Pyotr Vyazemsky in 1875 on the tact of historians and untimely truth about the dead
The cemetery and the graves, too, must be treated with care and reverence. It is neither fitting nor proper to carry into the churchyard all manner of rumour and gossip, of the kind on which the salons of the living subsist.
Voeikov used to say: with the dead there is no need to stand on ceremony; you can build a fence out of them. Unfortunately, it happens with us that all sorts of nonsense are fenced around the dead, and sometimes, when the truth is told, it is of a kind that had better have been left unsaid. Not every truth is of use or profit; a truth that is untimely, spoken out of season and out of decency, stands not far from a lie, and is often confounded with it.
Historical truth is a fine thing when it casts light upon history, upon an event or a person: when the old is explained and renewed by hitherto unpublished and unknown indications and sources, kept until then under lock and key. But, alas, it is not always so. “Whatever is in the oven, fling it all on the table.” Rummage in corners, in earth-banks and in cellars, and carry out of the cottage as much rubbish as you can. In the oven there is sometimes that, soot for example, with which a dinner table ought not to be laid. Not every scrap of rubbish is yet the sacred ashes of antiquity; all manner of things may turn up in a house where living people dwell, but must everything found be set out for display and for sniffing over? Yet our newest reverend Nestors and journalists gather it all with diligence and pour it into their vessels, fearing to let fall a drop or to overlook the smallest speck, mote or bit of dirt.
There is no doubt that the passion that has arisen for hunting in the glades and dense forests of antiquity is a useful and praiseworthy business. One cannot but thank the huntsmen for their labours and their zealous watering; but here too it is apt to say: pas trop de zèle. For want, at present, of fresh and succulent domestic fare, we feast only (I at least, and, as I know, many others) on the nourishing and savoury game with which our historical and literary Nimrods so often regale us. But why do they sometimes let into this living and dainty fare fat and slime: something that is neither fish nor flesh?
Cooks must have a keen sense of smell, the better to sniff out everything doubtful. Seekers after old materials must possess a like instinct, which in the business of written cookery is called tact, and tact is what we often lack. We say nothing of those cooks who might well have instinct enough, but for private gain serve their table-companions dubious provisions, sometimes quite unfit, and by such contraband spoil the entire dinner. There are, however, consumers who require food with a sharp whiff to it: their coarse and thick-skinned palate demands over-salting, over-souring, something in the way of carrion. A skilled cook, trained in a good school and respecting his own dignity, will never consent to pander to their savage appetites. In the culinary art, too, there is tact of its own, and style of its own, and a creed of its own. A writer, likewise, ought not to gratify every demander and every taste.
Pyotr Andreyevich Vyazemsky, 1875
