Romanov Riches: Russian Writers and Artists Under the Tsars

That golden ticket, given by a peer, was supported by approval from the professors, older colleagues, and, through them, the court and royal family. The poem “Recollections in Tsarskoe Selo,” which Pushkin recited during his examinations in the presence of the old poet Derzhavin, had been commissioned by his professor Alexander Galich; at the examination rehearsal, an important official heard the poem and was delighted—Count Razumovsky, minister of education.

Even earlier, Ivan Martynov, director of the ministry department that oversaw the Lycée (where his own son was a student), asked the young Pushkin to write an ode, “On the Return of the Sovereign Emperor from Paris in 1815.” This ode for Alexander I, with an accompanying letter from Pushkin, was given by Martynov to Count Razumovsky, who presented it to the emperor.⁹

Another notable step in the relations between young Pushkin and the royal family was the commission of a poem for the marriage of Alexander’s sister, Anna, and the heir to the Dutch throne, Prince William of Orange, who had fought at Waterloo.

This commission came through the court historian Karamzin, who had become the poet’s mentor. The performance of Pushkin’s poem, set to music, was described in the official communiqué as follows: “Groups of settlers of both sexes performed dances, games, and, united, sang a chorus that expressed their love for the brave Prince, the object of this festivity. After that chorus, couplets were sung in honor of his great successes at the famous victory.”¹⁰

Alexander’s mother, the dowager empress Maria Fedorovna, made special note of Pushkin’s offering, sending him a gold watch and chain. According to one story, Pushkin lost the watch immediately; according to another, he “squashed it under his heel on purpose.”¹¹

On June 9, 1817, the twenty-nine graduates of the Lycée were presented to Alexander I in order of achievement, with an announcement of the rank bestowed and awards of gold and silver medals. Pushkin was the twenty-sixth to be called: his successes were very modest, except for Russian and French and fencing. There was no chance of a medal.

The rank he was awarded upon graduation was collegiate secretary, which was part of the tenth class in the official Table of Ranks. Seventeen of his fellow graduates were in the higher ninth class. (Pushkin achieved that just before his death.) Alexander smiled benignly at them all, but for Pushkin, who had enjoyed a personal triumph at the previous examinations in the presence of the great Derzhavin, this ceremony must have been humiliating.

Once Alexander inquired of the students, who was first in the class? Pushkin replied, “We don’t have any firsts, Your Imperial Majesty, we’re all second.” And suddenly it became painfully clear that there actually was a division into first, second, and last, and that the wunderkind poet would have to sign official papers as “10th-class Pushkin.”

He had to find his revenge in another field, where Pushkin knew his true worth—poetry. The old and wise Lycée director Engelhardt had written perceptively in his record, “Pushkin’s highest and ultimate goal is to shine, with his poetry.”¹²

He rarely appeared at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, where he was assigned after graduation: civil service bored him, and Pushkin, unlike Derzhavin, never did become an official.

After six years of being cooped up at the school, the twenty-year-old poet led a wild life in St. Petersburg: wine, young actresses, all-night orgies. In a letter to a friend, Pushkin described his life in 1819: “Everything goes on as usual: the champagne, thank God, is good, and the actresses, too—the first flows, the latter fuck—amen, amen. As it should be.” The letter ends on an amusing note: “I love you—and hate despotism. Farewell, dear one.”

Freethinking was fashionable in his circle. In order to be popular, you had to write dissident poems. The social commission was in the air, and at eighteen Pushkin responded to it with an ode “To Liberty.” It is a gem of political poetry, containing three exceptionally bold stanzas on a topic forbidden at the time—the murder of Paul, Alexander’s father, in 1801.

Only whispers were heard about that terrible episode in Russian history, and suddenly there came this fiery poetry. It is no surprise that the ode immediately became samizdat: it was copied, passed around, and enthusiastically memorized and declaimed at young people’s parties.

Inevitably, the poem reached Alexander I. His father’s assassination was an unhealed wound, and we can only imagine his reaction when he read:

O shame! O horror of our days!

Like animals the Janissaries burst in!

Ignominious blows fell,

The crowned villain died.