The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar

by Yury Tynyanov

  A week later, Darejan told her that some merchant from Tiflis was asking permission to see her.

  An unknown old Armenian proffered her a letter. Her mother’s slanted handwriting was on the envelope.

  She was holding the letter in her hands as if she were holding her mother’s own hand.

  Princess Salome was asking her to come back to Tiflis: Alexander Sergeyevich was allowing her to do so. He had written to Princess Salome in Tiflis.

  Nino stood in front of an unfamiliar old man, looking at him calmly.

  Alexander Sergeyevich had written to Colonel Macdonald, he had written to Princess Salome; he was arranging her life for her, and she was the only one to whom he wrote nothing. He hadn’t a thing to say to her; he completely ignored her.

  Full, round tears burst from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, and she made no attempt to wipe them away.

  In the evening, when Darejan began to pack their things, she asked Nino:

  “Shall we sell the sugar, then?”

  “Sugar?”

  “A hundred pounds of sugar still remain.”

  Nino said:

  “Until I get a letter from him, I am not going anywhere.”

  Darejan did not object and kept on packing. The sugar was sold.

  On February 13, the carriage was brought up to the porch.

  Nino, dressed and obedient, had been awaiting it.

  The Macdonalds saw her off; the colonel kissed her hand.

  She did not utter a word.

  Darejan fussed and bustled. The English officers and the escort saluted Nino.

  “Shall we get going?” they asked.

  She made no reply.

  Alexander Sergeyevich was out there somewhere close, cunning, lurking, hiding from her.

  From that day on, Nino Griboedova became mute.

  In Tiflis, she gave birth to a stillborn child.

  7

  Within three weeks, Maltsov succeeded in many ways.

  Various ministers came to appraise him every day. And he became so accustomed to slandering Griboedov that now he rarely came to his senses; he could not clearly recall how it had all started.

  Eventually, Abbas Mirza advised them that he should be freed. The shah gave him a farewell audience. The clothes of fifty pounds in weight remained in the khazneh; the ministers were busy with their affairs at their homes, some drinking sherbet, others writing reports and giving orders. Maltsov was body-searched at the keshikhane, and two ferrashi pulled the red stockings onto his feet. Manouchehr-Khan took him into a side room, and the shah listened quite patiently to Maltsov’s second speech.

  It differed from the first: it was rather more poetic. Maltsov felt less restrained. He even showed off. He called the shah the pillar of the stars; his throne was a lion on which the sun rested; Vazir-Mukhtar was an ox that had trampled over the harvest of friendship. Fat’h-Ali even expressed his regrets and said how grieved he’d be to part with Maltsov, and why didn’t Maltsov stay at his court as a Vazir-Mukhtar? At this point, Maltsov also felt rather grieved, but he made it clear that without his explanations, Fat’h-Ali-shah’s “Magnificent Nephew” might not understand the reasons for the recent unfortunate misunderstanding, so it would be better on the whole if he, Maltsov went back to Russia. The “Nephew” would listen to him.

  Emperor Nicholas’s title was “Magnificent Uncle,” but to be on the safe side, by calling him “Nephew,” Maltsov had implied his inferiority to the shah.

  The shah sent him supper from his anderun, and the ghulam-pishkhedmet asked Maltsov, on the shah’s behalf, not to forget to inform his government in particular about this favor.

  The following morning, he received two presents: two timeworn shawls and an old nag that refused to move for fear of being taken to the knacker’s yard.

  The representative of the Russian government left on that old nag, to intercede on behalf of the pillar of the stars.

  As soon as he set off, it suddenly occurred to him that Paskevich might well send him back to Persia, on purpose, and he decided that on arrival, he would immediately write to his two aunts in Petersburg with a request to petition for him witih Nesselrode.

  His head shook a little. On the second day, when nothing bad had happened to him, after giving it considerable thought, he decided not to continue in state service, and instead to use his inheritance to set up some factory in Petersburg or to take up literature.

  He imagined The Works of Ivan Maltsov and cheered up. Or: “Maltsov’s Great Textile Factory.”

  But having caught himself feeling more relaxed, he returned to the wagon and resolved not to indulge any optimistic thoughts of freedom before he reached Tiflis. He had no wish to recall either Griboedov or Dr. Adelung, and in that he succeeded. The jolting was making Vazir-Mukhtar as hazy as a bad dream. All that had been too long ago; it was an episode from ancient history from which he was taking flight.

  8

  But Vazir-Mukhtar reached Petersburg and Moscow before him. He plodded on, dragged himself on bullock carts, carried by coach, along the roads up and down the Russian empire.

  And the roads were foul, cold, iced up, swarming with paupers and ragged troops tramping the roads. But he did not lose heart; he hobbled along, hopped on courier horses, chaises, mail coaches. He was featured in reports.

  And all the while, Petersburg and Moscow were busy with their own affairs and were not waiting for him at all.

  Nevertheless, like an unwanted guest, he sneaked into both Petersburg and Moscow. And there, Vazir-Mukhtar was harshly reprimanded by Count Nesselrode. And turned back into Griboedov, into Alexander Sergeyevich, into Alexander.

  9

  Communiqué No. 527 from Count Nesselrode to Count Paskevich:

  “March 16, 1829.

  His Majesty the Emperor has deigned to read Your Excellency’s communiqué. It is with great sadness that he has learned about the disastrous fate which so suddenly befell our minister in Persia and almost all of his retinue, all of whom fell victim to the rage of the local rabble.

  As regards this sad event, His Majesty would find some consolation in the certainty that the Persian shah and the heir to the throne were not privy to this wickedness, and that the above incident is to be ascribed to a reckless excess of zeal on behalf of the late Griboedov, who did not take due account of the primitive customs and barbaric notions of the Tehrani rabble, and, in addition, of the known fanaticism and intemperance of the above, which was the only reason that forced the shah to enter into a state of war with us in 1826.

  The resistance to the rebels by the Persian guard which Minister Griboedov had at his disposal, the huge number of men from the guard and from the troops sent by the shah’s court, who perished as a result of the riots, can surely serve as sufficient proof that the Persian court harbored no hostile designs against us.

  Fears of Russian reprisal might compel the above to prepare for war and to heed the insidious promptings of the detractors of the Qajar dynasty.

  Under the present state of affairs, we shall content ourselves with a visit to Russia by Abbas Mirza or any of the crown princes, carrying the shah’s letter to His Majesty, establishing the innocence of the Persian government in the demise of our mission.

  If on receiving this communiqué by Your Excellency the Persians have not yet made a decisive step regarding the visit of a crown prince, then His Imperial Majesty wishes that you let Abbas Mirza know that the Imperial Court is aware of the Persian government’s complete innocence of any involvement whatsoever in the atrocity that has been committed in Tehran, and the emperor is content to satisfy himself merely by a visit of Abbas Mirza, or a crown prince, so as to exonerate the Persian court in the eyes of Europe and of all Russia.

  As soon as any of these persons has arrived, His Majesty wishes them to be escorted straight to St. Petersburg in the most appropriate manner; in the meantime, send an express courier here with an advance notice, and in addition, entrust him to inform the governors along the way t
o prepare the necessary number of horses for the embassy.

  His Majesty entrusts you entirely to act as you consider most prudent regarding the deferment of the repayment of the ninth and tenth kurors.”

  A copy of Count Nesselrode’s private letter to Count Paskevich was also sent to the Russian ambassador in London, Prince Lieven. Paskevich was informed of His Majesty’s ire thus:

  “However great and justified the emperor’s respect for the general might be, His Majesty deplores his latest actions and his letter to His Highness Abbas Mirza, which contained various insinuations. What view of the letter will be taken by Mr. Macdonald who is so well disposed to us, and in such an honest and friendly manner, that he ordered not a single Russian to be allowed to leave Tabriz without a British passport—unquestionably for the purposes of their own protection? Will he not convey the content of the document to his government, which will undoubtedly inflame the London Cabinet’s jealousy and suspicion?”

  General Paskevich was instructed to hand over Persian affairs to Prince Dolgorukov. Prince Kudashev was being sent to Tabriz for negotiations with Abbas. In the meantime, Paskevich was to rest content by sending his apologies—if the crown prince failed to attend, it would be sufficient to offer them to a grandee, regardless of blood. Pedigree was of no importance. The late Minister Griboedov was himself to blame for everything that had happened, according to the diplomatic note of His Majesty Fat’h-Ali-shah of the Qajars. The Qajar dynasty was a legitimate dynasty, and General Paskevich had to respect it. The emperor, however, remained satisfied with measures taken to suppress the rebellion in Georgia.

  Thus, General Paskevich and Minister Griboedov had received harsh reprimands. Vazir-Mukhtar’s career was ruined. Strictly speaking, had he still been alive, the situation would have been tantamount to one of resignation or dismissal.

  10

  “Can’t see, can’t see properly,” said Faddei, and started to tremble. “Can you read it, Lenochka? No idea where I put my glasses.”

  Lenochka took the sheet of paper, read it, and gasped for breath.

  “O Gott, du barmherzlicher! Alexander ist tot!”2

  The blood rushed to her head; she gave Faddei a fearsome stare, not really seeing him, and burst out sobbing.

  “Where are the glasses?” babbled Faddei. “Forgot where they are. Can’t see properly.”

  He rummaged, circled the room, found his glasses, and reread the sheet of paper.

  In front of him on the desk were the proofs of his novel and an official document regarding the death of A. S. Griboedov—for publishing in the Northern Bee.

  “I don’t understand, my dear friend, Lenochka, how can it be, without any warning … How can such things happen?”

  But Lenochka had left the room.

  Then he resigned himself, sat down at the desk, immediately broke out in a sweat, sniffled, and looked morose and utterly pathetic.

  He glanced at the galleys of his novel, which he had planned to send to Griboedov for his opinion, and gave up—in the way that he had once surrendered to a Russian soldier.

  “Dear God. My novel is coming out, and there is no one to read it to” And he suddenly felt sorry for himself. He had a little cry.

  He fussed and fluttered.

  “When was he born? What’s his date of birth?” He mumbled and slapped himself on his bald patch. “Goodness gracious! What should I write? Can’t remember! For the life of me, I can’t remember! How old was he? Oh dear dear!” He suddenly decided: “I think I know: thirty-nine. No, can’t remember. No, not thirty-nine but thirty … thirty-four. Is it?” And he panicked.

  He jumped off the chair:

  “Mourning. I should go into mourning. Entire house should go into mourning. All of Russia.”

  And he faltered, felt confused, and sat back at the desk.

  “I have to tell … Gretsch.”

  But the doorbell had already rung in the vestibule.

  A grave-looking Gretsch and Pyotr Karatygin were coming in. Faddei felt stung that they had learned the news before him.

  But when he saw Pyotr’s solemn face and Gretsch’s bitterly twisted mouth, he got up, and copious tears rolled freely down his face.

  Then they suddenly stopped, and he spoke very quickly:

  “The fourteenth of March. Anniversary. Exactly a year ago, he brought the Turkmenchai Treaty and here you are—on the fourteenth of March—comes the news. The very same date. The enemy’s triumph does not frighten me, sirs.”

  He spoke of the enemy as if it were his own.

  “There are people whose rule is: stuff you all, so long as I stand tall!”

  He punched his chest:

  “He was my only friend. He trusted me unconditionally. The only genius has perished! He is no more!”

  Faddei caught the reverent glances and finally took time to breathe. The only friend of the one and only genius who was no more! That was him! He became businesslike, wiped his eyes with the handkerchief one more time, and dragged everyone toward the exit. He was not yet clear what had to be done—petition for Woe at the censorship office? Ask about some other affairs? Inform people?

  He suddenly left Pyotr and Gretsch in the vestibule, ran up to his study, pulled out the desk drawer, withdrew the manuscript, ran back to Pyotr and Gretsch, stuck it under their noses, and drummed with his finger.

  “ ‘I entrust my Woe to Bulgarin. His true friend Griboedov. July 5, 1828.’ If only I’d known, if only he’d known! When he was writing this inscription, I embraced him and said: you give me your woe, as if I don’t have enough of my own!”

  And he ran back to the study and put Woe under lock and key.

  Once outside, he soon fell behind Pyotr and Gretsch, greeted people, stopped acquaintances, told them that he was hurrying to write an obituary, and kept on going. But almost all of them already knew and only nodded sympathetically. He took a cab to go and see Katya, but thought that it would be inappropriate, and then he reassured himself: “What does it mean—inappropriate! Alexander Sergeyevich is dead.” He was no longer afraid to pronounce his name, as at first. But Katya could not see him just then.

  “The mistress is dressing for the rehearsal.”

  Faddei heard her laughing and thought with relief: she did not know.

  Katya came in dressed as Artemis.

  When he told her, she turned pale, devoutly made the sign of the cross, and said: “Heaven rest him now,” but did not burst into tears.

  She sat for a while with her hands in her lap, and then heaved a huge sigh, one from her entire bosom:

  “I need to go back to the rehearsal. I’ll dance poorly tonight.”

  She did not cry because she was in full costume.

  Back outside, Faddei felt orphaned. They were sympathetic, even extremely sympathetic, but there was a certain indifference, a general indifference. There was no sense of shock. He dragged himself to the Bee. There he sat, self-important, brooding, and refrained from his usual jokes. He saw two men of letters and looked through the news items. He calmed down a little. Gradually, his feeling of being orphaned evaporated. His novel was coming out in May; his newspaper was a sort of European enterprise. Well, he would survive like this even without … and yet … he suddenly felt restless. Alexander Sergeyevich was now far away—perhaps he could see, hear, and take note of any thought, effortlessly. Perhaps God was now telling him everything. He thought craftily:

  “Can’t live without my only friend. Dear Lord, grant eternal rest to the soul of the genius, Alexander Sergeyevich.”

  By evening, he became bored and instead of going home, went to the tavern. He was known there. The waiter gave him a low bow. Having spotted an old retired officer, a tippler whom he had once described in a sketch as a veteran of the 1812 campaign, he invited him to join him at his table and treated him to some porter. He started telling him about Griboedov.

  The old soldier said:

  “Strange thing happened in our regiment. There was an ensign by the name of …
Sventsitsky. So one day, he set out for a little ride on horseback … And you know what? Next day, they found him—minus his head.”

  Faddei wiped his brow with a kerchief.

  “There was no … Sventsitsky,” he said, and became red in the face. “These are all lies.”

  And he swept the bottles off the table.

  11

  After the reprimand, Vazir-Mukhtar quieted down, was heard no more.

  The riots in the Telavi and Gori districts and in Ganja were quelled.

  His name still showed up in the reports, communiqués, and secret dispatches from Petersburg to Tabriz and back. And little by little, Vazir-Mukhtar was turned into statistics, into figures. Because everything has its price, even blood.

  On Eliza’s advice, Paskevich demanded that St. Petersburg should pay a one-time sum of 30,000 rubles to Nastasya Fyodorovna because she was not Vazir-Mukhtar’s lawful heiress and could be recompensed for only a part of the property in Tehran, which had apparently been looted; and, as an annual pension to Nino, 1,000 chervontsy, a sixth of her deceased husband’s annual income.

  Nesselrode went to Finance Minister Cancrin, had a talk with him, and they decided on a plan magnanimous enough and yet not too costly. The mother and the widow were paid a lump sum of 30,000 rubles each, and both were given a pension, not in chervontsy, but 5,000 rubles in banknotes. The old lady could not have long left to live, so that would be a saving.

  And one more question regarding Vazir-Mukhtar suddenly surfaced: the matter of the dead man’s effects.

  Prince Kudashev, who had already arrived in the city of Tabriz and was directly accountable to Nesselrode, sent his report to Paskevich:

  “The British minister Macdonald has informed me that the late Minister Griboedov’s personal belongings, as well as wines and provisions, are now in Tabriz: and he entrusted me to ask the commander-in-chief whether they should be delivered to Tiflis, sold in Tabriz, or kept until the arrival of the Russian mission.”