I do not think that it will be superfluous to add that all Russian literature for the past century has been able to express only a very small part of what it had to say. The Russian writer continually suffers from the constraint which forces him to check the flight of his inspiration in order to escape from the foolish and often stupid sternness of the pitiless censor. The poet Nekrasov shows us in one of his poems an old soldier who has become a printer, and who speaks in the following manner of Pushkin: "He was a good man, tipped very generously, but he never ceased to rage against the censor. When he saw his manuscripts marked with red crosses, he became furious. One day, in order to console him, I said: "'Bah! why torment yourself?' "'Why,' he cried, 'but it is blood that is flowing,--blood,--my blood!'" A great deal of blood was thus shed. And in order to accentuate the action of the censor the police dealt cruel blows to the authors. One day Pushkin was called to the head of the department. They believed that they had recognized in one of his satires a certain gentleman, named N. G., who demanded that Pushkin be severely punished. Unnerved by the cross-examination to which he was put, the poet cried: "But it isn't N. G. whom I have drawn!" "Who is it, then?" "It is you, yourself," replied the poet. "That is madness, sir," the high dignitary cried out with wrath. "You say that wood belonging to the state was stolen. And at the time when these thefts were committed I was away." "Then you do not recognize yourself in my satire?" "No, a thousand times no!" "And N. G. recognizes himself?" "Not exactly, but as he is in the service of the government...." "Well, is he its spokesman and champion? And why is it precisely he who asks to have me arrested?" "All right," replied the dignitary, suddenly becoming milder, "I shall inform His Majesty of our conversation."