Novels, Tales, Journeys полностью

My man with the pack horses lagged behind me. I rode alone in the blossoming desert surrounded by distant mountains. I absentmindedly rode past the post where I was meant to change horses. More than six hours went by, and I began to wonder about the distance I had gone. I saw heaps of stones to one side that looked like saklias, and headed for them. In fact, I came to an Armenian village. Several women in motley rags were sitting on the flat roof of an underground saklia. I expressed myself somehow or other. One of them went down into the saklia and brought up some cheese and milk. After resting for a few minutes, I went on and saw on a high bank opposite me the citadel of Gergeri. Three streams rushed with noise and foam down the high bank. I crossed the river. Two oxen hitched to an arba were going up the steep road. Several Georgians were accompanying it. “Where are you from?” I asked them. “Tehran.” “What are you carrying?” “Griboed.” It was the body of the slain Griboedov, which they were accompanying to Tiflis.46

I never thought I would meet our Griboedov again! I parted with him last year in Petersburg, before he left for Persia. He was sad and had strange premonitions. I began to reassure him; he said to me: “Vous ne connaissez pas ces gens-là; vous verrez qu’il faudra jouer des couteaux.”^*8 He supposed the cause of the bloodshed would be the death of the shah and the internecine war among his seventy sons. But the elderly shah is still alive, and Griboedov’s prophetic words came true. He died under Persian daggers, a victim of ignorance and treachery. His disfigured corpse, which for three days was the plaything of the Tehran mob, was recognized only by the hand once pierced by a pistol bullet.

I made the acquaintance of Griboedov in 1817. His melancholy character, his embittered mind, his good-nature, his very weaknesses and vices, inevitable companions of humanity—everything in him was extraordinarily attractive. Born with an ambition equal to his gifts, he was caught for a long time in a web of petty needs and obscurity. His abilities as a statesman remained unemployed; his talent as a poet went unrecognized; even his cold and brilliant courage remained under suspicion for some time. A few friends knew his worth and saw a distrustful smile, that stupid, insufferable smile, when they happened to speak of him as an extraordinary man. People believe only in fame and do not understand that there might be among them some Napoleon, who has never commanded a single company of chasseurs, or another Descartes, who has not published a single line in the Moscow Telegraph. However, our respect for fame may well come from vanity: our own voice, too, goes into the making of fame.

Griboedov’s life was darkened by certain clouds: the consequence of ardent passions and powerful circumstances. He felt the necessity of settling accounts once and for all with his youth and making a sharp turn in his life. He said good-bye to Petersburg and idle dissipation, and went to Georgia, where he spent eight years in solitary, unremitting work. His return to Moscow in 1824 was a turnabout in his fate and the beginning of continuous successes. His comedy in manuscript, Woe from Wit, had an indescribable effect and suddenly placed him in the rank of our foremost poets. A short time after that his perfect knowledge of the region where a war was starting opened up a new career for him; he was appointed ambassador. On coming to Georgia, he married the woman he loved…I know of nothing more enviable than the last years of his stormy life. His death itself, overtaking him in the midst of courageous, unequal combat, had nothing terrible, nothing agonizing for Griboedov. It was instantaneous and beautiful.

What a pity that Griboedov did not leave us his memoirs! Writing his biography should be a task for his friends; but among us remarkable people disappear without leaving a trace behind. We are lazy and incurious…

In Gergeri I met Buturlin, who, like me, was going to the army.47 Buturlin traveled with every possible gratification. I had dinner with him as if we were in Petersburg. We decided to travel together; but the demon of impatience took possession of me again. My man asked me for permission to rest. I set out alone, even without a guide. There was only one road, and it was perfectly safe.

Having crossed the mountain and descended into a valley overshaded by trees, I saw a mineral spring flowing across the road. Here I met an Armenian priest who was going to Akhaltsikhe from Erevan. “What’s new in Erevan?” I asked him. “In Erevan there’s plague,” he replied, “and what about Akhaltsikhe?” “In Akhaltsikhe there’s plague,” I replied. Having exchanged this pleasant news, we parted.