Teffi humorous stories. Nadezhda Teffi - Humorous stories (collection)

Exam

I was given three days to prepare for the geography exam. Manichka spent two of them trying on a new corset with a real planchette. On the third day in the evening I sat down to study.

I opened the book, unfolded the map and immediately realized that I knew absolutely nothing. No rivers, no mountains, no cities, no seas, no bays, no bays, no lips, no isthmuses - absolutely nothing.

And there were many of them, and each piece was famous for something.

The Indian Sea was famous for its typhoon, Vyazma for its gingerbread, the Pampas for its forests, Llanos for its steppes, Venice for its canals, China for its respect for its ancestors.

Everything was famous!

The good sweetheart sits at home, and the thin one runs around the world - and even the Pinsk swamps were famous for fevers.

Manichka might still have time to memorize the names, but she would never be able to cope with fame.

Lord, let your servant Mary pass the geography exam!

And she wrote in the margins of the card: “Lord, give! Lord, give! Lord, give!”

Three times.

Then I made a wish: I’ll write “Lord, grant” twelve times, then I’ll pass the exam.

I wrote it twelve times, but already finishing it last word, incriminated herself:

Yeah! I'm glad I wrote it to the end. No, mother! If you want to pass the exam, write twelve more times, or better yet, all twenty.

She took out a notebook, since there was little space in the margins of the map, and sat down to write. She wrote and said:

Do you imagine that if you write it twenty times you will still pass the exam? No, my dear, write fifty times! Maybe then something will come of it. Fifty? I'm glad you'll get rid of it soon! A? A hundred times, and not a word less...

The pen crackles and blots.

Manichka refuses dinner and tea. She has no time. Her cheeks are burning, she is shaking all over from hasty, feverish work.

At three o'clock in the morning, having filled two notebooks and a blot of paper, she fell asleep over the table.

Dull and sleepy, she entered the classroom.

Everyone was already gathered and sharing their excitement with each other.

Every minute my heart stops for half an hour! - said the first student, rolling her eyes.

There were already tickets on the table. The most inexperienced eye could instantly divide them into four types: tickets bent into a tube, a boat, corners up and corners down.

But dark personalities from the last benches, those who had concocted this cunning thing, found that everything was still not enough, and hovered around the table, straightening the tickets to make it more visible.

Manya Kuksina! - they shouted. - What tickets have you memorized? A? Please note carefully: the boat is the first five numbers, and the tube is the next five, and with the corners...

But Manichka didn’t listen to the end. She thought with sadness that all this scientific technology was not created for her, who had not memorized a single ticket, and said proudly:

It's a shame to cheat like that! You need to study for yourself, not for grades.

The teacher came in, sat down, indifferently collected all the tickets and, carefully straightening them, shuffled them. A quiet groan passed through the class. They became agitated and swayed like rye in the wind.

Mrs. Kuksina! Come here.

Manichka took the ticket and read it. "Climate of Germany. Nature of America. Cities of North America"…

Please, Mrs. Kuksina. What do you know about the climate in Germany?

Manichka looked at him with such a look, as if she wanted to say: “Why are you torturing animals?” - and, gasping for breath, stammered:

The climate of Germany is famous for the fact that there is not much difference between the climate of the north and the climate of the south, because Germany, the further south, the further north...

The teacher raised an eyebrow and looked carefully at Manichka’s mouth.

He thought and added:

You know nothing about the climate of Germany, Mrs. Kuksina. Tell us what you know about the nature of America?

Manichka, as if depressed by the teacher’s unfair attitude towards her knowledge, lowered her head and meekly answered:

America is famous for its pampas.

The teacher was silent, and Manichka, after waiting a minute, added barely audibly:

And the pampas are like llanos.

The teacher sighed noisily, as if he had woken up, and said with feeling:

Sit down, Mrs. Kuksina.

The next exam was in history.

The cool lady warned sternly:

Look, Kuksina! You won't be given two re-exams. Prepare well for history, otherwise you will stay for a second year! What a shame!

The whole next day Manichka was depressed. I wanted to have fun and bought ten servings of pistachio from the ice cream man, and in the evening I took castor oil against my will.

But the next day - the last before the exams - I lay on the sofa, reading Marlitt’s “The Second Wife” to rest my head, overworked by geography.

In the evening I sat down with Ilovaisky and timidly wrote ten times in a row: “Lord, grant...”

She smiled bitterly and said:

Ten times! God really needs ten times! If only I had written a hundred and fifty times, it would have been a different matter!

At six o'clock in the morning, the aunt from the next room heard Manichka talking to herself in two tones. One tone moaned:

I can't do it anymore! Ugh, I can't!

Another said sarcastically:

Yeah! You can't! You can’t write “Lord, grant” one thousand six hundred times, but pass the exam - that’s what you want! So give it to you! For this write two hundred thousand times! Nothing! Nothing!

The frightened aunt sent Manichka to bed.

You can't do that. You also need to cram in moderation. If you're overtired, you won't be able to answer anything tomorrow.

There is an old painting in the classroom.

Frightened whispers and excitement, and the heart of the first student, stopping every minute for three hours, and tickets walking around the table on four legs, and the teacher indifferently shuffling them.

Manichka sits and, awaiting her fate, writes on the cover of an old notebook: “Lord, grant.”

All you have to do is write exactly six hundred times, and it will hold up brilliantly!

Mrs. Kuksina Maria!

No, I didn’t have time!

The teacher is angry, sarcastic, asking everyone not according to their tickets, but randomly.

What do you know about Anna Ioannovna’s wars, Mrs. Kuksina, and their consequences?

Something dawned on Manichka’s tired head:

Anna Ioannovna's life was fraught... Anna Ioannovna was fraught... Anna Ioannovna's wars were fraught...

She paused, gasping, and said again, as if finally remembering what she needed:

The consequences for Anna Ioannovna were fraught...

And she fell silent.

The teacher took the beard into his palm and pressed it to his nose.

Manichka followed this operation with all her soul, and her eyes said: “Why are you torturing animals?”

“Can you tell me now, Madame Kuksina,” the teacher asked insinuatingly, “why the Maid of Orleans was nicknamed Orleans?”

Manichka felt that this was the last question, entailing enormous, most “fraught consequences.” The correct answer brought with him: a bicycle, promised by his aunt for moving to the next class, and eternal friendship with Liza Bekina, from whom, having failed, he would have to be separated. Lisa has already endured it and will cross over safely.

Well, sir? - the teacher hurried, apparently burning with curiosity to hear Manichka’s answer. - Why was she called Orleanskaya?

Manichka mentally vowed to never eat sweets or be rude. She looked at the icon, cleared her throat and answered firmly, looking the teacher straight in the eyes:

Because there was a girl.

Arabian tales

Autumn is mushroom time.

Spring - dental.

In autumn they go to the forest to pick mushrooms.

In the spring - go to the dentist for teeth.

I don't know why this is so, but it is true.

That is, I don’t know about teeth, but I know about mushrooms. But why every spring do you see bandaged cheeks on people who are completely unsuited to this look: cab drivers, officers, cafe singers, tram conductors, wrestlers-athletes, racing horses, tenors and infants?

Is it because, as the poet aptly put it, “the first frame is exposed” and the wind blows from everywhere?

In any case, this is not such a trifle as it seems, and recently I became convinced of how strong impression This dental time leaves in a person and how acutely the very memory of it is experienced.

I once went to visit some good old friends for a chat. I found the whole family at the table, obviously having just had breakfast. (I used the expression “light” here because I long ago understood what it means - you can simply, without an invitation, “look at the light” at ten o’clock in the morning, or at night, when all the lamps are turned off.)

Everyone was assembled. A mother, a married daughter, a son and his wife, a maiden daughter, a student in love, a granddaughter's friend, a high school student and a country acquaintance.

I have never seen this calm bourgeois family in such a strange state. Everyone's eyes glowed with some kind of painful excitement, their faces became blotchy.

I immediately realized that something had happened here. Otherwise, why was everyone gathered, why did the son and wife, who usually came only for a minute, sit and worry.

That's right, some kind of family scandal, and I didn't bother asking.

They sat me down, quickly poured some tea on me, and all eyes turned to the owner’s son.

“Well, I’ll continue,” he said.

A brown face with a fluffy wart looked out from behind the door: it was the old nanny who was listening too.

Well, so, he applied the forceps a second time. Hellish pain! I roar like a beluga, I kick my legs, and he pulls. In a word, everything is as it should be. Finally, you know, I pulled it out...

“After you, I’ll tell you,” the young lady suddenly interrupts.

And I would like... A few words, says the student in love.

Wait, we can’t do it all at once,” the mother stops.

The son waited a moment with dignity and continued:

He pulled it out, looked at the tooth, shuffled around and said: “Pardon, this is the wrong one again!” And he goes back into his mouth for the third tooth! No, think about it! I say: “Dear sir! If you”...

Lord have mercy! - the nanny groans outside the door. - Just give them free rein...

And the dentist says to me: “What are you afraid of?” a dacha acquaintance suddenly burst out. “Is there anything to be afraid of? Just before you, I removed all forty-eight teeth from one patient!” But I was not confused and said: “Excuse me, why so many? It was probably not a patient, but a cow!” Ha ha!

“And cows don’t have it,” the high school student poked his head in. - A cow is a mammal. Now I'll tell you. In our class...

Shh! Shh! - they hissed around. - Don't interrupt. It's your turn next.

“He was offended,” the narrator continued, “but now I think that he removed ten of the patient’s teeth, and the patient himself removed the rest!.. Ha-ha!”

Now me! - the schoolboy shouted. - Why am I always the latest?

This is just a dental bandit! - the dacha acquaintance triumphed, pleased with his story.

And last year I asked the dentist how long his filling would last,” the young lady became worried, “and he said: “Five years, but we don’t need our teeth to outlive us.” I say: “Am I really going to die in five years?” I was terribly surprised. And he pouted: “This question is not directly related to my specialty.”

Just give them free rein! - the nanny egged me on at the door.

The maid comes in, collects the dishes, but cannot leave. She stops as if spellbound with a tray in her hands. Turns red and pale. It’s obvious that she has a lot to tell, but she doesn’t dare.

One of my friends pulled out his tooth. It hurt terribly! - said the student in love.

We found something to tell! - the high school student jumped up and down. - Very interesting, I think! Now me! In our classroom...

“My brother wanted to pull a tooth,” the bonna began. - They advise him that a dentist lives opposite, down the stairs. He went and called. Mr. Dentist himself opened the door for him. He sees that the gentleman is very handsome, so he’s not even afraid to pull his teeth. He says to the gentleman: “Please, I beg you, pull out my tooth.” He says: “Well, I would love to, but I don’t have anything. Does it hurt a lot?” The brother says: “It hurts a lot; tear it straight with forceps.” - “Well, maybe with tongs.” I went and looked and brought some large tongs. My brother opened his mouth, but the tongs wouldn’t fit. The brother got angry: “What kind of dentist are you,” he said, “when you don’t even have instruments?” And he was so surprised. “Yes,” he says, “I’m not a dentist at all! I’m an engineer.” - “So how do you go about pulling teeth if you are an engineer?” “Yes,” he says, “I’m not interfering. You came to me yourself. I thought - you know that I’m an engineer, and just ask for help as a human being. But I’m kind, well...”

And the fershal tore at me,” the nanny suddenly exclaimed with inspiration. - He was such a scoundrel! He grabbed it with a tong and pulled it out in one minute. I didn’t even have time to breathe. “Give me,” he says, “the old woman, fifty dollars.” Turn it once and it's fifty dollars. “Nice,” I say. “I didn’t even have time to breathe!” And he answered me: “Well,” he says, “do you want me to drag you across the floor by the tooth for four hours for your fifty dollars? You’re greedy,” he says, “that’s all, and it’s quite embarrassing!”

By God, it's true! - the maid suddenly squealed, finding that the transition from the nanny to her was not too offensive for the gentlemen. - By God, all this is the absolute truth. They are flayers! My brother went to pull a tooth, and the doctor said to him: “You have four roots on this tooth, all intertwined and attached to your eye. I can’t take less than three rubles for this tooth.” Where can we pay three rubles? We are poor people! So the brother thought and said: “I don’t have that kind of money with me, but if you get me this tooth today for one and a half rubles. In a month I’ll receive a payment from the owner, then you’ll make it to the end.” But no! I didn't agree. Give him everything at once!

Scandal! - Suddenly a dacha acquaintance came to his senses, looking at his watch. - Three hours! I'm late for work!

Three? My God, let’s go to Tsarskoye! - the son and his wife jumped up.

Oh! I didn’t feed Baby! - my daughter began to fuss.

And everyone left, hot and pleasantly tired.

But I went home very unhappy. The fact is that I myself really wanted to tell a dental story. They didn’t offer it to me.

“They are sitting,” I think, “in their close, united bourgeois circle, like Arabs around a fire, telling their tales. Will they think about a stranger? Of course, in essence, I don’t care, but still I am a guest. Indelicate with their sides."

Of course I don't care. But nevertheless, I still want to tell you...

It was in a remote provincial town, where there was no mention of dentists. I had a toothache, and they referred me to a private doctor who, according to rumors, knew a thing or two about teeth.

She has arrived. The doctor was sad, lop-eared, and so thin that he could only be seen in profile.

Tooth? It's horrible! Well, show me!

I showed it.

Does it really hurt? How strange! Such a beautiful tooth! So, does that mean it hurts? Well, this is terrible! Such a tooth! Downright amazing!

He walked up to the table with a businesslike step and looked for some kind of long pin - probably from his wife’s hat.

Open your mouth!

He quickly bent down and poked me in the tongue with a pin. Then he carefully wiped the pin and examined it as if it were a valuable tool that might be useful again and again, so as not to get damaged.

Sorry madam, that's all I can do for you.

I silently looked at him and felt how round my eyes had become. He raised his eyebrows sadly.

Sorry, I'm not an expert! I do what I can!..

So I told you!

My first Tolstoy

I am nine years old.

I am reading "Childhood" and "Adolescence" by Tolstoy. I read and re-read.

Everything in this book is familiar to me.

Volodya, Nikolenka, Lyubochka - they all live with me, they are all so similar to me, to my sisters and brothers. And their house in Moscow with their grandmother is our Moscow house, and when I read about the living room, sofa or classroom, I don’t even need to imagine anything - these are all our rooms.

Natalya Savvishna - I also know her well - this is our old woman Avdotya Matveevna, my grandmother’s former serf. She also has a chest with pictures pasted on the lid. Only she is not as kind as Natalya Savvishna. She's a grump. The elder brother even recited about her: “And he did not want to bless anything in all of nature.”

But still, the similarity is so great that, reading lines about Natalya Savvishna, I always clearly see the figure of Avdotya Matveevna.

All our own, all relatives.

And even the grandmother, looking inquiringly with stern eyes from under the ruffle of her cap, and the bottle of cologne on the table next to her chair - it’s all the same, everything is familiar.

Only the tutor St-Jerome is a stranger, and I hate him along with Nikolenka. Yes, how I hate it! Longer and stronger, it seems, than he himself, because he eventually made peace and forgave, and I continued this way all my life. “Childhood” and “Adolescence” entered my childhood and adolescence and merged with it organically, as if I had not read them, but simply lived them.

But in the history of my soul, in its first flowering, another work of Tolstoy pierced like a red arrow - “War and Peace”.

I am thirteen years old.

Every evening, to the detriment of the assigned lessons, I read and reread the same book - “War and Peace”.

I am in love with Prince Andrei Bolkonsky. I hate Natasha, firstly, because I am jealous, and secondly, because she cheated on him.

You know,” I tell my sister, “Tolstoy, in my opinion, wrote about her incorrectly.” No one could like her. Judge for yourself - her braid was “thin and short”, her lips were swollen. No, in my opinion, she could not be liked at all. And he was going to marry her simply out of pity.

Then I also didn’t like why Prince Andrei squealed when he was angry. I thought that Tolstoy also wrote this incorrectly. I knew for sure that the prince did not squeal.

Every evening I read War and Peace.

Those hours were painful when I was approaching the death of Prince Andrei.

It seems to me that I always hoped a little for a miracle. She must have hoped, because every time the same despair overwhelmed me when he died.

At night, lying in bed, I saved him. I forced him to throw himself on the ground with the others when the grenade exploded. Why couldn't any soldier think of pushing him? I would have guessed, I would have pushed.

Then she sent all the best modern doctors and surgeons to him.

Every week I read how he was dying, and hoped and believed in a miracle that maybe this time he would not die.

No. Died! Died!

A living person dies once, but this one dies forever, forever.

And my heart groaned, and I could not prepare my lessons. And in the morning... You yourself know what happens in the morning to a person who has not prepared a lesson!

And finally I thought of it. I decided to go to Tolstoy and ask him to save Prince Andrei. Even if he marries him to Natasha, I’ll even go for that, even that! - if only he didn’t die!

I consulted with my sister. She said that you definitely need to go to the writer with his card and ask him to sign, otherwise he won’t talk, and in general they don’t talk to minors.

It was very creepy.

Gradually I found out where Tolstoy lived. They said different things - that he was in Khamovniki, that he had left Moscow, that he was leaving the other day.

I bought a portrait. I began to think about what I would say. I was afraid I wouldn't cry. If I hid my intention from my family, they would ridicule me.

Finally I decided. Some relatives arrived, there was a fuss in the house - the time was convenient. I told the old nanny to take me “to a friend for lessons,” and off I went.

Tolstoy was at home. The few minutes that I had to wait in the hallway were too short for me to have time to escape, and it was awkward in front of the nanny.

I remember a plump young lady walked past me, humming something. This completely confused me. He walks so easily, and even hums and is not afraid. I thought that in Tolstoy’s house everyone walked on tiptoes and spoke in whispers.

Finally - him. He was shorter than I expected. He looked at the nanny and at me. I held out the card and, pronouncing “l” instead of “r” out of fear, stammered:

Here, they wanted to sign the photograph.

He immediately took it from my hands and went into another room.

Then I realized that I couldn’t ask for anything, I wouldn’t dare tell anything, and that I was so disgraced, I died forever in his eyes, with my “plosil” and “photography”, that only God would allow me to get out quickly.

He returned and gave the card. I curtsied.

What about you, old lady? - he asked the nanny.

It's okay, I'm with the young lady.

That's it.

In bed I remembered “plosly” and “photoglafia” and cried into my pillow.

I had a rival in the class, Yulenka Arsheva. She, too, was in love with Prince Andrei, but so passionately that the whole class knew about it. She also scolded Natasha Rostova and also did not believe that the prince was squealing.

I carefully hid my feelings and, when Arsheva began to go wild, I tried to stay away and not listen, so as not to give myself away.

And then one day during a literature lesson, while examining some literary types, the teacher mentioned Prince Bolkonsky. The whole class, as one person, turned to Arsheva. She sat red-faced, smiling tensely, and her ears were so filled with blood that they were even swollen.

Their names were connected, their novel was marked by ridicule, curiosity, condemnation, interest - all that attitude with which society always reacts to every novel.

And I, alone, with my secret “illegal” feeling, alone did not smile, did not greet, and did not even dare to look at Arsheva.

I read it with anguish and suffering, but did not complain. She bowed her head submissively, kissed the book and closed it.

There was life, it lived out and ended.

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

We recently devoted an essay to the very colorful figure of A.V. Rumanov.

About 30 years ago he “shocked” the St. Petersburg salons with the “filigree Christ.”

Later, in the same salons, Rumanov dropped in his soft, rumbling almost baritone:

Teffi is meek... She is meek, - Teffi...

And he said to her:

Teffi, you are meek.

In the northern skies of the Neva capital, the star of a talented poetess, feuilletonist and - now this will be a revelation for many - the author of charming, gentle and completely original songs was already shining.

Teffi herself performed them in a small but pleasant voice to the accompaniment of her own guitar.

That’s how you see her - Teffi...

Wrapped in a warm, fur-trimmed robe, her legs comfortably crossed, she sits with a guitar on her lap in a deep chair by the fireplace, casting warm, quivering reflections...

Smart gray cat eyes look without blinking into the roaring flames of the fireplace and the guitar rings:

Gnawing angry cats

U evil people in our hearts

My feet are dancing

On red heels...

Teffi loved red shoes.

It has already been published. They talked about her. They were looking for her cooperation.

Rumanov again, with his beaver haircut.

On the Caucasian mineral waters, he created a large resort newspaper and attracted the best St. Petersburg “forces”.

One of the first visits is to her, “meek Teffi.”

I invite you to Essentuki for two or three months. How many?

And without waiting for an answer, Rumanov somehow imperceptibly and deftly fanned out several new credit cards with portraits of Catherine the Great on the table.

This is an advance!..

Take him away! I love rainbows in the sky, not on my desk - came the answer.

Rumanov was not at a loss. Like a magician, he instantly pulled out a heavy suede bag from somewhere and poured a ringing, sparkling stream of gold coins onto the table.

Nadezhda Alexandrovna thoughtfully poured these coins through her fingers, like a child playing with sand.

A few days later she left for Essentuki and there immediately increased the circulation of the resort newspaper.

It was a long time ago, a very long time ago, but it was still...

Time makes its mark, they say.

Both time and the press are extremely lenient towards Teffi. Here in Paris she is almost the same as she was with a guitar by the fireplace in red shoes and a fur-trimmed robe.

And the smart eyes with a cat's gray yellowness and a cat's frame are exactly the same.

We talk about current politics:

What can you say, Nadezhda Aleksandrovna, about the “League of Nations”, about its acceptance into its fold Soviet Russia, or rather the Soviet government?

First a smile, then two dimples near the corners of the mouth. Long-familiar dimples that resurrected St. Petersburg...

What can I say? I'm not a politician, but a comedian. There is only one thing: Everyone’s attitude towards the “League of Nations” is painfully ironic, and therefore, what is the price of whether it recognizes someone or not. And, really, nothing has changed and will not change because she adorned Litvinov’s bald spot with her laurels from his, Litvinov’s, not quite “Roman profile.” A farce, albeit a tragicomic one, but still a farce...

Having finished with the League of Nations and Litvinov, we move on to the amnesty announced by the Bolsheviks.

Is it really announced by them? - Teffi doubted? - The Bolsheviks, at least, remain silent on this subject. It seems to me that this amnesty is like a mirage in the desert. Yes, yes, the distrustful, exhausted emigration, perhaps, itself invented this amnesty and is clutching at it... Muslims say: “a drowning person is ready to grab hold of a snake.”

What can you say about modern Germany?

But I’ll say this: I had a story called “The Demonic Woman.” He was lucky. A collection of my things under this general title was published in Poland. On German“The Demonic Woman” was also published. And then I find out: some cheeky young German took this story and put it under his own own name. I’m used to being reprinted without a fee, but I’m not used to having someone else’s name put under my stories. Friends advised calling the young, promising plagiarist to order. They advised me to contact prof. Luther... It seems that at the University of Leipzig he occupies a chair... A chair - now I’ll tell you what. Yes, Slavic literature. I wrote to him more in order to reassure my friends.

To my great surprise, Professor Luther responded. Yes, how! With what ardor! A whole thing arose. Found a promising one young man, lathered his head thoroughly, threatened: anything like that again, and within Germany no one would ever publish a single line of his. The royalties for The Demonic Woman were awarded in my favor. The young man wrote me a letter of repentance on several pages. Not only that, but the venerable Professor Luther himself apologized to me for it. The corporation of German writers and journalists apologized. In the end, I felt ashamed myself, why did I start this mess?...

And now, having finished with Germany. two words about reprints in general. A large Russian newspaper in New York got into the habit of “decorating” its basements with my feuilletons from “Renaissance.” I turned to the Canadian Society of Russian Journalists to protect my copyright. Thanks to them, they took care of me, but there was no point in it! In response to threats of prosecution, the aforementioned newspaper continues to use my feuilletons and the number of reprinted stories has reached an impressive figure of 33. Alas, my nice Canadian colleagues do not have the authority of the most touching and all-powerful Professor Luther.

I knew it! No “real” interview is complete without this. What am I working on? I’ll tell you frankly, without hiding, I’m writing an emigrant novel, where, although under pseudonyms, but very transparently, I bring out a whole phalanx of living people, pillars of emigration of a wide variety of professions and social provisions. Will I spare my friends? Maybe yes, maybe no. Don't know. I once had something similar with Chateaubriand. He also announced the publication of the same portrait novel. The alarmed friends immediately organized themselves into a society whose goal was to create a monetary fund named after Chateaubriand. Something like a propitiatory sacrifice to a formidable, punishing deity... I wouldn’t have anything against it, Teffi adds with a smile, and I have absolutely nothing against such a friendly fund in favor of me, a sinner. However, isn't it time to end? I'm afraid that I'll take up a lot of space for my special one in the magazine “For You”!

Well, it turns out that it’s no longer “For you”, but “For me”. So what else? I'm obsessed with newbie authors. People from all over send their works with requests to publish them. And in order for the request to be valid, they dedicate all their stories to me. They think that Teffi, delighted with such attention, will immediately rush to the appropriate editorial offices and, with a Browning in hand, force young authors to publish, at least in anticipation of the publication of flattering dedications. Taking this opportunity, I inform all my ardent correspondents that I, well, am not at all vain! True, they don’t come across bad stories, but most often my youth write about what they don’t know. And what he knows, he is silent about. For example, an author from Morocco sent me a story...Who would you think of? About the Eskimos! Although I don’t particularly care about Eskimo life, I immediately sensed something was wrong.

From aspiring writers we move on to our Parisian professionals.

Tell me, I ask, Nadezhda Alexandrovna, how can we explain such a squabble among our brother? It would seem equally disadvantaged? Why?

Angry cats gnawing

In evil people, in the hearts...

What a memory you have! - Teffi was amazed and sparkles flashed in the cat’s eyes. - Why? Everyone is exhausted, there is no strength to endure anymore...

Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Buchinskaya (1876-1952). Author talented humorous stories, psychological miniatures, sketches and everyday essays under a pseudonym taken from Kipling - Teffi. Little sister the famous poetess Mirra Lokhvitskaya. Debut on September 2, 1901 in the illustrated weekly “North” with the poem “I had a dream, crazy and beautiful...”. The first book, "Seven Lights" (1910), was a collection of poetry. 1910 marks the beginning of Teffi’s wide popularity, when, following the collection “Seven Lights,” two volumes of her “Humorous Stories” appeared at once. Collection "Unliving Beast" - 1916. In 1920, thanks to a coincidence, he found himself in émigré Paris. Recent years Throughout her life, Teffi suffers severely from serious illness, loneliness, and need. On October 6, 1952, Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi died. (from the preface by O. Mikhailov to Teffi’s book “Stories”, Publishing House " Fiction", Moscow 1971) Teffi - " Baba's book " The young esthete, stylist, modernist and critic German Ensky was sitting in his office, looking through a woman’s book and getting angry. The woman's book was a thick novel, with love, blood, eyes and nights. “I love you!” the artist whispered passionately, grasping Lydia’s flexible figure...” “We are being pushed towards each other by some powerful force that we cannot fight against!” “My whole life has been a premonition of this meeting...” “Are you laughing at me?” “I am so full of you that everything else has lost all meaning for me.” O-oh, vulgar! - German Ensky moaned. - This is the artist who will say that! “A mighty force pushes,” and “you can’t fight,” and all other rot. But the clerk would be embarrassed to say this - the clerk from the haberdashery store, with whom this fool probably started an affair, so that he would have something to describe." "It seems to me that I have never loved anyone before..." "It's like dream..." "Crazy!... I want to snuggle!..." - Ugh! I can’t take it anymore! - And he threw the book away. - Here we are working, improving the style, form, looking for new meaning and new moods, we throw it all into the crowd: look - a whole sky of stars above you, take whatever you want! No! They don’t see anything, they don’t want anything. cow thoughts! He was so upset that he could no longer stay at home. He got dressed and went to visit. On the way, he felt a pleasant excitement, an unconscious premonition of something bright and exciting. And when he entered the bright dining room and looked around at those gathered for tea. society, he already understood what he wanted and what he was waiting for. Vikulina was here, and alone, without her husband. To the loud cheers of the general conversation, Ensky whispered to Vikulina: “You know, how strange it is, I had a premonition that I would meet you.” - Yes? How long ago? - For a long time. An hour ago. Or maybe all my life. Vikulina liked this. She blushed and said languidly: “I’m afraid that you’re just a Don Juan.” Yensky looked at her embarrassed eyes, at her expectant, excited face and answered sincerely and thoughtfully: “You know, now it seems to me that I have never loved anyone.” She half-closed her eyes, bent down a little towards him and waited for him to say more. And he said: - I love you! Then someone called out to him, picked him up with some phrase, and pulled him into a general conversation. And Vikulina turned away and also spoke, asked, laughed. Both became the same as everyone else here at the table, cheerful, simple - everything was in full view. German Yensky spoke intelligently, beautifully and animatedly, but inwardly he became completely silent and thought: “What was that? What was it? Why do the stars sing in my soul?" And, turning to Vikulina, he suddenly saw that she was crouched down and waiting again. Then he wanted to tell her something bright and deep, listened to her expectation, listened to his soul and whispered with inspiration and passionately: “It’s like a dream...” She half-closed her eyes again and smiled slightly, all warm and happy, but he was suddenly alarmed by something strangely familiar and unpleasant, something shameful sounded for him in the words he said. "What is this? What's the matter? - he was tormented. - Or maybe I’ve already said this phrase before, a long time ago, and I said it unlovingly, insincerely, and now I’m ashamed. I don’t understand anything.” He looked at Vikulina again, but she suddenly moved away and whispered hastily: “Careful! We seem to be drawing attention to ourselves...” He also moved away and, trying to give his face a calm expression, quietly said: “Forgive me! I’m so full of you that everything else has lost all meaning for me.” And again some kind of cloudy annoyance crept into his mood, and again he didn’t understand where it came from, why. I love and talk about my love so sincerely and simply that it cannot be either vulgar or ugly. Why am I suffering so much?" And he said to Vikulina: “I don’t know, maybe you’re laughing at me... But I don’t want to say anything. I can’t. I want to cuddle..." A spasm grabbed his throat , and he fell silent. He accompanied her home, and everything was decided. Tomorrow she will come to him. They will have a beautiful happiness, unheard of and unprecedented. - It’s like a dream!... She only feels a little sorry for her husband. pressed her to him and convinced her. “What should we do, dear,” he said, “if we are pushed towards each other by some powerful force against which we cannot fight!” he repeated. He returned home as if in a delirium. He walked around the rooms, smiling, and the stars sang in his soul. “Tomorrow,” he whispered. “Oh, what will happen tomorrow!” mechanically he took the first book he came across from the table, opened it, pointed it with his finger and read: “She was the first to wake up and quietly asked: “Don’t you despise me, Evgeny?” “How strange!” - Yensky grinned. - The answer is so clear, as if I asked fate out loud. What kind of thing is this?" And the thing was completely simple. Simply the last chapter from a woman’s book. He all at once went dark, shrank and walked away from the table on tiptoe. And the stars in his soul did not sing anything that night. Teffi - " Demonic Woman " 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 sent 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 a lady's toilet, 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 thumb, watch on your feet. At the table, the demonic woman does not eat anything. She doesn't eat anything at all. - Why? A demonic woman can occupy a wide variety of social positions, but for the most part she is an actress. Sometimes it's just a divorced wife. But she always has some kind of secret, some kind of tear or gap that cannot be talked about, which no one knows and should not know. - Why? Her eyebrows are raised like tragic commas and her eyes are half-lowered. To the gentleman escorting her from the ball and conducting a languid conversation about aesthetic eroticism from the point of view of an erotic esthete, she suddenly says, trembling with all the feathers on her hat: “We’re going to church, my dear, we’re going to church, quickly, quickly.” , quicker. I want to pray and cry before the dawn has yet risen. The church is locked at night. The kind gentleman suggests weeping right on the porch, but the “one” has already faded away. She knows that she is cursed, that there is no salvation, and obediently bows her head, burying her nose in a fur scarf. - Why? The demonic woman always feels a desire for literature. And often secretly writes short stories and prose poems. She doesn't read them to anyone. - Why? But he casually says that famous critic Alexander Alekseevich, having mastered her manuscript at the risk of his life, read it and then cried all night and even, it seems, prayed - the latter, however, is not certain. And two writers predict a great future for her if she finally agrees to publish her works. But the public will never be able to understand them, and it will not show them to the crowd. - Why? And at night, left alone, she unlocks the desk, takes out sheets of paper carefully copied on a typewriter and spends a long time rubbing off the written words with an eraser: “Return,” “To return.” - I saw the light of the clock at five in the morning in your window. - Yes, I worked. - You are ruining yourself! Expensive! Take care of yourself for us! - Why? At a table laden with tasty things, she lowers her eyes, drawn by an irresistible force to the jellied pig. “Marya Nikolaevna,” her neighbor, a simple, non-demonic woman, with earrings in her ears and a bracelet on her hand, and not on any other place, says to the hostess, “Marya Nikolaevna, please give me some wine.” The demonic one will cover her eyes with her hand and speak hysterically: - Guilt! Guilt! Give me some wine, I'm thirsty! I'll drink! I drank yesterday! I drank for three days and tomorrow... yes, and tomorrow I will drink! I want, I want, I want wine! Strictly speaking, what is so tragic about the fact that the lady drinks a little for three days in a row? But the demonic woman will be able to arrange things in such a way that the hair on everyone’s head will stand up. - He drinks. - How mysterious! - And tomorrow, he says, I’ll drink... He’ll start snacking simple woman, will say: - Marya Nikolaevna, please, a piece of herring. I love onions. The demonic one will open her eyes wide and, looking into space, scream: “Herring?” Yes, yes, give me some herring, I want to eat herring, I want it, I want it. Is this an onion? Yes, yes, give me onions, give me a lot of everything, everything, herring, onions, I’m hungry, I want vulgarity, rather... more... more, look everyone... I’m eating herring! Basically, what happened? I just developed an appetite and craved something salty. And what an effect! - Did you hear? Have you heard? - Don't leave her alone tonight. - ? - And the fact that she will probably shoot herself with this same potassium cyanide that will be brought to her on Tuesday... There are unpleasant and ugly moments of life when an ordinary woman, stupidly staring at the bookcase, crumples a handkerchief in her hands and says with trembling lips: - Actually, I don’t have long... just twenty-five rubles. I hope that next week or in January... I will be able... The demonic will lie with her chest on the table, support her chin with both hands and look straight into your soul with mysterious, half-closed eyes: Why am I looking at you? I'll tell you. Listen to me, look at me... I want, - do you hear? - I want you to give it to me now, - do you hear? - now twenty-five rubles. I want this. Do you hear? - Want. So that it was you, exactly me, who gave exactly twenty-five rubles. I want! I'm a tvvvar!... Now go... go... without turning around, leave quickly, quickly... Ha-ha-ha! Hysterical laughter must shake her entire being, even both beings, hers and his. - Hurry... hurry, without turning around... leave forever, for life, for life... Ha-ha-ha! And he will be “shocked” by his being and will not even realize that she simply grabbed the quarter note from him without giving back. - You know, she was so strange today... mysterious. She told me not to turn around. - Yes. There is a sense of mystery here. - Maybe... she fell in love with me... - ! - Secret! Teffi - " About the Diary " A man always keeps a diary for posterity. “So, he thinks, after death they will find it in the papers and evaluate it.” In the diary, the man does not talk about any facts of external life. He only sets out his deep philosophical views on this or that subject. "January 5. How, in essence, does a person differ from a monkey or an animal? Is it just that he goes to work and there he has to endure all sorts of troubles..." "February 10. And our views on a woman! We are looking for there is fun and entertainment in it and, having found it, we leave it. But this is how a hippopotamus looks at a woman...” “What is beauty? No one has yet asked this question. But, in my opinion, there is beauty. is nothing more than a certain combination of lines and known colors. And ugliness is nothing more than a certain violation of known lines and known colors. But why are we ready for all sorts of madness for the sake of a certain combination, but for the sake of a violation we do not strike a finger? Why? Is the combination more important than the violation? This is something we should think about long and hard.” "April 5. What is a sense of duty? And is it this feeling that takes possession of a person when he pays a bill, or something else? Maybe after many thousands of years, when these lines fall into the eyes of some thinker, he will read them and he will think about how I am his distant ancestor..." "April 6. Why can this stop the rotation of the earth around the sun for at least one thousandth of a second?.." ---- A man likes to read occasionally. your diary. Only, of course, not the wife - the wife still won’t understand anything. He reads his diary to a club friend, a gentleman he met at the races, a bailiff who came with a request to “indicate exactly which things in this house belong to you personally.” But the diary is being written not for these connoisseurs of human art, connoisseurs of the depths of the human spirit, but for posterity. ---- A woman always writes a diary for Vladimir Petrovich or Sergei Nikolaevich. That's why everyone always writes about their appearance. "December 5th. Today I was especially interesting. Even on the street everyone flinched and turned to look at me." “January 5. Why are they all going crazy because of me? Although I am really very beautiful. Especially my eyes. They, according to Eugene’s definition, are blue, like the sky.” “February 5. This evening I undressed in front of the mirror. My golden body was so beautiful that I couldn’t stand it, went up to the mirror, reverently kissed my image right on the back of my head, where my fluffy curls curl so playfully.” "March 5. I myself know that I am mysterious. But what should I do if I am like that?" “April 5. Alexander Andreevich said that I looked like a Roman hetaera and that I would gladly send ancient Christians to the guillotine and watch them tormented by tigers. Am I really like that?” “May 5. I would like to die very, very young, no older than 46 years old. Let them say on my grave: “She did not live long.” No longer than a nightingale's song." "June 5th. V came again. He is mad, and I am cold as marble." "June 6. V. is going crazy. He speaks amazingly beautifully. He says, "Your eyes are as deep as the sea." But even the beauty of these words does not excite me. I like it, but don't care." "July 6th. I pushed him away. But I'm suffering. I became pale as marble and wide open eyes mine quietly whisper: “For what, for what.” Sergei Nikolaevich says that eyes are the mirror of the soul. He is very smart and I am afraid of him." "August 6th. Everyone finds that I have become even more beautiful. God! How will it end?" ---- The woman never shows her diary to anyone. She hides it in the closet, having first wrapped it in an old capet. And only hints at its existence to whoever needs it. Then she will even show it, only, of course, from afar, whoever needs it. Then he’ll let him hold it for a minute, and then, of course, don’t take it away by force. And “whoever needs it” will read it and find out how beautiful she was on April 5th and what Sergei Nikolaevich and the madman said about her beauty! V. And if “whoever needs it” has not noticed what is needed until now, then, after reading the diary, he will probably pay attention to what is needed. A woman’s diary is never passed on to posterity. A woman burns it as soon as it is written. served his purpose.

Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi (Lokhvitskaya)

Collected works in five volumes

Volume 1. Humorous stories

N. Surazhsky. Red heels Taffy

We recently devoted an essay to the very colorful figure of A.V. Rumanov.

About 30 years ago he “shocked” the St. Petersburg salons with the “filigree Christ.”

Later, in the same salons, Rumanov dropped in his soft, rumbling almost baritone:

Teffi is meek... She is meek, - Teffi...

And he said to her:

Teffi, you are meek.

In the northern skies of the Neva capital, the star of a talented poetess, feuilletonist and - now this will be a revelation for many - the author of charming, gentle and completely original songs was already shining.

Teffi herself performed them in a small but pleasant voice to the accompaniment of her own guitar.

That’s how you see her - Teffi...

Wrapped in a warm, fur-trimmed robe, her legs comfortably crossed, she sits with a guitar on her lap in a deep chair by the fireplace, casting warm, quivering reflections...

Smart gray cat eyes look without blinking into the roaring flames of the fireplace and the guitar rings:

Angry cats gnawing
Evil people have it in their hearts
My feet are dancing
On red heels...

Teffi loved red shoes.

It has already been published. They talked about her. They were looking for her cooperation.

Rumanov again, with his beaver haircut.

On the Caucasian mineral waters, he created a large resort newspaper and attracted the best St. Petersburg “forces”.

One of the first visits is to her, “meek Teffi.”

I invite you to Essentuki for two or three months. How many?

And without waiting for an answer, Rumanov somehow imperceptibly and deftly fanned out several new credit cards with portraits of Catherine the Great on the table.

This is an advance!..

Take him away! I love rainbows in the sky, not on my desk - came the answer.

Rumanov was not at a loss. Like a magician, he instantly pulled out a heavy suede bag from somewhere and poured a ringing, sparkling stream of gold coins onto the table.

Nadezhda Alexandrovna thoughtfully poured these coins through her fingers, like a child playing with sand.

A few days later she left for Essentuki and there immediately increased the circulation of the resort newspaper.

It was a long time ago, a very long time ago, but it was still...

Time makes its mark, they say.

Both time and the press are extremely lenient towards Teffi. Here in Paris she is almost the same as she was with a guitar by the fireplace in red shoes and a fur-trimmed robe.

And the smart eyes with a cat's gray yellowness and a cat's frame are exactly the same.

We talk about current politics:

What can you say, Nadezhda Aleksandrovna, about the “League of Nations”, about its acceptance of Soviet Russia, or rather the Soviet government, into its fold?

First a smile, then two dimples near the corners of the mouth. Long-familiar dimples that resurrected St. Petersburg...

What can I say? I'm not a politician, but a comedian. There is only one thing: Everyone’s attitude towards the “League of Nations” is painfully ironic, and therefore, what is the price of whether it recognizes someone or not. And, really, nothing has changed and will not change because she adorned Litvinov’s bald spot with her laurels from his, Litvinov’s, not quite “Roman profile.” A farce, albeit a tragicomic one, but still a farce...

Having finished with the League of Nations and Litvinov, we move on to the amnesty announced by the Bolsheviks.

Is it really announced by them? - Teffi doubted? - The Bolsheviks, at least, remain silent on this subject. It seems to me that this amnesty is like a mirage in the desert. Yes, yes, the distrustful, exhausted emigration, perhaps, itself invented this amnesty and is clutching at it... Muslims say: “a drowning person is ready to grab hold of a snake.”

What can you say about modern Germany?

But I’ll say this: I had a story called “The Demonic Woman.” He was lucky. A collection of my things under this general title was published in Poland. “The Demonic Woman” was also published in German. And then I find out: some cheeky young German took this story and published it under his own name. I’m used to being reprinted without a fee, but I’m not used to having someone else’s name put under my stories. Friends advised calling the young, promising plagiarist to order. They advised me to contact prof. Luther... It seems that at the University of Leipzig he occupies a chair... A chair - now I’ll tell you what. Yes, Slavic literature. I wrote to him more in order to reassure my friends.

To my great surprise, Professor Luther responded. Yes, how! With what ardor! A whole thing arose. He found a promising young man, lathered his head thoroughly, and threatened: anything like that again, and within Germany no one would ever publish a single line of his. The royalties for The Demonic Woman were awarded in my favor. The young man wrote me a letter of repentance on several pages. Not only that, but the venerable Professor Luther himself apologized to me for it. The corporation of German writers and journalists apologized. In the end, I felt ashamed myself, why did I start this mess?...

And now, having finished with Germany. two words about reprints in general. A large Russian newspaper in New York got into the habit of “decorating” its basements with my feuilletons from “Renaissance.” I turned to the Canadian Society of Russian Journalists to protect my copyright. Thanks to them, they took care of me, but there was no point in it! In response to threats of prosecution, the aforementioned newspaper continues to use my feuilletons and the number of reprinted stories has reached an impressive figure of 33. Alas, my nice Canadian colleagues do not have the authority of the most touching and all-powerful Professor Luther.

I knew it! No “real” interview is complete without this. What am I working on? I’ll tell you frankly, without hiding, I’m writing an emigrant novel, where, although under pseudonyms, but very transparently, I bring out a whole phalanx of living people, pillars of emigration of a wide variety of professions and social positions. Will I spare my friends? Maybe yes, maybe no. Don't know. I once had something similar with Chateaubriand. He also announced the publication of the same portrait novel. The alarmed friends immediately organized themselves into a society whose goal was to create a monetary fund named after Chateaubriand. Something like a propitiatory sacrifice to a formidable, punishing deity... I wouldn’t have anything against it, Teffi adds with a smile, and I have absolutely nothing against such a friendly fund in favor of me, a sinner. However, isn't it time to end? I'm afraid that I'll take up a lot of space for my special one in the magazine “For You”!

Well, it turns out that it’s no longer “For you”, but “For me”. So what else? I'm obsessed with newbie authors. People from all over send their works with requests to publish them. And in order for the request to be valid, they dedicate all their stories to me. They think that Teffi, delighted with such attention, will immediately rush to the appropriate editorial offices and, with a Browning in hand, force young authors to publish, at least in anticipation of the publication of flattering dedications. Taking this opportunity, I inform all my ardent correspondents that I, well, am not at all vain! True, there are some good stories, but most often my young people write about what they don’t know. And what he knows, he is silent about. For example, an author from Morocco sent me a story...Who would you think of? About the Eskimos! Although I don’t particularly care about Eskimo life, I immediately sensed something was wrong.

From aspiring writers we move on to our Parisian professionals.

Tell me, I ask, Nadezhda Alexandrovna, how can we explain such a squabble among our brother? It would seem equally disadvantaged? Why?

Angry cats gnawing

In evil people, in the hearts...

What a memory you have! - Teffi was amazed and sparkles flashed in the cat’s eyes. - Why? Everyone is exhausted, there is no strength to endure anymore...

But when will they stop?

Calm down,” Teffi nodded encouragingly; they’ll get tired and then stop.

Aren't you tired of living?

My feet are dancing

On red heels...

And again the sparkles flashed in the cat’s eyes and dimples appeared near the corners of the mouth...

N. Surazhsky.

Humorous stories. Book 1

...For laughter is joy, and therefore in itself is good.

Spinoza. "Ethics", part IV. Position XLV, scholium II.

Curry favor

Leshka’s right leg had been numb for a long time, but he did not dare change his position and listened eagerly. It was completely dark in the corridor, and through the narrow crack of the ajar door one could only see a brightly lit piece of the wall above the kitchen stove. A large dark circle topped with two horns wavered on the wall. Leshka guessed that this circle was nothing more than the shadow of his aunt’s head with the ends of the scarf sticking up.

Current page: 1 (book has 11 pages in total)

Humorous stories

...For laughter is joy, and therefore in itself is good.

Spinoza. "Ethics", part IV.

Position XLV, scholium II.

Curry favor

Leshka’s right leg had been numb for a long time, but he did not dare change his position and listened eagerly. It was completely dark in the corridor, and through the narrow crack of the ajar door one could only see a brightly lit piece of the wall above the kitchen stove. A large dark circle topped with two horns wavered on the wall. Leshka guessed that this circle was nothing more than the shadow of his aunt’s head with the ends of the scarf sticking up.

The aunt came to visit Leshka, whom only a week ago she had designated as a “boy for room services,” and was now conducting serious negotiations with the cook who was her patron. The negotiations were of an unpleasantly alarming nature, the aunt was very worried, and the horns on the wall rose and fell steeply, as if some unprecedented beast was goring its invisible opponents.

It was assumed that Leshka washes his galoshes in the front. But, as you know, man proposes, but God disposes, and Leshka, with a rag in his hands, listened behind the door.

“I realized from the very beginning that he was a bungler,” the cook sang in a rich voice. - How many times do I tell him: if you, guy, are not a fool, stay in front of your eyes. Don’t do shitty things, but stay in front of your eyes. Because Dunyashka scrubs. But he doesn’t even listen. Just now the lady was screaming again - she didn’t interfere with the stove and closed it with a firebrand.

The horns on the wall are agitated, and the aunt moans like an Aeolian harp:

- Where can I go with him? Mavra Semyonovna! I bought him boots, didn’t drink or eat, gave him five rubles. For the alteration of the jacket, the tailor, without drinking or eating, tore off six hryvnia...

“No other way than to send him home.”

- Darling! The road, no food, no food, four rubles, dear!

Leshka, forgetting all precautions, sighs outside the door. He doesn't want to go home. His father promised that he would skin him seven times, and Leshka knows from experience how unpleasant that is.

“It’s still too early to howl,” the cook sings again. “So far, no one is chasing him.” The lady only threatened... But the tenant, Pyotr Dmitrich, is very interceding. Right behind Leshka. That's enough, Marya Vasilievna says, he's not a fool, Leshka. He, he says, is a complete idiot, there’s no point in scolding him. I really stand up for Leshka.

- Well, God bless him...

“But with us, whatever the tenant says is sacred.” Because he is a well-read person, he pays carefully...

- And Dunyashka is good! – the aunt twirled her horns. - I don’t understand people like this - telling lies on a boy...

- Truly! True. Just now I tell her: “Go open the door, Dunyasha,” affectionately, as if in a kind way. So she snorts in my face: “Grit, I’m not your doorman, open the door yourself!” And I sang everything to her here. How to open doors, so you, I say, are not a doorman, but how to kiss a janitor on the stairs, so you are still a doorman...

- Lord have mercy! From these years to everything I spied. The girl is young, she should live and live. One salary, no food, no...

- What do I need? I told her straight out: how to open doors, you’re not a doorman. She, you see, is not a doorman! And how to accept gifts from a janitor, she is a doorman. Yes, lipstick for the tenant...

Trrrrr...” the electric bell crackled.

- Leshka! Leshka! - the cook shouted. - Oh, you, you failed! Dunyasha was sent away, but he didn’t even listen.

Leshka held his breath, pressed himself against the wall and stood quietly until the angry cook swam past him, angrily rattling her starched skirts.

“No, pipes,” thought Leshka, “I won’t go to the village. I’m not a stupid guy, I’ll want to, so I’ll quickly curry favor. You can’t wipe me out, I’m not like that.”

And, waiting for the cook to return, he walked with decisive steps into the rooms.

“Be, grit, before our eyes. And what kind of eyes will I be when no one is ever home?

He walked into the hallway. Hey! The coat is hanging - a tenant of the house.

He rushed to the kitchen and, snatching the poker from the dumbfounded cook, rushed back into the rooms, quickly opened the door to the tenant’s room and went to stir the stove.

The tenant was not alone. With him was a young lady, wearing a jacket and a veil. Both shuddered and straightened up when Leshka entered.

“I’m not a stupid guy,” thought Leshka, poking the burning wood with a poker. “I’ll irritate those eyes.” I’m not a parasite - I’m all in business, I’m all in business!..”

The firewood crackled, the poker rattled, sparks flew in all directions. The lodger and the lady were tensely silent. Finally, Leshka headed towards the exit, but stopped right at the door and began to anxiously examine the wet spot on the floor, then turned his eyes to the guest’s feet and, seeing the galoshes on them, shook his head reproachfully.

“Here,” he said reproachfully, “they left it behind!” And then the hostess will scold me.

The guest flushed and looked at the tenant in confusion.

“Okay, okay, go ahead,” he calmed embarrassedly.

And Leshka left, but not for long. He found a rag and returned to wipe the floor.

He found the lodger and his guest silently bending over the table and immersed in contemplation of the tablecloth.

“Look, they were staring,” thought Leshka, “they must have noticed the spot.” They think I don't understand! Found a fool! I understand everything. I work like a horse!”

And, approaching the thoughtful couple, he carefully wiped the tablecloth under the tenant’s very nose.

- What are you doing? - he was scared.

- Like what? I can't live without my eye. Dunyashka, the oblique devil, only knows a dirty trick, and she’s not the doorman to keep order... The janitor on the stairs...

- Get out! Idiot!

But the young lady frightenedly grabbed the tenant’s hand and spoke in a whisper.

“He’ll understand...” Leshka heard, “the servants... gossip...”

The lady had tears of embarrassment in her eyes, and in a trembling voice she said to Leshka:

- Nothing, nothing, boy... You don’t have to close the door when you go...

The tenant grinned contemptuously and shrugged.

Leshka left, but, having reached the front hall, he remembered that the lady asked not to lock the door, and, returning, opened it.

The tenant jumped away from his lady like a bullet.

“Eccentric,” Leshka thought as he left. “The room is bright, but he’s scared!”

Leshka walked into the hallway, looked in the mirror, and tried on the resident’s hat. Then he walked into the dark dining room and scratched the cupboard door with his nails.

- Look, you unsalted devil! You're here all day, like a horse, working, and all she knows is locking the closet.

I decided to go stir the stove again. The door to the resident's room was closed again. Leshka was surprised, but entered.

The tenant sat calmly next to the lady, but his tie was on one side, and he looked at Leshka with such a look that he only clicked his tongue:

“What are you looking at! I myself know that I’m not a parasite, I don’t sit idly by.”

The coals are stirred, and Leshka leaves, threatening that he will soon return to close the stove. A quiet half-moan, half-sigh was his answer.

Leshka went and felt sad: he couldn’t think of any more work. I looked into the lady's bedroom. It was quiet there. The lamp glowed in front of the image. It smelled like perfume. Leshka climbed onto a chair, looked at the faceted pink lamp for a long time, crossed himself earnestly, then dipped his finger into it and oiled his hair above his forehead. Then he went to the dressing table and sniffed all the bottles in turn.

- Eh, what’s wrong! No matter how much you work, if you don’t see them, they don’t count as anything. At least break your forehead.

He wandered sadly into the hallway. In the dimly lit living room, something squeaked under his feet, then the bottom of the curtain swayed, followed by another...

"Cat! – he realized. - Look, look, back to the tenant’s room, again the lady will go crazy, like the other day. You’re being naughty!..”

Joyful and animated, he ran into the treasured room.

- I am the damned one! I'll show you to hang around! I’ll turn your face right on its tail!..

The occupant had no face.

“Are you crazy, you unfortunate idiot!” - he shouted. -Who are you scolding?

“Hey, you vile one, just give him some slack, you’ll never survive,” Leshka tried. “You can’t let her into your room!” She's nothing but a scandal!..

The lady with trembling hands straightened her hat, which had slipped onto the back of her head.

“He’s kind of crazy, this boy,” she whispered in fear and embarrassment.

- Shoot, damn it! - and Leshka finally, to everyone’s reassurance, dragged the cat out from under the sofa.

“Lord,” the tenant prayed, “will you finally leave here?”

- Look, damn it, it’s scratching! It cannot be kept in rooms. Yesterday she was in the living room under the curtain...

And Leshka, at length and in detail, without hiding a single detail, without sparing fire and color, described to the amazed listeners all the dishonest behavior of the terrible cat.

His story was listened to in silence. The lady bent down and kept looking for something under the table, and the tenant, somehow strangely pressing Leshka’s shoulder, pushed the narrator out of the room and closed the door.

“I’m a smart guy,” Leshka whispered, letting the cat out onto the back stairs. - Smart and hard worker. I'll go close the stove now.

This time the tenant did not hear Leshkin’s steps: he stood in front of the lady on his knees and, bowing his head low and low to her legs, froze, without moving. And the lady closed her eyes and shrank her whole face, as if she was looking at the sun...

“What is he doing there? – Leshka was surprised. “Like he’s chewing a button on her shoe!” No... apparently he dropped something. I'll go look..."

He approached and bent down so quickly that the tenant, who suddenly perked up, hit him painfully with his forehead right on the eyebrow.

The lady jumped up all confused. Leshka reached under the chair, searched under the table and stood up, spreading his arms.

– There’s nothing there.

-What are you looking for? What do you finally want from us? - the tenant shouted in an unnaturally thin voice and blushed all over.

“I thought they dropped something... It’ll disappear again, like the brooch of that little dark lady who comes to you for tea... The day before yesterday, when I left, I, Lyosha, lost my brooch,” he turned directly to the lady , who suddenly began to listen to him very carefully, even opened her mouth, and her eyes became completely round.

- Well, I went behind the screen on the table and found it. And yesterday I forgot my brooch again, but it wasn’t I who put it away, but Dunyashka, so that means the end of the brooch...

“By God, it’s true,” Leshka reassured her. - Dunyashka stole it, damn it. If it weren't for me, she would have stolen everything. I clean everything up like a horse... by God, like a dog...

But they didn’t listen to him. The lady quickly ran into the hallway, the tenant behind her, and both disappeared behind the front door.

Leshka went to the kitchen, where, going to bed in an old trunk without a top, he said to the cook with a mysterious look:

- Tomorrow the slash is closed.

- Well! – she was joyfully surprised. - What did they say?

- Since I’m talking, it’s become, I know.

The next day Leshka was kicked out.

Dexterity of hands

On the doors of a small wooden booth, where local youth danced and performed charity performances on Sundays, there was a long red poster:

“Specially passing through, at the request of the public, a session of the grandest fakir of black and white magic.

The most amazing tricks, such as burning a handkerchief in front of one’s eyes, extracting a silver ruble from the nose of the most respectable public, and so on, contrary to nature.”

A sad head looked out of the side window and sold tickets.

It had been raining since the morning. The trees of the garden around the booth became wet, swollen, and were doused with gray, fine rain obediently, without shaking themselves off.

At the very entrance a large puddle bubbled and gurgled. Only three rubles worth of tickets were sold.

It was getting dark.

The sad head sighed, disappeared, and a small, shabby gentleman of indeterminate age crawled out of the door.

Holding his coat at the collar with both hands, he raised his head and looked at the sky from all sides.

- Not a single hole! Everything is gray! In Timashev there is a burnout, in Shchigra there is a burnout, in Dmitriev there is a burnout... In Oboyan there is a burnout, in Kursk there is a burnout... And where is there not a burnout? Where, I ask, is there no burnout? I sent an honorary card to the judge, to the head, to the police officer... I sent it to everyone. I'll go refill the lamps.

He glanced at the poster and couldn’t look away.

-What else do they want? An abscess in the head or what?

By eight o'clock they began to gather.

Either no one came to the places of honor, or servants were sent. Some drunks came to the standing places and immediately began to threaten that they would demand the money back.

By half past nine it became clear that no one else would come. And those who were sitting were all cursing so loudly and definitely that it became dangerous to delay any longer.

The magician put on a long frock coat, which became wider with each tour, sighed, crossed himself, took a box with mysterious accessories and went on stage.

He stood silently for a few seconds and thought:

“The fee is four rubles, kerosene is six hryvnia - that’s nothing, but the premises are eight rubles, so that’s something! Golovin's son has a place of honor - let him. But how will I leave and what will I eat, I’m asking you.

And why is it empty? I would flock to such a program myself.”

- Bravo! - one of the drunks yelled.

The magician woke up. He lit a candle on the table and said:

– Dear audience! Let me give you a preface. What you see here is not anything miraculous or witchcraft, which is disgusting to our Orthodox religion and even prohibited by the police. This doesn't even happen in the world. No! Far from it! What you will see here is nothing less than dexterity and dexterity of hands. I give you my word of honor that there will be no mysterious witchcraft here. Now you will see the extraordinary appearance of a hard-boiled egg in a completely empty scarf.

He rummaged in the box and took out a colorful scarf rolled into a ball. His hands were shaking slightly.

- Please see for yourself that the scarf is completely empty. Here I am shaking it out.

He shook out the handkerchief and stretched it with his hands.

“In the morning, one bun for a penny and tea without sugar,” he thought. “What about tomorrow?”

“You can be sure,” he repeated, “that there is no egg here.”

The audience began to stir and whisper. Someone snorted. And suddenly one of the drunks boomed:

- You're lying! Here's an egg.

- Where? What? – the magician was confused.

- And tied it to a scarf with a string.

The embarrassed magician turned over the handkerchief. Indeed, there was an egg hanging on a string.

- Oh, you! – someone spoke in a friendly manner. - If you go behind the candle, it wouldn’t be noticeable. And you climbed ahead! Yes, brother, you can’t.

The magician was pale and smiled crookedly.

“It’s true,” he said. “However, I warned you that this is not witchcraft, but purely sleight of hand.” Sorry, gentlemen...” his voice trembled and stopped.

- OK! OK!

– Now let’s move on to the next amazing phenomenon, which will seem even more amazing to you. Let one of the most respectable audience lend his handkerchief.

The public was shy.

Many had already taken it out, but after looking closely, they hastened to put it in their pockets.

Then the magician approached the head's son and extended his trembling hand.

“I could, of course, use my handkerchief, since it is completely safe, but you might think that I changed something.”

Golovin’s son gave him his handkerchief, and the magician unfolded it, shook it and stretched it.

- Please make sure! A completely intact scarf.

Golovin's son looked proudly at the audience.

- Now look. This scarf has become magical. So I roll it up into a tube, then I bring it to the candle and light it. Lit. The entire corner was burned off. Do you see?

The audience craned their necks.

- Right! - the drunk shouted. - It smells like burning.

“Now I’ll count to three and the scarf will be whole again.”

- Once! Two! Three!! Please take a look!

He proudly and deftly straightened out his handkerchief.

- A-ah! – the audience also gasped.

There was a huge burnt hole in the middle of the scarf.

- However! - Golovin’s son said and sniffled.

The magician pressed the handkerchief to his chest and suddenly began to cry.

- Gentlemen! Most respectable pu... No collection!.. Rain in the morning... didn’t eat... didn’t eat - a penny for a bun!

- But we’re nothing! God be with you! - the audience shouted.

- Damn us animals! The Lord is with you.

But the magician sobbed and wiped his nose with a magic handkerchief.

- Four rubles for the fee... premises - eight rubles... oh-oh-oh-eighth... oh-oh-oh...

Some woman sobbed.

- That's enough for you! Oh my God! Turned my soul out! - they shouted all around.

A head in an oilskin hood poked its head through the door.

- What is this? Go home!

Everyone stood up anyway. We left. They sloshed through the puddles, were silent, and sighed.

“What can I tell you, brothers,” one of the drunks suddenly said clearly and loudly.

Everyone even paused.

- What can I tell you! After all, the scoundrel people have gone away. He will rip your money off you, and he will rip your soul out. A?

- Blow up! - someone hooted in the darkness.

- Exactly what to inflate. Come on! Who's with us? One, two... Well, march! People without any conscience... I also paid money that was not stolen... Well, we’ll show you! Zhzhiva.

Repentant

The old nanny, living in retirement with the general's family, came from confession.

I sat in my corner for a minute and was offended: the gentlemen were having dinner, there was a smell of something tasty, and I could hear the quick clatter of the maid serving the table.

- Ugh! Passionate is not Passionate, they don’t care. Just to feed your womb. You will sin unwillingly, God forgive me!

She got out, chewed, thought and went into the passage room. She sat down on the chest.

A maid passed by and was surprised.

- Why are you, nanny, sitting here? Exactly a doll! By God - exactly a doll!

- Think about what you are saying! – the nanny snapped. - Such days, and she swears. Is it appropriate to swear on such days? The man was at confession, but looking at you, you’ll have time to get dirty before communion.

The maid was scared.

- It's my fault, nanny! Congratulations on your confession.

- "Congratulations!" Nowadays they really congratulate! Nowadays they strive to offend and reproach a person. Just now their liqueur spilled. Who knows what she spilled. You won’t be smarter than God either. And the little lady says: “It’s probably the nanny who spilled it!” From such a age and such words.

– It’s even amazing, nanny! They are so small and already know everything!

- These children, mother, are worse than obstetricians! That's what they are, children of today. What do I care? I don't judge. I was at confession, now I'm up to tomorrow I won’t swallow poppy dewdrops, let alone... And you say – congratulations. There's an old lady fasting in the fourth week; I say to Sonechka: “Congratulate the little woman.” And she snorts: “Here you go!” I really need it!” And I say: “You have to respect the little woman!” The old woman will die and may be deprived of her inheritance.” Yes, if only I had some kind of woman, I would find something to congratulate every day. WITH good morning, grandma! Yes with good weather! Yes, happy holiday! Yes, happy birthday! Have a happy bite! What do I care? I don't judge. I’m going to take communion tomorrow, all I’m saying is that it’s not good and quite shameful.

- You should rest, nanny! - the maid fawned.

“I’ll stretch my legs and lie down in a coffin.” I'm taking a rest. There will be time for you to rejoice. They would have disappeared from the world long ago, but I won’t give myself to you. The young bone crunches on the teeth, and the old bone gets stuck in the throat. You won't eat it.

- And what are you, nanny! And everyone is just looking at you, as if to respect you.

- No, don’t tell me about respecters. You have respect, but no one respected me even from a young age, so in my old age it’s too late for me to be ashamed. Better than the coachman over there, go and ask where he took the lady the other day... That’s what you ask.

- Oh, what are you talking about, nanny! – the maid whispered and even squatted down in front of the old woman. -Where did he take it? I, by golly, don’t tell anyone...

- Don’t be afraid. It's a sin to swear! For godlessness, you know how God will punish you! And he took me to a place where they show men moving. They move and sing. They spread out a sheet, and they move around on it. The little lady told me. You see, it’s not enough on her own, so she took the girl too. I would have found out myself, taken a good twig and driven it along Zakharyevskaya! There's just no one to tell. Do the people of today understand the lies? Nowadays, everyone only cares about themselves. Ugh! Whatever you remember, you will sin! Lord forgive me!

“The master is a busy man, of course, it’s hard for him to see everything,” the maid sang, modestly lowering her eyes. - They are pretty people.

- I know your master! I've known it since childhood! If I didn’t have to go to communion tomorrow, I would tell you about your master! Been like this since childhood! People are going to mass - ours has not yet recovered. People from the church are coming - ours is drinking tea and coffee. And I just can’t imagine how the Holy Mother, a lazy, free-spirited man, managed to reach the level of a general! I really think: he stole this rank for himself! Wherever he is, he stole it! There’s just no one to try! And I’ve been realizing for a long time that I stole it. They think: the nanny is an old fool, so with her everything is possible! Stupid, maybe even stupid. But not everyone can be smart, someone needs to be stupid.

The maid looked back at the door in fear.

- Our business, nanny, is official. God be with him! Let go! It's not for us to sort it out. Will you go to church early in the morning?

“I might not go to bed at all.” I want to come to church before everyone else. So that all sorts of rubbish does not get ahead of people. Every cricket knows its nest.

- Who is it that’s climbing?

- Yes, the old lady is alone here. Chilling, in which the soul is held. God forgive me, the scoundrel will come to the church before everyone else, and he will leave later than everyone else. One day he will outlast everyone. And I would like to sit down for a minute! All of us old women are surprised. No matter how hard you try, while the clock reads, you will sit down a little. And this vitriol is nothing other than on purpose. Is it enough to just survive! One old woman almost burned her handkerchief with a candle. And it’s a pity that it didn’t burn. Don't stare! Why stare! Is it indicated to stare? Tomorrow I’ll come before everyone else and stop it, so I’ll probably reduce the momentum. I can't see her! I’m on my knees today, and I keep looking at her. You're a viper, I think you're a viper! May your water bubble burst! It’s a sin, but there’s nothing you can do about it.

“It’s okay, nanny, now that you’ve confessed, you’ve forgiven your priest’s ass all his sins.” Now your darling is pure and innocent.

- Yes, the hell with it! Let go! This is a sin, but I must say: this priest confessed me poorly. When I went to the monastery with my aunt and princess, I can say that I confessed. He tortured me, tortured me, reproached me, reproached me, imposed three penances! I asked everything. He asked if the princess was thinking of renting out the meadows. Well, I repented and said that I don’t know. And this one is alive soon. Why am I sinful? Well, I say, father, what are my sins. The oldest women. I love Kofiy and quarrel with the servants. “Aren’t there any special ones,” he says? What are the special ones? Each person has his own special sin. That's it. And instead of trying and shaming him, he took a vacation and read it. That's all for you! I suppose he took the money. I suppose he didn’t give change because I didn’t have much! Ugh, God forgive me! If you remember, you will sin! Save and have mercy. Why are you sitting here? It would be better if I walked and thought: “How can I live like this and everything is not good?” Girl you are young! There's a crow's nest on her head! Have you thought about what days it is? On such days, let yourself be allowed to do so. And there is no way around you, shameless ones! Having confessed, I came, let me - I thought - I’ll sit quietly. Tomorrow I have to go and take communion. No. And then I got there. She came and said all sorts of nasty things, worse than anything. Damn washcloth, God forgive me. Look, I went with such force! Not long, mother! I know everything! Give it time, I’ll drink everything to the lady! - Go and rest. God forgive me, someone else will get attached!