He rubbed his cold, tiny hands and looked at Rodofinikin.
“We have finally found a post worthy of you.”
Griboedov pouted his lips, goose-fashion. He sat leaning forward, his feet tucked under the chair, his eyes unblinking.
“It’s an important post, quite exclusive.” Nesselrode sighed: “The post of our chargé d’affaires in Persia.”
He raised his finger meaningfully.
Not a word about the Caucasus, about the Transcaucasian Manufacturing Company. And he had come here in order to hear from them about the project which …
He glanced at Rodofinikin—gray-haired, respectable, urbane. He ought to lose his temper immediately, right away, to thump his fist on the desk and to be through with the Ministry of External (and extremely strange) Affairs.
But he couldn’t.
The man who sat in his place, wearing his official uniform, replied in his voice, rather dryly:
“A Russian chargé d’affaires is not what we need in Persia at the moment.”
Nesselrode and Rodofinikin looked at him, waiting to hear more. And he remembered another government office, and the court-martial commission, where Levashov and Chernyshev had sat in session; they had stared at him in the same way, waiting for him to lose control.
“The English have an ambassador in Persia, and our entire strategy in Persia is based on exerting an influence equal to that of Britain.”
The superiors exchanged glances.
“His Majesty ought to have there an ambassador plenipotentiary, not a chargé d’affaires.”
Griboedov heard himself speak and did not much like the sound of his voice. It lacked expression.
“I cannot be appointed to this post because of my low rank. And besides, I am an author and musician. Consequently, I need my readers and my audience. And how likely am I to find these in Persia?”
And disdainfully, as if he were proud of his low rank, he sat back in his chair and crossed his legs.
He was unassailable—the rank of collegiate councillor kept him safe, while music and writing were ludicrous occupations in the eyes of the authorities and he mentioned them on purpose, to spite them.
Then Nesselrode suddenly narrowed his eyes and puckered his tiny face.
“On the contrary, solitude perfects genius, as I recall was once said by …”
By whom?
Nesselrode smiled.
He was smiling as if he had suddenly solved an enigma, had cracked a charade, had finally understood what was positive about the present situation and what required immediate attention. He did not look again at Rodofinikin.
He said blithely:
“In the meantime, we wish to introduce to you a man who is quite worthy of becoming your secretary, on the understanding that you are happy with the arrangement.”
And he rang the little bell. A duty officer came in, was given a sign, and left; a minute later, a young man in spectacles came in. He was thin-lipped and pale.
His name was Maltsov, Ivan Sergeyevich, a man of letters, as he introduced himself, and probably an admirer.
In the aftermath of the uprising, the Chernyshev commission in their interrogations must have brought one suspect to confront another in just this sort of way.
The unpleasant thing was that the man, this Maltsov, bore a strange resemblance to Griboedov himself. An overgloomy smirk was playing on his lips. Young people imitated either Pushkin’s sideburns or Griboedov’s spectacles and side parting.
Without saying a single word to Maltsov, Griboedov took his leave. His superiors shook his hand with polite indifference.
Not a word about the project. A demotion in rank had taken place here.
He went slowly down the stairs, against which the lieutenant’s crazy saber had so recently rattled.
28
Only outside did he draw a deep breath for the first time in a long time, freely and fully.
Those who have not suffered great failure have no idea just what it means to breathe freely and fully. All the weights fall off the scales, and the scales with the man on them fly upward—easy and free.
Easy and free.
He looked around and saw so much more than he’d seen earlier that morning on his way to see Nesselrode. That was because now he was walking slowly, on foot.
It turned out that the snow had melted completely; the roadside paving slabs were warm, and the women passing by twittered like birds.
He didn’t have to take a droshky or to join the dandies dashing by. There was no hurry to get back to his hotel, and he could now have lunch opposite the General Staff Headquarters, at Loredo’s café. He used to eat there, at the old Italian’s, with his old friend, Küchelbecker, and they would discuss poetry and the theater, or he would bring along some amenable girls.
The strange thing was: he wondered whom he could drop in on right now, but he couldn’t think of a single friend. There was no one.
There was Faddei, there was Senkovsky, there were others, but today they were all too far away. The generals had perished in the Kingdom of Far-Far-Away.
But there was Lenochka, and there was Katya. He would see them tonight.
Strictly speaking, he needed to go back to the hotel and inquire about the lieutenant, but the lieutenant would remind him of Nesselrode and what had happened today, which suddenly felt so far away.
His own project appeared repugnant and unnecessary to him. But he soon forgave himself and simply strolled along the roadside. When he was jostled, the people said sorry; when he accidentally brushed against someone, he likewise apologized and smiled. During one of his illnesses, he had learned not to do what he liked most: not to read favorite books, not to write poetry. Because when he recovered, he found that he no longer got any pleasure from the books and the poems that had absorbed him when he was sick. He wouldn’t even touch them. The project had fallen through for now, with not a word more on the subject. They had got him just where they wanted him! Well, from now on, you won’t trap me with any more of your blandishments.
The slabs were warm today, ladies’ hats were of the latest fashion, and the street looked new. It was one o’clock in the afternoon. A blind beggar with a pink bald patch sat on the corner of Bolshaya Morskaya in the sun. He threw a coin into the beggar’s soft hat. The pink bald patch was enjoying the warmth.
The shop windows, the clinking spurs, the ladies’ hats, and even the recent misfortune, all were like a culminating joy, a complete liberation. And probably success would have been a disaster. He would have been taking a cab instead of strolling along the street; he wouldn’t have seen that pink bald patch; he would have had dinner with the generals. And now he could have lunch at Loredo’s.
29
Afterward he went to see Lenochka, found Faddei at home, and enjoyed acting as referee for their latest quarrel.
Faddei had come into some money, and Lenochka was saying that it was big money, and that he had hidden it from her. Strangely enough, Faddei was not a particularly free man in his own household—the arrangement was that he had to hand over all cash to Lenochka. And, in fact, he couldn’t be relied on. Lenochka, the Hermitage Madonna, was an iron lady. Usually, it was tante who refereed their fights, and this was torture for Faddei.
That was why Faddei was even more delighted than usual to see Griboedov. It seemed that Lenochka held Griboedov in high regard, and not a single rude word such as canaille or Wüstling was said, although Lenochka was mad as hell and stamped her little foot.
After all, Faddei was Griboedov’s friend, and apart from that, he had no wife and spent his money freely. This fact put Faddei in a stronger position, and he kept stretching out his hands toward Griboedov.
Lenochka calmed down within a few minutes. She was a lady, a woman, she was Murillo’s Madonna. And she sat in front of Griboedov like the Madonna in the picture. She parted her lips a little and smiled and waved Faddei away. And Griboedov, pleased that he had refereed their fight fairly, patted Faddei on the shoulder and
kissed Lenochka’s hands.
Having kissed both in a friendly fashion, he went to Katya. It was already evening, and she was alone. He stayed at Katya’s until midnight, by which time she no longer said that he was so frightfully ungracious.
He could have stayed longer—he could have stayed with her forever, the simple, porcelain-skinned Katya who stroked his hair as young milkmaids stroke their tireless companions somewhere in a hayloft under a leaking roof.
But when he realized that he could indeed stay with her like that forever and he heard the dripping of the thawing icicles outside, quite close, it frightened him, and he jumped to his feet, gave the quieted Katya one more kiss, and drove back to his hotel.
Serious trouble awaited him there.
30
Lieutenant Vishnyakov had blown his brains out.
Having come back to his hotel room, the lieutenant at first had kept himself to himself, paced the room and the corridor as if expecting somebody, but by evening had gone quite mad. He smashed empty bottles to smithereens, swung his saber around and jabbed it into the floor.
The valet de chambre testified that he was in no hurry to enter the room, and half an hour later, everything went quiet. But as the guest was a questionable one, the servant knocked on the door. There was no response, so he stuck his head through the door. The servant testified that the lieutenant was standing there stark naked. Two torn epaulettes lay on the floor by the door, while the lieutenant stood by the window and spat at the epaulettes from a distance. The man claimed that as he poked his head through the door, he got a gob right in his eye. Then the lieutenant attacked him crazily, thrust him out of the room, and locked the door. A minute later, a shot rang out, and he ran to fetch the police.
The police constable sat at the desk in the lieutenant’s hotel room, taking it all down.
The servant’s only lie was that the spit had got him in the eye and that the shot came a minute later. He said so just to impress, and because it was his one big moment: “Swear to God,” he said and pointed to his right eye. His version of events was not entirely accurate. When he had seen the lieutenant naked, he’d gone to tell Sashka, who said “I-i-s he-e?” but couldn’t care less. Then they told the chambermaid, and she shrieked with laughter. The shot came half an hour later at the earliest.
But indisputably the lieutenant was now both naked and dead.
He lay on the floor, without a stitch on, and the police constable gave orders that the body should not be moved.
“For the court,” he said, “so that the correct procedures are followed and all the circumstances …”
The police constable bowed to Griboedov but did not get up. He was now questioning Sashka. Sashka was lying with such zest that Griboedov was itching to give him a good slap on the forehead.
“The late lieutenant,” he said calmly, “was well educated, so he was. He’d come from that Indian China place with a letter from their emperor to ours. He was a sort of Russian governor in China, don’t you know, and he’d got himself into money troubles. He was a top-notcher, and top secret too, and he always had cash on him, and plenty of it. Whenever he came to see my master, he’d give me half a ruble when he left, and once he even gave me two.”
“What the hell are you saying, you lying canaille!” shouted Griboedov, astonished.
The police constable glanced at him keenly. But Griboedov touched his shoulder and invited him to come through to his own rooms.
They spent a couple of minutes there.
Upon leaving the room, the police constable immediately cleared the room and the corridor of the chambermaids who, embarrassed and covering their eyes with aprons, nevertheless stared at the dead man, all agog. He ordered the smashed door to be put back on its hinges and showed his fist to the hotel servant.
“If any of you says a word, you’ll go straight to Siberia,” he said, frightening himself, and hurried away, holding his saber in place on his hip.
A quarter of an hour later, a closed carriage arrived, and the lieutenant was wrapped in white sheets and taken away.
The police constable once again showed his fist to the hotel servant and jerked his head at Sashka, like an old nag.
When Griboedov sat down in the chair, without taking his coat off, Sashka handed him a crumpled envelope, flared his nostrils, raised his eyebrows, and lowered them again.
“From hisself, sir.”
“From whom?”
“From the deceased, sir.”
Griboedov read the scrap:
“You go to the country. To hell with the whole lot of you!
Private Vishnyakov”
31
A chain of oppressive posts
fetters us inexorably.
▶ Griboedov
A man sits in his armchair drinking wine or tea, and he is a success. A few hours later, the furniture, wine, and tea are the same, but he is a failure.
When Griboedov left Rodofinikin on that memorable day, the day he’d gone to dine with the generals, he had given little thought to what the old official was going to do.
And when Griboedov left, Rodofinikin sighed heavily and whistled through his nose. He looked grave and was seriously preoccupied.
The capital that had brought no returns, that had been scattered throughout various accounts, his own precious Greek money, could now be pulled into a single fist and be invested in the Caucasus. He clenched his fist.
Griboedov couldn’t have known this.
If the old man had made this gesture in Griboedov’s presence, he might not have talked about Castellas’s plantations, wouldn’t even have mentioned his name. But the gesture came after Griboedov was well out of sight.
Then the old man narrowed his eyes, wondering who the director of the board might be, and decided that he would seek the post himself.
So his train of thought brought him to Griboedov. What, in essence, was this man really after?
Pretty obvious: the power of board director.
Having reached Griboedov in his chain of thought, Rodofinikin began to count on his fingers. Diplomatic relations with the neighboring states, the building of fortresses, the right to declare war and to mobilize troops …
Rodofinikin sat right up in his chair: what kind of director was this, God damn it, this was no director, this was a dictator! Dictator! Viceroy!
A king!
That was the moment of truth, when he looked around, got up from the chair, and stared at the inkwell in the shape of a naked Grace: through lawful channels, the collegiate councillor was presenting a paper in which he was requesting the powers of a king.
But since the paper did not actually spell it out, Rodofinikin calmed down.
He hid the package in the desk and locked it away, as if it were a list of conspirators which included his own name.
Then he rubbed his brow and called his secretary, a crafty old chap. He gave strict instructions: that he should immediately leave for Tiflis to make inquiries on the quiet. Some gentleman called Castellas owned some silk plantations over there and was eager to sell them. He assured the secretary that he would present him for an award.
Shortly afterward, an Englishman, Dr. McNeill, stuck his head into his office. He had called to offer him for a song a few shares in some East India enterprises, which Rodofinikin bought from him on the spot. Among other things that cropped up in the conversation was the name of Lieutenant Vishnyakov. They also spoke of the East India interests in general.
Then he went to see Nesselrode.
Since his superior was rather absentminded into the evenings, the old man told him that they’d better send Griboedov to Persia sooner rather than later, and that they had to reprimand harshly a certain lieutenant, an agent who had been exposed by the English and who could ruin their entire relations with London.
Nesselrode agreed in principle, but he said that it seemed they hadn’t confirmed this yet with Griboedov. In his opinion, Griboedov had alternative plans.
The Greek responded
that it was precisely because of this that they ought to reach an agreement—that this matter was quite an urgent one and that as far as he understood it, Griboedov’s present plan would be impracticable, if not impossible, and that Griboedov too was a somewhat difficult man and quite possibly not to be trusted.
The superior did not argue with that.
He reprimanded Vishnyakov, swore he’d reduce him to the rank of private, and introduced Griboedov to Maltsov, whose mother, an old beauty, was friendly with his wife and had petitioned for her son.
Generally speaking, he was snowed under with business affairs.
Griboedov knew little of all that, and it did not really matter; it changed nothing at all.
32
And so he had unfolded threadbare sheets of paper of various sizes. This was neither the project nor a brief; this was his tragedy.
He had covered those sheets during the Persian nights when he was negotiating with Abbas Mirza. Under those pale skies, looking at the desert, at the troops, at the colored glass windows, the Russian words had lain down in a row like foreign ones, and there was not a single superfluous word among them. In the mornings, this innocent bliss, known only to him, gave him bodily strength and refinement in his conversation. He was an author, a temporary and a chance man in terms of the figures and towns listed in the Turkmenchai Treaty. He was always flexible and elusive in thought and conversation because he did not take any of it seriously, merely played the trade and geography game, an entirely different affair from authorship. So his real work gave him a sense of superiority.
But as soon as he became addicted to gambling with maps, everything was different; all began to spin. The oppressive post of his own invention fettered him inexorably. His very body lost its youthful strength and much became unclear.
Nesselrode and Rodofinikin had inadvertently set him free.
Now he was unfolding the sheets of paper with some trepidation; he had forgotten much of what he had written. He read his own lines, remembered when he had written them, and the circumstances suddenly seemed so far away.
The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar Page 17