The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar

by Yury Tynyanov

  Then, without ceremony, having simply walked around his guest, he sat down at his desk, leaned over it, slightly bent, with the look of an attentive listener.

  Griboedov sat in the armchair and crossed his legs. Scrutinizing Ermolov too closely, as one examines the dead, he said:

  “I am leaving soon, and for a long time. You, Alexei Petrovich, have shown me so many kindnesses that I could do no less than to call in on my way in order to say goodbye.”

  Ermolov said not a word.

  “You may think of me as you wish. I am not entirely sure of myself, and I fear you suspect me of some sort of ulterior motive. In case you think I am asking for a favor, I am begging you to understand, Alexei Petrovich, that I’ve only come to say goodbye.”

  Ermolov drew a three-fingered pinch of yellowish tobacco from his pouch and unceremoniously shoved it up his nostrils. The tobacco spilled down his chin and waistcoat and over the desk.

  “I paid you no kindnesses, Alexander Sergeyevich. The word is not even in my vocabulary; it must have been someone else who paid you kindnesses. I merely saw that you ‘liked the service, it was the servility that made you sick’—as you wrote in your comedy, and I like men of that stamp.”

  Ermolov spoke freely. There was nothing forced about his manner.

  “Now the times are changed, and people changed with them. And you are a different person. But in the old days, you were who you were, and I have more affection and respect for the old days, so for you too I still have some affection and respect.”

  Griboedov gave him a sudden grin.

  “Your praise is not particularly deserved or, in any case, it is premature, Alexei Petrovich. I loved you like my own soul, and at least in this I remain unchanged.”

  Ermolov was just about to lift the kerchief to his nose.

  “Then you didn’t love your soul either.”

  He blew his nose in a single salvo.

  “And it turns out that you look into your soul only while en route from Pashkevich to Nesselrode.”

  The old man was being rude, purposely mispronouncing “Paskevich.” He drummed the desk with his fingers.

  “How many kurors3 have you screwed out of the Persians?” he asked with some disdain, but not without curiosity.

  “Fifteen.”

  “That’s a lot. One mustn’t entirely ruin a conquered nation.”

  Griboedov gave him a smile.

  “Wasn’t it you, Alexei Petrovich, who used to say that we should bite them harder? You know these Persians—ask them for five kurors, and they’ll pay nothing at all.”

  “Biting is one thing: ‘war or cash’ is another. ‘Your money or your life’.”

  ‘War or cash’ was Paskevich’s motto.

  Ermolov fell silent.

  “Abbas Mirza is a fool,” he said then. “If he’d invited me to become his commander, things would have been different. Just the same, here I am accused of treason, while he, idiot that he is, could have had the advantage.”

  Griboedov eyed him again as if he were dead.

  The old man narrowed his eyes:

  “I’m not joking; I’ve worked out a plan of the Russian campaign, better than Abbas could have come up with, never mind Pashkevich.”

  Griboedov asked almost in a whisper:

  “And what’s the plan?”

  The old man opened a file and pulled out a map. It was covered with markings.

  He beckoned Griboedov:

  “Look here, this is Persia, right? Tabriz is very similar to Moscow, a big village, except made of clay. And ravaged. If I had been in Abbas’s shoes, I would have opened the road to Tabriz, sent messengers to Pashkevich from the people to complain they were not satisfied with the governors, and for fear of retribution asked Pashkevich to liberate them as soon as possible…. Right? … Pashkevich would have lapped it up…. Right? And I”—he flicked the map with his finger—“would have attacked him on the Aras crossing, destroyed it and got onto the army’s tail….”

  Griboedov was staring at the familiar map. The Aras had been marked with red ink in a lightning stroke.

  Ermolov continued, champing his lips:

  “ … Onto the army’s tail, rear attack, plundered their transports, pillaged the food supplies.”

  And he drew a rough finger across the map:

  “In Azerbaijan, I would do away with all means of subsistence, wreck the transports, lure them into a trap, and cut them off …”

  He drew his breath. He was commanding the Persian army from his desk. Griboedov did not stir.

  “And at a single stroke, Pashkevich would turn into Napoleon in Moscow, except without a brain. And Diebitsch would run to Petersburg, to Nesselrode …”

  His head sank into his shoulders; his right hand began to shove more tobacco up his nose, spilling it again over waistcoat, chest, and desk.

  Then his eyes closed; he seemed to heave up all over and suddenly deflate: nose, lips, shoulders, belly. Ermolov was asleep. Griboedov gaped, horrified, at the red neck overgrown with hair, like a sort of moss, like a rodent’s pelt. He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes in confusion. His lips trembled.

  A minute passed, two minutes.

  It had never happened before … Within a year of retirement …

  Ermolov suddenly concluded, as if nothing had happened:

  “… and Diebitsch would write … denouncing letters about him in his usual vein. Because Pashkevich’s style is not his own these days. Our Pashkevich is not particularly literate. They say, my dear Griboedov, that you polish up his writing?”

  A frontal attack.

  Griboedov drew himself up and spoke slowly:

  “Alexei Petrovich, I have no respect for people: their masquerades and vanities exasperate me, so what the devil do I care about their opinion? And yet, if you name the gossipmonger, I will duel with that man even though I do not care for such foolery. As for you, in my opinion, you are untouchable, and not only on account of your old age.”

  Ermolov gave him a peeved grin.

  “Many thanks. I don’t believe that myself. But if that’s how things are, God bless you. Go.”

  His eyes darted over Griboedov, then he rose and offered him his hand.

  “As a goodbye, I’ll give you two pieces of advice. One—don’t keep company with the English. Two—don’t fall in with Pashkevich, pas trop de zèle.4 He will squeeze you dry and throw you away. Remember that only he who has nothing to fear can call himself happy. Goodbye, then. Without either enmity or affection.”

  Descending the stairs, Griboedov wore the same bored and distracted expression as he had worn in Persia after the negotiations with Abbas Mirza.

  Ermolov saw him out as far as the staircase and watched him leave.

  Griboedov was taking his time.

  And the heavy door thrust him out.

  4

  And with half-broken heart

  I breathed twice as fast,

  And my two half-closed eyes

  Saw the light twice as harsh.

  ▶ Stepan Shevyryov

  The journey from Prechistenka to Novaya Basmannaya over frozen puddles was certainly long, but not as long as the journey from Tiflis to Moscow.

  And yet it felt longer.

  Sashka was sitting on the coachbox, imperious as a statue. He believed that that look was the supreme mark of good breeding. A vague stare was all he gave the passersby. The coachman yelled at the approaching muzhiks and lashed out with his whip at their docile nags. In Tabriz, they whipped the bystanders when a shah-zade (prince) or vazir-mukhtar (envoy) drove by.

  Mama’s thrice-cursed Persia, the hated Asia—what did he need it for? He was rumored to be Paskevich’s toady. And it did not bother him in the least. Who could be his judge? He had a brainchild. Whatever the humiliation, he had to achieve his goal. Paris vaut bien une messe.5 It was folly to waste time on old friends. They would say he was Molchalin, a character from his own play; they would say that that was what he was aiming for; they wou
ld laugh at him. Let them try.

  Such a barren life, such old scores.

  And none of it was really necessary.

  In the month of March in Moscow, at three in the afternoon, there is neither light nor shade.

  Nothing was right, everything was in a state of flux, not a single decision had been made, and the very houses seemed fragile and corrupt. In the month of March in Moscow, one could not search the streets for certainty, or for lost youth.

  It all felt uncertain.

  On the one hand, an eminent person was driving along, the author of the celebrated comedy, a rising diplomat, riding independently and free of care, carrying the famous peace treaty to Petersburg, visiting Moscow along the way, taking it in freely and easily.

  On the other hand, the street had its own appearance, its palpable stamp, and it paid no attention to the luminary. The celebrated comedy had neither been staged at the theater nor even published. Friends took no pleasure in him; he was an outsider. The elders had crumbled, like the houses. And the famous man had neither a home nor even a corner to call his own; he had only his heart, which swung like a pendulum: young one moment, old the next.

  It all felt uncertain; everything in Rome was wrong, and the city would soon perish if it sold itself.

  Sashka sat lofty and motionless on the coachbox.

  His stare, fastened on the passersby, remained vague.

  5

  He stopped the carriage in the parish of Peter and Paul, at the Levashovs’ house.

  It looked like an agreeable abode.

  There were numerous paths and annexes in the desolate garden by the main building. He was just about to go for one of the doors when a pretty female head peeked out of the window. Chaadaev was a hermit, an anchorite, with no interest whatsoever in that direction. Griboedov stepped back and looked around.

  The annexes were arranged around the house in the shape of a star, an innocent enough design. He smiled, as if at an old friend, and pulled a random doorbell. An abbé dressed in a black cassock opened the door. He indicated Chaadaev’s annex briefly and respectfully and hid behind the door. Only God knew why the abbé himself lived here in Moscow.

  The Levashovs’ house was not an ordinary one. It was surrounded by a garden, had five if not six courtyards with an annex in each, and people living in each annex for various reasons: friendship, charity, necessity, pleasure, or no reason at all, simply because they made life merrier for the masters. Chaadaev had moved in here for all of the above reasons, but mainly because he had no money.

  The usual valet, Ivan Yakovlevich, wearing his antiquated foppish jabot, bowed to Griboedov and went on to announce his arrival. Griboedov heard an irritated whisper, some hissing and soft coughing next door. He was just about ready to tell Chaadaev that he was a swine when the valet came back. Ivan Yakovlevich spread his hands and said blankly that Pyotr Yakovlevich was indisposed and was receiving no visitors. In response, Griboedov threw his coat into the valet’s arms, took off his hat, and went through to the rooms.

  He entered without knocking.

  Chaadaev stood at the desk with a terrified expression on his face.

  He was wearing a long dressing gown, the color of the 1812 Moscow fire.

  Immediately, he made a wild but feeble move to slip into the room next door. His pale-blue, whitish eyes were evading Griboedov. Griboedov meant business but was determined to turn it into a joke.

  He stepped forward and grabbed him by the sleeve.

  “Dear friend, please forgive my boorish intrusion. Don’t hurry to get dressed. I am not a woman.”

  The transformation of the dressing gown took place slowly. First, it drooped like a brownish rag, and then there were fewer folds and it straightened out. Chaadaev smiled. His face was unnaturally white, like a baker’s or a mummy’s. He was tall, thin, fragile. He looked like he would crumble at the touch of a fingertip. Finally, he gave a soft laugh.

  “I have to say I didn’t recognize you at first,” he said waving toward the armchairs. “Please sit down. I didn’t expect you. To be honest, I don’t see people these days.”

  “And you wanted to see me least of all, didn’t you? The ungodliness of my life must have earned me no right to carry on friendships with hermits.”

  Chaadaev winced.

  “That’s not the reason. The reason is—I am ill.”

  Griboedov answered distractedly. “Yes, you do look pale. It’s stuffy in here.”

  Chaadaev reclined in his chair and spoke slowly. “You think so?”

  “You don’t air in here often enough. I must have lost the habit of settled living.”

  Still hesitant, and a little breathless, Chaadaev asked, “Apart from that, do you think I look pale?”

  “Slightly.” Griboedov looked puzzled.

  Chaadaev sounded despondent. “I am awfully unwell,” he murmured.

  “With what?”

  “They have discovered rheumatisms in my head. Take a look at my tongue,” and he stuck out his tongue. Griboedov chuckled:

  “Your tongue looks fine to me.”

  “My tongue might be fine,” Chaadaev glanced at him shiftily, “but the worst things are my weak stomach and the dizzy spells. Each morning, I wake up with hope and go to bed with none. It goes without saying that it is important to keep to a diet and a healthy lifestyle. What system of treatment do you adhere to?”

  “Me? To the system of post-chaise riding. I suggest that you do the same. Even if you are ill, it can only be hypochondria. And as soon as you are bounced about and jostled from the front of the carriage to the back, your dizzy spells will be gone, canceled out by the opposing movements.”

  Chaadaev lingered on his next words and suddenly peered at his guest:

  “My hypochondria is gone, the problem now is …”

  He gave another laugh.

  “All this is silly nonsense, my dear Griboedov, I am bothering you with such trivia—it is quite ridiculous and stupid. Where have you come from, and where are you headed?”

  “Me?” Griboedov looked slightly puzzled. “I’m back from Persia, and I’m taking the Turkmenchai Peace to St. Petersburg.”

  “What Peace is that?” Chaadaev asked casually.

  “Peace? The Turkmenchai one! Haven’t you heard?”

  “I haven’t. I don’t see people; only the Abbé Barral calls on me from time to time. Nor do I read any papers.”

  “Are you then unaware of the war with Persia?” asked Griboedov, somewhat amused.

  “But we seem to be at war with Turkey.” Chaadaev sounded apathetic.

  Griboedov looked at him seriously:

  “The war that is just breaking out is with Turkey, and the one that has ended was with Persia, Pyotr Yakovlevich.”

  “To hell with it, the Peace,” Chaadaev retorted contemptuously. “What have you been doing all this time? After all, we haven’t seen each other for three years … or more.”

  “I got on my horse and set off to Iran as a secretary of the peripatetic mission. Fifty miles every day, two, sometimes three months in a row. The intervals of rest went by without a trace. Still can’t find myself.”

  “Is that so?” Chaadaev peered at him intently. “But it’s an ailment, it’s called fear of open spaces, agoraphobia. You cover long distances on horseback, and therefore …”

  Griboedov broke in:

  “I daresay I haven’t gone completely insane, and can still distinguish between the people and objects I move among.”

  Chaadaev waved the words aside.

  “I too sit here listening …”

  “And what do you hear?”

  A lofty nod of the head:

  “A great deal. Right now, Europe is about to take a big leap. Like you, she cannot find herself. But rest assured, a hand has already picked out a cobble from a Parisian causeway.”

  Chaadaev wagged his finger at him. Griboedov listened intently.

  He felt the peculiarity of the white face and the glassy blue eyes, and of the l
ast words, which sounded so arrogant.

  Novaya Basmannaya Street, with its annex, had seceded, broken away from Russia.

  “My dear friend,” said Chaadaev, regarding Griboedov with regret, “like all of us, you tend to consider the things that are closest to you most important. You are mistaken. Nowadays, wars are unquestionably pointless. Wars in our age are games played by fools. To annex one colony, then to add another—idiotic idolatry of mere space! A thousand miles more! When we don’t even know what to do with what we’ve got already.”

  Griboedov colored slowly.

  Chaadaev’s eyes narrowed.

  “And see a doctor. Your complexion is bad. You need hemorrhoidal treatment. One has to spend more time in the open air, aus freier Hand,6 as the Germans call it.”

  “You don’t know Russia,” said Griboedov, “and for you the Moscow English Club …”

  Chaadaev pricked up his ears.

  “ … is like a chamber of the British Parliament. You are saying: ‘a thousand miles’ while sitting in this annex of yours …”

  “Pavilion, if you don’t mind,” Chaadaev corrected him. He sounded irritable.

  The unlit, grubby hearth had the look of a debauchee in the morning. Chaadaev was practically lying in the long, low, English-style armchair, which looked like a stretcher. His shoes were sticking out. “There is some confusion in all of this,” he said through his nose, pouting and shaking his head like a musician hearing a new piece played to him for the first time.

  Griboedov gave him a searching look.

  “That’s right,” said Chaadaev suddenly, and having finally glimpsed the tail of some rhythm or melody, he lifted his finger to his lips and all at once caught it. He glanced at Griboedov admiringly, but at the same time slyly and meaningfully, as if to say: “I know something you don’t know.”

  Ivan Yakovlevich came in, carrying a tray with two cups of coffee. Griboedov took a sip and put his cup aside with an expression of disgust.

  “This coffee is good for your stomach,” explained Chaadaev, taking little sips. “I was taught how to make it in England.”