The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar

by Yury Tynyanov

  “I congratulate you, Mr. Secretary, and you, gentlemen, on the glorious peace.”

  Karl Robert Nesselrode did not speak Russian.

  He turned on his tiny heels and opened the door to his office for Griboedov to enter. Open sesame. The somber portraits of emperors in bright frames hung on the walls, and the desk was as bare as a lectern.

  Unable to come to rest on either a book or a case file, the eye had no option but to retreat inward into abstraction.

  At this point Nesselrode offered him a seat.

  “Before our visit to the emperor, Mr. Griboedov, I would like to express personally my deep gratitude for both your industry and your expertise.”

  A cross of some award dangled on his tiny chest, ridiculously fragile, as if inviting anybody who cared to yank it off.

  “The conditions of the peace in which you have assisted us so greatly have brought such benefits to Russia, that at first glance would have seemed unattainable.”

  He smiled sadly and pleasantly and let that little smile linger on his face, while his gray eyes flickered all over Griboedov.

  Griboedov assumed a stony expression. This was not the collegiate councillor sitting before the minister; they were two augurers pitting their prophecies against one another. Nesselrode was acting as if his knowledge were superior.

  “A superb, honorable peace,” he said with a sigh, “but …”

  The other augurer had no intention of lowering the price of his knowledge, did not even crane his neck to signify awareness.

  “… but don’t you think, dear Mr. Griboedov,” Nesselrode brought the price down just a little, “that on the one hand …”

  He couldn’t quite bring himself to finish the sentence.

  Then the younger one began to speak:

  “I believe, Your Excellency, that on the one hand, our border along the Aras, as far as the Edibuluk ford, will henceforth be our natural frontier. We’ll be protected not only by the wisdom of Your Excellency’s policies, but also by the river and the mountains.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Nesselrode looked sulky, as if slightly offended. He stopped his swaying, and the little cross froze on his chest as if stitched to it. Now it was his turn to fall silent.

  “On the other hand,” said the younger man, and paused as if he had reached the end of the sentence. He had learned a lot in Persia.

  “On the other hand,” said Nesselrode as if excusing the inexperience of the younger man and regretting it, “will we be able to ensure the implementation of all the clauses of such a splendid treaty, if we take into consideration …?”

  And the tiny hand made a gesture.

  The gesture meant—“the Turkish war.”

  “Hopefully, Your Excellency, the Turkish campaign will soon be at an end.”

  The older man turned around helplessly: the bandy-legged Greek, Rodofinikin, in charge of the Asian Department, was off with a fever. His good-natured vulgarity in conversation was helpful in communication with subordinates. The bandy-legged one would have put on a smile at this point and reduced the talk to some everyday trifles of the most humdrum character (“What halva they have in Persia! What date-plums!”), and then would have patted him on the shoulder, figuratively speaking.

  Nesselrode smiled triumphantly:

  “Yes, I hope so too. You probably know that His Majesty and his small circle—O! La bande des joyeux!” Nesselrode waved his tiny hand with desperate bravado, “—are setting off for the theater of war, as soon as we declare it.”

  In fact, the war had already broken out but wasn’t yet officially declared.

  The younger man knew nothing of that narrow circle and raised his eyebrows high. His superior easily understood that Griboedov was no fool.

  After all, he couldn’t say to the collegiate councillor in so many words that just as he had previously wanted to speed up the shamefully protracted and futile Persian war, now he had to do everything he could to try to slow down the war with Turkey.

  So far as he was concerned, war was chaos, unpredictability, brouhaha.

  In the recollections of his youth, war was always associated with the downfall of some minister. And now he was a minister.

  And here he was, waving his intrepid little hand, while what he really ought to have done was simply leave, retire, while he still had time.

  His old friend, Count de La Ferronays, who had recently been recalled to France, wrote to him weekly from Paris: the French were concerned, they were displeased; Europe was weighing Russian military might against her own, and it would be better if he, Nesselrode, came to an agreement with the new ambassador. Count de La Ferronays also advised: Peace, peace whatever the cost, any peace, as soon as we achieve military success—or failure.

  Prince Lieven, the Russian ambassador in London, wrote to Nesselrode that he had stopped appearing in public because Wellington did not wish to have anything to do with him and would be placated only by a few defeats inflicted on Russian troops.

  And now Lord Aberdeen had begun, strangely enough, to sympathize with Metternich. That wasn’t just brouhaha—that was much worse. Metternich …

  But here the old wound opened up—the Viennese mentor renounced his Petersburg disciple and called him a Danton and an idiot in every language he knew.

  While all that was going on, Karl Robert Nesselrode had to govern, govern, govern.

  And enjoy himself nonstop, night and day.

  He hadn’t the energy for both.

  So he handed over the governing to his wife and decided to concentrate on enjoying himself. That was no easy task. He knew that his nickname in Petersburg was “fried face,” and some hack had lampooned him in an abominably vulgar scribble: that he was not the minister for Europe but a pathetic péteur, a stinker.

  Karl Robert Nesselrode, the son of a Prussian and a Jewess, had in fact been born aboard an English ship bound for Lisbon.

  The balance of power and overlapping friendships was tilting and pitching like that English ship, and it was now he, he, Karl Robert Nesselrode, who was in agony like his mother at the moment of that childbirth at sea.

  The outward expression of his inner agony was different, however. He smiled.

  He wanted this strange courier to lower his price, he wanted to make sense of the man, but instead, he seemed to have expressed his dissatisfaction with the peace treaty and thus revealed the fact that it had been concluded without him, Nesselrode. The young man was also one of these … clever sorts. And he was related to General Paskevich. Nesselrode turned toward the collegiate councillor, who projected a mixture of Russian churlishness and Asian deviousness, and gave him a cheerful smile.

  “We’ll have time to talk later, dear Mr. Griboedov. Right now we have to hurry. The emperor awaits us.”

  2

  I was summoned to the Headquarters

  And dragged in for a dressing-down.

  ▶ Griboedov

  The diplomatic class traveled in soft damask–upholstered coaches. Nesselrode offered Griboedov a seat next to himself. Inside it was stuffy and unpleasant. The dwarf had left the pleasant smile at home. He would reclaim it at the palace. In the carriage, in his strange, almost clownish outfit and with no expression on his little gray face, he looked quite terrifying.

  He had on a dark-green uniform with a red cloth collar and red cuffs. Gold edging ran along the collar, the cuffs, the pocket flaps, underneath them, down the coattails, along the seams. He had braid embroidered in coils on his little chest. Birds’ heads glittered on the brand-new buttons—the emblem of the state.

  And when the dwarf was arranging the uniform on his knees, the sheen of the dark-green silk lining could be glimpsed.

  This was his court uniform. His hat was adorned with a plume.

  They were rumbling along to the palace.

  Everything was predetermined, and yet both men were anxious. They were entering the realm of absolute order, of immutable truths: the very color of the lining and the shape of the
hairstyle were specified, the harmony was preordained. Nesselrode examined Griboedov uneasily. He remembered the decree on mustaches, which only the military were permitted to wear, and another banning the wearing of Jewish-looking beards.

  The collegiate councillor was apparently aware of the decree, and his coiffure was absolutely appropriate.

  Instead of entering the main gate of the palace, they rolled up to the side one. The guardsmen stood to attention, and the officer gave them a salute.

  As soon as the dwarf, followed by Griboedov, climbed out of the carriage, a thickset, unfamiliar face arose in front of them. The face was that of the Court Outrunner. In a smooth and dignified manner, as if entering the pulpit, he took them through the heavy door to a portico and led them in the same kind of solemn pace up the stairs. Two huge ostrich feathers fluttered above his head: a black one and a white one. At the entrance to the imperial chambers, the Outrunner halted, made a bow, left the new arrivals, and slowly began to descend the stairs. He ushered in the remaining members of the diplomatic caste three men at a time.

  Griboedov looked as jaundiced as a lemon.

  The Outrunner and Hoff-Quartermaster marched silently ahead of them. They were beefy, clean-shaven, calm and collected.

  The diplomats entered the antechamber.

  They were met by the Ceremonial Affairs Officer. He joined the Outrunner and the Hoff-Quartermaster.

  First ahead of them were the Hoff-Quartermaster and the Outrunner.

  Then the Ceremonial Affairs Officer, the Hoff-Quartermaster, and the Outrunner.

  The Master of Ceremonies, the Ceremonial Affairs Officer, the Hoff-Quartermaster, and the Outrunner.

  The Chief Master of Ceremonies, the Master of Ceremonies, the Officer of the abovementioned Affairs, the Hoff-Quartermaster, and the Outrunner.

  They were met in each room that followed and were joined in silence. Without looking at each other, they marched on, some on the sides, some in front—evidently according to etiquette.

  A quiet little children’s game, played by old men in gilded garments, was getting under way.

  As soon as a new rank joined them in each room that followed, Griboedov experienced a childish fear: how patiently they waited for them, how imperceptibly they materialized out of the brightly decorated walls, and with what concentration they measured their step with theirs.

  It felt like a bad dream. In the Audience Hall, the Chief Master of Ceremonies lingered at the door according to protocol, and they were met by the Hoff-Marshall and the Ober-Hoff-Marshall.

  Nesselrode panted rapidly from the pleasure and the pace. His tiny gray face was flushed—they were being shown great honor, quite extraordinary.

  And here was the Famous Face, with the neck bulging at the collar, with a hairpiece concealing an early bald patch, and with breeches so white they made the legs look almost edible. The face was pink.

  He said something and smiled with his chin: the big chin sank downward. He took the package from the dwarf’s hands and jerked his head and eyes sideways, in the direction of the Ober-Hoff-Marshall. The old man in gold bestirred himself while remaining stationary. He was all bustle, face and body, without actually moving an inch from where he stood. It was like a frenzied running on the spot.

  When the first shot boomed, Griboedov gathered what was happening.

  The mechanism worked like this: an invisible thread ran from the Famous Face via the Hoff-Marshall to the Peter and Paul cannon. The Face had given the sign, but the shot was slow in coming, and now the face registered displeasure.

  Then the two-hour-long booming began.

  Emperor Nicholas spoke to Nesselrode, holding him by his gold lace. Then he approached Griboedov and asked:

  “How is the health of my Commander?”

  When he was still an heir to the throne, the emperor had served under Paskevich’s command, and since then he called him “Commander” or “Father Commander.”

  “I seem to remember meeting you at his place about three years ago.”

  “Your Majesty has an excellent memory.”

  The cannon were striking like clocks.

  Was it worth it, spending a month being jolted in a carriage, in hot and cold weather, in order to pay this trite compliment?

  The dwarf was blossoming like a gray rose.

  He was counting the shots.

  He knew that with each shot he was rising through the ranks.

  Thus, little by little, he was becoming count, vice chancellor.

  And here now were leases, rents, country estates.

  “Congratulations, gentlemen!”

  Griboedov already knew what he was being congratulated for.

  The Order of St. Anna, second class, studded with diamonds, had been promised to him by Paskevich. He was worried in case Paskevich had forgotten the money—Griboedov had requested four thousand chervontsy. To buy off dear mother.

  The dwarf was counting, his face lit up.

  He looked like a goldfish in a tank.

  He seemed to be growing, straightening, stretching; he was no longer what he had been an hour earlier, the mere Karl Robert Nesselrode; he was now vice chancellor of the empire. He would endeavor to aspire even higher and perhaps he would reach as far as … who knows?

  If he’d had gills, they would have fluttered like mad.

  Cannon shots.

  Paskevich was becoming a count, Nesselrode the vice chancellor.

  Collegiate Councillor Griboedov was receiving a decoration and the money.

  The silver medals had been minted with an inscription on the obverse: “For the Persian war,” and on the reverse, “1826, 1827, and 1828.”

  By the time everyone had moved to the court chapel, Nesselrode had come back to earth.

  He belonged to the Anglican Church—the son of a Catholic father and a Protestant mother—and he was accustomed to praying in an Orthodox church.

  The cannon fire stopped. The city was booming with the pealing of church bells. The chimes were not as in Moscow, sonorous and deep, but had a different sound—hollow and clinking, like the clip-clopping of the cavalry’s hooves.

  There was a silent understanding.

  The ship that had once made for Lisbon was bobbing on the waves. Undercurrents were stirring among the diplomatic estate and among eminent persons of both genders.

  Nobody knew where the ship was bound for, least of all the head of Russian politics.

  But everyone sensed that the color of the uniforms determined the direction of minds. They all knew that the collegiate councillor’s collar should be black and velvety. Otherwise, the threads would lose tangibility, slip through his hands, become elusive. The ship would start spinning; there would be another uprising, similar to the Decembrists’, which would make heads whirl.

  There was a silent understanding between the Famous Face, the dwarf, and the Russian god.

  One last time, God accepted the report from Griboedov in his rank as collegiate councillor at the court church, which looked like a children’s Christmas party. The Famous Face accepted the report from God and smiled.

  3

  He was more exhausted by the palace than by his travels, and when he sped to his hotel rooms, he hugged all and sundry just to unwind. How many were there! All of his old friends. He calmed down only when he mistakenly hugged Sashka, who was in the way, and he burst into laughter.

  “Why are you getting under my feet?”

  He examined them all like a mischievous birthday boy until Faddei Bulgarin was suddenly all over him.

  Faddei had grown bald and bold. A big tear hung on his reddish eyelids. He giggled, looked at Griboedov like a lost soul, shifted his glance from him to the others, and from the others back to him.

  Griboedov sat down, young and carefree.

  How many old friends had rolled up to see him! He also noticed many strangers and didn’t like that. Did he look ridiculous?

  They tried to drag him off to the theater, insisted on going, kept reminding him
all at once of their old fondness; and some were afraid that Griboedov might not even recognize them. Then Nesselrode’s footman arrived with an invitation to the ball.

  He left them all in the front room and went through to the adjacent bedroom. The third room was used as a study.

  Oriental ambassadors and couriers were treated to such apartments at Demout’s Hotel.

  Faddei slithered in behind him.

  “How are you doing, Faddei, you old rag-and-bone man? Who are you at war with now?”

  Griboedov was preparing to change. He poured ice-cold water onto his head and snorted.

  Faddei observed all this like a religious ritual. He gathered that the changing of clothes signified the end of the court ceremony.

  Griboedov threw off his shirt, heavy with palace sweat, as if it were a uniform.

  “You are tanned, you have put on some weight,” Faddei said affectionately, and stroked Griboedov’s yellowish hand.

  Sashka circled Griboedov with a towel.

  Between the soapy water and the eau de cologne, Griboedov learned that Lenochka Bulgarina was well, remembered him, and would be at the theater tonight, that the old Privy Councillor Korneev had died and that his wife had wasted no time in getting married again—“a scandal, my friend, an utter scandal”—that the latest fashion at balls was narrow trousers, and that there was nothing new in the journals—everyone was awaiting him.

  Griboedov splashed him with water on purpose, and Faddei said:

  “What swinish behavior, my friend, quite immature really. You’ve grown young again.”

  4

  Washed, corseted, fresh undergarments and softer collar on, having thrown off a thousand years, he entered the familiar auditorium.

  It was the royal attendance night at the Bolshoi Theater.2

  His black tailcoat cut through the crowd as a ship slices through the waves.

  He hadn’t been here for two years, and everything was different. The auditorium was freshly painted, the ceiling now of an azure color and laden with cornices. The music was swelling with Boieldieu’s bravura, preventing him from taking a proper look round.