"It's reality varnished over, it's reality varnished over. The truth was ten times worse than that."
—DSCH
I realize, looking at what I have of this written manuscript, that, while I complain about and attack Zlaya's System almost endlessly, I never bother to explain the details not applying to the world of musicians. Chances are, though, that you do know something about it. Most every creature I've spoken with does; they are the ones that want my personal story as opposed to a history or a dry explanation. Well, those beasts are getting what they want, but I feel I should make an allowance here, as I've done before, to explain to a rare creature completely unfamiliar with the events and circumstances covered in detail here rather than in broad. Sometimes, specifics can muddle the broader category. And also, some history has been known to be brushed over by lessons, like it never happened. Well, this happened. Mtsensk's System is still in place as I write, though weaker than when I knew it.
To look to another source for information on the System, one would find it all from a very biased, extremely politically-enhanced view. Supporters praise it extravagantly, editing out the vast area of the unpleasant involved. Opponents either degrade the concept to no end or cover it in a single sentence, so disgusted, so to speak, that they refuse to acknowledge anything involved. And, of course, it's all done in political terms. I tell you this clearly, and you shouldn't be surprised, that I have my own strong bias; I'm incapable of covering the matter in shades of neutrality. It's far too vivid, far too pointed in my mind for that approach. But I'll explain my biased account in terms that make more sense than political lingo. That is, I'll explain in terms that don't mask the System's unjust reality.
The System is "based," so to speak, on a perfectly plausible principle: equality. From what I understand, the ideal utilization of it would put all members of the District at equal wealth and standard of living, and it would have them all working for the greater benefit of the District. If that were really how it worked, things might not have been so bad. But when the name of the District, Mtsensk, and the name of one large building within it, Mtsensk, are the same, there can be problems in interpretation, so to speak. All the creatures in the District have about the same—that is, nothing. Equal amounts of nothing, you know. All the wealth was spread around Mtsensk, though, the building. Same name as the whole District—what's the difference? Zlaya and her military were Mtsensk, technically, and they lived equally well within (except for me, but I was never really committed to the military). And next, logically, if Zlaya was the District, then "working for the greater benefit of the district" became "working to serve Zlaya Trudnaya." It was Zlaya who decided what was beneficial, so to speak; woodlanders, travelers, merchants, and musicians were among the many things deemed harmful.
And so something like that could be horribly twisted by words, by homonyms, synonyms, titles and the likes more than any other mechanism to be called a "System of Equality," so to speak. Redwall's existence truly is equal. Mtsensk wasn't, but it could be made to sound that way by those who wanted it to. As one of the "harmful," I was able to see right through that weakly-executed twisting, a thing done mostly at the paws of creatures with titles like "Minister of Propaganda."
Vsevolod Zloyevich was not much of a talker. Granted, neither am I, but I answer when addressed, when appropriate; I speak praises when I can, I say what needs to be said. Rather, I'm not an extensive talker. The only words I ever got out of Zloyevich, though, were System-programmed criticisms. His biggest complaint was, of course, that I had no enthusiasm for the Glorious and Everlasting Mtsensk System. I didn't, he was right, but as it were, I had no enthusiasm for anything. At that time, ironically, I probably had more enthusiasm for the system, or rather willingness to do things for it, than at any other time in my life. But he complained, complained that my music was dull and lackluster—(of course it was to lyrics like his!)—that I absolutely needed to be enthusiastic. And then Zloyevich would contradict himself: "But if you're too enthusiastic, you'll confuse people and everything will look bad." That's an odd remark; in almost any case, an authority (so to speak) is glad when a pupil shows enthusiasm of any amount for his work. But as there was no danger of me being enthusiastic in my assignments, let alone overly so, Zloyevich felt a greater need to criticize.
One day, Zloyevich decided to take me for a stroll over Mtsensk's grounds, the purpose of discussing the System and how I should portray it in his mind. One might say he was fed up with me, and I let him express it. I just moved along, matching his leisurely pace, though numbed for the most part to his babble (the most, I think, he ever said at once). The majority of what he said was bragging, so to speak, of the System's history, its provisions, and its image. It was propaganda in itself, very political and flaunty. I didn't start listening beyond the preliminary gist of it until Zloyevich moved to the topic of offenders, a category I surely belonged to.
Often when a creature learns something new, he ends up thinking he was better off before he knew. That could apply to a book fact or a real experience. This one, to me, is still very vividly real. On our walk, Zloyevich took me to an area of the grounds I'd never seen, far from the main building, fenced off by bars. Initially I thought it was a continuation of the borders, but Zloyevich seemed almost proud to announce that beyond those bars was where the offenders were put. He went into detail after that announcement, I think, but I busied myself with peering through the bars. Seeing the situation would be a much clearer account than any words streaming from Zloyevich's mouth. In the distant area of the prison, as far back as I could see, groups of creatures seemed to be doing forced manual labor, but further to the fore, groups or individual emaciated creatures sat and were simply miserable. It was horrifying, to use a milder term; in my deadened state I still took a stab, so to speak, probably in wondering how I managed to escape that fate.
Often when a creature remembers something old, he wishes it had stayed forgotten. That can also be a simple written fact, but a live example is usually more horrific. Inconspicuously as I stared into the prison grounds, a painfully thin hare in the tattered remnants of what had once been brightly-colored garb approached the bars, grabbing my attention by saying flatly and hoarsely, "Mitya?"
My head snapped around in shock, maybe fear, and I found myself staring right into the wretched creature's eyes. I was alarmed that he knew my name—was I that infamous? I wasn't certain. For all I could have known then, with the erotic way information was spread in Mtsensk, these creatures could have even expected me to be a savior or something. But I didn't act like one. I acted like I always do when alarmed—I stuttered. "Yes, yes, I'm Mitya, you know, Mitya Shostak, that's my name, you know, yes..."
The hare held his mournfully criticizing expression, continuing slowly, "Well, I suppose you bally well don't remember me, wot."
At the time I didn't, and I shook my head. At that, the hare snorted weakly but with some sort of subtle purpose. "That's wot I bally expected, wot. I was blinkin' well wondering wot they did with you after the troupe and I were made flippin' hostages, wot wot. I'm Bolt, you may recall, though I bally well doubt you'd concern yourself over the likes of me, judging from that blinkin' uniform you've got yourself in."
Ignoring the apparent hostility of the remark, I couldn't help but grin. Bolt, the hare whose troupe I'd accompanied the fateful day Zlaya had found me. Somebeast on my side, so to speak. I'd liked him very much, you know, though I was both glad and pained to see him. One might say, though, that seeing him woke my spirit some, albeit briefly. I kept grinning, and proceeded to ask a very stupid question: "Bolt! How are you, how are you?!"
The dialect of hares may be extremely laughable, but the actual meaning of Bolt's next words was far from humorous. "How am I? I'm sitting here in this bally stinking jail pit, wot, and you're asking how am I? Well, how do you bally well think I am?!"
My face fell, I shrugged extremely awkwardly. That was my response, though I wasn't certain whether or not Bolt actually wanted one.
"It's bally well much worse than beyond the farthest reaches of Hellgates, wot, worse at the blinkin' best! You work until you're too bally weak to work, then you sit and they let you rot to a blinkin' bone! And that's only if you're very bally lucky. They love to watch us die, the soldiers do. I think they live for it, wot wot. Sometimes if they're in an especially jolly mood, they'll take a creature, make him do a bally little jig, then shoot him so he falls and dies in his own flippin' grave, wot! So I guess I'm all hunky-dory, since I'm still alive, but I may not be that for much bally longer, wot. And wot a way to measure is that? Blinkin' wretched! I tell you, Mitya, I don't know how you escaped it, and I'm flippin' glad for you there, wot, but that uniform pushes it out. How they got you in there only you bally well know, but it's sick and it's wrong. I'm ashamed that you'd work for me and then go off and do that, flippin' cheek! Flippin' cheek, dishonor, shame, treachery, and all that, eh wot!"
Chest heaving after his outburst, Bolt fell to simply glaring.
I stared back still, horrified at the realities of the prison and shamed beyond reason by Bolt's accusations. I too gulped for breath, searching very much in vain for a suitable response.
Zloyevich, bearing a thin, practically indistinguishable smile, put a paw on my shoulder and said, "That sort of thing is why they're in there, Mitya. Works well, no?"
We turned back at Zloyevich's motion, and I made no response to him either but to follow. I stared down my chest at the drab uniform coat, disgustedly but with a feeling that there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. My own criticisms, though, my self-degradation burned much less than the other sunken eyes boring into me from behind.
—DSCH
I realize, looking at what I have of this written manuscript, that, while I complain about and attack Zlaya's System almost endlessly, I never bother to explain the details not applying to the world of musicians. Chances are, though, that you do know something about it. Most every creature I've spoken with does; they are the ones that want my personal story as opposed to a history or a dry explanation. Well, those beasts are getting what they want, but I feel I should make an allowance here, as I've done before, to explain to a rare creature completely unfamiliar with the events and circumstances covered in detail here rather than in broad. Sometimes, specifics can muddle the broader category. And also, some history has been known to be brushed over by lessons, like it never happened. Well, this happened. Mtsensk's System is still in place as I write, though weaker than when I knew it.
To look to another source for information on the System, one would find it all from a very biased, extremely politically-enhanced view. Supporters praise it extravagantly, editing out the vast area of the unpleasant involved. Opponents either degrade the concept to no end or cover it in a single sentence, so disgusted, so to speak, that they refuse to acknowledge anything involved. And, of course, it's all done in political terms. I tell you this clearly, and you shouldn't be surprised, that I have my own strong bias; I'm incapable of covering the matter in shades of neutrality. It's far too vivid, far too pointed in my mind for that approach. But I'll explain my biased account in terms that make more sense than political lingo. That is, I'll explain in terms that don't mask the System's unjust reality.
The System is "based," so to speak, on a perfectly plausible principle: equality. From what I understand, the ideal utilization of it would put all members of the District at equal wealth and standard of living, and it would have them all working for the greater benefit of the District. If that were really how it worked, things might not have been so bad. But when the name of the District, Mtsensk, and the name of one large building within it, Mtsensk, are the same, there can be problems in interpretation, so to speak. All the creatures in the District have about the same—that is, nothing. Equal amounts of nothing, you know. All the wealth was spread around Mtsensk, though, the building. Same name as the whole District—what's the difference? Zlaya and her military were Mtsensk, technically, and they lived equally well within (except for me, but I was never really committed to the military). And next, logically, if Zlaya was the District, then "working for the greater benefit of the district" became "working to serve Zlaya Trudnaya." It was Zlaya who decided what was beneficial, so to speak; woodlanders, travelers, merchants, and musicians were among the many things deemed harmful.
And so something like that could be horribly twisted by words, by homonyms, synonyms, titles and the likes more than any other mechanism to be called a "System of Equality," so to speak. Redwall's existence truly is equal. Mtsensk wasn't, but it could be made to sound that way by those who wanted it to. As one of the "harmful," I was able to see right through that weakly-executed twisting, a thing done mostly at the paws of creatures with titles like "Minister of Propaganda."
Vsevolod Zloyevich was not much of a talker. Granted, neither am I, but I answer when addressed, when appropriate; I speak praises when I can, I say what needs to be said. Rather, I'm not an extensive talker. The only words I ever got out of Zloyevich, though, were System-programmed criticisms. His biggest complaint was, of course, that I had no enthusiasm for the Glorious and Everlasting Mtsensk System. I didn't, he was right, but as it were, I had no enthusiasm for anything. At that time, ironically, I probably had more enthusiasm for the system, or rather willingness to do things for it, than at any other time in my life. But he complained, complained that my music was dull and lackluster—(of course it was to lyrics like his!)—that I absolutely needed to be enthusiastic. And then Zloyevich would contradict himself: "But if you're too enthusiastic, you'll confuse people and everything will look bad." That's an odd remark; in almost any case, an authority (so to speak) is glad when a pupil shows enthusiasm of any amount for his work. But as there was no danger of me being enthusiastic in my assignments, let alone overly so, Zloyevich felt a greater need to criticize.
One day, Zloyevich decided to take me for a stroll over Mtsensk's grounds, the purpose of discussing the System and how I should portray it in his mind. One might say he was fed up with me, and I let him express it. I just moved along, matching his leisurely pace, though numbed for the most part to his babble (the most, I think, he ever said at once). The majority of what he said was bragging, so to speak, of the System's history, its provisions, and its image. It was propaganda in itself, very political and flaunty. I didn't start listening beyond the preliminary gist of it until Zloyevich moved to the topic of offenders, a category I surely belonged to.
Often when a creature learns something new, he ends up thinking he was better off before he knew. That could apply to a book fact or a real experience. This one, to me, is still very vividly real. On our walk, Zloyevich took me to an area of the grounds I'd never seen, far from the main building, fenced off by bars. Initially I thought it was a continuation of the borders, but Zloyevich seemed almost proud to announce that beyond those bars was where the offenders were put. He went into detail after that announcement, I think, but I busied myself with peering through the bars. Seeing the situation would be a much clearer account than any words streaming from Zloyevich's mouth. In the distant area of the prison, as far back as I could see, groups of creatures seemed to be doing forced manual labor, but further to the fore, groups or individual emaciated creatures sat and were simply miserable. It was horrifying, to use a milder term; in my deadened state I still took a stab, so to speak, probably in wondering how I managed to escape that fate.
Often when a creature remembers something old, he wishes it had stayed forgotten. That can also be a simple written fact, but a live example is usually more horrific. Inconspicuously as I stared into the prison grounds, a painfully thin hare in the tattered remnants of what had once been brightly-colored garb approached the bars, grabbing my attention by saying flatly and hoarsely, "Mitya?"
My head snapped around in shock, maybe fear, and I found myself staring right into the wretched creature's eyes. I was alarmed that he knew my name—was I that infamous? I wasn't certain. For all I could have known then, with the erotic way information was spread in Mtsensk, these creatures could have even expected me to be a savior or something. But I didn't act like one. I acted like I always do when alarmed—I stuttered. "Yes, yes, I'm Mitya, you know, Mitya Shostak, that's my name, you know, yes..."
The hare held his mournfully criticizing expression, continuing slowly, "Well, I suppose you bally well don't remember me, wot."
At the time I didn't, and I shook my head. At that, the hare snorted weakly but with some sort of subtle purpose. "That's wot I bally expected, wot. I was blinkin' well wondering wot they did with you after the troupe and I were made flippin' hostages, wot wot. I'm Bolt, you may recall, though I bally well doubt you'd concern yourself over the likes of me, judging from that blinkin' uniform you've got yourself in."
Ignoring the apparent hostility of the remark, I couldn't help but grin. Bolt, the hare whose troupe I'd accompanied the fateful day Zlaya had found me. Somebeast on my side, so to speak. I'd liked him very much, you know, though I was both glad and pained to see him. One might say, though, that seeing him woke my spirit some, albeit briefly. I kept grinning, and proceeded to ask a very stupid question: "Bolt! How are you, how are you?!"
The dialect of hares may be extremely laughable, but the actual meaning of Bolt's next words was far from humorous. "How am I? I'm sitting here in this bally stinking jail pit, wot, and you're asking how am I? Well, how do you bally well think I am?!"
My face fell, I shrugged extremely awkwardly. That was my response, though I wasn't certain whether or not Bolt actually wanted one.
"It's bally well much worse than beyond the farthest reaches of Hellgates, wot, worse at the blinkin' best! You work until you're too bally weak to work, then you sit and they let you rot to a blinkin' bone! And that's only if you're very bally lucky. They love to watch us die, the soldiers do. I think they live for it, wot wot. Sometimes if they're in an especially jolly mood, they'll take a creature, make him do a bally little jig, then shoot him so he falls and dies in his own flippin' grave, wot! So I guess I'm all hunky-dory, since I'm still alive, but I may not be that for much bally longer, wot. And wot a way to measure is that? Blinkin' wretched! I tell you, Mitya, I don't know how you escaped it, and I'm flippin' glad for you there, wot, but that uniform pushes it out. How they got you in there only you bally well know, but it's sick and it's wrong. I'm ashamed that you'd work for me and then go off and do that, flippin' cheek! Flippin' cheek, dishonor, shame, treachery, and all that, eh wot!"
Chest heaving after his outburst, Bolt fell to simply glaring.
I stared back still, horrified at the realities of the prison and shamed beyond reason by Bolt's accusations. I too gulped for breath, searching very much in vain for a suitable response.
Zloyevich, bearing a thin, practically indistinguishable smile, put a paw on my shoulder and said, "That sort of thing is why they're in there, Mitya. Works well, no?"
We turned back at Zloyevich's motion, and I made no response to him either but to follow. I stared down my chest at the drab uniform coat, disgustedly but with a feeling that there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. My own criticisms, though, my self-degradation burned much less than the other sunken eyes boring into me from behind.