The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar

by Yury Tynyanov

  Yet every morning, as if it was something that went without saying, the old man would tell Sashka:

  “Get up, will you? Off to make hay again.”

  And the oblivious old man would go on with his scything, and Sashka would drag his feet after him. Then Masha’s hips would resume their swaying, filling the house, and Griboedov’s thirty-three-year-old body would choose and think for itself. Secretly, stealthily, it had chosen already: he would live here not for a week, not for a month, but for so long as God willed it.

  Rodofinikin and Nesselrode could stay in Petersburg or go to the theater of war. The girl from the Caucasus needed time to grow up.

  They all appeared distant to him; they had hardly even existed. A thousand miles to Petersburg, a thousand miles to the Caucasus.

  He would disappear.

  But wouldn’t that mean that he’d be a fugitive, an escapee, an outlaw, even a deserter?

  And so what if he were a runaway? A man had to rest.

  6

  He lay on the grass in the courtyard like a lizard. The air was fresh; he felt unwell. It was quite late. The moon hung high, like a dish. The old man and Sashka sat at the side of the house. They did not see him. Sashka said:

  “She works hard, at the homestead, on the land, and at all the housework, doesn’t she?”

  The old man answered grudgingly:

  “She does.”

  Then he asked Sashka:

  “And your master, is he rich?”

  “My master always has money—according to his rank,” responded Sashka tersely. “He is a Persian minister.”

  “You don’t say!”

  The old man was thunderstruck.

  “What do you suppose?”

  “His hand is maimed,” said the old man out of the blue.

  “A dueling thing,” said Sashka casually.

  Amazing. No one, not even Griboedov himself, nor anyone in Petersburg or Moscow, had noticed this. His hand had been shot through, but the only reminder was a small scar and a little stiffness in the thumb and index finger. But the old man had noticed it.

  “Look here, old man,” said Sashka in a lower voice, “your daughter, does she fool around at all?”

  The old man didn’t deny it:

  “A little bit.”

  “And what will happen when her husband comes back?”

  “Well, he might give her a good thrashing, or he might not. If all is fine in the house and the hay is made … he might decide not to.”

  “Really?”

  “Doesn’t matter which does the tilling—a plough or a harrow—the harvest is your own,” said the old man decisively.

  The old man went inside. Sashka stayed outside.

  Griboedov thought he heard the sound of bare feet and the light rustling of a skirt.

  “Please, take a seat, Marya Ivanovna,” said Sashka. “Would you care to breathe the air of the steppes together?”

  “Shush,” said Masha, “your master …”

  “He has gone for a walk—to daydream, on the road, by the light of the moon. ”

  Masha giggled. Soon they went quiet—apparently kissing. Then after breaking away from him, Masha said:

  “You’d better sing me a song instead, come on, Alexander Dmitriyevich, let’s have my favorite.”

  “Your favorite? Really? Well. I don’t fancy that one at all, but if you wish, I can certainly perform it.”

  If a girl is a mistress

  Then she needs no brain!

  And if she’s a tigress,

  She must be made tame!

  Griboedov giggled softly, just like he’d done in his childhood. Undoubtedly, Sashka’s way with the ladies left him well behind. Should he challenge him to a duel? No, he’d just horsewhip him at the next station.

  What a vulgar adventure. Thank God no one knew about it, except this blockhead Sashka.

  And she, sweet innocence, the wayside tigress, the maitresse.

  And he himself! Dreaming by the light of the moon, out on the road, indeed.

  “Marya Ivanovna!” drawled Sashka. “Marya Ivanovna, permit me your little hand.”

  And again silence, after which he spoke breathlessly:

  “Marya Ivanovna, I’d better sing you a song, which you are welcome to take for conversation, as if I were talking to you.”

  And he hummed:

  Come with me, my maid, my little doe,

  Off to the Caucasus we go.

  And in the Caucasus you’ll see

  Life’s not the life you know, oh no!

  The girls don’t work there, they don’t sew

  But wander where they please.

  “Marya Ivanovna,” whispered Sashka, dallying in the dark, “Marya Ivanovna, take note of how it goes on: the little maid ends up surrendering herself to the singer. Marya Ivanovna …”

  Rustling, scuffling, panting, Marya Ivanovna’s head banging on the bench.

  Such animals!

  So it was for Sashka’s pleasure that Griboedov had spent five days stuck on the road. Hey, you two, enough of that, finish it up! This was outrageous.

  “Sashka! You blockhead!”

  A sound like chickens scattering in different directions inside the coop.

  “Will there be any orders, Alexander Sergeyevich?”

  “Orders? My orders are to …”

  “I am all ears, Alexander Sergeyevich …”

  Griboedov stared at Sashka curiously, disgustedly.

  “Tell the old man to harness the horses at once and pack the things. I’ll deal with you later! … I’ll give you bloody tiger …”

  The old man was woken up. At first he argued like mad and then demanded the outrageous sum of fifteen rubles for the twenty-mile drive.

  Griboedov threw a hundred-ruble note on the table.

  “For the accommodation—and the horses.”

  “Not enough, Your Lordship,” said the old man.

  Griboedov glared at him.

  “Get on with it!”

  The old man did as he was ordered.

  When they were leaving, Masha was nowhere to be seen. Only her hand towels hung on the washing line.

  “Oh, Masha …”

  “Marya Ivanovna, pah!”

  7

  The sky is on fire, I am drawn to the road.

  ▶ Griboedov

  The dreary appearance of the steppes that stretched from Cherkassk to Stavropol ended up in the military history of Emperor Nicholas in the same way as “the face that brought on gloom” in the history of his father, Emperor Paul.

  Paul had once exiled an officer to Siberia because he had “a face that brought on gloom.” By the emperor’s decree, the face had to be transported to Siberia, where its gloominess could not be seen.

  He could not rule over a people whose faces produced gloom.

  The generals who in Nicholas’s time crossed the steppes in their chaises began to contemplate the political significance of their expression.

  It was not easy to have a good time ruling those steppes that looked so dreary.

  Any victory might fade away on the thousand-mile-wide, windless plain.

  And in 1826, General Emmanuel, in charge of the Caucasus frontier, reported to Ermolov the desolate appearance of the steppes from Cherkassk to Stavropol.

  He convened a council that decided to implement the planting of pussy willow saplings and poplar tree seedlings around the villages and along the roads in order to brighten up its appearance.

  Two years later, General Emmanuel was thrown into despair by his own project: the very sight of the saplings and seedlings imposed gloom. They had withered, become dusty, drooped to the ground.

  There were places in the world where cold fresh streams flowed, where people swam, where they worked, and where cattle grazed.

  But here there was just wilderness, which swallowed up the saplings and seedlings without leaving a trace, together with the chaises and the travelers who themselves swallowed the dusty air.

  Lif
e is typically defined by its populated places. But when you cross the wilderness, the landmarks change: settled places are mere dots in the surrounding spaces.

  A seasoned traveler would argue that one should take no more than a single thought on such a journey, and even that thought should be one of little consequence. The recommended reading for rest stations was undemanding as possible: travelers were advised to leaf through the postchaise travel regulations or study a faded map. Thus the entire Russian empire could be conceived of as a monotonous and regular formation, made up of taverns, fortresses, and outposts, in the form of the constant movement between them—back and forth, so many horses, so many miles, but with no obvious purpose to their movement. For example, he who wished to learn the distance from point A to point B from the timetable could see that the former was situated in this province and the latter in that one. And the table would show the squares, letters, and numbers, but no more than that; it would make no reference to the aim of the journey from point A to point B.

  True salvation lay in the fact that even an undesirable journey was always calculated according to the table using a particular set of reference numbers. Even the most forced and pointless route—of a convict, for example—has its own number and its own location on the map.

  It was also advisable, however, not to look too closely at the road—this could make the head spin. One was encouraged rather to stare at the coachman’s back. There is always something stupid, and yet rather soothing, about a coachman’s back.

  8

  At Stavropol, small, white clouds can be seen far off on the horizon.

  Those white clouds are the mountains.

  9

  He met the rest of the group at Ekaterinograd. Maltsov was covered with dust, dumbfounded by the road, dejected; even his downcast back looked angry. The doctor looked well enough; right there in the station building, he took a portable inkwell out of his luggage and began to jot something down, pondering, biting the quill. He and Maltsov already had quarreled during the journey.

  A tiny, gray army settlement near Ekaterinograd spread out like a burdock. Here, regular travel ended and became fitful, possible only with a military escort. From here on, the road to Vladikavkaz led through the region of Kabarda. There, in the mountains, lived a people who strode erect and proud. They wore dark-gray robes almost like monks—special coats, chekmens with bandoliers across their chests.

  It was stuffy and dusty. The huge, pink, blistered edifice of Count Pavel Potemkin’s palace stood there like an abandoned old woman. Here, he had summoned khans and beks, showered them with gifts, and plied them with fine wines. The khans and beks wined and dined, returned to their mountains—and without saying a word cleaned their rifles. Their sons and grandsons were still living there, while the palace lay abandoned. Griboedov knew a great vantage point from which one could see both Elbrus and Kazbek.

  Maltsov dug in his heels and stayed in the stuffy station rooms. All right, you fop, hungry for honorary appointments, the dandy from Petersburg’s Bond Street, Nevsky Prospect, it’s time for you to get used to obscurity and learn to temper your desires.

  Griboedov and the doctor went past the army settlement. A tanned soldier’s wife with tucked-up skirts was busy washing a baby in a tub. The baby was screaming. The soldier’s wife’s plump legs were as cool as Mount Elbrus. They passed her by. The sun was setting. The mountains were indeed clearly visible. Now they understood why mountain-dwellers stood so erect: they were straightened by space. Griboedov turned to the doctor and introduced the mountains to him as if they were his personal friends.

  On their right, grasses cushioned the hills; their feminine contours were covered with the green Assyrian wedge-writing of the grasses.

  “I believe,” said the doctor, “that in a hundred years from now, stagecoaches will run from here to Vladikavkaz, as they run today from Petersburg to Tsarskoe Selo.”

  He was looking at the road.

  Griboedov laughed for no reason.

  The mountains witnessed his laughter as they had witnessed the laughter, tears, and prayers, the curses and battles of thousands and thousands of people for thousands of years; as they had heard the barking of dogs, the slow lowing of oxen, the silence of the grass.

  10

  They travel accompanied by twenty frontier Cossacks.

  A cannon is being dragged ahead of them, surrounded by a few garrison soldiers. They smoke short pipes and shuffle out of line.

  The regular postchaise travel has stopped, and the occasional one with military escort has taken over.

  They leave behind the hired horses, for which they paid ninety rubles a pair to take them all the way to Tiflis—not expensive at all. In Lars, they switch to the Cossack horses.

  Kazbek.

  Kazbek dominates everything.

  In Kobi, Georgians and Cossacks ride to meet them with a major at the head of the procession.

  It is getting dark. A few Ossetians bar the road and stop men by the cannon. Just a couple of broken words in Russian: there are robbers lurking out on the road, two or three hundred men intent on ambush. No further travel.

  Maltsov suddenly gets his courage up.

  “On we go! Gentlemen, please!”

  The doctor speaks sternly:

  “Thank you very much; I don’t care for a romantic death from a filthy knife.”

  They go back.

  At night at the station house, they are bitten by fleas.

  Griboedov goes and lies in the carriage instead, staring into the black skies. Stars, like talkers, disturb his sleep.

  11

  Numerous officials drag themselves to Gartiskari, by chaise, by carriage, on horseback.

  Important news has been received in Tiflis: the minister plenipotentiary is staying at the last station.

  They are curious to see such a miracle.

  There was once a collegiate councillor, an author, Alexander Sergeyevich Griboedov, a relative of Paskevich. He was of a strange disposition: boyish one moment, unapproachable the next, altogether too proud, an unpleasant man but at times warmhearted; he looked down his nose at officials—there was no doubt about that, and he was merely a collegiate councillor, the same as they were, small fry, not much favored by the state.

  And so he left as collegiate councillor and returned as a minister, moneyed and decorated.

  A miracle can elevate anyone.

  And an underling puts on his finger the only diamond ring he has ever had.

  Oh, the miracle could touch him too with its light and airy wing, accidental, unearned. Besides, the official is familiar with Alexander Sergeyevich. So he rides to meet him, in a carriage that is so old it is falling apart.

  It is not Griboedov’s appointment that attracts them all. They need to have a look at the man, to hug him all over, to try and grasp this fortuity, the halo that now shines around his head brighter than on Saint Nicholas.2

  What is his secret?

  One has to embrace Alexander Sergeyevich, to take him in precisely and in a flash, and pluck out the heart of his mystery—what is his secret?

  All of them dash, gallop, drag, overtaking each other thoughtlessly. And when they meet Griboedov, they are so overwhelmed that they will fail to understand or to grasp anything at all. But they will sense something in their bodies, their knees, their fingertips. And without thinking too much about it, back at home, the small fry will give a sweet sigh and begin to understand, and undergo a subtle change within their souls, in their knees and fingertips if not in their heads. They won’t think it but will feel it: should I mimic his smile? His hairstyle? Or his particular French accent? Or the way he wears his clothes? Or should I start wearing spectacles?

  Because much is contained in this detail too—the spectacles. The most frivolous eyes look intelligent from behind spectacles.

  Ah, if only underlings were not so garrulous! They themselves are aware of it, and with some alarm kick themselves for it.

  The secret lies in reticenc
e; reticence is strength.

  Wounded, quiet by evening, each underling will say loudly to his wife, over tea, in a spartan room:

  “I, my angel, would never have agreed to go to Persia. The climate over there is a killer.”

  And the wife, who is sensible and who also thinks more with her chest and stomach than with her head, will stroke the bald patch beginning on his head and say:

  “I hear the climate is just awful over there. People drop like flies in Persia. I would have thought twice about going with you.”

  And the next day, the underling will be fearsome and taciturn, and the bribe that he is entitled to by his rank will be indignantly rejected, and it will be doubled, tripled, and only this will steady the knees, relax the fingertips, and he will stick his proud chest out once more.

  12

  Griboedov was having lunch on a rug spread under the old oak tree. Sashka was waiting on him.

  Tiflis was his second homeland. This was the place of his eight-year-long, assiduous labors. These men had brought the Tiflis air on their faces, the Tiflis dust on their clothes.

  He was delighted to see them.

  One of them lived not far from Paskevich, with another he used to walk all over Tiflis, and a third he used as a scribe to make copies of his project.

  “How is Count Paskevich doing, my friends, is he his usual bad-tempered self?” asked Griboedov.

  Apparently, he wasn’t; on the contrary, the count was now terribly kind, did many favors, and was loved like a father by his subordinates. Since he had become a count, he had performed these innumerable good deeds, both publicly and privately, and had become extremely considerate.

  There were tears of affection in their eyes.

  It did not matter what they had been through together; it did not matter the things they used to say to him. These officials were kind folk, and it was in their canine nature that they had forgotten the past and loved Griboedov, and loved the count. What mattered was that he was such a good man, a very open-hearted man.

  “Is the count in town?”

  Ah, they did not know, did they, in Petersburg, that the count had been at the Headquarters for the last month!