All of a sudden, he came out of his reverie and fidgeted.
“But the government of it, after all, there will be a governing body—can you tell me on what foundations …”
“Foundations?” asked Griboedov and sat up in his chair.
“Yes, foundations.”
Rodofinikin choked on the word.
Should he equivocate? Consider his position? Griboedov had only seconds left to decide.
He said simply, without lowering his voice:
“There will have to be a board of governors.”
Rodofinikin bowed his head.
“A board?”
“And a director of the board.”
They kept silent.
“And … the director’s … remit?” asked Rodofinikin quietly.
“You mean, his powers?”
“Em-m-m,” murmured Rodofinikin.
“The right to build fortresses,” said Griboedov.
“Certainly,” nodded Rodofinikin.
“Establishing diplomatic relations with neighboring states.”
Rodofinikin moved his fingers. Griboedov suddenly raised his voice and breathed very evenly:
“The right to declare war and to mobilize troops …”
Rodofinikin bowed his head. He was thinking. His eyes were shifting. How easy it all turned out to be in a frank business conversation. In a stifling office with bleak mahogany bookcases. What would Nesselrode say? But he would say what the Greek would say. The emperor … The emperor would stick his chest out, as he did when declaring wars that he was afraid of and secretly wondering why he was waging them at all. Paskevich would be a member of the Company. Rodofinikin asked hoarsely:
“Will His Excellency the Commander-in-Chief Paskevich sit on the board?”
“He will be a member,” responded Griboedov.
Rodofinikin looked down again. Perhaps it was good that he would not be the director. In which case Paskevich … that would be the end of Paskevich … fine. The director? Rodofinikin did not ask who would be the director. He merely frowned at Griboedov.
“All this is quite novel,” he said.
He got up. So did Griboedov. And all of a sudden, Rodofinikin did not quite pat, oh no, but touched the side of Griboedov’s frock coat, gently, patronizingly.
“I will talk to Karl Vasilyevich Nesselrode,” he said gravely, and then frowned again. “And when exactly did Castellas’s bankruptcy become clear?”
“It was clear to me, Konstantin Konstantinovich, from the outset.”
And Griboedov took his leave.
Half an hour later, a haughty lackey knocked on Rodofinikin’s door. He gave him a visiting card. The card was an Englishman’s, that of Dr. McNeill, a member of the English mission in Tabriz. Rodofinikin said absentmindedly:
“Ask him in.”
22
Beware of quiet people gripped by anger and of melancholy people overcome by good fortune. Here is one such man, driven in a light cab; here he is, hurried on by the hired horses. Joy, almost like contempt, flares his nostrils. His is the smile of self-satisfaction.
The sudden initial rapture is not the issue: it is not even clear as yet whether there will be success or failure—it is simply the joy of the one who acts.
But when important business is coming to a successful end, it is as if the business ceases to exist. It is hard to suppress strength in a trim body, and the mouth is too thin-lipped for such a smile. It’s the smile of self-satisfaction. It makes a man vulnerable.
Like a tickling sensation, his body still remembers the deep, slow bow to the old Greek.
After the negotiations with Abbas Mirza himself, that was easy.
He had conquered new lands with no help from the glorious Russian troops.
Good fortune was smiling on him. That day he was dining at some general’s.
These days he was a welcome guest.
Everything was going swimmingly.
23
Let’s surrender ourselves to fate.
Only in the New World can we find a safe haven.
▶ Christopher Columbus
From the moment of his arrival, he had been entertained by generals and senators, and Nastasya Fyodorovna could rest content: the Petersburg life did not cost Alexander a penny: he lived like a bird, by God’s grace.
He was a particular favorite of General Sukhozanet, the artillery commander of the Guards Corps. He constantly sent him little notes, friendly if illiterate, had paid him a visit at his hotel and had now invited him to dinner.
His new acquaintances sat at the big table: Count Chernyshev, Levashov, Prince Dolgorukov, Prince Beloselsky-Belozersky—the host’s father-in-law, Golenishchev-Kutuzov, the new Petersburg military governor-general, Count Opperman, and Alexander Khristoforovich Benckendorff, pink and smiling.
Whom were they honoring? Whom were they treating to dinner?
Was the answer to this question obvious? Could it even be asked? It had something to do with subtle signs and hints: they followed the flow—first, a pleased smile appeared on a certain face, and Alexander Khristoforovich Benckendorff noticed how the smile showed up at the mention of the celebrated name of Griboedov. Either the name seemed amusing16 or the Famous Face had remembered the Father Commander, Paskevich, but the smile transmitted itself to Alexander Khristoforovich, a feminine, understanding smile, and dimples appeared on his pink cheeks. In the corridor, Count Chernyshev, the deputy chief of staff, caught sight of these dimples and made a note of them. His mustaches bristled, his spurs tinkled melodiously, and the tinkling reached the ears of General Sukhozanet.
The smile widened, it played on the dinner table silver, on the fruit, on the red wine bottles.
And so—Collegiate Councillor Griboedov was dining at General-Adjutant Sukhozanet’s.
His new friends ate and drank with a genuine enjoyment that the lean Nesselrode and those subtle diplomats cannot experience. Almost all of them were army people, people with barking voices and hearty physicality. That’s why their rest was genuine relaxation, as was their laughter. No subtlety, no scheming; they praised him to the skies.
And so did the civilians. Dolgorukov, for example, Prince Vasily, the equerry with the sleek hair, held up his glass for a long time and narrowed his eyes before clinking it with the collegiate councillor’s. Then he spoke simply and affectionately, as if drawn with his entire being toward Griboedov:
“You won’t believe, Alexander Sergeyevich, how I have played on the glory of our Count Erivansky (in this he was referring to Paskevich). I requested a decoration for Beklemishev, had asked for it over and over again, and they would not offer it to him. So in a letter to Prince Pyotr Mikhailovich I wrote: ‘Beklemishev, an old friend of Count Ivan Fyodorovich,’ and just imagine, the next day they granted the petition.”
He laughed gleefully at his cunning move.
Well, yes, he lied, but he lied as a nobleman and as a courtier, and the very nobility of the lies made Griboedov laugh.
He was not familiar with this Beklemishev of whom the equerry was speaking, but he felt the taste of his contentment, the complacency, and gave way to it. It was surprising how easily a court smile could become real.
The military men loved Griboedov as one of their own—simply, spontaneously, in a no-nonsense fashion.
“I’ve known Count Ivan Fyodorovich for a long time,” said General Opperman, the old German from the Engineering Corps. “He is a remarkably capable engineer. I remember him from our days at the military school.”
“Alexander Sergeyevich, could you remind Count Erivansky,” said Sukhozanet, touching the side of his tailcoat, “to keep in more frequent touch with his old friends? I dropped him a line, but he never replied. I myself have been in the field, and I know how busy he is. And yet can’t he manage to scribble a couple of words?”
The host, Sukhozanet, kept jumping up from his place in order to see that things ran smoothly.
Around Golenishchev-Kutuzov, roars of laughter rose loud
ly, with modulations, in a small chorus of voices. Golenishchev chortled too.
“Tell us, tell us, Pavel Vasilyevich, tell everybody,” Levashov waved his hand at him. “There are no ladies here.”
It was a bachelor dinner. Sukhozanet’s wife was in Moscow at the moment. Golenishchev kept spreading his hands and, still chuckling, bowed with his entire torso.
“Why not, gentlemen? But please don’t tell on me. I have nothing to do with it. I heard it from somebody, that’s all; I wasn’t there.”
He smoothed down his beaver sideburns, and his eyes darted left and right.
“Alexander Sergeyevich shouldn’t blame me. And please, don’t tell the count.”
The drunken Chernyshev urged him:
“Come on! On with the story!”
Golenishchev began: “Well, they say about Count Ivan Fyodorovich,” and his eyes darted again. Those who already knew the joke burst into more laughter, and Golenishchev gave a chortle too.
“They say,” he said, calming down a bit, “that after the city of Erivan had been conquered, they were stationed in Tierhols. That’s the name of the village: Tierhols. And allegedly”—he cast a sideway look at Griboedov—“the count once proposed a toast: to the health of the beautiful ladies of Erivan and of Theirholes!”17
The uproarious laughter was universal—that was the high point of the entire dinner; the hilarity could rise no higher.
And everybody went to clink glasses with Griboedov, as if it were his joke, though the joke reeked of the barracks and even Paskevich was unlikely to have said this.
All of them understood that perfectly well, but everyone laughed heartily because the joke signified military glory. When a general became famous, his jokes had to be relayed. If there were none, they were made up, or old ones were used, and even though everyone knew this, they accepted the jokes as genuine because to do otherwise would constitute a failure to recognize his fame. So it used to be with Ermolov, and so it was now with Paskevich.
And Griboedov too laughed with the army people, even though he did not care for the joke.
And then, still smiling, they looked at each other.
The difference between the old engineer Opperman and Golenishchev with the beaverlike sideburns became clear. It turned out that Alexander Khristoforovich Benckendorff was listening rather condescendingly to what the pockmarked Sukhozanet was saying to him. A sense of rank became apparent.
Griboedov spotted in front of him an old man with a red face and thick gray mustaches whom he hadn’t noticed before. That was General Depreradovich.
The general must have been looking at him for a while, and Griboedov found it disconcerting. When the old man noticed that Griboedov was looking at him, he raised his glass impassively, nodded slightly to Griboedov, and barely touched the wine.
He was not smiling.
There was some confusion at the table; the men began to rise in order to go through to the drawing room for a smoke, and the general came up to Griboedov.
“Did you see Alexei Petrovich Ermolov in Moscow?” he asked directly.
“I did,” said Griboedov, watching the people passing through to the parlor and thus indicating that they had to go too, and that it was less than convenient to carry on talking where they were.
Paying no attention, the general asked him softly:
“You haven’t come across my son, have you?”
Depreradovich, the 1812 general, was Serbian. His son had been involved in the mutiny, but more as a matter of words than of action. Now he lived in exile in the Caucasus. The old man had managed to pull some strings to save him.
Griboedov had not come across him.
“Send my regards to His Excellency.”
The general passed through to the parlor. His expression was impassive, without a trace of disdain or conceit.
In the parlor, they sat completely relaxed and smoked their pipes; Chernyshev and Levashov had unbuttoned their uniforms.
Little Levashov, with a bulging waistcoat and a happy face, spoke of their host. Meanwhile, Sukhozanet beckoned his father-in-law into the corner and spread his arms, justifying himself. The fat old prince was listening to him under obvious duress and glanced distractedly at the sofa where the older men, Opperman and Depreradovich were seated.
Levashov eyed everyone meaningfully:
“Our host is growing young; he has remembered the old ways. And tonight’s dinner is the proof: sans dames.”
Laughter. Sukhozanet was an upstart married to Princess Beloselsky-Belozersky, instrumental in his promotion. They whispered this and that about him in society, mostly on account of the strange habits of his youth.
But with some sixth sense, Sukhozanet felt that the laughter had another meaning, so he left the old prince in peace and rejoined the company.
The old man sat down in an armchair and chewed his lips. In the corner, an argument was taking place between Depreradovich and the elderly Opperman. Opperman was amazed at Paskevich’s military luck.
“To defeat an entire army with six thousand infantry, two thousand cavalry, and a few cannon—say what you will, that’s not too bad at all.”
Depreradovich spoke loudly, as deaf people do, so that the entire parlor heard him:
“But before that, near Elisavetpol, Madatov defeated the entire vanguard, that is, ten thousand of Abbas Mirza’s men, and with not a single casualty.”
Benckendorff looked at the general through narrowed eyes:
“General Madatov was unlikely to have had any impact on that victory.”
“It was the artillery, the artillery was decisive!” shouted Sukhozanet in their direction.
At this point, Beloselsky asked Chernyshev coolly:
“Have you come into possession of your estate yet, Count?”
Chernyshev turned purple. He had implicated his cousin in the mutiny, was in charge of his trial, and had had him sentenced to hard labor in order to get hold of the enormous ancestral estate, but somehow the affairs became muddled; the cousin was sent to Siberia, but the property was now proving hard to get hold of.
There was a moment’s silence.
Some very odd people surrounded Griboedov. Tonight, he was having dinner with and smiling at a bunch of very strange characters.
The fidgety host, Sukhozanet, was a Lithuanian, a commoner. His glum and pockmarked appearance was reminiscent of gray warehouses, provincial military parades, and drills. More than two and a half years ago, during the uprising on December 14, he was in command of the artillery in the Senate Square, and on December 14 he found himself general-adjutant.
Levashov, Chernyshev, and Benckendorff were the judges. They interrogated and tried the rebels. Two years ago, in the dreary General Staff building, Levashov had handed the interrogation sheet to the arrested Collegiate Councillor Griboedov—to be signed. Collegiate Councillor Griboedov might well have been a member of the secret society. Levashov had been pale then, and his mouth fastidious; now that mouth was wet with wine and smiling. He and Griboedov sat next to each other. And opposite them was Pavel Vasilyevich Golenishchev-Kutuzov, a simple and hardy man, his sideburns as stiff and thick as if they’d come out of a furrier’s shop. He was telling crude but funny jokes. One summer more than two and a half years ago, on the ramparts of the Peter and Paul Fortress, he had been in charge of hanging five rebels, three of whom were very well known to Collegiate Councillor Griboedov. One of the men had fallen from the gallows and bloodied his nose, but Pavel Vasilyevich did not lose his head and shouted the order:
“Hang him again, damn it!”
Because he was a military man, a man who meant business, uncouth but straightforward: a resourceful man.
Suddenly, Vasily Dolgorukov looked askance at Griboedov and asked:
“Is the rumor true that the count’s character has changed completely?”
Everyone’s eyes turned to Griboedov.
Old Beloselsky gave Chernyshev and Levashov a meaningful look and remarked:
�
�Greatness can make your head spin.”
Levashov reassured him courteously:
“Not at all. I know Ivan Fyodorovich well. He is an impulsive character; he might even be short-tempered, but when they say that he treats people like beasts, I’ll tell you this: I cannot agree. I don’t accept it.”
They were sniping at him gently, and were rather saying to Griboedov: write to the count—tell him we praise him and love him, we sing hallelujahs to him, but he shouldn’t think too highly of himself, or else … we too …
Golenishchev-Kutuzov spoke in his defense.
“Rubbish!” he growled. “I know from personal experience how hard it is to deal with this and that. Whether you want to or not, you may see red on occasion …”
Pah! He is Skalozub all right, but who is Molchalin here?18
Well, a clear thing, a simple matter: Griboedov himself was playing the part of Molchalin.
Griboedov looked at Golenishchev’s white hands and red face and reverently and softly pronounced the phrase that he had heard somewhere, repeating it exactly as he’d heard it:
“It is true that Ivan Fyodorovich is impulsive by nature, and it can’t be helped. Mais grandi, comme il est, de pouvoir et de réputation, il est bien loin d’avoir adopté les vices d’un parvenu.”19
Parvenu: this was the word that had been missing in the conversation.
The word was hanging in the air; it had nearly leaped off the old prince’s lips; and Golenishchev’s sideburns, Chernyshev’s dyed mustaches, Levashov’s bulging waistcoat, and Benckendorff’s ruddy cheeks were now all the more obvious.
There was a gulf between the young man in the black tailcoat and the middle-aged people dressed in military pelisses and frock coats: that was the word parvenu.
They were parvenu; they had popped up all of a sudden and appeared all at once on the historical stage and had been greedily rooting around for more than two years on the memorable square where the mutiny had taken place in order to gain one last iota of influence and once again etch their name into that momentous day.
This was what they grounded their reputation on, and they vied with each other, ruthlessly demanding approval.
The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar Page 15