Faddei interrupted his work.
Seeing Griboedov busy with the sheets, Faddei put his hands reverently behind his back.
“A comedy?” he nodded nervously. “A new one?”
“A tragedy,” Griboedov replied. “A new one.”
“Tragedy!” exclaimed Faddei. “Well! Why didn’t you tell me before? Tragedy! Easier said than …”
He was almost in awe.
“Alexander, you must give a reading. Tragedy! Everybody has been expecting a tragedy.”
“Who has been expecting? From whom?”
“The theaters expect it, and everybody else. They don’t write tragedies these days. The public expect it of you.”
Now it was Griboedov who felt something like fear. He shifted in the chair.
“What do you mean—expecting? Why do they expect a tragedy from me?”
“Not a tragedy in particular, but expecting in general. They keep pestering me: what new things have you written? Everybody is wondering.”
“Who’s everybody? And what do you tell them?”
“I tell them that you’ve written many new things. To tell you the truth, I felt it already, that you had. Pushkin asked, and then … well, yes, so did Krylov.”
Griboedov winced.
“Good Lord, why are you always in such a hurry, my friend? Lots of new things—and here I am with nothing but drafts.”
“That’s fine,” said Faddei, suddenly inspired. “It’s fine. Drafts are everything these days, works in progress. And everyone is wondering. I’ll arrange a reading for you. Where do you want it? At my place?”
“I should say not,” said Griboedov, and Faddei looked hurt.
“As you like. It can be at somebody else’s … At Gretsch’s, or at Svinin,” he said glumly.
“I daresay at Gretsch’s,” Griboedov said, as if conceding, “but please not a reading, just a dinner.”
“It goes without saying, a dinner,” said Faddei, now deeply offended. “Do you think I don’t understand that it must be a dinner? I’d better buy the wine myself, or else Gretsch and his wife will only offer up some rubbish.”
Griboedov looked at him:
“On the other hand, I daresay you could arrange it at your place. But don’t invite the whole world. Invite Pushkin, won’t you?”
Faddei smiled. The raspberry-colored bald patch began to beam.
“I don’t mind,” he spread his arms, “exactly as you please. I’ll call Krylov and Pushkin, then. No matter. Whatever suits you.”
And with a whole new purpose to his existence, Faddei headed out of the hotel suite, quite taken up, and already forgetting his grievance.
33
The dead face of Lieutenant Vishnyakov brought him sufficiently to his senses. To travel so far in order to spit on his epaulettes, already spat on by others? His strength had always been in his ability to forget and to make wise choices. That was his forte; it’s the little people who tread a single path and knock their heads against a brick wall.
He no longer thought about the project. All around him, people vegetated. He couldn’t help but look down on them, like a man who has traveled much and has a lot to forget. They had nothing to forget.
So the first thing he started with was to take a closer look at the hotel rooms, and found that they did not appeal to him.
When the candles were lit, the rooms seemed grand enough, but in the morning, they looked dusty and dismal.
And besides, they were beyond his means. He’d be ruined if he stayed on here.
He sent Sashka out to inquire about apartments, and the very next day he moved to the Kosikovsky tenement on Nevsky Prospect. The apartment was on the top floor, very simple and rather spartan. The only luxury in it was the grand piano, which had been left by the previous tenant; it was a really splendid one, with double escapement.
34
He remembered the literary battles quite well.
But now there was nothing to fight for—nowadays, they mostly had dinners. New literary undertakings were arranged during those dinners, and for the most part, they came to nothing. Former enemies got together, irreconcilable in their opinions. Nowadays, literary feuds were not really forgotten, but for a while at least, people put them behind them. It was a time of literary undertakings.
That was why the dinner at Faddei’s was a success.
Pushkin caught up with Griboedov at the door.
In the vestibule, the lean little figure of Maltsov was thrusting a heavy greatcoat at the valet. Pushkin threw him a quick glance and said:
“You see, you have your imitators now.”
Afraid that the remark was directed at him, Maltsov made his way timidly to the drawing room.
“One of the Archive youths22—they are all so clever these days …”
He looked at Griboedov and suddenly smiled like a coconspirator:
“St. Anna?” He had spotted the evidence of the Order on Griboedov’s frock coat. And then, in a different tone of voice: “Everybody’s saying you’ve been writing a southern tragedy?”
“Anna, that’s right. And how is your long military poem coming along?”
Pushkin frowned.
“The Battle of Poltava. About Peter the Great. I’d rather not talk about it. The poem is a bit of a tattoo.”
He looked at Griboedov frankly and wretchedly, like a boy.
“One has to throw them a bone.”
Like everybody else, Griboedov had read Pushkin’s “Stances,” in which Pushkin looked ahead fearlessly, anticipating glory and clemency. Nicholas was forgiven the executions as Peter had been forgiven. It would soon be the anniversary of Poltava, and the Turkish campaign (although nothing like the Swedish one) would soon end, would it not? Everything was clear. Pushkin had not gained a single friend with that poem, but how many new enemies he’d made! Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin was a subtle diplomat. How many pitfalls he had avoided, with the ease of a dancer. But life is simpler and cruder and takes hold of a man. Pushkin did not want to fall behind the standard-bearers—he was throwing them a bone. Nobody dared speak about it so openly; only Pushkin did. Griboedov frowned.
They were late for the dinner, as usual, and everyone was already at the table.
It was an event for the memoirists, that dinner.
The most eminent heads of the era, later to appear on commemorative plaques, were examining the so-far-empty plates.
Here, there was a hierarchy all its own, and Faddei kept an eye on the small fry lest they should jump ahead of the bigger beasts. Krylov, bloated, pallid, and puffy, took the place of honor.
His unbrushed, yellowish-gray curls were sprinkled with dandruff; his sideburns were trimmed. Inclining his ear to his neighbor, he either could not or had no desire to turn his head.
Then there was, strictly speaking, a drop in the ranking: the familiar young people and the run-of-the-mill types, though they too were necessary.
Gretsch spoke into Krylov’s ear softly, garrulously.
He leaned toward him over the empty plates and cutlery—vacant seats had been left on both sides of Krylov’s place.
The guests sat in a row: Pyotr Karatygin, tall and discerning, red-faced, the Bolshoi Theater actor and jack of all trades; a young musician, Glinka, next to a shaggy and sharp-nosed Italian; the brothers Polevoi, wearing their merchant-style frock coats and light-colored neckties with big tiepins.
The ladies were represented by the affectedly grimacing Varvara Danilovna Gretsch, or “Gretschess” as Faddei called her; the pockmarked little Dyurova, Pyotr Karatygin’s wife—a French woman whom Faddei nicknamed “Froggy”; and, of course, Lenochka in a stunning outfit.
When Griboedov and Pushkin showed up, everyone rose to their feet. Thank goodness, at least the musicians did not start banging on the drums. Faddei was capable of anything.
Krylov cast quick glances this way and that and pretended to prepare to get up—which took him the exact amount of time he would have spent had he actually got up.
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Dinner had commenced. The food was being served.
Pushkin, now polite and sprightly, spoke left, right, and center.
Faddei bustled like a majordomo; the wines were superb.
Gretsch got up.
“Alexander Sergeyevich,” he addressed Griboedov, “and Alexander Sergeyevich,” he addressed Pushkin …
Then he spoke about the equal talents of both, about Byron and Goethe, about what they might yet achieve, and concluded:
“…you, Alexander Sergeyevich, and you, Alexander Sergeyevich.”
Everyone clapped their hands. Dyurova was clapping, and so were Karatygin and Lenochka.
Griboedov stoodt up, as yellow as wax.
“These days when talking about Goethe and Byron, nobody dares say that they have fully understood Goethe, and no one admits that they haven’t understood Byron. Let me remind you of Sterne’s words: ‘I would walk thirty miles,’ he quoted in English, ‘to see a man who enjoys what he likes without asking anyone how and why.’ It is unclear how to measure completely different talents. Two things can be good, though not at all similar. Your health, Nikolai Ivanovich”—he proffered his wineglass to Gretsch—“and to the health of Faddei Venediktovich.”
And he sat down.
He had spoken simply, dispassionately, and they again applauded.
And then the wine conversation began. It seemed to have started with Dyurova or with Varvara Danilovna Gretsch, or “Gretschess,” something about men in general. Then the actor Pyotr Karatygin, young and robust, said something about women in general.
“Women never follow the stress when they read poems—they always mangle the meter, have you noticed?” asked Pushkin. “They have no understanding of poetry; they only pretend to.”
“I don’t like female attitudinizing and affectation,” responded Griboedov. “The Asians allow nothing of that sort: women bear children and nothing else.”
Lenochka blushed:
“Ah!”
Gretsch came out with a preprepared piece of wordplay on “Persian” in French:
“Monsieur, vous êtes trop perçant.”23
“Affectation …”
“Attitudinizing …”
And Petya Karatygin complained that in the latest stage play, he had to use a strange expression: “wouldn’t’ve’b’been?”
“What on earth is ‘wouldn’t’ve’b’been?’” asked Varvara Danilovna, the Gretschess, contemptuously.
“Wouldn’t’ve’b’been?”
“You mean, ‘wouldn’t’ve been?’”
“No, ‘wouldn’t’ve’b’been.’”
Krylov latched onto the conversation. He tore himself from his plate:
“ ‘Wouldn’t’ve’b’been,’ huh?” he said, chewing with a straight face. “One can even go as far as to say ‘wouldn’t’ve’b’being been,’” he said between the mouthfuls, “except a man would require a stiff drink to enunciate-iat-ize that!”
Pushkin glanced at him affectionately.
Krylov continued to eat.
The dinner was coming to an end, and tea was served.
Awkwardly but swiftly, Griboedov went over to the grand piano. He began to play softly.
The musicians came up one after another, Glinka and the shaggy Italian. Griboedov nodded and continued to play.
“What is it?” asked Glinka, and the black tuft on his head lifted up a little.
“A Georgian melody,” responded Griboedov.
“What is it?” Pushkin shouted from his seat.
Griboedov kept playing and half-turned to Pushkin:
“Imagine a night in Georgia and the moonlight. A rider mounts his horse; he is setting off to go into battle.”
He continued playing.
“A girl is singing; a dog is barking.”
He laughed and left the grand piano.
At this point, he was asked to recite. He had no manuscripts with him, to ensure that his delivery would sound spontaneous and relaxed.
His tragedy was entitled The Georgian Night. He described briefly what it was about and recited a few snippets. The second edition of The Captive of the Caucasus was about to appear. In Griboedov’s tragedy, the Caucasus would be barren and bare, not as in the usual pictures of it. On the contrary, it was rugged, primitive, and poor. It went without saying that he never mentioned The Captive.
Strangely, he felt constrained by Pushkin. As he recited, he sensed that he might have written it quite differently had Pushkin been present at the time.
It all went cold on him.
The evil spirits in his tragedy rather embarrassed him now. Maybe he could have done without them?
But there are none, not one! And why would I desire
Those marvels or those idle incantations,
There is no friend on earth or in the skies,
No help from God, nor for the wretches hell!
He knew it was brilliant.
And looked around.
Pyotr Karatygin sat gaping, with an expression of astonished ecstasy on his face. He had doubtless charged himself up in advance.
The Polevoi brothers were scribbling something down. He suddenly understood. They had come to see a miracle on display, and the miracle man had merely given a reading.
Faddei was exhausted.
“High, high tragedy, Alexander,” he said speaking almost plaintively, out of his semioblivion.
Pushkin was silent for a while. He took stock, weighed it up. Then he nodded:
“It has an almost biblical simplicity. I envy you. What a line: ‘There is no friend on earth or in the skies.’”
Griboedov raised his eyes to Krylov.
Krylov was silent, asleep, his bloated head sunk on his chest.
35
Military dinners, literary dinners, balls. He went to the Nobles’ Club, danced cotillions with all the young ladies, scribbled madrigals on their fans, as was the habit in Petersburg. Their mamas were ecstatic; he was l’homme du jour,24 so they vied with each other to ask for the pleasure of his company. The ballrooms everywhere were polished and sparkled magnificently. It was explained to him: that winter, they had rubbed down the walls and ceilings with soft bread, Moscow style. The bread was then given away to the poor. Thank God, he wasn’t starving.
He had a strange authorial destiny. Everybody wrote and got published, but in his case, everything happened the other way around: some youthful rubbish that ought to have been burned in the stove had been published, while the real gems, which had become proverbial, were in drafts and fragments. Faddei said that it would be impossible to have Woe published right now.
He would finish and publish the tragedy come what may. But was it any good? It needed to be revised.
The apartment was empty and cold. Sashka had not lit the fires.
He ordered him to light one, waited until he stopped his loud fussing about with the logs and flint, and sat down to work.
He took the sheaf of papers and began looking through them. His tragedy was wonderful.
It was meant to cut through the trifling St. Petersburg literary scene with words that were both meaningful and merciless. The sounds were deliberately harsh. What did it have to do with Faddei’s drawing room, tea, or Pyotr Karatygin? It was meant to be read in the fresh air, on the road, even in the mountains. But then what kind of tragedy was it, and what kind of literature? He reread his verses in an undertone, in complete solitude, in the firelight.
At that point, he noticed that Sashka was standing there, listening.
“Are you listening, dandy?” asked Griboedov. “Is it to your liking?”
“The old lady is a grump,” said Sashka, “and her curses are great fun.”
In his tragedy, there were terrible laments by the mother, a serf whose son had been taken from her, an old woman, a sort of Shakespearean Fury.
Griboedov thought a little.
“And have you been reading recently?” he asked Sashka.
“I have,” responded Sashka.
He pulled out of his pocket something resembling a worn songbook. Sashka read a few lines and chuckled.
An enchantress ’mid embraces,
Handed me a talisman.25
“Do you fancy it?”
“I do.”
“Any idea what a talisman is?”
Sashka did not dignify that with an answer.
“Of course … Nowadays everybody knows that.”
“And the poem that I read?”
“What you read was not a poem, Alexander Sergeyevich,” said Sashka instructively. “A poem is a song, and yours is about an old hag.”
“Get out of here, out!” Griboedov hissed at him. “Honest to God, I’ve had enough of your idle chatter.”
36
A rustling sound started up in the apartment, scurrying and tinkling. A mouse must have crawled inside the grand piano.
The apartment remained unlived in; in spite of Sashka’s laziness, its cleanliness and tidiness reminded its occupier that he would not be staying here long.
In the end, his tragedy would not suit the theater, and his poetry would be passed on by word of mouth, unprintable on the pages of the journals. Besides, while he’d been losing time with Abbas Mirza, it seems that poetry might have turned into something altogether different.
Senkovsky came in like a crow to the carrion.
“Alexander Sergeyevich,” he grinned with his rotten teeth, “congratulate me: it looks like I’m going soon on a trip to the East.”
“Would you like to go to Persia?” Griboedov asked him. “Do you know that we are getting Sheikh Safi-ad-din’s library as part of the reparations? There is nobody else besides you to sort it out.”
“Except you, Alexander Sergeyevich. No, thank you, Persia is not for me. I am on my way to the Egyptian pyramids.”
Griboedov showed him his collection—inscriptions on the banners captured from the Persians: “We promised Mohammad a glorious victory”; “In the name of Allah, mercy, and compassion”; “Sultan, the son of Sultan, Fat’h-Ali, the shah of the Qajar dynasty”; “Victory is ours. The Sixth Regiment.”; “Allah will give you the blessing you are craving, his mighty protection and imminent victory. Bring this news to the faithful …”
“One shouldn’t ever promise too much, or to too many,” said Senkovsky, “for all these ultimately fall into the hands of the enemy.”
The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar Page 18