To annoy him, Paskevich deliberately scribbled in the margin: “To inform Rodofinikin. Paskevich,” and forwarded it to Petersburg.
In Petersburg, Rodofinikin gave a sly chuckle at the Paskevich’s note and scribbled in the other margin: “Sell. Rodofinikin.”
By the time the Rodofinikin scribble arrived in Tabriz, half of the provisions had perished beyond retrieval, ruined. And the sugar had long been sold by Darejan.
In Persia, they were also busy with Vazir-Mukhtar. Tehran conferred (and Tabriz agreed), and they sent Khosraw Mirza to St. Petersburg. He was young, not at all bad-looking, and far from stupid. Tehran decided (and Tabriz agreed) that if he were to be killed in Russia, it would be a shame, a great shame, but the Persian state and the Qajar dynasty wouldn’t suffer too much on that account: the prince was of mixed blood, a chanka. In the event that he were not killed, they were to apologize and discuss the kurors.
Khosraw’s retinue consisted of a hakim-bashi (a doctor), Fazil-Khan (a poet), mirzas and beks, a nazyr (a chaperone), pishkhedmet (Kammer-valets), three tufendar (arm-carriers), the secret ferrash (a bedchamber footman), an abdar (a water carrier), a kafechi (a coffee-maker), a sherbetdar (a sherbet-maker) and a sunduktar (a treasurer). The latter was in charge of the blood money—for Vazir-Mukhtar.
The precious diamond, named Shah Nader, was taken out of Fat’h-Ali-shah’s khazneh, and the sunduktar was bringing it as a present for the emperor.
Paskevich immediately issued an order: to make no special arrangements to greet the travelers in Tiflis, to feed them adequately, to throw no parades, and to look after them courteously but without extravagance.
12
Having spent a week at Paskevich’s, Khosraw grew exceedingly bored and convinced that they were going to kill him. The road he also found rather dull. But when he caught a glimpse of Moscow on the approach, Khosraw, Fazil-Khan, and everyone else who accompanied him felt much relieved: they were being royally received.
He was offered a change-over into a carriage drawn by eight horses; at the city gates, the guard saluted him, and the Moscow chief of police rode on horseback to his carriage and presented him with an honorary address. Then, flanked by the orderlies, he rode at the head of the procession, with twenty-four gendarmes and an officer following them along the sides of the streets to prevent people from crowding. The chiefs of the district and neighborhood police followed behind the gendarmes, followed in turn by a company of grenadiers with a band and twelve court equestrians with twelve court horses in court apparel.
The sight of the horses calmed Khosraw. He was rather handsome, was no fool, and had his wits about him. Count Suchtelen was assigned to him as his escort.
The weather was fine, springlike; there were already some air currents, some subtle trends, there were joyful faces all around, and Count Suchtelen was a chatterbox of a general. It finally dawned on the prince that he was in luck—he was not for the chop. Oh, no, quite the contrary. And he immediately lightened up and relaxed.
Nesselrode lived in Peterhoff. On the way to Petersburg, Khosraw called on him. Vice Chancellor! The Great Vizier! And again, the weather was superb, the cleaner faces were curious and carefree, the dirtier ones were indifferent, and on the spur of the moment, Khosraw sent a messenger to tell Nesselrode that he would not visit him first. Let Nesselrode present himself to Khosraw at Khosraw’s place.
Nesselrode was resting at the time.
Dressed in a lightly woven and light-colored home tailcoat, he read Count Suchtelen’s note very carefully and took umbrage. He sent a messenger to tell Khosraw that the prince should present himself at his, Nesselrode’s, place and that he, Nesselrode, would not come to him.
Khosraw then asked Suchtelen: and why exactly, in point of fact, should he go to Nesselrode? The youth was feeling frisky now, but remained relaxed and good-humored. Nesselrode gave it some thought and told Suchtelen that he should impress upon Khosraw that the aim of the visit should also be the ambassador’s request to report his arrival to the emperor and to receive instructions about how exactly he would be presented to His Majesty.
They agreed that the meeting would take place accidentally. Khosraw would go riding past Nesselrode’s residence, and a few Kammerjunkers would run into him and invite him to join Nesselrode for a cup of tea and some refreshments after his run.
Khosraw went out for a ride, and at the very moment that a red carpet had been rolled out in front of Nesselrode’s residence, Kammerjunker Prince Volkonsky rode out to meet him and asked him in for a cup of tea, and Khosraw stepped onto the red carpet.
Nesselrode had invited him in vain.
He had really taken it into his head to explain to him the arrangement of the audience …
And yet?
Things had not gone according to plan.
Nesselrode read the court’s approved arrangement of the audience to the young man. He read it pretty clearly.
The young man listened.
Nesselrode was in a hurry to finish, so as not to bore him too much.
“The envoy—that is, you, Your Highness,” he explained to the young man, “will take a few steps and pass over His Majesty the shah’s document, which he holds in his hands—that is to say, you in your hands, Your Highness—which, upon accepting, His Majesty will pass over to the vice chancellor—that is to say, me, Your Highness,” he explained, “and he—that is to say, I—will put it on the table prepared for the purpose, and will then respond to the envoy on behalf of His Imperial Highness; and the response will be read to the envoy—that is to say, you, Your Highness, in the Persian language by an interpreter.”
“I disagree,” said the young man suddenly.
He was carried away by the drift in his favor: remarkably easily, his Persian mind had taken a completely different direction from how he’d started when he had been Paskevich’s guest.
Nesselrode raised his eyebrows and adjusted his spectacles.
“I want the emperor to respond to me personally,” said the young man.
Nesselrode was extremely taken aback by these words and realized he had to tread carefully, delicately.
“Your Highness,” he said, “in your country, it is customary that His Highness the shah should respond personally, but in this country, the tradition is quite the reverse; namely, His Majesty responds via the vice chancellor—that is to say, in point of fact, via myself. In this instance, Your Highness, I act as a sort of mouthpiece of His Majesty.”
“Good,” the young man said, “in that case, let His Majesty, my Magnificent Uncle, address a few words to me, and you, Your Excellency, will speak the rest.”
Nesselrode sensed the concession:
“But, in effect, does it matter, Your Highness, who says most and who says just a little?”
Khosraw answered reasonably:
“No, Your Excellency, because it is His Majesty the shah who wishes personally to hear His Majesty say just a few words about the absolute end to these recent misunderstandings.”
Nesselrode sighed. It was springtime; the weather was bright; the young man was handsome and fatuous. And he felt that he had run out of steam and that it was time to sit down at the dining table, so dazzlingly white and sparkling and laden with fruit.
“So be it, Your Highness. I agree.”
13
Twenty-one salvos boomed out over Petersburg. That was the royal naval salute.
And immediately, all twenty-one salvos were returned from the Peter and Paul Fortress: the fortress was saluting.
The Persian flag fluttered over the Neva banks.
A horse-guard batallion marched in the vanguard with unsheathed broad-swords, with banners, trumpets, and kettledrums.
A subequerry, two Bereiters,3 and twelve pedigree court horses, in pairs and with richly decorated trappings, formed part of the train.
A court carriage, containing the leader of the procession, Count Suchtelen, also drawn by tandems of horses.
Four court carriages with Fasil-
Khan, mirzas, and beks.
They were followed by the court outrunners, four in number, with walking canes, the two Kammer-valets and fourteen lackeys, two by two, on foot. And rocking from side to side, the golden court carriage, surrounded by the Kammer-valets, Kammer-pages, and cavalry officers.
It carried Khosraw Mirza.
The muffled music cooed under the sun like distant doves, and the banners fluttered in the pregnant air.
There were warm drafts, currents of joy, female faces, women’s eyes shining from the sides of the streets, white dresses swirling like clouds above their little shoes: ladies tried to peep in so that they could see the one in the main carriage.
Already they had passed the hanging bridge, Novaya Sadovaya, and Nevsky Prospect, and had entered the vast, recently washed square.
And here all the carriages stopped, and only two of them went into the imperial court.
The leader, Count Suchtelen, was in one of them, and Prince Khosraw Mirza in the other.
The battalion outside stood at attention, and the music crackled faintly.
The prince was met at the door by the master of ceremonies, two Kammerjunkers, two Kammerherrs, and the Hoffmeister.
They went up the stairs, and on the upper landing, the chief master of ceremonies, clean-shaven with dark skin and raven black hair, bowed to them. He joined them.
Prince Khosraw-Mirza was conducted to the Antechamber.
In there, the Ober-Hoff-Marshal bowed to him and invited him to take a seat on the couch. In each room, the guards stood like statues against the walls.
The chief master of ceremonies made a bow and invited him to try some dessert.
Two Kammer-valets bowed before him with a tray of coffee, desserts, and sherbet.
The police had spent a week looking for some Shiite Tatars. A few had been hired as cooks, and they had produced the sherbet.
They proceeded farther—through the White Gallery to the Portrait Hall.
And in the Portrait Hall, everyone suddenly stopped.
The Oberkammerherr detached himself slowly and proceeded, without looking aside, into the unknown room. And came back.
He invited Khosraw Mirza to enter the throne room.
The minister of the court, the vice chancellor, the generals, and various luminaries of both sexes stood at a fitting distance from the dais.
The members of the State Council and the Senate and all the chiefs of staff stood at an appropriate distance away to the right.
The entire royal family stood in the designated place before the steps of the dais.
At the door, Khosraw Khan made a bow.
The supple head fell of its own accord.
Accompanied by the Persians, he proceeded as far as the middle of the room; the Persians remained standing stock still, while Khosraw Khan proceeded further.
And the third bow.
The Magnificent Uncle stood in front of the throne.
Khosraw gave a five-minute speech in Persian.
And the ladies stared at him, their nostrils straining to catch a whiff of harem air.
He put the charter into the white hands. It was artfully rolled up and put into a tube.
The hands accepted it; one of them arched like a little boat and handed it over to the dwarf. The Famous Face gave a soldierly, sexless smile.
The dwarf smiled. For three minutes, a thin, fluting little voice trilled while the vice chancellor read the imperial speech. Like a goldfish in a tank, it wiggled backward and forward until it stopped.
Then the Magnificent Uncle descended the steps. He took Khosraw Mirza’s thin, yellowish hand and said:
“I consign the ill-fated Tehran incident to eternal oblivion.”
And since it was very quiet, it seemed that time had stopped outside these walls, while in here, the generals and the luminaries of both sexes, variously dressed, stood eternally, and the female nostrils flared subtly and ceaselessly in order to inhale the whiff of the harem air, while the Persians stood bunched and stuck for all time in the middle of the hall; and it seemed that the slim Khosraw had long been growing here, rooted like a tree.
And so eternal oblivion enveloped the Tehran incident, finally and irrevocably.
Vazir-Mukhtar no longer lived; he stirred no more.
He did not exist now; he had never existed.
Eternity.
Everyone moved to the Marble Hall, where the merchants were expecting them. It was a ticketed event.
14
The room had no windows, and the heavy door was immediately locked behind them. The air was dense, the ceilings were vaulted, the voices sounded muffled, and although there was not a single chair in the room, it seemed congested.
The diamond lay on the table, on a little red velvet cushion; it was lit by two lamps.
Senkovsky picked up the magnifying glass. A short old man in a civil servant’s uniform prepared to write.
Narrowing his eyes, Senkovsky said:
“Very well. It is legible,” and to the old man: “Write it down. Qajar … Fat’h-Ali … Shah sultan … Twelve forty-two.”
The old man scribbled.
“Have you written it down? In brackets: eighteen twenty-four. This was engraved just five years ago.”
The old man turned the diamond on its side gingerly, with two fingers.
“Not like this; it’s upside down,” said Senkovsky. “The inscription is rather crude … yes, it is … Can you see how deep … Write it down: Burhan … Nizam … Shah the Second … The year one thousand.”
The old man would listen carefully, cross something out, scribble.
“Apparently, an Indian ruler. Sixteenth century.”
Senkovsky turned the gemstone himself.
“Keep writing,” he said brusquely. “The son … Jehangir Shah … The year one thousand and fifty-one. Write down in brackets: the Great Moghul.”
The old man scratched hastily with the dry quill, and the quill stopped writing.
“The Great Moghul. Have you written it down? The year sixteen forty-one after Christ. Close bracket.”
The lamps were warming the little velvet cushion, and the room was neither dark nor light, as at dawn.
Senkovsky nodded to the old man, and the old reddish eyelids blinked.
“The price of blood. He was killed by his son Aurangzeb, in order to capture this,” and he pointed with his finger at the little cushion. “And he also murdered his brother; I don’t remember his name.”
Suddenly Senkovsky picked up the diamond with his long fingers and looked at it in the light. The old man’s lips began to tremble.
“You are not supposed to …”
The diamond was white in color; the shadows in the facets were the color of wine, and deep inside, at the Nizam Shah’s inscription, it was brown. Senkovsky put the gemstone back on the table. He stroked it slowly with his fingers. His face softened.
“Have you weighed it?”
He asked about the diamond as a doctor inquires about a newborn baby.
The old man spread his hands, marveling:
“Not yet. It must be more than two hundred and fifty.”
Senkovsky asked him sternly:
“Will there be a fourth inscription?”
Shrugging his shoulders, the old man was already opening the door.
Only once out in Nevsky Prospect, after he had passed the Nichols’ shop, Senkovsky gave a smile. His gaze was distant, indeterminate. The thoroughfare, the people, the shop signs, the trees went past him.
15
Husbands strove for glory, sought crosses, the scars of action. The ship was sailing. Numerous cabs dashed along Nevsky Prospect. A slight official faintheadedness was in the air. Women swooned. Dancing was universally popular, for some unknown reason.
The unknown reason was Prince Khosraw Mirza.
Lunches, dinners.
Khosraw Mirza stayed at the Tauride Palace. The furniture had been removed, carpets rolled up, sofas brought in, a huge portrait of Abba
s Mirza hung up. It had been hastily painted by the academician Beggrov, and it had been completed just in time for the arrival.
Dances.
He was shown around the Academy of Arts. Khosraw Mirza particularly liked the statue of the Consul Balbus and the bust of Nicholas by Martos. He also liked the columns.
The mineral collection in the Academy of Sciences drew his particular attention. He would stop for a long time over each metal and mineral, and his eyes would light up. He was made a gift of a set of crystal tubes representing blood circulation in the human body. The prince was impressed by the advanced state of Russian science.
Promenades.
In the Royal Mint, Khosraw Mirza felt tired and sat on the floor. Then he suddenly remembered and said that it was easier to observe the cutting and stamping from the floor. Right there, in his presence, they minted a medal in his honor and presented him with it.
And the Smolny Institute for Noble Maids.
The maids’ faces were not covered, and the prince breathed heavily and was stirred. One of them blushed, stepped forward ceremoniously, and read an Oriental-themed poem, an imitation of Hafiz.
With his sharp Persian eye, Khosraw Mirza looked into her open face in the way that Europeans look at bare legs.
Presided over by the headmistress, they were ushered out of the room, their dresses rustling.
He gave a sigh, recovered himself, and said:
“The unconquerable battalion.”
Which was immediately written down.
Poetry.
For a long time, he walked around the palace arm in arm with Mamzelle Nelidova.
He then spotted Madame Zakrevskaya on her summer-house balcony and at once decided to pay her a visit. And he did.
At a dinner with the generals, Benckendorff raised a glass to his health, Levashov told a French joke, Golenishchev-Kutuzov got hideously drunk.
Then Benckendorff took him aside:
“Your Highness,” he said with all the ease of a man of the world and the emperor’s favorite, “I have a favor to ask you, I hope not too incongruous. My brother, a general, whom Your Highness might not even know, is very much disposed toward your great country. I am a patriot, and I shall say without reserve: I would be very pleased if Your Highness honored that disposition by granting him the order of the Lion and the Sun.”
The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar Page 52