Nadezhda Teffi - Humorous stories (collection). Read teffi, stories

The story “Russian in Europe” from the collection “A Dozen Knives in the Back of the Revolution” was written by the “king of laughter” and the “Russian Mark Twain” Arkady Averchenko in 20-21 years of the last century. A collection of poisonous stories by an ardent opponent of Soviet power was published in Paris in 1921 and first reprinted with abbreviations in the magazine “Yunost”, No. 8, 1989.

“A Dozen Knives in the Back of the Revolution” - cover of the first Paris edition.

Russian in Europe

In the summer of 1921, when all “this” was already over, a very motley group gathered for afternoon coffee in the Kursaal of a foreign resort: there were Greeks, French, and Germans, there were Hungarians, and Englishmen, there was even one Chinese... .

The conversation was good-natured, after dinner.

You seem to be English? - the Frenchman asked the tall, shaven gentleman. - I adore your nation: you are the most efficient, smart people in the world.

After you,” the Englishman bowed with purely Gallic courtesy. - The French did miracles during the last war... In the chest of a Frenchman is the heart of a lion.

“You Japanese,” said the German, puffing on a cigar, “amazed and continue to amaze us Europeans.” Thanks to you, the word “Asia” has ceased to be a symbol of savagery, lack of culture...

It’s not for nothing that they call us “Germans of the Far East,” the Japanese answered with a modest smile, and the German flushed with pleasure like a bunch of straw.

In another corner the Greek pushed and pushed and finally said:

You are wonderful people, Hungarians!

How? - the Hungarian was sincerely surprised.

Well, of course... You dance the Hungarian dance well. And once I bought myself a Hungarian cloth jacket, embroidered with all sorts of things. Worn well! Wine again; cutting into Hungarian is the most sacred thing.

And you Greeks are good.

What are you saying?! How?

Well... in general. Such nice people. Classical. Olives too. All sorts of Pericles.

And at the side of the table sat one silent bearded man and, lowering his wild head on the palms of his hands, was silent in sad concentration.

The amiable Frenchman had been looking at him for a long time. Finally, I couldn’t resist and touched his broad shoulder:

You are probably Monsieur, a Turk? In my opinion, one of the best nations in the world!

No, not Turkish.

And who, dare I ask?

Yes, in general, a newcomer. Actually, why do you need it?

Extremely interesting to know.

I am russian!!

When, on a quiet, dozing summer day, a gust of wind suddenly breaks out of somewhere and blows in, how the tops of the trees sway and rustle in fear and concern, how birds that have fallen silent from the heat fidget and chirp restlessly, what alarming ripples suddenly appear in the mirror-like sleeping pond!

In the same way, the Hungarian, French, and Japanese heads began to sway and began to chirp in concern and surprise; in the same way, the hitherto smooth, mirror-calm faces became ripples of a thousand different sensations mutually struggling with each other.

Russian? What are you saying? Real?

Kids! Alfred, Madeleine! You wanted to see a real Russian - watch it soon! Here he is, you see, sitting

Poor fellow!

Poor guy, I took out my wallet twice when I was paying. Put it in your trouser pockets, or what?

Look, there's a Russian sitting there.

Where where?! Listen, won't he throw a bomb at us?

Maybe he's hungry, gentlemen, and you're angry at him. Do you think it’s convenient to offer him money?

The Frenchman shook his hand sympathetically, but with a slight tinge of fear, the Japanese affectionately stroked his shoulder with secret condolences in his narrow eyes, some offered him a cigar, some buttoned his shirt tighter. The caring mother, grabbing the crying Alfred and Madeleine by the hands, puffing like a tugboat, dragged them home.

Did the Bolsheviks torment you a lot? - asked the kind Japanese.

Tell me, is it true that they ate dogs and rats in Moscow?

Explain why the Russian people overthrew Nicholas and chose Lenin and Trotsky? Were they any better?

What is a bribe? Is it a drink or a dance?

Is it true that your safes were opened? Or, I think, this is one of the thousands of fables spread by the enemies of Russia... Is it true that if a Russian worker sings “The Internationale,” he will immediately begin to hang a passerby in a starched shirt and glasses from a lamppost?

Is it true that some Russians bought a pound of sugar for fifty rubles and sold it for a thousand?

Tell me, are the Council of People's Commissars and the Economic Council dangerous diseases? Is it true that a monument to the robber Razin was erected on the main square?

But, I heard that the bourgeois classes have a secret terrible habit, having caught a worker, bite through his artery and drink warm blood until...

Burning!! - the Russian suddenly shouted, slamming his half-pound fist on the table.

What's burning? Where? My God... And here we are sitting...

My soul is on fire! Guilt!! Hey, waiter, chamberriere, six - how are you?! Grab more wine! I'm treating everyone!! Will you understand the melancholy of my soul?! Will you be able to look into the abyss of the chaotic, primordial Slavic soul? Give everyone a glass. Eh-ma! “I’ll die and be buried like I never lived.”...

The dark blue twilight was gathering.

The Russian, scary, disheveled, holding a bottle of Pommery Sec in one hand and threatening the foreign sky with the fist of his other hand, said:

You sympathize, you say? And I can’t sneeze at your such foreign sympathy!! Do you think that you are everything to me, all of you, how many of you there are, cost little in blood, took little of my life? You German mug, who from Zimmerwald did you send me? (...from Zimmerwald... - a village in Switzerland where international conferences of political parties were held. This refers to the Zimmerwald Association, from which Lenin’s “left wing” of the Social Democratic Party separated in 1917. - note by “Elected” ") Is this how they fight? And you, paddling pool, there... “My ami, yes my ami, bon da bon,” and you yourself took Crimea and gave Odessa to the Bolsheviks. Is this a bond matter? Is this fraternite? How can I forget? And can I forget how you sent your big-nosed Chinese devils - to ruin our Kremlin, to ruin our dear... dear Russia, huh? And the Hungarian... you’re good too: you should be selling mousetraps and dancing the Hungarian dance, but you got involved in socialist revolutions, Bela Kunov (Kun Bela (1886–1939) - leader of the Hungarian and international communist movement. Organizer of the executions of Russian officers in Crimea. Shot in the USSR in 1939 - note of the “Chosen One”), damn them, put them on thrones... huh? Oh, I feel bitter with you, oh, I feel sick... You can drink my wine with me as much as you like, but can you understand my darling?! It's burning inside, brothers! I buried my youth, my joy in the damp earth... “I’ll die, they’ll bury me like I never lived in the world!” ........................................

And for a long time in the empty Kurhaus, when everyone gradually, on tiptoe, dispersed, the groans and sobs of a half-drunk, lonely man could be heard for a long time, incomprehensible, humiliated in his true sober state and even more incomprehensible in his drunken state... And for a long time he lay there, an unsolved, restless soul, lay with his head on his weakened hands until the head waiter approached:

Mister... Here's the score.

- What? Please! Russian people must pay for everyone! Get it in full.

From: Arkady Averchenko, “A Dozen Knives in the Back of the Revolution”, Paris, 1921

Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi spoke about herself to the nephew of the Russian artist Vereshchagin, Vladimir: “I was born in St. Petersburg in the spring, and as you know, our St. Petersburg spring is very changeable: sometimes the sun shines, sometimes it rains. That’s why I, like on the pediment of an ancient Greek theater, have two faces: a laughing one and a crying one.”

Teffi's writing life was surprisingly happy. Already by 1910, having become one of the most popular writers in Russia, she is published in large and most famous newspapers and magazines of St. Petersburg, her collection of poems “Seven Lights” (1910) received a positive review from N. Gumilyov, Teffi’s plays are shown in theaters, one after another, collections of her stories are published. Teffi's witticisms are on everyone's lips. Her fame is so wide that even Teffi perfume and Teffi candy appear.

Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi.

At first glance, it seems as if everyone understands what a fool is and why the stupider the fool, the rounder he is.

However, if you listen and look closely, you will understand how often people make mistakes, mistaking the most ordinary stupid or stupid person for a fool.

What a fool, people say. “He always has trifles in his head!” They think that a fool ever has trifles in his head!

The fact of the matter is that a real complete fool is recognized, first of all, by his greatest and most unshakable seriousness. The smartest person can be flighty and act rashly; a fool constantly discusses everything; having discussed it, he acts accordingly and, having acted, knows why he did it this way and not otherwise.

Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi.

People are very proud that lies exist in their everyday life. Its black power is glorified by poets and playwrights.

“The darkness of low truths is dearer to us than the deception that elevates us,” thinks a traveling salesman, posing as an attaché at the French embassy.

But, in essence, a lie, no matter how great, or subtle, or clever it is, it will never go beyond the framework of the most ordinary human actions, because, like all such, it comes from a reason! and leads to the goal. What's unusual here?

Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi.

In relation to us, we divide all people into “us” and “strangers”.

Ours are those about whom we probably know how old they are and how much money they have.

The years and money of strangers are completely and forever hidden from us, and if for some reason this secret is revealed to us, strangers will instantly turn into our own, and this last circumstance is extremely unfavorable for us, and here’s why: they consider it their duty to certainly smear the truth in your eyes -uterus, while strangers must delicately lie.

The more a person has of his own, the more bitter truths he knows about himself and the harder it is for him to live in the world.

For example, you will meet a stranger on the street. He will smile at you warmly and say:

Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi.

This, of course, happens quite often that a person, having written two letters, seals them, mixing up the envelopes. All sorts of funny or unpleasant stories come out of this later.

And since this happens most of the time. people who are absent-minded and frivolous, then they, somehow in their own, frivolous way, get out of a stupid situation.

But if such a misfortune hits a family-oriented, respectable person, then there’s not much fun in that.

Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi.

It was a long time ago. This was about four months ago.

We sat on the balmy southern night on the banks of the Arno.

That is, we weren’t sitting on the shore - where to sit there: damp and dirty, and indecent, but we were sitting on the hotel balcony, but that’s how they say it for the sake of poetry.

The company was mixed - Russian-Italian.

Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi.

A demonic woman differs from an ordinary woman primarily in her manner of dressing. She wears a black velvet cassock, a chain on her forehead, a bracelet on her leg, a ring with a hole “for potassium cyanide, which will certainly be brought to her next Tuesday,” a stiletto behind her collar, a rosary on her elbow, and a portrait of Oscar Wilde on her left garter.

She also wears ordinary items of ladies' clothing, but not in the place where they are supposed to be. So, for example, a demonic woman will allow herself to put a belt only on her head, an earring on her forehead or neck, a ring on her thumb, and a watch on her foot.

At the table, the demonic woman does not eat anything. She never eats anything at all.

Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi.

Ivan Matveich, sadly parting his lips, watched with submissive melancholy as the doctor's hammer, springing elastically, clicked his thick sides.

“Yes,” said the doctor and walked away from Ivan Matveich. “You can’t drink, that’s what.” Do you drink a lot?

One drink before breakfast and two before lunch. “Cognac,” the patient answered sadly and sincerely.

Nope. All this will have to be abandoned. Look where your liver is. Is this possible?

a wise man

Skinny, long, narrow head, bald, wise expression.

He speaks only on practical topics, without jokes, jokes, or smiles. If he smiles, it will certainly be ironic, pulling the corners of his mouth down.

He occupies a modest position in emigration: he peddles perfumes and herrings. Perfume smells like herrings, and herrings smell like perfume.

Trading poorly. Convinces unconvincingly:

Are the perfumes bad? It's so cheap. For this very perfume in the store you will pay sixty francs, but I have nine. But they smell bad, so you sniff it quickly. And this is not what a person gets used to.

What? Does herring smell like cologne? It doesn't harm her taste. Not much. The Germans say they eat such cheese that it smells like a dead person. Nothing. They are not offended. Will you feel nauseous? I don't know, no one complained. No one died from nausea either. Nobody complained that they were dying.

He's grey, with red eyebrows. Red and moving. He loved to talk about his life. I understand that his life is an example of meaningful and correct actions. As he talks, he teaches and at the same time shows distrust of your intelligence and sensitivity.

Our surname is Vuryugin. Not Voryugin, as many allow themselves to joke, but Vuryugin, from a completely unknown root. We lived in Taganrog. They lived in such a way that no Frenchman, even in his imagination, could have such a life. Six horses, two cows. Vegetable garden, land. My father ran a shop. What? Yes, everything happened. If you want a brick, get a brick. If you want vegetable oil, have some oil. If you want a sheepskin coat, get a sheepskin coat. There was even a ready-made dress. Yes what! It’s not like here - I’ve been vilified for a year, everything will become shiny. We had such materials as we never dreamed of here. Strong, with pile. And the styles are clever, wide, any artist can wear them - he can’t go wrong. Fashionable. Here, when it comes to fashion, I must say, they are rather weak. We put out brown leather boots in the summer. Ahah! in all the stores, ah-ah, the latest fashion. Well, I walk around, look, but just shake my head. I wore boots just like these twenty years ago in Taganrog. Look when. Twenty years ago, and fashion has only just arrived here. Fashionistas, nothing to say.

And how do the ladies dress? Did we really wear such cakes on our heads? Yes, we would be ashamed to go out in front of people with such a flatbread. We dressed fashionably, chicly. But here they have no idea about fashion.

They're bored. It's terribly boring. Metro and cinema. In Taganrog, would we wander around the metro like that? Several hundred thousand travel on the Paris metro every day. And you will assure me that they are all traveling on business? Well, you know, as they say, lie, but don’t lie. Three hundred thousand people a day, and everything is on point! Where are these things of theirs? How do they show themselves? In trade? Trade, excuse me, is stagnant. The work is also, excuse me, stagnant. So where, one wonders, are the things that cause three hundred thousand people to rush around the subway day and night, their eyes wide open? I’m surprised, in awe, but I don’t believe it.

In a foreign land, of course, it’s hard and you don’t understand a lot. Especially for a lonely person. Of course, you work during the day, but in the evenings you just go wild. Sometimes you go to the sink in the evening, look at yourself in the mirror and say to yourself:

“Vuryugin, Vuryugin! Are you a hero and a handsome man? Are you a trading house? And are you six horses, and are you two cows? Your life is lonely, and you have withered like a flower without a root.”

And now I have to tell you that I decided to somehow fall in love. As they say, it’s decided and signed. And there lived on our stairs in our Trezor hotel a young lady, very sweet and even, between us, pretty. Widow. And she had a five-year-old boy, a nice one. He was a very nice boy.

Wow, the lady made a little money by sewing, so she didn’t complain too much. And you know - our refugees - you invite her to drink tea, and she, like a thin accountant, just counts and recalculates everything: “Oh, they didn’t pay fifty there, but here they didn’t pay sixty, and the room is two hundred a month, and the metro costs three francs.” in a day". They count and subtract - the melancholy takes over. With a lady, it’s interesting that she says something nice about you, and not about her scores. Well, this lady was special. Everyone hums something, although she is not frivolous, but, as they say, with demands, with an approach to life. She saw that I had a button hanging by a thread on my coat, and immediately, without saying a word, she brought a needle and sewed it on.

Well, you know, further - more. I decided to fall in love. And a nice boy. I like to take everything seriously. And especially in a case like this. You need to be able to reason. I had no trifles in my head, but a legal marriage. He asked, among other things, if she had her own teeth. Even though she’s young, anything can happen. There was one teacher in Taganrog. She was also young, and then it turned out that she had a false eye.

Well, that means I’m taking a closer look at my lady and I’ve really weighed everything.

You can get married. And then one unexpected circumstance opened my eyes that I, as a decent and conscientious person, I will say more - a noble person, cannot marry her. Just think about it? - such an insignificant, seemingly insignificant incident, but it turned my whole life upside down.

And this is how it happened. We were sitting with her one evening, very cozy, remembering what kind of soups they had in Russia. They counted fourteen, but forgot about the peas. Well, it became funny. That is, of course she laughed, I don’t like to laugh. I was rather annoyed by the memory defect. So, we are sitting, remembering our former power, and the boy is right there.

Give me, - he says, - maman, caramel.

And she answers:

You can't do more, you've already eaten three.

And he whines - give it, give it.

And I say, nobly joking:

Come here, I'll spank you.

And she tell me the fatal point:

Well, where are you! You are a soft person, you won’t be able to spank him.

And then an abyss opened up at my feet.

Given my character, it is absolutely impossible to take on the upbringing of a baby at just the age when their brother is supposed to be torn. I can't take it upon myself. Will I ever get over it? No, I can't stand it. I don't know how to fight. And what? To destroy a child, the son of a beloved woman.

Excuse me, I say, Anna Pavlovna. Sorry, but our marriage is a utopia in which we will all drown. Because I cannot be your son’s real father and educator. Not only that, but I can’t rip it out even once.

I spoke very restrainedly, and not a single fiber on my face twitched. Perhaps the voice was slightly suppressed, but I can vouch for the fiber.

She, of course, - ah! Oh! Love and all that, and there’s no need to tear the boy down, he’s good enough anyway.

Good, I say, good, but it will be bad. And please don't insist. Be firm. Remember that I can't fight. You shouldn't play with your son's future.

Well, she, of course, the woman, of course, screamed that I was a fool. But the matter ended up falling apart, and I don’t regret it. I acted nobly and, for the sake of my own blindness of passion, did not sacrifice the young body of a child.

I pulled myself together completely. I gave her a day or two to calm down and came to explain sensibly.

Well, of course, a woman cannot perceive it. Charged "fool yes fool." Completely unfounded.

And so the story ended. And I can say - I’m proud. I forgot quite quickly, because I consider all sorts of memories unnecessary. For what? Should I pawn them at a pawnshop?

Well, after thinking about the situation, I decided to get married. Just not in Russian, sir. You must be able to reason. Where do we live? I ask you directly - where? In France. And since we live in France, that means we need to marry a French woman. I started looking.

I have a French friend here. Musyu Emelyan. Not exactly French, but he’s lived here for a long time and knows all the rules.

Well, this guy introduced me to one young lady. He works at the post office. Nice one. Just, you know, I look, and she has a very pretty figure. Thin, long. And the dress fits like a glove.

“Hey, I think it’s rubbish!”

No, I say, this one doesn’t suit me. I like it, there are no words, but you have to be able to reason. Such a thin, foldable girl can always buy herself a cheap dress - for seventy-five francs. But I bought a dress - but here you can’t hold it at home with your teeth. He will go dancing. Is this good? Am I getting married so that my wife can dance? No, I say, find me a model from another edition. More tightly. - And you can imagine - she was quickly found. It’s a small model, but it’s kind of, you know, a small tamper, and, as they say, you can’t buy back fat. But, in general, wow and also an employee. Don't think it's some kind of sledgehammer. No, she has curls and curls, and everything, just like the skinny ones. Only, of course, you can’t get a ready-made dress for her.

Having discussed and thought about all this, it means that I opened up to her, as I should, and marched to the mayor's office1.

And about a month later she asked for a new dress. I asked for a new dress, and I very willingly say:

Of course, will you buy something ready-made?

Here she blushed slightly and answered casually:

I don't like ready-made ones. They don't fit well. It’s better to buy me some blue material and let’s have it sewn.

I kiss her very willingly and go shopping. It’s like I’m buying the wrong color by mistake. It looks like dun, like horses are.

She was a little confused, but thanked her. It’s impossible - the first gift is easy to push away. He also understands his line.

And I am very happy about everything and recommend the Russian dressmaker to her. I knew her for a long time. She tore more expensively than a French woman, and she sewed so hard that you can't help but spit and whistle. I sewed a collar onto one client’s sleeve, and even argued about it. Well, this same couture sewed a dress for my lady. Well, you don’t need to go straight to the theater, it’s so funny! A dun chick, and that’s all. She, poor thing, tried to cry, and redid it, and repainted it - nothing helped. So the dress hangs on a nail, and the wife sits at home. She is French, she understands that you can’t make dresses every month. Well, we live a quiet family life. And very pleased. And why? But because you need to be able to reason.

Taught her how to cook cabbage rolls.

Happiness also does not come into your own hands. You need to know how to tackle it.

And everyone, of course, would like to, but not everyone can.

Virtuoso of feelings

The most interesting thing about this man is his posture.

He is tall, thin, and has a bare eagle head on his outstretched neck. He walks in the crowd with his elbows apart, swaying slightly at the waist and looking around proudly. And since at the same time he is usually taller than everyone else, it seems as if he is sitting astride a horse.

He lives in exile on some "crumbs", but, in general, not bad and neat. He rents a room with the right to use the salon and kitchen and loves to prepare his own special stewed pasta, which greatly captures the imagination of the women he loves.

His last name is Gutbrecht.

Lizochka met him at a banquet in favor of “cultural beginnings and continuations.”

He apparently mapped it out even before he was seated. She clearly saw how he, having galloped past her three times on an invisible horse, gave spurs and galloped to the manager and explained something to him, pointing at her, Lizochka. Then both of them, the rider and the manager, spent a long time looking at the tickets with their names laid out on plates, made some wise decisions, and in the end Lizochka turned out to be Gutbrecht’s neighbor.

Gutbrecht immediately, as they say, took the bull by the horns, that is, he squeezed Liza’s hand near the elbow and said to her with a quiet reproach:

Expensive! Well, why? Well, why not?

At the same time, his eyes became clouded underneath with a rooster film, so that Lizochka even got scared. But there was nothing to be afraid of. This technique, known to Gutbrecht as “number five” (“I work as number five”), was simply called “rotten eyes” among his friends.

Look! Gut has already used his rotten eyes!

He, however, instantly released Liza’s hand and said in the calm tone of a secular man:

We will start, of course, with herring.

And suddenly he turned his rotten eyes again and whispered in a voluptuous whisper:

God, how good she is!

And Lizochka didn’t understand who this was referring to - her or the herring, and she couldn’t eat from embarrassment.

Then the conversation began.

When we go to Capri, I will show you an amazing dog cave.

Lizochka was trembling. Why should she go to Capri with him? How amazing this gentleman is!

A tall plump lady of the caryatid type sat diagonally from her. Beautiful, majestic.

To divert the conversation away from the dog cave, Lizochka praised the lady:

Really, how interesting?

Gutbrecht turned his bare head contemptuously, turned away just as contemptuously and said:

Wow little face.

This “face” so surprisingly did not fit the lady’s majestic profile that Lizochka even laughed.

He pursed his lips into a bow and suddenly blinked like an offended child. He called it “doing a little thing.”

Babe! You're laughing at Vovochka!

Which Vovochka? - Lizochka was surprised.

Above me! I'm Vovochka! - the eagle's head pouted, pouting.

How strange you are! - Lizochka was surprised. “You’re old, but you act like a little kid.”

I am fifty years old! - Gutbrecht said sternly and blushed. He was offended.

Well, yes, that’s what I’m saying, you’re old! - Lizochka was sincerely perplexed.

Gutbrecht was also perplexed. He took six years off himself and thought “fifty” sounded very young.

“Darling,” he said and suddenly switched to “you.” - Darling, you are deeply provincial. If I had more time, I would take up your development.

Why are you suddenly talking... - Lizochka tried to be indignant.

But he interrupted her:

Be quiet. Nobody can hear us.

And he added in a whisper:

I myself will protect you from slander.

“I wish this lunch would end soon!” - thought Lizochka.

But then some speaker spoke, and Gutbrecht fell silent.

I live a strange but deep life! - he said when the speaker fell silent. - I devoted myself to the psychoanalysis of female love. It is difficult and painstaking. I carry out experiments, classify, draw conclusions. Lots of unexpected and interesting things. Of course, you know Anna Petrovna? The wife of our famous figure?

Of course, I know,” answered Lizochka. - A very respectable lady.

Gutbrecht grinned and, spreading his elbows, pranced in place.

So this most respectable lady is such a devil! Devilish temperament. The other day she came to me on business. I handed her business papers and suddenly, without letting her come to her senses, I grabbed her by the shoulders and pressed my lips to hers. And if you only knew what happened to her! She almost lost consciousness! Completely unconscious, she gave me a smack and ran out of the room. The next day I had to go see her on business. She didn't accept me. You understand? She doesn't vouch for herself. You cannot imagine how interesting such psychological experiments are. I'm not Don Juan. No. I'm thinner! More spiritual. I am a virtuoso of feelings! Do you know Vera Ax? This proud, cold beauty?

Of course I know. I saw it.

So. Recently I decided to wake up this marble Galatea! The opportunity soon presented itself, and I achieved my goal.

Yes you! - Lizochka was surprised. - Really? So why are you talking about this? Is it possible to tell!

I have no secrets from you. I wasn’t interested in her even for a single minute. It was a cold and cruel experiment. But it's so interesting that I want to tell you everything. There should be no secrets between us. So here it is. It was in the evening, at her house. I was invited to dinner for the first time. There was, among others, this big guy Stok or Strock, something like that. They also said about him that he had an affair with Vera Ax. Well, yes, this is gossip based on nothing. She is cold as ice and has only awakened to life for one moment. I want to tell you about this moment. So, after dinner (there were about six of us, all, apparently, her close friends) we went into the darkened living room. Of course, I’m next to Vera on the sofa. The conversation is general and uninteresting. Faith is cold and inaccessible. She is wearing an evening dress with a huge cutout at the back. And so I, without stopping small talk, quietly but imperiously extend my hand and quickly slap her several times on her bare back. If you only knew what happened to my Galatea! How suddenly this cold marble came to life! Indeed, just think: a person is in the house for the first time, in the salon of a decent and cold lady, in the company of her friends, and suddenly, not to say a bad word, that is, I want to say completely unexpectedly, such an intimate gesture. She jumped up like a tigress. She didn't remember herself. A woman woke up inside her, probably for the first time in her life. She squealed and with a quick movement threw a plop at me. I don’t know what would have happened if we were alone! What would the animated marble of her body be capable of? She was rescued by that vile fellow Stoke. Line. He yelled:

“Young man, you are an old man, but you behave like a boy,” and he kicked me out of the house.

We haven't met since then. But I know that she will never forget this moment. And I know that she will avoid meeting me. Poor thing! But have you become quiet, my dear girl? Are you afraid of me. Don't be afraid of Vovochka!

He made a “little boy”, pursing his lips into a bow and blinking his eyes.

Little Vovochka.

Stop it,” Lizochka said irritably. - They're looking at us.

Does it matter if we love each other? Ah, women, women. You are all on the same page. You know what Turgenev said, that is, Dostoevsky is a famous playwright and expert. "A woman needs to be surprised." Oh how true that is. My latest novel... I surprised her. I threw money around like Croesus and was meek like Madonna. I sent her a decent bouquet of carnations. Then a huge box of chocolates. One and a half pounds, with a bow. And so, when she, intoxicated with her power, was already preparing to look at me as a slave, I suddenly stopped pursuing her. Do you understand? How it immediately hit her nerves. All this madness, flowers, sweets, the project has an evening at the Paramount cinema and suddenly - stop. I wait a day or two. And suddenly a call. I knew it. She. A pale, trembling woman comes in... “I’ll be just a minute.” I take her face with both palms and say authoritatively, but still - out of delicacy - interrogatively: “Mine?”

She pulled me away...

And threw a splash? - Lizochka asked busily.

N-not really. She quickly regained control of herself. As an experienced woman, she realized that suffering awaited her. She pulled back and with pale lips stammered: “Please give me two hundred and forty-eight francs until Tuesday.”

So what? - asked Lizochka.

Well, nothing.

And then?

She took the money and left. I never saw her again.

And you didn’t give it away?

What a child you are! After all, she took the money to somehow justify her visit to me. But she controlled herself and immediately broke this fiery thread that stretched between us. And I completely understand why she avoids the meeting. After all, there is a limit to her strength. Behold, my dear child, what dark abysses of voluptuousness I have opened before your frightened eyes. What an amazing woman! What an exceptional impulse!

Lizochka thought about it.

Yes, of course,” she said. - But in my opinion, you would be better off with a splash. More practical. A?

..................................................
Copyright: Nadezhda Teffi

In the summer of 1921, when “this” was already over, a very motley group gathered for afternoon coffee in the Kursaal of a foreign resort: there were Greeks, French, and Germans, there were Hungarians, and English, there was even one Chinese...

The conversation was good-natured, after dinner.

- You seem to be English? – the Frenchman asked the tall, shaven gentleman. I adore your nation: you are the most efficient, smart people in the world.

“After you,” the Englishman bowed with purely Gallic courtesy. The French did miracles during the last war... In the chest of a Frenchman is the heart of a lion.

“You Japanese,” said the German, puffing on a cigar, “amazed and continue to amaze us Europeans.” Thanks to you, the word “Asia” has ceased to be a symbol of savagery and lack of culture...

In another corner the Greek pushed and pushed and finally said:

– You are wonderful people, Hungarians!

- How? – the Hungarian was sincerely surprised.

- Well... You dance the Hungarian dance well. And once I bought myself a Hungarian cloth jacket, embroidered with all sorts of things. Worn well! Wine again: cutting into Hungarian is the most sacred thing.

– And you Greeks are good.

- What are you saying?! How?

- Well... in general. Such nice people. Classical. Olives too. All sorts of Pericles.

And at the side of the table sat one silent bearded man and, lowering his wild head on the palms of his hands, was intently, sadly silent.

The amiable Frenchman had been glancing at him for a long time, and finally couldn’t resist touching his broad shoulder.

-You are probably Monsieur, a Turk? In my opinion, one of the best nations in the world!

- No, not a Turk.

– And who, dare I ask?

- Yes, yes, in general, a newcomer. Actually, why do you need it?

– Extremely interesting to know.

- I am russian!!

In the same way, the Hungarian, French, and Japanese heads began to sway and began to chirp in concern and surprise; in the same way, the hitherto smooth, mirror-calm faces became rippled with a thousand different sensations, mutually struggling with each other.

- Russian? What are you saying? Real?

- Kids! Alfred, Madeleine! If you wanted to see a real Russian, look quickly! Here he is, you see, sitting.

“Poor thing, poor thing, but just now, when I was paying, I took out my wallet twice.” Put it in your trouser pockets or something!

– Look, there’s a Russian sitting there.

- Where where?! Listen, won't he throw a bomb at us?

“Maybe he’s hungry, gentlemen, and you’re angry at him.” Do you think it’s convenient to offer him money?

The Frenchman shook his hand sympathetically, but with a slight tinge of fear, the Japanese affectionately, with secret condolences, stroked his shoulder, some offered him a cigar, some buttoned his shirt tighter. The caring mother, grabbing the crying Alfred and Madeleine by the hand, puffing like a tugboat, dragged them home.

– Did the Bolsheviks torment you a lot? – asked the kind Japanese.

– Tell me, is it true that they ate dogs and rats in Moscow?

– Explain why the Russian people overthrew Nicholas and chose Lenin and Trotsky? Were they any better?

– What is a bribe? Is it a drink or a dance?

– Is it true that your safes were opened? Or, I think, this is one of the thousands of fables spread by the enemies of Russia... Is it true that if a Russian worker sings “The Internationale,” he will immediately begin to hang a passerby in a starched shirt and glasses from a lamppost?

– Is it true that some Russians bought a pound of sugar for five to ten rubles, and sold it for a thousand?

– Tell me, are the Council of People’s Commissars and the Economic Council dangerous diseases? Is it true that a monument to the robber Razin was erected on the main square?

- But I heard that the bourgeois classes have a secret terrible habit, having caught a worker, bite through his artery and drink warm blood until...

– It’s burning!! – the Russian suddenly shouted, slamming his half-pound fist on the table.

– What’s burning? Where? My God... And here we are sitting...

- My soul is on fire! Guilt!! Hey, waiter, chamberriere, six - how are you?! Grab more wine! I'm treating everyone!! Will you understand the melancholy of my soul?! Will you be able to look into the abyss of the chaotic, primordial Slavic soul? Give everyone a glass. Ehma! “Die, be buried like you never lived”...

The dark blue twilight was gathering.

The Russian, scary, disheveled, holding a bottle of Pommery Sec in one hand and threatening the foreign sky with the fist of his other hand, said:

- You sympathize, you say? And I can’t sneeze at your such foreign sympathy!! Do you think you are everything to me, all of you, how many of you there are, cost little in blood, took little of my life? You German mug, who from Zimmerwald did you send me? Is this how they fight? And you, the paddling pool there... “Mon ami da mon ami, bon da bon,” and you yourself took Crimea and gave Odessa to the Bolsheviks? Is this a boom thing? Is this fraternite? How can I forget? And can I forget how you sent your big-nosed Chinese devils - to ruin our Kremlin, to ruin our dear... dear Russia, eh? And the Hungarian... you’re good too: you should be selling mousetraps and dancing the Hungarian girl, but you got into socialist revolutions, Bela Kunev, damn them, to put them on thrones... huh? Oh, I feel bitter with you, oh, I feel sick... You can drink my wine with me as much as you like, but can you understand my darling?! It's burning inside, brothers! I buried my youth, my joy in the damp earth... “I’ll die, I’ll be buried, like I never lived in the world!”

And for a long time in the empty Kurhaus, when everyone gradually, on tiptoe, dispersed - for a long time the moans and sobs of a half-drunk, lonely man could be heard, misunderstood, humiliated in his true sober state and even more misunderstood in his drunken state... And for a long time he lay there, unsolved restless soul, lay with his head on his weakened hands until the head waiter approached:

- Mister... Here's the score.

- What? Please! Russian people must pay for everyone! Get it in full.

“Chekhov in a skirt”, “female version of Averchenko” are not the most accurate, but popular definitions that Teffi receives. Although it would be more accurate to call her directly, because she is one of the pillars of Russian humor and satire of the twentieth century, along with the very guys with whom they like to compare her. Teffi could wonderfully be a bright representative of her time, but she is something more. Many of her jokes and funny stories have not lost their relevance.

Here, for example, about people who, for every case described on a social network, have a serious, moralizing reasoning to comment on:

“The fact of the matter is that a real complete fool is recognized, first of all, by his greatest and most unshakable seriousness. The smartest person can be flighty and act rashly, but a fool constantly discusses everything; Having discussed it, he acts accordingly and, having acted, knows why he did it this way and not otherwise.”

Or about current crime news:

“A monogamous man likes to philosophize, draw conclusions, and just about anything - now he accuses, and well, shoots at his wife and children. Then he always tries to commit suicide, too, but for some reason he fails, although he does not fail with his wife and children. Subsequently, he explains this by saying that he is used to always taking care first of all about his beloved creatures, and then about himself.”

Exactly like reproaches to hipster startups, who are now in great fashion. And startupers, and reproaches, of course:

“The poet was very interesting. He has not yet written any poetry, but only came up with a pseudonym, but this did not stop him from being very poetic and mysterious, perhaps even more so than another real poet with real ready-made poems.”

What is it like to go into literature after a famous sister?

The real name of the writer is Nadezhda Lokhvitskaya. This will not say much to the general reader in our time, but at the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth centuries, hearing the surname, the average person always asked Nadezhda: is she the sister of the poetess Mirra Lokhvitskaya? And indeed, Nadezhda and Maria (Mirra’s real name) were sisters.

They sometimes say about Lokhvitskaya that without her the Silver Age of poetry would not have existed. She gave birth to the Silver Age and nurtured it. Usually they write about gifted people that their talent was noticeable from an early age. But Maria was generally a girl like a girl and took up poetry only at fifteen. Already in her twenties she became a poetic star. Collections of her poems were sold out, like albums with song hits at the end of the twentieth century.

Nadezhda, meanwhile, also wrote poetry. They had an agreement with Maria - when the older sister left literature, the younger one would also try her luck. So that there is no confusion and rivalry between the two sisters. But at some point it became clear that the wait was too long. Mirra Maria not only did not lose popularity after the first wave of interest, but her fame expanded.

Nadezhda, meanwhile, married a Russian Pole, lived on his estate near Mogilev, gave birth to two daughters and a son, divorced and went to live in St. Petersburg. The family had already happened in her life, all that remained was her career. But what about the two Lokhvitskys? The writer thought for a long time about her pseudonym. Firstly, he shouldn’t have immediately identified her as a woman: she knew from the publishers that this would seriously reduce the public’s interest due to prejudices. Secondly, she didn’t want a man’s either. It was the prejudices around the female gender that hampered her, not the gender itself. She decided to choose something neutral, remembered the pet nickname of a fool she knew - “Steffy” - and shortened it by one letter.

Later she was asked if she took her pseudonym in honor of Kipling’s little heroine, the girl Taffy. Hope did not deny it. Kipling is Kipling.

Star of "Satyricon"

If we hear such a phrase now, we will think of a theater actress. But at that time, Satyricon was, first of all, a popular humorous weekly, edited by Averchenko himself. Prominent feuilletonists of the early twentieth century published on its pages. Vladimir Mayakovsky was also noted there as an author. Among the artists who designed the magazine are such names as Bilibin, Bakst and Kustodiev. Teffi was published in this magazine.

For us, Teffi is, first of all, a feuilletonist, but Satyricon also published her poems on the topic of the day. Observation, a sharp tongue, combined with some kind of inner kindness towards people whom she ridiculed at times so accurately, almost mercilessly, instantly made her popular. Sweets and perfumes were named after Teffi. Personally, Nicholas II read the latest feuilletons and satirical poems by Nadezhda Lokhvitskaya.

Meanwhile, her sister's star had finally set. But not at all as the Lokhvitsky girls once imagined. Maria died from a serious illness, finally exhausted. She suffered from both thyroid and heart problems and finally contracted diphtheria. Her death was a blow to her loving sister.

Teffi was published not only in Satyricon. She published collections of stories, and the revolution found her working as an employee of the daily newspaper Russkoe Slovo. In 1918 the newspaper closed. Teffi moved with Averchenko to Kyiv. Their public readings were supposed to be there, after which Nadezhda was supposed to return home. But in the end she wandered from city to city until she got tired of the violence around her. Then she crossed through Turkey to Paris.

“A trickle of blood seen in the morning at the gates of the commissariat, a slowly creeping trickle across the sidewalk cuts the road to life forever. You can't step over it. We can't go any further. You can turn and run."

Well-fed emigration

A huge number of people who fled Russia after the revolution could not find a place for themselves in their new homeland. Teffi was lucky. In the Russian-speaking world of Europe, it was in demand almost more than before. Perhaps it was a common family talent between him and Maria.

Year after year, collections of short stories were published in Berlin and Paris. Two volumes of poetry were also published. The Russian émigré press regularly published her prose on its pages. The themes, however, were not original. Teffi recalled pre-revolutionary life or made fun of emigrants. Including yourself. After her feuilleton ridiculing ridiculous hats, eyewitnesses watched in amazement as the writer herself put on exactly the same hats that she had just ridiculed. Teffi was not embarrassed: she never hid the fact that she didn’t mind laughing at herself.

And there was something to laugh at. Nadezhda Lokhvitskaya was a great coquette and fashionista. By receiving new citizenship, I reduced my fifteen years. I brushed off all the surprised questions: all the same, they say, I always feel like I’m thirteen. In any circumstances, she found an opportunity to put on makeup and dress up. But she often found herself in situations where such fuss around appearance could cause nothing but bewilderment! In everyday life, Teffi was incredibly absent-minded. Lighting one burner of the stove and putting the kettle on the other was a normal thing for her.

They were constantly in love with her. She was constantly in love. And only with one man, with whom they seemed simply obliged to have an affair, there was instead only a tender, strong, touching friendship - if it is permissible to say “only” about real friendship. We are talking about the writer Ivan Bunin. They adored each other.

After the revolution, publications continued in the Soviet Union. Only the writer did not receive any royalties for them. With Lenin's personal approval, her old stories were published without any agreement with the author. Frankly speaking, this made Teffi very angry.

In addition to humorous stories, she also wrote lyrical ones. A special kind of pleasure for lovers of creativity is her memoirs, dedicated both to her own life and to many famous people with whom she got acquainted.

A war you can't escape from

During World War I, Teffi trained as a nurse and went to the front many times to help soldiers. She felt inspired. But already the Civil War instilled in her an aversion to wars in general. She was not averse to running away from the Second, emigrating somewhere again, but her illness confined her to Paris. And after that there was no escape.

The arrival of the Germans revealed different things in emigrants from Russia. Some joined the Resistance, showed miracles of selflessness, and went to their death. Others willingly collaborated with Nazi Germany - the fact that Hitler was at war with the Soviet Union was more important than any other aspect of his policy. Teffi avoided cooperation with the Germans, but had nothing to do with the Resistance either. As a writer, the war ruined her. There was nowhere to publish. She survived by reading her works live to half-empty halls.

Cold, hunger, bombings. All eyewitnesses recall that Teffi endured adversity stoically. If there was an opportunity to joke, of course, she didn’t miss it. But the war seriously undermined her health.

When peace finally came, Nadezhda began to be published again. Now not only in France, but also in the USA. Life seemed to be getting better. But Teffi was fading away. She suffered from angina pectoris and neuralgic pain, and often could not sleep without a morphine injection. In 1952, she celebrated her name day for the last time and died. Her best friend, Bunin, died a year later.

But perhaps it’s good that things didn’t work out for them. , it is not for nothing that they include the name of Ivan Bunin.