The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar

by Yury Tynyanov

  He grinned as if he were talking about some female prank. The famous dimples played on his cheeks like little funnels. Khosraw Mirza was past being surprised by anything.

  Something had shifted in the Petersburg’s climate; some mysterious change had taken place, and at times Khosraw felt that he was the man of the hour. He began to feel lofty.

  The Lion and the Sun, the gifts.

  He was forgiven the ninth and the tenth kurors.

  Olga Likhareva presented him with an embroidered cushion.

  Elizaveta Fautsen gave him a morocco brief-bag sewn with beads. The Beziukin maids gave him a screen painted with flowers. The painters Schultz and Colman presented him with a portrait of the emperor and four drawings, respectively.

  And the publisher of The Nevsky Miscellany sent him their publication. Khosraw returned the brief-bag and the four drawings to Miss Fautsen and the painter Colman. He did not care much for those.

  And Nikolai Ivanovich Gretsch presented him with his grammar in two volumes. In the dedication, he pointed out that in some places in the book, His Highness would find proof of the common origin and similarity of the Russian and Persian languages.

  There was certainly considerable similarity between the two languages.

  The valet took Count Khvostov to the prince’s chamber.

  Count Khvostov was served some sherbet.

  The court poet Fazil-Khan, Mirza Saleh, the doctor, and the interpreter accompanied Khosraw. Khosraw Khan sat cross-legged on the carpet.

  Count Khvostov bowed his small head before the Iranian prince.

  “Are you a poet?” the prince asked him.

  “I have the pleasure of calling myself so, Your Highness,” replied the poet.

  “Are you the court poet?” the prince asked him again.

  “I have the pleasure of being a courtier by rank and a poet by God’s grace.”

  “Bien, go ahead,” said the prince.

  Count Khvostov recited:

  The honest progeny will not pass over in silence

  The unswerving nobleness of the high souls

  And will proclaim, putting a stop to rumor,

  That the grandson of the Eastern kings,

  Having caught sight of seven-hilled Moscow

  In the rapid current of love and emotion

  Was searching for the mother—the sad woman

  Distraught by her old age and her grief.

  Appreciating the precious loss

  Of the one who had borne him, the guilt

  And sorrow for her son, he shares and weeps

  And dries the floods of tears with compassion.

  The interpreter was stumbling, spreading his hands in bewilderment, perspiring slightly.

  “I don’t understand a thing!” Khosraw Mirza said to Fasil-Khan in Persian, smiling politely and nodding as if in admiration. “Apparently the old cretin believes that I paid a visit to Vazir-Mukhtar’s old mother and dried her tears.”

  And he told Count Khvostov, with the same smile, in French:

  “Count, I’ve just been saying to our prince of the poets Melik ush-Shu’ara, and to the historiographer, that in comparison with your poems, the poetry of all our court poets is like smoke compared to fire.”

  They brought the theater tickets.

  The count was treated to sherbet.

  Freshening up, chess, the theater.

  16

  The theater.

  Old men in gilded uniforms, envious of the effortlessness of the leaps on stage, excited by the live trunks and bare branches on display.

  Youths in green uniforms and tailcoats, all without exception already embracing in imagination those living pink trunks.

  Women on stage performing the expected frolics, the flips, the beating of one leg against the other, all with an astonishing ardor.

  “What is a waltz? It is a musical poem in a sweet arrangement; or, rather, it is a poem that may take any possible form. A waltz can be lively or melancholy, fiery or tender, pastoral or martial; its beat is free and bold, and it is capable of assuming any variation, like a kaleidoscope.”

  The waltz was both pastoral and martial.

  Especially for Khosraw Mirza, they staged The Captive of the Caucasus, or, the Shadow of the Bride, “the epic, historical folk pantomime ballet by Didelot to the music of Cavos.”

  The frolics and waltzes were inspired by the poetry of Pushkin. But Pushkin was weary of Didelot. Pushkin was not in the audience. He had gone to the theater of war.

  Katya Teleshova was on stage, and her martial, her pastoral waltz had many traditional elements in it. She was not the shadow of the bride; she was very tangible.

  As for the Captive of the Caucasus. he would simply circle around her, grab her from time to time by the waist, support her, and then spread both arms.

  Two Kammerjunkers breathed in their seats so loudly that they would have interfered with each other’s enjoyment of Cavos’s music if they actually had been listening to it.

  But the other bride, or whatever she was, and the Georgian maids’ choir, were also impressive.

  Prince Khosraw Mirza occupied the middle royal box. He leered at Katya and at the other bride.

  Faddei and Lenochka had seats in the stalls.

  Faddei had been incensed for a long time before going to the performance.

  “What kind of a turncoat am I?” he kept saying. “What kind of a weathercock am I to go to this performance? I have seen more blood in my life than some quill-drivers have seen ink. No, sirs, thank you very much, dear ex-friends, you go,” he repeated, all the while dressing in front of the mirror.

  Having nearly strangled himself with a necktie, sulky and cattish, he grabbed Lenochka by the hand and dragged her to the theater. But hearing behind his back, “There’s Bulgarin”, cheered him up a bit.

  Once into his seat, he found himself next to an ex-friend, dug him in the ribs, and whispered:

  “What a woman! My God! And she writes so well!”

  The former friend looked sideways:

  “She writes? Who? Katya Teleshova?”

  “And why so surprised? An extremely clever lass, she wrote such epistles … I was told she would eclipse Istomina.”

  The ex-friend asked:

  “Who was?”

  Faddei replied:

  “Who was? Cavos! I say, Cavos is good, and Didelot even better.”

  They were told to hush, and Faddei, feeling rejuvenated, turned around and peered into the box at Khosraw. (Previously he had avoided doing that.) And he suddenly felt a light, slightly melancholy, and tender emotion: after all, this was a crown prince; it was a crown prince who was being forgiven; the music, Katya, and Russia in general were forgiving this same prince. He felt a certain contentment: the prince had sinned, but he was forgiven.

  And it occurred to him that this pantomime should be described in the Bee exactly so: as the national forgiveness of a prince of the ancient dynasty.

  The interval came. Khosraw Mirza went out into the hall for a puff at his hookah and to have some ice cream and sherbet with Count Suchtelen.

  At that point, Pyotr Karatygin thought of something. He was like the waltz, which could assume a variety of forms.

  Now he had taken up painting too.

  Actor, dramatist, and artist.

  So, when the interval ended, Pyotr took his place just behind the stalls and started to cast glances at Khosraw Mirza. He shot glances and sketched something. When the second interval came to an end, Khosraw Mirza had been sketched with a certain precision.

  Khosraw Mirza was unaware of this. He was stirred, and in order to cool down, he treated himself during the intervals to huge quantities of ice cream, which was worth a fortune.

  17

  At home, Pyotr did not go into his wife’s bedroom. The small, pockmarked Dyurova was ill, and … her time was probably near.

  He immediately sat down to make a little frame. He had a wonderful frame, but the picture in the frame was trash. He
took it out.

  Next morning, he sat down to work and copied the pencil portrait in watercolor on ivory, pretty well. He framed it and brought it to rehearsal.

  He ran into his friend, Grigoryev the Second, Pyotr Ivanych, a rascal and a drunk, but otherwise a good fellow.

  “What have you got there?” he asked.

  Pyotr replied casually:

  “Nothing special—a picture, a mere trifle.”

  “Let me see it,” asked Grigoryev the Second.

  He glanced at the portrait and then stared at Pyotr for a long time, such that Pyotr even started to feel uneasy.

  Grigoryev the Second said:

  “You are not a bad fellow, but a bit dumb.”

  Pyotr was speechless.

  Grigoryev the Second went on:

  “Dumb. Because if you present it to him in the right way, he might pay ten chervontsy for it. Because they do not know the first thing about art.”

  “It’s not worth it, really,” said Pyotr, somewhat stung.

  “Well, if you don’t want to do it yourself,” responded Grigoryev the Second, “then so be it; I’ll help you out. I’ll hand it over to Suchtelen at the theater, and he will show it to the prince.”

  He took the portrait from Pyotr’s hands, and the latter had a momentary apprehension that Grigoryev the Second was going to steal it. But Grigoryev, though a rogue, was a decent fellow. He set everything up. He approached Suchtelen when the latter was sipping some sherbet and handed over the portrait. Suchtelen gave it immediately to the prince. The Persian party was duly impressed. Grigoryev the Second immediately ran backstage.

  “Well,” he said, “the deal is done. But let’s agree to honor our arrangement: as soon as the prince sends you the chervontsy, take your half for your work and give me half for my trouble.”

  Pyotr regretted not having handed it in himself. Having noticed that, Grigoryev the Second cheered him up:

  “You see, in these matters, the main thing is to use your head. The work has nothing to do with anything. If you’d kept your work, what would have you done with it? Hung it up on the wall? I don’t mean to give offense, but the work is actually, well, you know …”

  Pyotr made no objection out of a sense of pride, so as not to put himself down.

  Two days later, Grigoryev the Second paid Pyotr a visit:

  “Well, old boy, what about it … no money yet?”

  Pyotr responded reluctantly:

  “None.”

  Grigoryev the Second showed his concern.

  “The work is probably not good enough. If Suchtelen said the wrong thing, he’ll have spoiled everything.”

  He began to visit Grigoryev regularly, as if on a business matter, every other day.

  “Well? Nothing yet?”

  “N-no …”

  “You must have got the money by now, old boy, and now you’re fooling me. Hard to believe you are capable of this.”

  Pyotr kept saying;

  “Word of honor.”

  Grigoryev was inconsolable:

  “If the work isn’t good enough, they won’t pay up.”

  Pyotr took offense.

  The work was not that bad at all.

  The problem was that Prince Khosraw Mirza had been taken ill.

  Not really dangerously ill; his disease was even considered laughable among young people.

  Not all the ladies were women of the world. There had also been the Mademoiselles Beziukins, young Fautsen, and others.

  The day after The Captive of the Caucasus, Vice Chancellor Nesselrode paid him a visit and spent a long time with him; by the end of his visit, the prince began to feel a burning sensation.

  Fifty leeches for three days in a row, mercury, Spanish fly, and certain other medications brought no relief.

  Then the court physician Arendt, a doctor experienced in these sorts of diseases, began to treat him, and within a week, the symptoms were gone as if by magic.

  As soon as he got better, the prince sent a present for Pyotr, care of the theater administration.

  And as soon as Grigoryev got wind of it, he immediately dashed to Pyotr’s.

  He looked not only delighted but embarrassed; he kept plucking the little hairs on a big mole that adorned his chin.

  He announced to Pyotr:

  “The present has arrived.”

  “And?”

  “And guess what—it’s a snuffbox!”

  “Gold?” asked Pyotr in a lively voice.

  “Does it matter that it is gold?” retorted Grigoryev viciously. “How are we going to share it? Who will take the lid, who will take the box? We need to sell it.”

  At this point, Pyotr straightened up.

  “I wouldn’t want that to happen,” he said. “I’ll keep it as a memento.”

  “And what about our agreement?” snapped Grigoryev the Second.

  “We’ll take it to a goldsmith’,” said Pyotr, graciously but firmly. “He will appraise it, and I’ll pay you your half.”

  They immediately went to the theater, picked up the snuffbox, and headed for Bolshaya Morskaya.

  “This way?” asked Pyotr casually, pointing to the familiar jewelry shop.

  “No, not here, my friend,” responded Grigoryev the Second triumphantly, “this shopkeeper will tell you the snuffbox costs ten rubles. You know him, old boy!”

  Pyotr grew somewhat upset.

  “In which case, take me wherever you want to go. I am disclaiming all responsibility.”

  A German jeweler weighed the snuffbox.

  “Two hundred and thirty rubles in paper money,” he said indifferently.

  “Hold on a moment,” said Grigoryev the Second.

  “We are not selling, you see; we want to buy it. So give us the real price.”

  “Two hundred and thirty,” said the German, still indifferently.

  “But it cost all of three hundred,” said Grigoryev the Second. “I can see clear as day, chum, that you are not an honest jeweler.”

  In the next shop, a Russian jeweler offered them two hundred.

  Grigoryev the Second got himself into a state:

  “You must have bribed them all, Pyotr.”

  In the third shop, a Jewish jeweler offered a hundred and eighty. Grigoryev the Second gave him the sharp edge of his tongue:

  “You, my friend, sold Christ for thirty pieces of silver. I know you for a rogue.”

  The fourth and fifth offered a hundred and sixty and a hundred and seventy, respectively. Grigoryev the Second kept saying:

  “You’ve bribed them, pal, I didn’t expect you to be capable of this. How did you manage it?”

  Pyotr stopped and said with some dignity:

  “Look here. I made that portrait for the sake of art, and out of patriotic feeling. Let’s go to this shop and stop your quibbling. Whatever price he names, so be it. Take it or leave it. I could have presented the portrait without your help.”

  Grigoryev waved his hand.

  “You could have, but you didn’t.”

  A German jeweler looked at the piece, weighed it carefully, and offered a hundred and sixty.

  Grigoryev the Second went pale and said:

  “Robbery, I swear to God, this is robbery in broad daylight! All that hustle and bustle and here you are, “Would you be so kind as to take eight twenty-ruble banknotes, thank you very much?”! I am an idiot! Couldn’t you, Pyotr Andreyevich, make it just a little bit more? If not for my help … the portrait after all was really pretty shoddy!”

  Pyotr turned crimson:

  “Would you care to receive your eighty rubles next week? And kindly cease your buffoonery at once!”

  13

  1

  Does Khosraw know that his Russian success will do him no good, that it will go to his head too much, and that five years later, during the struggle for the throne, they will gouge out his eyes, and he will live the rest of his life blind?

  And does the guard of honor arranged on the way to pay the last honors to Grib
oedov’s remains, which are moving very slowly toward Tiflis, do they know whom they are greeting?

  2

  One night, some men were sent to the Russian legation building, with all its gaping holes.

  They carried lanterns and spades.

  Khosrow-Khan, the shah’s eunuch, gave them their instructions.

  The Russian government had demanded that Vazir-Mukhtar’s body be handed over.

  Khosrow-Khan ordered a ditch to be dug up. They soon discovered the black, semidecayed bodies and some body parts. They were hurled out of the ditch and landed nearby, looking so much the same as one another as if the same factory had manufactured them according to the same measurements. Except some of them were missing hands, others legs, and there were also objects that were completely unidentifiable.

  The shah’s eunuch knew how to handle the task. He did not rely on himself: he had seen too little of Vazir-Mukhtar to be able to recognize him. He therefore brought a few familiar Armenian merchants who claimed that they would be able to identify him. They had seen him often enough in Tiflis.

  When they were saying this, they imagined a man of a medium height, with a yellowish face, shaven blue to the bone, with the protruding lips of a musician and bespectacled eyes.

  But when Khosrow-Khan and the merchants bent over the unidentifiable objects, with the lanterns casting a light on their color and condition, they recoiled, realizing that these remains were unrecognizable.

  The eunuch was at a loss.

  He ordered them to dig deeper, to cross the road, and to dig another ditch.

  The objects were growing in number. Eventually, they came across an unusual hand. When the lantern was lowered over it, a shining spot hit the light. Khosrow-Khan peered and saw a diamond signet ring. He ordered the hand to be put aside and said to the old merchant:

  “Avetis Kuzinian, could you please identify Vazir-Mukhtar now?”

  The old merchant picked up the lantern again and once again circled the dead. The other merchants went along with him too.

  One of them finally said: “Impossible to identify,” and everyone stopped.