1
Vazir-Mukhtar lived on.
A kebabchi from the Shimrun quarter knocked out his front teeth, somebody shattered his glasses with a hammer, and one of the lenses penetrated an eye. The meatman stuck the head on a pole. It felt much lighter than his basket of pies, and he kept shaking the wooden shaft.
The kafir was to blame for the wars, the starvation, the oppression by the elders, the bad harvest. Now he floated over the streets, laughing from the pole, with the death-grin on his gap of a mouth. Urchins took aim and hit the head with their pebbles.
Vazir-Mukhtar lived on.
A lot carried the right arm with its round signet ring, squeezing it firmly and affectionately in his own left hand, the only one he had. From time to time, he lifted it and regretted that the arm was bare, not a thread left of its golden clothes. The cholongher’s apprentice had stuck the triangular hat on his head; it was too big for him and slid down to his ears.
The rest of Vazir-Mukhtar, in a troika with his blond valet and some other kafir, all three tied to a pack of dead cats and dogs, was sweeping the streets of Tehran. They were being dragged by a pole, by four Persians, all as skinny as whippets, who were taking turns. The fair-haired one had had his leg cut off, but his head was completely intact.
Vazir-Mukhtar lived on.
In the city of Tabriz, Nino was awaiting a letter.
The mama, Nastasya Fyodorovna, proceeded from her boudoir through to the drawing room, and there informed a guest that Alexander did not take after her: out of sight, out of mind; he had forgotten her.
Bending over the galleys of his journal, the Bee, Faddei Bulgarin was editing: “… successfully arrived in the city of Tehran, was granted a solemn audience with His Majesty. First Secretary Mr. Maltsov and Second Secretary Mr. Adelung were equally honored …”
2
Standing in the middle of the room, Maltsov tried not to look at his wide trousers. The room, even though it was in the shah’s palace, was fairly poor; small but tidy.
The fat and bronzed Zil-li Sultan spread his hands and, avoiding looking into his eyes, bowed low at the sarbaz’s uniform. His grief was great, and he was genuinely at a loss.
“Mon Dieu,” he kept saying, lifting his hand to his brow, “Mon Dieu, as soon as I found out, I hastened to calm them down, but I was vilified, I was shot at,” and in a whisper, with fear in his eyes, “I was terrified for His Majesty—the palace was in danger, I completely lost my head, I dashed to defend His Majesty’s palace. This is mutiny, Your Excellency … Oh, Allah!”
Maltsov was not His Excellency at all.
He nodded:
“I understand you, Your Highness, all these riots … But rest assured, Your Highness, that I appreciate … My only request to Your Highness is to allow me to return to Russia so that I may immediately bear witness to the sad misunderstanding … the riots …”
Zil-li Sultan calmed down, and having bent his head slightly sideways, observed the wide trousers.
Then he remembered:
“In three days’ time, Your Excellency. In three days’ time. You have to understand: the mob … cette canaille1 … You need to wait for three days. You’ll find everything you wish for in here. These ferrashi are going to keep Your Excellency safe and sound …”
And he left. The ferrashi stood outside the door. Maltsov waited and stuck his nose out. He looked at them, gave them a smile, and asked them in. One of them knew some French.
“Please, come in,” he said. “Here’s some pocket money for you …”
He pulled a pack of banknotes from his pocket, right under their noses, and stuck a fistful into one hand and then another. Needless to say, they all accepted.
Maltsov said:
“I beg you, do you understand? … I need to know. I need to know what they are saying about me. And each time …” He touched the pack with his finger.
3
Vazir-Mukhtar, the Cossack, Sashka, and the cats and dogs were dragged along the Tehran streets for three days, from early morning until late at night.
He blackened and shrank.
On the fourth day, they flung him onto the midden-tip outside of town.
The previous day, the kebabchi had tossed the head into the gutter. He had lost interest in it. He had taken it to his place each night, so that no one else could have it, but he had to sell his pies; the holiday was over, and he ditched the head.
On the fourth night, a few men came secretly to the ruins. They had been sent by Manouchehr-Khan. They dug deeper into the defensive ditch around the ruins. They gathered all the dead into a heap, tipped them into the ditch, and piled on the earth. Vazir-Mukhtar was beyond the city boundary in the midden-tip.
For three nights, a procession of caravans crept silently along the road from Tehran; Armenian merchants were fleeing the city.
The rumor had spread fast and far.
Dr. McNeill, relatively calm, showed up in the city of Tehran.
A courier was sent from the shah to Abbas Mirza.
Young Burgess made a reverse journey from Tehran to Tabriz, carrying Dr. McNeill’s letter to Colonel Macdonald.
Nino had been waiting for Griboedov and looked into Lady Macdonald’s eyes the way that young maids look into the eyes of their older friends.
She was worried: there were no letters. She thought that Alexander had forgotten her. She was extremely weary. The morning sickness had stopped.
4
The ferrash turned out to be quite bright. The same day, he informed Maltsov that Prince Zil-li Sultan had been to see Mirza-Massi, and that Mirza-Massi had instructed him to pay Maltsov all manner of compliments, ensure his well-being, refuse him nothing, send him, of his own volition, back to Russia, and kill him on the way.
“What’s done is done: witnesses are always in the way,” said Mirza-Massi.
And Maltsov gave the ferrash a wad of banknotes.
He was well looked after. They would bring him some greasy pilaf, fruit, sweets, sherbet. He would pretend to eat until absolutely full, and indeed the pishkhedmet would take away the empty dishes. But no sooner had the door shut behind the pishkhedmet who’d brought him his dinner, than Maltsov would take fistfuls of pilaf and sweets and, slipping quietly, bending low, carry them into a dark corner, hide everything under the carpet, and pour the sherbet into the chamber pot. He starved himself cruelly and kept returning to the dark corner to feel the greasy chunks with his hands and hide them again, untouched. Only twice a day would he ask the ferrash to bring him some cooler water without troubling anyone, straight from the fountain, claiming that he was used to that water and that it was good for his health.
And on the third morning, all the viziers gathered in his room. They bowed to him slowly, with deepest respect. The old dervish, Alaiar-Khan, and the others were among them. They spoke through an interpreter. A translator sat quietly in the corner, with ink, paper, and a sharpened quill. Maltsov stayed seated, wearing a gown. He felt sore and sick in the pit of his stomach. The audience was like nothing Vazir-Mukhtar had ever had.
“Oh, Allah, Allah,” the dervish said, “the padishah has paid the eighth kuror, and what happens now? The will of Allah!”
“Allah,” said Alaiar-Khan, and Maltsov heard his voice for the first time. “This is what the mullahs and the Tehrani people have done, an unruly and uncivilized rabble.”
Abu’l-Hassan-Khan:
“Mon Dieu, ah, mon Dieu! Disgrace on all of Iran! What will the emperor say! God is my witness, the padishah did not wish for this.”
They barely glanced at him; they sat quiet and submissive. There were a great many of them.
Maltsov thought quickly: this is what it is all about!
He leaped up from his place, and all of them looked up at him, all staring and waiting.
Maltsov was pale and felt inspired.
The interpreter could scarcely keep up with him.
And the longer he spoke, the wider the eyes of those present grew, and those eyes were filled with bewilderment. Growing even paler, Maltsov said:
“One would have to be either a madman or a criminal to think even for a moment that His Majesty would have allowed this to happen had the rabble’s intentions been known to him even a minute earlier. Alas, I come from a country that knows all too well how willful the people can be, and I have no doubt that the Russian emperor, who ascended the throne under circumstances all of you are familiar with, will understand. I know that the padishah’s palace was in danger. I am now the only Russian witness of how gracious the padishah was to the ambassador, and of what unprecedented honors he had paid him. But,” he drew his breath, paused, and shook his head sorrowfully … “But, I am going to speak the truth.” He gave a sigh. “I know who is to blame for everything that has happened.”
Alaiar-Khan looked away. Maltsov pretended not to notice.
“The guilty party, I have to say it, to my great regret, is the Russian ambassador. He and only he.”
Silence in the room.
“Our wise emperor made a mistake. Mr. Griboedov failed to justify the trust we placed in him. I can talk about it now, and I will talk about it everywhere. He spurned and slurred Iran’s traditions, its sacred customs; he took away two wives from a certain venerable gentleman; he didn’t even stop at taking away a servant from His Majesty the padishah himself …”
He spoke through clenched teeth, showing his anger. He was no longer pretending; he really abhorred Griboedov now. All these tricks, the bespectacled omniscience, the casual gestures! “I ask you, Ivan Sergeyevich, to do what I say!”
And here he was, starved for the second day running, and they were bent on killing him. He had gone to Tehran without even allowing Maltsov to open his mouth. Griboedov did live on. Maltsov had not seen him from the eve of the day when everything had started. For Maltsov, he was nothing like the headless object that was now lying in a midden, in a common grave, along with dead dogs. Maltsov knew nothing of this. But Alexander Sergeyevich Griboedov, who had succeeded in bringing calamity upon him, was still alive.
“I’ll be honest with you,” he said. “He forced me to take part in those evil deeds of his; I was obliged to defend the eunuch in front of the ecclesiastical court, but the eunuch … he told Vazir-Mukhtar in confidence that he had robbed the treasury. I will therefore testify before my emperor to the evil deeds of this unworthy ambassador. They keep me here in regal style. The courageous Persian guards, who saved me, protected everyone so gallantly—and who can say how many of those lionhearts have perished? The troops were sent, but who could blame them that the violent rabble prevailed? I am convinced that my sovereign, to whom I will bear witness to the honors paid to us, will get to the bottom of the matter and will maintain friendly relations with His Majesty.”
Silence. They were thinking. The quiet, invisible translator scratched on with his quill in the corner, barely audible.
“Mon Dieu,” spoke Abu’l-Hassan-Khan, “how fortunate we are that a sensible and well-intentioned man has witnessed this unhappy event and understands who is really to blame! But would you agree to repeat what you have just told us, personally, to His Majesty, who is so full of sorrow and eager to cleanse his soul?”
Maltsov gave them a bow. He suddenly felt weak and drained.
In the evening, they brought him some steaming pilaf for his dinner. For the first time in days, he ate a meal. He grabbed the huge chunks, and almost without chewing, gobbled voluptuously—and choked on them.
At night, he felt sick and frightened, and he lay for the rest of the night with his eyes open. It passed. He had starved for too long and had overeaten.
The following evening, two copies of the shah’s official firman to Abbas Mirza were drawn: one was intended for Russia.
The firman began as follows: “We are at a loss as to how to explain the vicissitudes of this world. Oh, Allah, what awful events sometimes come to pass.” Then followed the script regarding Vazir-Mukhtar, concocted by the court translator (and Ivan Sergeyevich Maltsov).
Furthermore, Fat’h-Ali-shah wrote by the hand of Abu’l-Hassan-Khan, although the contents of the letter were composed by the dervish:
“Our own envoy was killed in India at some point in the past. And we were reluctant to believe that it had been done by the people, without the connivance of the authorities, but when we became convinced of the favorable disposition of the British government, we realized that this incident was not deliberate, but purely accidental.”
And in conclusion: “All the dead have been interred with due honors. We are endeavoring to console the first secretary; the perpetrators will be punished without delay.”
The unofficial note asked Abbas: Let Maltsov go, or kill him? Or let him go and kill him? Enter into an immediate alliance with Turkey? And the note also ordered: Send emissaries to Georgia to foment an uprising.
Vazir-Mukhtar lay quietly. Vazir-Mukhtar’s name stole along the roads, rode on the chapars’ horses, advanced toward Tabriz, rippling with rebellion by the Georgian borders.
Vazir-Mukhtar lived on.
5
He finally dragged himself to Tiflis, where Princess Salome convulsed in hysterics and Praskovya Nikolaevna shed a peasant woman’s heavy tears:
“It’s my fault, my fault. Poor, poor Nino …”
Eliza Paskevich raised a scented handkerchief to the Griboedov hazel-colored eyes and remembered how, in their youth, Alexander had been so cheeky, so persistent, and had almost had his way with her, and how angry her papa, Alexei Fyodorovich, had been, forbidding him to show his face in their home.
She did not cry; she suddenly felt so tired, so sick at heart, and wrote a frenzied letter to her husband, Ivan Fyodorovich Paskevich: “Rejoice, Jean, this is the fruit of your politics—you kept saying that the Persians should not have been exempted from paying the reparation, we shouldn’t do this and we shouldn’t do that. And now look at the result—Alexander Griboedov has been murdered.”
And when Paskevich received the news and Eliza’s letter, he exploded and thumped the desk with his fist and yelled, wheezing and spluttering at Sacken and Colonel Espejo and Abramovich:
“Take five battalions from the rearguard and advance on Persia. I am changing the plan of the Turkish campaign. Lieutenant, call in Karganov—there is a rebellion in Georgia. Take a battalion and suppress it. Flog all the riffraff! And string up a mullah in each village!”
And only then did he remember that this was about Griboedov, that it was actually Alexander Sergeyevich who had been killed—how was it possible? Not a military man, a civilian, and suddenly here he was—murdered!
“These English!” he barked. “Call in Lieutenant Sukhorukov! Write to Abbas that if he doesn’t come here himself, I’ll go to war with the Qajars. And that the shah has been bribed by the English.”
The villages in the districts of Gori and Telavi were already burning, Ganja rising. And the landowning princes Orbeliani, Tarkhanov, and Chelokaev were leading the rebellion.
“Our ambassador has been murdered in Tehran. Persia is allying herself with Turkey. Tsarevich Alexander is advancing on Georgia!”
But there was a quiet island that stayed untouched by Vazir-Mukhtar, which he passed by. The little island was in Tabriz, in Macdonald’s house, on the top floor—Nino’s room.
6
At night, the fat Darejan told her stories about Princess Salome’s youth; how, having seen her only once, Prince Chavchavadze proposed the same evening. She brushed Nino’s hair, as she used to do when Nino was little, and she spoke very little of Alexander Sergeyevich. The letters were growing rare. Perhaps he had forgotten her; perhaps he was too busy. Lady Macdonald was unflustered with her, but her stories were more humorous than usual. The English journals were boring. Her apparent location was in Tabriz, and her real life in Tehran. And there were no letters.
Only once was there some commotion in the house. The colonel did not come down to dinner; the lady had red patches on her cheeks; she was unwell.
Later, the colonel invited Nino to his study downstairs. Nino looked into Darejan’s dull, round eyes and went down.
Colonel Macdonald met her at the door and gave her a deep bow. He sat her down, and Nino suddenly burst into tears. Then she wiped away the tears and smiled at the colonel. Macdonald said in a calm voice:
“Your husband, milady, is unwell. He has written to me requesting that you should set off to Tiflis and wait for him there. He expects to be traveling from Tehran straight to Tiflis, where he will meet you.”
They were silent.
“Could you please show me his letter?” asked Nino, and stretched out her hand.
Macdonald avoided looking at her.
“I have to apologize, but in the letter he discussed strictly confidential matters, and only the postscript concerned you. I had to attach it to my report to the board of governors of the East India Company.”
Nino got up.
“I don’t understand, Colonel—have you forwarded a letter concerning a lady to some company or other?”
The colonel gave her another deep bow.
“I am not leaving,” said Nino, “until I’ve received a letter from my husband. If I am burdening you …”
The colonel spread his hands.
Having returned to her room, Nino lay down for half an hour. Darejan was knitting a stocking.
Nino wrote a letter. She closed her eyes a few times while she was writing it. She sent the letter by courier to Tehran.
From then on, her room grew very quiet. She no longer came down to dinner: they brought it to her room. Something was happening outside the room—at night, somebody wouldn’t let her sleep, sat down next to her, talked to her. Darejan kept silent.
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.
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 to 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.”
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 Abbas 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.”
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:
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!”