1
Faddei had been spending his morning in the Summer Gardens. He thought he looked quite distinguished. He had a new frock coat on and had bought a pair of spectacles. His newspaper was thriving, and so was the journal; he was taking a rest in the Summer Gardens; all was in order.
His new frock coat was rather tight and made him feel portly. He glanced freely at the statues as if they were young people from another realm, one of light entertainment, which was not competing with his.
“Good Lord, this one looks just like … Catiline,” he said addressing one of the marble youths. He gazed condescendingly but not too attentively at the green leaves, which seemed so transparent in the sun.
He felt like saying to them, both statues and leaves:
“Eh-he-he. So here you are then, youngsters.”
And he was dying to be noticed by some young man of letters, green behind the ears, a novice, who would think: look, there’s Bulgarin having a rest. At first, he wouldn’t notice when the youth raised his hat, and then he’d beckon him over and greet him and say:
“Eh-he-he. So here you are, my dear chap. Taking a stroll, are we?”
Then the conversation would touch upon the latest ball at Prince Yusupov’s, or perhaps the meeting of the Society of Lovers of Russian Literature, or the fashions, and he would say something along these lines:
“I loathe familiarity with the superiors (or with the old men, or with tailors), and I shun all manner of fanfaronade.”
Since that very morning when he had put on the new, too-tight frock coat, he’d had this on his mind: “I loathe familiarity,” and then something about the fanfaronade—that he was disdainful of any fanfaronade. It had somehow popped up in his head that morning, at the Third Department,1 to which he had brought a lengthy, well-worded article called “On the Directions of Modern Literature and Men of Letters,” and now he was eager to repeat all that to a more refined public, out in the fresh air.
Then he would pat the young man of letters on the knee, and so on.
In the meantime, he’d been admiring the silent scrap between two urchins who, away from the watchman’s eye, had been fighting in the corner of the alley for all they were worth, panting, bear-hugging each other, in total silence, so that the watchman wouldn’t spot hem. Both boys had sneaked into the gardens without permission.
One of them was already staggering, the snot smeared all over his face, with the other patiently kneading his nose.
In his mind’s eye, Faddei nodded to the winning party:
“There you go! Take that! Smash his face, kick it in!”
He liked the way the world of children worked.
It was summer, which meant that the vacationers from the nearby rented houses might wander by accidentally and think: Bulgarin is having a rest.
He was happy to shun all fanfaronade.
Even the city’s mayor might come for a stroll in the Summer Gardens. Faddei was on speaking terms with him.
Or even an encounter on the highest possible level could occur: the Grand Duke or the tsarina might saunter down the paths and think: Bulgarin is taking his ease; and Faddei would tell him or her:
“Your Majesty—or Your Highness—I am not used to familiarity with superiors, and I shun all fanfaronade, which has no respect for age or merit or rank.”
At this moment, a man with parcels of shopping came into view. He was short and plump and wore a white waistcoat.
“Apollon Alexandrovich?” wondered Faddei, picturing some elderly man of letters.
The legs were approaching. They were bandy.
“Mikhail Nikolaevich from the censorship committee?” thought Faddei. “Devil take him.”
The black mustaches moved like those of a cockroach.
“Your Excellency, Konstantin Konstantinovich!” said Faddei, dumbfounded.
Rodofinikin sat down on the bench and put the shopping down.
“Having a little rest, are we?” he asked Faddei, but not in the way that Faddei would have wanted. Faddei got upset:
“It has been a hard winter.”
“Literary affairs?”
Faddei couldn’t conceal the distaste in his reply:
“To tell you the truth, Your Excellency, I deal with literary matters mainly for commercial benefit.”
“Ah, you literati, you men of letters! Have you heard from Mr. Griboedov?”
“I see. Neither have we. Oh, those poets!”
“I loathe any familiarity with superiors,” said Faddei in a stifled voice, “and shun fanfaronade, but if Your Excellency is not happy with my friend, I cannot play the part of the seraglio mute and will never behave like a caryatid. May I ask, highly esteemed Konstantin Konstantinovich, what are the grounds for such a comment?”
The Greek was somewhat rocked back on his heels by “caryatid” and responded peevishly.
“The grounds are that I have always been against the appointments of young and overexcitable officials, and even more so, poets, to posts on which the fate of the state depends. They are too chancy … and their true intentions are never clear.”
“My nature is such that I never hide, have never hidden, and until I die will never hide my thoughts. If I liked the way the North American states are governed, I would go to America like a shot and settle there. Could Your Excellency explain, therefore, where the uncertainty is here, and what in your view are Alexander Sergeyevich’s true intentions?”
Faddei mentioned the North American states for no reason, out of his distaste of familiarity, but the Greek pricked up his ears.
“I’ll tell you, my dear Faddei Venediktovich, I’ll tell you what they are. I know everything. Don’t worry: we learned them from our sources, since Alexander Sergeyevich has not cared to write a single line. He is preoccupied more with the affairs of the heart than of office. That’s the first thing. He has failed to proceed to his post in Persia. He doesn’t give a damn about the fact that the indemnity is not being paid. Nor does he care that the army remains in Urmia and Khoi, and that the count’s forces are not strong enough to fight the Turks—this he cares about even less. If he hadn’t spent last month in Tiflis with poetic intentions, Abbas Mirza might have long since joined forces with the count against the Turks, but for none of all this does he give a damn …”
It was Faddei’s turn to be knocked back.
“I am not good at playing the part of a lackey,” he replied, “I am neither caryatid nor Catiline, and permit me, Your Excellency, to have you understand that I am no fool, I can put two and two together, and I know which way the wind blows …”
The Greek interrupted him bitterly:
“Tut-tut-tut. You deigned to mention both the North American states and Catiline, and I can see that you might have a fair idea of what I personally consider to be purely poetic intentions …”
Faddei was dumbfounded. It would be difficult to explain to a state official why he had mentioned the American states, caryatids, and Catiline at all. The simple reason was the utterly beautiful morning and his flight of fancy.
“My tongue is my worst enemy,” he said good-naturedly, and his eyes welled up. “I would allude not only to Catiline, but to my own father, simply for the sake of literary embellishment, Your Excellency. It came out like that for no reason. I am ready to fall on my knees and swear by the sign of the cross.”
“Oh, those men of letters, oh those poets,” wailed the Greek, and turned into an elderly man resting after his shopping. “And we have to clear up the mess after them.”
“For the life of me, Your Excellency,” said Faddei, touching his forehead, “I can’t remember whether I sent you the latest issue of Son of the Fatherland, and whether you receive the Bee regularly?”
“Thank you very much. I receive them all right,” the Greek responded limply, as if resigning himself. “I can let your newspaper know the list of gifts that are being sent to the shah of Persia, either to the city of Baku or to Rasht, we haven’t decided yet, seeing as Mr. Griboedov’s opinion on the matter is still pretty much unknown.”
Faddei immediately pulled out a long pencil and a tiny notepad and began to jot down what the Greek was telling him, as carefully as if they were the words of an oath of allegiance.
“May I refer to you as my source, my dear Konstantin Konstantinovich?”
“That would be unnecessary,” responded the Greek. “And we’ll make sure that Alexander Sergeyevich is given His Majesty’s personal directive to get himself out of Tiflis.”
When he disappeared around the corner, Faddei tore out the sheet of paper, crumpled it up in disgust as if about to throw it away on the spot, and then stuffed it in his pocket. He spat on the path and then looked around apprehensively to check whether the Greek was really gone.
He flapped his arms sadly and sped home—to write a letter to Griboedov.
On the corner, he stumbled onto the fighting urchins. The silent struggle was still going on, and the panting, and the older one still concentrating on kneading the younger one’s nose. Faddei grabbed them by the scruffs of their necks.
“If you brats, you ruffians, you wretched creatures, don’t get the hell out of here, I’ll call the police … Policema-a-an!”
2
EXTRACTS FROM DR. ADELUNG’S NOTES
1. The restaurant is called The View of the Caucasus. The mores. They ask you whether you gamble in four languages: Russian, German, French, and Georgian. Mr. Sevigny wins a big sum of money. I sit down at the gambling table. Lose. Sangfroid. Observe the deck of cards: Sevigny’s signet ring with a sharp diamond pierces two cards.
“Why?”
“I might get pricked.”
An amusing spectacle: the man who calls himself a marquis is a cardsharp.
2. Aquae distillatae
Menthol
Alcohol
Balsami capanini
Syropi capillorum
Veneris
Aquae florum auranciori
Spiritus nitri dulcis
Faeti
Misce.
3. Comme les mots changent des notions.2 A. S. G., in a conversation with his servant Alexander, called him a skot: Russian for “brute” or “beast of the field.” Explained to him the derivation of the word. In Du Cange’s dictionary scot, scottum means payment or duty (in the Anglo-Saxon dialect). In Ancient Rome, scot meant a gift of money to the pope. Cf. in Latin pecuniae—money, pecus—cattle. He burst out laughing.
“Does it mean that Abbas’s throne is also a form of ‘cattle?’”
“Of course. Not the cattle as such, but cattle, meaning money and tribute.
“But then, doctor, all of us are cattle.”
“I won’t argue with that.”
4. Call to a patient. Do not decline, though there is no fee. Sexually transmitted diseases are very common among the officials. They pass them over to the indigenous female population. NB. Check whether it is not the other way round, which would be all the more interesting.
5. July 11. The salary is delayed.
Caucasian slippers ……………………… 3 rubles in silver
Tobacco without customs duty ………… 1
Pipe …………………………………… 3
Fruit (daily) ……………………………10 kopecks
6. Summoned to Governor-General Sipiagin. Confidential. His interest in animal magnetism. A lobster on its tail. Stood for ½ minute. My laughter. “Force of spirit.” I said: “Is your Excellency so sure that a lobster can have such a powerful spirit?” Schelling has failed to crack it, and now the Russian generals are engaged in magnetism. What can one say?! After the lobster, he asked me a medical question, about sexual potency. My advice.
7. +54° C. Well-roundedness in the East is a woman’s main asset. The prevalence of lustfulness in Tiflis. Is the reason in the vapors issued by the earth? Or is it the influence of the sun? Attraction of thin people toward plump ones. A. S. G. and jeune personne3 Daschinka. Visited a private house of debauchery. Mainly as an observer.
NB. Necessity of introduction of the maisons de tolérance4 under medical supervision as modeled on the European states.
8. July 20. Delay in salary. Conversation with A. S. G.
9. Discovered that A. S. G. is under secret surveillance. Marquis S., the cards cheat. If the minister is being watched, who is watching the watcher? The body of the state like the nerve of observation: consequently, only the one at the top is the one not being watched. Haven’t informed him yet. Curious to see what will happen.
10. Mr. Parrot’s letters. He is preparing for an expedition. The goal is to ascend Ararat. Advantages of clear goals over obscure ones. Both equally futile.
11. A. S. G. character study. Start with the simplest movements, gradually progressing to more advanced (according to Lavater). Fidgety fingers—a sign of insecurity. Does not realize that he removes nonexistent pieces of fluff from his sleeve. Light walking gait in spite of large, narrow feet—a sign of imbalance. Leaning backward during conversation and then bringing his nose close to the person he is talking to. Facial expression inconsistent with his smooth speech. Vaguely focused stare. According to Lavater, the conclusion is: criminal tendencies! … Cf. removing the specks of dust to Lady Macbeth’s washing her hands. It seems that on this occasion, Lavater is mistaken.
12. Rapid growth of taverns is the sign of growing civilization. Isn’t the natural state therefore preferable?
13. Conversation with A. S. G.
“Doctor, I am glad to say you don’t look German. Apologies, etc. I like Russians, love my fatherland, etc.
“I have never doubted this, Your Excellency.”
14. Observe that in wartime, people who are not immediately threatened by its hazards and are at a safe distance talk about them a great deal and experience a sort of intoxicated pleasure. Lucretius: “Standing on a safe shore, I was excited to watch the swimmers who were perishing in the open sea.” Inde5 patriotism and eloquence.
15. New contagion cholera morbus has spread from India to Turkey. Its origins and course are unknown + the plague that is already endemic here.
16. Heard a curious anecdote in a tavern about the method of execution under General Ermolov. He ordered a mullah to be hung by his feet in front of the entire town. The mullah was left in disgrace in front of his people. On the assumption that he was being executed for his faith, he promised to eat pork. By that evening, he had lost his sight, rocked about, grabbed the crossbeam of the gallows, and climbed astride of it. He was dragged back. After it was reported to Ermolov, he was eventually hanged by the neck.
The story was narrated by a Georgian official. “We’ve seen nothing yet.”
From then on, natives have been hanged by the neck.
17. Salary paid. A. S. G. is silent as to where we go next. Our stopover in Tiflis is long term. The reasons are unknown. La jeune personne Daschinka? Nothing to do with me. Had a disagreement with M[altsov]. Griboedov’s servant, Alexander, is a depraved young man. Not only should he not accompany us to Persia, he should be thrown out at once. The reasons for A. S. G.’s affection for him are incomprehensible. The servant’s worst qualities are his indecency and quarrelsomeness.
18. Have been to the German colony this morning. It is populated mostly by the sectarians from Württemberg. They have been living here for 14 years. They remember their homeland, but they are used to their life here. Was treated to good German beer. A curious anecdote. A young girl of about 19 was kidnapped, escaped from Persian captivity with the help of her relatives. She looked glum and alienated from her family. She rejected their meager lot with indignation and recalled her life at the harem with tears in her eyes. She is quite savage.
19. No letters from St. Petersburg. Marquis is quite accommodating, gave me a dagger as a present, of no value, really. I take it he wishes to learn something about A. S. G.
“What a pity that you don’t play cards, doctor.”
“I play only with very poor players.”
20. The countess and Maltzoff. Corruption of morals as in the times of the marquises, but more covertly. He is not much of a philosopher but has good conceit of himself and has the reputation of being one. Considers me almost a comical figure.
21. Rumor that we are leaving for the theater of war to see our chief, Paskevich. I regret that I have agreed. I am prone to nervous fear at the sound of shooting. Asked about A. S. G.’s words in Petersburg: “the nonexistent state.” Answer: “It might soon come into being.”
A. S. G.’s friendship with Governor Zavileisky and their work together. His valet, Alexander, was discovered in the maids’ room, where he has acquired the habit of spending his nights, and by the countess’s request was lashed, but by A. S. G.’s request only lightly.
22. A. S. G. played a waltz of his own composition.
Said that music was an unfathomable art but that it has a great effect on the human body.
A. S. G. objected:
“From music, as from a woman, I expect only two things: elegance and grace. Poetry is a different matter.”
I pointed out the fortunate figuration that comes to fingers naturally, unforced. The repetition in the corresponding major key betrays an experienced hand, a dramatic one.
But Presto! Presto in the middle section! In the waltz! So utterly unexpected! A leap! Completely savage!
He listened very carefully and then responded:
“Why in spite of your varied knowledge do you remain unknown, my dear doctor?”
“Because I have too much of it.”
A somewhat dissatisfied smile.
“You don’t get it, doctor: I enjoy being on the road, the gray greatcoats, the simple life. And in the evening—warmth and dancing.”
I don’t exactly know what he meant by that.
He’s been walking about in an aboriginal caftan for the last three days. Complains about difficulty in breathing. I prescribed rubbing down with cold water.
23. Received a letter from St. Petersburg. Hot summer and numerous theater entertainments. A. S. G. in a conversation about Persia: “my political exile.” 100 rubles in silver + 150 for the previous month = 250. Fight heat with heat: explanation for the sheepskin hats worn by natives. Had a great laugh at the street fight of two elders.
24. Told A. S. G. about Marquis S.
He turned pale, pursed his lips, became fearsome and quite blind with rage. Half an hour later—music, laughter, declaiming poems by heart.
3
He enjoyed the possibility of choice and Nino’s unconditional submission.
He looked at Dashenka and Nino, compared them, and found comfort in the availability of both, of which no one but he was aware. Nino’s eyelashes fluttered at a single glance from him, and she would come unquestioningly, at once, and play the piano with him. The initial period of the courtship had come to an end, but he enjoyed protracting it. He enjoyed Dr. Adelung’s worried glances in his direction. The inexperienced Maltsov seemed happy enough, as if instead of going to Persia, he had received an appointment to Tiflis, to see Eliza. In this strange state, at this sudden Tiflis stopover, so incomprehensible to himself, he spent hours playing the piano as if trying to extract from the keyboard something ultimately clear and decisive, gazed distractedly at Dashenka, and alarmed Praskovya Nikolaevna.
What if, in the same light and easy manner, he were to hum a tune on the piano and say to her: “I’d like to talk to you about …” and then speak about Dashenka, not Nino, out of sheer absentmindedness?
She had already had a dream along these lines.
Zavileisky wrote him letter after letter, and when meeting Griboedov, he tried to talk to him about the project, but Griboedov merely answered, almost sympathetically:
He was unbearably polite.
4
One evening, he was coming out of the Akhverdovs’ house.
Beneath him, right under his feet, on a flat roof, were a few moving shadows—some women were dancing to the muffled drumming of doli, which sounded like horses neighing somewhere underground. He looked around.
A shadow pressed itself toward the fence right in front of Nino’s lit window. Griboedov caught a glimpse of a flamboyant necktie. The young clerk was staring at Nino’s window.
Griboedov got angry. He wanted to approach the clerk and shoo him away, to tell him that this was inappropriate. The clerk paid no attention to him. But when Griboedov saw the clerk’s face, he stopped dead in his tracks. It wasn’t an attractive face, with sideburns and little mustaches, but it was drawn so hard to the light in the window, was so oblivious of itself, that Griboedov looked at Nino’s window too. He could catch a glimpse of her forehead and hair, the movement of her hands, but couldn’t see the whole face or figure. Nino did not glance out the window once: she was preoccupied with something.
When observed from outside, the ordinary words uttered inside a room, such as “Dashenka, could you pass me the book?” or “Dashenka, I am tired of this dress,” sounded fragmented and acquire special meaning.
And looking at the clerk’s gaping mouth, he suddenly realized that Nino was incredibly pretty. He’d been vaguely aware that she was, but now he understood it perfectly. The drumbeat below was constant and muffled.
He stood rooted to the spot.
The Dashenka affair was nonsense.
There was only Nino.
5
A house of gold, and in it lives a beauty,
A fair maid, the daughter of a prince.
▶ Griboedov
In the morning, Dr. Adelung told him about Marquis Sevigny. He had noticed that the marquis and an unknown official, whom the doctor had met at the Castellases, had been watching him.
At one in the afternoon, the mail arrived with the letter from Faddei, informing him of Rodofinikin’s fury.
At two, he was with Zavileisky, had him read through the entire report, added two more pages in his own hand, and made corrections. Zavileisky immediately gave the report to a scribe to produce copies in triplicate. At three in the afternoon, Sashka was buying saddle horses and packhorses at the bazaar. He took a long time over it, examining their teeth, punching their stomachs, and looking so vaguely and insolently into the sellers’ black, greedy eyes that they were suitably cowed and brought the price down by a little. To everyone’s surprise, Sashka made good buys, at a very reasonable price. Only two turned out to be a complete waste of money. Sashka had bought the nags believing that they were Karabakh steeds.
At three o’clock, Griboedov sent a dispatch to Paskevich, the Count of Erivan, with a request to provide him with the means to reach him; summoned Maltsov and Adelung; and told them to be ready to leave the following morning.
At four o’clock, he was with Praskovya Nikolaevna. He was transformed.
Sevigny was in the room with Dashenka, and when he caught sight of Griboedov, one of his eyes froze. Dashenka wore the expression of a girl who knew she was loved.
“Marquis, do you know that the older branch of the Sevigny family tree, from which you have sprung, has ceased to exist?”
Sevigny scowled:
“Since when, Alexander Sergeyevich?”
“As of today.”
“I don’t understand,” muttered the marquis.
“Dashenka, dear, could you give us a moment, please? So, Marquis …”
Sevigny was slowly rising to his feet before Griboedov’s Georgian chekmen.
“My first question to you is: What can you tell me about your homeland, Greece? About the Morea, for example, famous for its groceries? …”
Sevigny was muttering, one of his eyes still unmoving:
“I don’t understand.”
“Quite so. My second question is: How much do you get for spreading the rumor that I am a gambler and belong to a circle of cardsharps?”
“My third question: Who beat you up at Matassi’s restaurant?”
He could hear the false white teeth chattering.
“And my fourth question: When are you thinking of leaving this house for good?”
At this point, the Greek began to subside, to fall backward, and he would have collapsed into the armchair, but Griboedov, almost without touching him, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and the Greek was unable to sit down.
Then Griboedov went quickly to the door and flung it open.
The Greek passed through the doorframe slowly and with some difficulty, and yet almost with dignity.
Griboedov followed him with his eyes—from armchair to door.
At the threshold, the Greek shook and began to pull something out of his pocket, probably his visiting card; he found it and proffered it to Griboedov as a pauper stretches out his hand for alms. Griboedov took the card with two fingers, and without bending his arm again, just using his fingers, shoved it back into the Greek’s pocket.
“This way.”
The door slammed shut.
Praskovya Nikolaevna ran out of another room and looked at the departing man, unaware of what had just happened.
Griboedov was laughing:
“I have just ostracized him …”
She grabbed his sleeve and mumbled:
“Alexander, Alexander … I have to go to Dashenka.”
Griboedov stayed on alone.
This house was his home.
The dinner that night was consolation for the losses and joys, because people losing or acquiring love still have to eat, but that dinner changed nothing.
He was looking at the tear-stained face of Dashenka, who had been crying because of him, and he was longing to take her in his arms and to ruffle her hair, almost in a fatherly fashion.
Praskovya Nikolaevna, for some reason feeling elated, was very talkative, but she was chattering not about what had happened, and not about Sipiagin: she was talking about what was right in front of her eyes—about the flowers on the table and about her painting—she tried her hand at it—and that she was not good at painting flowers, particularly roses; she couldn’t capture the right shade.
Ahead of him was the meeting with Paskevich and the trek around the plague-stricken areas, into his future kingdom.
Only now did he dare to look at Nino properly for the first time. She regarded him fearfully, subsiding before him, almost like the Greek, lowering herself, heavy-lidded, the mouth gone suddenly wide and half open. She reminded him of Lenochka. And at the same time, she was the clerk’s vision in the window from the other night.
When they were leaving the table, Griboedov took her by the hand and said simply:
“Venez avec moi, j’ai quelque chose à vous dire.”6
“What do you want to say to me?”
There was a distant shadow of the Georgian accent in her Russian words. She obeyed him as she’d always done. He would take her to the pianoforte and make her sit down. He would teach her.
Without saying a word, as if invisible to everyone, he took her to the garden, and they strolled through it toward her ancestral home, the home of the Princes Chavchavadze. They entered the drawing room.
And there was nowhere further to go.
Nino burst into soundless tears, and the tears rolled down out of her round, heavy-lidded eyes, and she laughed.
6
They received her mother’s blessing. Then, in the evening, Princess Salome and Praskovya Nikolaevna sat on the veranda and spoke for a long time, quietly, very quietly, drained and tired, as if they were the ones who were being married again, or as if somebody had died and this was the start of that incomprehensible joy of dressing them up for the last time.
Griboedov and Nino sat in the dark corner on the windowsill, and he lingered on her lips.
They sat for an hour, then two; they sat all through the night. He taught her how to kiss as he previously had taught her music, and there was the same foreign, childish echo in her kissing as in her speech and in her piano-playing.
7
Before his departure, he sat down and wrote a flowing letter to Rodofinikin in his fluid, slanted handwriting. What he wanted to write was:
“Darling Date,
I can see through you, officialo-nincompoopolo, damn you to hell. And I don’t care a fig, my dear insect of a man, either about you or your instructions. A plague on you, dear Mr. Date, and when you recover, please be assured of my remaining your faithful and humble servant, Alexander Griboedov.”
Instead he wrote:
“Your Excellency:
Please accept my gratitude for your assistance in transporting my luggage to Astrakhan, though we don’t know yet what is to happen to the crockery, etc. We still have to eat on the way to Tehran. Here, at the count’s house, we have at our disposal everything we need, but on the road, I won’t be able, it would seem, to entertain good folk with coffee or tea … I am just about to set off into the plague-ridden area.
(Would you care to join me …?)
Mr. Bulgarin has informed me that you, highly esteemed Konstantin Konstantinovich, are sending me a specific personal instruction, ordering me not to delay in Tiflis a moment longer. I ask you, for the love of God, not to tighten the strings of my natural passion and my diligence or they may snap.
(Or you may find yourself in trouble with Paskevich.)
Accept my assurances of all the sincere feelings …
(Which?)
… of respect and boundless devotion
To Your Excellency
(‘Officialo-nincompoopolo’)
Yours faithfully,
Alexander Griboedov.”
And he set off on the road.
8
GENERAL SIPIAGIN’S CONVERSATION ON THE SAME NIGHT, WITH HIS FRIEND, A COLONEL, OVER A BOTTLE OF WINE
I am a straightforward man. I am a strategist and a tactician. This is what I am.
For example, what kind of military rhetoric do I favor? The strategic sort. Exclamatory proclamations. “Russians, remember the tenets of Peter the Great!” And believe it or not, I immediately see the troops and the chariots carrying the body of the dead emperor.
In my book A Guide for Mounted Riflemen, I coached skirmishers always to take their time. If you write it in an ordinary manner, it will soon be forgotten. But I did it in a memorable form. So I wrote:
Question: Must the skirmisher hurry when taking a shot?
Answer: No, quite the reverse.
Because when put like this, it goes straight to the heart and is easy to remember.
Or consider the phrase, dear Colonel: “Mountains are the key to taking the plains.” Here, if you please, is the entire Caucasian strategy in a nutshell, in a single word: the key.
Or: “Camouflage is crucial to avoid detection.” No one gives it a thought or cares about it. And in my youth, under the late Emperor Alexander, whom, by the way, the Russians have forgotten too, this was everything. Le moral est bon7—and we won.
I have no faith in Paskevich. He is cautious, and this speaks volumes. Did Suvorov look over his shoulder? No, he didn’t. Was Miloradovich cautious? Miloradovich was not cautious at all.
The light of day and the starry night
See the hero on his horse!
And our count’s eyes are shifty; he has no self-confidence, no faith. Le moral est mauvais.8 You know what Ermolov called him? My friends from Petersburg have written to me that instead of the Count of Erivan, he called him the Count of Jericho.
We’ll wait and see, but I can tell you now: truth will out, our truth, soldiers’ truth. I’ve sent Paskevich a package with foreign newspapers.
The Journal des débats writes, for example: “General Paskevich is not blessed with any specific talents, but he is fortunate, simply lucky, and he is greatly helped by les gens du malheur,9 the so-called ‘senators,’ those who acted in the Senate Square in December, 1825.”
I have circled those parts in pencil, and some others too, of course. He can enjoy reading this.
I don’t understand it. As a person, as a military man, and as a son of the fatherland, I can’t fathom these people.
Colonel Burtsov serves Paskevich, an excellent gunner, and he does pretty much everything. He too is one from that inglorious flock. I have filled whole notebooks about him. And countless former officers and engineers, demoted to soldiers, act on his behalf. Do they really care about the glory of the motherland? Come on, my dear Colonel, forget it. They are prepared to destroy Russia outright, at a stroke. What do they care about Russia? No, they are doing it for promotion; they are turning their coats, biding their time. And when their hour comes, they’ll show their true colors!
They are no fools, dear Colonel, no fools.
Do you think the people in Tiflis are content? I don’t think so. I too pretend to be happy at the balls. And between you and me, dear Colonel, in complete confidence: our dearest governor, my young confidant, Mr. Zavileisky—what is he? Tell me, dear Colonel, what is Mr. Zavileisky? I will tell you what Mr. Zavileisky is. He is a Pole, from that very Poland that is ruled by the people’s parliament, the Sejm!
Everything has got itself tied up into such a knot that, believe it or not, one can’t but expect an imminent unraveling.
To undo that knot, one would require a very clever tactic.
Today, for example, I have had a collegiate assessor arrested. He’s written in a letter to a friend: “I am in love with a maid of the mountains. I am waiting for the hour.” But read it carefully, dear Colonel: who the hell is the “maid of the mountains”? What is it? What kind of hour is he waiting for, dear Colonel? And why? Ah, that’s exactly my point. There might be an entire secret society hiding behind the skirts of that “maid of the mountains.”
Let me speak to you as an old friend, with whom, glory be to God, I stood shoulder to shoulder in the field: I know every step they make. I do. Paskevich doesn’t. That’s the real reason I have been appointed here.
He demands that I should report to him. And if tomorrow, let’s say, I am required to write a report about him, will I have to forward it to him? Fat chance. Those who are guilty will have to answer for their actions.
I understand what he is driving at: that in my regiment, the garrison soldiers have been turned into serfs, have been building houses for their commanders and acting as the guards for their houses. Would you call it serfdom? These are simply urban improvements. And his own Christ-loving warriors, how do they provide for themselves? Does manna fall from heaven for them? No sir, they requisition sheep and hens; his troops provide for themselves by pillage and plunder. My dispatches are not like his. There is no “Glory be to Field Marshal Suvorov!” in them. I’m looking further into it.
Even a familiar person like Muravyov has to be under surveillance. As a matter of fact, many Muravyovs were involved in the uprising. A namesake can be dangerous too. Strange, but possibly true.
And I have to confess: I am tired.
I am a man of Emperor Alexander’s age. I am a tactician. And I am tired. Believe it or not, I sometimes want to forget it all, or even to die, gloriously. You won’t believe it, Colonel, but I arrange all those balls with political aims, as I think I told you the other day. But the truth of the matter is that I am tired. Everything is so uncertain and ever changing. Perhaps, I no longer understand people.
I seek oblivion in poetry—I am so fond of it—and what do I find there? Decline of taste. My only joy is Zhukovsky’s ballads. I also have a handwritten copy of the comedy of Griboedov, our future bridegroom.
I’ve read it, dear Colonel, and I’ve put it away in the desk drawer.
I enjoy a good laugh—and there are plenty of wonderful situations one can laugh at. Take Boccaccio, for example. How the monk puts the devil in the maiden’s hell. Absolutely marvelous, dear Colonel! Can’t believe you haven’t read it! You can borrow my copy. But I’ve read Alexander Sergeyevich’s comedy and was shocked. There are, of course, some funny situations, truthful portraits, and some people get what they deserve. But he laughs at everything, absolutely everything, indiscriminately. He doesn’t like the Guards, you see—he finds the Guardsmen very amusing indeed!
Is it really so amusing? It’s trite.
Now he’s gone to see Paskevich. Announced his engagement and took his leave, all of a sudden. I gave him twelve Cossacks, and there you go! What do I care? This project of his regarding Transcaucasia. I have been informed about it. In fact, I read it in its entirety (in a dispatch, obviously), but believe it or not, it put me to sleep.
What tedious fantasies! As if a man dreamed it, and then woke up and wrote it all down.
And yet, you know, Colonel, I do respect him more than anyone else. When all is said and done, I respect him. In spite of everything.
He’s got this free way of speaking, the old Moscow way. I have to admit it, I love him, Colonel.
I am neither a tactician nor a strategist; I want love, my dear friend; I want young people to feel free; I want them to kiss and be fruitful, God damn it; I want them to have a laugh.
Ahoy!—the voice of bliss!
Let him marry that little girl of his, if that’s what he wants. Let’s drink his health.
To the health of the newlyweds, hurrah!
And I love you too, Colonel. When I am no more, remember me with a kind word. They can say what they want about me then.
Squadron, forward march!
Do you remember the lines, dear Colonel?
Sipiagin—the heart of the regiments!
Oh how fearsome he is!
And now, help me to get out of this chair, will you?
I don’t seem to be able to do it myself. I have imbibed.
Griboedov spurred his horse. The horse panted, climbing the steep mountain.
The war smelled of bread, not of blood. He drew in its dense scent with his nostrils.
“Why does it smell of bread over here?” asked the doctor all of a sudden.
He was being shaken up and down like a sack of flour.
Maltsov jogged after him, trying to stick to the saddle, and threw him a glance filled with irony.
“It’s the smell of blood,” he said meaningfully.
“It’s bread all right, Your Highness,” said the frontier Cossack. “If you care to take a look over here, in the ditches.”
Indeed, the slopes along the road were marked with deep potholes.
“Have these been made by cannonballs?” asked Maltsov pompously.
“Oh, no, not cannonballs. They haven’t reached here yet. This was a campsite. These were the stoves. The trench diggers dig out holes: this is the cavity; this is the oven tray. They make molds, pour the dough in, and bake bread. And they also make kvas.”
The warm bread scent, preserved by the heated-up earth, was Griboedov’s first experience of war.
He felt that he had to look after the doctor, who couldn’t ride a horse, and Maltsov, who believed that it was his first “engagement” and almost imagined that he was in combat.
The project would meet with Paskevich’s approval, and Griboedov would come back and marry Nino. Or the project would not meet with the count’s approval, and he would come back and live with Nino in Tsinandali like an ascetic, the hermit of Tsinandali.10 That was Nino’s estate, where the air was pale blue and thin; there were grasses and vines, and from the balcony you could watch the cool Alazan streaming by. Here in the mountains, it was really hot.
He wouldn’t go to Persia and had no wish to think about it: his luggage had been sent to Astrakhan—that idiot Date had sent it off; the credentials hadn’t arrived yet—the emperor was somewhere on the Danube.
“We used to arrange bathhouses in potholes, Your Highness,” the chief Cossack kept saying to the doctor. “We would make a hearth out of stones and burn wild grasses or dry dung. A tent on top and some turf on the floor. A couple of pails of water poured on the tent would prevent the steam from escaping, and you would have a good bathhouse, not too hot.”
They climbed the very steep Bezobdal, and there they encountered nightfall, a storm with black clouds and purple lightning, thunder, and downpour. They were soaked to the skin. The doctor stripped naked, folded his clothes, and lay on them, protecting them from the storm. The Cossacks did not laugh, but Maltsov blushed to the roots for his behavior.
They reached Gyumri by seven o’clock.
The atmosphere there was troubled.
Communications with the main forces had been interrupted. From time to time, grimy, sooty, and dust-covered messengers would appear bringing reports that the count had retreated from the Kars pashalyk; that the Turkish guerrillas had beset him from the rear; that the Black Sea Regiment had engaged in a skirmish in the mountains, beyond the River Arpa; and that the outcome was still unknown.
Maltsov asked Griboedov, blushing again:
“Does it mean—defeat?”
“I don’t think so,” responded Griboedov calmly. “It’s always like this.”
Here in Gyumri, the war no longer smelled of bread. Gyumri, a large settlement, had been devastated in the previous Persian War. Stoves and chimneys stuck out shamelessly in the wasteland, like the entrails of nonexistent dwellings. Scraggy, starved cats ran about the burned ground. The company’s pigs, saved by the Quran, which forbade the Persians butchering them, were running wild and raised their black snouts among the ruins.
A small hovel was the Russian Headquarters. The other small dwelling was the quarantine unit.
In Gyumri, he received a note from Paskevich:
“Advancing on Akhalkalaki. The Gyumri commandant will issue you with a reliable escort and cannon. Will await you there.”
War and haste contributed remarkably to the beauty of his style, rendering it brief and crisp.
They spent the night in Gyumri, watched the quarantine wardens scurrying about, dressed in loose overalls, with censers that looked like church incense burners. They left in the morning.
Not far from Gyumri, they ran into a detachment: two companies of the Kozlov Regiment, two companies of the Carabineers, and a hundred men recovering after illness were advancing toward the main corps, with no idea where it was.
Griboedov told them: “Stand at attention!” and took them under his command.
He rode with twelve Cossacks and twelve more cavalrymen from Gyumri, followed by the cannon, which in turn was followed by his troops.
He now had his own troops.
The provisions were jolting behind them—a bullock cart with food supplies and a civilian sitting astride them. The civilian was Sashka.
Every step of the way, they were liable to be attacked and destroyed.
And every hoofbeat of the horse was light and distinct.
On June 25, they reached the Headquarters in Akhalkalaki, and Count Paskevich.
10
Two campaigns—the Persian and the Turkish—depended on this man, who decided the fate of Russia in Asia and, even more than that, the fate of the new Imperial Russia, that of Emperor Nicholas I.
The life and death of all the Russian armies depended on Paskevich, as did the life and slow death of the army officers demoted for taking part in the Decembrist uprising. He sent reports concerning them to the emperor. The life of the entire Caucasus and its governance depended on him. As did Griboedov’s project.
Ermolov had never even dreamed of such powers.
Let’s take a closer look at the man.
He was one of those men who are born before their ancestors. He was an upstart; his nobility was new. His forebear, Gray Pasko, had left Poland with his entire household and cattle from time immemorial. This genealogical ancestor came to life after young Paskevich had been made a page; before then, he hadn’t even existed. Previously, Ivan Fyodorovich’s father had been a Poltava tradesman. And it was he, not Gray Pasko, who had possessed the capital and courage, which he passed on to his son, the future military leader.
Under Catherine the Great, Paskevich’s father, the tradesman Fyodor Paskevich, together with a couple of friends, secured the rights to supply salt from the Crimean lakes and, through a powerful man at the court, obtained multimillion deposits from the treasury “in order to compensate them for the deaths of the oxen.” The oxen remained alive, but the salt was never delivered. Fyodor Paskevich and his friends were facing recovery of debt, and hence either destitution or a sentence of hard labor. That was the moment of his elevation. In Petersburg, he had demonstrated such powers of flattery, such quick penetration of court circles, and had witnessed such rapid responses to the power of bribery that he and his friends were forgiven both the unsupplied salt and the millions. All Poltava celebrated Paskevich’s victory because that was a real battle of Poltava: almost all the inhabitants took part in the salt supply business. Soon afterward, the old Ukrainian tradesman discovered a forebear, Gray Pasko, an old Polish nobleman, and Fyodor Paskevich, by the same visible capacity for flattery and penetration of court circles, succeeded in securing places for his sons in the Page Corps. When Ivan Fyodorovich was a boy, he served as a Kammer-page under Catherine the Great. He became a court officer. As a new man, with a simple flair, he realized that the ultimate secret of success at court lay not in subtlety and flattery, but in coarseness. It was referred to as “directness” and “forthrightness,” and such a man became necessary at a court that was always secretly unsure of what was happening outside its walls, and therefore was gullible. Grand Duke Nicholas served under Paskevich’s command, and Paskevich was hard on him but covered up for him in front of Emperor Alexander, who was distrustful and exacting and found it difficult to endure his brother. So he had a chance to distinguish himself and to earn merit early on.
He accompanied Grand Duke Michael on his travels and gave him a good dressing-down. He was a man of great military prowess, with a gruff voice and curt, imperious gestures.
He was not without talent in military matters. He possessed a quick eye and a particular kind of memory that was essential in a military leader. In his youth, in 1812, he was the first to scale the walls of a fortress, and was wounded. When the French were shooting at point-blank range, he thought: wouldn’t it be effective if the Russian artillery were attacking them from the rear and the flanks? And that memory came in handy: he began to favor the artillery first. He was not stupid—in his own way, he knew how people saw him, and he knew the emperor better than the emperor did himself. And he understood money and could manipulate it to his profit.
And so everyone knew that he was an upstart, a talentless fool. Even the people close to him called him a fool the moment they left him.
In Peter the Great’s time, the clever Prince Kurakin would have said of him: “A great ill-wisher—wishing no good to anybody at all.” In Empress Elizabeth’s time, Bestuzhev-Ryumin would have said of him: “A random man and an unpredictable one!” And Generalissimo Suvorov would have summed him up in his falsetto shriek: “An impolitic man and a treacherous one.” Ermolov called him “Vanka,”11 or “the Count of Jericho.”
No one took him seriously. Only the merchant class kept his portraits; merchants liked him for the way he looked: curly-haired, portly, and youthful.
There are people who achieve high positions or who already have them, and who behind their backs are still called, pejoratively, “Vanka.” So Grand Duke Michael was called “Redheaded Mishka” when he was forty years of age. In spite of his hatred of Ermolov, Paskevich could never refer to him, now so publicly humiliated, as “Alyoshka.” Paskevich was referred to derogatively, in passing, and he well knew it. And no matter how many victories he had won, he knew that they would still say: “An almighty fluke! A lucky bastard!”
Ermolov hadn’t won a single victory, and yet he was regarded a great military leader.
Paskevich knew, moreover: he knew that people were right.
His very looks denied him a place among the great military leaders. Short, pink, a nose like a sausage, with carefully grown dashing mustaches and sideburns and bulging eyes. He was made from middling dough, and he lacked all the other features that heroes were made of.
As a man of the new nobility and a courtier, he invariably spoke French. His Russian speech was abrupt and sounded as if he were cursing.
Sometimes it came as a shock to him to think that it was indeed all a matter of luck, and that his glory as a military leader was as nonexistent as it was for his ancestor, Gray Pasko.
Eliza’s attitude confirmed this perception. His wife was a Moscow lady and understood him completely. She would narrow her eyes and drone through her clenched teeth: “You ought to sleep less after lunch, my friend.”
And when he realized how well Eliza understood him, he began to fear her like wildfire and became what he was now: a great wisher of good to nobody at all.
He was suspicious of those around him. He kept a sharp ear open for mockery. He was indecisive, a waverer, in all his military plans; his gestures were briefer and more imperious than need be, and he bullied his subordinates more harshly than necessary for a man of authority. His indecisiveness corroded his military knowledge and experience, and even when he had periods of good luck, he was afraid of future failure. He forgot how he used to rebel against excessive military deportment and now cast critical glances at the ranks and demanded immaculate deportment, because finding fault with others made him feel that others would turn a blind eye to his own faults.
He ousted from the army the scoffers from the Ermolov time and replaced them with a motley bunch of foreign predators. The influential persons who surrounded him were Cornet Abramovich, either a Pole or a Jew or a Tatar, who was in charge of his stables; an old Italian doctor Martinengo, a charlatan with a fake medical diploma; Colonel Espejo, a Spaniard who for some unknown reason was addressed as “Ekim Mikhailovich”; and Vano Karganov, implicated in the case of forging documents attesting to his princely title—an Armenian, also known as “Vanka Cain.”12
How did he win his victories?
Quite possibly he was a poor strategist.
He vacillated so much; he was so indecisive, and then suddenly so desperately daring; he changed tactics so often that he confounded all the enemy’s calculations. Charles of Austria wrote to Paskevich after the completion of the campaign that he had confused the principles of strategy with great skill. There might have been precious little skill involved. The indecisiveness and irregularities were real enough, but they had proved fortunate and had ensured success.
Paskevich won by necessity.
He had few troops and a great deal of money. The current war had been declared on the heels of the Persian campaign, with no respite, and it was all but impossible to get sufficient transportation arranged. And so, instead of heavy carts, light, bullock-drawn ones were requisitioned from the local population, and they were capable of negotiating the steepest possible slopes.
The native tribes of the Caucasus had been waiting for an opportunity to rebel. The rear of the army hadn’t been secured. That was why, for the first time in Russian military history, money was more important than bullets.
Every requisition was paid for (with the exception of goods from the Kurds, which were taken free of charge).
And for the first time—because of the scarcity of troops and an abundance of money and artillery—the Turkish cavalry was counteracted by the column, while the square formation was abandoned.
In the time of Empress Anne, Münnich drew up his troops in a square formation, with the cavalry in the center and along the sides, artillery at the corners, and infantry with bayonets on all sides.
This made defense easy and attack difficult.
That was the reason why Rumyantsev removed the horses from the border and divided the army into several squares: during the Battle of Larga,13 there were five squares and, most important, no main formation; at Kagul, there were five squares in one line, with cavalry at intervals between them.
Suvorov found such a formation incapable of maneuvering. At Rymnik,14 there were six squares, two battalions each, with the cavalry in the third line.
In his Conversations with Soldiers, Kutuzov wrote:
“Deploy a square against Muslims, not a single column. But when the enemy numbers are greater, the square must be joined into columns.”
Such an order was more flexible, but everything in it depended on the courage of the infantry.
Artillery dispersed about the corners lost three-quarters of its firepower.
Paskevich did not trust the courage of the infantry; he relied on money and on cannonballs.
That was why he divided the troops into columns along three lines: in the first two, infantry columns with artillery in the center; in the third the cavalry, also with artillery in the center.
The frenzied attacks of the Turks were met by those solid columns; while they hacked into them, the artillery pounded them at will.
This was never planned; it was born by necessity. And it was not even Paskevich who recognized the necessity.
It was recognized by the man whom Paskevich preferred not to mention: Colonel Ivan Grigoryevich Burtsov, from the “inglorious flock.”
Chance and necessity had given rise to a new type of warfare. Paskevich’s very deficiencies had made him a new type of military leader.
Burtsov was his chief gunner, and as siege engineer had been instrumental in the seizure of Kars. He had been assisted by a military engineer, Private Mikhail Pushchin. Miklashevsky commanded the rear guard. The victory was finally secured by Colonel Lehman. Konovnitsyn was quartermaster. The ober-quartermaster of the entire Caucasian corps was Volkhovsky. The illiterate count’s entire correspondence was conducted by Lieutenant Sukhorukov. All of them were exiles.
Paskevich was therefore a commander led by political offenders.
His great military asset was his ability to make use of their talents. He threw out all of Ermolov’s men, surrounded himself with a bunch of international mercenaries, and took advantage of the political offenders. His favorite, Colonel Espejo, demanded one hundred thousand rubles for rerouting the road leading to Kars through the Wet Mountain. Paskevich trusted neither soldiers nor his colonels, nor even Eliza. He feared everyone and everything.
He sent the demoted Pushchin to check on Colonel Espejo. Within three days, Private Pushchin had found a suitable potential route. For that, Paskevich reprimanded him in front of Colonel Espejo and threatened him with court-martial.
He entrusted them with his military affairs and denounced them to the authorities in St. Petersburg.
The Journal des débats, which Sipiagin had sent to the count, was correct: it was the men of December who were to “blame” for Paskevich’s success.
This is how the Count of Erivan achieved his victories.
12
A tall white tent loomed over the smaller gray ones like a bull above a flock of sheep.
“My patron, my precious patron,” said Griboedov, and bowed his head.
Little Paskevich kissed him on the brow and invited him to sit down.
“How are you? Are you well? How’s Eliza?”
The tent was spacious and tidy. A few documents lay on the desk.
Griboedov pulled out the packages.
“From Zavileisky …”
“From Sipiagin …”
Paskevich frowned, broke the seals, threw the papers on the desk, and shoved them aside without reading them.
“How was your journey?”
“Thanks to you, my patron, not too bad at all. I’ve brought some troops I came across on the way here.”
Paskevich raised his eyebrows.
“A detachment had got lost. I took it under my command and brought it here.”
“I see,” said Paskevich, and a moment later cracked a smile. He was distracted and displeased.
“How’s Petersburg?”
“They speak of nothing else but you, Count.”
Paskevich’s leg stopped jerking.
“The emperor is so fond of you; he remembered how His Majesty and you had lain on your bellies over the maps, cursing.”
Paskevich gave a genuine smile. His face became almost handsome.
“Is that so?” he said in a thin voice. “He still remembers me, then.”
“They are full of you. They sing you hallelujahs.”
Paskevich stopped smiling.
“Now they all call themselves your friends. Even Benckendorff.”
“Aha!” smirked Paskevich.
“How are things over here, Ivan Fyodorovich? Pushkin is going mad about it; he is eager to join you.”
“That’s fine. He can come over,” said Paskevich hesitantly. “Um … yes,” he stretched his legs, “we plod on: not enough troops; the commanders are spoiled. I am starting all over again. We’ll muddle through. And you are now a minister?”
“By your graces, Count.”
“Did you have a good time?”
Griboedov barely smiled, and Paskevich suddenly began to bustle.
Griboedov reminded him of Eliza.
“You need to go to Persia now. A tough nut.”
“Could hardly be worse.”
“Yes,” agreed Paskevich hastily, interrupting, as if stepping on somebody’s toes, “so I’d like to ask you to report to me directly about everything that is happening over there. In Petersburg, they have little understanding of the situation.”
“Nesselrode regrets the slow pace of progress.”
Paskevich turned purple.
“He can come over here and give me a hand then. Slow! What we have to deal with here is the fact that some regiments don’t even know how to move. What does this Petersburg pig know about tactics? Please report to me first, and let me have their messages too.”
He was quietly rapping the desk with his little red fist.
“Regarding Persia: I am in dire need of money. I am not God; I cannot fight without money. You must go there at once.”
“I’d think that from here, in Tiflis, I’d squeeze more money out of them. Once I am there, things will be different: they’d be in no hurry, and I might find myself their hostage.”
Paskevich thought a little and wagged his finger, giving him a patronizing smile:
“Come off it! Things are better seen on the ground. And another matter: make sure that you smash these scoundrels, the deserters. They disgrace us in front of all Europe. At Ganja, the Persians’ right flank was made up entirely of Russian deserters. They must be extradited and flayed alive without mercy—pas de quartier.”
“Nesselrode considers it more important to pay the ransom in order to free up Pankratev’s troops from Urmia and Khoi so that they can bolster your troops.”
“Never mind Nesselrode. I am in charge of this war, not Nesselrode. As far as I am concerned, Pankratev can stay on in Khoi. I don’t need his soldiers. They’re out of hand and almost as bad as the deserters. They’d infect the entire army.”
He rapped his finger on the desk, looked distractedly at Griboedov and then at the package containing the newspapers.
Abramovich, the aide-de-camp, came in, pink and tanned, with a little black mustache.
“We don’t stand on ceremony over here,” said Paskevich, still cross, but a second later he smiled reluctantly. “Relax. Have they pitched your tent yet? Oh, well. We’ll have a chance to talk later. Watch your step; there’s still the occasional bullet coming over.”
Here it was—power—in this short, fat, red-haired man, with sausage fingers and with sausages for sideburns that were no longer the butt of jokes. In those stubby fingers, he held the fate of Russia. How simple it was. How terrifying. And how entrancing.
13
In the evening, the black skies fell and embraced the flock of the tents, and the lights of the sentries came on dismally. Griboedov was again at Paskevich’s.
Paskevich was disheveled and blinking in the light.
Nevertheless, through force of habit, he listened attentively to Griboedov talking about his project.
“This scoundrel,” he said abruptly. “Look what he has outlined in here.”
He showed to Griboedov the Journal des débats and an English newspaper.
Griboedov read: “A commander without courage or plan.”
“The emperor knows me and I don’t give a damn about messieurs Sipiagins. I know everything that’s going on. I’ve ordered an audit—the rogue has embezzled eight hundred thousand rubles. Another hero … of painted bridges.15 Please convey my gratitude to Zavileisky for his report.”
“… I have long been preoccupied with what you say, Alexander Sergeyevich,” he said in the same tetchy and wretched tone of voice. “It’s high time to call the rascals to account. I am the right person for that. Life’s not all about fighting. I’ll show this scum how the Caucasus ought to be run. As soon as I have concluded the campaign, I’ll recall you from Persia. Spend a month there, will you, while I write to Nesselrode. We’ll find a substitute for you. I’ll make you my aide.”
“… yes, these wretches—what did you call them?—‘the little Frenchmen from Bordeaux.’ I don’t care about their croaking and their lies. All this is Nesselrode’s trickery and … Ermolov’s too,” he added suddenly. “They can certainly have no understanding of my plans.”
He scoffed bitterly and suddenly looked mistrustfully at Griboedov.
“I have a huge favor to ask, my dear patron,” said Griboedov, glancing at the red sideburns and the bulging eyes, which looked like a battlefield.
“What is it?” asked Paskevich, on his guard.
“I wish to get married before my departure but have no opportunity to obtain His Majesty’s permission in such a short time. Would you act as my father?”
“And who is the bride?” asked Paskevich, raising his eyebrows and smiling.
He gave Griboedov a worldly bow, avoiding his glance:
Griboedov left. It was pitch dark, the skies were black, and the camp was stirring in that darkness; the torches flickered, the evening chatter embered down to a whisper, tobacco smoke lingered in the air … There was some movement along the adjacent hills, as if the sparse woods were shaken by the wind. Trees? Horsemen?
A grenade dispelled any doubts. It was cavalry—and the grenade scattered them.
And the simplicity and randomness of it unnerved Griboedov.
Maltsov was asleep in the tent. The doctor was busy packing his suitcase. He asked Griboedov for permission to leave at once: an epidemic of the plague had broken out ten miles away, and doctors were in short supply. Dr. Martinengo had just received a dispatch.
14
The quartermaster of the Kherson Regiment, which was under the command of the man in charge of the trenches, Colonel Ivan Grigoryevich Burtsov, was a good soul.
He loved his Arab stallion more than he had ever loved any amenable girl.
His coachman and stableman was a young Gypsy who understood the language of horses better than he understood Russian. The stallion neighed, the Gypsy heehawed, and looking at them, the quartermaster breathed in and out contentedly through his dove-gray nose.
The Gypsy bathed the stallion, and their bodies in the water did not much differ from each other in color: both glistened in the sun as if oiled.
The horse snorted softly and musically, lifting its blue nostrils upward when swimming; the Gypsy yodeled with his nose and throat.
The quartermaster’s belly heaved with laughter when he looked at them.
The regiment was encamped near the village of Jala. The officers stayed in the houses, and the tents were set up outside the settlement.
When a tattered, garish, and sparklingly guttural Gypsy tribe showed up two miles from the camp, beyond the river, and the Gypsy women with their swaying hips and the ragged charm of a thousand years started to pay visits to the regiment, the Gypsy began to leave without permission. He would go to bathe the horse, swim across the river, and disappear onto the other bank.
The quartermaster would say:
“Gone to graze on the fresh grass.”
The Gypsy man would go grazing between the thrusting thighs, of that harsh color that belongs to Gypsies. One morning, the quartermaster shouted for him, but the man failed to show up.
“Still on a bender, the swine,” he said, and went to check on his stallion.
The Gypsy lay in the stables, blue in color, his eyes bulging. He moved his hand and gave a groan. The stallion quietly stamped its hoof and slowly chewed on his oats. The quartermaster was out like a shot and for some reason locked the stable door.
He was suddenly drenched in sweat.
Then, stepping gingerly, he found the batman, ordered him to bring a rope, unlocked the stables, and told the batman to get the Gypsy on the horse. The Gypsy was swaying and mumbling incoherently.
The batman tied him to the horse with the rope. The quartermaster took the horse out of the stables and led him to the river. He stepped carefully, directing him to the water.
The horse swam, snorting; the Gypsy’s head rolled about. The quartermaster stood there, stooped, looking at them with empty eyes. The horse swam across the river, grazed on the grass, quietly moving toward the Gypsy camps. The Gypsy appeared to be dancing on it, his limbs flopping about.
When he disappeared from sight, the quartermaster burst into sudden tears and said quietly:
“What a horse I’ve lost. We need to drive the plague away.”
He went back to his place, locked himself up, and began to drink vodka.
The next morning, the quartermaster came out of the house and saw the batman lying with arms and legs outspread, his eyes bulging and totally oblivious.
He sent him to quarantine.
He waited for night. Then he stuck a bottle of vodka in each of his pockets, came out, locked the door behind him, and left.
He wandered about, then stood for a while, pushed open a door, and went in. An officer he did not recognize was asleep in the bed. He did not wake up. The quartermaster took off his jacket and shirt, lay down on the floor in the middle of the room, pulled out the quart bottle of vodka, and began to drink it silently. In between drinks, he smoked his pipe.
Soon the officer woke up. He saw an unfamiliar, half-naked officer lying on his floor drinking vodka straight out of the bottle, and thought that it was a dream. He turned on his other side and started to snore.
The quartermaster finished the quart bottle and left at dawn, still unrecognized by the officer as a living being. He put his jacket on but forgot his shirt on the floor.
He left, and no one ever saw him again in any shape or form.
The officer woke up and saw an empty bottle and a shirt lying on the floor and could make no sense of it.
He was well and stayed well.
The washerwoman, the regiment musician’s wife, who did the laundry in order to feed her three small children, lived in a hovel in the same settlement.
That morning, her little daughter came to the officer to pick up the clothes to be washed. She picked the shirt up off the floor. The officer said that she could keep it. The girl came back home and fell ill. The commander of the regiment ordered her father and mother into quarantine and sent the girl to the hospital.
The three young children were left at home because the quarantine was overcrowded. The quarantine sheds with their thatched roofs were swarming with people who slept in a heap on the floor.
A sentry was placed at the hovel. The village grew empty. The bullock carts creaked away in different directions. Rags, pails, jugs, motley blankets, among which sat angry and frightened women and shrieking children. Their husbands marched in silence alongside the carts, and the dogs followed patiently, their tongues hanging out.
In the dark of night, the mother fell ill in the quarantine. She felt the fever melt her head and sweep through her body.
She made her way like a shadow out of the quarantine, and like a shadow, she went through the chain of sentries. The night was black. She walked blindly, quickly, without stopping, for a mile, two miles, as if driven by the wind. If she had stopped, she would have fallen down.
All was dark and buzzing inside her head; she had neither sight nor understanding, yet she went to the hovel, to her children, hurled herself over the threshold, and died.
The sentry gasped through the window at the corpse of the mother and the stark naked children who were huddled silently in the corner. He could not leave his post to inform the officer on duty. Finally, the children ran out of the house and clung to the sentry, shaking and shrieking. When the sentry’s relief arrived at dawn, they called for an officer. He ordered the sentry to take a blanket out of the house with a pole, without touching anything to cover the naked children, who were shaking and howling, their teeth chattering.
The sentry obeyed orders.
Having returned from duty, he was taken ill the same night, in his tent. By dawn, the entire tent was sick.
So the plague infiltrated Count Paskevich’s troops.
15
“Dear friend, Sashka, tell me, please, why are you so unkempt and unwashed?”
“I am like everybody else, Alexander Sergeyevich.”
“Maybe you don’t like the war?”
“There is nothing good about it, the war.”
Silence.
“We simply can’t put an end to all these Turks or Persians, can we?”
“Have you thought of it yourself, Alexander Dmitriyevich? And why are you so shiny? What is this smell?”
“I have oiled myself with olive oil.”
“What for?”
“So as not to get sick with the plague. Asked the doctor for half a ration.”
“And has the doctor oiled himself yet?”
“He has oiled his shirt and washed himself with vinegar of four robbers.16 I can get it for you if you like.”
“Why not? Get some, please.”
“The doctor burned some acid in a censer. He and another German got on their horses and left.”
“Why haven’t you gone with them?”
“They’ve gone on business. I’d be of no use.”
“Otherwise, you’d have gone, wouldn’t you?”
“I am a civilian, Alexander Sergeyevich, the plague is their business.”
“And why didn’t you go with Ivan Sergeyevich? He is also a civilian, and yet he has asked to go.”
“It’s all new to Mr. Maltsov. He shows courage for appearance’s sake. My duty is to be with you. Haven’t I sniffed enough gunpowder?”
“Why for appearance’s sake?”
“I have no interest in putting my head in harm’s way. And would you let me go? That’s a good one.”
Silence.
“Don’t imagine that you are going to Persia with me. I’ll send you back to Moscow.”
“Why have you brought me here then, Your Excellency?”
Silence.
“Sashka, what would you do if you were set free?”
“I would know what to do.”
“What exactly?”
“I would become a musician.”
“But you can’t play any instruments!”
“No matter; one can learn.”
“Do you think it’s that easy?”
“I might marry a widow or a shopkeeper and learn music and singing.”
“And what shopkeeping widow would take you?”
“I know how to deal with these sorts of women. They like to be treated well. One doesn’t have to say much: it’s better to be sparing with words. This makes them respect you. The widow would keep an eye on the shop, and I would stay at home and play.”
“Nothing would come of it.”
Silence.
“I’m sick of your singing. And I won’t let you go. We are off to Persia—for two months.”
Silence.
“An hour ago, when you were asleep, Alexander Sergeyevich, the count’s man came looking for you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“You were busy talking to somebody. The aide-de-camp came with an order from the count—you’re to attend a meeting.”
“God damn you, you fool, and a well-oiled one too. Get the change of clothes ready. Now.”
16
Paskevich was poring over the map. The Headquarters chief, Sacken, was a red-haired German with pale blue eyes.
A visitor from Petersburg, Buturlin, a young pheasant, as thin as a rail, stayed silent.
Dr. Martinengo was old and gaunt, with a predatory hook of a nose, a bony face, bristly, thinning gray hair, and a rough little mustache, which was dyed. A huge Adam’s apple bobbed on his withered neck.
With a dagger stuck in his belt, he’d be the picture of a common Venetian pirate.
Colonel Espejo was balding, yellow-skinned, had a double chin, black mustaches, and sad, immobile eyes.
Lieutenant Abramovich stood there with a look of being ready for anything.
Burtsov cast a glance at Paskevich.
“Absolutely agree and will obey your orders, Count,” he said.
“Good,” said Paskevich.
“Set out immediately and advance to join the other troops. All the sick and those suspected of succumbing should be sent to quarantine. Dr. Martinengo will take care of the field hospitals. Conduct a forced march.”
All that had been decided two weeks earlier by Burtsov and Sacken. Sacken said nothing.
“Yes, sir,” said Burtsov respectfully.
“Our correspondence with these thugs will be brief,” said Paskevich, “I’ve sent Ustimov to order them to surrender. Their answer,” he picked up a scrap of paper from the desk: “ ‘We are not from Erivan, we are not from Kars, we are from Akhalkalaki.’”
Paskevich looked at everyone. Espejo and Abramovich smiled.
“ ‘We have neither wives nor children; we are a thousand men, and every one of us is determined to die on the walls.’ That’s just hot air, of course. So, I propose point-blank fire, a frontal attack, in order to take down these forty chicken coops. The batteries should be positioned on the opposite bank of the river.”
He looked askance at Burtsov and growled:
“Agreed?”
“Absolutely, Your Excellency,” responded Burtsov as impassively and respectfully as before.
Paskevich looked at Griboedov.
He was refuting the Journal de débats.
“Your Excellency, in order to carry out your plan,” said Burtsov, “I propose to position the rebound and demount batteries on the right bank of the Gardarchai for bombardment of the fortress, and a breach battery on the left.”
“Of course,” said Paskevich, “what else would you do?”
“I also dare to suggest a few more small batteries of four mortars, each ahead of the left flank, as Your Excellency has already successfully put to the test.”
“I consider this superfluous,” said Colonel Espejo.
Paskevich’s leg began to twitch.
“I am suggesting this because it was Your Excellency who first drew my attention to the importance of such an arrangement,” said Burtsov, and bit his mustaches.
Paskevich addressed Espejo:
“Colonel, I understand that you are against it. It goes without saying that it’s like taking a sledgehammer to a nut. But my motto is: cannonballs, rather than people. They shave twice as clean. That’s why I always insist on it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Espejo.
Martinengo whispered to Griboedov:
“Is M-me Castellas well?”
“Doctor, send me daily reports. Send all doubtful patients to quarantine. Check the food thoroughly. Keep an eye on the water.”
“Yes, sir,” wheezed Martinengo.
“I’ll detain you no longer. Colonel Burtsov, stay here, if you please?”
Paskevich sighed and stretched. He asked Burtsov:
“Have you brought the plan?”
Burtsov placed a sheet of paper before Paskevich. On it, a neat little house was drawn in blue with a black square next to it. The drawing was rather sloppy.
Paskevich glanced at the sheet.
“Well,” he said mistrustfully, “and … are there any chimneys?”
“All here, Your Excellency.”
“Is it a draft?”
“Yes, sir, a preliminary plan.”
“Right,” said Paskevich accommodatingly. “Alexander Sergeyevich, would you have a look? I’ve asked the colonel to sketch a plan along Zavileisky’s lines. He wants to build joint-stock glass factories, but I’m not too sure. He’s not the brightest thing on two legs.”
Griboedov glanced at the sheet. The draft—that is—the plan was a complete joke.
“I am not aware of this project,” he said drily.
Burtsov stared earnestly at Griboedov, looking him straight in the eye.
“You see, Ivan Grigoryevich,” said Paskevich, and his lips widened into a yawn, “Alexander Sergeyevich has submitted a project, one of considerable scope. I believe it has to be given serious consideration. You two go off and discuss it between you. You’ve been dealing with the Azerbaijan matters for some time now, haven’t you?”
“On your orders, Count,” responded Burtsov.
He rose and immediately looked smaller in height. He had a wide chest, broad shoulders, and little legs, as if they’d been shortened.
“Here you are.”
And Paskevich thrust the papers into his hands.
“My own opinion is most favorable. You may go, gentlemen.”
17
A young officer strolled along a Kiev street. His face was pale, his hair combed close to the sides of his head, like laurel leaves. He was starting to grow heavy, but his stride was light and confident. According to his epaulettes, he was a lieutenant colonel. He stopped at a small house and used the door knocker, which acted as a bell.
A footman opened the door, and immediately a very young lieutenant ran out. They hugged heartily, kissed on both cheeks, and entered the room containing Griboedov and another military man, a colonel, broad-shouldered and also young.
“Glad to see you.”
The young lieutenant colonel with the laurels on the sides of his head spoke softly. “A man with a message from Mikhail Petrovich arrived just in time—I was just about to go to Tulchin. Good afternoon, Ivan Grigoryevich; it is so hot outside,” he said to the broad-shouldered one.
Griboedov was charmed by the soft voice and gracious manner.
“I couldn’t leave Kiev without seeing you.”
“And I wish to take you with me to Tulchin. A green, amusing little town. Pavel Ivanovich Pestel has long wanted to make your acquaintance.”
“I am flattered by your attention, but regrettably I am in a hurry.”
“Don’t thank me, Alexander Sergeyevich; all of us here are in a sort of exile, and it is not easy to come across a genuine person. You are not aware of it, but you are to blame for major unrest among the military over here—instead of attending to dispatches, all my scribes are busy copying your comedy. We’ll all grow old waiting for it to get past the censors.”
Griboedov smiled.
“I hope to live to see unrestricted book publishing in Russia.”
“And certainly the first book of that era will be your comedy, national, truly Russian.”
“Sergei Ivanovich writes poetry, but only in French,” said the lieutenant.
The lieutenant colonel blushed and wagged his finger at the lieutenant.
“You treat your superiors with no due respect,” he said, and everyone laughed. “Ivan Grigoryevich knows me well enough, but Alexander Sergeyevich can believe this. So you are going to Georgia, aren’t you? ‘Some are no more, and the others are far away.’ Have you seen Ryleyev? Odoyevsky?”
“Ryleyev is busy publishing pocket miscellanies. They are a great success. Particularly with the ladies. Sasha Odoyevksy is lovely. I’ve got some letters and poems for you from Ryleyev.”
The lieutenant colonel did not open the package.
“What is your opinion, Alexander Sergeyevich of our proconsul Ermolov, our Caesar of Tiflis?”
“Notre César est trop brutal.”17
The lieutenant colonel smiled and then became serious. His mouth was well defined, like a young girl’s.
“We are very interested in the Caucasus. It has given so much to our poetry that one cannot help but expect more and more from that golden land.”
All of them drew nearer to Griboedov, and he felt rather self-conscious.
“The war,” he said and spread his fingers, “the war with the mountain dwellers is handled badly, rashly. Our Caesar is a great old man, though a grumbler, but one always expects the unexpected from all these illustrious pashas.”
The lieutenant colonel cast a quick glance at the lieutenant. The broad-shouldered one sat in silence and did not look at anyone else.
“I am fascinated by his system,” he said suddenly. “It is a purely partisan war, like Davydov’s in 1812.”
“Ermolov and Davydov are friends and cousins.”
“How’s Yakubovich?” The lieutenant colonel began to speak, and suddenly fluffed his words and blushed. “Apologies, I just wanted to find out whether he was in the Caucasus.”
He looked at Griboedov’s hand, shot through in the duel, and Griboedov felt a cramp there.
“He is.”
The footman brought in tea and wine. The young lieutenant colonel and the other, broad-shouldered one left with Griboedov. The other one soon took his leave as well. They were alone. They walked past bushy trees and listened to the watches shaking their rattles.
They talked about Georgia.
The moon stood still, and their political talk sounded like it came from Pushkin’s poems—not the gloomy Captive of the Caucasus, but rather Fountain of Bakhchesarai. The trickle of talk sounded like the tinkling of the lieutenant colonel’s spurs.
They stopped.
“… And if we suffer defeat,” the lieutenant colonel murmured quietly, “we might come to visit you, come to your wonderful Georgia and farther, to Khiva, to Turkestan. And there will be a new land of freedom, like that of the Cossacks, and we shall live over there.”
And they hugged each other.
The moon stood still; it beckoned them into new, blossoming lands.
All that took place on a July night in 1825. The pink lieutenant colonel was Sergei Ivanovich Muravyov-Apostol; the very young lieutenant with no doorbell on his door, but a wooden door knocker, was Mikhail Petrovich Bestuzhev-Ryumin; the broad-shouldered colonel who had spoken of the guerrilla warfare was Ivan Grigoryevich Burtsov, and Alexander Sergeyevich Griboedov, unhappy with the war—was then a few years younger.
And now the fate of the project, and indeed of Alexander Sergeyevich, depended on Ivan Grigoryevich.
Who was Ivan Grigoryevich Burtsov?
Was he a Southern Society rebel, like Pavel Ivanovich Pestel, whose handwriting was neat and the thin line crossing his French t’s like the blade of the guillotine? Or was he a cloud-dwelling Northern Society rebel, like Ryleyev, whose handwriting waved like the lock of hair over his forehead? No, he was neither a rebel nor a dreamer.
Ivan Grigoryevich Burtsov was a liberal. Moderation was his religion.
Liberals were not always softies, nor did they always have sagging cheeks and flabby bellies as habitually portrayed by later caricaturists. No, they could also be men with abrupt and decisive movements. Their lips could be thick, their nostrils could be shapely, and they could have guttural voices. They preached moderation rabidly. They were called not liberals then, but “liberalists.”
When the idea of unlimited liberty arose in Southern Society, the moderate North sent them the man with the short fuse, Ivan Grigoryevich Burtsov. Rebellion looked at fiery liberalism with the cold eyes of Pestel.
Southern Society separated itself from Northern, and the stand-off, famous in Russian history, took place on the square, in front of the Petersburg Senate. It was a hollow stand. Burtsov spent half a year in the Bobruisk fortress but remained the same: an honest, forthright, power-hungry Russian liberalist, blessed with a savage bark, whom Paskevich was afraid of more than anyone else in the world. The gray hair sprinkled the sides of his head like salt, and the skin on his nose was peeling under the southern sun.
“Would you like to sit down, Alexander Sergeyevich? When did we last see each other—three years ago?”
“I forget, Ivan Grigoryevich. Something like that.”
“Three years. It feels like three centuries.”
Burtsov spoke quietly while his eyes searched Griboedov.
“ ‘Some are no more and the others are far away.’ It is you and I who are far away now.”
“Were you there?” asked Griboedov, amazed.
The spurs, the murmuring, the moon, the dreams of Georgia.
And here it was, Georgia. And just look how it had all turned out!
“I’ve forgotten a lot too,” said Burtsov. “We are at war, as you can see … I’ve long been away from Russia. Now and then, I try to recall Petersburg and suddenly realize that what I really remember is the Bobruisk fortress or some other place, Moscow, perhaps.”
“Moscow has changed, but Petersburg is the same, and the Bobruisk fortress is the same. But how could I forget?”
“Too bitter to remember. For me too. You know, I once copied Sergei Ivanovich’s poem to memorize it. I liked it so much, and I recalled it very clearly. It wasn’t long, just eight or ten lines. All I can remember now is just these two:
Je passerai sur cette terre
Toujours rêveur et solitaire …18
“… solitaire—and I forget what comes next. And nobody can tell me. Do you remember, by any chance?”
“I don’t,” said Griboedov, surprised at Burtsov’s chattiness.
Either he hadn’t seen people for a while or he was putting off the moment of truth.
“Yes,” said Burtsov sadly, “yes. He got many things wrong … And your comedy is still unpublished, isn’t it?”
“Censorship.”
“Did you see His Majesty?”
“I saw him and spoke to him,” nodded Griboedov. “He is in good spirits.”
“Yes,” said Burtsov, “everybody says that he is, yes. So,” he said, “shall we talk about your project?
He gathered himself up.
“I read it all through the night and burned two candles. I read it like I once read Raynal, and I am unlikely ever to read anything more enthralling on the subject.”
So they both collected themselves and assumed their parts: one of the commander of the Kherson Regiment, in charge of the trenches, and the other of a relative of Paskevich. Without noticing it, they both raised their voices.
“The idea of a trade company is a fabulous tale. It means a new state, in comparison with which the present-day Georgia is a mere bullock cart. All this is splendid and very alluring.”
He probably used to talk like this to Pestel.
“And your verdict?”
“Negative,” said Burtsov.
Silence.
Griboedov smiled:
“An example of French critique. At first “Cette pièce, pleine d’esprit,” and in the end ‘Chute complète.’”19
“I am neither a critic nor a writer,” said Burtsov bluntly, and the veins stood out on his forehead. “I am a brute of a soldier, a dogface.”
Griboedov began to rise very slowly.
Burtsov’s little hand motioned him back down into his seat.
“Don’t take offense, will you?”
And the rain began to drum against the canvas of the tent in the chill tone of the chairman of a meeting.
“There is so much in your immense draft. One thing is missing.”
“In our dramatic dialogue, would you permit me to dispense with cues? I am certainly meant to ask ‘What is it?’”
“As you please. What is missing is people.”
Griboedov yawned:
“Ah, that’s what you are about. ‘Not enough stoves,’ as Paskevich said the other day. But to get a workforce won’t be a problem.”
“Exactly,” said Burtsov triumphantly, “you are right: this is not a problem. Now that the prices of estates in Russia have plummeted, you’ll buy peasants for a song.”
The rain sounded its warning. Burtsov’s reaction was direct and incomprehensible. He was a man of a different epoch.
“Those who are needed as managers can also be found. You too work for Paskevich. There are still honest people around.”
“Not many. All right,” said Burtsov, “what will come out of your state? Where will it take us? Will the new rich become the new nobility; will there be a new kind of slavery? Have you thought about your goals?”
Griboedov crossed his legs and sat back in his seat:
“And you, with your plans—not the glass factory, the other one—did you think about your goals? Do you want me to tell you what would have happened if you had succeeded?”
Burtsov stopped short.
“Do, please.”
“Exactly what is happening now. Posts and projects would have been fought for. Pavel Ivanovich Pestel would have taken control of Siberia, particularly since his father used to be its governor. And he would have presided over a botch-up. Siberia would have split from Russia, and Pestel would have gone to war with you.”
“I demand in all humility … I demand that you should not speak in this tone about the dead …”
Burtsov’s lips were twitching, and he laid his tiny hand on the desk.
“Essentially I am still a man of honor. I cannot speak ill of my dead opponent.”
“Aha,” droned Griboedov, looking pleased, “But Ryleyev too was a great man … an enthusiast …”
Burtsov suddenly turned pale.
“You and Ryleyev would have liberated the peasants—of course you would have!—and he would have governed with the help of his writing …”
Burtsov burst into a guttural, barking laughter. Practically poking his little finger into Griboedov’s chest, he said huskily:
“Ah, so this is what it has all come to. And you would drive Russian peasants over here, like a herd of cattle, like Negroes, like convicts. To live in an unhealthy climate, from which even the natives flee to the mountains, away from the unbearable heat. To where your colonial plants grow so well. This cochineal of yours. You would like to turn Russian peasants into cattle, slaves, convicts. Well, I won’t allow you! This is disgusting! You should be ashamed of yourself! Thousands of men into the hellhole! Young children! Women! And this is coming from you, the creator of Woe from Wit!”
He screamed, punched the air with his little white fist, spluttering as he jumped to his feet.
Griboedov rose too. His mouth stretched wide, he snarled like a lightweight wrestler anticipating a heavyweight opponent.
“Actually, I haven’t finished yet,” he said almost calmly. “How would you have liberated the peasants? You would have petitioned for their rights, you wouldn’t have cared about the money. It would all have been squandered,” he said, admiring the still-moving lips of the man who was not even listening. “And you would say to the poor Russian peasant: ‘our lesser brethren’ …”
Burtsov listened now, his thick lips ajar.
“… ‘would you care to work for nothing—temporarily, only temporarily, of course?’ And Kondraty Fyodorovich would have called it not serfdom, but voluntary duty of the peasantry. And he would have surely composed an anthem to boot.”
Burtsov bristled like a wild boar. Huge tears sprang from his eyes, wetting his mustaches. His face darkened. He advanced on Griboedov.
“I challenge you,” he crowed, “I challenge you to a duel for mentioning the name … For using Ryleyev’s name …”
Griboedov laid his long, yellowish fingers on Burtsov’s little hands.
“No,” he said quietly. “I am not going to fight you. I don’t care. Consider me a coward.”
And he felt the cramp again in the fingers that had been damaged in the previous duel.
Burtsov took a drink of water.
He drank it out of the jug, in huge gulps, his red Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He put the empty jug down on the little table.
“Because you want to create a class of nouveaux riches, because thousands would perish—l am going to oppose your project in every possible way.”
His voice was hoarse.
“Oppose all you want,” said Griboedov languidly.
Burtsov became suddenly afraid. He looked at Griboedov in bewilderment.
“I think I’ve overreacted,” he muttered, wiping his tears. “Your manner is the same as that of the late Pestel’s … and I did not know you at all. Remembered but did not know. I don’t understand you: What you are trying to achieve? What is it that you want?”
His eyes moved about Griboedov as if he were a fortress that had turned out to be unexpectedly empty. The rain oozing through the canvas dripped in the corner in small, quick trickles, but slower and slower, as if it were about to stop.
Griboedov was watching the drops. He looked curiously at Burtsov.
“What will you tell Paskevich?”
“I will tell him that as one occupied with military affairs, he would not be in charge, and his powers would be diminished.”
“Clever,” said Griboedov admiringly.
He started to rise.
Burtsov asked him softly:
“Have you seen my wife? Is she well? She is an angel and is the only reason I stay alive.”
Griboedov left. A splinter of moon, curved like a scimitar, hung in the black skies.
… And it might well be that if we suffer defeat … wonderful Georgia. And there will be a new land of freedom, in which we shall all live …
… Like Negroes … children … into the hellhole …
Je passerai sur cette terre
Toujour rêveur et solitaire …
The project was no more. It had all gone, died out, all of it.
18
In here is muttering, croaking, a doctor as snub-nosed as death himself, a warden wearing loose overalls and fumigating with the sulfur censer; in here is shuffling of shoes. In here is neither war nor peace, neither illness nor health. This is quarantine.
This is the place where Alexander Sergeyevich has pitched his tent for three days.
Alexander Sergeyevich tells Sashka to unload everything they have—wine and provisions.
A quarantine feast begins.
Alexander Sergeyevich paces up and down the tent and invites people to the crude table. People eat and drink; they drink to the health of Alexander Sergeyevich.
Only the plague wind could have brought them together; only Alexander Sergeyevich could have made them sit at the same table.
He has seated Colonel Espejo, who had fought for the Spanish king, Ferdinand, alongside Lieutenant Cvartano, who, being a colonel in the Russian army, fought against Ferdinand and was demoted on his return to Russia.
He has seated the seventy-year-old private, Count Karvitsky, alongside Сornet Abramovich.
The “pheasant” Buturlin, the Headquarters quartermaster, next to staff-captain Dr. Martinengo; and Maltsov next to Dr. Adelung.
And Sashka waits on all of them.
Why do they sit in a row? Because Alexander Sergeyevich Griboedov, the minister plenipotentiary and their chief’s relative, has placed them like this.
And he pours more wine to all of them.
And he talks very courteously to each of them.
Does he know the power of wine?
Wine, which washes away very thoroughly, as if with a sponge, the lines of lawlessness drawn on their faces.
He probably does.
He is delighted when Count Karvitsky reclines and begins to sing an old song.
Tak Hekla siwa
Śniegiem pokrywa
Swoje ogniste pieczary …20
It is a tender and a very loud song, which Private Karvitsky used to sing about thirty years ago at his ancestral estate.
Wierzch ma pod lodem,
Zielona spodem,
And with that freedom from care that distinguishes Polish rebels, the tipsy, seventy-year-old private addresses Second Lieutenant Abramovich intimately and tells him, wagging his finger:
“Ty będziesz wisieć na drzewie jak ten Judasz.”22
And Second Lieutenant Abramovich gets up, staggering, in order to leave the table, but Alexander Sergeyevich squeezes his arm, laughs, and says:
“Oh, no! Where are you heading off to? Try this burgundy, lieutenant. I need to have a word with you.”
And the Spaniards have a quiet conversation, and Espejo leans away from the table, as drunk as Almaviva in The Barber of Seville, and suddenly yells at Cvartano:
“Traitor! What have you gained under Mina’s banner? Ferdinand shot him like a dog. How dare you give me this nonsense?”
Cvartano cackles, and Espejo crawls under the table.
Maltsov gives Dr. Adelung a French kiss, and the latter pulls out a handkerchief and thoroughly wipes his mouth.
And only the old man Martinengo, with the little dyed mustache and the Adam’s apple of a pirate, drinks like a sponge. He is silent.
He suggests to Buturlin:
“To the health of M-me Castellas.”
Buturlin cannot hear him. He watches the soldiers Karvitsky and Cvartano, horrified: he hasn’t decided yet whether he should leave or carry on watching them. The thing is that Paskevich has sent him on an insignificant assignment, and he is unlikely to receive the Cross. But the Cross is obtainable by various means. For example, by way of honorable denunciation.
Old Martinengo grabs him by the hand and screeches:
“Hey, I have proposed a toast to a lady. Are you refusing to drink with me? Oi, you, pheasant, I’ll teach you how to dance the fandango!”
And Buturlin, as thin as a walking stick, pale and trembling, gets up and approaches Griboedov:
“Alexander Sergeyevich, I demand an explanation.”
But Griboedov is busy passing wine, bread, and a glass under the table to Colonel Espejo.
“Colonel Espejo, Don Bald-Pate, are you alive under there?”
He does it like a zoologist observing the natural world.
Hearing Buturlin, he finally gets up, listens to him, and bows politely:
“You can go if this is not to your liking.”
Grzeczności wzory,
Panie, królowe, boginie!23
“A bas Ferdinand Septième!”24
“To M-me Castallas’ health! Fandango, pheasant!”
“You have betrayed the Polish cause, you, dog!”
“Drink up, dear sirs! Drink up, dear Spaniards! Dons, Grands, and Signors, drink up, drink up!”
“A German gentleman is asking for you.”
The stars looked older, like women after a bad night.
Alexander Sergeyevich stood upright in front of an unfamiliar German with fluffy red mustaches. The German said:
“Excellenz, I am a poor Württemberg sectarian. We have been deported here. I am coming out of quarantine tonight. I know that you are going to Persia.”
“How can I help you?” asked Griboedov softly.
“We believe in Christ’s second coming from Persia. Could you let me know, Excellenz, if you hear about him over there? This is the request of a poor man. My name is Meier.”
Alexander Sergeyevich stood upright before the poor German with the fluffy red mustaches.
He said very earnestly in German:
“If you leave your address, Mr. Meier, and if I run into den lieben Gott25 in Persia, I’ll tell him to drop you a line. How good is your Hebrew?”
“Nonexistent,” said the German, and his mustaches billowed like the sails of a ship.
“Well, I doubt very much that der liebe Gott has any German. You might not understand each other.”
The German went away with a measured step.
Griboedov returned to the tent.
“Evviva Florenzia la bella!”27
“You are not a Pole, you are a Tatar; you’ve betrayed the znamena narodowy.”28
“To M-me Castellas’ health!”
19
The illness had been roaming about his body; it had not yet determined what it was or where it would strike.
He stood in a half-empty room that had been waiting for his return like a woman. He stood with his feet wide apart and felt weakness in his legs and body, which nailed him to the floor. Sashka pottered in the corridor, came in, did something, turned around, and left.
It was very early in the morning, and no other sounds except these were to be heard.
“I have run up debts that cannot be repaid,” said Griboedov, consulting the furniture with his bleary eyes. “That churl Levashov interrogated me and now treats me with condescension. Ermolov gave me some time to burn my papers, and he loathes me. Paskevich was instrumental in my release, and he is now my patron. And Burtsov reproaches me for my Woe.”
He climbed down the stairs and went quite steadily toward the street where Nino lived. He stopped suddenly at the crossroads and, without thinking, turned toward the governor-general’s house.
He said nothing to the frightened valet, pushed him aside, and entered the study. It was empty. Then he went through to the dining room, poured himself a glass of water out of a crystal carafe, and drank it.
“Tepid, how disgusting!” he said with revulsion and moved to the bedroom.
The enormous M-me Castellas was pulling a stocking onto her leg the color of pure bronze and was fumbling with a gigantic garter. He looked at her wistfully.
She gave a muted scream, and General Sipiagin in his dressing-gown tumbled out, leaped almost out of nowhere.
He seized Griboedov by his sleeve, dragged him to the study, and threw him into an armchair.
Sipiagin looked frightened; his nose was dove-gray.
“Are you … sick?”
Sipiagin jumped up and quickly brought him a little glass of yellow liquid.
“Drink this, will you?”
Griboedov waved the bustling general’s hands aside.
“I wish to inform you that an audit is forthcoming, following an anonymous denunciation.”
The general leaned back, and his dressing-gown flew open.
“Believe it or not,” he said in a shaky voice, “but I am not afraid. They can come, God damn it, and I will tell them they are welcome anytime. Let me thank you, Alexander Sergeyevich, from my soldierly heart—as a man, as a poet, and if you will, as a Russian soul. Take this, old chap. It’s not wine, this is a concoction … a concoction …”
He clapped his hands and rang a little bell. An orderly came in.
The general looked at him suspiciously:
“Have you been … imbibing?”
“No, sir, Your Highness!”
“I can see that you have!”
“Yes, sir, Your Highness!”
“A carriage for His Excellency!”
“Yes, sir, Your Highness!”
“Believe it or not, but all of them are drunks,” said the general. His hands were shaking.
“You better prepare, yourself, general,” said Griboedov, and his teeth chattered.
Sipiagin paced the study as if he were wearing spurs.
“Alexander Sergeyevich, a straightforward man like you or me never prepares. You might not believe it, but my soul is wide open before you. They may find faults. They may. You see the times, what they are like—fault-finding is in the blood. But do you think I am afraid? No, I am not afraid. I’d simply drink from the wrong glass in summer, and in winter I’d forget to put on winter clothes in a blizzard. ‘Better dead than captured’—that was what we used to say in our day. My dying thought will be of Russia. And the penultimate one: that you are a man of great soul, a poet, and a … friend—Alexander Sergeyevich.”
The general was pleased with himself.
He ran up to Griboedov and pecked him on his brow. He ran out and returned wearing a frock coat.
He took Griboedov by the arm, carefully, as if he were a precious thing, helped him out of the armchair, took him down the stairs, and opened the door for him.
Carriage … carriage. Tiflis was waking up. The skies were too blue, and the streets were already too hot.
He stood in the middle of his room again, shivering, afraid to sit down.
Sashka came in and announced a visitor:
“His Honor the governor.”
Zavileisky stretched his arms toward him cheerfully.
“Why did you do that?” asked Griboedov, ignoring the open arms, staggering and wincing with pain. “It’s disgusting.”
He behaved as if he were blind drunk. Zavileisky looked at him carefully.
“Sipiagin is in everybody’s way,” he said softly. “There are lots of things you don’t know about him, Alexander Sergeyevich.”
Griboedov was oblivious to him. He was staggering. Zavileisky shrugged his shoulders and left, utterly perplexed.
Griboedov sank to the floor.
So he sat there, staring defiantly at the chairs and shaking.
Sashka came in and found him on the floor.
“Now you see, Alexander Sergeyevich,” he said and burst into tears, “you did not use the oil, and what are we going to do now?” He wiped his nose with his fist. “Now that you’ve been taken ill.”
“Yes, Sashenka,” said Griboedov from the floor—and he too burst into tears—“yes. You did not brush my clothes, you did not polish my boots …”
Bed, cold and white, like light snow.
And he disappeared under the illness, pulled it like a blanket over his head.
20
He was delirious:
The broad, stooped back of his father, Sergei Ivanovich, wanders about the nursery room. He is wearing a dressing gown, the dressing gown is dangling, and he lifts it with one hand. His father’s short little legs can hardly be seen from underneath the long gown. Griboedov scrutinized the broad back, which was his father. Now the father was lounging about the nursery room, or was searching for something.
“Your papa is being silly,” the chambermaid had said on the previous night.
And he suddenly felt such love for the wide back and the short man, felt that he had been missing him for so long, and he was very happy that he was wandering unhurriedly about his room.
With his back toward him, the father approached a cabinet with toys, lifted and looked behind them. A brownish Easter egg fell out but did not crack. He pulled out a little mahogany drawer, stood back, and peeped inside.
At this moment, Mama, Nastasya Fyodorovna, cut into the conversation.
Nastasya Fyodorovna spun, buzzed about the father; she wanted to distract him with her little tricks, to stop him. But the father, paying no attention to her, as if she were not there, paced from one corner to another, stumbled into the desks, pulled out the drawers, and looked inside very deliberately. He bent and peered under the desk.
“This is odd,” he said gravely, “where on earth is Alexander?”
“Alexander?” Nastasya Fyodorovna continued to buzz about: “Alexander is not here.”
A long tassel was attached to the father’s dressing-gown on a long cord, and it trailed along the floor, like a toy.
Then the father, holding his dressing gown, equally slowly turned toward Griboedov lying in bed.
His forehead was deeply furrowed, and his little eyes looked surprised. He made toward the bed, with Griboedov watching him, and Griboedov saw his father’s small, wonderful, pampered hand. The father pulled the blanket away and stared at the sheets.
“This is odd; where on earth is Alexander?” he said and stepped away from the bed.
And Griboedov burst into tears and screamed stridently. He realized that he did not exist.
“A very high fever, but it may well be, it may be … the plague,” said Dr. Adelung quietly and covered him with a blanket.
Eliza backed toward the door.
21
Faddei took a cab and looked around both sides of Nevsky Prospect.
Finally, he spotted a man he knew. Pyotr Karatygin was strolling along Nevsky Prospect. He stopped the cabman and waved to him. Pyotr did not seem to want to approach him. He had started to sense his importance. His vaudeville was being staged at the Bolshoi Theater.
“Just think,” Faddei said to himself, “what hubris and hauteur, dear Lord.”
He got out of the cab and told the cabman to wait.
“Pyotr Andreyevich, have you heard? Alexander Sergeyevich is getting married! To a princess, Chavchavadze’s daughter, a famed beauty. I’ve just heard the news.”
He returned to his cab and went on.
Pyotr Karatygin looked in surprise after him, and Faddei waved his little hand at him again. Pyotr strolled along Nevsky Prospect, not knowing what he was supposed to do with the news.
Finally, by the Moika, he ran into his old friend, Grigoryev the Second, a rascal and a drunk who used to patronize him.
“Do you know the news?” he said. “Griboedov is getting married to Princess Tsitsadzova. He’s no fool; swear to God, I’ve just got a letter about it.”
Grigoryev the Second entered Loredo’s coffee shop, ordered two little pies, saw a familiar Guard, and said to him:
“It’s been a long time, dear chap. Still marching?”
“Not really,” said the Guard, or something along those lines.
“Have you heard: Griboedov is getting married? From the horse’s mouth. To Princess Tsitsianova.”
The Guard left with clanking spurs and hailed a young officer:
“Where are you going?”
“To the Summer Gardens.”
“I’m coming with you. You are related to the Tsitsianovs, aren’t you?”
The officer’s auntie was a cousin-in-law of the old Princess Tsitsianova, who lived in Moscow.
“Griboedov is marrying Tsitsianova.”
“You don’t say!”
Young Rodofinikin stopped to greet the officers and also learned about Tsitsianova. In the evening, Faddei approached Katenka Teleshova at the theater, kissed her hand, and told her the news.
“I already know,” said Katya harshly, “I have heard. So what if he is getting married? I wish him all the happiness in the world.”
She pouted and turned to Faddei shoulders of such beauty that at once he wanted to kiss them.
In the evening, old Rodofinikin informed Nesselrode that His Majestys order for Griboedov to go to Persia should be issued without delay. Nesselrode agreed, and they sat down to play boston.
At night, when Faddei returned home and was eager to tell Lenochka, she lay with her nose toward the wall and seemed to be asleep. He gave a little cough, sighed a bit, and when she turned over, he told her.
She was actually not asleep and said almost indignantly:
“You know nothing. Alexander Sergeyevich is not cut out for the family life. Das ist doch unmöglich. This will tie him up, and he will no longer be able to write.”
“Well, yes, he will,” said Faddei, somewhat confused. “He’s a better man that you give him credit for. He will write such a play that …”
Faddei looked at his wife with frightened eyes. Lenochka gestured rudely:
“This is what he’ll write instead of a play!”
Then, pulling his boots off, he said, trying for reconciliation:
“They say Pushkin is requesting permission to go to the Caucasus. In search of inspiration. Or to play cards. He is up to there in debt. But our Griboedov will give him a run for his money. Pushkin won’t get away with writing another poem about a fountain. We’ve had enough of that.”
But when he got under the blanket and stretched out his arms toward Lenochka, it turned out that she was already fast asleep and as cold as a statue in the Summer Gardens.
22
The hangover headache is so painful, his legs refuse to hold him.
I am falling ill, thinks Griboedov.
They are standing in snow, in the middle of a field, he and another officer he doesn’t know.
“What the hell is Yakubovich doing here? Isn’t he now doing hard labor?”
Two other men stand at a distance, in the snow, without winter coats, just frock coats on, and they are cold. The fair-haired one is Vasya, a comic character.
Why have I brought them here if I am not well?
They keep aiming at each other, and he feels a terrible ennui.
Come on, shoot!
Neither a shot, nor any smoke, but Vasya falls down.
Good!
Good because he can go home now, have a cup of hot tea, go to bed—and sleep.
At this point, Yakubovich jabs Griboedov’s elbow.
And Alexander Sergeyevich jerks suddenly, as if struck by a bullet.
The blond one lies still, and Griboedov dances over him, singing him the “sweet mother turnip” song. The song is as old as Moscow, an old Russian tavern song of bacchanals.
“Is the turnip sweet enough for you, Vasya boy?”
He dances, wreaking havoc, and at the same time stares closely at the jelly of Vasya’s eye and wonders where to hide the body.
“Down the ice hole,” he says quietly and purposefully.
“To the woods, Vasya?” he asks the blond corpse.
He is dragging him by the sleeve, out of which dangles a hand. And the blond one is staring at him.
“Oi,” says the blond, suddenly, shamelessly, “you are tickling me. Where are you dragging me to, idiot?”
He is clowning about.
Griboedov hides him awkwardly, in full view.
“Here we go then! Here we go!”
“Gambled away! Squandered away!”
“What an oversight!”
“Word and deed! I surrender! I am begging your forgiveness! Just put me down to bed and give me some tea. And bury that accursed blond Vasya!”
“I will get away with it!” says Griboedov suddenly and loudly.
He wants to make the sign of the cross, but his hand cannot move.
A duel between Vasya Sheremetev and Count Zavadovsky took place in November 1817. Another duel was to be fought by Yakubovich and Griboedov. Sheremetev was killed. The duel was over the ballet dancer Istomina. Rumor in Petersburg had it that Griboedov allegedly procured Istomina for Zavadovsky and drove the matter to a duel. Following the duel, he left for Georgia.
Yakubovich and Griboedov fought their duel in the Caucasus, and Yakubovich shot him in the hand.
23
One has to pay a price for combining two occupations. Dr. Adelung suspected the plague.
Eliza barricaded her door and ordered them to find Dr. McNeill, who was still in Tiflis. McNeill prescribed leeches and responded to Adelung’s attacks indifferently, mumbling something indistinct. Next morning, he left for Tabriz to see the envoy, Macdonald.
They told Nino nothing, but two days later, she ran into his room carelessly dressed, her hair undone, and looking younger and prettier than ever. And she stayed at Griboedov’s bedside.
24
He came to.
It was night. All over Russia and the entire Caucasus stretched the wandering, web-footed, wild primordial night.
Nesselrode was asleep in his bed, having stuck his angry beak into the blanket like a bare-necked rooster.
Gaunt Macdonald was breathing evenly, dressed in a pair of fine English pajamas, with his arms around his spouse who was as taut as a string.
Katya was sleeping in Petersburg, spread out and exhausted by her leaps, without a single thought in her head.
Pushkin bobbed about his study with quick little steps, like a monkey in a desert, and studied the books on the shelves.
General Sipiagin was snoring in Tiflis, no far away, and whistled like a child through his nose.
The plague-stricken people with bulging eyes were gasping for breath in the poisoned hovels near Gyumri.
All of them were homeless.
There was no power on earth.
The Duke of Wellington and the entire St. James’s cabinet were breathing into their pillows.
Emperor Nicholas’s flat chest was rising and falling.
They were all pretending to be the powers that be.
And above the stars, in the heavy frames of the icons, slept a distant, extraordinarily sly emperor of emperors, archbishop of archbishops—God. He sent illnesses, victories, and defeats, and in them, there was neither justice nor sense, just as in the actions of General Paskevich.
There were no superior forces on earth; there were no arbiters; no one watched over them.
There was no one to tell them:
“Sleep tight. I am wakeful for all of you.”
The plague-stricken children groaned in thin voices near Gyumri, and the homeless Italian, Martinengo, had been drinking his tenth shot of vodka in quarantine.
The crime that Griboedov had committed ten years ago and had been atoning for during ten years of labors and adversities was as fresh in his mind as if it had taken place yesterday. He had not got away with it.
Because there was no power in the world, and time was waiting for no one.
And that was the point when Griboedov howled plaintively like a dog.
The minister plenipotentiary, vested with power, clasped the girl’s pale downy arm as if she were the only salvation, as if only this downed hand could restore, resolve, and point the way.
As if it were the one and only power.
25
From that night onward, he made a speedy recovery.
From that night onward, Griboedov calmed down.
Three days later, he received His Majesty’s order to leave Tiflis. He was back on his feet, though still unwell. He was neither cheerful nor gloomy; he was calm. The impression that he produced on other people surrounding him was that of a man who had suddenly grown older and more thoughtful.
Akhaltsikhe was taken on August 15.
Nino and he were married at the Zion Cathedral on the evening of August 22. But during the church ceremony, he suddenly felt wretched, sick at heart, and accidentally dropped the wedding ring.
The ring was quickly picked up, and the old women’s superstitious babbling was stopped in its tracks. Those present claimed that this circumstance made a bad impression on Griboedov.
Next morning, Griboedov was at his desk working at his papers and writing dispatches.
And on the same day, Sunday, August 22, General Sipiagin gave a ball in Griboedov’s honor.
The general opened the ball with a polonaise, his head proudly held back, with Nino as his partner.
Griboedov gave him a smile.
On September 9, Griboedov came out onto the porch, upright, wearing a gold-embroidered uniform and a cocked hat. Nino was waiting for him. Princess Salome was bustling about.
The wagons and carriages were ready.
He was surrounded by the guard of honor.
Abu’l-Qasim-Khan, wearing a gold-embroidered gown, approached Griboedov and bowed to him deeply:
“Bon voyage, votre Excellence, notre cher et estimé Vazir-Mouchtar.”29
Griboedov got into the carriage.
This is how he had become Vazir-Mukhtar.
