Little stories of Teffi. Read teffi, stories

"What a joy it is to be wild man! – thought Katyusha, making her way through the bushes of the monastery forest. “Here I am wandering where, perhaps, no human foot has ever stepped before.” I feel with my whole body, with my whole soul how much I belong to this earth. And she probably feels me as one of her own. It’s a pity that I can’t walk barefoot – it hurts too much. Damn ancestors! They ruined my soles with culture.”

Through the thin pines the sky turned pink. How wonderful!

She enthusiastically raised her freckled nose and recited:

And resin and strawberries

It smells like old wood.

But the old forest ended right there near the official house of the chief engineer.

Katyusha stopped. There was something happening on the lawn. Something extraordinary. Myself chief engineer, his assistant, the young doctor and about five other people - you couldn’t tell who from behind - gathered in a circle, bent down, some even squatted down, and someone suddenly roared offendedly, and everyone laughed.

-Who are they laughing at? That's right, some fool, deaf and dumb.

It became scary and a little disgusting.

But the people are all familiar. You can come over. It's just awkward that she's so disheveled. And the dress on the shoulder is torn by thorns. But “he”, fortunately, is not here. This means there will be no grumbling. (“He” is the husband.)

And again something roared, growled without words.

Katyusha came up.

The chief engineer raised his head, saw Katyusha, nodded to her:

- Katerina Vladimirovna! Come here! Look what a monster Nikolai brought.

Nikolai, the forest guard - Katyusha knew him - stood aside and smiled, covering his mouth with his fingers out of politeness.

The young doctor moved away, and in the center of the circle Katyusha saw a small fat bear cub. Around his neck dangled a piece of rope with a wooden block. The little bear shook the block from side to side, caught it with his paw and suddenly began to skip and run. And then the block hit him on the sides, and the bear cub roared and raised his paw menacingly. This made the people around him laugh.

“Wait,” the assistant engineer shouted, “I’ll blow smoke into his nose, wait...

But at this time someone poked the bear cub with a stick. He turned around angrily and, raising his paw, funny, terribly menacing, but not at all scary, went at the offender.

Katyusha was confused. She herself didn’t understand what to do and how she felt about this story.

“Wait,” someone shouted, “Fifi is going to meet the bear.” Skip Fifi.

Fifi, a poodle from a neighboring estate, small, lean, with a dapper lion haircut, with pads and bracelets on his paws, entered the circle.

The bear, tired and offended, sat down and thought. The poodle, smartly moving his paws, came up, sniffed the bear from the side, from the tail, from the muzzle, walked around again, sniffed from the other side - the bear glanced sideways, but did not move. The poodle, dancing, had just set his sights on sniffing the bear’s ears, when the bear suddenly swung and bang the poodle in the face. He, not so much from the force of the blow as from surprise, turned over in the air, squealed and started to run away.

Everyone started laughing. Even the watchman Nikolai, forgetting politeness, threw back his head and roared at the top of his lungs.

And then Katyusha “found herself.”

“My dear,” the chief engineer jumped up. - Katerina Vladimirovna! Katyushenka! Why are you crying? Such a grown-up lady, and suddenly because of a bear cub... Nobody offends him. The Lord is with you! Don't cry, otherwise I'll cry myself!

“Ardalyon Ilyich,” Katyusha babbled, wiping her cheek with the torn sleeve of her dress, “forgive me, but I can’t when-a-a...”

“It’s a waste of time for you to walk around in the heat without a hat,” the young doctor said admonishingly.

- Leave it alone! – Katyusha shouted at him angrily. - Ardalyon Ilyich, my dear, give it to me if it’s nobody’s. I beg you.

- What are you talking about, my dear! Yes, there is something to talk about! Nikolai,” he turned to the forest guard, “you will take the bear cub to the Gordatskys, you know, to the magistrate.” Here you go. Go home quietly.

Katyusha sighed a trembling sigh. She looked around and wanted to explain her behavior, but there was no one to explain it to. Everyone left.

At home Katyusha had an angry husband, an angry cook and a maid, Nastya, her own person. Katyusha was afraid of the cook, fawned on her, and called her “Glafira, you.” She called her “Mistress, you” and clearly despised her.

Nastya understood everything.

Nastya had a boy brother, Nikolai, and a gray cat. The boy was called Cat, and the cat Pawn.

Among people, Nastya was considered a fool and was called Nastya the Thick-Heeled.

The cook had a negative attitude towards the bear. Nastyukha, Cat and Pawn are delighted. The angry husband was away.

– You understand, Nastya, this is a forest child. Do you understand?

And Nastya, and the boy Cat, and the cat Pawn blinked their knowing eyes.

- Give him something to eat. He will sleep with me. The bear cub was boiled semolina porridge. He climbed into it with all four paws, ate, grumbled, then hid under the chair and fell asleep. They pulled him out, dried him and laid him on Katyusha’s bed.

Katyusha looked with emotion at the paw covering the bear's muzzle and at the furry ear. And at that moment there was no one in the world dearer and closer to her.

“I love you,” she said and quietly kissed her paw.

– I’m no longer young, that is, not my first youth. I’ll soon be eighteen... “Oh, how in our declining years we love more tenderly and more superstitiously...”

The bear woke up in the morning at half past four. He grabbed Katyushka’s leg with his paws and began to suck on it. It's ticklish, painful. Katyusha struggled to free her leg. The bear roared offendedly, walked along the bed, reached Katyusha’s shoulder, and sucked on it. Katyusha screamed and fought back. The bear was completely offended and began to climb out of bed. He stretched out his thick paw and began to carefully feel the floor. He fell, flopped, roared, got up and ran, throwing up his butt, into the dining room. A second later the dishes rattled.

It was he who climbed onto the table, caught his paws and pulled off the entire tablecloth and dishes together.

Nastya came running to the noise.

-Lock him up, or what?

- It is forbidden! – Katyusha screamed in despair. – A forest child cannot be tormented.

The books in the office rattled and the inkwell rang.

The forest child, a fat lump, knocked down everything he touched, and was offended that things were falling, roared and ran away, throwing up his tailless butt.

Katyusha, pale, with white eyes, and a blue mouth, rushed around the house in horror.

“I’ll just lock him up for an hour,” Nastya decided, “while you sleep.” Then we'll release it.

Katyusha agreed.

In the evening the angry husband returned. I found Katyusha in bed, exhausted, learned about the bear's pranks, forbade the bear to be allowed into the rooms, and the forest child passed into the custody of Nastya, the Cat and the cat Pawn.

Then it turned out that the bear was not a bear, but a she-bear, and Katyusha was terribly disappointed.

– The bear is a fabulous, wonderful animal. And a bear is downright stupid.

The little bear lived in Nastya’s little room and slept in the same bed with her. Sometimes at night shouts were heard from Nastya’s little room:

- Masha, stop it! Here I am, falling apart. There is no abyss for you!

Sometimes Katyusha asked:

- Well, how is the bear?

Nastya made a pitiful face; I was afraid that Masha would be kicked out.

- Bear? He regards me as a womb. He understands everything, no worse than a cow. This is such a bear that you won’t find it during the day with a fire.

Katyusha was pleased that everyone praised the animal, but there was no longer any interest in him. Firstly, the bear. Secondly, he grew up a lot and stopped being funny and entertaining. And he became cunning. Once they hear it, the chickens are fighting in the chicken coop and clucking in a voice that is not their own, and for some reason the door is closed - which has never happened during the day. They ran and opened it. Bear! He climbed in, locked the door behind him and caught the chickens. And he understands perfectly well that the case is illegal, because when he was caught, his face became very embarrassed and ashamed.

After this, Katya’s angry husband said that keeping such an animal in the house, whose bloodthirsty instincts have awakened, is quite dangerous. Someone advised him to be given to the mill, to the landowner Ampov. There they have long wanted to get a bear to sit on a chain.

They wrote to the landowner.

In response to the letter, Madame Ampova herself came - a poetic, gentle lady, all iridescent and flowing. Some scarves were always fluttering around her, frills were rustling, chains were jingling. She didn’t speak, but recited.

- Dear animal! Give it to me. He will sit on the chain free and proud, the chain is long and will not interfere with him. We will feed him flour. I won’t charge you much for flour, but, of course, you will have to pay six months in advance.

The lady chirped so tenderly that Katyusha, although she was very surprised that she would have to pay for the food of the bear she was giving, did not find what to answer, and only fearfully asked how much exactly she had to pay.

The boy Cat was assigned to deliver the bear. The cat harnessed the beast to the sled and rolled it away.

“When he saw the forest, and when he ran, his spirit got busy, he could barely turn it,” said the Cat.

Nastya was crying.

A month later I ran to take a look - the Ampovs’ estate was six miles from the city.

“Sit-it,” she cried. “He recognized me, but as soon as he rushed, he didn’t break the chain.” After all, I... after all, I was his womb. He sucked all over my shoulder...

Ampova sent the bill for the flour with a letter in which she poured out her tenderness for the bear:

“Cute little animal. I admire him every day and treat him with sugar.”

Then Katyusha and her husband went abroad for two months.

We returned and a few days later received a scented note from the Ampovs.

“I’m glad you’re finally back,” she wrote on lilac paper. - I honestly keep a chicken leg from our Mishka for you. The hams came out excellent. We smoked at home. Come right in time for lunch. It's wonderful here. Lilies of the valley are blooming, and all nature seems to sing a song of beauty. Wonderful nights..."

- God! – Katyusha was completely dead. - They ate it.

I remembered the “forest child,” small, clumsy, funny and fierce, how he put all four paws in the semolina porridge and how she said to him at night: “I love you.” And she remembered his furry ear, and how there was no one in the world closer and dearer to her.

- “Dangerous beast”! But it wasn’t he who ate us, but we who ate him!

I went to Nastya and wanted to tell her, but didn’t dare.

I looked into Nastya’s nook, saw a bed, narrow, small, where a forest animal lived, where it slept next to Nastya, and “respected her for a womb,” dear, warm, completely at home.

“Come right in time for lunch...”

No. She didn’t dare tell Nastya this.

Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi spoke about herself to the Russian artist Vereshchagin’s nephew Vladimir: “I was born in St. Petersburg in the spring, and as you know, our St. Petersburg spring is very changeable: now the sun shines, then it's raining. Therefore, for me, as on the pediment of the ancient Greek theater, two faces: laughing and crying.”

I was amazingly happy writer's fate Teffi. Already by 1910, having become one of the most popular writers in Russia, she is published in the largest and most famous newspapers and magazines of St. Petersburg, N. Gumilev responded to her collection of poems “Seven Lights” (1910) with a positive review, Teffi’s plays are shown in theaters, collections of her stories are published one after another. 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. Most smart man 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 unprofitable 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 so this happens for the most part With. 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 in the fragrant southern night on the banks of the Arno.

That is, we were not sitting on the shore - where can we sit: 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 thumb, the watch is on your foot.

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

Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi.

Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi.

Ivan Matveich, sadly parting his lips, watched with submissive melancholy as the doctor's hammer, elastically bouncing, clicked on 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?

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, without drinking or eating, I 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’m not sitting 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.

It was quiet twilight.

The lights of cars ran along the wall, their horns screamed, and the tram jingled. The calling bell of a nearby cinema drilled into my ear like a sharp gimlet.

And yet, for those two women who were sitting with their legs crossed on the rickety sofa, this twilight was quiet, because the day with all its anxieties and worries was over and in these two or three hours before bedtime you can allow yourself to think about nothing. think and don't worry.

In such quiet twilight the conversation is conducted from the heart. Walking around a dimly lit room is uncomfortable; you need to sit quietly. A calm posture makes your thoughts more focused and does not jump from subject to subject. The most habitual lies lose their inspiration and become simpler and more sincere.

Young people at such moments willingly talk about death. Older people are about love. Old people - about various pleasant hopes.

Those two ladies who had their legs tucked up on the rickety sofa were no longer in their first youth and therefore were talking about love.

No, it’s all over for me now,” said one.

If the room had been brighter, we would have seen that she had a very tired face, faded eyes and her shoulders were wrapped in a gray downy scarf, always slightly torn at the shoulder, cozy, smelling of perfume and cigarettes, in a word - the traditional scarf of a Russian mourner women!

“Don’t exaggerate, Natasha,” the other answered. - You are still young. Who knows?!

Young? - Natasha said with a bitter laugh. - No, my dear, after what I experienced, I feel seventy years old. It's her own fault. There was no need to betray Grisha’s memory.

How many years were you with Grisha?

Years? Years! Five weeks. We met just before the evacuation. We got married right away. And five weeks later he set out on a campaign. We never met again. He was very nice.

Well, that would be enough for five weeks.

I don't know. “I don’t think so,” Natasha said in an offended tone.

And what actually happened to you with this French fiancé of yours? I don't really know anything. We rarely met then, when he was courting you. And then I hear - the wedding is upset. What, he stopped loving you, or what?

No no. He says he hasn't stopped loving. My parents didn't allow it. However, this is very complicated story, - Natasha sighed.

My story was also very complicated, but I don’t sigh, I laugh. Did you shoot yourself? Have you been poisoned?

No, what a sin!

You see! And you sigh. I even got poisoned, and when I remember, I can’t help but laugh. Well, so good, so good!

What good is there if you are poisoned?

This, of course, is not good enough. I felt very nauseous. But it was precisely because she was poisoned that everything turned out so funny. Well, I'll tell you later. First you.

OK. Just where to start... Well, as you already know, I worked for a milliner and met Madame Rougeau, Marie. She was very nice. We became friends and decided to open a store together. Her husband was also a nice man, an engineer. Things went pretty well for us. This Marie and I were literally inseparable. During the day in the workshop and in the store, in the evening at the cinema or playing cards. I dined with them so as not to have to run my own household. And so a colleague of Rougeau himself, Monsieur Emile, visited them quite often. And so, in short, this Emil fell deeply in love with me. At first I didn’t particularly like him; he seemed like an empty, banal guy. But then, little by little, he began to interest me. We saw each other almost every day, and he so persistently, so passionately and so enthusiastically expressed his love in every possible way that I involuntarily began to treat him more attentively.

Here, here, here! Exactly! Exactly! - the listener interrupted.

What exactly"? - the narrator was surprised.

No, nothing, that's just me.

Well, I began to treat him more attentively. And then Marie adds fuel to the fire: “Povre Emil! He is dying, they say, Povre Emil. And such a wonderful person, and wealthy, and you are lonely, who will take care of you, marry Povre Emil.” And Emil urgently demands marriage every evening after dinner. And this urgency began to touch me. I started to like him.

Here, here! - the listener interrupted.

What is "here"? Why are you all squeaking?

Nothing, nothing, that's just me.

Marie's husband also persuades me a lot. And just imagine, I began to notice that I was starting to really like this same Emil. But still I couldn’t decide on marriage yet. I wanted to check both myself and him. Or rather, only himself, because it would be downright ridiculous to doubt him. And he suffers, and he is blissful, and God knows what - just some kind of mixture of Romeo and Juliet. I tormented him for a long time, and finally said: “It seems to me that I can love you.” So he - you can’t imagine! - I literally cried. He rushed to kiss Marie in delight. He didn’t dare me, so did her. Both funny and touching. And then he decided to send his parents to Paris to introduce me. Marie's husband explained to me that his parents were wealthy and he definitely wanted to get married with their approval.

And they are forever with these parents! - the listener interrupted and immediately added: - Nothing, that’s just me.

Emil's parents turned out to be very nice, so old and touching, especially his mother. She immediately adored me. We were together all day. Either she’s sitting in our store, or I’m at hers. She was so sincere, so sensitive, so understanding of everything. And she liked that I didn’t immediately give Emil consent, that I wanted to check both myself and him first. In a word, she was such a sweetheart that I fell in love with her and even shed tears when she left. They separated for a short time, because in a month she promised to come to the wedding. My Emil was jubilant, beaming and positively radiating with delight. My dear Rougeaus couldn't be happier with us. Marie helped me with the wedding arrangements, gave me gifts and was happy with my happiness.

And then one day, one damn fine day, Monsieur Rougeau and I were sitting together, waiting for Marie for breakfast. I went into her bedroom to powder myself and saw a box on the table. The box is slightly open, and a letter sticks out of it. The piece of paper is blue, the same as Emil's. The handwriting also looks like Emil's. I involuntarily looked and saw that it was indeed his handwriting. Of course, this did not surprise me at all, because they are old acquaintances, why shouldn’t he write to her. But, as luck would have it, in that line that was clearly visible to me, there was my name. “Poor Natasha,” I read and became interested. Why am I suddenly “poor thing”? Curiosity killed Eve. I pulled the letter by the corner, pulled it out and read it. First this one phrase about “poor Natasha”, then the whole letter. The letter was of such content that it could not leave any doubts. This same “povre Emil”, madly and happily in love groom, with this very sweet friend of mine Marie, just started the most definite romance under my very nose. The romance was quite fresh and lasted only ten days.

“Be careful,” my gentle fiancé asked, “so that poor Natasha, whom I love so much, is not upset by our connection.”

It was all so unexpected, so wild, that I... I don’t know what happened to me. I lost consciousness. I don’t know how long I lay there, but when I opened my eyes, I saw Monsieur Rougeau standing next to me and reading this damned letter with great interest. But I want to get up, but I can’t. My legs were paralyzed.

He read it and shook his head.

“Darling,” he says, “how you scared me.” Does this often happen to you that you faint?

And I shout: “Give me back, give me this letter! Don’t you dare read it!”

And he raised his eyebrows, surprised:

So, - he says, - you faint because of such a trifle?

He hugged me, picked me up, sat me down on the sofa, stroked my head, kissed me. And I break down and cry. How to live now? Everything collapsed.

And he laughs.

Nonsense, he says. - Be a little angry, it’s useful, and then forget it.

And I am indignant:

And you say this. After all, he cheated on me with your wife!

And he waves his hand.

Well, so much the better. He cheated on you with my wife, and you cheat on him with me. So everyone will be fine.

I’m screaming here, completely hysterical. And run.

She locked herself at home and didn’t leave for a whole week. I wrote a letter to everyone. Emil is refused. Marie's reproach, Rougeau's curse. But the main letter is to the old woman, Emil’s mother. She explained everything to her and said goodbye to her cordially and touchingly. I didn’t receive a response from her.

A week later I finally had to go to the store. It is forbidden. Affairs. Marie and I met strangely. She made a slight mockery, as if I had made a fool for nothing. She started talking to me a little. She said in passing that Emil wanted to shoot himself, that generally reasonable women don’t act like that, that you shouldn’t faint with an incriminating letter in your hands, that it’s not even decent, but that she loves me and therefore forgives the troubles caused to her, but what, of course, after by my (my!) terrible act the former friendship between us cannot exist. Then Emil appeared. He sobbed and beat his head against the wall, first with the back of his head, then with his forehead. I was relentless. But, alas, not for long! He somehow managed to convince me. I have forgiven. Everything seemed to be going well again, but then a letter arrived from his mother. The letter was addressed to him because she had nothing to talk about with a woman like me.

In a letter to her son, she categorically forbade him to marry me, because if I am capable of raising such a story over trifles, then what will happen next? What kind of life will it be? "She will always faint and compromise her friends - women respected by all."

Emil was very sad. He said that he was counting on the softening influence of time. Mother will change her mind. But while his mother was changing her mind, he married someone else.

Is that all? - asked the listener. - Well, my novel was much funnier. Here I will tell it to you. I'll tell you, but it's all very stupid. If it were light in the room, I would be ashamed to look at you.

Nothing. You and I are old friends. I won't light the lamps. Let's hang out a little more. N-s? Who did you have an affair with? Also with the Frenchman?

No. You'll never guess. With a Romanian!

Well, what a blessing for you! Have you really fallen in love?

How! Just a tragedy. Ha ha ha!

“It’s a tragedy, but you want to laugh,” the friend was surprised. - Or are you hysterical?

Oh, my dear, if you only knew how funny it is! After all, I was poisoned.

What's so funny about this?

If there had been light in the room, we would have seen that the one who was being poisoned was a plump brunette with lively black bulging eyes, in neat curls, in a cheap but fashionable dress, greased, pinched, smoothed, calm and content. They would have seen and thought: “He’s lying! People like that don’t get poisoned.”

What's so funny about this? - the friend was surprised. - If she was poisoned, she obviously suffered.

How! Ha ha ha! That's why it's funny that I suffered.

Well, tell me. “We’ll laugh together,” the friend said ironically.

Well, so, my dear. I then worked at the Institute de Beaute1 with Madame Verfluch. We worked well. And this matter, you know, is very psychological. You think you just anoint it, rub it, and it’s done. No, my dear, this is far from enough. Especially if the client is elderly, with various heart disappointments. A heartfelt conversation is needed here. Even while you are pinching her eyebrows, you can remain silent, because it hurts her, she groans. When you clean your pores, it’s also not a good time to talk. The matter is, so to speak, almost medical. Well, when you get to the bottom itself, cream, lotion, paints, powders - here every woman’s soul opens up. And why this is so - frankly speaking, I cannot explain to myself, but this is just a fact, and you can ask any masseuse about the face. Sometimes you’re amazed at what they, these clients, say! It would seem that you couldn’t tell such a thing under torture. If I wrote everything down, there would be enough novels for several volumes. And what kind!

And so, I had one client who was quite silent. Unfortunately, I thought that she was simply silent from old age.

She was a small old woman, puny, with a pointed nose, her cheeks were pulled up and sewn to her temples, and from under her chin the skin was pinned behind her ears. She was a good client and didn’t skimp on tips. She didn’t pay herself, however—the footman paid for her. As soon as the session was over, the footman came up, wrapped her in a fur coat and carried her to the car. Right in your arms. She was very tired. She would lie there, I would glue her eyelashes, and she would open her mouth slightly - a black mouth, scary, her cheeks were tight - and she would snore. I fell asleep from fatigue. She led a very tiring life. Visits, fittings, teas, lunches, concerts, sports. Yes, yes - sports. I went to play golf. Just think! In such years I took on such torment.

And then somehow she appeared in a very special mood. She’s kind of nervous, she’s smiling, she’s being gentle. She ordered all sorts of creams and paints and is going to America. And suddenly, completely unexpectedly, he grabs my hand.

Darling! - speaks. - If you knew how much I don’t want to leave! Right now. But my husband demands that I come right away. Some business. It's probably all nonsense. And now I want to stay here. Do you understand me?

Well, of course, such a client is always supposed to be understood.

I sighed and said:

Oh, how I understand!

I don’t know what it is that you need to understand, for the life of me.

And she just trembled.

“I,” he says, “met him two days ago and decided to invite him to manage my affairs here.” Oh, if only you knew! If only you knew! This is not some boy from the dance hall. This is nobility itself. This is the mind! This is the heart! This is a brunette. And I didn’t even have time to come to an agreement with him about his duties - when I had to drop everything and hastily go. But I'll be back, I'll be back soon.

And before she had time to pour out her soul to me, they knocked on our booth and said that some Monsieur Pierre wanted to see my client.

She even suffocated.

It's him! - whispers. - It's him!

And a young man entered the room, quite handsome, but a bit too much. Do you understand? Too white, too rouge, crimson lips, black hair as blue as blue, round eyebrows - just some kind of Little Russian Easter egg. But still beautiful. Terribly kind. I brought the old woman some tickets from some lady. I was at home, found out that she was here, and since the matter was urgent, I gave myself permission and so on.

My old woman vibrated like that.

He grabbed her by the arm and ran away.

Well, he sped off and sped off - what do I care.

But two days later this same Pierre appears and comes straight to me. He apologizes very respectfully and asks if Madame Wood forgot her gloves here.

“Didn’t she, I ask, leave?”

“No,” she says, “she left the next morning and ordered to find out about the gloves.”

I told chasseur1 to look for it and ask at the box office.

And Monsieur Pierre looks at me and smiles so strangely.

“You,” he says, “are probably terribly bored here, given your exceptional appearance.”

I put on a dignified appearance.

Not at all, I say. - I really like to work.

And he again:

With such constant fatigue You need to have fun, otherwise you can completely overload your nerves. Maybe, he says, let me come to you about cinema.

I agreed, but, however, with great dignity.

He was terribly happy and shouted to the chasseur:

Don't look for gloves, I already found them.

Then I realized that he had invented all this in order to see me.

I have to admit, it really grabbed my attention. “Here, I think, a man moves in such a magnificent American circle - and suddenly he reacted to my appearance like that.”

Well, off we go.

He started visiting me. And all, as they say, “do you love me, do you love me.”

I, in our Russian manner, neither yes nor no, am full of mystery, even if you die.

He was completely exhausted.

Elena, she says, you are a saint. You are Saint Helena, and I will perish like Bonaparte.

I teased him for two months, and finally I said:

More likely yes than no.

He, of course, went completely crazy.

In that case,” he says, “let me bring some cakes.”

He brought it and, absent-mindedly, ate it all himself.

And, by the way, it turned out that his last name is hard to believe! - Chicken. Maybe in Romanian it’s very chic. Maybe in Romanian they are Musin-Pushkin-Shakhovskoy and Gagarin. How much do we know? Of course, it’s terrible, but I fell in love so much that I swallowed the Chicken too.

And he began to push for marriage. Here the thought of Chicken seemed gloomy to me, but there was no time for that.

He was engaged in commission business. He made good money, it seems. However, I don’t really know anything about this.

And he comes as a real groom, and even gave me a gift of the very family spirit. Gave me an electric iron. Very nice. We always hid it together in a cupboard in the hallway.

So everything, then, goes to its blissful end. And somehow, remembering our first meeting, I told him:

But in my opinion, Pierusha, this old witch was in love with you and she had special goals for you.

He even blushed with indignation.

Where did you get this from? You made it all up.

I told him how she had hinted to me about someone she had just met.

He asked questions in great detail, apparently very outraged by my assumption. I tried to make amends for the unpleasant impression with a joke, but he became somewhat absent-minded and thoughtful, obviously very offended by me. And just imagine, from that very incident, it was as if something had broken. He began to visit less often, he is silent about the wedding. And, as often happens in such cases, that’s when I clung to it. It’s as if he caught my tooth with a wire - the further he pulls, the more it hurts. What I didn’t do - I assumed indifference, and cried, and gypsy romances sang. No. Doesn't take anything. My Chicken is leaving me. I'm completely exhausted.

My American has returned, she has come to restore beauty. Cheerful. She gave me a hundred francs.

I tell ours:

Our old woman was jumping up and down.

And the hostess laughs.

“She’s a gigolo,” he says. The ruddy one who ran to her here before leaving. I always meet them in the car and saw them twice in a restaurant.

I barely finished my hours, I barely trudged home. I wrote to him: “When you read these lines, come, and I myself will silently say goodbye to you.”

She sent it with a pneumatic gun, and she took out a jar of rat poison, rolled out some pills and swallowed it. I roar and swallow! And I don’t feel sorry for life. He will come - I think - and understand what it means to “silently” say goodbye.

And this rat poison is rubbish. I was turning inside out for the whole day. And he, the scoundrel, came only a few days later. He sat in profile and spun some nonsense about how his parents didn’t like married children. I broke down and cried.

Then he stood up and said that my image would always be before his spiritual eyes, but that he was too noble to make me unhappy by subjecting me to the vengeance of his parents.

He left, effectively covering his eyes with his hand.

I opened the window and began to wait. As soon as I leave the entrance, I’ll throw myself onto the pavement. Here. Let it be.

And he hesitated for some time in the hallway. I hear the cabinet creaking. What could this mean? Entrance door clicked. Gone! But what did he do? Why did you open the cupboard?

I rush into the hallway. I open the cupboard... My dears! After all, this... this cannot be repeated! He took his iron! wow-jo-ok!

Can you believe it, I sat down right on the floor. I laughed so much, I laughed so much, and I felt so at ease, and so good.

God! - I say. - How wonderful it is to live in your world! And now, as I remember, ha-ha-ha, as I remember, I’ll probably laugh until the morning. Iron! Utu-jo-ok! I would have hit the pavement, my skull would have shattered, and he had an iron in his hands!

Painting!

Eh, my dear, things happen in life that you wouldn’t even imagine on purpose.

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 expresses his deepest 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 look for fun and entertainment in her and, having found it, we leave her. But this is how a hippopotamus looks at a woman..."

“March 12. What is beauty? No one has ever asked this question. But, in my opinion, 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 to do all sorts of crazy things for the sake of a certain combination, but won’t lift a finger for the sake of a violation?

Why is combination more important than disruption?

We need to think long and hard about this."

"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 come across the eyes of some thinker, he will read them and think about how I am his distant ancestor..."

"April 6. People invented airplanes. Why? Can this stop the rotation of the Earth around the Sun for at least one thousandth of a second!.."

The man likes to read his diary occasionally. 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 still not being written for these connoisseurs human art, connoisseurs of depths 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’m really very beautiful. Especially my eyes. They, according to Eugene’s definition, are blue, like the sky.”

“February 5. Tonight 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.”

“April 5. Alexander Andreevich said that I look 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?”

Let them say at my grave: “She did not live long. Not longer than a nightingale’s song.”

“June 6. V. is going crazy. He speaks amazingly beautifully. He says: “Your eyes are deep like the sea.”

But even the beauty of these words does not excite me. I like it, but I don't care."

"July 6. I pushed him away. But I suffer. 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's very smart and I'm afraid of him."

The woman never shows her diary to anyone. She hides it in the closet, having previously wrapped it in an old hood. And it only hints at its existence to those who need it. Then he will even show it, only, of course, from afar, to those who need it. Then he’ll let you 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 crazy V. said about her beauty.

And if “whoever needs it” himself has not noticed until now what is needed, then, after reading the diary, he will probably pay attention to what is needed.

A woman's diary never passes on to posterity.

The woman burns it as soon as it has served its purpose.

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

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 only allow herself to wear a belt on her head, an earring on her forehead or neck, a ring on her thumb, or a watch on her foot. At the table, the demonic woman does not eat anything. She doesn't eat anything at all. - Why? Social status A demonic woman can do a wide variety of things, but most of all 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 weep 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 long and hard about.” "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, like marble, and my wide-open eyes quietly whispered: “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.