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Where there is no law, but every man does what is right in his own eyes, there is the least of real liberty
Henry M. Robert

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17 March, 1998 - 00:00

I am fond of watching faces and taking note of human features. I do not have much trust for all those "giants of the spirit," men with supernatural foresight, luminaries, you name it. Different folks with different strokes seem much more interesting, understandable, and attractive. An ordinary man is a microcosm, a boundless source of understanding.

I wanted to write about Taras Shevchenko, so I concentrated on his diary. I had read it earlier, but I had to read it again to refresh my memory. The man had written it himself and called it a journal, obviously under French influence. The work embraces less than a year of his life, but a very important period: discharge from the army, adaptation to what he believed would be the life of a liberated man; several brief love affairs (among them probably one real love, though with rather unpleasant consequences); a long trip to a desert northwest of the Caspian Sea; back to St. Petersburg; the Academy of Art, Opera, Hermitage; meetings in intellectual circles, at taverns, restaurants, formal dinners; late suppers at in cozy places, entertainment, all that which he had seen in his dreams in exile. Memories in turmoil. "I can hardly believe it now, but it did happen. I, a miserable dirty boy, flew as though by magic from the littered attic to the gorgeous halls of the Academy of Art. So what did I do? Strangely, I wrote Little Russian verse that would subsequently become an excruciating burden on my poor soul." An extraordinary drama. It does not reject anything, but is extremely enriching.

I am getting to be an adept at the insubstantial. To me, these trifles scattered through my diary are extremely important, I try to put them together to build a whole image. Gradually it appears and I like it more and more.

I like to know that Shevchenko preferred cigars. He received 25 cigars from Lazarevsky while in the army and he kept them lasting very long ("excellent stuff, real Havana"). He made people in the garrison accept him and his cigars. "They all thought that I looked good with a cigar between my lips, that I looked like a successful traveling salesman."

I like his debates with the aesthetes led by a certain Libelt. I like to read about how he was touched by a barrel organ when in a tavern in Astrakhan. "The machine was operated by a young fellow in a soldier's greatcoat and it screeched the overture from ФRobert the Devil'." I like his burlesque aimed at himself: "... even today my right hand fails to serve me faithfully, victim of the ravages of Bacchus the day before yesterday."

I love his keen observance of female surroundings. A genuine male approach. He wrote about Nizhni Novgorod: "I haven't met a single beautiful woman, not even a pretty face or figure. They are so ugly and most seem to be devout spinsters." But in St. Petersburg "crowds of beautiful young women, fresh and fragrant like flowers." Imagine: crowds!

I love his fleeting portrayals of women, with just a touch of eroticism. They emerge here and there in the text, sometimes quite unexpectedly: "Mademoiselle Anchen Schaubbe, a virile German girl, a real tomboy"; Ms. Holikhovska "a passionate electrifying fiery woman"; "a certain damsel named Sasha Ocheretnikova, a real daredevil, drinking like a trooper and jumping in the sack at every station, with whoever has the hots." Or take this phrase with its almost phallic metaphor: "... I went to Madame Gilde and cast anchor for the rest of the night."

But what I like most is his Russian orchard story. The setting is the Novopetrovsk Fortress commandant's garden. Taras Shevchenko, awaiting pending demobilization, spends all his time here, away from the loathsome barracks. It is the end of June, the air is thick with the heady smell of warm earth and thousands of exotic plants. The time is around 3 a. m. He wakes up. The sun will soon be up and there is light enough for his cherished diary, a makeshift notebook, and tea ("I thank the stars for bestowing me with a copper teakettle"). He drinks tea cup after cup, with lots of sugar, writing all the time, and greets the morning well satisfied with himself. Shevchenko is OK. Why not leave him just there, while he is full of creative energy and happy expectations? Why bother him with your "giants of the spirit," and especially with your election campaigns? Just don't forget to wish him a happy birthday, even if a couple of days late!

 

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