“Are you awake?”
“I can’t sleep, Nil Petrovich.”
“What did you think of the Oponian kingdom and Samson the Giant?”
“I quite liked it, Nil Petrovich.”
“We must have different tastes.”
“When the verdict was announced to me,” Berstel said, “I thought: dear Lord, to be demoted to the rank of private, regardless of length of service! I thought it was the end, the pits. But it wasn’t the end. I am happy.”
Kozhevnikov suddenly sat up.
“I can’t understand you, Alexander Karlovich. With all due respect, but is the aim of one’s existence to march, to talk about the Oponian Kingdom, to sleep on the bare earth?”
“Nil Petrovich, you are young. With God’s help, you’ll yet have time to make a career. All I have to lose is ten years of my life. Bear in mind that our friends are either in the same or an even more difficult position.”
“But you, Alexander Karlovich, are paying merely on suspicion of your friendship with Pestel. You did nothing wrong. You are only ‘implicated.’” To visit such a punishment on a man of your age and your status—do you think it fair?”
“And what do you propose to do, Nil Petrovich? When I was young, I too approached life logically. There is injustice, ergo it must be eliminated. But reason is not as strong as it appears. Not much reason was left after Pestel’s execution. You have to understand this too.”
Kozhevnikov put his arms round his knees and rocked on the spot:
“And the parades, and all the shitheaps of eloquence? Not all our friends are having a hard time, Alexander Karlovich. And since you’ve mentioned friends, who looked at us from the terrace, wearing a gold-embroidered uniform?”
“Who? The officials.”
“No, not only the officials. Our teacher, our idol, our Samson the Giant. I still keep a single sheet from his comedy. I’ve kept it safe. And now I am going to tear it into scraps and roll cigarettes out of them. The person who looked at us from the terrace was Alexander Sergeyevich Griboedov.”
When God has raised in him a spirit
Burning for beauty and creative art,
Then flaming ruin—they yell—is your vocation,
And call you dreamer, dangerous at heart.
The uniform!—it’s their one consideration!
He recited the lines in whispers, filled with emotion, expressing his disgust. And suddenly, he lay down on the greatcoat and added, almost calmly:
This man will scale the heights, I prophesy,
For silent men today are praised on high.
Berstel chuckled.
Kozhevnikov looked at him askance and narrowed his eyes:
“You probably think I am ridiculous, Alexander Karlovich, don’t you?”
He flinched.
“Not at all, Nil Petrovich, I’ve always liked young people. But I don’t put so much score by Mr. Griboedov’s comedy.”
Kozhevnikov stared fiercely at the stain that was Berstel’s head in the semidarkness.
“I believe that Chatsky is wasting his time speaking out at the ball. People come to a ball to dance, and he with his sermon is really out of place there. He too is dressed for dancing. And besides he is driven by wounded pride.”
“But these are just appearances, Alexander Karlovich,” said Kozhevnikov, bewildered.
“No, I don’t believe it’s just appearances. Uniform, you say. A uniform is a mere appearance too. You are upset with him mostly on account of his golden uniform, not because he was on the terrace.”
“Alexander Karlovich, I don’t understand you.”
Kozhevnikov didn’t get it.
“I’m just saying that if you don’t judge Chatsky by his ball costume, why do you judge his author by the golden uniform?”
Berstel closed his eyes.
“And what is your judgment, Alexander Karlovich?” asked Kozhevnikov shyly, looking at the old gray stain that was Berstel.
“My judgment is as follows, Nil Petrovich,” replied Berstel, without opening his eyes, “that not knowing Mr. Griboedov closely, I cannot judge him fairly. And now we need to get some sleep, because reveille will sound soon.”
And Kozhevnikov was soon fast asleep and slept peacefully.
Berstel grunted; he was sleepless. He smoked another pipe and then, for a long time, stared at the gray canvas of the tent; and it seemed to him to be the sail of a ship and the ship would stand still and sail again, and then stand still again, and so continue without end. And its movement began to take the shape of the familiar and long-forgotten Latin, which sounded like a monk’s prayer:
O navis! Referent in mare te novi
Fluctus. O quid agis! fortiter occupa
Portum.15
Then the ship stood still, and Bestel fell asleep.
17
On that same morning, troops were marching through the wooded mountains toward Akhalkalaki. The man in charge, Chief Siege Engineer Colonel Ivan Grigoryevich Burtsov, marched with them.
On that same morning, Rodofinikin, as yellow as a lemon, woke up and hawked into the spittoon. Having spent masses of money, his secretary had reported from Tiflis that the Castellas business was doing well, and he had no plans to sell. Griboedov’s information had proved to be false.
On that same morning, Abu’l-Qasim-Khan was busy writing his report to Abbas Mirza.
On that same morning, Nino woke up in her tiny bedroom.
On that same morning, Sashka woke up not in his own bed, but in the chambermaid’s.
On that same morning, Dr. McNeill arrived in Tiflis.
On that same morning, Griboedov was staying in bed.
05
1
Faddei had been spending his morning in the Summer Gardens. He thought he looked quite distinguished. He had a new frock coat on and had bought a pair of spectacles. His newspaper was thriving, and so was the journal; he was taking a rest in the Summer Gardens; all was in order.
His new frock coat was rather tight and made him feel portly. He glanced freely at the statues as if they were young people from another realm, one of light entertainment, which was not competing with his.
“Good Lord, this one looks just like … Catiline,” he said addressing one of the marble youths. He gazed condescendingly but not too attentively at the green leaves, which seemed so transparent in the sun.
He felt like saying to them, both statues and leaves:
“Eh-he-he. So here you are then, youngsters.”
And he was dying to be noticed by some young man of letters, green behind the ears, a novice, who would think: look, there’s Bulgarin having a rest. At first, he wouldn’t notice when the youth raised his hat, and then he’d beckon him over and greet him and say:
“Eh-he-he. So here you are, my dear chap. Taking a stroll, are we?”
Then the conversation would touch upon the latest ball at Prince Yusupov’s, or perhaps the meeting of the Society of Lovers of Russian Literature, or the fashions, and he would say something along these lines:
“I loathe familiarity with the superiors (or with the old men, or with tailors), and I shun all manner of fanfaronade.”
Since that very morning when he had put on the new, too-tight frock coat, he’d had this on his mind: “I loathe familiarity,” and then something about the fanfaronade—that he was disdainful of any fanfaronade. It had somehow popped up in his head that morning, at the Third Department,1 to which he had brought a lengthy, well-worded article called “On the Directions of Modern Literature and Men of Letters,” and now he was eager to repeat all that to a more refined public, out in the fresh air.
Then he would pat the young man of letters on the knee, and so on.
In the meantime, he’d been admiring the silent scrap between two urchins who, away from the watchman’s eye, had been fighting in the corner of the alley for all they were worth, panting, bear-hugging each other, in total silence, so that the watchman wouldn’t spot hem. Both boys had sneaked into the garden
s without permission.
One of them was already staggering, the snot smeared all over his face, with the other patiently kneading his nose.
In his mind’s eye, Faddei nodded to the winning party:
“There you go! Take that! Smash his face, kick it in!”
He liked the way the world of children worked.
It was summer, which meant that the vacationers from the nearby rented houses might wander by accidentally and think: Bulgarin is having a rest.
He was happy to shun all fanfaronade.
Even the city’s mayor might come for a stroll in the Summer Gardens. Faddei was on speaking terms with him.
Or even an encounter on the highest possible level could occur: the Grand Duke or the tsarina might saunter down the paths and think: Bulgarin is taking his ease; and Faddei would tell him or her:
“Your Majesty—or Your Highness—I am not used to familiarity with superiors, and I shun all fanfaronade, which has no respect for age or merit or rank.”
At this moment, a man with parcels of shopping came into view. He was short and plump and wore a white waistcoat.
“Apollon Alexandrovich?” wondered Faddei, picturing some elderly man of letters.
The legs were approaching. They were bandy.
“Mikhail Nikolaevich from the censorship committee?” thought Faddei. “Devil take him.”
The black mustaches moved like those of a cockroach.
“Your Excellency, Konstantin Konstantinovich!” said Faddei, dumbfounded.
Rodofinikin sat down on the bench and put the shopping down.
“Having a little rest, are we?” he asked Faddei, but not in the way that Faddei would have wanted. Faddei got upset:
“It has been a hard winter.”
“Literary affairs?”
Faddei couldn’t conceal the distaste in his reply:
“To tell you the truth, Your Excellency, I deal with literary matters mainly for commercial benefit.”
“Ah, you literati, you men of letters! Have you heard from Mr. Griboedov?”
“Not yet.”
“I see. Neither have we. Oh, those poets!”
“I loathe any familiarity with superiors,” said Faddei in a stifled voice, “and shun fanfaronade, but if Your Excellency is not happy with my friend, I cannot play the part of the seraglio mute and will never behave like a caryatid. May I ask, highly esteemed Konstantin Konstantinovich, what are the grounds for such a comment?”
The Greek was somewhat rocked back on his heels by “caryatid” and responded peevishly.
“The grounds are that I have always been against the appointments of young and overexcitable officials, and even more so, poets, to posts on which the fate of the state depends. They are too chancy … and their true intentions are never clear.”
“My nature is such that I never hide, have never hidden, and until I die will never hide my thoughts. If I liked the way the North American states are governed, I would go to America like a shot and settle there. Could Your Excellency explain, therefore, where the uncertainty is here, and what in your view are Alexander Sergeyevich’s true intentions?”
Faddei mentioned the North American states for no reason, out of his distaste of familiarity, but the Greek pricked up his ears.
“I’ll tell you, my dear Faddei Venediktovich, I’ll tell you what they are. I know everything. Don’t worry: we learned them from our sources, since Alexander Sergeyevich has not cared to write a single line. He is preoccupied more with the affairs of the heart than of office. That’s the first thing. He has failed to proceed to his post in Persia. He doesn’t give a damn about the fact that the indemnity is not being paid. Nor does he care that the army remains in Urmia and Khoi, and that the count’s forces are not strong enough to fight the Turks—this he cares about even less. If he hadn’t spent last month in Tiflis with poetic intentions, Abbas Mirza might have long since joined forces with the count against the Turks, but for none of all this does he give a damn …”
It was Faddei’s turn to be knocked back.
“I am not good at playing the part of a lackey,” he replied, “I am neither caryatid nor Catiline, and permit me, Your Excellency, to have you understand that I am no fool, I can put two and two together, and I know which way the wind blows …”
The Greek interrupted him bitterly:
“Tut-tut-tut. You deigned to mention both the North American states and Catiline, and I can see that you might have a fair idea of what I personally consider to be purely poetic intentions …”
Faddei was dumbfounded. It would be difficult to explain to a state official why he had mentioned the American states, caryatids, and Catiline at all. The simple reason was the utterly beautiful morning and his flight of fancy.
“My tongue is my worst enemy,” he said good-naturedly, and his eyes welled up. “I would allude not only to Catiline, but to my own father, simply for the sake of literary embellishment, Your Excellency. It came out like that for no reason. I am ready to fall on my knees and swear by the sign of the cross.”
“Oh, those men of letters, oh those poets,” wailed the Greek, and turned into an elderly man resting after his shopping. “And we have to clear up the mess after them.”
“For the life of me, Your Excellency,” said Faddei, touching his forehead, “I can’t remember whether I sent you the latest issue of Son of the Fatherland, and whether you receive the Bee regularly?”
“Thank you very much. I receive them all right,” the Greek responded limply, as if resigning himself. “I can let your newspaper know the list of gifts that are being sent to the shah of Persia, either to the city of Baku or to Rasht, we haven’t decided yet, seeing as Mr. Griboedov’s opinion on the matter is still pretty much unknown.”
Faddei immediately pulled out a long pencil and a tiny notepad and began to jot down what the Greek was telling him, as carefully as if they were the words of an oath of allegiance.
“May I refer to you as my source, my dear Konstantin Konstantinovich?”
“That would be unnecessary,” responded the Greek. “And we’ll make sure that Alexander Sergeyevich is given His Majesty’s personal directive to get himself out of Tiflis.”
When he disappeared around the corner, Faddei tore out the sheet of paper, crumpled it up in disgust as if about to throw it away on the spot, and then stuffed it in his pocket. He spat on the path and then looked around apprehensively to check whether the Greek was really gone.
He flapped his arms sadly and sped home—to write a letter to Griboedov.
On the corner, he stumbled onto the fighting urchins. The silent struggle was still going on, and the panting, and the older one still concentrating on kneading the younger one’s nose. Faddei grabbed them by the scruffs of their necks.
“If you brats, you ruffians, you wretched creatures, don’t get the hell out of here, I’ll call the police … Policema-a-an!”
2
EXTRACTS FROM DR. ADELUNG’S NOTES
1. The restaurant is called The View of the Caucasus. The mores. They ask you whether you gamble in four languages: Russian, German, French, and Georgian. Mr. Sevigny wins a big sum of money. I sit down at the gambling table. Lose. Sangfroid. Observe the deck of cards: Sevigny’s signet ring with a sharp diamond pierces two cards.
“I am playing no more.”
“Why?”
“I might get pricked.”
An amusing spectacle: the man who calls himself a marquis is a cardsharp.
2. Aquae distillatae
Menthol
Alcohol
Balsami capanini
Syropi capillorum
Veneris
Aquae florum auranciori
Spiritus nitri dulcis
Faeti
Misce.
3. Comme les mots changent des notions.2 A. S. G., in a conversation with his servant Alexander, called him a skot: Russian for “brute” or “beast of the field.” Explained to him the derivation of the word. In Du Cange’s dicti
onary scot, scottum means payment or duty (in the Anglo-Saxon dialect). In Ancient Rome, scot meant a gift of money to the pope. Cf. in Latin pecuniae—money, pecus—cattle. He burst out laughing.
“Does it mean that Abbas’s throne is also a form of ‘cattle?’”
“Of course. Not the cattle as such, but cattle, meaning money and tribute.
“But then, doctor, all of us are cattle.”
“I won’t argue with that.”
4. Call to a patient. Do not decline, though there is no fee. Sexually transmitted diseases are very common among the officials. They pass them over to the indigenous female population. NB. Check whether it is not the other way round, which would be all the more interesting.
5. July 11. The salary is delayed.
Caucasian slippers ……………………… 3 rubles in silver
Tobacco without customs duty ………… 1
Pipe …………………………………… 3
Fruit (daily) ……………………………10 kopecks
6. Summoned to Governor-General Sipiagin. Confidential. His interest in animal magnetism. A lobster on its tail. Stood for ½ minute. My laughter. “Force of spirit.” I said: “Is your Excellency so sure that a lobster can have such a powerful spirit?” Schelling has failed to crack it, and now the Russian generals are engaged in magnetism. What can one say?! After the lobster, he asked me a medical question, about sexual potency. My advice.
7. +54° C. Well-roundedness in the East is a woman’s main asset. The prevalence of lustfulness in Tiflis. Is the reason in the vapors issued by the earth? Or is it the influence of the sun? Attraction of thin people toward plump ones. A. S. G. and jeune personne3 Daschinka. Visited a private house of debauchery. Mainly as an observer.
NB. Necessity of introduction of the maisons de tolérance4 under medical supervision as modeled on the European states.
8. July 20. Delay in salary. Conversation with A. S. G.
9. Discovered that A. S. G. is under secret surveillance. Marquis S., the cards cheat. If the minister is being watched, who is watching the watcher? The body of the state like the nerve of observation: consequently, only the one at the top is the one not being watched. Haven’t informed him yet. Curious to see what will happen.
The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar Page 28