The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar

by Yury Tynyanov

  The English must have taught you many things, thought Griboedov.

  “I learned a great deal there,” continued Chaadaev, squinting at him. “And not everyone is capable of learning. The way they live their lives seems pretty off-putting at first. The energy is enormous, but other than that, nothing to empathize with. Though as soon as you learn to say the word ‘home’ as the English do, you’ll forget Russia.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because they think things through, coolly, in every area of life. Over here, as you might have had time to notice, there is neither energy nor thought. Impassive expressions, unreadable faces. A thousand miles written all over them.”

  He rang the bell.

  Ivan came in and looked at him inquiringly.

  “You may go, my dear fellow,” said Chaadaev condescendingly. “I rang for no reason.”

  Ivan left.

  “Did you see that?” Chaadaev asked calmly. “What rigidity, vagueness … uncertainty—and coldness! This is the face of the Russian people. It’s beyond West or East. And this is what’s imprinted on it.”

  Well said, thought Griboedov approvingly, but then he gave a frosty answer:

  “Your valet is not Russian. His face reflects his master’s, whom he apes. And who are we? A defective class of half-Europeans.”

  Chaadaev gave him a patronizing look.

  “Oh, my dear friend, you are strangely absolute in your opinions and expression. I see it everywhere, all over, this and the impotence of actions.”

  Griboedov did not reply, and silence fell.

  Chaadaev concentrated on his coffee, which he kept on sipping.

  “We too have philosophy,” Griboedov said suddenly. “Profit, that’s the general desire. There is nothing else, and it seems there can be nothing else. The passion for profit, stronger than any other, will make everybody learn and act for themselves. I have never been to Paris or to England, but I have been to the East. First, passion for profit, and then for the improvement of one’s own existence, and then for learning. I wanted to tell you about one of my projects.”

  Chaadaev spilled his coffee over his dressing gown.

  He glanced keenly at Griboedov, mumbling mistrustfully.

  “Oh, yes, I remember reading about it.”

  “Reading about what?” Griboedov was stunned.

  “God Almighty, about profit and the … project. Did you read Saint-Simon? And then … dear friend, there was an article in the Review about the East India Company.”

  Griboedov frowned. Chaadaev’s rheumy eyes kept darting little glances at him while he droned on:

  “Oh, yes, that’s quite interesting, quite interesting indeed.”

  Suddenly his voice softened.

  “My friend, my dear friend, when I see how you, a poet, one of the great minds that I still appreciate here, when I see how you no longer write, but descend into squabbles instead, I yearn to ask you: why are you standing in my way, why are you hindering me?”

  Griboedov answered calmly:

  “But you don’t seem to be going anywhere at all.”

  Chaadaev threw the black nightcap down on the desk and revealed his high-domed, shiny bald head.

  He spoke through his nose, like Talma:

  “Oh, my mercenary friend, greetings on your arrival in our Necropolis, the city of the dead! How long will you stay?”

  Seeing Griboedov off, he waited until they were right at the door before asking him casually:

  “My dear Griboedov, do you happen to have any money on you? They send me no money from the country. Could you lend me fifty rubles? Or a hundred and fifty? I’ll send it back by return post.”

  Griboedov had no money on him, and Chaadaev parted from him rather coldly.

  6

  … The brightly illuminated windows evoked a familiar longing inside him: someone was waiting for him behind one of the windows.

  He knew that all that, of course, was pure nonsense—none of the windows was lit, no heart was beating for him here.

  He knew even more than that: there were young men, old and middle-aged men, behind the windows, mostly pencil-pushers, spouting rubbish, gossiping, playing cards, and finally putting the lights out, dying. All that was certainly humbug and balderdash. And there was just one clever person in a hundred.

  He was ashamed to admit to himself that he had forgotten the names of his Moscow mistresses; the windows were glittering not for him; the brothels of his youth were all closed up and shuttered.

  Where would he find the hostelry that would give him refuge—and shelter for his heart?

  7

  He saw the pink face, the fluff of soft hair, heard the joyful flutter of the house, the children’s shrieks of laughter from the rooms—and the woman’s voice hushed them, and he felt the touch of a trusted cheek.

  All of him was held in a soft and incredibly strong embrace.

  Then he realized that everything that had happened in the morning was nothing more than an irritation of the nerves; it was nonsense, a roaring in the blood.

  He had simply arranged the visits in the wrong order.

  And he hugged Stepan Nikitich back, as he used to do with alacrity and with the awkwardness of a fop.

  The children, charges, and governesses were already running in through the doors, squealing.

  Mamzelle Piton curtseyed, retreating before him like Kutuzov from Napoleon.

  She was full of venom, and the family nickname for her was “the Python.”

  The children and charges were quivering on their little feet in the curtseying queue.

  Stepan Nikitich sent the children away. He gave the order practically into Mamzelle Python’s ear, making her recoil in disgust. They disappeared at once.

  “The Fiery Serpent.” Stepan Nikitich gave a nod, meant not just for Griboedov, but in general. “Wonder woman.”

  The table had quickly been laid.

  Crimean grapes, apples from his own estate; the three lackeys dashed out panting to fetch the rest.

  Stepan Nikitich organized the bottles on the table and, addressing either them or Griboedov—“First-rate stuff” or “Nothing to beat it”—arranged them in a certain order.

  Then he dragged his friend briskly into the light, examined him earnestly, and expressed his approval with a snort. Griboedov was Griboedov.

  “Why didn’t you come to stay with us from the start, my friend? Shame on you for troubling your dear mother. Your Sashka will drive them all to an early grave.”

  He had worked it out that Alexander Griboedov, Sasha, had arrived from the East and was going to Petersburg to deliver some papers, and there was nothing more to it than that. There was no need for inquiries and explanations. They made sense only when people didn’t see each other for a day or a week, when they saw little of each other or met erratically. Otherwise, they were pointless. All that is necessary for friendship to continue is to think along the same lines.

  Stepan Nikitich dragged Griboedov toward the window to make sure that he was the same as ever, and now he knew he was.

  More wine and a truffle pie were brought in.

  Stepan Nikitich frowned slightly and looked at the table. His was the look of sad experience.

  He took one of the bottles by the neck, as if it were an enemy, measured it with his stare, and swiftly sent it back.

  Griboedov, who had already settled down to eat, watched him closely.

  Their eyes met, and they burst out laughing.

  Begichev spoke seriously about his wife:

  “I only told you that Anna Ivanovna was away visiting because of the Python, my friend. The fact is, she has moved out to her mother’s again.”

  He looked askance at the servant, knitted his brows, and said in a loud whisper:

  “She’s with child.”

  “Convey to my lovely friend,” said Griboedov, “that if my wishes are to come true, no one in the world will give birth so easily.”

  Anna Ivanovna was his friend, an a
dvisor an advocate who would intercede between himself and his mother.

  “And what about you? Which one is on your mind?”

  Begichev’s question was genial but meaningful.

  Griboedov laughed.

  “Don’t concern yourself, I’ve cooled down.”

  Begichev asked in a whisper:

  “And what about … Katya?”

  Griboedov waved him away.

  Begichev winked at him.

  “Luxuriating and languishing?

  “I am unlikely to see her.”

  “Fire off a gift of clothes, they like it.”

  Griboedov thought about Begichev’s suggestion. He responded pensively, chewing the halva:

  “They sell wonderful confectionary in Persia.”

  Begichev smacked his forehead:

  “I forgot the sweets. You love confectionery, you’ve got a sweet tooth.”

  “Not to worry. There are no sweets here like those. They are different over there. Imagine, for example, those little morsels that melt in your mouth. They’re called pufek. Or something that looks like cotton and also melts. Those are called peshmek. And then there’s ghez, luz, baklava—about a hundred different varieties altogether.”

  Begichev laughed:

  “As for my mother, I haven’t seen her for a month. She’s completely broke.”

  Griboedov was silent, and then asked:

  “And how are your factories?”

  He looked around

  “Something has changed at your place. It seems more spacious.”

  “Well, dear heart,” said Begichev, “you haven’t changed. My factory business is not doing all that well. My wife has no end of uncles and aunts.”

  Begichev kept building up factories, but they brought in little money. The Begichevs had been gradually eating up the wife’s fortune, which was considerable. Her relatives interfered in the business and fell over each other to offer advice, all of it bad.

  After dinner, Begichev took him to the sitting room. Griboedov put his feet up on a vast, soft, sort of Eastern sofa. Begichev brought in the wine with him and locked the door, to prevent the Python from eavesdropping.

  “I am in a terrible turmoil today,” said Griboedov, and closed his eyes. “Whatever I try, nothing comes out right. Just wait until I move in here for good, right onto your sofa! You will put a desk in here, and I will write.”

  Begichev sighed.

  “Put up with it just a little bit longer. Go to Persia for a year.”

  Griboedov opened his eyes.

  “Has Mama had a word with you?”

  “What else do you expect from your mother? She owes old Odoevsky fifteen thousand rubles.”

  And, looking into Begichev’s eyes, Griboedov realized that the real point of the conversation was not his mother.

  “I have long abandoned secrecy. You can talk freely and easily.”

  “You won’t feel good in Moscow,” said Begichev, and removed a speck of dust from Griboedov’s frock coat. “People are different now. You won’t get along.”

  Griboedov looked up at him:

  “You talk about me as if I were sick.”

  Begichev embraced him.

  “Your blood’s turned sour, Alexander. You, my only friend, will find it difficult to settle here. Remember how it was before Woe from Wit: you were in a frenzy and on fire, one moment going to live, next moment to die. And then suddenly you were in full flood!”

  He was older than Griboedov; from an obscure, noble family, he did not care about his position in society; he had been living on his wife’s fortune, but he still had some influence over his friend. Next to him, Griboedov felt like a man of straw.

  Such was the effect of Begichev’s soft, fluffy head.

  “I won’t go to Persia,” Griboedov said languidly. “I have an enemy there, Alaiar-Khan, the son-in-law of the shah. They won’t let me out of Persia alive.”

  He had not thought about Dr. McNeill, had forgotten about him in fact, but now that he spoke about Persia, he had an unpleasant feeling that had nothing to do with Persia.

  “… How am I?” said Begichev. “I eat, drink, amuse myself with the factories. I wake up in the morning and think: it is a long time until evening, and in the evening: the night is yet to come. So time passes. But you are a tall ship. How did Alaiar-Khan become your enemy? Indeed, it’s the lot of clever people to spend most of their lives with fools. And there are so many of them over here! Whole armies of them. Even more than soldiers. Maybe you should join Paskevich?”

  Griboedov looked away like a haunted soul.

  “Do you really think that I can serve under him forever?”

  He suddenly felt crowded on the sofa.

  They drank more wine, and Begichev warned him:

  “Don’t drink Burgundy. Burgundy makes your head go round.”

  Sasha did not drink the Burgundy, he took to another wine.

  He fell quiet, looked apprehensive. He became submissive.

  So the two friends sit on, and the face of the English clock stares at them.

  So they sit on—for the moment.

  Then one of them notices that a strange breeze has entered the room with the other.

  And his manners seem to have altered, and his voice has grown fainter, and the hair on the sides of his head has grown thinner.

  He no longer strokes his head; he does not know what to do about the other man.

  Properly speaking, what he really wants and what he finds hard to admit, is for his friend to leave as soon as possible.

  Then Griboedov went to the piano.

  He pressed the pedals and pushed himself away from the shore.

  Wine and music immediately fenced him off from everyone. Farewell, good folk, farewell, clever people!

  The sides of a traveling coach, like the paddles of a steamer, cleave the air of Asia. And the road spatters the sides of the coach with sand and dung.

  He suddenly felt constrained by the rushing along the roads, the shuddering of the blood, the beating of the highway heart.

  He yearned to reconcile himself with the earth, insulted by his senseless, ten-year pursuit.

  But he could not settle with it like a random passerby.

  His light carriage was slicing the air.

  The conditions were as exact as music. He had far-reaching plans. His own project, sealed with five neat seals, lay next to the Turkmenchai Peace Treaty—which now was no longer his.

  02

  An Arab horse gallops twice in a race.

  A camel ambles gently night and day.

  ▶ Sa’di, The Gulistan

  1

  A short notice appeared in the newspaper the Northern Bee on March 14:

  At 3 o’clock this afternoon, a cannon shot from the Peter and Paul Fortress announced to the residents of the capital city that a peace with Persia has been concluded. News of this and of the treaty itself have been delivered today from the headquarters of the Russian army operating in Persia by Collegiate Councillor Griboedov, of the State College of Foreign Affairs.

  The three o’clock shot alarmed everyone.

  The cannons of the Peter and Paul Fortress were Petersburg’s artillery newspaper. From time immemorial, they had boomed each noon, and signaled an approaching flood. For a moment, everyone in Petersburg would be struck dumb. The cannon shot invaded the life of every room and every office. The brief moment of surprise always ended with the adults checking their watches and the children unconsciously starting to play with their toy soldiers.

  The force of habit was so strong that when a flood did occur, the clerks rushed to check the clocks.

  But at three o’clock on March 14, 1828, the guns boomed out in military style. Two hundred and one shots were fired.

  The Peter and Paul Fortress was the place of rest for dead emperors and of torment for living rebels.

  Two hundred and one discharges, made one after another, suggested not a celebration, but an insurrection.

  In poin
t of fact, the matter was surprisingly simple and somewhat mundane.

  Collegiate Councillor Griboedov had arrived at Demout’s Hotel on the previous night.

  He requested three convenient, interconnected rooms. He went to bed and slept like a log all through the night. Now and again, his sleep was disturbed by the wallpaper design and the shuffle of slippers in the corridor. The unfamiliar old furniture creaked unusually loudly. It was as if he had sunk deep into the heavy, soft sofa that enshrouded him on all sides, as if he had fallen right through it, and the hotel curtains on the windows seemed to have been drawn for all eternity.

  By ten in the morning, he had shaved, put on a clean shirt, as if before execution or an important exam, and at twelve, he was already on his way to the College of Foreign Affairs.

  Officials of various ranks met him in the large hall. How many different hands he shook! And they looked at him as if a secret trap had been sprung for him in the depths of the hall that he was about to cross.

  That day, every St. Petersburg collegiate councillor was drunk with jealousy, sick with it, and when night came prayed into his pillow inconsolably, fervently.

  There was no trap. He was taken straight to Nesselrode.

  And there was Nesselrode himself—standing in the depths of the hall.

  Karl Robert Nesselrode, the gray-faced dwarf, the head of Russian foreign policy.

  The collegiate councillor was wearing a green uniform tailcoat and stood erect, unbending, in front of this condottiero1 and contractor of whispers.

  Finally, he bowed his head with the movement of a gymnast holding a pole across his neck and supporting another gymnast.

  “It is my honor to present myself to Your Excellency.”

  The dwarf stuck out his tiny, feminine hand and the little white hand laid itself down onto the yellow hand.

  The collegiate councillors stared at them.

  Then they heard the collegiate councillor’s repeated incantation:

  “Your Excellency, on behalf of His Excellency, the commander-in-chief, I have the honor to hand over to you the Turkmenchai Treaty.”

  The tiny white hand laid itself down on a bulky package stamped with several wax seals.

  The tiny gray head came alive, a Jewish nose drew in air, and German lips said in French: