The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar

by Yury Tynyanov

  The situation had reversed—now he was leaving, Griboedov was staying. Traveling gives a man an advantage. He no longer called on him to collaborate on the journals.

  Griboedov looked at the learned Pole.

  It suddenly struck him.

  Fame waits for no man.

  Should he stay where he was, the tide would soon turn. Not immediately, of course. They would expect extraordinary deeds from him, unheard words, stinging witticisms. They would make impertinent demands, asking him openly to reward their curiosity, their groveling.

  Then they would get used to him. They would begin to laugh quietly at his slow progress; they would withdraw, but they would not forgive him their groveling.

  In time, they would be calling him “the author of the famous comedy” or “the author of the unpublished comedy.” He would stoop a little. His black tailcoat would grow threadbare. He would develop a quirky little cough and the caustic wit of old age, and in the evening, he would do battle with Sashka over the dust. In other words, he would become a crank.

  He would appear in the drawing rooms, already embittered, an unfulfilled man: the author of the infamous comedy and of the famous project.

  He would lose his hair like Chaadaev—he had already lost some on the sides of his head. He would curse Petersburg and its drawing rooms. And when he spoke of the East, they would all exchange glances: they’d heard all that before, and some sharp Maltsov would pat him on the shoulder: “Do you remember, Alexander Sergeyevich, how we once nearly left together for the East, away from Russia, for good …?”

  “Why are you so eager to travel?” he asked Senkovsky sternly. “After all, you have your journals, don’t you?”

  “To hell with them, these Russian journals! Everything in Russia is too unstable, too green, and already it’s as old as the hills.” Senkovsky spoke scornfully. Essentially, he was repeating Griboedov’s own words. Griboedov suddenly turned pale:

  “Dear sir,” he got up, “you seem to forget that I am Russian too, and I consider it unacceptable to insult her name.”

  Senkovsky vanished.

  He took himself off abruptly and slipped away, stung.

  Griboedov stayed.

  He looked at the yellowed sheets of paper and tossed them roughly into the desk drawer. His tragedy was second rate.

  “Sashka, my coat. I’m going out.”

  37

  No one could be bored the way he could.

  He leafed through Mozart, his favorite silver-tongued sonatas, played a few snatches, examined his nails, polished them, lounged in his colorful, Asian dressing-gown, slouched about from corner to corner, and counted: twenty steps. He was imagining some unparalleled love for the girl from the Caucasus with the round eyes. But no love could alleviate his boredom.

  Outside, it was bright and chilly, and the buildings were full of strangers. He loved the drying up of the earth, warmth, ground covered in reddish and yellow shoots—he did not know their precise names. Some remote forebear was coming alive in him—an alien, a wanderer, a provincial. He had absolutely nothing to do here in Petersburg.

  He would have been secretly glad if Nesselrode had sent word to him right now and said: “Alexander Sergeyevich, would you like to be the head clerk in the city of Tiflis?” Only not Persia, for the love of God, not Persia!

  He feared Persia with the fear that one feels only about another human being.

  So he slouched on until, reaching the fireplace, he stumbled into his decision: he would go to Tiflis, submit the project to Paskevich, and suggest to him that Paskevich himself should be the director of the Company.

  It was amusing to imagine the dashing, curly-mustachioed Ivan Fyodorovich as the director of the manufacturing company. He would stare obtusely at the papers, throw a tantrum, and pass them over to Griboedov:

  “Alexander Sergeyevich, could you, please, make sense of this?”

  And Alexander Sergeyevich would then sort it out for him.

  “You and I will travel yet, Sashka. Aren’t you sick of it here?”

  And Sashka replied unexpectedly to the point:

  “The weather is very good, Alexander Sergeyevich. It must be really warm in the Caucasus right now, unless it’s raining.”

  38

  And so, one fine day, he received a letter from Nastasya Fyodorovna, his dear mother.

  “My dear son,

  I am lost for words to thank you enough. You, my friend, are your mother’s only helper. You have obliged me so much by sending the four thousand in gold so promptly, otherwise as you can imagine, I don’t know how I would have coped with all these creditors. They say that Ivan Fyodorovich got a million. What joy! I’ve sent my congratulations to Eliza. Letters take so long. I haven’t received a reply as yet.

  Do not fall out of touch with Ivan Fyodorovich, my dear friend. He is a huge support for us in our presently straitened circumstances. I have also heard of the honors bestowed on you, my dear son, and a mother’s heart fills up with joy from far away.

  I have also heard about some of your literary exploits, but what is the use of talking about the vagaries of youth! The very same week I used the four thousand to pay off the debt to Nikita Ivanovich, or I would have missed the deadline on the mortgage and your mother would have been left without a roof over her head! I rely only on God and on you, my precious son.

  A. G.”

  P.S. Here in Moscow, everyone is surprised at not having heard yet about your new appointment. Remember, my dear son, that we are as poor as church mice.”

  Griboedov looked around the bare room.

  “Waster,” he said quietly and clenched his teeth.

  And in order not to admit that he had said this about his mother, he began to rummage through Sashka’s receipts.

  He screamed at Sashka:

  “Sashka, you waster. You’ll ruin me. Are you aware of how much you’ve spent during the move to this apartment, you dog, you bloody fop!”

  He was yelling exactly like Nastasya Fyodorovna.

  39

  The next day, completely out of the blue, a note from Nesselrode arrived, brief and extremely polite.

  Griboedov made himself ready to see him very slowly and sluggishly. He sat in an armchair in his shirtsleeves, sipped tea, and spoke amicably to Sashka:

  “Alexander, what do you think, could we find an apartment on a lower floor, on the second floor, for example?”

  “We could.”

  “A cheaper one, perhaps?”

  “We can get a cheaper one.”

  “Both your elbows are out.”

  “So they are, sir.”

  “Why don’t you get yourself another caftan?”

  “You haven’t given me any money, sir.”

  “And why didn’t you tell me? Here’s some money and keep the change.”

  “Much obliged.”

  “Do you have any friends here?”

  Sashka suspected a trap.

  “I don’t, sir. Not a single bit of fluff.”

  “Do you not? That’s bad, Alexander. Make some friends.”

  “I have some on the second floor.”

  “Bring me my tailcoat. And the Anna, if you please.”

  He spent a long time in front of the mirror fixing the gold pin into the black cloth.

  “Is it crooked?” he asked Sashka.

  “Straight enough, sir.”

  “Fine. I’d better go. I won’t be back soon, so lock up the apartment after lunch, and from then on, your time is your own.”

  “Yes, sir. Should I be back by dinnertime?”

  “Dinnertime or earlier. As you will, Alexander.”

  He spoke to his servant meekly and politely, as if he were not Sashka, but his old friend Begichev.

  He spoke in exactly the same way later, with Nesselrode.

  “I received your note, Count. Am I too early? I am not holding you back, am I?”

  “On the contrary, on the contrary, my dear Mr. Griboedov, you’re even a little bit late.
”

  Nesselrode was festive today, transparent and shining like a crystal icon-lamp.

  “I was thinking only yesterday of that extremely fine point of yours.”

  Griboedov’s ears pricked up.

  “Indeed, there can be no chargé d’affaires in Persia right now, there can only be a minister plenipotentiary. You are absolutely right, and the idea has met with His Majesty’s approval.”

  Griboedov smiled broadly.

  “You shouldn’t think this point so fine a one, Count.”

  But the dwarf burst into laughter and nodded his head, like a conspirator. Then he rubbed his hands together and raised himself from the chair. His eyebrows shot up. Suddenly, he stuck out his gray little hand to Griboedov.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Griboedov, you are awarded the rank of state councillor.”

  And quickly and briskly, he shook Griboedov’s cold hand.

  He handed Griboedov the imperial decree, not yet signed. Collegiate Councillor Griboedov was promoted to the rank of state councillor and appointed as minister plenipotentiary in Persia, with an annual living allowance of …

  Griboedov put the document down on the desk and posed an abrupt and rather rude question:

  “And what if I don’t go?”

  Nesselrode was incredulous.

  “Are you intending to decline the emperor’s graciousness?”

  The appointment was a lawful pretext for a lawful departure in a postchaise, perhaps even with the diplomatic courier’s horses, and the route to Persia went through the Caucasus. Which meant that he would go back there, would see Paskevich, and inevitably would be looking into those heavy-lidded, almost adolescent eyes. But it was not about the Caucasus or Transcaucasia, nor about the Company; this was about Persia.

  “Then I’d better be frank with you,” the dwarf said. He pursed his lips and his eyes were fixed. “We need to take twenty-five thousand troops out of Khoi and send them to Turkey. But to achieve that, we need to receive the indemnity, the kurors. We are looking for the man who can accomplish that. You are that man.”

  He took fright at his own words and shrank back down into a desperately unhappy little lump.

  Karl Vasilyevich Nesselrode, count, vice chancellor of the empire, had let the cat out of the bag.

  They were sending him to be eaten up.

  Griboedov suddenly snapped his fingers, which made Nesselrode jump.

  “Apologies,” he chuckled, “I accept the appointment with gratitude.”

  Nesselrode was nonplussed. This was how one had to behave with this man … back to front. Before he had let the cat out of the bag, Griboedov had been evasive. And when, out of sheer carelessness, he had let slip the war minister’s very phrase, as yet top secret, the man, just like that, snapped his fingers and agreed. What a dangerous business is diplomacy! But he hadn’t really let the cat out of the bag; he knew who he was talking to; he realized from the very beginning that with this man, just as in the entire ill-fated world of Asian politics in general, he had to act the wrong way round … and only then expect an unexpectedly good result. And he would tell the new Persian ambassador: “We will not take from you …” what are they called? … “tumens, tomans?”—and at once would talk about the … kurors.

  Nesselrode sighed, gave the state councillor an affectionate smile, and said:

  “Minister, I will be delighted to provide a briefing in a few days’ time.”

  The state councillor spoke to him on a completely equal footing:

  “You know what, Count, I shall make up the brief myself.”

  Nesselrode froze. How quickly had he taken on a new part, one that was now setting the entire tone!

  “But, Mr. Griboedov …”

  “Count,” said Griboedov, rising, “I shall draft the brief, and it will be in your power to approve or disapprove, to accept or reject.”

  Nesselrode was unfamiliar with the Russian tradition that a recruit who had been conscripted out of turn, in someone else’s stead, was expected to swagger. But he guessed as much.

  All right. Let him draft the brief if that’s what he wants.

  “I assume,” he said almost pleadingly, “you’ll have nothing against the appointment of Maltsov as first secretary.” He added hastily, “This is His Majesty’s will. And we shall immediately take care of finding the second secretary.”

  Griboedov took time to think and suddenly smiled.

  “I would like to request, Count, that you appoint as second secretary a man versed in the Eastern languages … and in medicine too. I am not sure of Mr. Maltsov’s expertise in these areas.”

  “But why in … medicine?”

  “Because physicians are vital in the East. They gain access to the harems and enjoy the shah’s and the princes’ trust. I need a man who can counteract the English doctor, Mr. McNeill, the one who introduced himself to Your Excellency.”

  The vice chancellor’s face became glazed.

  “But I am afraid that we shall have to abandon this idea,” he smiled in commiseration, “because such a rare combination—a medical doctor and a man who is well versed in the Eastern languages—would scarcely seem to exist.”

  The minister plenipotentiary returned the smile, with as much commiseration:

  “Oh, on the contrary, Count, such a combination does exist. I know the very man. Dr. Adelung, Karl Fyodorovich. I take the liberty of recommending him to Your Excellency.”

  The name of the jovial doctor who had agreed to go to any nonexistent country confounded the minister.

  “Very well, very well,” he retorted, slightly taken aback, “do as you please, if such a man, as you say, is a combination of …”

  He saw Griboedov out of the office and stood alone for a moment.

  “Oh, what joy,” he said, looking at his parquet, “what joy that this man is finally leaving!”

  40

  Wrong has arisen in the ranks of Dazhbog’s grandson; in the guise of a maiden wrong has invaded Troyan’s land; clapped her swan’s wings on the blue sea …26

  ▶ The Song of Igor’s Campaign.

  Wrong has arisen.

  From Nesselrode, from the mouse state, from the bandy-legged Greek, from the idol of Tmutorokan,27 with his perfect thighs on the sofa—wrong has arisen.

  Wrong has arisen in the ranks of the grandson of Dazhbog.

  From the charmed and quick-witted Pushkin, from the silent Krylov, that swollen statue, from his own pathetic, yellowed sheets of paper that would never live again—wrong has arisen.

  Wrong has arisen among the ranks of Dazhbog’s grandson; in the guise of a maiden, wrong has invaded Troyan’s land.

  From his unrequited love for Katya, from Murillo’s Madonna, the sweet and money-loving Lenochka, from the fact that he treated women like his own poetry—beginning and then abandoning them, and could do no differently—wrong has arisen.

  In the guise of a faraway maiden with the heavy-lidded eyes of a child, it has invaded Troyan’s land.

  Wrong has arisen in the ranks of Dazhbog’s grandchild; has invaded Troyan’s land in a maiden’s guise. From the land, his homeland, on which the Dutch soldier and engineer, Peter by name, had heaped up a pile of stones and called it Petersburg, from the alien Finnish land that had long been thought to be Russian and inhabited by the blonde-haired Baltic people—wrong has arisen.

  Wrong has arisen in the ranks of Dazhbog’s grandchild, invaded Troyan’s land in the guise of a maiden, clapped her swan’s wings on the blue sea.

  She clapped her swan’s wings on the blue sea, the southern sea, which they had not granted him for his labor, his sweat, other folks’ labor, and other folks’ sweat; for his eyes, for his heart, she clapped her swan’s wings on the blue sea.

  “Sashka, sing ‘Down the mother Volga!’”

  “Sing, Sashka, dance!”

  Stenka Razin’s brave lads put out on the light current, go down the Akhtuba, along the Buzan River, brave the open sea, take tribute from the seaside towns and set
tlements, showing no mercy, neither on the gray hairs of age nor the swan’s down of sweet breasts.

  “Sing, Stenka!”

  “I mean Sashka,” says Griboedov suddenly, amazed at himself, “sing, Sashka.”

  Sashka sings about the Volga.

  Alexander Sergeyevich Griboedov listens and then speaks to Sashka in a dry voice, as if to a stranger:

  “What I meant to say is that we are not going to Persia, we are going to the Caucasus. In the Caucasus, we will spend some time with Ivan Fyodorovich. You seem to be under the impression that we are going to Persia.”

  Who is Alexander Sergeyevich Griboedov talking to? To Alexander Gribov—is this Sashka’s name? Alexander Dmitriyevich Gribov.

  But Griboedov stands and stamps his foot and tells Sashka, Stenka, and all the devils to sing about the Volga.

  But he is oblivious to Sashka. Persia, not the Caucasus, is on his mind. He realizes that the German fool, Nesselrode, has hoodwinked him. Griboedov will not spend long in the Caucasus, because Ivan Fyodorovich Paskevich … Ivan Fyodorovich Paskevich is also a fool.

  And he stamps his slender foot and stares with dry eyes, which behind those spectacles seem huge to Sashka:

  “Dance!”

  Because wrong has arisen.

  Wrong has arisen, invaded the earth in the guise of a maiden—and here she is, clapping her swan’s wings.

  Here she is clapping her swan’s wings on the blue sea.

  The spears sing in the yellow country called Persia.

  “Enough,” says Griboedov to Sashka, “are you mad? Get ready. We are going to the Caucasus, do you hear: the Cau-ca-sus. We are going to Tiflis, you fool. You can stop singing now. Don’t bother with warm clothes. Persia was freezing. It’s warm in the Caucasus.”

  03

  There are two types of travel authorization:

  those for private trips have one stamp,

  whereas those for official business have two.

  ▶ Regulations for Postchaise Service

  1

  Little by little, his suitcase was packed: the billets-doux from Katenka, various accountancy books on double and triple accounting, which now interested him more than antiquities and abstractions, a change of clothes, the project, which had been returned to him by Rodofinikin, a lock of Lenochka’s hair, the Georgian chekmen, and his dress uniform.