Some forgotten posts

In conclusion, let us explain in a dictionary order some of the names of positions long abolished, but found in literary works.
EXCISE OFFICER. EXCISOM was an indirect tax on some consumer goods, for example, tobacco, wine, sugar. Excise officials controlled the receipt of such taxes in the treasury. The position was considered not prestigious, in the literature it is spoken of with irony, and the representatives of the excise business were taken out by small, insignificant people. Such, for example, is the absurd and petty Kosykh in Chekhov's drama Ivanov, the pitiful Monakhov in Gorky's Barbarians. It was the surname of the excise official Ovsov, who knew how to speak toothache, that General Buldeev's clerk forgot in Chekhov's famous story "The Horse Family".
JOURNALIST. In the old days, the word also had a second, now lost trend - a clerk who keeps a journal of incoming and outgoing documents. It is precisely this kind of "journal work" that Pogulyaev is going to do in Ostrovsky's play "The Abyss". In Bunin's story "Millionaire" "guests gathered at the bachelor post office journalist Rakitin."
PERMANENT MEMBER, MEMBER, etc. It meant permanent, not re-elected in the next elections, appointed from above.
CLERK. Clerk dealing with correspondence, office work. There were also private clerks - home secretaries: Tetin in Gorky's play Egor Bulychev and others, Gleb in Dachniki.
SUPPLY INSPECTOR. The Tax Inspectorate was in charge of the collection of FILES, that is, taxes that were levied on the property of representatives of the "taxable estates" - peasants and burghers.
GUARDIAN. This was the name of the heads of some departments; Strawberry in "The Inspector General" is a trustee, that is, a steward, of charitable institutions. There were also trustees of educational districts.
POSTMASTER. Head of the post office. As we remember, the inquisitive postmaster Shpekin plays an important role in the actions of the "Inspector General".
STRAP. Legal position. Some judicial officials were called solicitors, for example, assistants to the provincial prosecutor; in the district they were subordinate to the district solicitor. In addition, he is an intercessor on private matters (Rispozhensky in Ostrovsky's comedy "Our people - we will be numbered!"). In 1863, the post was abolished.
COMRADE MINISTER, PROSECUTOR, CHAIRMAN, etc. - assistant, deputy.
OFFICER OF SPECIAL ORDERS. Usually a young, promising official under the governor or other big boss, sent with special powers on official trips to study and investigate all sorts of important cases. The position was considered promising, career. It served as Panshin in Turgenev's "Noble Nest", Vikentiev in Goncharov's "Cliff", Pyotr Aduev in "Ordinary History". Gogol wrote about this position in "Nevsky Prospect" as follows: "... those whom an enviable fate has endowed with the blessed title of officials on special assignments."
EXECUTOR. The word execution is known - corporal punishment; indeed, once the executors, such as Zherebyatnikov in Dostoevsky's Notes from the House of the Dead, were engaged in such a shameful business. But the rest of the executors found in Russian literature are purely peaceful people: Scrambled eggs in Gogol's "The Marriage", Chervyakov in Chekhov's story "The Death of an Official". An official who was in charge of the economy and supervised the order in the institutions was appointed as the executor.

What is incomprehensible among the classics, or the Encyclopedia of Russian life of the XIX century... Yu. A. Fedosyuk. 1989.

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Yuri and Vera Kamensky

Official for special assignments

Part I. Unaccounted for factor

Chapter 1. Out of the fire into the fire

In general, it all started with a trifle. Of course, when you are going to the "firearm", all seven senses are fully mobilized. And then, business, then interrogate the teacher for fraud. Among other gullible fools, she gave money for cheap black caviar. Well, you have to think it over. So where is this clever girl teaching?

Stas glanced at the diary. Gymnasium № 1520 ... but, in Leontievsky, next to the old Moscow Criminal Investigation Department. He himself, of course, did not find this, the building in Bolshoi Gnezdnikovsky was demolished even before the war.

The weather was surprisingly sunny. For the Moscow March, the phenomenon is, frankly, atypical. You can walk on foot, fortunately, not so far, otherwise you have already smoked all the lungs in the office.

Senior Lieutenant Sizov ran down the stairs, showed the guard at the exit, and, opening the heavy doors, went out into the street. The sun was already shining like a spring, and, behold, the breeze was blowing quite fresh. He, squinting, looked directly at the sun, zipped his jacket up to his throat and slowly descended the steps.

A flock of laughing students hurried to the glass cafe, looking around him, on the run, appraisingly mischievous glances. The next step was a pensioner in "professorial" glasses, leading a red-haired dachshund with a gray muzzle on a leash. From the balcony she was greeted with a bass voice by a black dog, tapping its tail on the rods that protected its freedom - you see, old acquaintances. Granny, hurrying to the bus approaching the bus stop, awkwardly touched him with a shopping bag, and she herself was almost knocked down by a skateboarder who flew past with a torpedo.

Somewhere, on the verge of audibility, an ambulance siren sounded, hurrying to the call. A gray cloud of exhaust from the cars rolling in a wave hung in the air, another hour, and traffic jams would begin. Everyone has their own affairs and concerns, no one cares about him. Walking leisurely along Strastnoy Boulevard, Stas was not thinking about the upcoming interrogation. What is there to break your head, everything is as simple as the butt of a child. Yesterday's book did not leave my head. The author's name was somehow interesting - Marhuz or was that a surname? He even "hammered" it into Yandex, learning, among other things, that this is some kind of fabulous beast. From this it was already clear that the writer was a great original.

The book was written in the genre of alternative history. The impression is that the entire literary world is simply obsessed with this "alternative" - ​​shredding this poor story, who is in what is much. However, "The Elder Tsar John the Fifth", unlike other writers, was written very amusingly. And it made me think, for that matter. At least, that our life is a chain of continuous accidents. For example, if he is sick now, and all the cases that he has in production will go to Mishka.

It's not even that the "roommate" in the office will curse him with the last words. It's just that their style of work is very different. Mikhail, as straight as a shovel handle, while working with suspects, suppressed their will. No, not with fists. Beating is the last thing, pure profanation. Well, you make a person sign the interrogation protocol, so what? He will sit for a week in a cell, listen to experienced "inmates", talk to a lawyer - and go to the prosecutor's office "cart".

The point is not even that the prosecutor's office and the "bounty hunters" will drink a bucket of blood. She is sucked on far-fetched reasons - only on the way! - but, simply, a swindler will sing the same song in court. And it will be justified, it's not old times for you, the end of the 20th century is in the yard. Humanization, glasnost, pluralism and more, God knows how much, all fashionable chiaroscuro. Thanks to the enlightened Europe, you might think that before them we had been eating cabbage soup with bast shoes.

So, Bradbury, perhaps, was right in something - if you crush a butterfly in the Cretaceous period, you will get another president "at the exit". It's another matter that no one will follow this pattern, of course, and will take it for granted. He will also say with a clever air: "History does not know the subjunctive mood." Did she tell you herself, or what?

The squeal of brakes whipped through the nerves, forcing them to look up. The shining radiator of the Land Cruiser was inevitably approaching him, and time seemed to stretch out. Stas already felt the warmth from the engine, the smell of burnt gasoline, the car moved slowly and steadily, like a steam locomotive going downhill. The body did not have time to get out of the way, and, then, the leg caught on the curb…. He dashed as hard as he could, and suddenly ... a snoring horse's muzzle appeared right in front of his eyes, his face smelled of acrid horse sweat. The end of the shaft slammed into his chest, knocking out the last of the air from his lungs. The street swirled before my eyes. The last thing he heard, falling on his back, was a choice checkmate.

Coming to his senses, he felt an unpleasant coldness on his face, as if his face had been buried in a melted snowdrift. Stas tried to brush away this cold one, but someone held his hand.

Lie down, young man, ”said a calm male voice.

His head was still spinning, he opened his eyes, saw a man with a beard bending over him. The light irritated and Stas closed his eyelids again.

“A doctor with an ambulance,” a thought came to mind, “it was not enough for Sklif to thunder. Fuck them, it seems, nothing is broken. They'll hold it for a week, and then I'll shovel things up with a shovel. Where did the horse come from? "

And people, standing over him, discussed him as if he was not there, or he had already died.

Looks like alien.

"Why did it happen? A native Muscovite, by the way. ”..

American, you see. See, the pants are stitched. I've seen one like this.

“Is it about jeans, or what? Found a fucking curiosity - jeans in Moscow. Village, or what? Yes, they are in any village. "..

Wouldn't have died.

"Ah, here, hell, you can't wait."

Overpowering himself, Stas opened his eyes and tried to sit up.

Lie, lie, it is bad for you to move.

Again this one, with a beard.

It is harmful for me to lie, - Stas muttered, - there is no time.

He got up with difficulty, listening to himself. The chest, of course, ached, but it was quite tolerable. Dusting off his trousers, he glanced down at the people standing next to him. That something was wrong with them, he understood immediately. What exactly is “wrong”? Consciousness gradually cleared up and, on the sly, began to assess the information that the eyes were not stingy with.

Now, of course, it is difficult to surprise someone with the strangest clothes, but in order to do it all at once? As if I got into the crowd scene on the filming of the "old time". Naturally, the cabby standing next to the carriageway is dressed like a cabby from the beginning of the century. And a lady with a coat on her shoulders, well, right, for you, the lady from the picture, and next to her opened her mouth to a simple-looking wench in a pleated skirt. Nozzle and puzzledly scraped the top of his head with a five-bellied guy. We could see the signs with "yat". The “mummers”, in turn, stared at him like kindergarteners at a New Year's tree. Now, of course, there are no other services ... and shows. Who will you surprise with this "retro" now? But a bunch of logical "inconsistencies" grew like an avalanche.

Yuri Kamensky, Vera Kamenskaya

Official for special assignments

© Yuri Kamensky, 2019

© Vera Kamenskaya, 2019

© AST Publishing House LLC, 2019

Unaccounted factor

Out of the frying pan into the fire

... Everything, in general, began with a trifle. Of course, when you are going to "fire", all seven senses are mobilized to the fullest. And here it’s business, to interrogate the teacher for fraud. Among other gullible fools, she gave money for cheap caviar. Well, you have to think about it! So where is this clever girl teaching?

Stas glanced at the diary. Gymnasium № 1520 ... but, in Leontievsky, next to the old Moscow Criminal Investigation Department. He himself, of course, did not find this, the building in Bolshoi Gnezdnikovsky was demolished even before the war.

The weather was surprisingly sunny. For the Moscow March, the phenomenon, frankly speaking, is atypical. You can walk on foot, the benefit is not so far, otherwise you have already smoked all the lungs in the office.

Senior Lieutenant Sizov ran down the stairs, showed the guard at the exit, and, opening the heavy doors, went out into the street. The sun was already shining like spring, but the breeze was blowing quite fresh. He squinted at the sun, zipped his jacket up to his throat, and slowly walked down the steps.

A flock of laughing students hurried to the glass cafe, casting appraisingly mischievous glances at him on the run. A pensioner in professorial glasses walked sedately, leading a red-haired dachshund with a gray muzzle on a leash. From the balcony she was greeted in a hollow bass by a black mastiff, tapping its tail on the rods that protected its freedom - you see, old acquaintances. Granny, hurrying to the bus approaching the stop, awkwardly touched him with a shopping bag, and immediately she herself was almost knocked down by a skateboarder who flew past with a torpedo.

Somewhere on the verge of audibility, an ambulance siren howled, hurrying to the call. A gray cloud of exhaust from the cars rolling in a wave hung in the air - another hour, and "traffic jams" would begin. Everyone has their own affairs and concerns, no one cares about him. Walking leisurely along Strastnoy Boulevard, Stas was not thinking about the upcoming interrogation. What is there to puzzle over there? It's simple. Yesterday's book did not leave my head. The author had some interesting name - Marhuz ... or was that a surname? He even hammered this word into Yandex, learning, among other things, that this is some kind of fabulous beast. From this it was already clear that the writer was a great original.

The book was written in the genre of alternative history. The impression is that the entire literary world is simply obsessed with this "alternative" - ​​they are shredding this poor story in a lot of ways. However, "The Elder Tsar John the Fifth", unlike other writers, was written very amusingly. And it made me think, for that matter. At least that our life is a chain of continuous accidents. For example, if he is sick now, and all the cases that he has in production will go to Mishka.

It's not even the point that the roommate in the office will curse him with the last words. It's just that their style of work is very different. Mikhail, as straight as a shovel handle, while working with suspects, suppressed their will. No, not with fists. Beating is the last thing, sheer profanation. Well, you make a person sign the interrogation protocol, so what? He will sit for a week in a cell, listen to experienced "inmates", talk to a lawyer - and go to the prosecutor's office "cart".

And the problem is not that the prosecutor's office and the "headhunters" will drink a bucket of blood. She is sucked on far-fetched reasons - only on the way! - but just a swindler will sing the same song in court. And it will be justified, it's not old times for you, because the end of the 20th century is in the yard. Humanization, glasnost, pluralism and God knows how much more fashionable chiaroscuro. Thanks to the enlightened Europe, you might think that before them we sipped soup with bast shoes.

So Bradbury, perhaps, was right in something - if you crush a butterfly in the Cretaceous period, you will get another president at the exit. Another thing is that no one, of course, will follow this pattern and take it for granted. He will also say with a clever air: "History does not know the subjunctive mood." Did she tell you herself, or what?

The squeal of brakes whipped through the nerves, forcing them to look up. The Land Cruiser's gleaming radiator moved inevitably toward him, and time seemed to stretch out. Stas already felt the heat from the engine, the smell of burnt gasoline, the car moved slowly and steadily, like a steam locomotive going downhill. The body did not have time to get out of the way, and then the leg caught on the curb ... He jerked as hard as he could, and suddenly ... a snoring horse's muzzle appeared right in front of his eyes, his face smelled of acrid horse sweat. The end of the shaft slammed into his chest, knocking out the last of the air from his lungs. The street swirled before my eyes. The last thing he heard, falling on his back, was a selective checkmate.

… Coming to his senses, he felt an unpleasant coldness on his face, as if he had been buried in a melted snowdrift with his muzzle. Stas tried to brush off this cold one, but someone held his hand.

“Lie down, young man,” said a calm male voice.

His head was still spinning, he opened his eyes and saw a man with a beard bending over him. The light irritated, and Stas closed his eyelids again.

"A doctor with an ambulance," a thought came to mind. - It was not enough to thunder in the "Sklif" yet. Fuck them: nothing seems to be broken. They'll hold it for a week, and then I'll shovel things up with a shovel. And where did the horse come from? "

And people, standing over him, discussed him as if he was not there, or he had already died.

- Looks like an alien ...

"Why did it happen? A native Muscovite, by the way ... "

- American, you see. See, the pants are stitched. I've seen one like this ...

“Is it about jeans, or what? Found a fucking curiosity - jeans in Moscow ... A village, or what? Yes, they are in any village ... "

- I wouldn’t die ...

"But fuck you, you won't wait."

Overpowering himself, Stas opened his eyes and tried to sit up.

- Lie down, lie down, it is bad for you to move.

Again this one, with a beard.

“It’s bad for me to lie,” Stas muttered. - No time.

He got up with difficulty, listening to himself. The chest, of course, ached, but it was quite tolerable. Dusting off his trousers, oper glanced at the people next to him. That something was wrong with them, he understood immediately. But what exactly is wrong? Consciousness gradually cleared up and slowly began to assess the information that the eyes were not stingy with.

Now, of course, it is difficult to surprise someone with the strangest clothes, but so that like this, all at once? As if I got into the crowd scene on the filming of the "old time". Naturally, the cabby standing next to the cab is dressed like a cabby from the beginning of the century. And a lady with a coat on her shoulders - well, just the lady from the picture, and next to her opened her mouth to a simple-looking wench in a pleated skirt. Nozzle and puzzledly scratched the top of his head with his five-bellied man. We could see the signs with "yat". The “mummers”, in turn, stared at him like kindergartners at a New Year's tree. Now, of course, there are no other services ... and shows ... who are you going to surprise with this "retro"? But a bunch of logical inconsistencies grew like an avalanche.

Instead of asphalt - paving stones. For all the time one car has passed through Strastnoy - the same retro, like everything around. There are different phaetons, cabs ... and even then not too many, in comparison, of course, with the flow of cars that he saw five or ten minutes ago. And the last straw is a tall policeman heading towards them. Stas did not even doubt that it was a real policeman. Three gombochki on a cord - a policeman with a higher salary or a non-commissioned officer.

It is only in bad reading that the hero, finding himself in an incomprehensible place, for a long time pinches himself for all parts of the body, trying to wake up. If a person is not drunk and in his mind, the question is, why unnecessary body movements? And so in fact it is clear that this is reality, not a dream. Behave according to the situation, then you will figure out how you ended up here. When the time comes. If it will be.

- What happened, gentlemen? - The policeman politely put his fingers to the visor.

- Duc, this is ... - the cabman hesitated.

“Mister policeman,” a lady in a cloak stepped forward, “this gentleman foreigner was hit by the horse of this cabman.

Looks victorious, nose up - neither give nor take an excellent student, "handing over" to the teacher of mischievous classmates. Well, wait, crammer ...

- What makes you think that I am a foreigner? - Stas shrugged his shoulders. - For your information, I am a hereditary Muscovite.

“Well, you’re dressed like that,” said the lady. - I'm sorry, of course ...

The policeman, turning to the cab, froze and turned his gaze again to Stas.

- Indeed, sir, you are dressed, I beg your pardon, more than strange.

With the light hand of "soviet" writers, the image of the city policeman in tsarist Russia was formed as a stereotype of Gogol's Derzhimorda - a kind of healthy bull, moreover, he is necessarily boorish and not a fool with a fist in the snout. And now Stas was looking at the sergeant with interest. Well, maybe healthy, of course: growth over one hundred and ninety, that's for sure. Cast shoulders, not a gram of excess weight, hands (they say a lot about the level of training) like a good fighter - a wide wrist, a strong palm, fingers are dry and strong.

The rest, as they say, is exactly the opposite. He behaves like a professional - confidently, but without rudeness. The tenacious eye, like a good opera. When he gave Stas a quick glance, it seemed to him that he had spotted the trunk under his jacket as a sinful deed. Although, in theory, I shouldn't ...

- Please, Mr. Muscovite, show me your passport. And you are carrying your documents - this is already for the cab.

He sighed and obediently trudged off to the cab.

“I don’t have my passport with me,” Stas replied calmly, feverishly wondering whether it was worth showing his ID. "Ksiva" is valid until 1995. It is difficult to predict the reaction of the policeman to such a document. Not a damn thing, of course, is not clear, but the fact that he somehow failed in time is a sad fact. "Occam's Razor" does not fail - nothing else could explain what was happening.

- Well, why are you so ... - The policeman shook his head reproachfully. - Don't you know, sir ...

He looked inquiringly at Stas.

- Sizov Stanislav Yurievich.

-… Mr. Sizov, when carrying a weapon, you must have your passport with you? This is your gun under your jacket, am I not mistaken?

While he was uttering this tirade, Stas had already pumped over the option - how he should act in this stupid situation.

- Mister policeman, I have a service certificate. But I'm afraid if I present it, the situation will become even more confusing.

- And what do you suggest?

From the eyes of the policeman it was clear that he was also pumping over possible options.

- I ask you to escort me to the police ...

The court councilor nodded approvingly and put the newspaper aside.

- Vladimir Andreevich is so angry with the Knave of Spades that he authorized the arrangement of the ball and will personally participate in this performance. In my opinion, not even without pleasure. As "Shah-Sultan" we received faceted beryl from the mineralogical collection of Moscow University. It is impossible to distinguish it from an emerald without a special magnifying glass, and we will hardly allow anyone to examine our turban through a special magnifying glass, right, Tulips?

Erast Petrovich took a white brocade turban with a huge green stone out of his hat box, turned it this way and that - the edges sparkled with dazzling reflections.

Anisy smacked his lips with delight - the turban was indeed a pure sight for sore eyes.

- And where do we get Zuhra? - he asked. - And also this secretary, like him, Tariq-bey. Who will it be?

The chief looked at his assistant, either reproachfully or regretfully, and Anisy suddenly realized.

- Yes you! He gasped. - Erast Petrovich, do not ruin! What an Indian I am! I will never agree, at least execute!

“You, Tyulpanov, let’s say, agree,” sighed Fandorin, “but you will have to tinker with Masa. The role of the old nurse is unlikely to be to his taste ...

On the evening of February 18, the whole of Moscow really came to the Assembly of the Nobility. The time was funny, reckless - Shrovetide week. In the city, tired of the long winter, they celebrated almost every day, but today the organizers have done their best. The entire snow-white staircase of the palace was in flowers, powdered footmen in pistachio camisoles rushed to pick up fur coats, rotundas and cloaks that had been thrown off their shoulders, wonderful sounds of mazurka came from the hall, and crystal and silver tinkled temptingly in the dining room - there the tables were laid for the banquet.

The ruler of Moscow, Prince Vladimir Andreevich, who played the role of the host of the ball, was fit and fresh, with gentle men, with ladies gallant. However, the real center of attraction in the marble hall today turned out to be not the governor-general, but his Indian guest.

Everyone liked Ahmad Khan very much, especially the young ladies and ladies. He was in a black tailcoat and a white tie, but the head of the nabob was crowned with a white turban with an enormous emerald. The blue-black beard of the Eastern prince was trimmed according to the latest French fashion, the eyebrows were curved with arrows, and the most impressive were bright blue eyes on his swarthy face (it has already become clear that His Highness's mother is a Frenchwoman).

A little behind and to the side stood the prince's secretary modestly, who also attracted considerable attention. By himself, Tariq Bey was not as handsome as his master, and the article did not come out, but, unlike Ahmad Khan, he appeared at the ball in a real oriental costume: in an embroidered dressing gown, white shawls and gilded shoes with curved toes without backdrops. It's a pity that the secretary did not speak any civilized language, and for all questions and appeals he only put his hand to his heart, then to his forehead and bowed low.

In general, both Indians were wonderfully good.

Anisy, hitherto not spoiled by the attention of the fair sex, has become completely numb - such a flower garden has gathered around him. The young ladies chirped, without hesitation discussing the details of his attire, and one, a lovely Georgian princess Sofiko Chkhartishvili, even called Tyulpanov “a pretty little arapchik”. Still very often the word "poor thing" sounded, from which Anisy blushed deeply (thank God, it was not visible under the walnut ointment).

But in order to understand about the nut ointment and the "poor thing", you will have to go back a few hours, to the moment when Ahmad Khan and his faithful secretary were preparing for the first publication.

Erast Petrovich, already with a resinous beard, but still in a dressing gown, made up Anisy himself. First I took a bottle of dark chocolate liquid. Explained - infusion of Brazil nuts. Rubbed the thick, fragrant oil into the skin of the face, ears, and eyelids. Then he glued on a thick beard, tore it off. I hooked another, like a goat, but also rejected it.

“No, Tulips, you don’t get a Muslim,” stated the chief. - I hurried with Tariq Bey. You should have been declared an Indian. Some Chandragupta.

- Can I have one mustash, without a beard? - Asked Anisy, who had long dreamed of a mustache, which he grew somehow unconvincing, in bunches.

- Not supposed to. According to Eastern etiquette, this is too much panache for the secretary. - Fandorin turned Anisiev's head to the left, to the right and declared. - Nothing can be done, we will have to make you a eunuch.

I added a yellow ointment, began to rub it into the cheeks and under the chin - "to loosen the skin and collect it in a fold." I examined the result and now I was satisfied:

- A real eunuch. Exactly what is needed.

But Tyulpanov's tests did not end there.

- Since you are a Muslim - get your hair off, - the court councilor said.

Anisy, overwhelmed by his transformation into a eunuch, took off his shaving without a murmur. Bril Masa - deftly, with the sharpest Japanese dagger. Erast Petrovich smeared Anisiev's naked skull with brown rubbish and said:

- Shines like a cannonball.

Conjured with a brush over his eyebrows. Eyes approved: brown and slightly slanted, just right.

He made me put on wide silk pants, some kind of patterned katsaveika, then a dressing gown, on the bald crown and unfortunate ears, pulled a turban.

Slowly, on stiff legs, Anisy approached the mirror, expecting to see something monstrous - and was pleasantly amazed: a picturesque Moor was looking at him from a bronze frame - no pimples or protruding ears. It's a pity, you can't always walk around Moscow like that.

“It's done,” said Fandorin. - Just put the ointment on your hands and neck. Don't forget your ankles - you are wearing slippers.

With gilded morocco shoes, which Erast Petrovich unromanticly called slippers, it was difficult out of habit. Because of them, Anisy stood at the ball like an idol. I was afraid that if it did move, then one of them would surely fall, as it had already happened on the stairs. When the beautiful Georgian woman asked in French if Tariq Bey would dance a waltz tour with her, Anisy was alarmed and instead of silently making an oriental bow, according to the instructions, he blundered - he murmured softly:

- Non, merci, it's not dance pa.

Thank God, the other girls, it seems, did not understand his muttering, otherwise the situation would have become more complicated. Tariq Bey was not supposed to understand a single human language.

Anisy turned worriedly to the chief. He had already been talking for several minutes with a dangerous guest, the British Indologist Sir Marvell, a boring gentleman with thick glasses. Just now, at the top of the stairs, when Ahmad Khan was bowing to the Governor-General, he whispered excitedly (Anisy heard snatches): “Brought a difficult one ... And as luck would have it an Indologist ... Do not exhibit - a baronet ... Well, how will he expose?"

However, judging by the peaceful conversation between the prince and the baronet, Fandorin was not in danger of being exposed. Although Anisy did not know English, he heard the often repeated "Gladstone" and "Her Britannic Majesty". When the Indologist, loudly blowing his nose into a checkered handkerchief, walked away, the prince imperatively - with a short gesture of his swarthy hand strewn with rings - called the secretary. He said through clenched teeth:

- Wake up, Tulips. And make love to her, don't look like a beech. Just don't overdo it.

- With whom is it better? - Anisy was surprised in a whisper.

- Yes, with this Georgian woman. It’s she, don’t you see? Well, that one, bouncy.

Tulips looked around and died away. Exactly! How did he not understand at once! True, the white-skinned lottery lady had become a dark-skinned woman, her hair was no longer golden, but black and braided in two braids, her eyebrows were drawn to her temples, fluttering, and a charming mole appeared on her cheek from somewhere. But it was she, as if she were! And a sparkle in his eyes flashed exactly as then, from under the pince-nez, before a desperate jump from the windowsill.

It took a bite! The black grouse is circling over the fake grouse!

Quietly, Anisy, quietly, don't scare me away.

He put his hand to his forehead, then to his heart and bowed to the star-eyed enchantress with all the Eastern ceremonialness.

Platonic love

Not a charlatan - that was what had to be checked first. There was still not enough to run into a colleague, who also came on tour, to pinch the fat Moscow geese. Indian rajah, emerald "Shah-Sultan" - all this Turkish delight gave a little operetta.

Checked it out. His Bengali Highness didn’t look like a rogue. Firstly, up close, it was immediately clear that they were of real royal blood: in posture, in manners, in lazy favor in the gaze. Secondly, Ahmad Khan started with "Sir Marvell", a famous Indo-scholar who happened to be in Moscow so by the way, such a highly intelligent conversation about the internal politics and religious beliefs of the Indian Empire that Momus was afraid not to betray himself. In response to the prince's polite question - what does the distinguished professor think about custom? suttee and its compliance with the true spirit of Hinduism, - I had to turn the conversation to the health of Queen Victoria, to portray a sudden attack of sneezing and a runny nose, and then completely retire.

Well, and most importantly, the emerald shone so convincingly and deliciously that no trace of doubts remained. To remove this glorious green cobblestone from the turban of the noble Ahmad Khan, cut it into eight weighty pebbles, and drive each thousand that way into twenty-five. That would be the case!

Mimi, meanwhile, worked on the secretary. He says that even though Tariq-Bey is a eunuch, he shot his eyes regularly in the neckline and, in general, is clearly not indifferent to the female sex. Mimochka can be trusted in such matters, you cannot deceive her. Who knows how it is with the eunuchs. Maybe natural desires do not disappear anywhere, even when opportunities are lost?

The plan for the upcoming campaign, which Momus himself had already dubbed "The Battle of the Emerald", took shape by itself.

The rajah has a turban on his head all the time. However, he takes it off at night, presumably?

Where does the Raja sleep? In a mansion on Vorobyovy Gory. Therefore, Momus needs to go there.

The Governor-General's Villa is reserved for guests of honor. From there, from the mountains, there is a wonderful view of Moscow, and onlookers are less annoying. The fact that the house is on the outskirts is good. But the villa is guarded by a gendarme post, which is bad. Climbing over fences at night and then dodging under the whistle of a police whistle is bad form, not in Momusova's unit.

Eh, now, if the secretary was not a eunuch, everything would have turned out much as simple. A loving Georgian princess, a desperate little head, would pay a secret visit to Tariq Bey at night, and once in the house, she would find a way to wander into the bedroom to the rajah, to see if the emerald was bored of hanging on a turban. The rest is an exclusively engineering question, and Mimi is fluent in this kind of engineering.

But from such a turn of thoughts, even completely speculative, a black cat gnashed at Momus's heart with a clawed paw. For a moment he imagined Mimochka in the arms of a lush, broad-shouldered fellow, not a eunuch, but quite the opposite, and Momus did not like this picture. Nonsense, of course, slobbering, but come on - he suddenly realized that he would not have gone this, the simplest and most natural way, even if the secretary's opportunities coincided with desires.

Stop! Momus jumped up from the writing table, on which he had been sitting until now, swinging his legs (as it was more dexterous to think), and went to the window. Stop stop stop ...

Carriages rolled along Tverskaya in a continuous stream - both sleighs and carriages on studded winter wheels. Spring is coming, slush, Great Lent, but today the bright sun was shining, not yet warming, and the view of the main Moscow street was cheerful and elegant. The fourth day, Momus and Mimi left the Metropol and settled in Dresden. The room was smaller, but with electric lights and a telephone. There was no way to stay in the Metropole any longer. Slyunkov used to go there, and this is dangerous. It hurts too undignified little man. In a responsible, one might say, secret position, and in the game of cards he plays with, and even does not know the measure. Well, how will the cunning Mr. Fandorin or someone else from the bosses take him by the coattails and shake him properly? No, God protects those who are careful.

Well, the "Dresden" hotel is glorious and exactly opposite the governor's palace, which after the story with the Englishman was Momus's home. You look - it warms the soul.

Yesterday I saw Slyunkov on the street. On purpose he came closer, even touched his shoulder - no, the clerk in the long-haired dandy with the forged mustache did not recognize the Marseilles merchant Antoine Bonifatievich Daria. Slyunkov muttered "sorry" and trotted to himself further, bending over under the powder.

Stop stop stop, Momus repeated to himself. Is it possible here, as usual, to shoot two birds with one stone - that was the idea that occurred to him. That is, more precisely, to shoot someone else's hare, but not to substitute your own under a bullet. Or, to put it another way, and eat the fish, and do not climb into the water. No, it will certainly be so: to observe innocence and to acquire capital.

And what, it could very well have happened! And it worked out well. Mimi said that Tariq Bey understands a little French. “A little bit” is just as much as you need.

From that moment on, the operation changed its name. Became known as "Platonic Love".

From the newspapers it was known that after dinner, His Indian Highness liked to stroll around the walls of the Novodevichy Convent, where winter attractions were deployed. Here you have ice skating, wooden mountains, and different sheds - there is something to see for a foreign guest.

The day, as already mentioned, turned out to be real, Shrovetide - bright, bright, with frost. Therefore, after walking around the frozen pond for an hour, Momus and Mimi were pretty frozen. Mimochka is still nothing. Since she portrayed the princess, she was in a squirrel coat, in a weaver's hood and with a clutch - only her cheeks were reddened, but Momus was chilling to the bone. For the good of the cause, he dressed up as an elderly eastern duenna: he attached thick eyebrows that grew together on the bridge of the nose, deliberately undermined and emphasized his upper lip, put a splash on his nose - that your bowsprit is at the frigate. The handkerchief, from under which the false braids with gray hair dangled, and the hare katsaveika over the long castor coat did not heat well, the feet in the felt chucks were freezing, and the damn rajah still did not appear. In order to amuse Mimi and not get bored himself, Momus from time to time lamented to a melodious contralto: “Sofiko, my drink is not very visual, your old nyanya is completely frozen” or something like that. Mimi sprinkled, tapped on the ground with chilled legs in scarlet boots.

Finally, His Highness deigned to come. Momus noticed a covered sled upholstered in blue velvet from a distance. A gendarme in an overcoat and a ceremonial helmet with a plume was sitting next to the coachman.

The prince, wrapped in sable, walked slowly along the rink, whitening with a high turban, and looked with curiosity at the amusements of the northerners. A short, stocky figure in a toe-length sheepskin coat, a round shaggy hat and a chador - presumably Zukhra, the devoted nurse, trotted behind the Highness. The secretary Tariq Bey, in a thick overcoat, from under which the salvars gleamed white, lagged all the time: he would stare at a gypsy with a bear, then he would stop near a merchant with hot sbitnem. Behind, depicting a guard of honor, walked an important gray-haired gendarme. It was on hand - let him take a closer look at future night visitors.

The audience showed considerable interest in the colorful procession. Those who were simpler, gaping their mouths, stared at the bassurman, pointed with a finger at a turban, at an emerald, at the closed face of an eastern old woman. The clean audience behaved more tactfully, but they were also curious with might and main. After waiting for the Muscovites to take a good look at the "Indians" and return to their old fun, Momus lightly pushed Mimochka in the side - it's time.

We moved towards. Mimi made a slight curtsy to His Highness - he nodded graciously. She smiled delightedly at the secretary and dropped the muff. The eunuch, as expected, rushed to lift, Mimi also squatted down and gracefully collided with the Asian's foreheads. After this small, completely innocent incident, the procession naturally lengthened: in front of him, in royal solitude, the prince still paced, followed by the secretary and the princess, then two elderly oriental ladies, and the gendarme, sniffing with a red nose, brought up the rear.

The princess chattered animatedly in French and slipped every minute, so that there was a reason to more often grab the secretary's hand. Momus tried to strike up friendship with the venerable Zukhra and began to show her all kinds of sympathy with gestures and interjections - in the end they have a lot in common: both old women lived their lives, they brought up other people's children. However, Zuhra turned out to be a true fury. She didn’t want to get closer, she just grunted angrily from under her veil and, the bitch, waved her short-fingered hand - go, they say, go, I’m on my own. One word, wild.

But Mimochka and the eunuch were doing just as well as possible. After waiting for the relaxed Asian to finally offer the young lady constant support in the form of a hand bent with a pretzel, Momus decided that it was enough for the first time. I caught up with my ward and sang harshly:

- Sofiko-oh, my dove, it's time to go home to drink tea, to eat churek.

The next day, "Sofiko" was already teaching Tarik-bey to ride skates (for which the secretary showed extraordinary abilities). The eunuch turned out to be malleable in general: when Mimi lured him by the Christmas trees and, as if by accident, put her plump lips right up to his brown nose, he did not shy away, but obediently kissed him. She later said: “You know, Mommy, I feel so sorry for him. I hugged him by the neck, and he was trembling all over, poor thing. Still, it is atrocity to disfigure people like that. " “The Lord did not give horns to the thirsty cow,” the callous Momus answered frivolously. The surgery was scheduled for the next night.

In the afternoon everything went like clockwork: the madly in love princess, completely losing her head from passion, promised her platonic adorer that she would pay him a visit at night. At the same time, she pressed on the sublimity of feelings and on the union of loving hearts in the highest sense, without vulgarity and filth. It is not known how much of this reached the Asian, but he was clearly delighted with the visit and explained in broken French that he would open the garden gate at midnight. “Only I'll come with the nanny,” Mimi warned. "Otherwise I know you men."

To this Tariq Bey hung his head and sighed bitterly.

Mimi almost burst into tears of pity.

The night from Saturday to Sunday was moonlit, starry, just right for a platonic romance. At the gate of the governor's country villa, Momus dismissed the cab and looked around. Ahead, behind the mansion, there is a steep descent to the Moskva River, behind - the spruces of Vorobyevsky Park, to the right and to the left are dark silhouettes of expensive dachas. Then you will have to leave on foot: through the Acclimatic Garden, to the Zhivodernaya Sloboda. There, in a tavern on the Kaluga highway, you can take a troika at any time of the day or night. Eh, take a ride with bells along Bolshaya Kaluzhskaya! Nothing that froze - the emerald will warm the bosom.

They knocked on the gate with a conventional knock, and the door opened immediately. Apparently, the impatient secretary was already standing, waiting. Bowing low, he beckoned to follow him. We walked through the snow-covered garden to the entrance. Three gendarmes were on duty in the lobby: drinking tea with bagels. They looked at the secretary and his night guests with curiosity, the gray-haired sergeant grunted and shook his head, but said nothing. What does he care about?

In the dark corridor, Tariq Bey put his finger to his lips and pointed up somewhere, then folded his palms, put them to his cheek and closed his eyes. Yeah, so the highness is already asleep, great.

A candle burned in the living room and smelled of some kind of oriental incense. The secretary seated the duenna in an armchair, pulled up a bowl of sweets and fruits, bowed several times and muttered something unintelligible, but the meaning of the request, in general, could be guessed.

“Ah, deti, deti,” Momus purred complacently and shook his finger. - Only basic nonsense.

The lovers, holding hands, hid behind the door of the secretary's room to indulge in a sublime, platonic passion. He will slobber all over, Indian gelding, Momus winced. He sat and waited for the eunuch to get carried away. I ate a juicy pear and tasted halva. Well, perhaps it's time.

Presumably, the master's chambers are over there, behind a white door with stucco molding. Momus went out into the corridor, closed his eyes and stood there for a minute so that his eyes got used to the darkness. But then he moved quickly, soundlessly.

He opened one door - a music salon. The other is the dining room. The third - again, not that.

I remembered that Tariq Bey was pointing up. So we need to go to the second floor.

He slipped into the lobby, silently ran up the carpeted staircase - the gendarmes did not look back. Again a long corridor, again a series of doors.

The bedroom was third from the left. The moon was shining through the window, and Momus could easily see the bed, the motionless silhouette under the covers and - hurray! - a white mound on the bedside table. The moonlight touched the turban, and the stone sent a shimmering ray into Momus's eye.

Stepping on tiptoe, Momus approached the bed. Ahmad Khan slept on his back, covering his face with the edge of the blanket - only a black hedgehog of cropped hair was visible.

“Bayu-bayushki-bayu,” Momus whispered gently, placing his highness right on the stomach of the jack of spades.

He reached out cautiously for the stone. When the fingers touched the smooth oily surface of the emerald, a short-toed, strangely familiar hand suddenly stuck out from under the blanket and grasped Momus tenaciously by the wrist.

Squealing in surprise, he jerked back, but wherever there - his hand was holding tight. The fat-cheeked, squint-eyed physiognomy of the Fandorin valet looked unblinkingly at Momus from behind the edge of the slipped blanket.

“D-long dreamed of meeting, Monsieur Momus,” came a low, mocking voice from behind. - Erast Petrovich Fandorin, at your service.

Momus turned around haunted and saw that in a dark corner, in a high Voltaire armchair, someone was sitting with his legs crossed.

Chef is having fun

- Dz-zh-zh-zh!

The piercing, lifeless sound of an electric bell reached Anisiev's melted consciousness from somewhere far away, from beyond the distant lands. At first, Tyulpanov did not even understand what kind of phenomenon it was that suddenly supplemented the already incredibly enriched picture of God's world. However, an alarmed whisper from the darkness brought the blissful agent to his senses:

- On sonne! Q "est que ce?

Anisy twitched, immediately remembered everything and freed himself from the soft, but at the same time surprisingly tenacious embrace.

Conditional signal! The trap has slammed!

Oh, how bad it is! How could you forget about debt!

“Sorry,” he muttered, “that de suite.

In the dark, he fumbled for his Indian robe, groped for his shoes and rushed to the door, not looking back at the insistent voice, all asking some questions.

Jumping out into the corridor, he locked the door with the key two turns. Everything, now will not fly away anywhere. The room is not simple - with steel bars on the windows. When the key squeaked in the lock, my heart also rattled disgustingly, but duty is duty.

Anisy briskly shuffled his slippers along the corridor. At the top of the stairs, the moon peering through the window of the corridor snatched a white figure hurrying towards it from the darkness. Mirror!

Tulips froze for a moment, trying to make out his face in the darkness. Enough, is he, Anishka, the deacons' son, the brother of the idiot Sonya? Judging by the happy gleam of his eyes (nothing else was visible anyway) - it was not he, but a completely different person, unknown to Anisy.

Opening the door to Akhmad Khan's bedroom, he heard the voice of Erast Petrovich:

- ... Answer in full for all the pranks, Mr. Joker. And for the trotters of the banker Polyakov, and for the "golden river" of the merchant Patrickev, and for the English lord, and for the lottery. And also for your cynical trick against me and for the fact that, by your grace, for the fifth day I have been smearing with nut liqueur and in a stupid turban.

Tyulpanov already knew: when the court councilor stops stuttering, this is not a good sign - either Mr. Fandorin is in extreme tension, or damn angry. In this case, obviously, the latter.

The decoration in the bedroom was like this.

An elderly Georgian woman was sitting on the floor by the bed, her monumental nose in a strange way slid to one side. Behind him, his sparse eyebrows furrowed and his hands on his hips belligerently, towered Masa, dressed in a long nightgown. Erast Petrovich himself was sitting in the corner of the room, in an armchair, tapping on the armrest with an unlit cigar. His face was impassive, his voice deceivingly lazy, but with such hidden thunderous rolls that Anisy shivered.

Turning to look at the assistant who entered, the chief asked:

- Well, what about the bird?

- In a cage, - valiantly reported Tulips and waved the key with a double beard.

Duenna looked at the agent's triumphant hand and shook her head skeptically.

“Ah, mister eunuch,” said the bow-nosed woman in such a sonorous, rolling baritone that Anisy shuddered. - Splash to your face. - And showed, vile hag, wide red tongue.

“And you have a woman’s outfit,” snapped the wounded Tulipov, involuntarily touching his bare scalp.

- B-bravo, - Fandorin appreciated the resourcefulness of the assistant. - You, Mr. Knave, I would advise you not to flaunt. Your affairs are bad, for this time you were caught hard, red-handed.

The day before yesterday, when Princess Chkhartishvili appeared at the festivities accompanied by a duenna, Anisy was at first confused:

- You said, chief, there are only two of them, the Knave of Spades and the girl, and then some old woman showed up.

- You yourself are an old woman, Tulips, - hissed the "prince", ceremoniously bowing to the counter lady. - This is it, our Momus, and is. Virtuoso of disguise, you will not say anything. Only the legs are too big for a woman, and the look is painfully hard. He is, he is, my dear. There is no one else.

- We take it? - Anisy whispered recklessly, pretending to shake off the snow from the master's shoulder.

- For what? Well, the girl, let's say, was at the lottery, and there are witnesses. And nobody knows this by sight. Why arrest him? For dressing up as an old woman? No, he is to me, the long-awaited, in all form must get caught. At the crime scene, red-handed.

To be honest, Tyulpanov then considered that the court councilor was being wise. However, as always, it turned out like Fandorin: a black grouse caught on a scarecrow, and was caught in all form. Now it will not open.

Erast Petrovich struck a match and lit a cigar. He spoke dryly, harshly:

- Your main mistake, my dear sir, is that you allowed yourself to joke jokes with those who do not forgive ridicule.

Since the arrested man was silent and only concentratedly straightened his nose down, Fandorin considered it necessary to clarify:

- I mean, firstly, Prince Dolgoruky, and secondly, myself. No one has ever allowed himself to scoff so brazenly at my private life. And with such unpleasant consequences for me.

The chief grimaced in anguish. Anisy nodded sympathetically, remembering what it was like for Erast Petrovich until the opportunity arose to move from Malaya Nikitskaya to Vorobyovy Gory.

“Well, it was cleverly done, I don’t argue,” Fandorin continued, pulling himself together. - Of course, you will return the Countess's things, and immediately, even before the start of the process. I drop this charge from you. In order not to bash the name of Ariadna Arkadyevna in court.

Here the court councilor was thinking about something, then nodded to himself, as if making a difficult decision, and turned to Anisy.

- Tulips, if it doesn't bother you, then check your things against the list drawn up by Ariadna Arkadyevna, and ... send them to Petersburg. Address - Fontanka, the own house of the Count and Countess Opraksins.

Anisy only sighed, no longer daring to express his feelings. And Erast Petrovich, apparently angry with the decision he himself made, turned back to the detainee:

“Well, you had some good fun at my expense. And for pleasure, as you know, you have to pay. The next five years in hard labor will provide you with plenty of leisure time to learn useful life lessons. From now on you will know with whom and how to joke.

From the dullness of Fandorin's tone, Anisy realized that the chief was furious to the last degree.

- Pa-azvite, dear Erast Petrovich, - cheekily stretched out (that is, stretched out) the "duenna". - Thank you for introducing yourself at the time of the arrest, otherwise I would have considered you an Indian highness. Where did you get, I ask, five years of hard labor? Let's check our arithmetic. Some kind of trotters, some kind of golden river, a lord, a lottery - sheer riddles. What does all this have to do with me? And then, what are you talking about the countess's things? If they belong to Count Opraksin, why did they come to you? Are you living with someone else's wife? Not good, sir. Although, of course, not my business. And if I am accused of anything, I demand confrontations and evidence. The evidence is indispensable.

Anisy gasped at such impudence and looked anxiously at the chief. He grinned unkindly:

- And what are you doing here, may I ask? In this strange outfit, at an inopportune hour?

- Yes, here's a fool, - answered Knave and sniffed pitifully. - Covered in an emerald. Only this, gentlemen, is called "provocation." There, the gendarmes are guarding you downstairs. There's a whole police conspiracy here.

“The gendarmes do not know who we are,” Anisy boasted, unable to resist. - And they don't participate in any conspiracy. For them, we are Asians.

Similar information.

Memories of the Russian Service Keyserling Alfred

"OFFICER FOR SPECIAL ORDERS" (AFTERWORD OF THE EDITOR)

"OFFICER FOR SPECIAL ORDERS"

(AFTERWORD BY THE EDITOR)

"As an official for special assignments, I am constantly on the road."

A. Keyserling.

“I have lived a stormy life, full of grief and joy, success and failure. My carefree childhood was spent in my parents' house in Stannyun, my father's large Lithuanian estate, in Mitava and in various German schools, then there were years of study in Dorpat, and after university - service in St. Petersburg, in the Ministry of Finance. By a happy coincidence, back in 1886 - I was then 25 years old - the Amur Governor-General Baron Andrei Nikolaevich Korf called me to his place in Khabarovsk, in the Far East of Siberia, to the position of an official for special assignments ... "- this is how Alfred Keyserling began" own section ”in the“ Book of Keyserlings ”- publication of family chronicles, published in Berlin in 1944 (Das Buch der Keyserlinge. An der Grenze zweier Welten. Berlin: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1944). His memoirs supplemented and continued the previously published book "Count Alfred Keyserling tells ..." (Graf Alfred Keyserling erz? Hlt ... Kaunas-Leipzig: Ostverlag der Buch-hand-lung Pribacis, 1937). Only today, at the beginning of the new century, the memoirs of a Courland nobleman, who gave several decades of his turbulent life to fulfilling the duties of an official of the Russian Empire, presented in these two books, are available to the Russian reader as well.

In one work, the reader is offered an autobiography, memoirs, ethnographic notes, a historical source (materials for literary portraits of Russian statesmen and the history of Russian penal servitude), fragments of a documentary detective story. The facts, entertaining descriptions, strong characters and unexpected plot twists contained in the memoirs of Count Keyserling would be enough to create a fascinating historical novel. The protagonists of the narrative, in addition to the "crowd" - convicts, Amur Cossacks, Buryat horse breeders, Mongolian lamas, Siberian "foreigners", etc., are real historical figures, statesmen who influenced not only the fate of Alfred Keyserling, but also on the fate of Russia: heir to the throne, and then Emperor Nicholas II, ex-minister Bulygin, minister Maklakov and future prime minister Lvov, governor-general of Korf and governor Adlerberg, Prince of Oldenburg ... These are only those whose intervention was direct, positive or negative, influence on the life of the author. In addition to them, Keyserling casually mentions or recalls in more detail many famous people with whom fate brought him together - the patron Sibiryakov, the orientalist Ukhtomsky, Admiral Alekseev, the publisher Boris Suvorin, not to mention those more modest heroes of the narrative who are designated by the author only by name, surnames or nicknames ("convict Orlov", "chef Rupert", "Agasfer", "Pers"), or whether because of some secrets that the count did not consider possible to open, but rather because of a weakened memory or seeming insignificance of them names, - are hidden under the initials L., S., N., NN, or designated by position, nationality or social status - "Buryat student", "hutukhta", "adjutant", "young prince-prisoner" ...

In addition to the heroes of this "autobiographical novel", attention is drawn to the circumstances in which they - the heroes - have to act. The “scenery” of most of the book is the Amur penal servitude of the late 80s - early 90s. XIX century. The genre of prison stories in Russian literature is not new (starting with "Notes from the House of the Dead" by Dostoevsky, stories by Korolenko and the now little-known "In the world of the rejected" L. Melshin), and even a single Trans-Baikal penal servitude can be considered sufficiently documented (primarily thanks to the book "Siberia and Exile" by the American George Kennan, who visited these places in 1885-1886). Dostoevsky was an eyewitness, but he wrote about the penal servitude of an earlier period; Kennan was primarily interested in political prisoners; Chekhov visited Sakhalin in 1890, but he had completely different tasks and was forbidden to communicate with political ones. In relation to Chekhov, Keyserling is an eyewitness from the inside, not a correspondent in the capital with limited instructions (Chekhov himself wrote that in the eyes of the security officers "I have no right to come close to hard labor and colony, since I am not in the civil service"), but a person for whom hard labor is a part of work and daily life; in contrast to Dostoevsky, Keyserling is an observer from the outside, for he ended up in hard labor not as a prisoner, but, in his words (though somewhat exaggerated), "the plenipotentiary manager of the prison department." And it is all the more paradoxical to read that part of the memoirs where the old count recalls his own short imprisonment in the Peter and Paul Fortress and admires the expediency of the prison arrangement there (in the Bolshevik prison in Siberia, comparisons with past experience are already powerless).

This part of the book - "Imprisonment in the Peter and Paul Fortress" - is the only one where the author not only reproduces the events, but also tries (albeit very restrained and laconic) to restore his impressions, emotions, hallucinations. This page of life is fresh in Keyserling's memory even twenty years later, and it is not surprising that a detailed story about these several weeks in a solitary confinement cell is brighter, more emotional and more detailed than, for example, memories of the subsequent years of the World War. This is a real spy detective, which, by the way, is based on a typical semiotic error, defined as decrypting a message based on an incorrect code. However, if Keyserling knew the word "semiotics", then methodological problems at that moment would interest him least of all ...

When characterizing Alfred Keyserling as a memoirist, it is necessary to remember the significant chronological gap between the described facts, their assessment and their recording. As follows from the cited Preface by Otto von Grunewaldt, the recording of memoirs is like about the Amur penal servitude of the 80s inspected by Keyserling. XIX century. and the trip through Transbaikalia of the heir to the throne Nikolai Alexandrovich (future Emperor Nicholas II) in 1891, and about the revolution and post-revolutionary events - was made only in 1935; thus, the gap is between 15 and 40-plus years. One can only envy the memory of the count, who at the time of writing his memoirs was already over seventy! In addition, the recording was made by the same von Grunewaldt, who "had a good pen" and, obviously, subjected the story of his already poorly seen relative to some literary processing (but managed to avoid "romanization"). Nevertheless, the content and style of presentation make it possible to form an impression about the author and the main character.

Alfred Keyserling, throughout almost his entire narrative, tries to remain exclusively an observer, and an objective observer. Of course, chronological distance from the events described facilitated this task, but he, being a witness to both personal tragedies and historical turning points, tries to avoid emotional outbursts, categorical assessments and global generalizations, but describes his subjective reaction. However, his reaction is rather restrained - it often seems that the count considers it necessary to simply express feelings befitting the moment. He remains an almost impassive witness, a detached observer, and even about political events delicately expresses only his private opinion. Yes, these political events, in the assessment of which historians have broken so many copies, interest him only to the extent that they influenced his own life. It is even difficult to compose a political portrait of Keyserling - he is a monarchist, clearly observing the court chain of command, but giving an account of the weakness of Nicholas II (as opposed to the respectful assessment of Alexander III); in no way a revolutionary, although he pays tribute to political prisoners; not a reactionary, not a "patriot" (or rather, being a German by blood, he turns out to be more attached to Siberia than to European Russia) - he is just an official who records his observations. “Communication with 'political' in Siberia taught me that personal decency and honesty do not depend on political convictions. I was guided by the rule: the zemstvo official must be a decent person and honestly fulfill his duties in the service of the zemstvo, he has no reason to engage in politics. " This is an ordinary person who lived in turbulent times and, by the nature of his service, found himself in extraordinary circumstances, striving to fulfill his official duties as clearly as possible (characterizing himself, he notes only his "ability to understand complex matters and quickly execute them"). He is an "official for special assignments." It seems that this position, from which his career began, left an imprint on his entire future life, and the qualities and skills acquired in the service under the leadership of Baron Korff and later determined Keyserling's actions, attitudes and assessments.

The uniqueness of his time, his own destiny, the opportunity to witness unique events, the value of meetings with the most interesting people are well understood by the author of the memoirs. But at the same time, he himself tries, as far as possible within the framework of the genre of memoirs, to remain aloof: he is only a witness, the heroes are others. It is unlikely that this is a conscious authorial position, but rather a consequence of natural modesty, noble upbringing and the court school (partly, perhaps, of the literary style). It is difficult to reproach him with familiarity - not "me and Baron Korf", but respectfully "Baron Korf and I". Describing Mr. Moetus, he credits him with "a thorough acquaintance with these territories, acquired in our long joint trips", but at the same time he never calls himself an expert in local history. Talking about his stay in Germany, he does not talk about his kinship with the local elite, but only writes that he is familiar with several families related to the highest East Prussian society (but before that he mentions that these families are his brother and cousins). And the main result of many years of stay in Transbaikalia in the assessment of Keyserling is not exemplary fulfilled official duties, not colorful impressions of Buryatia, Mongolia, Sakhalin, not a circle of acquaintances, not recommendations from the authorities and not the favor of the emperor, but above all - the acquired life experience: “There I learned to stand on my own two feet. "

True, being in the zemstvo service is a different matter. Here the author already speaks directly about his merits for the good of the zemstvo, acquaintances in higher circles, about envy, about enemies. For him personally, this service, these successes are more important. But successes seem to be a logical result of previous activities: Keyserling both in the zemstvo service, and subsequently at work in Zemgor remains "an official for special assignments" - he receives a task or takes up the proposed type of activity, and interest in these tasks or new activities is developed in the process execution; his inherent honesty, prudence, practicality and an obvious entrepreneurial vein allow him to adapt to the circumstances and fulfill his obligations in an exemplary manner, whether it is the salvation of documents from the besieged Port Arthur, the construction of a dacha village near St. Petersburg, the organization of food supplies from Siberia on the instructions of the Prince of Oldenburg, the creation of a "foreign labor commune" in the Bolshevik concentration camp or the cultivation of tomatoes near Novgorod.

Meanwhile, the author writes not only about correcting other people's mistakes (this is how, in his words, the service of “an official for special assignments” began), but he does not hesitate to talk about his own mistakes - in those cases when these mistakes had an impact on others people ("Subsequently, this decision of mine turned out to be a mistake that I bitterly regretted"). He tries to be objective in relation to everyone: if his official powers allow, he restores prison families and transfers convicts to "housework", uses his house as an infirmary for a dying arrested prince, rightly relies on the prisoner's word and political guarantees, but at the same time he does not stops at the need for corporal punishment. He proceeds from the fact that every person - from an official to a convict - must clearly fulfill his duties, and at the same time he is ready to respect their rights. Evidence of this is the case with the coachman Orlov: "I did not want to force Orlov, I (...) knew that I had to let him go his own way." In a similar way, the count monitors the observance of the rights of the indigenous peoples of Siberia and the fulfillment of government obligations in relation to them.

These chapters of the book, devoted to meetings with the peoples of Transbaikalia, the Ussuri region, the Amur region, Mongolia, receptions at the Chinese mandarin, a trip to a hutukhta in Urga, are the most valuable ethnographic source. Alfred Keyserling understands that the clash with civilization - at least in the person of the gangsters who rob and drive the aborigines from their territories, corrupt police officials and Orthodox missionaries who are fighting Lamaism without bothering to penetrate into its essence - is disastrous for the natives. True, for him, first of all, this is non-observance of the guarantees given by the government and violation of job descriptions, but he tries to unbiasedly, carefully and accurately record the peculiarities of their life, clothing, household, food, ceremonies, realizing that all these distinctive features inevitably smooth out and disappear ... It is characteristic that at the same time a government official accepted the point of view of an ethnographer or an anthropologist - to look at an alien culture from the inside, again becoming a witness and realizing the value of his observations: life. Everything that I saw and experienced then is already a thing of the past ... ".

Keyserling falls in love with Siberia (however, it should be borne in mind that the author interprets the concept of "Siberia" very narrowly - for him, at least in the first part, it is primarily Transbaikalia, and the history of the annexation of Siberia was limited to Yermak's campaign). He is confident that the annexation of this richest region to Russia, the intensification of its development and integration into the Russian economy lead to negative consequences and that Siberia, which possesses both natural resources and human resources, and an original tradition of land use, which has also developed its own, different from Eurocentric , geopolitical landmarks, it would be much better to develop independently. What suits European Russia is disastrous for Siberia, and this is especially true of Bolshevism. Not accepting the Bolshevik revolution, Keyserling “emigrates” to his native Siberia, he is encouraged by the possibility of separating Siberia from Soviet Russia, but further events lead to the deepest disappointment, family tragedies, loss of property (including archives, diaries, photographic documents), endless escape ... And only after a decade and a half, succumbing to persuasion, Alfred Keyserling decides to entrust the paper with the "chronicle of special assignments" and, retiring with his brother-in-law in Estonian Haapsalu, remember and dictate.

Keyserling's book is a historical source that is still practically unknown in the author's homeland, and in this capacity it needs its own meticulous researcher who will appreciate the importance and uniqueness of the memories of the "official for special assignments" and undertake the labor of comparing them with other documents, checking the facts , compose detailed comments, restore in some cases the sequence of events and biographies of the mentioned "minor" characters, establish the identities of anonymous "adjutants", "Buryat students", N., S ... In the meantime, the important thing is the "return of Keyserling" to Russia, to the Russian reader , for whom, in fact, these memoirs were written.

In this edition, the reader is offered both books of A.G. Keyserling - Parts I-IV (as well as "The Final Word") are taken from the book "Count Alfred Keyserling tells ...", continuing their Parts V-VI and the chapter "Gold mines of the Kwantung region", placed in order to restore the sequence of events in Part III of this editions, - from the "Book of Keyserlin-gov". When preparing such a publication, it was necessary to constantly keep in mind that the translation and the first publication of a historical source in a number of cases have the rights of the original, and its alteration and distortion are tantamount to unauthorized "co-authorship". The editorial work was reduced to insignificant reductions due to repetitions (mentioning the same events in different places of the text), consolidation of unnecessarily fractional initial headings due to the merging of unnecessarily small paragraphs (in these cases, as a rule, "double" chapter titles are given), or vice versa , the mechanical isolation of independent chronological and semantic parts, which make it easier to navigate the text (for example, the part "On Siberian penal servitude" in this edition, unified in the German version, is divided into three: "On the Amur penal servitude", "Accompanying the Tsarevich" and "Transbaikalia and Siberia" ). All abbreviations, changes in composition and headings of the author's text are made without prejudice to the content.

It is clear that personal archives, documents and photographs relating to the Russian service of Count Keyserling were lost during the Civil War. For this reason, the illustrations in the book are of a compensatory nature: they used, in particular, photographs from the archives of the State Central Museum of Contemporary History of Russia, the Tsarskoe Selo Museum-Reserve, documents of the Russian State Historical Archive. The Appendix contains a genealogical excursion "The Keizer-Ling Counts", comments and indexes. Although meetings with some boy Oseika or convict N.N. the author of memoirs often pays much more attention than the casually mentioned princes, governors or comrades of ministers, the publishers decided not to give up the name index, traditional for publishing memoirs.

The translation of the book into Russian was made according to the German edition of N. Fedorova and provided by K. Eckstein, the great-grandson of Count A. Keyserling, whose deepest interest in returning the heritage of his ancestor to Russia made this publication possible.

It is necessary to note the great help of Yu. Berestneva, A. Bychkova, I. Isel and M. Ivanova in the search and selection of illustrative and reference materials and preparation of the text. The authors of the comments express their gratitude to the Deputy Head of the Department of the State Archives of the Russian Federation I.S. Tikhonov, director of the Pushkin Museum of Local Lore N.A. Davydova and the staff of M.A. Moschenikova and N.A. Kornilova, head. The Art Department of Central Asia of the State Museum of the East T.V. Sergeeva, staff of the Tsarskoe Selo State Museum-Reserve T.Z. Zharkova and V. Plaude, employees of the Russian State Historical Archive.

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