“Nothing is decided just like that, so suddenly, princess. It’s never that quick. He is in love, that’s all.”
“But isn’t he leaving for Persia?”
“He is. So what? Just for a month. Nino pines for him too. She is still so young!”
Princess Salome eyes Praskovya Nikolaevna warily and waits. Praskovya Nikolaevna gives a sigh.
“I wonder whether Alexander Gersevanovich will give his consent.”
The princess nods meaningfully at the mention of her husband’s name.
“I suppose Alexander Gersevanovich is not in much of a position to refuse,” says Praskovya Nikolaevna. “Griboedov is a minister plenipotentiary in his early thirties, and an even brighter future awaits him. And what a man! A musician, a thinker, and such nobility of sentiment!”
The princess says indifferently:
“I’d like to ask Monsieur Griboié-dof”—she pronounces his name as two words—”when he goes to Persia to take with him Rustam-bek and Dadash-bek. They are nice young men and can be of service to him. They have nothing to do here, and my cousin, Princess Orbeliani, asked me to put in a word.”
Praskovya Nikolaevna gives her a weary nod:
“Certainly, princess.”
When the princess leaves, Praskovya Nikolaevna gazes at the black garden … not good … Marquis Sevigny, who has proposed to Dashenka … not clear. She has declined, very politely, which looks more like a postponement. Dear Lord, was this how people fell in love when she was young? Were there such suitors at that time?”
Lots of people, lots of worries. The unpleasant things in the house: that fool Sophie will get herself into trouble. Alexander looks at everyone with the eyes of an alien … Martha Castellas is so unpleasant … And the house has been sprawling. You simply can’t be sure of people these days. And dear God, how cheerfully, how well they could all live, if only … To hell with them, the money, the wooden-headed princess, to hell with her. The children have grown up, and who will guide them and help them settle down? And how much Alexander has changed!”
7
The blue sheets of his project, with the swirling flourishes above the i’s that looked like the smoke of the nonexistent factories—were they calculation or love?
The cow-eyed girl, tall, not Russian—was she love or calculation?
And the Caucasus earth?
8
Three of the captured Persian khans are kept in a spacious vaulted cellar of the fortress, next to the house of the military governor, General Sipiagin.
Sipiagin orders the cell to be made comfortable, and the khans sit on the carpets. They are served pilaf, and they eat their meals slowly, without saying a word. Outside, in the huge black cauldron of the dark night, the cook is stirring the stars with a giant spoon. The khans do not turn toward the windows.
When the duty officer comes to remove the plates and then brings sweets drenched in honey, the khans wipe their greasy fingers on the sides of their gowns and burp gently, out of politeness, demonstrating that they are full. The governor-general feeds them very well indeed.
In fact, the khans have put on weight; they have nothing to complain about, and the only thing they are deprived of is their wives. As they talk, they enjoy recalling the particularly delicious dishes, not from the governor-general’s kitchen that they are fed now, but from their native cuisine.
Then they recall in detail the especially enjoyable caresses of their wives, and their fingers move, their mouths half-open.
They burp quietly.
Then comes the time for an important conversation.
A bearded and stout khan, the former sardar of Erivan, tells the other one, with the thin beard:
“Fat’h-Ali, may his days last forever, will not be too unhappy with our imprisonment, for when the Russian general spoke to us about important matters, we described everything in glowing colors. Abu’l-Qasim-Khan is aware of this.”
Abu’l-Qasim-Khan was sent by Abbas Mirza to Tiflis to meet the ambassador and to conduct the negotiations regarding the prisoners. He has had a meeting with them, but the khan actually embellishes it now because even though Sipiagin regales them with delicious things, he does not speak to them.
“The other day,” says the narrow-bearded one, “the kafechi told us that a Russian regiment would soon arrive and regrettably take away our gold and the scrolls from the Ardabil library, which of course the Russians will be unable to read.”
“Does Hassan-Khan know what regiment it is?” says the third, gray-haired khan, who hasn’t heard anything about it.
“Abu’l-Qasim has told me that this regiment fought for Shah-zade Nicholas against Shah-zade Constantine.”
The corpulent khan is no longer surprised at anything at all. The Russian throne, like the Persian one, is taken by the son who has won. When the old shah dies, he will leave three hundred and one sons, and they will slaughter each other until one of them prevails. Such is the law of the Persian (and, as it turns out, the Russian) succession to the throne.
“Fat’h-Ali-shah, may his eyes shine, is not too old,” says the sardar of Erivan.
Fat’h-Ali-shah is seventy. When he dies, the sardar who is friendly with Abbas Mirza will hope to become governor of Tabriz.
9
No matter how small a palace is or how overcrowded it is with furniture, it always looks like a hotel, and its walls, hastily upholstered with Gobelin tapestries, still look bare. At best, its contents, like old servants, agree to serve their guests for life because palaces have no owners, only lodgers.
Dr. Adelung and Maltsov were allocated rooms at the palace.
First of all, the doctor put his suitcase, which looked like nothing at all, on the chair, and placed a travel inkwell on top of the carved table and sat there in his nightgown writing down his entry in a travel diary.
Maltsov moved about the palace like an upstart. In spite of his nobility, he stepped carefully, as if apologizing to the furniture.
After a while, he found something to do. He became Eliza’s escort, chevalier servant.
Countess Paskevich had recently arrived in Tiflis.
Two months earlier, she’d had a faussecouche, a miscarriage, and she was pale, vexed, and desperately bored. Some wicked tongues wagged that General Paskevich was so petrified of her and her moods that he was out of Tiflis like a shot—to attack the Turks, as if trying to prove first to her, and only then to the rest of the world, his right to be called a great military leader.
Griboedov knew her well and understood the meaning of the thick raised eyebrows, of the faint mustache over the upper lip. They were related, they were Griboedov, to a man and to a woman.
He had firmly established the rules governing their relations.
First, she was his mother’s niece, Griboedov’s Moscow cousin, which meant that they talked about Nastasya Fyodorovna and his uncle, Alexei Fyodorovich, the one who used to come into his bedroom with a walking stick and drag him out on visits. So Griboedov and Eliza had well-mannered conversations, not without a chuckle, at the expense of the older people, but entirely innocuous, like those of grown-up children. They recalled their past pranks, the innocent ones. They did not recall the other pranks.
Second, he spoke to her as the wife of Ivan Fyodorovich Paskevich, respectfully and briskly, with significant omissions.
And third, she was his benefactor and all that sort of thing, but they hinted at that only occasionally and ever so slightly.
And if, on a couple of occasions, she had kept his hand in hers with a cold expression on her face, her plump mouth slightly ajar, well, that was what Maltsov was for.
Maltsov entertained her with anecdotes about Napoleon (the previous year, he had had a small article published in the Moscow Herald and was proud of it) and with Sobolevsky’s witticisms—and was a huge success.
Griboedov had a slight aversion toward relatives. Eliza reminded him of that dear mother of his. In their youth, a long time ago, the Moscow cousin had been very pretty i
ndeed, but he had no intention of renewing the old comedy, either now or later.
So Maltsov and Adelung were fine and settled.
But Sashka began to exhibit alarming tendencies.
He spoke little and abruptly. He had changed his attitude toward the female gender, had no time for the chambermaids, and they would fall silent in his presence. On the day after his arrival, he appeared in front of Griboedov in strange attire: in Griboedov’s own Georgian chekmen. He strolled slowly along the street, and Eliza’s chambermaid walked next to him, gasping, quivering, and looking up to him. Each of them carried the shopping. Griboedov pretended not to notice, but he did not forget it.
He always treated trifles with great care.
So at night, he stole downstairs to Sashka’s quarters and took away his boots.
In the morning, he pulled the bell with anticipation. Sashka took a long time to show up.
Finally he appeared, his boots on.
Griboedov put his spectacles on and stared at his feet.
Sashka stood there as if nothing had happened.
“Alexander,” said Griboedov sternly, “you sleep too much. Off you go!”
He threw out Sashka’s boots in disgust.
Sashka happened to have two pairs.
10
Upon his return, Griboedov went quietly to check on Sashka.
Best of all in the palace, Griboedov liked the low-ceilinged corridor, the gallery that connected the apartments with the services. The corridor was as old as Ermolov. Occasionally, the shoes of the sleepy servants shuffled along, or the white clouds of chambermaids swished by. And now, at night, Griboedov stood in this part of the palace, unbefitting his status, taking the risk of startling a passing valet. He was peeping into Sashka’s room through the window in the door, low and half veiled.
How attracted he was to the secret lives of others!
Sashka was sitting in the chair surrounded by the cooks, footmen, and some pipe-smokers with black mustaches. An apprentice cook stood there too, his mouth wide open.
Sashka was reading.
“ ‘Everyone knew I was a poor orphan…. Not a single soul in the household had ever been kind to me, except the good old dog who, like me, had been left to fend for itself …’”
Griboedov listened avidly.
Sashka was reading The Little Orphan, Faddei Bulgarin’s new composition, the first chapter of his projected lengthy novel, Vyzhigin. The prophecy was fulfilling itself …
“‘There was neither a corner I could call mine in that house, nor any food …’”
… Faddei had revealed before their parting:
“I am now writing a proper novel, old boy, with adventures, in which the hero suffers like a dog until he wins his riches. A wealthy person, my friend, will always be pleased to read about somebody who is cold and suffering while warming themselves by a magnificent fireplace. And it is equally gratifying to read about it, my friend, in a hovel, because it all ends well, in prosperity.”
But Sashka, the rascal, had stolen the book out of the desk drawer before Griboedov had had a chance to read it first. Sashka went on reading:
“ ‘In winter, they used me instead of a machine for turning the spit …’”
The cook grunted and suddenly said, displeased:
“How can a machine turn the spit? The spit is always turned by a man.”
And here’s the first critic, thought Griboedov.
“I presume,” said Sashka without taking his eyes off the book, in a calm voice, “that he means an English machine …”
Bravo, Sashka!
“ ‘Seeing how other children clung up to their mommies and nannies, I cuddled up to my pooch and called it mommy and nanny, hugged her, kissed her, pressed her to my chest, and rolled about with her in the sand.’”
Ugh! What sentimental slop! Just like Faddei, silly swine, sweet old darling!
The man wearing the black chekmen suddenly pulled the pipe out of his mouth, stirred, and spat. His face turned red …
“A dog is hardly a mother,” he said, and tensed. “You can’t call a dog your ‘mama.’”
Sashka finally raised his clear blue eyes.
“The fact that a dog cannot be one’s mama is a detail,” he said, emphasizing the word mama. “But a child can kiss a dog all right. And if you don’t approve of the scene with the turning of the spit …”
No, Sashka’s countercriticism ought to be sent to Faddei and published in Son of the Fatherland.
“… and if you don’t care for the dog and even mama, you don’t have to read the novel at all.”
Aha, after all, he has been offended.
Everyone was quiet.
“ ‘I was longing to love people,” continued Sashka, “ ‘particularly women, but I couldn’t feel anything for them, but fear.’”
“And this happens quite often,” Sashka said suddenly and coldly, “sometimes not only a child, but even a grown-up man doesn’t know how to talk to ladies.”
But he’s got a talent, damn it—he is a born reviewer! He must have read Senkovsky. Sashka, a fashionable critic.
Stepping gingerly with his long shoes, Griboedov stole back into his spacious, white room, which reminded him of an office at the ministry, and rang the bell.
Sashka showed up, displeased.
“Alexander,” said Griboedov languorously. “Alexander Dmitriyevich, would you be so kind as to brush my uniform for tomorrow?”
And as Sashka said nothing, Griboedov continued:
“I would have never thought of bothering you, Alexander Dmitriyevich, but unfortunately, there will be a large parade, and wouldn’t you agree that I’d be ashamed to show off a uniform that you, sir, have not once touched with the brush? Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”
He was rocking up and down in the chair.
“Absolutely,” said Sashka impassively.
“Thank you, sir. Could you tell me, Alexander Dmitriyevich,” Griboedov continued to rock, “have we had any visitors today, sir?”
“We have,” said Sashka.
“Who are they, Alexander Dmitriyevich?”
“The tsars.”
The chair stopped; Griboedov looked at Sashka earnestly.
“The tsars?” he asked slowly.
“Yes, Your Honor,” responded Sashka with no emotion, “the tsar’s sons, tsareviches.”
“Tsareviches?” asked Griboedov, completely dumbfounded. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“The tsareviches are our neighbors,” said Sashka brusquely, “Tsarina Sofya’s godfathers or godsons, I am not sure. The coachman Ivan (here they call them bicho—something like a stableman or a groom) …”
“What about him?”
“He knows them well.”
“Who—Ivan? The one who drove us around the town?”
“No, he carried our trunks. The one who drove us around the town was Amlikh.”
“And who is he?”
“Amlikh?”
“Whatever his name … You said ‘Ivan.’”
“The one who drove us around the town was Amlikh, not Ivan. Ivan is looking after the horses, and this one is a porter.”
“Well, fine, very well, a porter … So, who is the porter?”
“The coachman Ivan is the son of a major, and Amlikh is …”
“Are you having me on, canaille?”
“Not at all. Yesterday, Ivan received a deputation.”
“De-pu-ta-tion?!”
“From their serfs, the Georgian ones, of course. They looked pretty wretched—you could say, practically in rags—and said that they had nothing to eat. They are very much impoverished here.”
Griboedov was lost for words.
“Get the hell out of here!” He waved his hands at Sashka and shouted after him: “You’ve stolen a book from my suitcase. Are you telling me that these tsars of yours read in Russian? Damn you!”
Sashka chuckled rather smugly.
“One of them does, but their understandin
g is quite different, of course.”
Griboedov had already forgotten the uniform. He was pacing up and down the room.
Sashka was an unfathomable liar, fabulous, fantastic. He lied even when it seemed impossible. He had imagination. Once he had clenched his teeth and told Griboedov that the time would come when he would prove who he really was.
“And who do you think you are?” Griboedov had asked him.
Sashka was evasive at first and then blurted out:
“I am … my father was a count—‘graf.’” My surname is Grafov, meaning ‘count’s son.’ Later, it became ‘Gribov.’”
And Griboedov had a good long laugh, but then it occurred to him that Sashka’s surname, Gribov, was strangely like his own, Griboedov, and the fact that he too was called Alexander struck him as unusual. Trubetskoi had called his illegitimate son by a Swedish woman “Betsky,” and Rumyantsev named his bastard “Myantsev.” This was customary. Perhaps Griboedov’s own dear papa had followed the custom as well?
Sashka was obviously lying, and lying shamelessly. About the peasant delegation, possibly about the coachman Ivan and about the tsars. “Godfathers”! And yet Griboedov paced the room, dumbfounded. “They are very much impoverished here.” It’s beyond comprehension! Faddei’s novel, Sashka, the coachman Ivan, the deputation, the tsars. Sashka was like Scheherazade in the One Thousand and One Nights. The Caucasus was a strange place! And how quickly the indigenous aristocracy went downhill!
11
And indeed, what was the Caucasus?
This is how Lomonosov described Tsarina Elizabeth, the daughter of Peter the Great, sitting on the throne:
She sits, stretching her legs out far
Across the steppes, where the Great Wall
Keeps the Sinese apart from us.
She looks out with a cheerful smile
And, counting her riches on all sides,
She leans upon the Caucasus.
Such was the uncomfortable pose adopted by Elizabeth. It must have been difficult for her to stretch her legs out far across the steppes and to lean upon the Caucasus and still look cheerful, while at the same time counting her riches. The calculations must have been particularly difficult because even though Derbent, the gate to the Caspian Sea, had been conquered by Peter the Great in 1722, it had then been recaptured by Persia, and the Russian female and infant successors of Peter had other concerns.
The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar Page 24