The singers, deliberately placed all over the city, mainly in the squares, sang national Georgian songs.
Dusty drums and trumpets, last used during the reigns of the Georgian tsars, had been taken out of storage and were sounding off.
The Georgian national dancers leaped up into the air athletically.
The amanates listened to the music, whose sounds always bring so much ineffable pleasure.
A great number of spectators watched from windows or from the rooftops. Wrapped timidly in their chadors, the women came out into the square.
The amanates were given five kopecks each; the widows got ten. The orphans ate roast lamb. General Sipiagin made sure that everyone had his due.
And the national dancers leaped up into the air.
The Tiflis merchants donated forty-six thousand rubles in paper money to charitable institutions.
By seven in the evening, everything was over.
Then the tables were laid in the hall for a hundred and fifty people.
And the festivities resumed.
15
Sipiagin spoke to a fat colonel, pointing with his eyes to Griboedov’s back and then to the hem of Nino’s dress at the other end of the hall:
“This is marriage à la mode, colonel. I can spot people in love at a glance. This is nothing of the kind. He has plans for Georgia, I know it for sure. What a shame, such a lovely girl!”
Still on the move, he scribbled a brief note, beckoned a footman, and instructed him quietly:
“To M-me Castellas, and let no one see it.”
He left the colonel, took Griboedov by the arm, hooked up Zavileisky in passing, and collapsed with them onto the sofa.
“What do you think of the music?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“Where did you get the musicians?”
“Don’t they play well, Alexander Sergeyevich?”
“Not really.”
“This is how I got the musicians,” said Sipiagin, not in the least put out. “Five men are my menials, five are some crooks I came on by chance and one is an amanate of princely origins. And sometimes when I see them play, I ask myself: is that really my servant Vaska? And I tell myself: yes, that’s my Vaska. But with these black clothes on he is no longer the rascal Vaska, oh no. He is a musician, a bandmaster, a conductor.”
“So the bandmaster is your menial Vaska?”
“And note, Alexander Sergeyevich, how elevating it is, how ennobling, and how it contributes to bringing rapprochement between the two nations. The amanate is a bad musician; I hired him thinking that one day, perhaps he would turn into an indigenous genius.”
“There are no signs of it so far,” said Zavileisky respectfully.
“None whatsoever,” agreed the general. “But give him some time. Experience is everything, absolutely everything. All around us is experience.”
The general looked around with his fine gray eyes. Right opposite him was Mushtaid-Agha-Mir-Fat’h, the chief mullah of Tiflis. He looked self-important, wore a splendid robe, and his posture was reminiscent of the Orthodox bishop’s.
But from time to time, Mushtaid was obscured by the people engaged in the cotillion, in which the Russian ladies and the Georgian maids in their national costumes danced together. Nino floated by. In the far corner, a portly pair of Georgian princes played the card game lintourlu and an old Russian colonel sitting next to them with a hookah peeked into their hands.
“And all is politics,” said the general approvingly. “Everything that you see here is politics. I know that people censure me: Sipiagin is a spendthrift, Sipiagin is this and what not. But I am what I am: Sipiagin the politician.”
The general is being clever. He reclines his head. And without waiting for their reaction, he says:
“Politics, frontiers, they are not that simple. Easy to draw the boundaries, hard to erase them. What do I place in the center of politics? Exclusively spiritual needs.”
“But take for example …” begins Zavileisky.
The general interrupts him:
“For example, the khans. Defiant? Dissatisfied? Welcome to the party! Captains, junior officers—you are heartily welcome too, gentlemen. Don’t grouse about the fighting. Give them a warm welcome. The local nobs are furious about being looked down on?—make merry, gentlemen. You are a captive naib?” he asked Zavileisky. “Take a puff of the hookah, if you don’t fancy the dancing. And here’s something concerning you in particular, my dear Alexander Sergeyevich: show deference, try to like a person close at hand. Appearances make a great impression on people over here. And the same is true for Persia.”
“What reason do they have to love me, my dear general?”
Sipiagin comes back at him firmly:
“And what did they love Miloradovich for?”
“You don’t mean to say the Persians did actually love him, do you?”
“Everybody loved him. And what for? No special reason,” the general is triumphant, “because he was a Russian Bayard, un chevalier sans peur et sans reproche.10 He understood a man; he understood his spiritual needs. For example, he used to drink Zimla sparkling wine with Blücher. He didn’t care for French champagne all that much. Not a word was said between them while they were imbibing. Blücher had drunk more than he could handle, and blacked out. The adjutants picked him up from under the table and carried him to his carriage. And Miloradovich once told me: I am very fond of Blücher, he’s a good fellow, he said. The trouble is: he can’t hold his drink. But, Your Highness, I objected, as you did just now.”
The general nodded at Zavileisky: “Blücher doesn’t speak Russian, you don’t have a word of German, and neither of you knows French. What pleasure can you find in your companionship? And the count said to me then: Ah, who needs to talk! I don’t need words to know his soul. And I find him delightful for this precise reason: he is a soulful person.”
Griboedov felt a sudden desire to tickle Sipiagin. The general’s gray eyes were childlike and, looking at his torso, face, even his wrinkles, it was easy to picture him as a child.
“Oh,” says the general suddenly, “but Paris in those days was fantastic! What women! My God, what women! Combien de fillettes! One of them, Jeannette, danced on the table—sans dessous,”11 he whispers loudly, “no knickers—and the count threw flowers to her.”
Sipiagin spotted Eliza and Maltsov, jumped up, and dragged them over to his corner.
“It’s much cooler here, Countess. I hope the ice has melted in this heat? Have our sweet ladies warmed up? Here in the wilderness, our dear ladies have grown great in their pride.”
Eliza is reluctant to pay visits first, and so are the ladies. Sipiagin can’t stand Paskevich, nor can Paskevich bear Sipiagin. That’s why the general is looking after Eliza in every possible way. And now that they have come to know each other, the visits will follow like clockwork.
“I’ve been remembering, dear countess, my Bayard, Miloradovich. The number fourteen is of particular significance for me, dear countess. I was born on October 14, I joined the army when I was fourteen, as a sergeant,” the general smiles. “On October 14, 1812, I was appointed the chief of staff of the vanguard. In 1814, I entered Paris. Oh, Paris, Countess! What a heroic year it was! And on December 14, I lost my Bayard.”
“Count Miloradovich was your commander, wasn’t he?” says Eliza, just to say something.
“He was like a father to me. Oh, what a time it was for Russia! You wouldn’t believe it, Countess, but in 1812, on the way from Vyazma to Dorogobuzh, among the broken carts, killed horses, and scattered weapons I encountered … cannibalism.”
The countess looks at Maltsov meaningfully.
“Exactly that. Without flinching, the French carved the bodies of their fallen comrades, roasted them in the fires, and ate them.”
“Oh!”
The countess is seeking Griboedov’s protection.
“And how often, dear general, did you come across such cases?” asks Zavileisky sympathetically.
>
The general waves his hand.
“Often enough, but over the evening tea, our late Bayard used to tell us, his comrades, how during the starvation, he had happened to dine on his ammunition.”
Eliza drops her fan on purpose. The general bends to pick it up. Zavileisky continues to pry.
“How exactly did he eat his ammunition?”
“Your fan, Countess … Very simple. No fodder, no stray sheep, no preserves—and once, when not far from the town of Vyazma, the count had already eaten his horse’s hay …”
Eliza no longer looks at the general and chokes with laughter:
“What do you mean ‘hay?!’”
“This happened quite often,” the general closes his eyelids, “when things turned really bad: the count used to bring into his tent a bundle of hay from the stables and his doctor, a German, whose name escapes me right now—I have to check my notes … von Dalberg, I think …”
“Are you writing a memoir?”
“I was. Episodes from my wartime experiences. They will go to the grave with me … So, von Dalberg …”
“How absolutely fascinating!”
“Not really.” The general looks his usual kindhearted self. “Just some tactical considerations and a series of picturesque but—alas!—no longer important events … So von Dalberg used to select edible stalks for him. Countess, any news from our dear count?” asks the general, slightly flushed.
“How kind of you to ask. He is well and of good cheer.”
A nod from a man who is privy to the family secrets and sympathetic to them.
“I have a huge favor to ask Mr. Griboedov,” says the general at the end of the conversation. “I’d like the first issue of the Tiflis News to be adorned with your name, Alexander Sergeyevich. Since you are the main member of the committee.”
“Don’t you have enough material?”
“More than enough. Ours is an intellectual medium. And I do it gradually. At first something light—Features, Miscellaneous, Foreign News. And only then political and military articles proper. Pyotr Demianych has just submitted an article, a very entertaining one.”
“There will be wonderful entries in this issue,” confirms Zavileisky. “I’ve had so much fun reading them: one on performing fleas—I jest not, Countess—and one about a peasant.”
The general gave a grunt of displeasure, although the laughter still played in his eyes.
“Why not something about the performing fleas? These days, there are lots of them. And I have to confess that the one about the peasant is pretty curious too. You shouldn’t be too critical, Pyotr Demianovich.”
“Far be it from me,” says Zavileisky hastily. “The article about the peasant sounded interesting indeed, and I am amazed that the ecclesiastical censorship has passed it.”
“The ecclesiastical censorship!” exclaims the general, enjoying himself. “It was the exarch in person who told me the story.”
Eliza asks him:
“Tell us, dear general, about the peasant, please.”
“There isn’t much to tell, dear countess. It’s about a commissioner who was procuring grain somewhere in Imereti, bought some grain from a peasant, and died before he had a chance to return the ten sacks. The provisions committee sent its officers to the peasant’s homestead. But the peasant told the officials: first be so kind as to return my sacks. The officers must have been young and inexperienced, and they responded that since the commissioner had died, the peasant could ask God to return the sacks to him. A few days passed. I have no knowledge as to what the officers had been doing, but the peasant came back and told the committee: upon receiving your order, I asked God, and God directed me to the committee so that I can get my sacks back. The officers were amazed and told him: you are lying. And the peasant said: if you don’t trust me, ask God.”
Griboedov burst into happy laughter.
“Did the exarch tell you this story?”
“If you don’t trust me, ask him,” said Sipiagin and roared with laughter.
Eliza got up. She considered the conversation inappropriate.
Zavileisky slipped away. He had caught a glimpse of the Greek, Sevigny, and Dashenka in the distance.
Having found himself téte-à-téte with Griboedov, the general looked at him affectionately.
“I am getting old,” he said. “What a dancer I was in my youth!”
He seemed to have dwindled indeed, and his eyes were those of an old man.
Only now did Griboedov notice that the general had, as he himself would have put it, “imbibed.”
Suddenly the general took him by the arm and babbled, pointing at somebody:
“Tenez-vous, mon cher …”12
The slender-waisted Captain Maiboroda stood in a corner of the room.
“I profoundly dislike this creation of our era,” said the general and yawned. “This brings the Guards into disrepute. They could have let him stay in the army; they could have decorated him in one way or another; but why did they transfer him to the Guards? Such a Schermützel.13”
The general spoke as soldiers do. Schermützel stood for casualties, defeat, disgrace.
Griboedov was curious:
“And was it all right to let him stay in the army?”
The general responded confidently:
“It was. What else could they do with him?”
Griboedov smiled and laid his hand on the general’s red, weathered one.
“It’s perfectly all right for him to stay in the army,” repeated the puzzled general.
“And he’s all right in the Guards, isn’t he? He’s all right in the Guards too. And could even be made a colonel. And …” he nearly added, “or even a general.”
Sipiagin’s face screwed up. He puckered his fat lips.
“It won’t do to view the age like this. It’s entirely unbefitting, Alexander Sergeyevich, to take this view of it, now that we’ve got a grip on them, militarily speaking.”
And he rose, quite the old man, and looked around displeased. Having caught sight of the flowers in the vase, he gave a broad smile, tinkled his spurs, and straightened up his back, and with his laughing eyes, he said:
“I’ve completely neglected my duties. I’d better make arrangements for the fireworks.”
And he went off across the room.
Abu’l-Qasim-Khan came up to Griboedov. He was wearing a gold-embroidered gown and spoke French.
“I can understand, Your Excellency, how reluctant you are to depart for our poor Tabriz when life in Tiflis is such great fun.”
“I am not reluctant at all, Your Excellency,” responded Griboedov calmly. “I haven’t yet received my final instructions, or my credentials.”
Khan gave him an understanding smile.
“His Highness is eager to see you … and so is His Majesty.”
“And also His Serene Highness Alaiar-Khan, isn’t he, Your Excellency?”
“His Grace has entrusted me to convey his heartfelt gratitude to General Sipiagin for his courtesy during His Grace’s imprisonment. All is forgotten. You are being expected as an old friend. What beautiful music! When I was in Paris …”
But at this point, a strange rearrangement took place: His Excellency the Russian minister hid himself behind the khan and stooped a little. The Persian eye laughed, the Persian eye squinted, hoping to see a female skirt—a tall, infantry captain, corseted like a wineglass, passed very close to them. He had a narrow face; his side-parting was sleek and resembled Griboedov’s. Abu’l-Qasim-Khan said:
“Such an amiable and gracious atmosphere, but it’s far too hot, don’t you think?”
The khan was extremely polite. Griboedov had known him for a long time. He had nicknamed him khan sucré,14 and now everyone in Tiflis knew him by that name.
As for Sipiagin, he exchanged niceties in passing with the ladies and the khans, then freely and assuredly went out through the door and down into the garden, where the young M-me Castellas was expecting him.
A good half-hour was left until the fireworks; the night was growing paler, the intoxication fled his body, and he had no time to lose.
What women there were in Tiflis! My God, what women! Combien de fillettes! He could hear the bleating sound of the zurna, and somewhere in the distance, the lights in the city gardens remained on.
16
Emperor Alexander I referred to the Caucasus as “hot Siberia.”
That night, a gray canvas town of soldiers’ tents had been pitched outside the city. The quartermasters took the officers to their allocated apartments in town, and after the ball, they returned to their living quarters. But since about two thousand soldiers could not be billeted comfortably and safely so that they would not speak to any civilians and would not be in the proximity of any public house or nearby tavern, they were encamped beyond the city boundaries.
The canvas town was encircled by the military patrols assigned by Sipiagin. A sentry sent from Tiflis stood guard at each tent. The fighters who had demonstrated their military might could rest in peace, but when they went out to relieve themselves, they were met by the sentry’s watchful eye.
Mostly they were not asleep. Nothing rattles a soldier so much as a parade. Marches and battles knock the soldier out, and he sleeps like a log. But a parade keeps on throbbing throughout his limbs; his mouth is still filled with the cries of hurrah; bright spots stand out before his eyes: the banners, the generals’ breeches, the braided uniforms, and the archbishop’s garb on the terrace. One needs to smoke a pipe and to have some quiet conversation so that the body can shed its nervous tension, now no longer necessary, and relax, and at last, a whiff of somnolence soothes the eyelids.
In one tent, some soldiers were getting ready to sleep. There were ten of them. Two of them used to be noncommissioned officers, one a colonel, another a lieutenant, and six had always been privates.
It is not hard to demote colonels and lieutenants to soldiers, but the problem is where to place them after that. Both Paskevich and Emperor Nicholas were confronted with the problem but failed to solve it. At first, it was decided to place them in separate quarters and tents because in this way, they lacked the opportunity to instill any harmful ideas into lower ranks. But then, having no communication with anyone else, keeping to themselves, wouldn’t they find it even more natural to consolidate themselves in their harmful opinions, and since there were dozens of them, wouldn’t this lead to possible subversion, to some attempt at treason? So the decision was made to settle them in the camps and quarters together with the other soldiers, but under the surveillance of older and experienced noncommissioned officers.
The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar Page 26