“Moscow has changed, but Petersburg is the same, and the Bobruisk fortress is the same. But how could I forget?”
“Too bitter to remember. For me too. You know, I once copied Sergei Ivanovich’s poem to memorize it. I liked it so much, and I recalled it very clearly. It wasn’t long, just eight or ten lines. All I can remember now is just these two:
Je passerai sur cette terre
Toujours rêveur et solitaire …18
“… solitaire—and I forget what comes next. And nobody can tell me. Do you remember, by any chance?”
“I don’t,” said Griboedov, surprised at Burtsov’s chattiness.
Either he hadn’t seen people for a while or he was putting off the moment of truth.
“Yes,” said Burtsov sadly, “yes. He got many things wrong … And your comedy is still unpublished, isn’t it?”
“Censorship.”
“Did you see His Majesty?”
“I saw him and spoke to him,” nodded Griboedov. “He is in good spirits.”
“Yes,” said Burtsov, “everybody says that he is, yes. So,” he said, “shall we talk about your project?
He gathered himself up.
“I read it all through the night and burned two candles. I read it like I once read Raynal, and I am unlikely ever to read anything more enthralling on the subject.”
So they both collected themselves and assumed their parts: one of the commander of the Kherson Regiment, in charge of the trenches, and the other of a relative of Paskevich. Without noticing it, they both raised their voices.
“The idea of a trade company is a fabulous tale. It means a new state, in comparison with which the present-day Georgia is a mere bullock cart. All this is splendid and very alluring.”
He probably used to talk like this to Pestel.
“And your verdict?”
“Negative,” said Burtsov.
Silence.
Griboedov smiled:
“An example of French critique. At first “Cette pièce, pleine d’esprit,” and in the end ‘Chute complète.’”19
“I am neither a critic nor a writer,” said Burtsov bluntly, and the veins stood out on his forehead. “I am a brute of a soldier, a dogface.”
Griboedov began to rise very slowly.
Burtsov’s little hand motioned him back down into his seat.
“Don’t take offense, will you?”
And the rain began to drum against the canvas of the tent in the chill tone of the chairman of a meeting.
“There is so much in your immense draft. One thing is missing.”
“In our dramatic dialogue, would you permit me to dispense with cues? I am certainly meant to ask ‘What is it?’”
“As you please. What is missing is people.”
Griboedov yawned:
“Ah, that’s what you are about. ‘Not enough stoves,’ as Paskevich said the other day. But to get a workforce won’t be a problem.”
“Exactly,” said Burtsov triumphantly, “you are right: this is not a problem. Now that the prices of estates in Russia have plummeted, you’ll buy peasants for a song.”
The rain sounded its warning. Burtsov’s reaction was direct and incomprehensible. He was a man of a different epoch.
“Those who are needed as managers can also be found. You too work for Paskevich. There are still honest people around.”
“Not many. All right,” said Burtsov, “what will come out of your state? Where will it take us? Will the new rich become the new nobility; will there be a new kind of slavery? Have you thought about your goals?”
Griboedov crossed his legs and sat back in his seat:
“And you, with your plans—not the glass factory, the other one—did you think about your goals? Do you want me to tell you what would have happened if you had succeeded?”
Burtsov stopped short.
“Do, please.”
“Exactly what is happening now. Posts and projects would have been fought for. Pavel Ivanovich Pestel would have taken control of Siberia, particularly since his father used to be its governor. And he would have presided over a botch-up. Siberia would have split from Russia, and Pestel would have gone to war with you.”
“I demand in all humility … I demand that you should not speak in this tone about the dead …”
Burtsov’s lips were twitching, and he laid his tiny hand on the desk.
“Essentially I am still a man of honor. I cannot speak ill of my dead opponent.”
“Aha,” droned Griboedov, looking pleased, “But Ryleyev too was a great man … an enthusiast …”
Burtsov suddenly turned pale.
“You and Ryleyev would have liberated the peasants—of course you would have!—and he would have governed with the help of his writing …”
Burtsov burst into a guttural, barking laughter. Practically poking his little finger into Griboedov’s chest, he said huskily:
“Ah, so this is what it has all come to. And you would drive Russian peasants over here, like a herd of cattle, like Negroes, like convicts. To live in an unhealthy climate, from which even the natives flee to the mountains, away from the unbearable heat. To where your colonial plants grow so well. This cochineal of yours. You would like to turn Russian peasants into cattle, slaves, convicts. Well, I won’t allow you! This is disgusting! You should be ashamed of yourself! Thousands of men into the hellhole! Young children! Women! And this is coming from you, the creator of Woe from Wit!”
He screamed, punched the air with his little white fist, spluttering as he jumped to his feet.
Griboedov rose too. His mouth stretched wide, he snarled like a lightweight wrestler anticipating a heavyweight opponent.
“Actually, I haven’t finished yet,” he said almost calmly. “How would you have liberated the peasants? You would have petitioned for their rights, you wouldn’t have cared about the money. It would all have been squandered,” he said, admiring the still-moving lips of the man who was not even listening. “And you would say to the poor Russian peasant: ‘our lesser brethren’ …”
Burtsov listened now, his thick lips ajar.
“… ‘would you care to work for nothing—temporarily, only temporarily, of course?’ And Kondraty Fyodorovich would have called it not serfdom, but voluntary duty of the peasantry. And he would have surely composed an anthem to boot.”
Burtsov bristled like a wild boar. Huge tears sprang from his eyes, wetting his mustaches. His face darkened. He advanced on Griboedov.
“I challenge you,” he crowed, “I challenge you to a duel for mentioning the name … For using Ryleyev’s name …”
Griboedov laid his long, yellowish fingers on Burtsov’s little hands.
“No,” he said quietly. “I am not going to fight you. I don’t care. Consider me a coward.”
And he felt the cramp again in the fingers that had been damaged in the previous duel.
Burtsov took a drink of water.
He drank it out of the jug, in huge gulps, his red Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He put the empty jug down on the little table.
“Because you want to create a class of nouveaux riches, because thousands would perish—l am going to oppose your project in every possible way.”
His voice was hoarse.
“Oppose all you want,” said Griboedov languidly.
Burtsov became suddenly afraid. He looked at Griboedov in bewilderment.
“I think I’ve overreacted,” he muttered, wiping his tears. “Your manner is the same as that of the late Pestel’s … and I did not know you at all. Remembered but did not know. I don’t understand you: What you are trying to achieve? What is it that you want?”
His eyes moved about Griboedov as if he were a fortress that had turned out to be unexpectedly empty. The rain oozing through the canvas dripped in the corner in small, quick trickles, but slower and slower, as if it were about to stop.
Griboedov was watching the drops. He looked curiously at Burtsov.
“What will you te
ll Paskevich?”
“I will tell him that as one occupied with military affairs, he would not be in charge, and his powers would be diminished.”
“Clever,” said Griboedov admiringly.
He started to rise.
Burtsov asked him softly:
“Have you seen my wife? Is she well? She is an angel and is the only reason I stay alive.”
Griboedov left. A splinter of moon, curved like a scimitar, hung in the black skies.
… And it might well be that if we suffer defeat … wonderful Georgia. And there will be a new land of freedom, in which we shall all live …
… Like Negroes … children … into the hellhole …
Je passerai sur cette terre
Toujour rêveur et solitaire …
The project was no more. It had all gone, died out, all of it.
18
In here is muttering, croaking, a doctor as snub-nosed as death himself, a warden wearing loose overalls and fumigating with the sulfur censer; in here is shuffling of shoes. In here is neither war nor peace, neither illness nor health. This is quarantine.
This is the place where Alexander Sergeyevich has pitched his tent for three days.
Alexander Sergeyevich tells Sashka to unload everything they have—wine and provisions.
A quarantine feast begins.
Alexander Sergeyevich paces up and down the tent and invites people to the crude table. People eat and drink; they drink to the health of Alexander Sergeyevich.
Only the plague wind could have brought them together; only Alexander Sergeyevich could have made them sit at the same table.
He has seated Colonel Espejo, who had fought for the Spanish king, Ferdinand, alongside Lieutenant Cvartano, who, being a colonel in the Russian army, fought against Ferdinand and was demoted on his return to Russia.
He has seated the seventy-year-old private, Count Karvitsky, alongside Сornet Abramovich.
The “pheasant” Buturlin, the Headquarters quartermaster, next to staff-captain Dr. Martinengo; and Maltsov next to Dr. Adelung.
And Sashka waits on all of them.
Why do they sit in a row? Because Alexander Sergeyevich Griboedov, the minister plenipotentiary and their chief’s relative, has placed them like this.
And he pours more wine to all of them.
And he talks very courteously to each of them.
Does he know the power of wine?
Wine, which washes away very thoroughly, as if with a sponge, the lines of lawlessness drawn on their faces.
He probably does.
He is delighted when Count Karvitsky reclines and begins to sing an old song.
Tak Hekla siwa
Śniegiem pokrywa
Swoje ogniste pieczary …20
It is a tender and a very loud song, which Private Karvitsky used to sing about thirty years ago at his ancestral estate.
Wierzch ma pod lodem,
Zielona spodem,
Wieczne karmi pożary …21
And with that freedom from care that distinguishes Polish rebels, the tipsy, seventy-year-old private addresses Second Lieutenant Abramovich intimately and tells him, wagging his finger:
“Ty będziesz wisieć na drzewie jak ten Judasz.”22
And Second Lieutenant Abramovich gets up, staggering, in order to leave the table, but Alexander Sergeyevich squeezes his arm, laughs, and says:
“Oh, no! Where are you heading off to? Try this burgundy, lieutenant. I need to have a word with you.”
And the Spaniards have a quiet conversation, and Espejo leans away from the table, as drunk as Almaviva in The Barber of Seville, and suddenly yells at Cvartano:
“Traitor! What have you gained under Mina’s banner? Ferdinand shot him like a dog. How dare you give me this nonsense?”
Cvartano cackles, and Espejo crawls under the table.
Maltsov gives Dr. Adelung a French kiss, and the latter pulls out a handkerchief and thoroughly wipes his mouth.
And only the old man Martinengo, with the little dyed mustache and the Adam’s apple of a pirate, drinks like a sponge. He is silent.
He suggests to Buturlin:
“To the health of M-me Castellas.”
Buturlin cannot hear him. He watches the soldiers Karvitsky and Cvartano, horrified: he hasn’t decided yet whether he should leave or carry on watching them. The thing is that Paskevich has sent him on an insignificant assignment, and he is unlikely to receive the Cross. But the Cross is obtainable by various means. For example, by way of honorable denunciation.
Old Martinengo grabs him by the hand and screeches:
“Hey, I have proposed a toast to a lady. Are you refusing to drink with me? Oi, you, pheasant, I’ll teach you how to dance the fandango!”
And Buturlin, as thin as a walking stick, pale and trembling, gets up and approaches Griboedov:
“Alexander Sergeyevich, I demand an explanation.”
But Griboedov is busy passing wine, bread, and a glass under the table to Colonel Espejo.
“Colonel Espejo, Don Bald-Pate, are you alive under there?”
He does it like a zoologist observing the natural world.
Hearing Buturlin, he finally gets up, listens to him, and bows politely:
“You can go if this is not to your liking.”
O wdzięków zbiory,
Grzeczności wzory,
Panie, królowe, boginie!23
“A bas Ferdinand Septième!”24
“To M-me Castallas’ health! Fandango, pheasant!”
“You have betrayed the Polish cause, you, dog!”
“Drink up, dear sirs! Drink up, dear Spaniards! Dons, Grands, and Signors, drink up, drink up!”
“A German gentleman is asking for you.”
The stars looked older, like women after a bad night.
Alexander Sergeyevich stood upright in front of an unfamiliar German with fluffy red mustaches. The German said:
“Excellenz, I am a poor Württemberg sectarian. We have been deported here. I am coming out of quarantine tonight. I know that you are going to Persia.”
“How can I help you?” asked Griboedov softly.
“We believe in Christ’s second coming from Persia. Could you let me know, Excellenz, if you hear about him over there? This is the request of a poor man. My name is Meier.”
Alexander Sergeyevich stood upright before the poor German with the fluffy red mustaches.
He said very earnestly in German:
“If you leave your address, Mr. Meier, and if I run into den lieben Gott25 in Persia, I’ll tell him to drop you a line. How good is your Hebrew?”
“Nonexistent,” said the German, and his mustaches billowed like the sails of a ship.
“Well, I doubt very much that der liebe Gott has any German. You might not understand each other.”
The German went away with a measured step.
Griboedov returned to the tent.
Ja, na cześć waszę
Pełniąc tę czaszę …26
“Evviva Florenzia la bella!”27
“You are not a Pole, you are a Tatar; you’ve betrayed the znamena narodowy.”28
“To M-me Castellas’ health!”
19
The illness had been roaming about his body; it had not yet determined what it was or where it would strike.
He stood in a half-empty room that had been waiting for his return like a woman. He stood with his feet wide apart and felt weakness in his legs and body, which nailed him to the floor. Sashka pottered in the corridor, came in, did something, turned around, and left.
It was very early in the morning, and no other sounds except these were to be heard.
“I have run up debts that cannot be repaid,” said Griboedov, consulting the furniture with his bleary eyes. “That churl Levashov interrogated me and now treats me with condescension. Ermolov gave me some time to burn my papers, and he loathes me. Paskevich was instrumental in my release, and he is now my patron. And Burtsov reproaches me for
my Woe.”
He climbed down the stairs and went quite steadily toward the street where Nino lived. He stopped suddenly at the crossroads and, without thinking, turned toward the governor-general’s house.
He said nothing to the frightened valet, pushed him aside, and entered the study. It was empty. Then he went through to the dining room, poured himself a glass of water out of a crystal carafe, and drank it.
“Tepid, how disgusting!” he said with revulsion and moved to the bedroom.
The enormous M-me Castellas was pulling a stocking onto her leg the color of pure bronze and was fumbling with a gigantic garter. He looked at her wistfully.
She gave a muted scream, and General Sipiagin in his dressing-gown tumbled out, leaped almost out of nowhere.
He seized Griboedov by his sleeve, dragged him to the study, and threw him into an armchair.
Sipiagin looked frightened; his nose was dove-gray.
“Are you … sick?”
Sipiagin jumped up and quickly brought him a little glass of yellow liquid.
“Drink this, will you?”
Griboedov waved the bustling general’s hands aside.
“I wish to inform you that an audit is forthcoming, following an anonymous denunciation.”
The general leaned back, and his dressing-gown flew open.
“Believe it or not,” he said in a shaky voice, “but I am not afraid. They can come, God damn it, and I will tell them they are welcome anytime. Let me thank you, Alexander Sergeyevich, from my soldierly heart—as a man, as a poet, and if you will, as a Russian soul. Take this, old chap. It’s not wine, this is a concoction … a concoction …”
He clapped his hands and rang a little bell. An orderly came in.
The general looked at him suspiciously:
“Have you been … imbibing?”
“No, sir, Your Highness!”
“I can see that you have!”
“Yes, sir, Your Highness!”
“A carriage for His Excellency!”
“Yes, sir, Your Highness!”
“Believe it or not, but all of them are drunks,” said the general. His hands were shaking.
“You better prepare, yourself, general,” said Griboedov, and his teeth chattered.
Sipiagin paced the study as if he were wearing spurs.
The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar Page 33