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The book includes the best humorous stories the largest emigrant writers of the early 20th century. They are united by faith in life and love for Russia.

For high school age.

Arkady Timofeevich Averchenko, Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi, Sasha Cherny
Humorous stories

"Humor is a gift from the gods..."

The writers whose stories are collected in this book are called satirical writers. All of them collaborated in the popular weekly "Satyricon", which was published in St. Petersburg from 1908 to 1918 (since 1913 it became known as the "New Satyricon"). It was not just a satirical magazine, but a publication that played an important role in Russian society at the beginning of the 20th century. He was quoted from the rostrum by State Duma deputies, ministers and senators in State Council, and Tsar Nicholas II kept books by many satirical authors in his personal library.

A fat and good-natured satyr, drawn talented artist Re-Mi (N.V. Remizov), adorned the covers of hundreds of books published by Satyricon. The capital hosted annual exhibitions of artists who collaborated in the magazine, and the Satyricon costume balls were also famous. One of the magazine's authors subsequently noted that satiricalist was a title that was given only to very talented and cheerful people.

Among them, the satirical “dad” stood out - editor and main author magazine - Arkady Timofeevich Averchenko. He was born on March 15, 1881 in Sevastopol and seriously asserted that the fact of his birth was marked by the ringing of bells and general rejoicing. The writer’s birthday coincided with the coronation festivities Alexandra III, but Averchenko believed that Russia welcomed the future “king of laughter” - as his contemporaries called him. However, there was a considerable amount of truth in Averchenko’s joke. He really eclipsed the popular “king of wit” I. Vasilevsky and the “king of feuilleton” V. Doroshevich, popular in those years, and the cheerful ringing of bells sounded in the loud peals of his laughter, uncontrollable, joyful, festive.

A plump, broad-shouldered man in pince-nez, with an open face and energetic movements, good-natured and inexhaustibly witty, he came to St. Petersburg from Kharkov and very quickly became famous. In 1910, three of his books were published at once. humorous stories, which readers fell in love with for their genuine fun and vivid imagination. In the preface (“Autobiography”) to the collection “Jolly Oysters,” Averchenko depicts his first meeting with his father: “When the midwife presented me to my father, he looked at what I was like with the air of an expert and exclaimed: “I bet on a gold "It's a boy!"

“Old fox!” I thought, grinning internally. “You’re playing for sure.”

From this conversation our acquaintance began, and then our friendship."

In his works, Averchenko often talks about himself, his parents and five sisters, childhood friends, and his youth spent in Ukraine; about service in the Bryansk transport office and at the Almaznaya station, life in St. Petersburg and in exile. However, the facts of the writer's biography are bizarrely mixed in them with fiction. Even his "Autobiography" is clearly stylized after the stories of Mark Twain and O. Henry. Expressions such as “I bet on gold” or “you’re playing for sure” are more appropriate in the mouths of the heroes of the books “The Heart of the West” or “The Noble Crook” than in the speech of Father Averchenko, a Sevastopol merchant. Even the Bryansk mine at Almaznaya station in his stories resembles a mine somewhere in America.

The fact is that Averchenko was the first writer who tried to cultivate American humor with its deliberate simplicity, cheerfulness and buffoonery in Russian literature. His ideal is love for everyday life in all its manifestations, simple common sense, and positive hero- laughter, with the help of which he tries to cure people crushed by hopeless reality. One of his books is called "Bunnies on the Wall" (1910), because the funny stories that come from the writer, like sunbeams, cause causeless joy in people.

They say about fools: show him the finger and he will laugh. Averchenko's laughter is not intended for a fool; it is not as simple as it seems at first glance. The author doesn't just laugh at anything. By exposing the average person who is mired in the routine of everyday life, he wants to show that life can not be so boring if you brighten it up with a cheerful joke. Averchenko’s book “Circles on the Water” (1911) is an attempt to help a reader drowning in pessimism and unbelief, disillusioned with life or simply upset about something. It is to him that Averchenko extends the “lifebuoy” of cheerful, carefree laughter.

Another book by the writer is called “Stories for Convalescents” (1912), because, according to the author, Russia, which was sick after the 1905 revolution, must certainly recover with the help of “laughter therapy.” The writer's favorite pseudonym is Ave, which is a Latin greeting meaning "Bless you!"

Heroes of Averchenko - ordinary people, Russian citizens who live in a country that has experienced two revolutions and the First world war. Their interests are focused on the bedroom, nursery, dining room, restaurant, friendly party and a little on politics. Laughing at them, Averchenko calls them cheerful oysters, hiding from life's storms and shocks in their shell - a small home world. They are reminiscent of those oysters from O. Henry's book "Kings and Cabbages", which buried themselves in the sand or sat quietly in the water, but were still eaten by the Walrus. And the country in which they live is similar to the ridiculous republic of Anchuria or Lewis Carroll’s fantastic Wonderland, through which Alice walks. After all, even the best intentions often turn into unpredictable disaster in Russia.

In the story "Blind" Averchenko appears under the guise of the writer Ave. Having switched places with the king, he becomes the ruler of the country for some time and issues a law that seems necessary to him - “on the protection of blind people” crossing the street. According to this law, a policeman is required to take a blind person by the hand and lead him across the road so that he does not get hit by cars. Soon Ave is awakened by the scream of a blind man who is being brutally beaten by a policeman. It turns out that he does this in accordance with the new law, which, having passed from the ruler to the policeman, began to sound like this: “Every blind person seen on the street should be grabbed by the collar and dragged to the police station, rewarded along the way with kicks and beatings.” Truly an eternal Russian problem: they wanted the best, but it turned out as always. With the police order prevailing in the country, any reform, according to the writer, will turn into disgusting.

First-person narration is Averchenko’s favorite technique, adding credibility to what is being told. It is easy to recognize him in the stories “The Robber”, “The Scary Boy”, “Three Acorns”, “The Windy Boy”. This is him walking with friends along the shore of Crystal Bay in Sevastopol, hiding under a table in house No. 2 on Crafts Street, where he lived as a child; he eavesdrops on the conversations of adults behind a screen, talks with his sister's fiancé, who fools him by posing as a robber. But at the same time he creates a myth about the country of childhood, which is so different from the life of adults. And he is very sad at the thought that three little boys, who were close friends at school, will later turn into people far from each other, complete strangers. Following N. Gogol, who was his favorite writer, Averchenko advises children not to lose good feelings and intentions on the way to adult life, to take with them from childhood all the best that they encountered along the way.

Averchenko’s books “Naughty people and mouthy people” (1914) and “About little ones for big ones” (1916) belong to the best examples children's literature. In them, “red-cheeked humor” is combined with genuine lyricism and subtle insight into the world of a little person who is so uncomfortable and bored with living in this world. Averchenko’s heroes are not at all like the well-bred noble children familiar to the reader from the works of L. Tolstoy and others classics of the 19th century century. This is a clever boy, obsessed with the passion to change, a “man behind the screen”, spying on adults, a dreamer, Kostya, who lies from morning to evening. The writer’s favorite image is a naughty child and inventor, similar to himself in childhood. He is capable of deceiving and lying, dreams of getting rich and becoming a millionaire. Even little Ninochka - business man, trying at all costs to find an adult job. It seems that this hero lives not at the beginning, but at the end of the 20th century.

Averchenko contrasts the freshness of perception, the touching purity and ingenuousness of children with the selfish, deceitful world of adults, where all values ​​have devalued - love, friendship, family, decency - where everything can be bought and sold. “If it were my choice, I would only recognize children as people,” the writer says confidentially. He assures that only children break out of a hateful way of life, from the measured and boring philistine life, and an adult is “almost completely a scoundrel.” However, sometimes even a scoundrel is capable of showing human feelings when he encounters children.

Arkady Timofeevich Averchenko, Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi, Sasha Cherny

Humorous stories

"Humor is a gift from the gods..."

The writers whose stories are collected in this book are called satirical writers. All of them collaborated in the popular weekly Satyricon, which was published in St. Petersburg from 1908 to 1918 (since 1913 it became known as the New Satyricon). It was not just a satirical magazine, but a publication that played an important role in Russian society at the beginning of the 20th century. He was quoted from the rostrum by State Duma deputies, ministers and senators in the State Council, and Tsar Nicholas II kept books by many satirical authors in his personal library.

The fat and good-natured satyr, drawn by the talented artist Re-Mi (N.V. Remizov), adorned the covers of hundreds of books published by Satyricon. The capital hosted annual exhibitions of artists who collaborated in the magazine, and the Satyricon costume balls were also famous. One of the magazine's authors subsequently noted that satiricalist was a title that was given only to very talented and cheerful people.

Among them, the satirical “father” stood out - the editor and main author of the magazine - Arkady Timofeevich Averchenko. He was born on March 15, 1881 in Sevastopol and seriously asserted that the fact of his birth was marked by the ringing of bells and general rejoicing. The writer’s birthday coincided with the festivities on the occasion of the coronation of Alexander III, but Averchenko believed that Russia welcomed the future “king of laughter” - as his contemporaries called him. However, there was a considerable amount of truth in Averchenko’s joke. He really eclipsed the popular “king of wit” I. Vasilevsky and the “king of feuilleton” V. Doroshevich, popular in those years, and the cheerful ringing of bells sounded in the loud peals of his laughter, uncontrollable, joyful, festive.

A plump, broad-shouldered man in pince-nez, with an open face and energetic movements, good-natured and inexhaustibly witty, he came to St. Petersburg from Kharkov and very quickly became famous. In 1910, three books of his humorous stories were published, which were loved by readers for their genuine gaiety and vivid imagination. In the preface (“Autobiography”) to the collection “Jolly Oysters,” Averchenko depicts his first meeting with his father: “When the midwife presented me to my father, he looked at what I was with the air of an expert and exclaimed: “I bet on a gold “That’s a boy!”

“Old fox!” – I thought, smiling internally. “You are playing for sure.”

From this conversation our acquaintance began, and then our friendship.”

In his works, Averchenko often talks about himself, his parents and five sisters, childhood friends, and his youth spent in Ukraine; about service in the Bryansk transport office and at the Almaznaya station, life in St. Petersburg and in exile. However, the facts of the writer's biography are bizarrely mixed in them with fiction. Even his “Autobiography” is clearly stylized after the stories of Mark Twain and O. Henry. Expressions such as “I bet on gold” or “you’re playing for sure” are more appropriate in the mouths of the heroes of the books “The Heart of the West” or “The Noble Crook” than in the speech of Father Averchenko, a Sevastopol merchant. Even the Bryansk mine at Almaznaya station in his stories resembles a mine somewhere in America.

The fact is that Averchenko was the first writer who tried to cultivate American humor with its deliberate simplicity, cheerfulness and buffoonery in Russian literature. His ideal is love for everyday life in all its manifestations, simple common sense, and his positive hero is laughter, with the help of which he tries to cure people oppressed by hopeless reality. One of his books is called “Bunnies on the Wall” (1910), because the funny stories that arise from the writer, like bunnies from the sun, cause causeless joy in people.

They say about fools: show him the finger and he will laugh. Averchenko's laughter is not intended for a fool; it is not as simple as it seems at first glance. The author doesn't just laugh at anything. By exposing the average person who is mired in the routine of everyday life, he wants to show that life can not be so boring if you brighten it up with a cheerful joke. Averchenko’s book “Circles on the Water” (1911) is an attempt to help a reader drowning in pessimism and unbelief, disillusioned with life or simply upset about something. It is to him that Averchenko extends a “life preserver” of cheerful, carefree laughter.

Another book by the writer is called “Stories for the Convalescent” (1912), because, according to the author, Russia, which was sick after the 1905 revolution, must certainly recover with the help of “laughter therapy.” The writer's favorite pseudonym is Ave, which is a Latin greeting meaning “Bless you!”

Averchenko’s heroes are ordinary people, Russian citizens who live in a country that has survived two revolutions and the First World War. Their interests are focused on the bedroom, nursery, dining room, restaurant, friendly party and a little on politics. Laughing at them, Averchenko calls them cheerful oysters, hiding from life's storms and shocks in their shell - a small home world. They are reminiscent of those oysters from O. Henry's book "Kings and Cabbages", which buried themselves in the sand or sat quietly in the water, but were still eaten by the Walrus. And the country in which they live is similar to the ridiculous republic of Anchuria or Lewis Carroll’s fantastic Wonderland, through which Alice walks. After all, even the best intentions often turn into unpredictable disaster in Russia.

In the story "Blind" Averchenko appears under the guise of the writer Ave. Having switched places with the king, he becomes the ruler of the country for some time and issues a law that seems necessary to him - “on the protection of blind people” crossing the street. According to this law, a policeman is required to take a blind person by the hand and lead him across the road so that he does not get hit by cars. Soon Ave is awakened by the scream of a blind man who is being brutally beaten by a policeman. It turns out that he does this in accordance with the new law, which, having passed from the ruler to the policeman, began to sound like this: “Every blind person seen on the street should be grabbed by the collar and dragged to the police station, rewarded along the way with kicks and beaters.” Truly an eternal Russian problem: they wanted the best, but it turned out as always. With the police order prevailing in the country, any reform, according to the writer, will turn into disgusting.

First-person narration is Averchenko’s favorite technique, adding credibility to what is being told. He is easily recognizable in the stories “The Robber”, “The Scary Boy”, “Three Acorns”, “The Blown Boy”. This is him walking with friends along the shore of Crystal Bay in Sevastopol, hiding under a table in house No. 2 on Crafts Street, where he lived as a child; he eavesdrops on the conversations of adults behind a screen, talks with his sister's fiancé, who fools him by posing as a robber. But at the same time he creates a myth about the country of childhood, which is so different from the life of adults. And he is very sad at the thought that three little boys, who were close friends at school, will later turn into people far from each other, complete strangers. Following N. Gogol, who was his favorite writer, Averchenko advises children not to lose good feelings and intentions on the road to adulthood, to take with them from childhood all the best that they encountered along the way.

Averchenko’s books “Naughty people and mouthy people” (1914) and “About little ones for big ones” (1916) belong to the best examples of children's literature. In them, “red-cheeked humor” is combined with genuine lyricism and subtle insight into the world of a little person who is so uncomfortable and bored with living in this world. Averchenko's heroes are not at all like the well-bred noble children familiar to the reader from the works of L. Tolstoy and other classics of the 19th century. This is a clever boy, obsessed with the passion to change, a “man behind the screen”, spying on adults, a dreamer Kostya, who lies from morning to evening. The writer’s favorite image is a naughty child and inventor, similar to himself in childhood. He is capable of deceiving and lying, dreams of getting rich and becoming a millionaire. Even little Ninotchka is a business person, trying at all costs to find an adult job. It seems that this hero lives not at the beginning, but at the end of the 20th century.

Averchenko contrasts the freshness of perception, the touching purity and ingenuousness of children with the selfish, deceitful world of adults, where all values ​​have devalued - love, friendship, family, decency - where everything can be bought and sold. “If it were my choice, I would only recognize children as people,” the writer says confidentially. He assures that only children break out of a hateful way of life, from the measured and boring philistine life, and an adult is “almost completely a scoundrel.” However, sometimes even a scoundrel is capable of showing human feelings when he encounters children.

Current page: 1 (book has 52 pages in total)

Arkady Averchenko
Stories

Autobiography

Fifteen minutes before birth I did not know that I would appear on White light. I make this in itself a trivial instruction only because I want to get ahead of everyone else by a quarter of an hour. wonderful people, whose life with tedious monotony was described without fail from the moment of birth. Here you go.

When the midwife presented me to my father, he examined what I was like with the air of a connoisseur and exclaimed:

“I bet you a gold coin that it’s a boy!”

“Old fox! – I thought, smiling internally. “You’re playing for sure.”

From this conversation our acquaintance began, and then our friendship.

Out of modesty, I will be careful not to point out the fact that on my birthday the bells were rung and there was general popular rejoicing. Evil tongues connected this rejoicing with some great holiday that coincided with the day of my birth, but I still don’t understand what another holiday has to do with it?

Taking a closer look at my surroundings, I decided that my first duty was to grow up. I performed this with such care that when I was eight years old, I once saw my father taking my hand. Of course, even before this, my father had repeatedly taken me by the indicated limb, but previous attempts were nothing more than real symptoms of fatherly affection. In the present case, he, moreover, pulled a hat onto his and my heads - and we went out into the street.

-Where are the devils taking us? – I asked with the directness that has always distinguished me.

– You need to study.

- Very necessary! I do not want to study.

- Why?

To get rid of it, I said the first thing that came to mind:

- I am sick.

- What is hurting you?

I went through all my organs from memory and chose the most tender one:

- Hm... Let's go to the doctor.

When we arrived at the doctor's, I bumped into him and his patient and burned a small table.

“Boy, do you really not see anything?”

“Nothing,” I answered, hiding the tail of the phrase, which I finished in my mind: “... good in your studies.”

So I never studied science.

* * *

The legend that I was a sick, frail boy who could not study grew and strengthened, and most of all I cared about it myself.

My father, being a merchant by profession, did not pay any attention to me, since he was up to his neck busy with troubles and plans: how to go bankrupt as quickly as possible? This was the dream of his life, and, to be fair to him, the good old man achieved his aspirations in the most impeccable manner. He did this with the complicity of a whole galaxy of thieves who robbed his store, customers who borrowed exclusively and systematically, and fires that incinerated those of his father’s goods that were not stolen by thieves and customers.

Thieves, fires and buyers for a long time stood as a wall between me and my father, and I would have remained illiterate if the older sisters had not come up with a funny idea that promised them a lot of new sensations: to take up my education. Obviously, I was a tasty morsel, because because of the very dubious pleasure of illuminating my lazy brain with the light of knowledge, the sisters not only argued, but once even got into hand-to-hand combat, and the result of the fight - a dislocated finger - did not dampen the teaching ardor at all older sister Lyuby.

Thus, against the backdrop of family caring, love, fires, thieves and buyers, my growth took place and a conscious attitude towards the environment developed.

* * *

When I was 15 years old, my father, who sadly said goodbye to thieves, buyers and fires, once said to me:

- We must serve you.

“I don’t know how,” I objected, as usual, choosing a position that could guarantee me complete and serene peace.

- Nonsense! - the father objected. – Seryozha Zeltser is not older than you, but he is already serving!

This Seryozha was the biggest nightmare of my youth. A clean, neat little German, our housemate, Seryozha, from the very early age was set as an example for me as an example of restraint, hard work and accuracy.

“Look at Seryozha,” the mother said sadly. - The boy serves, deserves the love of his superiors, knows how to talk, behaves freely in society, plays the guitar, sings... And you?

Discouraged by these reproaches, I immediately went up to the guitar hanging on the wall, pulled the string, began to squeal some unknown song in a shrill voice, tried to “stay more freely,” shuffling my feet on the walls, but all this was weak, everything was second-rate. Seryozha remained out of reach!

“Seryozha is serving, but you haven’t served yet...” my father reproached me.

“Seryozha, maybe he eats frogs at home,” I objected, after thinking. - So will you order me?

- I’ll order it if necessary! - the father barked, banging his fist on the table. - Damn it! I'll make silk out of you!

As a man of taste, my father preferred silk of all materials, and any other material seemed unsuitable for me.

* * *

I remember the first day of my service, which I was supposed to start in some sleepy transport office for the transportation of luggage.

I got there almost at eight o’clock in the morning and found only one man, in a vest, without a jacket, very friendly and modest.

“This is probably the main agent,” I thought.

- Hello! - I said, shaking his hand tightly. - How's it going?

- Wow. Sit down, let's chat!

We smoked cigarettes in a friendly manner, and I started a diplomatic conversation about my future career, telling the whole story about myself.

“What, you idiot, haven’t even wiped off the dust yet?!”

The one I suspected was the chief agent jumped up with a cry of fright and grabbed a dusty rag. The bossy voice of the newcomer young man convinced me that I was dealing with the most important agent.

“Hello,” I said. - How do you live? Can you? (Sociability and secularism according to Seryozha Zeltser.)

“Nothing,” said the young master. – Are you our new employee? Wow! I am glad!

We got into a friendly conversation and didn’t even notice how a middle-aged man entered the office, grabbed the young gentleman by the shoulder and sharply shouted at the top of his lungs:

- So you, the devilish parasite, are preparing a register? I'll kick you out if you're lazy!

The gentleman, who I took to be the chief agent, turned pale, lowered his head sadly and wandered to his desk. And the chief agent sank into a chair, leaned back and began to ask me important questions about my talents and abilities.

“I’m a fool,” I thought to myself. “How could I not have figured out earlier what kind of birds my previous interlocutors were?” This boss is such a boss! It’s immediately obvious!”

At this time, a commotion was heard in the hallway.

“Look who’s there,” the chief agent asked me. I looked out into the hallway and reassuringly said:

- Some scruffy old man is taking off his coat. The ugly old man came in and shouted:

– It’s ten o’clock and none of you are doing a damn thing!! Will this ever end?!

The previous important boss jumped up in his chair like a ball, and the young gentleman, whom he had previously called a quitter, warned me in my ear:

– Chief Agent dragged along. That's how I started my service.

* * *

I served for a year, all the time most shamefully trailing behind Seryozha Zeltser. This young man received 25 rubles a month, when I received 15, and when I reached 25 rubles, they gave him 40. I hated him like some disgusting spider washed with fragrant soap...

At the age of sixteen, I parted with my sleepy transport office and left Sevastopol (I forgot to say - this is my homeland) to some coal mines. This place was the least suitable for me, and that’s why I probably ended up there on the advice of my father, who was experienced in everyday troubles...

It was the dirtiest and most remote mine in the world. The only difference between autumn and other seasons was that in autumn the mud was above the knees, and at other times - below.

And all the inhabitants of this place drank like cobblers, and I drank no worse than others. The population was so small that one person had a whole lot of positions and occupations. The cook Kuzma was at the same time both a contractor and a trustee of the mine school, the paramedic was a midwife, and when I first came to the most famous hairdresser in those parts, his wife asked me to wait a little, since her husband had gone to replace someone’s glass broken by the miners last night.

These miners (coal miners) also seemed to me to be a strange people: being, for the most part, escapees from hard labor, they did not have passports, and the absence of this indispensable accessory of a Russian citizen was poured out with a sad look and despair in their souls with a whole sea of ​​vodka.

Their whole life was such that they were born for vodka, worked and ruined their health with backbreaking work - for the sake of vodka and went to the next world with the closest participation and help of the same vodka.

One day before Christmas I was driving from the mine to the nearest village and saw a row of black bodies lying motionless along the entire length of my path; there were two or three every 20 steps.

- What it is? – I was amazed.

“And the miners,” the driver smiled sympathetically. - They bought gorilka near the village. For God's holiday.

- They didn’t report it that way. They wet the misty. Axis how!

So we drove past entire deposits of dead drunk people who apparently had such a weak will that they did not even have time to run home, surrendering to the scorching thirst that gripped their throats wherever this thirst overtook them. And they lay in the snow, with black, meaningless faces, and if I didn’t know the way to the village, I would have found it along these giant black stones scattered by the giant Thumb Boy all the way.

These people, however, were for the most part strong and seasoned, and the most monstrous experiments on their bodies cost them relatively little. They broke each other's heads, completely destroyed their noses and ears, and one daredevil once even took on a tempting bet (no doubt - a bottle of vodka) to eat a dynamite cartridge. Having done this, for two or three days, despite severe vomiting, he enjoyed the most careful and caring attention from his comrades, who were all afraid that he would explode.

After this strange quarantine passed, he was severely beaten.

Office employees differed from workers in that they fought less and drank more. All these were people, for the most part rejected by the rest of the world for mediocrity and inability to live, and thus, on our small island, surrounded by immeasurable steppes, the most monstrous company of stupid, dirty and untalented alcoholics, scum and scraps of the fastidious white world gathered.

Brought here by the giant broom of God's will, they all gave up on external world and began to live as God put in their souls. They drank, played cards, swore in cruel, desperate words, and in their intoxication sang something insistent and viscous and danced with sullen concentration, breaking the floors with their heels and spewing from weakened lips whole streams of blasphemy against humanity.

This was the fun side of mining life. Its dark sides consisted of hard labor, walking through the deepest mud from the office to the colony and back, as well as serving in the guardhouse under a whole series of outlandish protocols drawn up by a drunken police officer.

* * *

When the management of the mines was transferred to Kharkov, they took me there too, and I came to life in soul and became stronger in body...

For whole days I wandered around the city, pushing my hat on one side and independently whistling the most rollicking tunes that I overheard in the summer chants - a place that at first delighted me to the depths of my soul.

I worked in the office disgustingly and I still wonder why they kept me there for six years, lazy, looking at work with disgust and on every occasion engaging not only with the accountant, but also with the director in long, bitter disputes and polemics.

Probably because I was a cheerful person, joyfully looking at the wide world of God, who readily put aside work for laughter, jokes and a series of intricate anecdotes, which refreshed those around me, bogged down in work, boring accounts and squabbles.

* * *

My literary activity began in 1904, 1
In the “Autobiography”, which preceded the collection “Jolly Oysters” (1910), Averchenko’s first appearance in print is mistakenly dated to 1905. In the 24th edition of the collection from which the text is reproduced, the author himself corrects the date to 1904. In reality, 1903 is most likely.

And it was, as it seemed to me, a complete triumph.

Firstly, I wrote a story... Secondly, I took it to the “Southern Region”. And thirdly (I am still of the opinion that this is the most important thing in the story), thirdly, it was published!

For some reason I did not receive a fee for it, and this is all the more unfair since as soon as it was published, subscriptions and retail sales of the newspaper immediately doubled...

The same envious ones gossips, who tried to connect my birthday with some other holiday, also connected the fact of the rise in retail with the beginning of the Russian-Japanese War.

Well, yes, you and I, reader, know where the truth is...

Having written four stories in two years, I decided that I had done enough work to benefit native literature, and decided to take a thorough rest, but 1905 rolled up and, picking me up, spun me around like a piece of wood.

I began to edit the magazine "Bayonet", which had a big success, and completely abandoned the service... I feverishly wrote, drew cartoons, edited and proofread, and on the ninth issue I got to the point where Governor General Peshkov fined me 500 rubles, dreaming that I would immediately pay it out of my pocket money.

I refused for many reasons, the main ones being: lack of money and unwillingness to indulge the whims of a frivolous administrator.

Seeing my steadfastness (the fine was not replaced by imprisonment), Peshkov lowered the price to 100 rubles.

I refused.

We bargained like brokers, and I visited him almost ten times. He never managed to squeeze money out of me!

Then he, offended, said:

– One of us must leave Kharkov!

- Your Excellency! – I objected. – Let’s propose to the people of Kharkov: who will they choose?

Since I was loved in the city and even vague rumors reached me about the desire of citizens to perpetuate my image by erecting a monument, Mr. Peshkov did not want to risk his popularity.

And I left, having managed to publish 3 issues of the Sword magazine before leaving, which was so popular that copies of it can even be found in the Public Library.

* * *

I arrived in Petrograd just for the New Year.

There was illumination again, the streets were decorated with flags, banners and lanterns. But I won’t say anything! I'll keep quiet.

And so they sometimes reproach me for thinking about my merits more than is required by ordinary modesty. And I - I can give my word of honor - having seen all this illumination and joy, I pretended that I did not notice at all the innocent cunning and sentimental, simple-minded attempts of the municipality to brighten up my first visit to the big city. unfamiliar city... Modestly, incognito, he boarded a cab and drove incognito to the place of his new life.

And so I started it.

My first steps were connected with the magazine “Satyricon” that we founded, and to this day I love, like my own child, this wonderful, cheerful magazine (8 rubles a year, 4 rubles for six months).

His success was half my success, and I can proudly say now that a rare cultured person does not know our “Satyricon” (for a year 8 rubles, for six months 4 rubles).

At this point I am already approaching the last, immediate era of my life, and I will not say, but everyone will understand why I am silent at this point.

Out of sensitive, tender, painfully tender modesty, I fall silent.

* * *

I will not list the names of those persons who Lately They were interested in me and wanted to get to know me. But if the reader thinks about it real reasons arrival of the Slavic deputation, the Spanish infanta and President Fallier, then perhaps my modest personality, who stubbornly kept in the shadows, will receive a completely different light...

Busy Nation
Stories

At the restaurant

- Tricks! This is witchcraft! – I heard a phrase at the next table.

It was said by a gloomy man with a black, wet mustache and a glassy, ​​perplexed gaze.

A black wet mustache, hair that had slipped almost over his eyebrows, and a glassy gaze unshakably proved that the owner of the listed treasures was a fool.

He was a fool in the literal and clear sense of the word.

One of his interlocutors poured himself a beer, rubbed his hands and said:

- Nothing more than dexterity and dexterity of hands.

- This is witchcraft! – the black one stubbornly stood his ground, sucking his mustache.

The man who stood for dexterity of hands looked satirically at the third of the company and exclaimed:

- Fine! Do you want me to prove that there is no witchcraft here?

Black smiled gloomily.

- Are you, what’s his name... pre-sti-di-zhi-da-tor? 2
A magician who has developed extraordinary dexterity and speed of his fingers.

- Probably, if I say so! Well, would you like me to offer a bet of a hundred rubles that I can cut off all your buttons in five minutes and sew them on?

The black one tugged at his vest button for some reason and said:

- In five minutes? Cut and sew? It's incomprehensible!

- Quite understandable! Well, it goes - a hundred rubles?

- No, that's a lot! I only have five.

- But I don’t care... You can have less - would you like three bottles of beer?

Black winked venomously:

- But you will lose!

- Who am I? We'll see!..

He extended his hand and shook the thin fingers of the black man, and the third of the company spread his hands.

- Well, look at your watch and make sure it’s not more than five minutes!

We were all intrigued, and even the sleepy footman, who was sent for a plate and a sharp knife, lost his dazed look.

- One two Three! I'm starting!

The man who declared himself a magician took a knife, placed a plate, and cut off all the vest buttons into it.

– Is it on the jacket too?

- Of course!.. On the back, on the sleeves, near the pockets. Buttons clattered into the plate.

– I have it on my trousers too! – the black one said, writhing with laughter. - And on shoes!

- OK OK! Well, I want to heal some of your buttons?.. Don’t worry, everything will be cut off!

Since the upper dress had lost its restraining element, it became possible to switch to the lower one.

When the last buttons on his trousers fell off, the black one gloatingly put his feet on the table.

– The shoes have eight buttons. Let's see how you manage to sew them back.

The magician, no longer answering, feverishly worked with his knife.

He soon wiped his wet forehead and, placing a plate on the table on which, like unknown berries, lay multi-colored buttons and cufflinks, he grumbled:

- Ready, that's it!

The footman clasped his hands in admiration:

– 82 pieces. Clever!

- Now go get me a needle and thread! - the magician commanded. - Alive, well!

Their drinking companion waved them in the air for hours and suddenly slammed the lid.

- Late! Eat! Five minutes have passed. You lose! The one to whom this applied threw the knife in annoyance.

- Damn me! Lost!.. Well, there’s nothing to do!.. Man! Bring these gentlemen three bottles of beer at my expense and, by the way, tell me how much I should charge?

The black man turned pale:

-Where are you going? The magician yawned:

- On the side... I want to sleep like a dog. You'll get tired in a day...

- And the buttons... sew on?

- What? Why would I sew them on if I lost... I didn’t have time, my fault. The loss is set... All the best, gentlemen!

The black man stretched out his hands pleadingly for the departing man, and with this movement all his clothes fell off, like the shells of a hatched chicken. He shyly pulled his trousers back and blinked his eyes in horror.

- God! What will happen now? I don’t know what happened to him.

I left with the third of the company, who probably left the man without buttons.

Not knowing each other, we stood opposite each other on the street corner and laughed without words for a long time.

Gossip

The controller of the tea and powder department, Fyodor Ivanovich Aquinsky, went to the bathhouse, located two miles from the doghouse he hired, which only the heated imagination of the owner could consider a dacha...

Entering the bathhouse, Aquinas quickly undressed and, shuddering from the soft morning chill, carefully descended along the rickety, rickety ladder to the water. The bright sun, just washed by the predawn dew, cast faint warm reflections on the quiet water, like a mirror.

Some midge, not quite awake, flew headlong over the water itself and, barely touching it with its wing, caused slow, lazy circles that quietly spread across the surface.

Aquinas tested the temperature of the water with his bare foot and pulled away as if he had been burned. He bathed every day and every day for half an hour he gathered his courage, not daring to throw himself into the cold transparent moisture...

And he had just held his breath and stretched out his arms to jump absurdly, like a frog, when splashes of water and someone’s fuss were heard in the direction of the women’s bathing area.

Aquinas stopped and looked to the left.

From behind the gray partition, green at the bottom from the water, it appeared at first female hand, then the head and finally a plump, tall blonde in a blue bathing suit emerged. Her beautiful white face turned pink from the cold, and when she waved her hand strongly, like a man, a high lush breasts, slightly covered with blue material.

Aquinas, looking at her, for some reason sighed, patted his moth-eaten beard with his bare hand and said to himself:

“This is the wife of our customs officer bathing.” Wow, what a suit! I read that abroad, in some Riviera, both women and men swim together... What a thing!

When, after bathing, he pulled his pantaloons onto his skinny legs, he thought:

“Well, okay... let's say they bathe together... but what about undressing? So, no matter how you look at it, you need two rooms. They’ll make it up too!”

Arriving at the customs office, after the usual fuss in the warehouse, he sat down on a tea box and, asking his colleague Nitkin for a cigarette, took a puff of nasty cheap smoke with pleasure...

“I was swimming today, Nitkin, in the morning and I saw that our member Tarasikha was swimming out of the women’s bath... Well, I think she’ll see me and tell her husband... Laughter!” It was very close. But abroad, in the Riviera, they say that men and women swim together... Gee!.. I wish I could go!

When, half an hour after this conversation, Nitkin was drinking vodka in the archive with the clerks, he, putting a piece of ham on a slice of bread, said, without addressing anyone:

- That's the thing! Aquinas today swam in the river with the wife of our member Tarasova... He says that in some Riviera everyone is swimming together - both men and women. He says I’ll go to the Riviera. You’ll go, of course... You need money for this, my dear!

- From what! - the warehouse Nibelung intervened. - His aunt, they say, is rich; maybe I can get it from my aunt...

The secretary's steps were heard, and the entire lunch company, like mice, scattered in different sides.

And at lunch, the forwarder Portupeev, pouring borscht into a plate, said to his wife, a small, dry woman with prickly eyes and blue, sinewy hands:

- Here’s what’s going on, Petrovna, at our customs! Aquinas, so that he was empty, got ready to go to hell in the middle of nowhere to the Riviera and lured Tarasov’s wife with him... He takes money from his aunt! And Tarasikha swam with him today and told him that this is how it is done abroad... Hehe!

- Oh, shameless people! – Petrovna looked down chastely. - Well, we should go farther away, otherwise, they are starting debauchery here! But where should he go with her... She’s a healthy woman, and he’s like, ugh!

The next day, when the maid of the Tarasovs, who lived not far from the Portupeevs, came to Petrovna to ask as a neighbor for irons for her mistress’s skirts, Mrs. Portupeeva’s soul could not stand it:

– What, did the Riviera need ironed skirts?

- Oh, what are you talking about! Such words! – the maid grinned, rolling her eyes, interpreting Petrovna’s phrase in a completely unknown way.

- Well, yes! I suppose you don’t know... She paused mournfully.

- Ehma, our woman’s stupidity... And what did she find in him?

The maid, who still did not understand what was going on, widened her eyes...

- Yes, your Marya Grigorievna is good, there’s nothing to say! Sniffed with the warehouse rat Aquinas! Good lover! Yes, sir. They agreed to go to some stupid Riviera to go swimming, and he promised to get money from his aunt... He’ll get it, of course! He'll steal money from his aunt, that's all!

The maid clasped her hands.

– Is this true, Anisya Petrovna?

- I will lie to you. The whole city is buzzing about it.

- Oh, terrible!

The maid headlong, forgetting about the irons, rushed home and on the threshold of the kitchen ran into the member of the customs himself, who, without a frock coat or vest, was carrying water in a glass for the canary.

– What’s wrong with you, Miliktrisa Kirbitevna? - Tarasov sang, narrowing his eyes and taking the maid by the plump elbow. – You fly as if you are escaping from the ghosts of your ruined fans...

- Leave it! - snapped the maid, who did not stand on ceremony during these random tête-à-tête. 3
Here: date alone (French).

- You won’t always let me pass!.. It would be better if they looked after the lady more tightly than with their hands...

The plump, imperturbable face of the customs officer immediately acquired a completely different expression.

Mr. Tarasov belonged to that well-known type of husband who will not let a single pretty woman pass without pinching her, while at the same time yawning in the company of his wife until his jaws dislocate and trying at every opportunity to replace home inevitable screw or chemin de fer. 4
By railroad (French).

But, sensing some hint of his wife’s adultery, these meek, harmless people turn into Othello with those characteristics and deviations from this type that are imposed by dusty offices and public places.

Tarasov dropped the glass of water and again grabbed the maid by the elbow, but in a different way.

- What? What are you saying, you vile one? Say it again!!

Frightened by this unexpected transformation of a member of the customs, the maid blinked her eyes tearfully and looked down:

- Master, Pavel Efimovich, here’s a cross for you, I have nothing to do with it! My business side! And as the whole city is already saying, so that nothing happens to me after... They will say - you helped! And I’m like before the Lord!..

Tarasov drank water from a jug standing on the table, and, lowering his head, said:

– Tell me: with whom, how and when? The maid sensed the soil beneath her.

- Yes, all with this... rotten one! Fyodor Ivanovich... that last year he brought you crayfish as a gift... Here are the crayfish for you! And how cleverly they do it... Everything has already been agreed upon: he will steal money from his aunt’s chest of drawers - the aunt is rich - and they will go swimming together somewhere in the Riviera... What a shame, what a shame! We must think that they will move tomorrow with the evening train, my dears!..

* * *

Sitting at a rickety table a few steps from his doghouse, the inspector of the tea and loose leaf department, Aquinas, wrote something, tilting his head to the side and lovingly tracing out each word.

The tree under which the table stood ironically waved its dusty branches, and spots of light slid across the table, the paper and Aquinas’s gray head... His beard, as if glued on, moved in the wind, and general form seemed exhausted and lethargic.

It looked like someone, through negligence, forgot to pour mothballs into an unnecessary thing - Aquinas - and put it in a chest for the summer... The moths ate Aquinas.

He wrote:

“Dear auntie! I dare to inform you that I am in complete bewilderment... Why? I'm asking you. However, I’ll tell you how it happened... Yesterday, the inspector Sychevoy said, approaching my table, that a member of the customs, Mr. Tarasov, was asking for me, the same one to whom last year, out of zeal, I brought a hundred crayfish. I went without thinking anything, and, imagine, he told me so many strange and terrible things that I didn’t understand anything... First he says: “You,” he says, “Aquinas, it seems, are going to the Riviera?” - “No way.” , - I answer... And he screams: “So that’s how it is!!! Don't lie! “You,” he says, “have trampled on the most sacred laws of nature and marriage!” You are shaking the foundations!! You burst into a normal hearth and created a whirlpool in which - I warn you - you will choke!“ These are terrible learned people they say vaguely... Then about you, auntie... “You,” he says, “decided to rob your aunt... your old aunt, and this is shameful!” immoral!!“ How could he know that for the second month now I have not sent you the usual ten rubles for maintenance? As I already explained to you, this happened because I paid for the dacha in advance for the whole summer. Tomorrow I will try to send you two months in advance. But still, I don’t understand. It's a shame! Now I’m fired from service... And for what? Some foundations, a whirlpool... About family life What he said is completely incomprehensible! As you know, auntie, I’m not married...”

POET

“Mr. Editor,” the visitor told me, looking down at his shoes in embarrassment, “I’m very ashamed that I’m bothering you.” When I think that I am taking away a minute of your precious time, my thoughts plunge into the abyss of gloomy despair... For God's sake, forgive me!

“Nothing, nothing,” I said affectionately, “don’t apologize.”

He sadly hung his head on his chest.

- No, whatever... I know that I worried you. For me, who is not used to being annoying, this is doubly difficult.

- Don’t be shy! I am very happy. Unfortunately, your poems didn’t fit.

- These? Opening his mouth, he looked at me in amazement.

– These poems didn’t fit??!

- Yes Yes. These are the same ones.

– These poems??!! Beginning:

I wish she had a black curl
Scratch every morning
And so that Apollo does not get angry,
Kiss her hair...

These verses, you say, are not suitable?!

“Unfortunately, I must say that these particular poems will not work, and not any others.” Precisely those starting with words:

I wish she had a black lock...

- Why, Mr. Editor? After all, they are good.

- Agree. Personally, I had a lot of fun with them, but... they are not suitable for the magazine.

- Yes, you should read them again!

- But why? After all, I read.

- One more time!

To please the visitor, I read it one more time and expressed admiration with one half of my face and regret with the other that the poems would not be suitable after all.

- Hm... Then allow them... I'll read them! “I wish she had a black lock of hair...” I patiently listened to these verses again, but then said firmly and dryly:

- Poems are not suitable.

- Marvelous. You know what: I’ll leave you the manuscript, and you can read it later. Maybe it will do.

- No, why leave it?!

- Really, I’ll leave it. Would you like to consult someone, eh?

- No need. Keep them with you.

“I’m desperate that I’m taking up a second of your time, but...

- Goodbye!

He left, and I took up the book I was reading before. Having unfolded it, I saw a piece of paper placed between the pages.

“I wish she had a black curl
Scratch every morning
And so that Apollo does not get angry..."

- Oh, damn him! I forgot my nonsense... He will wander around again! Nikolai! Catch up with the man who was with me and give him this paper.

Nikolai rushed after the poet and successfully completed my instructions.

At five o'clock I went home for dinner.

While paying the cab driver, he put his hand in his coat pocket and felt some piece of paper there, which it is not known how it got into his pocket.

He took it out, unfolded it and read:

“I wish she had a black curl
Scratch every morning
And so that Apollo does not get angry,
Kiss her hair..."

Wondering how this thing got into my pocket, I shrugged, threw it on the sidewalk and went to lunch.

When the maid brought in the soup, she hesitated and came up to me and said:

“The chichas cook found a piece of paper with something written on it on the kitchen floor. Maybe it's necessary.

- Show me.

I took the piece of paper and read:

“I wish she had a black lo...”

I don't understand anything! You say in the kitchen, on the floor? The devil knows... Some kind of nightmare!

I tore the strange poems to shreds and sat down to dinner in a foul mood.

- Why are you so thoughtful? - asked the wife.

- I wish she had a black lo... Damn you! It's okay, honey. I'm tired.

During dessert, the doorbell rang in the hall and called me... The doorman stood in the doorway and mysteriously beckoned to me with his finger.

- What's happened?

– Shh... Letter to you! It was ordered to say that from one young lady... That they really hope for you and that you will satisfy their expectations!..

The doorman winked at me in a friendly manner and chuckled into his fist.

Perplexed, I took the letter and examined it. It smelled of perfume, was sealed with pink sealing wax, and when I opened it with a shrug, there was a piece of paper on which was written:

“I would like a black curl for her...”

Everything from the first to the last line.

In a rage, I tore the letter into shreds and threw it on the floor. My wife came forward from behind me and, in ominous silence, picked up several scraps of the letter.

-Who is this from?

- Drop it! This is so... stupid. One very annoying person.

- Yes? And what is it written here?.. Hm... “Kiss”... “every morning”... “black... curl...” Scoundrel!

Pieces of the letter flew into my face. It wasn't particularly painful, but it was annoying.

Since dinner was ruined, I got dressed and, sad, went to wander the streets. At the corner I noticed a boy near me, spinning around at my feet, trying to put something white, folded into a ball, into his coat pocket. I gave him a blow and, gnashing my teeth, ran away.

My soul was sad. After jostling around the noisy streets, I returned home and, on the threshold of the front doors, ran into a nanny who was returning from the cinema with four-year-old Volodya.

- Daddy! – Volodya shouted joyfully. - My uncle held me in his arms! A stranger... gave me a chocolate... gave me a piece of paper... Give it to dad, he says. Daddy, I ate some chocolate and brought you a piece of paper.

“I’ll whip you,” I shouted angrily, tearing out of his hands a piece of paper with the familiar words: “I wish I had a black curl for her...” “You’ll know from me!”

Golden age

Upon arrival in St. Petersburg, I went to see my old friend, reporter Stremglavo, and told him this:

Stremglavov! I want to be famous.

Stremglavov nodded his head approvingly, drummed his fingers on the table, lit a cigarette, twirled the ashtray on the table, dangled his leg - he always did several things at once - and answered:

Nowadays many people want to become famous.

“I’m not “much,” I modestly objected. - Vasiliev, so that they were Maksimychs and at the same time Kandybins - you don’t meet them, brother, every day. This is a very rare combination!

How long have you been writing? - asked Stremglavov.

What... am I writing?

Well, in general, you’re composing!

Yes, I don’t make anything up.

Yeah! This means a different specialty. Are you thinking of becoming Rubens?

“I have no hearing,” I confessed frankly.

What's the rumor?

To be this...what did you call him?.. A musician...

Well, brother, you are too much. Rubens is not a musician, but an artist.

Since I was not interested in painting, I could not remember all the Russian artists, which I stated to Stremglavo, adding:

I can draw laundry marks.

No need. Did you play on stage?

Played. But when I started declaring my love to the heroine, I got the tone as if I was demanding vodka for carrying the piano. The manager said that it would be better if I actually carried pianos on my back. And he kicked me out.

And you still want to become a celebrity?

Want. Don't forget that I can draw marks!

Stremglavov scratched the back of his head and immediately did several things: he took a match, bit off half, wrapped it in a piece of paper, threw it into the basket, took out his watch and, whistling, said:

Fine. We'll have to make you a celebrity. In part, you know, it’s even good that you mix Rubens with Robinson Crusoe and carry pianos on your back - it gives you a touch of spontaneity.

He patted me on the shoulder in a friendly manner and promised to do everything in his power.

The next day I saw this strange line in two newspapers in the “Art News” section:

"Kandybin's health is improving."

Listen, Stremglavov,” I asked when I arrived to see him, “why is my health getting better?” I wasn't sick.

This is how it should be,” said Stremglavo. - The first news that is reported about you should be favorable... The public loves it when someone gets better.

Does she know who Kandybin is?

No. But she is now interested in your health, and everyone will tell each other when they meet: “And Kandybin’s health is getting better.”

And if he asks: “Which Kandybin?”

He won't ask. He will only say: “Yes? And I thought he was worse.”

Stremglavov! After all, they will immediately forget about me!

They will forget. And tomorrow I’ll write another note: “In the health of our venerable...” What do you want to be: a writer? an artist?..

Maybe a writer.

- “The health of our venerable writer Kandybin has experienced a temporary deterioration. Yesterday he ate only one cutlet and two soft-boiled eggs. The temperature is 39.7.”

Don't you need a portrait yet?

Early. Excuse me, I have to go now to give a note about the cutlet.

And he, worried, ran away.

I followed my new life with feverish curiosity.

I recovered slowly but surely. The temperature dropped, the number of cutlets that found shelter in my stomach increased, and I risked eating not only soft-boiled eggs, but also hard-boiled ones.

Finally, I not only recovered, but even embarked on adventures.

“Yesterday,” one newspaper wrote, “a sad clash took place at the station, which could end in a duel. The famous Kandybin, outraged by the retired captain’s harsh review of Russian literature, gave the latter a slap in the face. The opponents exchanged cards.”

This incident caused a stir in the newspapers.

Some wrote that I should refuse any duel, since the slap did not contain an insult, and that society should protect Russian talents who are in their prime.

One newspaper said:

“The eternal story of Pushkin and Dantes is repeated in our country, full of inconsistencies. Soon, probably, Kandybin will expose his forehead to the bullet of some captain Ch *. And we ask - is this fair?

On the one hand - Kandybin, on the other - some unknown captain Ch * ".

“We are sure,” another newspaper wrote, “that Kandybin’s friends will not allow him to fight.”

A great impression was made by the news that Stremglanov (the writer’s closest friend) had sworn an oath, in the event of an unfortunate outcome of the duel, to fight Captain Ch* himself.

Reporters came to see me.

Tell me, they asked, what prompted you to slap the captain?

“But you read it,” I said. - He spoke harshly about Russian literature. The impudent one said that Aivazovsky was a mediocre scribbler.

But Aivazovsky is an artist! - the reporter exclaimed in amazement.

Doesn't matter. “Great names should be sacred,” I answered sternly.

Today I learned that Captain Ch* shamefully refused a duel, and I am leaving for Yalta.

When meeting with Stremglavov, I asked him:

What, you're tired of me, that you're throwing me away?

This is necessary. Let the audience take a little break from you. And then, this is gorgeous: “Kandybin goes to Yalta, hoping to finish the great work he started among the wonderful nature of the south.”

What thing did I start?

Drama "Edge of Death".

Entrepreneurs won't ask her for productions?

Of course they will. You will say that, having finished, you were dissatisfied with it and burned three acts. For the public this is spectacular!

A week later, I found out that an accident happened to me in Yalta: while climbing a steep mountain, I fell into a valley and dislocated my leg.

The long and tedious story of sitting on chicken cutlets and eggs began again.

Then I recovered and for some reason I went to Rome... My further actions suffered complete absence any consistency and logic.

In Nice I bought a villa, but did not stay in it, but went to Brittany to finish the comedy “At the Dawn of Life.” The fire of my house destroyed the manuscript, and therefore (a completely idiotic act) I purchased a piece of land near Nuremberg.

I was so tired of the senseless ordeals around the world and the unproductive waste of money that I went to Stremglavo and categorically stated:

Tired of it! I want it to be an anniversary.

What anniversary?

Twenty-five years old.

A lot of. You've only been in St. Petersburg for three months. Do you want a ten year old?

Okay, I said. - Ten years well spent are worth more than twenty-five years spent senselessly.

“You talk like Tolstoy,” Stremglalov cried admiringly.

Even better. Because I don’t know anything about Tolstoy, but he finds out about me.

Today I celebrated the tenth anniversary of my literary and scientific educational activities...

At a gala dinner, one venerable writer (I don’t know his last name) made a speech:

You were greeted as a bearer of the ideals of youth, as a singer of native sorrow and poverty - I will say only two words, but which are torn from the very depths of our souls: hello, Kandybin!

“Oh, hello,” I answered affably, flattered. - How are you?

Everyone kissed me.

Mosaic

I'm an unhappy person - that's what!

What nonsense?! I will never believe this.

I assure you.

You can assure me for a whole week, and still I will say that you are spouting the most desperate nonsense. What are you missing? You have an even, gentle character, money, a lot of friends and, most importantly, you enjoy the attention and success of women.

Peering with sad eyes into the unlit corner of the room, Korablev said quietly:

I am successful with women...

He looked at me from under his brows and said embarrassedly:

Do you know that I have six lovers?!

Are you saying there were six lovers? IN different time? I must admit, I thought it was more.

No, not at different times,” Korablev cried with unexpected animation in his voice, “not at different times!” I have them now! All!

I clasped my hands in amazement:

Korablev! Why do you need so much?

He lowered his head.

It turns out that there is no way to do less. Yes... Oh, if you only knew what a restless, troublesome thing this is... You need to keep in memory a whole series of facts, a lot of names, memorize all sorts of trifles, accidentally dropped words, dodge and every day, from the very morning, lying in bed, come up with a whole cart of subtle, cunning lies for the current day.

Korablev! Why... six?

He put his hand on his chest.

I must tell you that I am not a spoiled person at all. If I could find a woman to my liking, who would fill my whole heart, I would get married tomorrow. But a strange thing happens to me: I found my ideal woman not in one person, but in six. It's, you know, like a mosaic.

Mo-za-iki?

Well, yes, you know, this is made up of multi-colored pieces. And then the picture comes out. I own the beautiful one ideal woman, but pieces of it are scattered among six people...

How did this happen? - I asked in horror.

Yes so. You see, I am not the kind of person who, having met a woman, falls in love with her, not paying attention to the many negative things that are in her. I don't agree that love is blind. I have known such simpletons who fell madly in love with women for their beautiful eyes and silvery voice, not paying attention to too low a waist or big red hands. This is not how I act in such cases. I'm falling in love with beautiful eyes and a magnificent voice, but since a woman cannot exist without a waist and arms, I go in search of all this. I find a second woman - slender, like Venus, with charming hands. But she has a sentimental, whiny character. This may be good, but very, very rarely... What follows from this? That I must find a woman with a sparkling, wonderful character and broad spiritual scope! I’m going, looking... So there were six of them!

I looked at him seriously.

Yes, it really looks like a mosaic.

Is not it? Uniform. Thus, I have the best, perhaps, woman in the world, but if you knew how hard it is! How expensive it is for me!..

With a groan, he grabbed his hair with his hands and shook his head left and right.

I have to hang by a thread all the time. I have a bad memory, I am very absent-minded, and in my head there must be a whole arsenal of things that, if told to you, would lead you to amazement. True, I write down some things, but this only partially helps.

How do you record?

IN notebook. Want? I’m now having a moment of frankness, and I’m telling you everything without hiding. Therefore, I can show you my book. Just don't laugh at me.

I shook his hand.

I won't laugh. This is too serious... What kind of jokes are there!

Thank you. You see, I have marked the skeleton of the whole case in quite detail. Look: "Elena Nikolaevna. Even, kind character, wonderful teeth, slim. Sings. Plays the piano."

He scratched his forehead with the corner of the book.

You see, I really love music. Then, when she laughs, I get real pleasure; I love her very much! Here are the details: “Loves to be called Lyalya. Loves yellow roses. She likes fun and humor in me. Loves champagne. Ai. Religious. Beware of freely talking about religious issues. Beware of asking about her friend Kitty "Suspecting that Kitty's friend is not indifferent to me"…

Now further: “Kitty... A tomboy, capable of all sorts of pranks. Small in stature. Doesn’t like it when people kiss her on the ear. Screams. Be careful of kissing in front of strangers. Of your favorite flowers, hyacinths. Champagne. Only Rhine. Flexible as a vine. , wonderfully dance. match. Love. candied. chestnuts and hate. music. Beware of. music and mentions of Elena Nick. Suspicious."

Korablev raised his exhausted, suffering face from the book.

And so on. You see, I’m very cunning and evasive, but sometimes there are moments when I feel like I’m flying into the abyss... It often happened that I called Kitty “my only dear Nastya,” and asked Nadezhda Pavlovna so that the glorious Marusya would not forget her faithful lover. The tears that flowed after such incidents could have been usefully bathed in. Once I called Lyalya Sonya and avoided a scandal only by pointing out this word as a derivative of the word “sleep”. And although she was not the least bit sleepy, I defeated her with my truthfulness. Then I decided to call everyone Dusya, without a name, fortunately, around that time I had to meet a girl named Dusya (beautiful hair and tiny legs. Loves theatre. Hates cars. Beware of cars and mentions of Nastya .Suspected).

I paused.

Are they... faithful to you?

Certainly. Just like I do to them. And I love each of them in my own way for what is good about her. But six is ​​hard to the point of fainting. This reminds me of a person who, when going to dinner, has soup on one street, bread on another, and for salt he has to run to the far end of the city, returning again for roast and dessert in different directions. Such a person, just like me, would have to rush around the city like crazy all day long, be late everywhere, hear the reproaches and ridicule of passers-by... And in the name of what?!

I was depressed by his story. After a pause, he stood up and said:

Well, I have to go. Are you staying here at your place?

No,” answered Korablev, hopelessly looking at his watch. “Today at half past seven I need to spend the evening as promised at Elena Nikolaevna’s, and at seven at Nastya’s, who lives on the other side of the city.”

How will you manage?

I came up with an idea this morning. I’ll stop by Elena Nikolaevna for a minute and shower her with a hail of reproaches because last week her acquaintances saw her in the theater with some blond man. Since this is a complete fabrication, she will answer me in a sharp, indignant tone - I will be offended, slam the door and leave. I'll go to Nastya.

Talking to me in this way, Korablev took a stick, put on his hat and stopped, thoughtful, thinking about something.

What happened to you?

Silently he took the ruby ​​ring off his finger, hid it in his pocket, took out his watch, moved the hands and then began fiddling around near the desk.

What are you doing?

You see, here I have a photograph of Nastya, given to me with the obligation to always keep it on the table. Since Nastya is waiting for me at her place today and, therefore, will not come to see me in any way, I can hide the portrait in the table without any risk. You ask - why am I doing this? Yes, because the little tomboy Kitty might run up to me and, not finding me, want to write two or three words about her chagrin. Will it be good if I leave a portrait of my rival on the table? I’d better put Kitty’s card on this time.

What if it’s not Kitty who comes over, but Marusya... And suddenly she sees Kitty’s portrait on the table?

Korablev rubbed his head.

I’ve already thought about this... Marusya doesn’t know her by sight, and I’ll say that this is a portrait of my married sister.

Why did you take the ring off your finger?

This is Nastya's gift. Elena Nikolaevna once became jealous of this ring and made me promise not to wear it. I promised, of course. And now I take it off in front of Elena Nikolaevna, and when I have a meeting with Nastya, I put it on. In addition to this, I have to regulate the smell of my perfume, the color of my ties, move the hands of the clock, bribe doormen, cab drivers and remember not only all the words spoken, but also to whom they were spoken and for what reason.

“You are an unfortunate man,” I whispered sympathetically.

I told you so! Of course, unfortunate.

After parting with Korablev on the street, I lost sight of him for a whole month. Twice during this time I received strange telegrams from him:

“On the 2nd and 3rd of this month, we went with you to Finland.

Make sure you don't make a mistake. When you meet Elena, tell her this."

“You have a ring with a ruby. You gave it to the jeweler to make the same one. Write about this to Nastya. Be careful. Elena.”

Obviously, my friend was constantly boiling in that terrible cauldron that he had created to please his ideal of a woman; Obviously, all this time he was rushing around the city like crazy, bribing doormen, juggling rings, portraits and keeping that strange, ridiculous accounting, which only saved him from the collapse of the entire enterprise.

Having met Nastya once, I casually mentioned that I had borrowed a beautiful ring from Korablev, which was now at the jeweler’s, to make another one just like it.

Nastya blossomed.

Is it true? So is this true? Poor thing... It was in vain that I tormented him so much. By the way, you know - he is not in the city! He went to visit his relatives in Moscow for two weeks. ...

I didn’t know this, and in general I was sure that this was one of Korablev’s complex accounting techniques; but still immediately considered it his duty to hastily exclaim:

How, how! I'm sure he's in Moscow.

Soon, however, I learned that Korablev was really in Moscow and that a terrible misfortune happened to him there. I learned about this after Korablev’s return, from him himself.

How did this happen?

God knows! I can't imagine. Apparently the crooks took the wallet instead. I made publications, promised big money - all in vain! I am now completely lost.

Can't you reconstruct it from memory?

Yes... try it! After all, there was, in this book, everything down to the smallest detail - whole literature! Moreover, during the two weeks of absence, I forgot everything, everything was confused in my head, and I don’t know whether I should now bring Marusa a bouquet of yellow roses, or whether she can’t stand them? And to whom did I promise to bring Lotus perfume from Moscow - Nastya or Elena? I promised some of them perfume, and some half a dozen gloves number six and a quarter... Or maybe five and three quarters? To whom? Who will throw perfume at my face? And who are the gloves? Who gave me a tie with the obligation to wear it on dates? Sonya? Or Sonya, precisely, demanded that I never wear this dark green rubbish, donated by - “I know who!” Which of them has never been to my apartment? And who was there? And whose photos should I hide? And when?

He sat with indescribable despair in his eyes. My heart sank.

Poor thing! - I whispered sympathetically. - Let me, maybe I’ll remember something... The ring was given to me by Nastya. So, “beware of Elena”... Then the cards... If Kitty comes, then Marusya can be hidden, since she knows her, but Nastya cannot be hidden? Or not - should I hide Nastya? Which one of them passed for your sister? Which of them knows whom?

“I don’t know,” he groaned, squeezing his temples. - I don’t remember anything! Eh, damn! Come what may.

He jumped up and grabbed his hat.

I'm going to see her!

Take off the ring, I advised.

Not worth it. Marusya is indifferent to the ring.

Then wear a dark green tie.

If i knew! If only I knew who gave it and who hates it... Eh, it doesn’t matter!.. Goodbye, friend.

I was worried all night, fearing for my unfortunate friend. The next morning I visited him. Yellow, exhausted, he sat at the table and wrote some kind of letter.

Well? What, how are you?

He shook his hand wearily in the air.

Everything is over. Everything died. I'm almost alone again!..

What happened?

Something bad happened, it makes no sense. I wanted to act at random... I grabbed my gloves and went to Sonya. “Here, my dear Lyalya,” I said affectionately, “is what you wanted to have! By the way, I took tickets to the opera. We’ll go, do you want? I know it will give you pleasure...” She took the box and threw it into the corner and, falling face down on the sofa, began to sob. “Go,” she said, “to your Lyala and give her this rubbish. By the way, with her you can listen to that disgusting operatic cacophony that I hate so much.” - “Marusya,” I said, “this is a misunderstanding!..” - “Of course,” she shouted, “a misunderstanding, because since childhood I have not been Marusya, but Sonya! Get out of here!” From her I went to Elena Nikolaevna... I forgot to take off the ring that I promised to destroy her, I brought candied chestnuts, which made her sick and which, according to her, her friend Kitty loves so much... I asked her: “Why does my Kitty have such sad eyes ?..”, babbled, confused, something about the fact that Kitty is a derivative of the word “sleep”, and, expelled, rushed to Kitty to save the wreckage of his well-being. Kitty had guests... I took her behind the curtain and, as usual, kissed her on the ear, which caused a scream, noise and a heavy scandal. Only later did I remember that it was worse for her sharp knife... Ear. If you kiss him...

What about the rest? - I asked quietly.

There are two left: Marusya and Dusya. But this is nothing. Or almost nothing. I understand that you can be happy with a whole harmonious woman, but if this woman is cut into pieces, giving you only legs, hair, a pair of vocal cords and beautiful ears - will you love these scattered dead pieces?.. Where is the woman? Where is the harmony?

How so? - I cried.

Yes, so... From my ideal all that is left now are two tiny legs, hair (Dusya) yes good voice with a pair of beautiful ears that drove me crazy (Marusya). That's all.

What are you planning to do now?

A glimmer of hope shone in his eyes.

What? Tell me, dear, who were you with at the theater the day before yesterday? So tall, with wonderful eyes and a beautiful, flexible figure.

I thought about it.

Who?.. Oh yes! It was me with my cousin. Wife of an insurance company inspector.

Cute! Introduce me!

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Copyright: Arkady Averchenko