complain about the arrogance or ignorance of Feofilakt Kosichkin? Perhaps in the spirit of Spiritfield, I have just spoken too flatteringly about myself; I could have spoken in the third person and asked my friend to sign his own name under this well-deserved panegyric, but I abhor such tricks, and the Messignors of Russian Journalism, probably, will not rebuke me for charlatanism.
And what! Mr. Grech, in his magazine with eager readers throughout all of enlightened Europe, gives it to be understood that in the pinky of his comrade is more intelligence and talent than in my head! An opinion too offensive to me! I consider myself as having the right to declare within earshot of all of Europe, that I am not afraid of anyone's little finger, for not going into the review of heads, I assure that my fingers (each specifically and all five combined) are prepared to pay back a hundredfold to anyone else. I HAVE SPOKEN!
Having taken up the pen, I did not have, however, the goal to declare this to the worthy public. Like our writer–aristocrats (I mean these words in their ironic sense), I have never responded to the journalistic critics. Friends, offended friends, again summon me to the assistance of an oppressed talent.
I confess: after an article, in which I so triumphantly justified and defended A.A. Orlov (an article adopted by the Moscow and St. Petersburg public with great favor), I did not expect that The Northern Bee would resume stinging my noble friend and the first capital. It is true that these attacks have been much weaker than before, but I cannot be silent until I force into the deepest silence the fiercest persecutors of my friend and the disrespectful Son of the Fatherland, which mocked our ancient Moscow.
The Northern Bee (№ 201), announcing the release of a new Vyzhigin, says: "The title of this novel made us think that this is one of the many imitations of the works of our blessed A. Arlov, the famous author ... And also every piece of literature in Moscow, bearing the imprint of the booksellers of fifteenth class products ... leads us to an involuntary shudder .…" Blessed Mr. Orlov… What does the blessed Orlov mean? Oh! Of course: if blessedness consists of tranquility of mind, stirred by neither envy nor greed; of a clear conscience, not stained by tricksters or false denunciations; in honest and noble work, in humble development of God-given talent -- then the good and unwealthy Orlov is blessed and will neither envy the wealth of the trickster, nor the ranks of the villain, nor the fame of the charlatan! But if the word blessed was used in a sense that I will not explain here, then I am surprised by the intent of some people, who are trying to present as funny, things that are not funny in the least, and who moreover can not exonerate the impropriety of their obscene thoughts with gaiety or sharpness of phrasing.
The mocking of booksellers of the fifteenth class exposes the so-called aristocracy of publishers, who themselves were once mocked by the so-called aristocratic writers of ours. Let's repeat the truth, equally undeniable, just like the moral reflections of Mr. Bulgarin: "Rank does not bestow honesty upon a rogue, nor intelligence upon a fool, nor giftedness upon a fervent scribbler. Fielding and Labryuer could never be state councilors, or even collegiate assessors. Raznochintsy2 may be respectable writers, but only if they have talent, education and integrity, and are not rascals and buffoons."
I hope that this measured response of mine will be the last, and that the venerable publishers of Northern Bee, Son of the Fatherland and Northern Archive will not summon me back to the field, on which I appear rarely, but not without success, as you have noticed. I'm a peace-loving man, but always prepared to stand up for my friend. I am not like that Chinese journalist, who, while stroking his friend and praising his ravings to his face, whispers in everyone's ears: "This besmircher and bastard embroils me in quarrels with all the decent people, he smears me to my own friends, but what can be done? He is a hard-nosed and efficient man!"
Meanwhile, I consider myself entitled to announce the existence of a novel, whose title I attach here. It may be in press or remain in manuscript form, depending on the circumstances.
Footnotes
1. Do I really care about these pinkies? — The Publisher.
2. In the 19th century, raznochintsy were a group of people not of noble origin but who, because of their education, were exempt from taxes and could apply for the designation of "personal distinguished citizenship." Many of the intelligentsia were raznochintsy. -- The Translators.
