The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar

by Yury Tynyanov

  Not that they thought about this at all—they simply had their vision and version of it. Golenishchev and Levashov agreed with him.

  “That’s exactly what I’ve been saying,” nodded Golenishchev approvingly. And Levashov nodded quickly too.

  Benckendorff saw Chernyshev as an upstart; Chernyshev thought the upstart was Golenishchev; for Golenishchev it was Levashov; and for all of them, it was the taciturn relative of Paskevich. Only the old prince moved his dull eyes from all of them to Griboedov. He did not say a word. So far as he was concerned, all of them were upstarts, and he had married off his overripe daughter to one of them.

  Benckendorff got up and took Griboedov aside with all the ease of a man of the world and the emperor’s minion.

  Looking point-blank into the dimples on his cheeks, Griboedov immediately became discreet and unassuming.

  “I am a patriot,” said Benckendorff, smiling, “and that’s why I won’t say a word about the count’s merits. I’d like to talk about my brother.”

  Benckendorff’s brother, a general, had found Paskevich difficult to deal with.

  “One cannot find a nobler man in the world than Konstantin Khristoforovich,” said Griboedov courteously.

  Benckendorff nodded.

  “Thank you. I am not going into the reasons, though I am aware of them. But they say that the count publicly expressed his delight at my brother’s departure.”

  “Believe me, this is the gossip of ill-wishers, nothing more.”

  Benckendorff was pleased.

  “You have a private audience with His Majesty tomorrow.”

  He hesitated.

  “One more request, quite small though,” he said and touched the button of Griboedov’s tailcoat with his fingertips (as a matter of fact, there hadn’t been any request so far). “My brother is very eager to receive the Order of the Lion and the Sun. I hope that the count might see his way to making the recommendation.”

  He smiled as though he’d just spoken of a female prank. The famous dimples played on his cheeks like two funnels. And Griboedov smiled too, knowingly.

  And so Griboedov circulated in the realms of glory.

  And became a man of consequence.

  24

  A furious tinkling of spurs in the rooms of his hotel. When he came in, he saw an officer who was dashing about the room like a hyena pacing its cage. Seeing him come in, the officer stopped abruptly. Then, without paying any attention to Griboedov, he resumed his rushing about the room.

  “I am waiting for Mr. Griboedov,” he said. His face was an unhealthy olive color; his eyes darted about.

  “I am at your service.”

  The officer looked at him suspiciously.

  He returned Griboedov to the reality of hotel rooms.

  The officer stood at attention and introduced himself:

  “Lieutenant Vishnyakov of the Preobrazhensky Regiment of the Life-Guards.”

  And he fell into the armchair.

  “How can I …”

  “Let’s not stand on ceremony. You see an unhappy man in front of you. I’ve come to you because I am staying in the room next door and because I’ve heard about you.”

  His right leg started to twitch as he sat in the armchair.

  “I am on the verge of destruction. Save me.”

  Must have lost at cards and will be asking for money.

  “I’m all ears.”

  The officer pulled a little pill from behind his sleeve and swallowed it.

  “Opium,” he explained. “Forgive me, I’m an addict.”

  He calmed down a little.

  “The other day you could have mistaken me for a madman. Apologies.”

  “Permit me, however, to ask you …”

  “Ask away. I am begging you for one thing only: everything I tell you must remain between us. If you want me to, I’ll stay. If not, I’ll be gone for good.”

  “As you please.”

  “I am in extremis. Oh, no,” the officer raised his hand, even though Griboedov had not made a single movement. “It’s not about money. I’ve just come back from the Indian frontier.”

  The officer whispered emphatically:

  “I was sent on a secret mission. The English discovered it. I came back here. On the way, I found out that an English official is here, and he is entrusted with petitioning the Ministry to demote me. I know the Ministry well; if they renounce me—and they will renounce me—for a year of hardship and fever …”

  The officer thumped his chest.

  “I’ve become a wild man,” he said hoarsely, and added, quite calmly: “and my reward for a yearlong mission will be—utter ruin.”

  He began to rub his forehead with his hand distractedly, seeming to have no interest in Griboedov’s response.

  “Do you know which English official is specifically assigned to deal with you?”

  “I don’t know,” gasped the officer. “There has been interaction between the East India Board of Governors and their mission in Persia.”

  Griboedov thought for a moment. Dr. McNeill was killing two birds with one stone in Petersburg. One bird was sitting here, gasping, and the other one …”

  He touched the officer’s ice-cold hand like a man of authority.

  “Entrust yourself to me, entirely, do nothing desperate. Sit tight.”

  When the lieutenant left, Griboedov told Sashka to go to the English doctor and ask if he would see him.

  Sashka came back and reported that the doctor had left the previous day and, according to the hotel servant, “the biggest-ever Italian artist” was staying in his room.

  25

  From the paternal golden throne

  you shoot at sultans beyond the lands.

  ▶ The Song of Igor’s Campaign

  And further, and higher, and here he is dashing to a private audience with the Famous Face.

  What is there to talk about during a private audience with the Famous Face? About anything he asks you. If the Face says: “Speak frankly, as you would talk to your own father,” you must take these words at their face value because one might not enjoy full frankness with and trust in one’s own father. What it actually means is that one is granted permission, instead of simply repeating “Votre Majesté,” to address the emperor as “Sire.”

  How do you speak to him?

  The answer is well known: genially.

  The ruler of the seventh part of the planet has the right to shorten the space between himself and the diplomatic courier. For example, they can both sit on the sofa. And in such a way, not one-seventh of the world, but only flowery damask, will be between them, a little upholstery. This is called the talk en ami. The other type of conversation is en diplomate.

  And so? They were sitting on the sofa.

  “Talk to me frankly, as if you were talking to your own father.”

  Emperor Nikolai Pavlovich was beardless, mustacheless, and a year-and-a-half younger than Griboedov. There was cotton-wool padding on his chest. He was slim. His arms were too long, with large hands, and they hung as if made of cardboard. He was slightly hunched.

  “I have honored all of Ivan Fyodorovich’s recommendations. I know that he would not recommend an award without good reason. But I am afraid I will have to disappoint him. He has suggested promoting to officer’s rank some soldier, called Pushchin … one of my friends … mes amis de quatorze20 … I think it’s too soon. Let him serve a little longer. I have granted him the rank of a noncommissioned officer.”

  Mikhail Pushchin, his “friend of the 14th December,” relegated to a soldier’s rank, had commanded a platoon of sappers and distinguished himself during the capture of Erivan. The Shirvan Regiment went up Azbekiiuk Mountain. The mountain was wooded, and for forty-eight hours under enemy fire, Pushchin with the trailblazers felled the trees and constructed a road. He was an experienced engineer with nothing left to lose.

  Griboedov had recommended him to Paskevich, and Paskevich, not too sure of victory at the start of the campai
gn, valued such men. In fact, this particular soldier had been fulfilling an officer’s duties all through the campaign. Griboedov had petitioned Paskevich about promoting him to the rank of officer. Paskevich signed the paper.

  Griboedov gave the emperor an understanding smile.

  There was a considerable gap between this Pushchin whom, by the way, Griboedov knew very well, and the colorful sofa on which he was sitting.

  “I realize how hard it is for Your Majesty to make such decisions.”

  “And besides, I hear, Ivan Fyodorovich has instructed some Colonel Burtsov to write the history of the wars in the Caucasus. Or someone else out of those … out of …”

  And he made a short gesture with his index finger upward and toward the window. Behind the window was the Neva, behind the Neva was the Peter and Paul Fortress, and in the Peter and Paul Fortress were incarcerated—those men. He had grown accustomed to the gesture, and everyone understood it: he was pointing to the spire of the Peter and Paul Cathedral.

  Burtsov too was a “friend of 14th December,” exiled to the Caucasus after a term in the fortress.

  What faith the emperor had in him, to discuss such matters!

  Nicholas cast a quick sharp glance at Griboedov.

  “I have received a few letters that I do not entirely trust. They say that allegedly Ivan Fyodorovich has grown irritable and conceited beyond all measure.”

  “He is impulsive, Your Majesty, you know that. Mais grandi, comme il est, de pouvoir et de réputation, il est bien loin d’avoir adopté les vices d’un parvenu.”

  Nicholas, who had fought for the throne and had been occupying it while the lawful heir, his brother, was still alive, was somewhat of an upstart himself. He inspected Griboedov carefully, took in all of him at one go; his eyes slid up and down and lingered on Griboedov’s spectacles. The glance was abstract, almost embarrassed, fleeting, and, as people whispered, was reminiscent of Peter the Great’s. Griboedov had passed his examination. The emperor nodded and said pompously:

  “Now I would like to hear from you about your business. I have complete trust in you.”

  Griboedov bowed his head and noticed Nicholas’s highly polished boots.

  The emperor added:

  “I have long been concerned about something that I consider important. Ivan Fyodorovich offers no news about it.”

  He repeated what Prince Pyotr Volkonsky had talked about three days earlier, which was why he had summoned Griboedov, but spoke of it as if it were his own idea.

  “Twenty-five thousand troops are engaged in Persia. Three provinces”—he forgot their names—“have been conquered. This is to get a foot in the door. Ivan Fyodorovich needs the troops in Turkey. It is impossible to fight on two fronts, sur deux faces, so to speak. Has Ivan Fyodorovich discussed this with you?”

  Being a capable-enough frontline general, he had a poor understanding of the general strategies of the campaign. Every breakdown and delay seemed to him insurmountable, and he rejoiced in victories as if they were fortuitous. For the last two years, he had been working on making his voice sound more authoritative and was afraid that people might doubt his judgment. He acted like this with the war minister and was terrified that old Volkonsky might see through him. That’s why he took a liking to sudden decisions, although he was actually a little afraid of them. He would start a conversation with a guardsman’s familiarity, and by the end of it would repulse with complete coldness, freezing people out. Or the other way round. Like a woman, he was accustomed to wondering what they said or thought about him, and his manner was therefore unmanly. He changed his uniform five or six times a day.

  “Please assure Ivan Fyodorovich that he has my full support. His moral health, after the victory over the Persians, will soon be restored. He can treat his physical ailments after the victory over the Turks. We will soon find an appointment for you. I have already spoken to Karl Vasilyevich.”

  He spoke quickly and abruptly, phrase after phrase. It is easy to shorten the distance from one-seventh of the planet to the sofa, but then one needs a particular, mechanistic facility of speech, or else the distance will shrink too much. One needs a certain ambiguity of expression. The collegiate councillor had to be made to think that the emperor had thought of everything himself, that he was confident of the victory over the Turks and had trust in the collegiate councillor.

  And all of a sudden Griboedov asked, quite simply:

  “You have spoken to Karl Vasilyevich about what, Your Majesty?”

  But the emperor’s gaze was already quite vague. He was not sure whether the question was appropriate, and by force of habit, he assumed a preoccupied expression: he had to finish the audience; he had to make a point, to place a full stop. That point had to demonstrate the distance between the two of them while ending on an amiable note. It was necessary to demonstrate trust and at the same time show who was in charge.

  Nicholas emerged from his contemplation.

  “I have to admit it, entre nous deux soit dit,21” he said and smiled. “I had my fears during our negotiations with the Persians.”

  “Fear of failure, Your Majesty?”

  “Oh, on the contrary,” and Nicholas looked above Griboedov’s head, “on the contrary, I was afraid of too much success.”

  Lowering his eyes to the level of the collegiate councillor, he was pleased to see his surprise.

  “There could have been a mutiny of the mob in Persia,” he raised his eyebrow coldly, “and I recognize only lawful rulers. The Qajar dynasty must continue to rule.”

  He looked away somewhere through the window, above Griboedov’s head, as if now there were nobody in front of him.

  Ermolov had developed the Persian plan of war against Russia. Nicholas was afraid that the shah could be overthrown.

  “The Qajars are unpopular in Persia,” the collegiate councillor said and caught himself just in time.

  Nicholas did not reply, did not look at him, and gave a barely perceptible nod. The audience was over.

  A pair of long-toed shoes scraped a second, clicked together, and strolled lightly over the parquet.

  The perfect thighs in the white breeches remained on the flowery damask.

  26

  Everything is going swimmingly, isn’t it?

  It is April, and he is on the cusp of a major success. The man has almost forgotten that he is by nature untrusting; he has forgiven the mistress who was unfaithful, he thinks of another, still a girl. The world is his oyster. He has stayed faithful to himself, hasn’t he? He has become even more cheerful, has he not?

  It’s true that considerable power awaits him, but he is the same, is he not?

  Who was saying that he has grown grander, self-important, and even put on some weight? Was it Pushkin who said it in some salon, or Senkovsky perhaps?

  That he has become more puffed up, upright, and even taller?

  Who said it, and why?

  It might well be that no one did.

  Perhaps he has simply become more shortsighted, which makes him seem more aloof.

  Has he?

  He is still the same.

  And now is the time for important affairs, and he has no time to look closely at the details, the soft, tender, unripe details.

  Everything is going swimmingly. He has no premonitions, has he?

  He has taken to sharing a bottle of wine in the evenings with the green-faced, weary officer who got into trouble in India.

  He forestalled that misfortune—dropped a word to Nesselrode, and the latter made a joke.

  It’s good to know that he has saved a man. This is more pleasing than giving alms to a pauper in the street. And he attaches no importance to it.

  The officer takes a seat and with shaky fingers pours himself a glass of wine. He is terrified. He is in trouble.

  It is pleasant not to drink and to watch the other person drinking instead.

  The officer sings softly a senseless ditty:

  I set off …

  Where to?<
br />
  To Baku …

  And what for …?

  And he chuckles.

  When the officer gets drunk and hazy, Griboedov tells him quietly, but so he can hear:

  “I will soon be off to the Caucasus. You have to stay here,” he raises his voice, “or go to the country.”

  The officer agrees.

  27

  He went to the Ministry.

  He spent just a couple of minutes in the big reception room.

  Then the door of the office swung wide open, and Lieutenant Vishnyakov, green-faced and somehow shrunken, ran out, holding his saber in place on his hip.

  He ran with head thrust forward, on tiptoe, in long, soundless strides, as if leaping over puddles.

  Griboedov hailed him softly:

  “Lieutenant …”

  Then the lieutenant stopped and looked at Griboedov. His teeth were chattering.

  “Hmm. To whom do I have the honor of speaking?”

  And either having forgotten or not recognizing Griboedov at all, and without paying the slightest attention to him, he turned around, jumped over the last puddle, and disappeared behind the door. Griboedov heard the rattle of his saber.

  The door flew open again. An official came out and asked Griboedov to come in.

  Nesselrode stood by the desk, without his spectacles. His face was gray, unsmiling, and the watery, bulging eyes flickered everywhere. He was in a temper. Rodofinikin was seated in the armchair. Then Nesselrode put his spectacles on and smiled at Griboedov.

  A strange conversation began.

  “We owe you a debt of gratitude for the fact that the treaty was signed only after the Persians had paid the first … sums of … the kurors.”

  Nesselrode waved his tiny hand.

  “I hear, dear Alexander Sergeyevich, that Paskevich, our Count of Erivan, has been awarded a million.”

  Rodofinikin said something quite superfluous.

  Both their eyes and their words expressed some discomposure. His superiors did not expect an answer and addressed the air, as if waiting for something or someone. Nesselrode’s eyes finally stopped their darting.

  “His Majesty has spoken to me about you.”