The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar Page 11

  “ ‘Even a short spell with her friend makes her tremble,’” the pupil added apprehensively.

  “ ‘Ah!’” sighed Senkovsky, “ ‘in fact, no sooner had I seen her, than I fell in love with her. But alas,’”—he shook his head—“ ‘she is on fire for another. Thus do we all share the common fate,’” he nodded sadly, “ ‘thus do we feel all the torments of love, and each of us’”—he raised his voice instructively and thrust his finger in the air—“or, to be precise, ‘any one of us gets caught in the nets which he employed to enmesh others.’”

  “ ‘I am sick with love …’” the pupil began.

  “ ‘ … to see,’” interrupted Senkovsky, “ ‘my beloved’s painted hands …’ Very well. You may sit down.”

  In the Ministry hall in which the examination was taking place, the bellicose screeching had given place to the cooing of doves.

  Professionally, Charmoy was tickled pink; the Persian and the Tatar were sitting quietly; the ancient academician’s mind was, most probably, a blank. The students stared; they couldn’t take their eyes off the easygoing individual who had unexpectedly come to their rescue. Griboedov listened airily to the raucous Senkovsky.

  Outside the windows, an uncertain March. And A’asha’s words, which had been garbled by both professor and pupils, were wafting lightly by, swaying like the ishrik—whatever tree was that? The painted hands of the beloved, the pacing of the steed wounded in the leg.

  9

  Everyone in Petersburg had a runny nose. In St. Isaac’s Square, which they were crossing, the snow was dove-colored, spongy, and wet. The Baltic skies were like ash.

  Scaffolding, clutter, rubble; sodden planks of wood, old and useless to the eye. Three generations had already seen the scaffolding around the church, which had never wanted to be built on the swamp. A column lay on the ground, covered with black canvas, like the corpse of a sea creature from the time of the Flood.

  “They’ll be putting up the column tomorrow,” said the doctor, “to be followed by celebrations. The hospitals have been told to be ready. It is anticipated that a number of people will be crushed.”

  “There is a structural flaw,” said Senkovsky. “The column looks like nothing in particular, but glance at it from the boulevard and the entire church is like a toy. In ancient Egypt, they built better, more crudely, but with greater understanding. Besides, the church is being built on piles, and in a hundred years will certainly sink into the earth.”

  “Could that happen?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  Senkovsky spoke with relish.

  “Entire states of antiquity were swept away, or burned down, or went under. Never to be seen again.”

  “And yet we know ancient art and literature quite well, don’t we?”

  “Nothing of the kind. For example, what is the most attractive feature of ancient Venuses?” asked Senkovsky languidly. “Their snow-white color. But the ancient Venuses were painted all over, as if with boot polish,” he said, visibly upset. “The paint chipped off later …”

  He stamped his new boots, shaking off the mud. The dog was pulling the professor away.

  “… under the influence of dampness in the atmosphere.”

  “Do you study antiquities?” asked Griboedov.

  “As well as geology and physics. Properly speaking, I am a musician.”

  A church that had been built for decades, just to sink into the earth in a hundred years, infancy and infirmity, the black melting of the snow, the incompleteness of everything, a man strolling next to him, and his vast but unreliable knowledge. And those cumbersome and tiresome comparisons!

  Senkovsky was a geologist, a physicist, a professor of Arabic literature—and it was not enough for him.

  The dog was pulling him away.

  “What kind of pianoforte do you have,” asked Griboedov, “a Pleyel, or one with double escapement?”10

  “Can any pianoforte be good enough?” said Senkovsky in his nasal twang. “The pianoforte just bangs out. Its age is over; these days, more effective instruments are called for.”

  “Why is that, exactly?”

  “Because a greater sonority is required. I am working on an instrument of my own. It has eight keyboards. It is called a keyboard orchestra.”

  “And how is your orchestra played?”

  Senkovsky answered grudgingly:

  “It is not yet finished.”

  “And what are you going to play on it?”

  Now he answered sullenly:

  “Goodness gracious me, the same things as on the pianoforte, I should say.”

  All of a sudden, he took Griboedov’s arm and spoke abruptly, grinning with his rotten teeth:

  “I despise everybody in Petersburg—everybody but you. Let’s establish a journal; I wouldn’t mind working for you. A travel section, scholarly articles, foreign novels for fools. We … shall topple all the other journals. We … you …,” he ran out of breath, “you are …”

  Griboedov shrugged.

  “Joseph Ivanovich, journals are an unpleasant occupation. I have long retired, abandoned all writing. And who would want to conquer the Russian journals? What is there to be achieved?”

  Professor Senkovsky was first pulled sharply forward, then pushed back, bumped into the dog, and stood still in front of Griboedov. He spoke slowly and coyly:

  “I am sorry,” he said in an affected drawl, slightly raising his light-colored hat with a bright bow. “My best regards, Alexander Sergeyevich.”

  And off he went, eagerly hauled by the dog, his fur coat trailing through the mud. He was quickly lost in the Petersburg fog.

  Griboedov glanced at the doctor. The stocky little man stood there smiling through all the furrows of his little red face.

  “Dear doctor,” said Griboedov, pleased, “I may soon have need of fine and cheerful fellows such as your good self. Would you agree to go with me to a nonexistent country?”

  “Wherever you wish,” replied the doctor. “But I am not exactly a cheerful fellow.”

  10

  As the alluring scent of valerian attracts cats, so he attracted people. When he had tried to live a settled life, there had been no one around him. But when he had gone beyond literature, beyond life in a capital city, had reached out over the Caucasus and Persia, had worn out his light, childlike heart, people caught the sharp scent of destiny surrounding him. Only when this scent becomes overpowering do people fly to a person, willy-nilly, like the moth in Sa’di, which was flattered into the fire.

  They crowded around him, without knowing what was to be done with him, eager as they were to relieve the unease he aroused in them: Senkovsky was offering journals; Faddei the quiet life; they took his joy in things, as groundless as any other man’s, for mysterious and meaningful success in some unknown affairs; they filled his silence with thoughts he never had, and when they bored him and when with helpless civility he hid himself in the next room, they exchanged knowing glances.

  This was called fame.

  The pale shadow of the nervous officer Napoleon Bonaparte had once been given substance by his subjects—he was their creation. Bonaparte fainted in the Council of Five Hundred. That was before he seized the secret: mathematics and a soldier’s levity. He also learned at the theater, and Talma was his teacher in the staccato, even inarticulate oratory that people thought stark and grand.

  In the 1830s, virtuosos were itinerant all over Europe, the military masters of grand pianos fighting their loud but harmless battles. But their much too black tailcoats and much too white collars were uniforms covering bare flesh. All these geniuses had no shirt and no country to call their own. The battlefields were the grand pianos of Érard, Pleyel, or Babcock.

  Griboedov had a country he could call his own.

  How he loved these provincial Rostov and Suzdal faces; how he loathed those Petersburg ones, starched and ironed, or crumpled like collars. And yet he had spent his life not in the countryside, but on the highways and in windswept
Persian palaces.

  He was driven by the wind. And his white, refined nobleman’s shirts had become threadbare. They had been spun by his mama’s slaves, the very ones who had once rebelled.

  He could agree neither to the journals nor to the quiet life.

  11

  And now too, when he returned to his hotel rooms, there were God knows how many people there. They had been waiting for him for a long time and had made themselves comfortable, chatting, smoking, as if he had already died and they did not have to stand on ceremony.

  He shook everyone’s hand and chatted informally to each person.

  When a young general who was distantly related to Paskevich addressed him as mon cousin, Griboedov addressed him in the same way. With a very youthful diplomat, he was polite in a fatherly fashion and advised him, should he ever take it into his head to travel to the East, not to trust its reputation as having a hot climate and by all means to take a fur coat, or otherwise, he would freeze to the bone. He promised an aspiring poet that he would certainly read his poems. And he treated the three strangers who simply gaped at him, quite amenably, like good furniture.

  He suffered all of them because he was leaving soon, and even in his heart of hearts didn’t consign them to hell.

  Still, he was glad when Sashka appeared and, without looking at the guests, announced that his mail was waiting for him in the study. It had been delivered an hour earlier.

  He made a gesture that could have meant either: “Business, I’m afraid,” or “Make yourselves at home,” and went into the middle room.

  There were a few letters—about four or five, maybe more.

  A long, pink billet-doux with a lilac sealing wax stamp, from Katya:

  My dear friend,

  I burst into bitter tears after last night’s show. You should know that it’s awful to treat a woman like that! I don’t want to see you ever again! And even if you wanted to call on me, you wouldn’t succeed because I am busy every day continuously from 11 till 2 and I am at the theater from 7 onward. So, farewell! Forever! You are a terrible, terrible man!!

  K. T.

  Griboedov burst out laughing. What mystery! What terror! Like the junior classes of a drama school!

  He looked at the pink note with the broken sealing wax and laid it on the desk. Every day from two until seven continuously would be quite enough for him.

  Then he thought that he was actually terrified of seeing her. Women remained young for far too long; time didn’t wither them; he was bored already. He decided to behave like the perfect gentleman with Katya, and at the same time to tease her a bit. He was quite tickled by the thought.

  A long letter from Lenochka was written in German. She was also saying her farewells and was also in tears. Griboedov felt sorry for her. He stuck the letter in his pocket. Lenochka was suffering for other people’s sins. She reminded him of somebody. Was it Murillo’s Madonna from the Hermitage?

  And he glanced at the third seal.

  It had a Persian flourish, the letter was contained in a crude envelope, and the inscription with fancy flourishes read:

  TO HIS EXCELLENCY!

  THE RUSSIAN SECRETARY!

  MISTER!

  ALEXANDER SERGEYEVICH!

  GRIBOEDOV!

  The Russian Secretary frowned and broke the seal.

  “Who delivered this letter?” he asked Sashka.

  “The doctor left it.”

  “What doctor?”

  Sashka replied pompously:

  “The English one.”

  “Now listen to me,” said Griboedov slowly and with emphasis. “From now on, if you ever accept letters or anything else from the English doctor, you’ll be in trouble. Do you understand?”

  “Fine,” answered Sashka indifferently, “from now on, nothing at all.”

  Griboedov looked at him furiously:

  “What a fool! A complete clodhopper!”

  “Dear Sir,

  Your Excellency:

  Please read this letter in its entirety because I am going to give you a very important warning.

  My homeland, my country of birth, is Russia. In that very homeland under the late Empress Catherine I was given a thousand lashes, and under His Majesty Emperor Paul I was run through the gauntlet and struck 2,500 times on account of absenting myself without leave, when I held the rank of sergeant-major in the Nizhny Novgorod Dragoons Regiment, in which I served prior to 1801.

  Your Excellency, even though I am now advanced in years, I still wear the scars on my body! And would you tell me now, dear sir, was I treated well by my homeland? Because every soldier is also a man, and this is often forgotten!

  I will forever be seeking revenge on my former homeland for the wife and children whom I lost. What else can an old soldier and sergeant-major do?

  Mr. Secretary, at this point in time I am writing to you with the rank of a full general and a khan. From 1802, I have called Persia my motherland and I confess the Muslim faith, though I have not yet lost the habit of writing in Russian.

  Ten years ago, you sent me out of the room in the presence of his Highness Abbas Mirza, under whom I now serve as full general, and at that time, I was a n’uker, which in Russian means simply a courtier. On the same occasion, you called me a canaille in the Persian language, which I know very well: a piece of scum, and so on. You also took away seventy-five of my men, young Cossack sarbazes, who were stupid enough to believe in what you promised and gave you their pledge of allegiance. They had been told that they would be forgiven, that they would be happy, that they would eat Russian bread, together with other promises. Where are they now, Your Excellency? Are they happy, Mr. Secretary? In which part of the country exactly lies their happiness? We all know where sarbaz Larin and sarbaz Vasilkov the ‘Marked’ are; we all know where their happiness is. I have a whole battalion of former Russians under my command right now, and they are soldiers who require a single word from me to be ready to blow anyone into pieces, because they consider their motherland to be Persia, not Russia.

  Two years ago, my battalion suffered a minor defeat in a battle and we had to retreat from Khoi, in our motherland Persia, to the fortress Chekhri, on our border with the Turks. His Excellency General Velyaminov was hell-bent on putting an end to me and my people. But it was not our time to be lashed once again or to lose our heads on the executioner’s block, which would have delighted our enemies. Your Excellency, I might be a scoundrel and even a canaille, but General Velyaminov did not succeed!

  Mr. Secretary, Your Excellency, do not imagine that I write with the intention of abusing you. My rank is full general, my name is Samson-Khan, and I cannot afford to indulge in name-calling.

  Instead, I am asking you to convey to the Russian emperor Nicholas that there was an article in the peace treaty that you have had the honor to enter into with us in Turkmenchai, stipulating that all Russians must be returned from Persia. It goes without saying that you have a perfect right to do so with Russian prisoners, but not with the Persian subjects of the Islamic faith, even though they were originally Russian.

  Our clause has been overlooked, and I am asking you to pass on to Emperor Nicholas that the clause concerning voluntary prisoners of war should be thought through; otherwise, our sabers are sharp and our hands are ready.

  Sincerely yours,

  Your Excellency,

  Mr. Secretary,

  Samson Makintsev, also known as Samson-Khan.”

  And on one side there was a huge red seal, on which Griboedov read in Persian: “Samson, the star on earth.”

  Samson Makintsev, sergeant-major of the Nizhny Novgorod dragoon regiment with his Russian battalion that had been fighting Russian troops, was a disgrace to both Paskevich and Nicholas. Those soldiers with long hair and beards, wearing Persian hats, Samson with his general’s epaulettes and quick dark eyes, were the nesting ground for a new Stepan Razin. As in the famous folk song,11 Stepan once again had got together with a Persian princess, only this time he donned a tall,
conical Persian hat. Who would go against Samson-Khan? He had control over the entire Khoi region. The sarbazes would run away, and these robbers would bayonet themselves in the belly rather than fall into the hands of their former motherland, Russia.

  Russian soldiers ran to join him in the hundreds. He already had more than three thousand men over there. They were the shah’s guards, bahaderan, which meant “heroes,” the grenadiers. And a mere sergeant-major was sending a petition to Tsar Nicholas himself …!

  Griboedov paced the room. In the room next door, they smoked and chattered endlessly.

  He remembered how Samson, in a hat with a diamond feather, had marched in front of his battalion on the Persian parade and sung together with his soldiers:

  A soldier’s solace,

  A soulful friend …

  He never forgot that insult.

  Samson Makintsev had always been polite to him. Only nine years ago, when he indeed in Abbas Mirza’s presence called him scum and scoundrel and told him to get out, Samson had given him a crooked grin, his teeth glittered, and he shook his head and spat, but he didn’t say a word and left the room at once, swaying on his dragoon’s bandy legs. That same night, he got drunk and sang underneath Griboedov’s windows:

  “A soldier’s solace …,”

  trying to tempt him to come out and speak.

  Griboedov did not come out, nor did he enter into any talk.

  He was young then, and far too proud. Now he no longer had any prejudices. And he had always avoided learning the fate of those eighty men whom he had taken out of Persia ten years earlier. How young he was then, how foolish! He had promised them a full pardon, had talked of the motherland and believed every word of it himself. And turned out to be a fool and a deceiver. And he remembered Vasilkov, the “Marked one,” Samson was alluding to, the soldier who had been run through the gauntlet in Russia and had been a wreck ever since; he had looked after that Vasilkov during their camps, rubbed his knees with rum, let him ride on top of the soft luggage; but one night Vasilkov jumped off the bullock cart and said he was leaving. And he remembered the soldier’s face—pockmarked, pale. Since then, he had heard nothing of his fate: for all he knew, the Persians could have killed him the very same night. And that might well have been for the better. How they were treated later on, in Tiflis! He’d been leading them to the land of milk and honey, and he’d harangued them with Napoleonic tirades.