Well said! This needed to be mentioned to Metternich at some point, if he came up with his waspish remarks: “We are no longer dependent on exporting …” But was it true? And if we no longer need foreigners, what is the point of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs?
The collegiate councillor spoke icily.
“What we lack is the produce of the warm subtropical climates, and we are forced to purchase these from western and southern Europe and Central Asia.”
Aha, so something was lacking. That was better!
“The trade with Europe is still quite profitable for Russia …”
Of course, he’d always said this. One couldn’t do anything without Vienna. And it was not his fault that with everything that was going on …
“But the trade with Asia is not in our favor at all.”
Asia? Could be, he didn’t deny it. Generally speaking, Asian affairs were uncertain. The collegiate councillor was absolutely right. It was not worth it for all sorts of reasons to have begun the brouhaha. He had always felt this, instinctively. Now, as it turned out, from the point of view of trade too …
The collegiate councillor suddenly asked:
“And why?”
Why indeed? Nesselrode looked at him curiously.
“The reasons are obvious to both of Your Excellencies: the stringency of the new authorities …”
Nesselrode knitted his brow. What “new” authorities was he talking about? This had to be Paskevich, the newly coined count! Watch out!
“Rebellions caused by the introduction of the new order and general changes to which no peoples could submit voluntarily.”
Ah, those changes!
“What is required is taking stock, treading carefully, and keeping calm.”
Nesselrode sighed. Yes, calm was needed—much needed.
“The roar of guns does not make a country prosperous.”
These were his own thoughts, indeed. If only Griboedov didn’t voice them so abrasively. He was still young and inexperienced, though, essentially, he seemed a level-headed young man.
“Not a single factory has sprung up in Transcaucasia, and neither agriculture nor fruit growing has thrived so far.”
Ah, rather harsh, rather bitter!
“And meanwhile the Tiflis merchants travel to Leipzig for their goods and sell them profitably, both at home and in Persia.”
Nesselrode searched for Leipzig on the little watercolors. That was a wonderful city, very cozy, unlike Petersburg; he’d been there.
“You know,” he said suddenly, “it has a completely different climate …”
The collegiate councillor agreed:
“Climate is crucial, the root of the problem. The natural produce in Transcaucasia is varied and abundant. There are grapes, silk, cotton, dyer’s madder, cochineal; in ancient times, they even grew sugarcane …”
Sugarcane, yes. Zuckerrohr—Rohr—roseau …
The sugarcane made Nesselrode recall someone’s phrase, possibly one of Pascal’s pensées: un roseau pensant, the thinking reed, which only last week had been successfully quoted in the French chamber by le Comte … the official rubbed the bridge of his nose … by le Comte … what was his name again?
All of a sudden, the collegiate councillor said point-blank:
“The efforts of private individuals will remain fruitless. We ought to pool various investments with a view to create in Transcaucasia a single company of capitalist producers. Follow the British example—agriculture, manufacturing, and trade—the new Russian East India Company.”
Struck to the core, Nesselrode suddenly said:
“Fascinating.”
“And then, all European nations will vie with one another to do business in Mingrelia and Imereti, and Russia will be able to offer them the colonial produce that they are currently seeking in the other hemisphere.”
Silence in the room. The chief sat like a little gray mouse, chest puffed out. Here she was, Russia, already offering her produce, all this manufacturing, all these … what’s the word? … cottons. And then the Duke of Wellington might even …
“Could you tell me please,” he inquired rather slyly and cautiously, “whether all this might not affect our friendly … so far friendly relations with London?”
“Oh, not at all!” The collegiate councillor put his mind at rest. “This will be a peaceful commercial rivalry, nothing more than that.”
There were little watercolors. There was peace in the entire world. There was none of that fighting spirit. There was peaceful rivalry, extremely civilized. Russia would acquire the same significance as England, God damn it! And he would tell the Duke of Wellington: the peaceful development of our colonies … Dear God! How had he not seen it before: Transcaucasia was actually the colonies!
The little watercolors hung in their places; green seascapes commanded the chief’s attention.
Yes, but this is very … cumbersome … untried. This would not be a war as such, but might well cause a … brouhaha … Ice floes, ice floes, and … polar bears. And how to start? This blue package of his should probably be sent to the finance minister. After all, it had something to do with Paskevich. But what did Paskevich have to do with any of it? The chief’s eyes lingered on the picture of an Italian musician who was puffing out his cheeks. The cheeks were about to burst. The picture was blistering a little. Nesselrode asked warily:
“Have you spoken to Ivan Fyodorovich?”
The collegiate councillor didn’t turn a hair.
“Ivan Fyodorovich is familiar with the general outline of the project.”
“General outline” meant, in Sashka’s language, “nothing at all.”
Aha! So this was what he was like, this relative of Paskevich! Quite a pleasant fellow. And now he could submit the project to the emperor on behalf of the Ministry—and bypass Paskevich. Excellent idea. Projects were in fashion … But how would Paskevich feel about all this? And where was the proof … the guarantees … for this memorandum? And at this point, out of force of habit, he glanced inquisitively at Rodofinikin. The Greek looked rather offended.
He shook Griboedov’s hand with incredible vigor.
“What a talent, my dear Alexander Sergeyevich! I have always, always been saying so to our dear count.”
And his superior confirmed it with a nod.
And Griboedov said coldly, addressing Nesselrode:
“In my project, I have tried to adhere to the way of thinking of the honorable Konstantin Konstantinovich. And everything that he has to say, I accept with great satisfaction and humility: his experience is great and mine is often insufficient.”
“Ah, no, no, Alexander Sergeyevich,” Rodofinikin shook his head, “you’ve done all this on your own: I can take no credit for it.”
Griboedov answered:
“When Paskevich learned that you were ill, Your Excellency, what he said was: ‘Rodofinikin is sick with the European fever, and a bout of the Asian illness would do him a world of good.’ But your illness has prevented me from …”
They were not to be allowed to forget that he was related to Paskevich.
The chief smiled. Rodofinikin chortled in a low voice:
“Hee-hee-hee …”
His superior rubbed his tiny hands. A pleasant conversation—no advancement of troops, no complications with cabinets, no dispatches, the project of reforms as interesting as reading a novel, and requiring no immediate action.
Except that the project was too cumbersome. The person in charge should be…. Perhaps a committee should be created? His wife’s nephew had been knocking about without a job; he could be entrusted with setting up such a committee and appointing its staff. This would be a good appointment. The previous day, his wife had demanded the post of a secretary for him, but the nephew was a madcap and a gambler; a committee would be a different matter.
“Gentlemen, shall we proceed to the dance hall?”
Rodofinikin put the blue package in his briefcase.
16
&nbs
p; The ball. Nesselrode’s mustachioed wife. Various fruits on silver platters. A recently arrived foreign virtuoso, playing with extraordinary dexterity. The envoys—French, German, Sardinian—applauding. Their various wives, some lively and courteous, others reserved.
A gambling table in the room next door.
“Young man, do not shy away from the cards; a sad old age awaits you.”
He did not shy away; he played.
And in the corner, an impassive, silent shadow: Dr. McNeill. Shaved to the bone, invited as a foreign visitor.
The extraterritorial colony was raising in its wineglasses not port and madeira, but Germany and Spain.
Everyone was drinking to the health of the vice chancellor.
What was the vice chancellor?
What were his responsibilities?
The vice chancellor was like a fish in water with foreign ambassadors. This was not France, Germany, or Sardinia: these people were friends of his, drinking his health. These were his friends with their wives.
He was about to make an amusing speech, and France, Germany, Sardinia would gape and clap their hands. He was good at humor, the dwarf, Karl Vasilyevich, count, vice chancellor, a courteous Russian.
The bandy-legged Greek sat there modestly, not to be seen. The French lady next to him was bored.
From time to time, he would give a deep but quiet chuckle:
“Hee-hee.”
Memoranda, dispatches, and projects were in the briefcases.
Only after the dinner was over would the French ambassador crack a joke and subtly steer the conversation to the Turks.
The ladies would liven up, form their own capricious circle, complete with secrets, and wag their fingers jokingly at the diplomats.
Then everything would quiet down. The diplomats would lead off to the nightly slaughter their now lively and courteous, now reserved wives.
The last to leave would be the inconspicuous doctor, who had had a fascinating conversation with the vice chancellor about the East India’s interests.
Only in the middle of the night, having stumbled shortsightedly into the card table, with the scores scribbled out in chalk, would the dwarf remember that he was a member of the Privy Council, and that on the next day, he was expected to express his opinion on:
1. What we expected;
2. How things really stand;
3. What is positive about the present situation; and
4. What requires immediate attention.
It was assumed that he knew how things stood and what was positive about the present situation. His strength lay in not having a clue.
It would be good now to fall asleep and not have to listen to his wife.
In the middle of the night, the dwarf would wake up and remember the strange project of the extraordinary collegiate councillor’s.
The only precisely remembered details from the project would be the sugarcane, le roseau pensant, the warning from the English doctor, and some vague thoughts about the Duke of Wellington and General Paskevich, whom it would be nice to …
“It would be nice to do what?”
What was the vice chancellor; what were his responsibilities?
He would turn over on his other side, and the sight of his wife’s formidable nose would make him sick at heart.
And he would fall asleep.
This was what was expected. This was how things stood. This was what was positive at present.
17
Sashka lay asleep on the sofa wearing the Georgian chekmen.
Griboedov lit all the candles and pulled him off by the feet.
He looked into his vacant eyes, burst out laughing, and suddenly gave him a hug.
“Sashka, old friend.”
He jostled and tickled him. Then he said:
“Dance, now, you silly pooch.”
Sashka stood there swaying.
“Dance, I say!”
Then Sashka waved his hand, stamped his feet on the spot, gave a single twirl, and woke up.
“Call the English doctor from the room next door.”
When the doctor came, a row of bottles was arranged on the table, and Sashka, still wearing the Georgian chekmen, which Griboedov wouldn’t allow him to take off, was bustling about with a napkin in his hand. The hotel servant was helping him.
“So you are saying that Alaiar-Khan will tear me apart, are you?” said Griboedov.
The Englishman shrugged. Griboedov clinked his glass.
“Let’s drink to the health of the chivalrous khan.”
The doctor laughed, snapped his fingers, drank, and with perfect confidence looked at the bespectacled man.
“So, you are saying that Malta in the Mediterranean, antagonistic to the British, was a great project of the late Emperor Paul?”
The Englishman nodded in response to that.
“Let’s drink to Emperor Paul’s soul resting in peace.”
And the Englishman drank to the late emperor.
“How’s my friend Samson-Khan doing?”
The doctor shrugged again and glanced at Sashka in his long chekmen.
“Many thanks. He seems to be doing just fine. Though I don’t really know.”
They drank to Samson’s health.
They had one drink after another in pretty quick succession. It was almost morning.
“And now, my dear doctor, to your East India Company. In your opinion, can there be another East India?”
The doctor put his glass on the table.
“I’ve had too much to drink, my friend! I appreciate your hospitality.”
He got up and left the room.
“Dance, Sashka …”
He slipped the hotel servant a gold coin.
“Your services, my dear chap, are no longer required.”
“Sashka, you devil, you stupid pooch, come on, dance!”
18
And gradually, drunk, with bedraggled hair, in a cold bed, it became clear to him whom he ought to pray to.
He ought to pray to that little girl with the heavy-lidded eyes, who lived in the Caucasus and might be thinking of him at this very moment.
Not just thinking. Even though a mere girl, she understood him.
There was no Lenochka Bulgarina. And Katya Teleshova was just a dream—in a huge theater that was supposed to be applauding him, the author, and applauded Acis instead.
There had been no betrayals: he had not betrayed Ermolov, hadn’t gone over Paskevich’s head; he was honest and kind, a good, straightforward child.
He was asking forgiveness for his faults, for his thwarted life that was falling apart, for his cheating to achieve his goals, and for the fact that his black uniform fitted him too neatly and he allowed the uniform to control him.
And also for his coldness to her, for his strange fear.
Forgiveness for departing from the dreams of his youth.
And for his crimes.
He couldn’t come to her like a stranger begging for shelter.
All would be forgotten if she comforted him, if only she could tell him that all was well.
There would be a land, with which he would make his peace; he would return to the dreams of his youth, even though it would now be old age.
There would be his country, his second homeland, his work.
So much had been ruined and wasted in his youth.
Old age was approaching, and he had to save his soul.
19
He was at Katya’s. Katya sighed.
She sighed so blatantly, with her entire bosom, that only a total idiot could fail to understand her.
Griboedov sat there courteously and did not understand a thing.
“You know, Katerina Alexandrovna, your elevation has developed considerably of late.”
Katya stopped sighing. After all, she was an actress and smiled at Griboedov as at a critic.
“You think so?”
“Well, you are pretty much catching up with Istomina now. A touch more, and I daresay you will
be her equal. As far as pirouettes are concerned.”
All this stated slowly, in the voice of a connoisseur.
“You think so?”
Drawling, flat-voiced, and now without a smile.
And Katya gave a sigh.
“You wouldn’t recognize her now. Poor Istomina … She has aged …” And Katya placed her hands well away from each side of her hips, “ … has let herself go.”
Griboedov politely agreed:
“Well, yes, but her elevation is pretty much unfathomable. Pushkin is right—‘she flies like down on the breath of Aeolus.’”
“Nowadays, she doesn’t exactly fly, but it’s true that she used to be pretty fit—there’s no denying that, of course.”
Katya spoke with some dignity. Griboedov nodded.
“But what is not good are the old habits of this double snipe, Didelot. One has the feeling that he stands in the wings and claps: one-two-three.”
But Katya too was Didelot’s pupil.
“Ah, no, no, no,” she said, “I disagree, Alexander Sergeyevich. There are those who upbraid him now, and indeed if a pupil is talentless, it is pretty obvious, but I always say: his was a very good school.”
Silence.
“These days, Novitskaya is very much to the fore.” Katya was being conciliatory and whispered, “His Majesty …”
“Why don’t you, Katerina Alexandrovna, have a go at comedy?” asked Griboedov.
Katya gaped, bewildered.
“And what on earth would I do in comedy?”
“Well, you know,” Griboedov answered evasively, “aren’t you a bit sick of dancing all the time? The parts in comedy are more diverse.”
“Am I too old to dance?”
Two tears.
She wiped them away with her handkerchief, a simple gesture. Then she thought for a moment and glanced at Griboedov. He was serious; all attention.
“I’ll think about it. You might be right. I should have a stab at comedy.”
She hid her handkerchief.
“How terribly unkind to me you’ve become. Ah, I don’t recognize you, Alexander. Sasha.”
“I am too old, Katerina Alexandrovna.”
A kiss on the hand, perfectly frigid.
“Would you like to go for a walk? It’s a festival day. Could be amusing?”
The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar Page 13