Satirical stories by Averchenko. Arkady Averchenko: Humorous Stories

Wife

When you live with a person for a long time, you do not notice the main and essential in his attitude towards you. Only the details that make up this essential are noticeable.

Thus, one cannot look at a majestic temple by touching one of its bricks with the tip of one's nose. In this position, it is extremely difficult to grasp the general of this temple. At best, you can see, in addition to this brick, a couple of other neighboring ones - and nothing more.

Therefore, it took me many labors and years of painstaking observation to reach the general conclusion that my wife loves me very much.

I had to deal with the details of her attitude towards me before, but I still could not put them together into one harmonious whole.

And some of the details, it must be confessed, were deeply touching.

One day my wife was lying on the sofa and reading a book, and at that time I was fiddling with a starched shirt, the collar of which, with donkey obstinacy, refused to converge on my neck.

"Get together, damned linen," I muttered in a pleading voice. The shirt, obviously, was not accustomed to abuse and reproaches, because it was offended, squeezed my throat, and when I, panting, pulled the collar, the buttonhole for the cufflink burst.

"Damn you! - I got angry. - However, you already did it. Now, in order to annoy you, you will have to sew up the loop again."

I approached my wife.

Kate! Sew this loop for me.

The wife, without raising her head from the book, muttered affectionately:

No, I won't.

How can you not?

Yes so. Shut it up myself.

Darling! But I can't, but you can.

Yes, she said sadly. "That's right, that's why you have to do it yourself." Of course, I could sew up this noose. But I'm not durable! Suddenly I die, you will be left alone - and what! Knowing nothing, spoiled, helpless in front of some kind of burst loop - you will cry and say: "Why, why didn't I get used to this before? .." That's why I want you to do it yourself.

I burst into tears and fell on my knees in front of my wife.

Oh, how kind you are! You even look beyond that terrible, unheard-of event when you leave this world! How can I thank you for this love and care?!

My wife sighed, took up her book again, and I sat down in a corner and, taking out a needle, began to quietly sew up my shirt. By the evening everything was fixed.

I will not forget another incident that even more clearly characterizes this meek, loving, ridiculously caring creature.

I received a birthday present from one of my friends: a diamond tie pin.

When I showed the pin to my wife, she frightenedly snatched it from my hands and exclaimed:

No! You won't wear it, you won't!

I turned pale.

God! What's happened?! Why won't I wear it?

No no! Never. Your life will be in perpetual danger! That pin on your chest is too much of a temptation for street robbers. They will peep, lie in wait for you in the street in the evening and take away the pin, and they will kill you.

And what am I to do with her? I whispered in dismay.

I've already figured it out! The wife laughed happily and melodiously. - I'll give it to be converted into a brooch. This is for my blue dress it's all right!

I trembled with horror.

Darling! But… they can kill you!

Her face shone with determination.

Let be! If only you were alive, my only, my beloved. And I - what really ... My health is already weak ... I cough ...

I burst into tears and ran into her arms. "The time of Christian martyrs has not yet passed," I thought.

I saw her concern for herself everywhere. She shone through every little thing. Every trifle was permeated with a touching memory of me; in everything and everywhere the first thing was her thought of giving me some innocent pleasure and joy.

Once I went into her bedroom, and the first thing that caught my eye was a man's top hat.

Look, I wondered. Whose cylinder is this?

She extended both her hands to me.

It's your top hat, my dear!

What are you saying! I always wear soft hats...

And now - I wanted to surprise you and bought a top hat. You will wear it as a gift for your little wife, won't you?

Thank you, dear ... Just wait! After all, he seems to be second-hand!

Well, second-hand, of course.

She rested her head on my shoulder and whispered shyly:

Forgive me… But I, on the one hand, wanted to give you a present, and on the other hand, new cylinders are so expensive! I bought it on a whim.

I looked at the lining.

Why are the initials B.I. when my initials are A.A.?

Didn't you guess? .. It was I who put the initials of two words: "I love you."

I pulled her into my arms and burst into tears.

No, you will not drink this wine!

Why, dear Katya? One glass...

No way... It's bad for you. Wine shortens life. And I do not want to remain a lonely widow in the world. Move to this place!

There's a window open. You may be blown away.

Oh, I consider the draft a prejudice!

Don't talk like that... I'm deathly afraid for you.

Thank you my happiness. Pass me another piece of the pie...

No, no ... And do not imagine. Flour leads to obesity, to obesity, and this has a terrible effect on health. What will I do without you?

I took out a cigarette.

Throw a cigarette! Drop it now. Have you forgotten that your lungs are bad?

Yes, one paper...

Not a crumb! Where are you going? Walk? No, dear sir! Feel free to put on an autumn coat. In the summer, do not think.

I burst into tears and showered her hands with kisses.

You are the Mont Blanc of kindness!

She laughed shyly.

Stupid ... Already Mont Blanc ... He will always exaggerate!

I often asked myself the question: "How and when will I thank her? How will I prove that in my chest there is a heart that really understands kindness and humanity and is able to respond to everything bright and good."

Once, during a walk, I thought: “Why will we never have a fire or attack by robbers? Let her see how I, who saved her, myself, with a smile of love on my lips, would burn to the ground or writhe at her feet, whispering a dear name."

But another thought, sensible and practical, fell upon her ardent, reckless friend, crushed her under her, threw her into the dust, and, having won, spilled over her brain, exhausted by overwork.

"You're a fool and an egoist," the winner told me. I said out loud to myself. - I'll insure my life in her favor!

And on the same day everything was done. The insurance company issued me a policy, which I, with a joyful, enthusiastic face, presented to my wife ...

Three days later, I was convinced that this policy and my whole life are a miserable grain of sand compared to the ocean of love and care in which I began to swim.

Previously, her attitude and worries about my pleasures were waist-deep, then they rose and reached the chest, and now it was a continuous raging ocean of kindness, sometimes covering me headlong with its warm waves, sometimes frenzied. It was some kind of orgy of caring, a stormy and powerful explosion of a convulsive desire to decorate my life, to make it a continuous holiday.

My joy! she said softly, looking into my eyes. - Well, what do you want? Say... Maybe you want some wine?

Yes, I already drank today, - I objected hesitantly.

You didn't drink much... What does one and a half bottles mean? If you like it, it's absurd to refuse ... Yes, I completely forgot - after all, I prepared a surprise for you: I bought a box of cigars - strong, very strong! ..

I feel like in paradise.

I gorge myself on heavy pies, spend hours at open windows, and the through wind gently blows me ... My slightest habit and desire swells into a whole mountain.

I love a warm bath - they prepare me such that I jump out of it red like an Indian. I used to always refuse a warm coat, preferring to walk in autumn. Now they not only do not argue with me, but sometimes they even supply me with summer.

What is the weather today? I ask my wife.

Warm, honey. If you want - you can without a coat.

Thank you. And what is it - white falls from the sky? Is it snow?

Well, it's snowing! He is quite warm.

Once I drank a glass of wine and coughed.

My chest hurts, I said.

Try to smoke a cigar, - affectionately stroking my shoulder, my wife said. - Maybe it will.

I burst into tears of gratitude and threw myself into her arms.

How warm on a loving chest ...

Marry, gentlemen, marry.

Album

They lie on a table covered with a plush tablecloth in every living room - plump, with gilded edges and metal clasps, chock-full of bearded, beardless, young and old faces.

The opinion that an album of photographic cards is a family heirloom, a treasure of memories and friendship, is completely wrong.

Albums are invented for the convenience of the owners of the house. When some dull fool, robbed of life, comes to visit them, when this fool sits sideways in an armchair and asks, carefully examining the patterns on the carpet: "Well, what's new?" - then the only way out for the hosts - move the album to him and say:

"Here's the album. Would you like to see it?"

Who is this old man? - asks the guest.

This? One of our friends. He now lives in Moscow.

What a weird beard. And who is this?

This is our Vanya when he was little.

Really?! I wouldn't say so! Not the slightest resemblance.

Yes... He was then seven months old, and now he is twenty-nine years old.

Hm ... How grown! And this?

Wife `s friend. She has already died. In Saratov.

What's the last name?

Pavlova.

Pavlova? She didn't have a brother in Petersburg? At a commercial bank.

Did not have.

I knew one Pavlov in Petersburg. And who is this, a soldier?

Chernozhuchenko. You don't know him. We met at the cottage last year.

This year it's not good at the dacha. Rain.

At this point, you can already put the album aside: the conversation has improved.

For a shy guest, an album of photographic cards is a lifeline, which the poor guest feverishly grabs and then clings to for a long time and tenaciously.

The previous guest, although a fool offended by fate, is not a shy person, and he needs the album only for a start.

Having run up with an album in his hands, he takes off from the ground on some "rainy summer" and then smoothly flies further, releasing the ballast album from his hands.

A shy person without an album is doom.

I had to be in the company of a young man who, having come to visit, stepped on a dog, tried to kiss the owner's hand and explained it all with hellish heat (it was in November). He felt that his game was lost, but by chance his eyes fell on the table with a thick album, and the poor fellow almost burst into tears of joy.

He convulsively clutched at the album, opened it and, feeling the ground under his feet, asked:

And who is this?

This is the first sheet. There is no card here ... Turn over.

And who is this?

This is my late aunt, Glafira Nikolaevna.

Well?! And this?

He leafed through the album to the end and - helplessly and aimlessly hung in the air.

"Save me!" he wanted to shout. "I'm drowning!" But instead, he put the album back on his knees and asked:

Why did she die?

Who?.. Aunt? From heart attacks.

“Why are you, scoundrel,” thought the young guest, “answer so monosyllables? Would you tell me in detail how my aunt was sick and who used her ... If only time had passed.”

From seizures? Yes, you know, our doctors ... And who is this?

Lizin's godfather. You already asked once.

He looked through the album to the end, put it down, and reached for the ashtray.

Strange ashtrays are now being made ...

His eyes turned back to the album. He held out his hand to him, but there was no album. The album is gone. The owner put it on the shelf.

Where is the album? - asked the guest. - I wanted to ask you about one photo. There are two more ladies filmed.

Found an album, found young ladies. The young guest, taking the opportunity, leafed through the album again, "to form a general impression."

While I was present, I was running around in a whirlwind of fun and felt great. And I decided to play a trick on the guest. When he gaped, I pulled the album off the table and put it under the sofa.

The guest, with a habitual gesture, stretched out his hand for the album and, not finding it, almost shouted: "Robbed!" He glanced askance at the bookcase, the carpet under the table, and, turning pale, got up from his seat:

Well… I have to go.

For some time now I have had guests. It was clear that I could not do without an album.

Unfortunately, I am not a well-to-do person, for some reason my relatives did not give me cards, and if someone sent their portrait with a touching inscription, then this portrait fell into the hands of a maid, a vain, spoiled woman.

Guests began to come to me more and more often. Things didn't work out without an album.

I went through all the drawers of my desk. Three cards were found: "the fattest girl in the world, Alice, 9 poods. 18 pounds", "view of the harbor in Reval" and "the famous chimpanzee Franz rides a bicycle."

Even with the most condescending treatment of these three cards, they could not be recognized as my "family heirloom".

There was only one way left: to rummage around on the side.

And I was lucky! .. After two days of diligent searching, I found on the shelf of a dealer in various junk a huge leather album, chock-full of a wide variety of cards - just what I needed.

The album contained up to two hundred portraits - all of my future relatives, friends and acquaintances! This thing could occupy my guests for two hours, which gave me the opportunity to breathe freely, and therefore I rejoiced like a child.

At home, I carefully reviewed the album, and - no one in the world before me was lucky enough to do this - I myself chose my father, mother, old uncle and two handsome brothers. There were three favorite girls, and I hesitated between them for a long time, until I gave my heart to the first in order, a brunette with beautiful sensual eyes.

There was one flaw in the album: by chance there was not a single tiny child who could have managed to be me as a child. And children of 13-14 years old, unfortunately, were not at all like me.

I had to limit myself to making all the pleasant, pretty faces relatives, and the ugly, ugly, repulsive ones (alas, there were quite a few of them) - mere acquaintances ...

That same evening, guests came to me, the people are all dreary and silent.

However, it didn't bother me.

Would you like to take a look at the family album? I suggested. - Very interesting.

Everyone perked up, rejoiced, grabbed the album.

Who is this?

This is my poor beloved mother ... She died of heart attacks ... Rest in peace to her!

The guests fell silent and, reverently shaking their heads, turned the page.

And who is this?

My dad. We are great friends and often correspond with each other. This is a brother. He now has a good business and earns big money. Isn't it beautiful? They are just acquaintances. But, gentlemen, this girl ... How do you like her?

Pretty.

You say - pretty ... Beauty! My first love.

Yes? Did she love you?

She?! For her, I was the sun, the air, without which she could not breathe ... She gave me this card when she went abroad. When she made an inscription on the card, she cried so much that she became hysterical! .. I never saw such love again. And... I never saw her again...

My face was sad... Two unbidden treacherous tears hung on my eyelashes.

That was a long time ago? one guest asked quietly, shaking my hand with secret sympathy.

How long ago? Seven years ago ... But it seems to me that an eternity has passed.

And since then, you say you haven't seen her?

Did not see. Where she disappeared to is unknown. This is a strange, mysterious story.

What did she write to you on the back of the card?

I don't remember, I replied carefully. - It was so long ago…

May I take a look? I think since the girl is gone, we're not doing anything wrong.

I don’t remember whether she made an inscription on this card or on another ...

All the same, let me take a look, - one gentleman with a romantic nature asked, smiling sentimentally, - the first love babble of an innocent girlish soul - what is more beautiful than this?

What is more beautiful than this? - like an echo, another guest repeated and took out a card from the album.

He turned the other side of the card, peered at it, and suddenly cried out:

What the hell?

Don't you dare touch what is "the holy of holies" for me, I shouted in fright. Why are you taking out the card?

Strange ... - not paying attention to me, the guest whispered. - Very strange.

What's happened?!!

Here is what is written here: "Pelageya Kosykh, nicknamed Tatarka. She was born in 1880. In 1898 she was sentenced to a month in prison for theft. In 1899 she took up hipsterism. Medium height, blue eyes, a mole behind her right ear."

What is hipesism? - asked some guest.

Hypesnichestvo? I mumbled. - It's like ... like a telephone operator.

No, said one old man. - This is luring a man with a woman to her apartment and robbing him with the help of her pimp lover.

Good first love! - ironically remarked the lady.

It's a misunderstanding, I laughed. - Allow me a card ... Well, of course! You took out the wrong one. You need this - you see, a complete blonde. My first fragrant love.

"Fragrant Love" was taken from the album, and the sentimental gentleman read:

- "Katerina Arsenyeva (nickname Belenkaya) born in 1882. 1899-1903 worked as a prostitute, since 1903 - a shoplifter (manufactory goods)".

The guests shrugged their shoulders, and some (the most impudent ones) even dared to giggle.

I wonder, - said the old man, - what is written on the back of your father's card?

I can imagine,” said the lady.

Don't you dare insult this holy man! I shouted. He is above all suspicion. This is a bright, shining soul with kindness and love!

I took my father out of the album and reverently raised the card to my lips.

Kissing her in a fit of filial love, I slowly glanced at the back and read:

- "Ivan Dolbin. Born. 1862. 1880 - petty theft, 1882 - burglary (1 year of prison), 1885 - murder of the Petrov family - hard labor (12 years old), 1890 - escape. Wanted. Special signs: thick voice, limping on the right leg. The index finger of the left hand was crippled in a fight."

At the table where the album lay, laughter was heard and then exclamations - mocking, indignant.

I threw away the portrait of my father and rushed to the album ... Several cards had already been taken out, and I, embarrassed, confused, easily found out that my poor mother was in prison for corroding the fetus of several girls, and my beloved brothers, these graceful handsome men, were suing in 1901 for cheating and forging bank transfers.

My uncle was the most moral member of our family: he was engaged only in arson in order to receive a bonus, and even then he set fire to his own houses. He could be our family pride!

Hey you! Master! - the guest shouted to me, the old man. - Tell the truth: where did you get the album? I claim that this old album once belonged to the detective department for the search for criminals.

I put my hands on my hips and said with a coarse laugh:

Yes, sir! I bought it today for two rubles from a second-hand book dealer. I bought it for you, for your amusement, you damned boring little people, stupid mealworms stalking around acquaintances instead of sitting at home and doing some work. I bought this album for you: here, eat, look at these stupid portraits if you cannot coherently express human thoughts and support smart conversation. What are you giggling about, you old wreck?! Is it funny to you that on the back of the cards of my parents, relatives and friends it is written: thief, cheater, prostitute, arsonist?! Yes, it's written! But this, I assure you, is more honest and frank. I affirm that each of you has the same album, with cards of exactly the same persons, but the only difference is that their moral qualities and actions are not set out on the back of the cards. My album is an honest, frank album, and yours is a secret collection of secret criminals, debauchees and dissolute women ... Get out!

Whether it was because it was already late, or because the album had been viewed and boredom lay ahead, but the guests immediately dispersed after my words.

I was left alone, opened the windows, let fresh air and began to breathe. It was fun and cozy.

If my album had a hand growing, I would shake it. It was such a nice, plump, pretty album.

......................................................
Copyright: Arkady Averchenko

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

For senior school age.

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

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

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

A fat and good-natured satyr, drawn by the talented artist Re-Mi (N. V. Remizov), adorned the covers of hundreds of books published by the Satyricon. Exhibitions of artists who collaborated in the magazine were held annually in the capital, costumed balls of the Satyricon were also famous. One of the authors of the magazine later noted that the satyricon is a title that was given only to very talented and cheerful people.

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

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

"Old fox!" I thought, smiling inwardly. "You're playing for sure."

From this conversation began our acquaintance, and then friendship.

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

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

They say about fools: show him the finger and he will laugh. Averchenko's laughter is not designed for a fool, it is not as simple as it seems at first glance. The author does not just laugh at anything. Exposing the layman, mired in the routine of everyday life, he wants to show that life can be not so boring if you color it with a funny joke. Averchenko's book "Circles on the Water" (1911) is an attempt to help the reader who is drowning in pessimism and unbelief, disappointed in life or simply upset by something. It is to him that Averchenko extends the "lifeline" of cheerful, carefree laughter.

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

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

In the story "Blind Men" Averchenko appears under the guise of the writer Ave. Having changed places with the king, he becomes the ruler of the country for a while and issues a law that seems necessary to him - "on the protection of blind people crossing the street." According to this law, a policeman is required to take a blind man by the hand and lead him across the road so that he is not hit by cars. Soon, Ave wakes up to the screams of a blind man who is brutally beaten by a policeman. It turns out that he does this in accordance with the new law, which, having gone from ruler to policeman, began to sound like this: "Every blind person seen on the street is grabbed by the scruff of the neck and dragged to the station, rewarding with kicks and mallets along the way." A truly eternal Russian misfortune: they wanted the best, but it turned out as always. With the police order prevailing in the country, any reform, according to the writer, will turn into disgusting.

First-person narration is Averchenko's favorite technique, giving credibility to what is told. It is easy to recognize him in the stories "The Robber", "The Terrible Boy", "Three Acorns", "The Blowing Boy". It is he who walks with friends along the shore of Crystal Bay in Sevastopol, hides under a table in house number 2 on Remeslennaya Street, where he lived as a child; he eavesdrops on the conversations of adults behind a screen, talks with his sister's fiancé, who fools him, posing as a robber. But at the same time, he creates a myth about the country of childhood, which is so unlike the life of adults. And he is very sad at the thought that three little boys, who were close friends at school, will then turn into distant from each other, completely strangers. Following N. Gogol, who was his favorite writer, Averchenko advises children not to lose good feelings and intentions on the way to adulthood, to take with them from childhood all the best that they met on the way.

Averchenko's books "Naughty and Rotozei" (1914) and "On the Small for the Big" (1916) belong to the best examples of children's literature. In them, "red-cheeked humor" is combined with genuine lyricism and subtle penetration into the world. little man who is so uncomfortable and bored to live in this world. The heroes of Averchenko are not at all like well-bred noble children, familiar to the reader from the works of L. Tolstoy and other classics of the 19th century. This is a prank boy, obsessed with the passion to change, "the man behind the screen", spying on adults, the dreamer Kostya, who lies from morning to evening. The favorite image of the writer is a naughty child and an inventor, similar to himself in childhood. He is able to deceive and lie, dreams of getting rich and becoming a millionaire. Even little Ninochka - business man trying by all means to find himself adult work. It seems that this hero lives not at the beginning, but at the end of the 20th century.

Averchenko contrasts the freshness of perception, the touching purity and ingenuity of children with the selfish false world of adults, where all values ​​​​have depreciated - love, friendship, family, decency - where everything can be bought and sold. "It would be my will, I would only recognize children as people," the writer confided. He assures that only children break out of a disgusted life, from a measured and tedious philistine life, and an adult is "almost entirely a bastard." However, sometimes even a scoundrel is able to show human feelings when he encounters children.

Arkady Timofeevich Averchenko, Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi, Sasha Cherny

humorous stories

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

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

A fat and good-natured satyr, drawn by the talented artist Re-Mi (N. V. Remizov), adorned the covers of hundreds of books published by the Satyricon. Exhibitions of artists who collaborated in the magazine were held annually in the capital, costume balls of the Satyricon were also famous. One of the authors of the magazine later noted that the satyricon is a title that was given only to very talented and cheerful people.

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

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

"Old fox! I thought, smiling inwardly. “You play for sure.”

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

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

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

They say about fools: show him the finger and he will laugh. Averchenko's laughter is not designed for a fool, it is not as simple as it seems at first glance. The author does not just laugh at anything. Exposing the layman, mired in the routine of everyday life, he wants to show that life can be not so boring if you color it with a funny joke. Averchenko's book "Circles on the Water" (1911) is an attempt to help the reader, drowning in pessimism and unbelief, disappointed in life or simply upset by something. It is to him that Averchenko extends the “lifeline” of cheerful, carefree laughter.

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

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

In the story "The Blind" Averchenko appears under the guise of the writer Ave. Having changed places with the king, he becomes the ruler of the country for a while and issues a law that seems necessary to him - "on the protection of blind people crossing the street." According to this law, a policeman is required to take a blind man by the hand and lead him across the road so that he is not hit by cars. Soon, Ave wakes up to the screams of a blind man who is brutally beaten by a policeman. It turns out that he does this in accordance with the new law, which, having gone from ruler to policeman, began to sound like this: “Every blind person seen on the street should be grabbed by the scruff of the neck and dragged to the station, rewarding with kicks and mallets along the way.” A truly eternal Russian misfortune: they wanted the best, but it turned out as always. With the police order prevailing in the country, any reform, according to the writer, will turn into disgusting.

First-person narration is Averchenko's favorite technique, giving credibility to what is told. It is easy to recognize him in the stories "The Robber", "The Terrible Boy", "Three Acorns", "The Blowing Boy". It is he who walks with friends along the shore of Crystal Bay in Sevastopol, hides under a table in house number 2 on Remeslennaya Street, where he lived as a child; he eavesdrops on the conversations of adults behind a screen, talks with his sister's fiancé, who fools him, posing as a robber. But at the same time, he creates a myth about the country of childhood, which is so unlike the life of adults. And he is very sad at the thought that three little boys, who were close friends at school, will then turn into distant from each other, completely strangers. Following N. Gogol, who was his favorite writer, Averchenko advises children not to lose good feelings and intentions on the way to adulthood, to take with them from childhood all the best that they met on the way.

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

Averchenko contrasts the freshness of perception, the touching purity and ingenuity of children with the selfish false world of adults, where all values ​​​​have depreciated - love, friendship, family, decency - where everything can be bought and sold. “It would be my will, I would only recognize children as people,” the writer confided. He assures that only children break out of a disgusted life, from a measured and tedious philistine life, and an adult is "almost entirely a bastard." However, sometimes even a scoundrel is able to show human feelings when he encounters children.

humorous stories

At the restaurant

Focuses! This is sorcery! - I heard a phrase at the next table.

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

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

Was a fool in the truest and clearest sense of the word.

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

Nothing more than dexterity and agility of hands.

This is sorcery! - stubbornly stood on his black, sucking his mustache.

The man behind the dexterity of the hands looked satirically at the third of the company and exclaimed:

Fine! That there is no witchcraft here, do you want me to prove it?

Black smiled grimly.

Do you really like his ... pre-sti-di-ji-da-tor?

Probably if I say it! Well, do you want me to offer you a bet on a hundred rubles that I will cut off all your buttons in five minutes and sew them on?

Black tugged at a waistcoat button for some reason and said:

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

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

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

Why, I don't care ... Maybe less - would you like three bottles of beer?

Black winked venomously.

Are you going to lose?

Who am I? We'll see!..

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

Well, look at the clock and make sure that it is not more than five minutes!

We were all intrigued, and even the sleepy footman, who had been sent for a plate and a sharp knife, parted from his numb look.

One two Three! I'm starting!

The man, who declared himself a magician, took a knife, put down a plate, cut off all the waistcoat buttons into it.

Is it on the jacket too?

How! .. Behind, on the sleeves, near the pockets.

Buttons clattered into the plate.

I have it on my trousers too! - writhing with laughter, said black. - And boots!

OK OK! Well, I want to heal some button with you? .. Don't worry, everything will be cut off!

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

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

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

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

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

Done, everyone!

The footman threw up his hands in admiration.

82 pieces. Deftly!

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

Their drinking buddy waved the clock in the air and suddenly slammed the lid shut.

Late! Eat! Five minutes have passed. You lose!

The one to whom this referred threw down the knife in annoyance.

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

The black man turned pale.

Ku-where are you?

The magician yawned.

On the side ... I want to sleep like a dog. Get wet for the day...

And the buttons ... sew on?

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

The black man reached out imploringly for the departing man, and with this movement all his clothes fell off like the shell from a hatched chicken. He pulled his pants back up shyly and blinked his eyes in horror.

God! What will happen now?

What happened to him, I don't know.

I left with a third of the company, who probably left the man with no buttons.

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

The controller of the tea and loosening department, Fyodor Ivanovich Akvinsky, went to the bathhouse, located two versts from the doghouse he rented, which only the overheated imagination of the owner could consider a "dacha" ...

Entering the pool, Aquinas quickly undressed and, shuddering from the mild morning chill, carefully descended the dilapidated rickety ladder to the water. The bright sun, freshly bathed in the predawn dew, cast a faint warm reflection on the still, mirror-like water.

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

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

And just as he held his breath and stretched out his arms to jump ridiculously, like a frog, splashes of water and someone's fuss were heard in the direction of the women's bath.

Aquinas stopped and looked to his left.

Because of the gray partition that had turned green below from the water, at first it appeared female hand, then a head, and finally a plump, tall blonde in a blue bathing suit emerged. Her beautiful white face she turned pink from the cold, and when she waved her hand strongly, like a man, a high, magnificent chest, slightly covered by a blue cloth, clearly showed out of the water.

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

This is the wife of our customs officer bathing. Look, what a suit! I read that abroad, in some kind of Riviera, both women and men bathe together ... Well, that's the point!

When, having bathed, he pulled on his pantaloons over his skinny legs, he thought:

“Well, well ... let's say they bathe together ... but how to undress? So, after all, no matter how you turn, you need two rooms. They'll figure it out too!"

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

I swam today, Nitkin, in the morning and I look - our cock Tarasikha swims out of the women's bath ... Well, I think she will see me and tell her husband ... Laughter! It was very close. But abroad, in the Riviera, they say, men and women swim together ... Gee! .. I wish I could go!

When, half an hour after this conversation, Nitkin was drinking vodka in the archives with the clerks, he put a piece of ham on a slice of bread and said to no one:

Here's the thing! Akvinsky today with the wife of our member Tarasov swam in the river ... He says that in some kind of Riviera they are all together - both men and women bathe. He says I'm going to the Riviera. You'll go, how ... You need money for this, my dear!

From what! - Intervened warehouse Nibelung. - He has an aunt, they say, rich; maybe take it from my aunt...

The footsteps of the secretary were heard, and the entire snack company, like mice, scattered in different directions.

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

What business, Petrovna, we have at the customs! Aquinas, so that he was empty, was going to hell in the middle of nowhere to the Riviera, and Tarasov lured his wife with him ... He takes money from his aunt! And Tarashikha went swimming with him today and told him that this is how it is customary abroad ... Hehe!

Ah, shameless ones! Petrovna looked down chastely. - Well, they would have gone far away, otherwise - nako, they start debauchery here! But where does he go with her ... She is a healthy woman, and he is so - ugh!

The next day, when the maid of the Tarasovs, who lived not far from the Portupeevs, came to Petrovna to ask neighborly for irons for the lady's skirts, Mrs. Portupeeva's soul could not stand it:

Is it that ironed skirts were needed for the Riviera?

Ah, what are you! Such words! - the maid grinned, shooting her eyes, interpreting Petrovna's phrase in a completely unknown way.

Well, yes! I bet you don't know...

She mournfully paused.

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

The maid, who still did not understand what was the matter, widened her eyes…

Yes, your Marya Grigorievna is good, nothing to say! I sniffed with the warehouse rat Aquinas! Good lover! Yes, sir. They agreed to run away to some stupid Riviera for swimming, and he promised to get money from his aunt ... He will get it, how! He steals money from his aunt, that's all!

The maid threw up her hands.

Is that true, Anisya Petrovna?

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

Ah, horror!

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

What is the matter with you, Miliktrisa Kirbityevna? - Tarasov sang, screwing up his eyes and taking the maid by the plump elbow. - You fly as if you are fleeing the ghosts of your ruined fans ...

Leave! snarled the maid, not particularly ceremonious during these occasional t?te-a-t?te. - Forever you will not let the passage! .. It would be better to look after the mistress stronger than with your hands ...

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

Mr. Tarasov belonged to that well-known type of husbands who would not let a single pretty woman pass without pinching her, while at the same time yawning in the company of his wife until his jaws dislocated and trying at every opportunity to replace home inevitable screw or chemin de fer'om.

But, smelling some hint of a wife's adultery, these meek, harmless people turn into Othello with those features and deviations from this type that are imposed by dusty offices and government places.

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

What? What are you saying, f-mean? Repeat?!

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

Barin, Pavel Yefimovich, here's a cross for you, I have nothing to do with it! My business side! And as the whole city is already saying, so that after that there was nothing on me ... They will say - you helped! And I, as before the Lord! ..

Tarasov drank water from a jug that stood on the table, and, bowing his head, said:

Tell me: with whom, how and when? ..

The maid felt the ground beneath her.

Yes, all with the same ... rotten! Fedor Ivanovich, that last year he brought you crayfish as a gift ... Here are the crayfish for you! And how cleverly they do it ... Everything has already been persuaded: he will steal money from his aunt from a chest of drawers - a rich aunt from Evon - and together they will go to the Riviera to swim somewhere ... Shame, what a shame! One must think that tomorrow with the evening train they will move, my dears! ..

* * *

Sitting at a rickety table a few steps from his doghouse, Aquinas, the tea-loose department supervisor, was writing something, his head tilted to one side and lovingly spelling out every word.

The tree under which the table stood ironically waved its dusty branches, and spots of light glided over the table, the paper, and Aquinas's gray head... His beard, as if glued on, stirred in the wind, and general form seemed tired and lethargic.

It seemed that someone, through negligence, forgot to sprinkle an unnecessary thing - Aquinas - with mothballs and put it in a chest for the summer ... Moth and ate Aquinas.

He wrote:

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

Trip to the theater

With a deft, graceful movement, Kolya Kinzhalov lifted Liza Milovidova onto the platform of the tram, and then, after her, just as gracefully jumped up himself.

Kolya Kinzhalov felt himself in a special shock that evening. He was in a new tuxedo, patent leather shoes, bought on an extremely successful occasion, and now he was going to the theater with Liza, which promised him many impressions, beautiful and excitingly interesting.

Pardon me, pardon me, he said politely but firmly to the audience standing in the aisle, let the lady go ahead!

Already in his mind was brewing witty joke, which he will say when receiving a ticket from the conductor. This should have made Liza laugh, and, having cheered up, she would cuddle even more tightly to his shoulder and look at him, strong and intelligent Kolya Kinzhalov, with an even softer look ...

Gentlemen, sorry! Let the lady come forward and, for God's sake, don't push.

The car suddenly stopped.

Making a frightened face, Kolya Kinzhalov staggered, spread out his arms, jumped up and sat on the knees of some dozing man in a fur jacket, stepping painfully on his foot.

The gentleman started up, pushed Kolya off him and said sternly:

And to hell with you! Bear!!

Kolya Kinzhalov's heart fluttered and sank somewhere far, far away...

He immediately, with terrifying clarity, felt that now, after this insult, something so terrible, so inevitable and so irremediable, after which their trip, the theater, a new tuxedo bought at an extremely successful price, would be erased and disappeared. occasional patent leather shoes and even Liza Milovidova herself - his first fragrant love.

He left Liza's hand, turned his glowing face to the gentleman in the fur coat, and in a thin, trembling voice, feeling Liza behind his back, exclaimed:

That is ... Who is this bear ?!

You are a bear, the devil would tear you apart! With your paw, you completely flattened my leg into a cake!

“Now we need to strike,” Kolya Kinzhalov thought feverishly quickly. - Fist or palm? A palm is better, because it is considered a slap in the face ... Nobler and more insulting ... "

Kohl took out right hand out of his pocket and in a trembling voice said:

If you dare to be offended, then I... dare to fight!! I'll show you now.

Immediately, Kolya regretted that he had not hit his opponent right away: in such cases, they usually do not talk.

You will learn from me how to be offended!!

The gentleman jumped up, moved towards Kolya, and Kolya immediately saw that the gentleman was a whole head taller than him ...

For such insults they beat ... - Kolya escaped in a painful whisper.

Really? - ironically held out jumped up, unbuttoning a fur jacket. - Really? What if I now rip out your red ears and shove you under the bench like a lousy hare! A?!

Someone from the audience, who had been waiting for the fight to start with pleasure, laughed.

The artisan in a tattered cap enthusiastically slapped his stomach and squealed:

Run, brothers!

A true artist - he was not interested in the result of the case, but in its process ...

Two sonorous slaps rang in Kolya Kinzhalov's ears with unforgettable words for life:

Red earflaps... mangy bunny...

Falling into the abyss, Kolya, not knowing why himself, grabbed the gentleman by the hand and muttered plaintively:

No... I won't leave it like this...

But he already strangely, tiredly hunched over, with insulting indifference yawned in Kolya's very face and casually turned to the conductor:

Stable soon?

Stop now.

The gentleman shook off Colin's hand and, whistling, headed for the exit.

Clinging to his fur jacket, Kolya followed the departing and weeping voice and shouted, losing the remnants of his chivalry along the way:

No, you won’t leave like that… You insulted me…

Hy!! He turned around threateningly. - What do you need?!

You cursed, you insulted me, okay...

With one hand, Kolya held the gentleman's sleeve, and with the other clumsily rummaged through the wallet in the tuxedo with stiff fingers.

Aha... Here! If you are a decent person!

Kolya took out a card and handed it to the gentleman in the fur coat. The feeling of something unbearably shameful and nasty began to disappear, giving way to the consciousness that Kolya was now thinking and acting as determined person and a gentleman with firm rules.

What is this comedy?

This is not a comedy... this is my card, with which I challenge you to a duel!

To a duel?!

The gentleman, without reading, patted the fingers of his left hand with the card, crumpled up the card, threw the card on the floor, and said loudly and distinctly:

And he went out onto the platform, deftly jumped off the steps, even before the car stopped.

Kolya followed him and, leaning over the railing, shouted:

What are you scared of, you bastard?! That's it! Otherwise I would have broken your crooked little legs! Coward, coward, scoundrel!!

Strange: Kolya Kinzhalov did, it seems, everything that a decent person was supposed to do, but he returned to Liza with a strange and unpleasant feeling of a flogged person ...

And she met him strangely: she jerked her hand away and said nervously:

Sit down already! .. There is an empty seat.

They drove in silence.

Kolya chewed his lips, swallowed a lot of saliva, and began unconstrainedly:

His happiness is that he fled! .. Otherwise it would be ...

Then he smiled casually.

I also had a similar case in Yalta, only with a more sad outcome for that person ... I also get on a tram of the same kind and, imagine ...

Kolya spoke deliberately loudly so that the outside audience could hear him.

I sit on the tram and, imagine ...

Lisa's neighbor, a retired military man, smiled and said, turning more to Liza:

The only pity is that there is no tram in Yalta!

The enthusiastic artisan laughed. Others chuckled too.

Kolya bent his head and began to fasten the already buttoned button of his overcoat.

That is, not a tram ... but this very one ... like him ...

Airship? someone said from the corner. Liza laughed out loud. Kolya forced a smile and joked:

Well ... you still say: balloon! Yes ... I get into the stagecoach, and he will somehow push me! "Sorry!" - "I don't want to." - "Sorry!" - "I don't want to." - “Yeah… don’t you want to?” Grabbed him yes through a locked window - fuck! - and threw it away. Twelve rubles were later recovered from me for broken glass! Hehehehe…

Everyone was embarrassedly silent.

The fat merchant, Kolya's neighbor, coughed and, bending down, spat. The spitting described a semicircle, fell on Kolya's patent leather boot and froze on it.

Liza saw this and noticed that Kolya saw it too. Kolya, in turn, felt that Liza knew the shameful state of his boot, but instead of demanding an apology from the merchant, he slowly pushed his foot under the bench and said sullenly, angrily:

And then there was such a funny service with me ...

All right, let's go, - Liza nervously jumped up. - We're going to go here.

* * *

Kolya Kinzhalov and Lizotchka, cowering in the fine rain, silently walked towards the theatre.

Kolya hated the theatre, and the shoe, and Liza, and himself—mostly himself.

Someone was chasing them from behind.

A wet workman suddenly jumped out of the darkness near an electric lamp and, going sideways to Kolya, indignantly and contemptuously jabbed his finger at his cheek.

Oh you! Chicken ... There too ... Why didn't you whistle in his ear? Intellectuals!

The offended artisan sighed and disappeared into the darkness.

And Kolya leaned his shoulder against the electric pole and, no longer embarrassed by the presence of Liza, wept silently.

Mr. editor, - the visitor said to me, looking down at his shoes in embarrassment, - I am very ashamed that I disturb you. When I think that I am taking away a minute of your precious time, my thoughts plunge into the abyss of gloomy despair ... For God's sake, forgive me!

Nothing, nothing, - I said affectionately, - do not apologize.

He hung his head sadly on his chest.

No, what is there ... I know that I worried you. For me, not used to being pushy, this is doubly difficult.

Yes, don't be shy! I am very happy. Unfortunately only, your poems did not fit.

Opening his mouth, he looked at me in astonishment.

These verses didn't work?

Yes Yes. These are the ones.

These verses??!! Starting:

I wish she had a black curl
Scratch every morning
Kissing her hair...

These verses, you say, will not work?!

Unfortunately, I must say that it is precisely these verses that will not go, and not some others. Those that begin with the words:

I wish she had a black curl...

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

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

Yes, you should read them again!

But why? After all, I read.

One more rip!

To please the visitor, I read one more time and expressed admiration with one half of my face, and regret with the other, that the verses still would not fit.

Hm... Then let them... I'll read them! “I wish she had a black curl…”

I patiently listened to these verses again, but then firmly and dryly said:

The lyrics don't fit.

Marvelous. You know what: I'll leave you the manuscript, and then you read it. Suddenly it fits.

No, why leave?

Right, I'll leave it. Would you consult with someone, eh?

No need. Leave them to yourself.

I'm desperate to take a second of your time, but...

Goodbye!

He left, and I took up the book that I had read before. Unfolding it, I saw a piece of paper placed between the pages. Read:

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

Ah, damn it! I forgot my rubbish ... Will be wandering around again! Nicholas! Catch up with the man I had and give him this paper.

Nikolai rushed after the poet and successfully completed my order.

At five o'clock I went home for dinner.

Paying the driver, he put his hand into the pocket of his overcoat and felt there for some piece of paper, no one knows how it got into the pocket.

He took it out, unfolded it and read:

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

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

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

The cook chichas found a piece of paper on the kitchen floor with something written on it. Maybe right.

I took the paper and read:

- “I wish she had a black lo ...” I don’t understand anything! You say in the kitchen, on the floor? The devil only knows… What a nightmare!

I tore the strange verses to shreds and sat down to dinner in a bad mood.

Why are you so thoughtful? the wife asked.

I would like her to have a black lo… Damn it!! Nothing, honey. I'm tired.

For dessert, they rang the bell in the hall and called me in ... The porter stood at the door and mysteriously beckoned me with his finger.

What's happened?

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

The porter gave me a friendly wink and giggled into his fist.

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

“I wish she had a black curl…”

Everything from the first to the last line.

In a rage, I tore the letter to shreds and threw it on the floor. My wife stepped out from behind me and, in ominous silence, picked up a few scraps of the letter.

Who is it from?

Drop it! It's so... stupid. One very annoying person.

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

Scraps of letters flew into my face. It didn't hurt much, but it was annoying.

Since the dinner was spoiled, I dressed and, sad, went to wander through the streets. At the corner, I noticed a boy beside me, who was spinning at my feet, trying to put something white, folded into a ball into the pocket of his coat. I gave him a cuff and, gnashing my teeth, ran away.

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

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

I'll whip you, - I shouted angrily, tearing out of his hands a piece of paper with familiar words: "I wish she had a black curl" ... - You will know from me! ..

My wife greeted me with disdain and contempt, but nevertheless she considered it necessary to tell me:

There was one gentleman here without you. He apologized for the trouble that he brought the manuscript home. He left it for you to read. He told me a lot of compliments - this is a real person who knows how to appreciate what others do not appreciate, changing this "that" to corrupt creatures - and asked me to put in a good word for his poems. In my opinion, well, poetry is like poetry ... Ah! When he read about curls, he looked at me like that ...

I shrugged my shoulders and went into the office. On the table lay the author's desire, familiar to me, to kiss someone's hair. I found this desire in the cigar box that was on the shelf. Then this desire was found inside cold chicken, which from lunch was condemned to serve us as supper. How this desire got there, the cook could not really explain.

The desire to scratch someone's hair was also perceived by me when I threw back the covers with the aim of going to bed. I adjusted the pillow. She had the same desire.

* * *

In the morning, after a sleepless night, I got up and, taking the shoes cleaned by the cook, I tried to put them on my feet, but I could not, because in each of them there was an idiotic desire to kiss someone's hair.

I went into the office and, sitting down at the table, wrote a letter to the publisher asking to be relieved of my editorial duties.

The letter had to be rewritten, because, when folding it, I noticed a familiar handwriting on the back:

“I wish she had a black curl…”

scary man

In one transport office (transportation and insurance of goods), a tradesman Matvei Petrovich Khimikov served as an assistant accountant.

Outwardly, he was a small man with crooked legs, pale, dirty-colored eyes, and large red hands. The reddish vegetation resembled sparse moss sparingly covering some northern rock, and the chest was so sunken that only the ribs prevented it from touching the back, bursting Khimikov's sides with such persistence that characterizes the ribs of all thin people.

It was outside. And inside Chemists had the heart of a noble killer, an aristocrat of the spirit and a seducer of beautiful women. Some lost soul of a knight of former times, who earned his livelihood with a sword, and his mood - with the love of women, came across Khimikov and settled in him, preventing the unfortunate assistant accountant from living the way thousands of other assistant accountants live.

Khimikov dreamed of strange adventures, a frenzied horse ride with moonlight, shooting from muskets, robbing stagecoaches, gloomy taverns filled with suspicious personalities with hats pulled over their eyes, and some beauties whom Khimikov invariably spared, touched by their youth and tears. At the same time, Khimikov was shouted from another table:

One place for household items. Write a receipt, two pounds three pounds.

Khimikov wrote a receipt, but when classes in the office ended, he threw a long cloak over his shoulders, pulled a wide-brimmed hat over his eyes, and, looking around, walked along the street, like a strange, stupid-looking robber.

Under his cloak, he always kept a dagger just in case, and if on the way he was attacked, the assistant accountant would laugh with a terrible, ominous laugh and would plunge the dagger into the chest of the scoundrel to the very hilt.

But either the scoundrels had no time for him, or the crowded streets along which he proudly walked, causing general astonishment, did not contain the sort of scoundrels who pounce on travelers in the midst of the darkness of the people.

Chemist got home safely, with disgust ate a two-course dinner with eternal jelly for dessert. Because of dinner, he and the hostess had an eternal, stubborn struggle.

I don't want your cue-ball soup," he said offendedly. "Wouldn't it be possible someday to give me a simple scrambled egg, a piece of spit-roasted meat, and a good sip of wine?"

He dreamed of spit-roasted meat and scrambled eggs for a long time, but the stupid hostess did not understand his ideals, justifying himself with the lack of nutrition of such a menu.

He wanted to do so.

Eat, pulling a hat over your eyes, meat, drink a good sip of wine, wrap yourself in a raincoat and lie down on the carpet by the bed to sleep before evening adventures.

But, since there was no spit-roasted meat and other things, a spectacular rest in a raincoat on the floor did not make sense, and the assistant accountant went on evening adventures without it.

Evening adventures consisted of Khimikov taking his eternal dagger, wrapping himself in a cloak and walking, looking around, to the Black Swan tavern.

He chose this tavern because he liked its name "Black Swan" very much, because the scum of the city's population gathered there, and because the low, sooty rooms of the tavern disposed to all sorts of dreams of adventure.

Khimikov made his way to the far corner, sat down, draping himself in his cloak, and tried to sparkle his eyes from under the hat pulled over them.

And he always looked around mysteriously, although no one was watching him and few people were interested in this small figure in a theatrical black cloak and hat, with dull eyes peering out from under it, which could not sparkle, despite the heroic efforts of their owner.

Having sat down, the assistant accountant clapped his hands and shouted in a broken voice:

Hey, boy, call the innkeeper to me! What does he have there?

They don't exist, sir," the servant usually said. - They rarely happen. What do you order? I can apply.

Give me beer, but not in a bottle, but pour it into some jug. Yes, order the cook there to fry a good fried egg. Haha! he laughed rudely, slapping his pocket. - Old Matvey wants to take a walk today: he did a good job today.

The servant looked at him in amazement and then, assuming his former apathetic look, went to order fried eggs.

Khimikov's "business" consisted in the fact that he sold some of the merchant clients the wooden oil he had on commission, but from the side it seemed that the three rubles earned by Khimikov were splashed with the blood of a robbed night traveler.

When they brought fried eggs and beer, he took a jug, looked into the light and, with the air of a drunkard, said:

Good beer! There is something to wet Matvey's throat.

And at that time, he, small, thin, forgot about the office, "home places" and receipts, sitting under his huge hat and destroying a good scrambled eggs, in full confidence that everyone was looking at him with some fear and superstitious reverence.

Around him, the city squalor was noisy and cursing, he thought: “It would be nice to gather a small gang of forty people and bring terror to all the surroundings. Who, they will fearfully ask, is at the head? You do not know? Old Matthew. This scary man! Then I’ll steal some princess ... "

He fumbled under the cloak for the dagger that was there between the folds and, finding it, convulsively squeezed the handle.

When he had finished his fried eggs and beer, he paid, casually tossed it to the servant for tea, and, draping himself in a cloak, departed.

“It would be nice,” he thought, “if a horse were tied at the door of the tavern. I would jump up and run."

And the assistant accountant felt such a surge of courage that he could go on a robbery, murder, theft, but certainly from a rich person (“I would still give this money to the needy”).

If a beggar came across along the way, Chemists took out of his pocket silver coin(despite the scarcity of the budget, he would never take out a copper coin) and, throwing it with a gentle gesture, said:

Here... take it.

At the same time, he threw the coin on the ground, which caused the beggar great trouble and caused a tedious search, but Chemists understood charity only with the help of this spectacular gesture, never giving a coin into the hand of a beggar.

The assistant accountant had only one friend - the son of the landlady Motka, in whose eyes horror and admiration for the assistant accountant froze once and for all.

He was nine years old. Every evening he looked forward to the moment when Khimikov, returning from the tavern, would knock on his mother's door and shout:

Motya! Do you want to me?

Freezing with fear and curiosity, Motka timidly entered Khimikov's room and sat down in a corner.

Khimikov, thoughtful, paced from corner to corner, without taking off his cloak, and finally stopped in front of Motka.

Well, namesake ... It was a hot business today.

Was? Motka asked, trembling all over.

Khimikov laughed ominously, shook his head and, taking a dagger out of his pocket, pretended to wipe the blood from it.

Yes, brother... One merchant was pinched a little. There was not much gold, but silk fabrics, brocade - what a miracle.

What did you do with the merchant? the pale Motka asked softly.

Merchant? Haha! If he hadn't resisted, I might have let him go. But this scoundrel killed the best of my fellows - Lorendo, and I, ha ha, got even with him!

Screaming? - Motka asked in a dying whisper, feeling the hair moving quietly on his head.

Didn't click. No, it's that ... It's fun compared to the case of the old Montmorency.

What… old woman? - Motka asked, clinging to the stove.

There was, brother, such an old woman ... My fellows sniffed out that she had some money. Well, sir… We poisoned her dog, one of my gang got the old servant of this witch drunk and opened the doors for us… But somehow the police bloodhounds got wind of it. Haha! That was the fun! I laid down four ... Well, I got it! For two weeks my fellows looked after me in the ravine.

Motka looked at the assistant accountant with eyes full of love and fearful admiration, and whispered with parched lips:

And how much ... did you even a person ... put down?

Chemists thought:

Man… Twenty-twenty-five. I don't remember right. And what?

I feel sorry for you that you will boil in the next world in a cauldron ...

Khimikov winked and beat his thin thighs with his fists.

Nothing, brother, but here, in this world, I will enjoy my fill ... and then you can repent before death. I will give all my fortune to the monasteries and go barefoot to Jerusalem ...

Khimikov wrapped himself in a cloak and paced gloomily from corner to corner.

Show me your dagger again, - asked Motka.

Here he is, an old friend, - Khimikov perked up, taking out a dagger from under his cloak. - I still often quench his thirst. Haha! He likes fresh meat... Ha-ha!

And he, ominously twirling the dagger, looked around, throwing the end of the cloak over his shoulder and pointing with a thin finger at the rust that had come out on the blade from dampness and sweaty hands.

Then Khimikov said:

Well, Motya, I'm tired after all these troubles. I'm going to sleep.

And, wrapped in a cloak, he lay down, small, pale, on the carpet by the bed.

Why do you prefer gender? Motka asked respectfully.

Hey brother! You have to get used to it... It's still good. After nights in the swamps or on the branches of trees, this is the king's bed.

And he, not waiting for Motka to leave, fell asleep with a heavy sleep.

Motka sat for a long time beside him, looking with love and fear into his face, sparingly covered with red hair.

And it seemed doubly terrible to him that all Chemists were so small, miserable and insignificant. And that under this insignificance lies a dangerous assassin, adventurer and gambler in the bones.

Having looked at the face of the sleeping assistant accountant, Motka carefully covered him with a blanket over his cloak, put out the lamp, and on tiptoe, trying not to disturb the killer's heavy sleep, went to his room.

Chemists' assistant accountant, a noble adventurer, knight and adventurer, with all his soul attached to the departed into eternity - smoky taverns, stagecoach attacks and masterful dagger strikes - fell in love.

His ideal - a pale, slender countess, sitting on a chaise longue in an old manor house - was embodied in a girl with no specific occupation - Polina Kozlova, if sometimes pale, then not from a noble birth, but from sleepless nights, spent by her not quite in accordance with code of ordinary virtue.

Once, when the wildly picturesque Khimikov was walking with yard-long resolute steps along the street, wrapped in his eternal cloak and covered on top with a monstrous hat, he heard a conversation in front of him:

It is very tactless to stick to unfamiliar girls.

Ma'am, Marusya... I'm sure that such a charming creature can only be called Marusya... Marusya! Do not add a chord to the dissonance of our fleeting meeting. Let me guide you. Where do you live?

See what you want. I will never tell you, even if you would accompany me to my house on Moskovskaya Street, number seven ... Oh, what did I say! I seem to have let it slip... No, forget, forget what I told you!

Chemists considered eavesdropping to be the most ignoble deed, but when this conversation reached him, his courageous heart was filled with compassion for the persecuted and furious indignation against the vile persecutor.

Your Majesty! he thundered, approaching the Don Juan and looking up at him. - Leave this defenseless girl, or you will deal with me!

The defenseless girl looked with some displeasure at the courageous Khimikov, and her gentleman angrily tore his hand away and shouted:

Who the hell are you?

Scoundrel! I am the one whom providence found it necessary to send at a critical moment for this being. Protect yourself!

Khimikov's opponent, a huge, fat blond, clenched his fist, but the sight of little Khimikov writhing wildly at his feet with a dagger in his hand made him retreat.

W-hell knows what it is,” he muttered, jumping away from a pale, thin hand that was furiously drawing intricate circles and figure-eights around him with a dagger. - The devil knows... I absolutely don't understand... - the blond muttered dumbfounded and began to move away from Khimikov, who remained near the girl, with quick steps.

Ma'am," said Khimikov, taking off his strange black hat and lowering it to the very ground. “I beg your pardon if your ear has been offended by a few rude words which necessity compelled me to utter. Haha! Khimikov laughed ominously. “The guy is obviously afraid of the smell of blood and cleverly avoided a little bloodletting… Ha ha ha!”

Who are you? - Asked the astonished Polina Kozlova, examining Khimikov.

Khimikov was embarrassed to say that his name was Khimikov and that he was an assistant accountant in a transport office. He lowered his head, threw the end of his cloak over his shoulder, and, as if shaking off something, said:

Someday... when it is possible, a man with a black beard will come to you, show you this dagger and tell you who I am... In the meantime... madam, do not forget that this city is terrible. It is fraught with dangers completely unknown to you, and you need to have my bestial cunning and dexterity to avoid them. But you... How do your elderly parents risk letting you go to this terrible night... Would you find it convenient to deign to give me gracious permission to offer to accompany you to your home.

Well, you can, - Polina Kozlova chuckled.

Khimikov took the girl by the arm and, glaring fiercely at the oncoming passers-by, carefully led her down the street. After a hundred steps, he already learned that his companion had no parents and that she had a surname - Polina Kozlova.

So young and, alas, defenseless, - whispered Khimikov, touched by her story. “Sorrow for the loss of your venerable parents mingles in my soul with the sweet hope of being of some use to you and taking on my chest the blows of evil intrigue and intrigues of the enemy directed at you ...

Give me a ride in a car,” said the girl, screwing up her eyes at Khimik.

According to his convictions, Khimikov hated cars, preferring the good old stagecoaches to them. But the desire of a woman was his law.

Ma'am, your hand...

They rode the car for a long time, and then the girl got hungry and said she wanted to go to a restaurant.

Khimikov did not object a word to her, but he decided to himself that if he did not have enough money in the restaurant, he would go out into the hall and stab himself with a dagger there. Let a fatal secret hang over him rather than a prosaic refusal of dinner. In the restaurant's office, the girl straightened her disheveled hair, went up to Khimikov and, sitting on his thin, unsteady knees, kissed the accountant's assistant on the cheek.

Khimikov's heart fluttered and broke.

Court ... Polina. Vv ... you ... fell in love with me! Oh, let this unexpectedly flashed passion be the key to my desire to devote my life to you from now on.

Give me a cigarette, - Polina asked, smoothing his sparse red hair.

Graceful minx! A frolicking orphan! - Khimikov exclaimed in ecstasy and pressed the girl to his chest.

After dinner, Khimikov saw Polina home, took off his hat at the entrance to her house, bowed low, respectfully, and, kissing her hand, left, wrapped in his long cloak.

The bewildered girl looked after him in surprise, smiled and said:

Today I sleep alone.

It was the rarest funny case in her life.

Chemists lived a strange life.

The transport office, the Black Swan tavern, a good jug of beer - all this was swallowed up by the young poetic feeling that lit up in his skinny chest.

He often met Polina and, chivalrously polite, slavishly fulfilled all the whims of a girl who was very fond of cars and theatrical performances. The sinister adventurer's debts grew at breakneck speed, and a series of prosaic troubles fell upon his poor head. In the office they began to look askance at his carelessness in writing receipts and the eternal requests for salary in advance. The hostess stopped getting paid for the apartment and almost did not feed Khimikov, withered from passion and deprivation.

And Khimikov, hungry, deprived even of a “good scrambled egg” in the Black Swan tavern, was looking forward to the evening when he could put on a cloak and, taking a dagger and a mask (the mask appeared at the very Lately as an attribute love affair), go on a date.

Polina Kozlova was a bad girl.

Khimikov was cheated on - he did not notice this. Khimikov was laughed at - he considered this an original expression of love, Khimikov was ruined - he was too poetic in nature to pay attention to this ...

And the crash came.

Like any adventurer, Khimikov treasured his weapons most of all, and Khimikov took care of his dagger like the apple of his eye. But one day Polina said:

Bring the confection tomorrow.

And the ruined Chemist the next day, without hesitation, wrapped the dagger in paper and carried it to the dealer in antiques.

What is this? asked the surprised merchant.

Dagger. This is my old friend, who has served me more than one service, - Chemist said sadly, wrapping himself in his raincoat.

This is a simple knife for cutting books, not a dagger, - the merchant smiled. - What makes you think that he is a dagger? You can buy these for seven hryvnias anywhere. Even newer, not rusty.

The astonished Chemist took his dagger and wandered home. The thought flashed through his head that today it was possible not to go to Polina, but tomorrow to say that a strange adventure had happened to him: some unknown people they kidnapped him, took him away in a carriage and kept him for a day in a mysterious dungeon.

And the next day, since the issue of sweets had not been resolved, Khimikov decided to rob someone on the street.

He decided this without any hesitation or doubt. He considered it not at all a shameful thing to rob a rich man, firmly standing on the point of view of the knights of past centuries, who were not particularly choosy in difficult questions morals.

He immediately decided if he robbed a large amount give the surplus to the poor.

Wrapped in a cloak, with a dagger in his hand, Khimikov went to the streets of the city that same evening, vigilantly looking around.

Everything was as it should be. The wind tore at the hems of his cloak, the moon was hiding behind the clouds, and there were few passers-by. The chemists hid in some hollow of the wall and waited.

The sound of footsteps along the deserted street announced to the assistant accountant that the prey was approaching. A gentleman appeared in the distance, dressed in an expensive overcoat and a shiny top hat. The chemist convulsively squeezed his dagger, slipped out of the ambush and appeared - small, in a huge hat, like a monstrous mushroom - in front of a passerby.

Ha ha ha! He laughed horribly. - Is there any money?

Poor fellow! said the gentleman compassionately, pausing. - On such a cold night, asking for alms ... It's terrible. You have two kopecks on you, go and get warm!

Khimikov squeezed into his fist the two-kopeck piece thrust into his hand and, feverishly chattering his teeth, set off running down the street. His head was spinning, and the robbery that ended so strangely filled his heart with resentment. He rushed down the street like a black, strange bird, and the wind, like wings, slapped the skirts of his cloak and blew through the wonderful assistant accountant.

Chemist lay on his miserable bed, staring fixedly at the ceiling.

Near him sat the inconsolable master's son, Motka, and, with tears on his dirty face, stroked Khimikov's pale hand.

Yes ... brother ... Motya, - Khimikov winked at him, - I have sinned a lot in my lifetime, and now retribution.

Mom said that maybe you won’t die, - Motka tried to please the terrible accountant.

No, brother ... Lived, plundered, enough blood was released. Motya, I had no friends but you. Do you want me to give you what is dearest to me - my dagger?

For a moment Motka's eyes sparkled with joy.

Thank you, Matthew Petrovich! I, too, when I grow up, I will kill them.

Ha ha ha! Chemikov laughed ominously. - Here he is, my heir and successor of my business! Motya, wait for three people in raincoats, with rifles in their hands, to come to you - then start acting. Let the blood of the strong flow in defense of the weak.

He cut off the conversation and fell silent.

For some time now, Khimikov had been puzzling over the solution of one question: what last words to tell him? dying words: there were many beautiful phrases, but all of them did not please Khimikov.

And he thought hard.

The doctor and Mot'ka's mother bent over Khimikoff.

Who is he? the doctor asked in a whisper, looking in surprise at the huge hat and cloak hanging in the corner.

Healer,” Khimikov said with difficulty, opening his eyes, “you will not be able to penetrate the secret of my birth. Ha ha ha!

He clutched his chest and groaned:

The souls of those who have been ruined by me crowd before my eyes in a long line ... But I will give an answer for them only before the throne of the Most High ... Sleep, Red Matvey!

people of four dimensions

They are amazingly funny! she said, smiling dreamily and distractedly.

Not knowing whether the woman praises or blames in such cases, I answered, trying to be vague:

Quite right. - This can often be asserted without the risk of falling into error.

Sometimes they make me laugh.

It's nice of them, - I cautiously remarked, trying to understand her.

You know, he is the real Othello.

Since up to now we have been talking about the old doctor, their family doctor, I, surprised by this strange property of him, objected:

This could never have been thought!

She sighed.

Yes. And it is terrible to realize that you are in the complete power of such a person. Sometimes I regret that I married him. I'm sure his head is still bruised.

Oh, you're talking about a husband! But he is...

She looked at me in surprise.

The husband's head was not bruised. He broke it himself.

Fell, right?

Not really. He smashed it to this young man.

Because last time We had a conversation about young people about three weeks ago, then "this young man", if she did not call the doctor that, was obviously a completely unknown person to me.

I looked helplessly at her and said:

Until you explain the reasons for the misfortune with the "young man", the fate of this stranger will be foreign to my heart.

Oh, I forgot that you do not know this case! About three weeks ago we walked with him from among the guests, you know, through the square. And he sat on the bench until we hit a strip of electric light. Pale, black haired. These men are sometimes surprisingly reckless. I was then wearing a big black hat, which suits me so much, and from walking I was very flushed. This madcap looked at me attentively and suddenly, getting up from the bench, comes up to us. You understand - I'm with my husband. This is madness. Such a young one. And the husband, as I already told you, is a real Othello. Fits, takes her husband by the sleeve. "Allow me," he says, "to smoke." Alexander pulls his hand out, leans to the ground faster than lightning and hits his head with some kind of brick - bang! And the young man, like this very ... sheaf, falls. Horror!

Was he jealous of him for no reason at all?!

She shrugged.

I'm telling you - they are amazingly funny!

After saying goodbye to her, I left the house and ran into my husband at the corner of the street.

Ba! Here is an unexpected meeting! What are you not showing your eyes?

And I won’t show myself,” I joked. - They say you break heads with bricks like roasted nuts.

He laughed.

Did the wife tell? It's good that a brick turned up under my arm. And then - think - I had a thousand and a half money with me, diamond earrings on my wife ...

I recoiled from him.

But... what's with the earrings?

After all, he could have them with meat. The square is empty, and the wilderness is desperate.

Do you think it's a burglar?

No, attaché of the French embassy! A man comes up in a remote place, asks for a cigarette and grabs his hand - clearly, it seems.

He paused resentfully.

So you... brick it?

Over the head. He didn't even squeak... We also understand these things.

You will not be in time! came a voice from behind me.

I looked around and saw my friend, whom I had not seen for three weeks.

Looking at him, I threw up my hands and could not help screaming.

God! What happened to you?!

Just got out of the hospital today, still weak.

But… for God's sake! What were you sick with?

He smiled weakly and asked in turn:

Tell me, have you heard: in the last three weeks in our city there were no escapes from the insane asylum?

Don't know. And what?

Well ... there were no cases of an attack by a runaway madman on peaceful passers-by?

You want to be interested in such nonsense! .. Tell us better about yourself.

What! I was three weeks between life and death. Still a scar.

I grabbed his hand and exclaimed with unexpected interest:

Are you talking about a scar? Three weeks ago? Weren't you sitting in the park then?

Well, yes. You probably read in the newspaper? This is the most absurd case of my life... I am sitting in a park one warm, quiet evening. Laziness, languor. I want to smoke a cigarette - damn it! No matches ... Well, I think it will pass kind soul- I'll ask. Just ten minutes later, a gentleman and a lady pass by. I did not consider it - an erysipelas, it seems. But he smoked. I go up, touch him in the most polite way by the sleeve: "Let me smoke." And what do you think! This demoniac bends down to the ground, picks up something - and I, with a broken head, without memory, fly to the ground. Just think that this unfortunate defenseless woman was walking with him, probably not even suspecting what kind of bird it was.

I looked into his eyes and asked sternly:

Do you…really think you were dealing with a madman?

I am sure about that.

After an hour and a half, I frantically rummaged through the old issues of the local newspaper and finally found what I needed. It was a small note in the chronicle of incidents: “Under the vapors of alcohol. Yesterday morning, the watchmen cleaning the square noticed an unknown young man, who turned out to be a nobleman on his passport, who, being in a strong intoxication, fell on the path of the square so unsuccessfully that he broke his head on a nearby brick. The grief of the unfortunate parents of this misguided young man is indescribable…”

I am now standing on the cathedral belfry, looking at the groups of gray people moving along the street, resembling ants, who converge, disperse, collide, and again, without any purpose or plan, spread in all directions ...

And I laugh, I laugh.

History of one painting

From exhibition meetings

Up to now, during casual meetings with modernists, I looked at them with some fear: it seemed to me that such a modernist artist, in the middle of a conversation, would either unexpectedly bite me on the shoulder or ask for a loan.

But this strange feeling disappeared after the first closest acquaintance with such an artist.

He turned out to be a man of extremely peaceful character and a gentleman, although with an admixture of shameless lies.

I was then at one of the art exhibitions, the season of which is now in full swing, and spent the second half hour contemplating the strange picture. This picture did not arouse a cheerful mood in me ... A yellow stripe ran through the entire canvas, on one side of which there were small black squiggles. The same squiggles, but lilac, nicely diversified the tone at the bottom of the picture. On the side hung the sun, which would have been a very good astronomical luminary if it had not been one-sided and, moreover, blue.

The first assumption that flashed through me when looking at this picture was that before me was a sea view. But the black squiggles on top destroyed this assumption in the most ruthless way.

"Eh! I said to myself. “The dodgy artist simply depicted the inside of a Norman hut…”

But the one-sided sun with all its appearance and position denied this simple version.

I tried to look at the picture in a fist: the impression was concentrated, and the amazing picture became even more incomprehensible ...

I embarked on a trick - I tightly closed my eyes and then, shaking my head, immediately opened them wide ...

The one-sided sun was still bubbling on its convex side, and the squiggles hung with tedious tenacity, each in its place.

For ten minutes now an unfamiliar young gentleman with a greenish face and such a wide tie had been circling around me that I had to politely avoid him all the time. The young gentleman looked into my face, twitched his shoulder, and generally expressed the liveliest pleasure in everything around him.

Damn it! I grumbled, finally losing my patience. - I would like to know the author of this picture ... I would like him ...

The young gentleman nodded his head happily.

Is it true? Do you like the picture? I am very glad that you cannot tear yourself away from it. Others were cursing, but you... Let me shake your hand.

Who are you? I asked abruptly.

Yes, but ... Tell me, - I turned to him sternly. - What it is?

This? Oh my God... Beethoven's Fourteenth Violin Sonata, Opus Eighteen. The simplest sonata.

I took another look at the painting.

You say eighteenth? I asked gloomily.

Yes, eighteenth.

Have you confused? Isn't this Beethoven's Fifth Sonata, opus twenty-four?

He turned pale.

N-no... As far as I remember, this is the Fourteenth Sonata.

I looked at his green face in disbelief.

Explain to me… What changes would you make if you had to remake this piece of opus two higher?.. Or pull even the Sixth Sonata… Huh? What are you and I, young man, to be ashamed of? How do you think?

He got excited.

You can't do it like that... You introduce a mathematical principle into the mood... This is the product of my personal experience! Approach it like a Fourteenth Sonata.

I smiled sadly.

Unfortunately, it is difficult for me to fulfill your offer… Oh-very difficult! I will not see the fourteenth sonata.

Why?!!

Because there are only ten of them. Beethoven's violin sonatas, unfortunately, are only ten. The old man was a lazy person.

What are you doing to me?! This means that this thing was played not on the violin, but on the cello! .. That's all! On high notes... I was worried.

The old man seemed to set out to plot intrigues for you ... There are only six cello sonatas and they concocted it.

My interlocutor, dejected, stood with his head down, and chipped off pieces of plaster from the statue.

No need to spoil the statues, I asked.

He sighed.

He had such an appearance that I took pity on the lost impressionist.

You know... Let this stay between us. But on the condition that you give me your word to improve and begin to lead a new honest life. You will not exhibit such pictures, and I will keep quiet about your experience. OK?

He wrinkled his green face into a grimace, but promised.

* * *

A week later, at another exhibition, I saw his new painting: Tchaikovsky's Seventh Fugue, op. 9, ed. SOUTH. Zimmerman".

He didn't keep his promise. Me too.

As soon as I think of my father, he appears to me climbing the stairs, with a lively, preoccupied face and sweeping movements, accompanied by several hefty porters, burdened with a heavy burden.

This strange idea is born in the brain, probably because most often I saw my father climbing the stairs, accompanied by grunting and cursing porters.

My father was an amazing person. Everything in him was somehow original, not like the others ... He knew several languages, but they were strange languages ​​that no one else needed: Romanian, Turkish, Bulgarian, Tatar. He knew neither French nor German. He had a voice, but when he sang, it was impossible to make out anything - it was such a thick, low voice. There was some amazing rumbling and rumble, so low that it seemed to come out from under his feet. My father loved carpentry - but they were also somehow useless - he only made wooden steamers. He fiddled with each steamboat for about a year, made it with all the details, and when he finished, he, satisfied, said:

Such a thing can be sold for no less than fifteen rubles!

And the material cost thirty! mother picked up.

Be quiet, Varya, - said the father. - You do not understand anything…

Of course, ”my mother objected, smiling bitterly. You understand a lot...

The main occupation of his father was trade. But here he excelled himself in the strangeness and uselessness - from the commercial point of view of those operations that took place in the store.

For the father, there was no better pleasure than to release the goods to someone on credit. The buyer, who owed his father, became his best friend... His father invited him to the shop, gave him tea, played checkers with him and was offended by his mother to the core, if she, having learned about this, said:

It would be better if he gave money than to play checkers.

You don’t understand anything, Varya, ”the father objected delicately. - He is a very good person. Two daughters study at the gymnasium. I myself was in the war. You would have listened to how he talks about military orders.

Yes, we have something from this! You never know who was in the war - so everyone and lend?

You don't understand anything, Varya, - my father said sadly and went to the barn to make a steamboat.

With me he had a good relationship but we had different personalities. I could not understand his hobbies, I was skeptical about steamboats, and when he gave me one steamboat, thinking to delight me with it, I coolly, with a bored look, touched some wooden thing on the bow of a tiny ship and walked away.

You don't understand anything, Vaska, - said the father, embarrassed.

I loved books, and he bought me half a dozen of some kind of trumpeter pigeons. Why I had to admire the fact that their tails are not flat, but a pipe, I still think is unclear. I had to get up early in the morning, give these pigeons food and water, which did not excite me at all. Three or four days later I carried out a hellish plan - I opened the door of the pigeon house, thinking that the pigeons would immediately fly away. But the damned birds twirled their tails and sat peacefully in their place. However, the open door did its job: that same night, the cat strangled all the trumpeters, bringing relief to me, and grief and quiet tears to my father.

As everything in his father was original, so was his passion - to buy rare things - original and unusual. The requirements that he made for this kind of operations were as follows: that the thing should surprise everyone around with its appearance, that it be monumental, and that everyone think that the thing was bought for five hundred rubles, when only thirty were paid for it.

* * *

Once, on the stairs of the house where we lived, there was heard the stamping of numerous feet, screams and groans. We ran out to the landing of the stairs and saw my father, who was leading several porters behind him, burdened with a large, strange-looking thing.

What it is? - with concern asked mother.

The radiant face of my father shone with the pride and hidden joy of a man who had planned a very pretty surprise.

You will see,” he said, trembling with impatience. - Let's put it on now.

When “it” was put up and the porters, favored by the father, left, “it” turned out to be a colossal washbasin with a marble board burst in half and red cracked wood.

Well? - triumphantly addressed the father to those around him. How much would you rate this item?

What is she for? asked the mother.

You don't understand anything, Varya. Alyosha, tell me, how much do you think this washbasin costs?

Alyosha - a flatterer, a hyperbolist and a fake low-bowed little soul - threw up his ink-smeared hands and exclaimed unnaturally:

How lovely! What is the price? Four hundred twenty-five rubles!

Ha ha ha! Father laughed triumphantly. - And you, Varya, how much can you say?

The mother shook her head skeptically.

Yes, well ... fifteen rubles for him you can still give.

You understand a lot! You can imagine - all this marble, mahogany and all - costs only twenty-five rubles on the occasion. Now we're going to try it! Marya! Water.

A bucket of water was poured into the monumental washstand... Pressing the foot pedal did not cause a single drop of liquid from the tap, but when we looked down, our feet were surrounded by a whole lake of water.

Flowing! - said the father. - We need to call a locksmith. Marya! Run away.

The locksmith fiddled for half an hour over the washbasin, took six rubles for it, and, as he was leaving, stole a cap from the hall.

The washbasin settled with us.

When father was not at home, everyone washed with pleasure from a small wall-mounted washstand, but if this happened in front of his father, he shouted, swore, forced everyone to wash from his purchase and said:

You don't understand anything!

Everyone had reason to avoid the large washstand. He had a malicious, disgusting disposition and inconstancy in sympathies. Sometimes he showed a doggy affection for his sister Lisa and was given to wash himself out of him in a normal, usual way. Or he was friends with Alyosha, was considerate to him - submissive, like a child, poured a transparent stream on Alyosha's black hands and did not allow himself obscene antics.

He did the same with everyone else. One had only to press the pedal, as a horizontal jet of water flew out of the tap with a whistle and hit the unwary person in the stomach or chest; then the jet instantly fell off and, hiding, waited for the next pressing of the pedal. The man bent down and held out his hands, hoping to catch the cursed jet in the very place where it hit.

But the stream did not doze ...

Seeing bowed shoulders, it flew up like a fountain, fell down, doused the head and back of the head of a gullible person, instantly disappeared and, aiming at the legs, irrigated them so generously that the man, defeated by the washbasin, jumped aside with a curse and ran away.

Sometimes the washbasin turned the jet like a snake's head, turned it, grimaced, and then it was necessary to run around this monumental rubbish in order to catch the elusive evasive jet with your hands. Then we came up with the idea of ​​making a uniform raid on it: we stood around, stretched out a dozen hands, and the driven stream, no matter how dodge, but hit someone ...

* * *

Once upon a time there was a familiar clatter and groaning on the stairs ... It was my father, leading an army of porters, who was conducting a new purchase.

It was a strange procession.

In front, three people dragged a huge quadrangle with a hole in the middle, behind them two carried a strange turned rod, and behind them two more people brought up the rear with some kind of huge globe and a frosted glass hemisphere, the size of the roof of a small shed.

What is this? - with a secret fear asked the mother.

A lamp, - the father answered cheerfully.

And I thought - a curbstone for posters.

Isn't it, - picked up the father, - an enormous thing. I bargained for half an hour until they gave in to me.

The lamp was installed next to the washbasin. She was as tall as the ceiling and looked the strangest, extremely uncomfortable - heavy, ugly, like some kind of monstrous African plant.

Well, what do you think, Alyosha... How much does it cost?

Three thousand! Alyosha said confidently.

Haha! What do you say, Varya?

Mother, sitting in a corner, silently wept. All delight immediately flew off my father, and he, discouraged, went up to his mother, bent down and kissed her gently on the head.

Hey Varya! You do not understand anything! Vaska! How much do you think a lamp like this should cost?

Seven thousand,” I said, walking around the lamp. "At least I'd give that much for her to get her out of here."

You understand a lot! - the father was confused.

The lamp turned out to be from the same family as the washbasin. Kerosene (fourteen pounds); poured into it, flowed, poisoned the air, and when the locksmith fixed it (the same one who stole the hat), the lamp drew in a huge black wick and did not want to let it go for anything. Pulled out with some tongs, the wick caught fire, but it started so bad that the neighbors came to save us from the fire, offering free services to take things out and put out the fire.

And the huge immense lamp burned with a small, microscopic light, such as glows in the lamp near the icons, quietly crackled and snapped caustically with its tiny red tongue.

Her father stood before her in mute admiration.

* * *

One day, the same noise, roar and screams were heard on the stairs.

What else? mother jumped out.

Hours, - happily laughing, said the father.

It was the most amazing, the most unheard of everything my father had bought.

Two hands raced rapidly along the huge dial, regardless of time or the efforts of people who would take it into their heads to keep them from doing so. Below, a colossal pendulum swayed menacingly, making a swing of four arshins, and ahead the whole mechanism was breathing hoarsely and heavily, like a hunted rhinoceros or a man half-suffocated by a pillow ...

Who made them? What drunken, deranged, alcohol-inflamed brain had the idea of ​​building this ugly, clumsy apparatus, with all parts painfully, as if in delirium, exaggerated, with a move without logic and with a disgusting drunken breath inside, the breath of their creator, who, perhaps, had already died somewhere under the fence, tormented by delirium tremens, gnawed by rheumatism and gout.

The clock stood next to the washbasin and the lamp, winked at each other and immediately understood how to behave in this house.

The pendulum was rapidly rushing from wall to wall and kept striving to knock us down when we rushed headlong from its side ... The mechanism grumbled, coughed and groaned like a dying man, and the hands frolicked on the dial, running up, converging and spinning in a dashing Bacchic dance ...

Father took it into his head to subject us to the time shown by this clock, but soon became convinced that we would have to dine at night, sleep at noon, and that in a week we would be expelled from schools for appearing at lessons at eleven o'clock in the evening.

The watch came in handy for us as a sports apparatus, hitherto never seen anywhere else... We took our three-year-old sister Olya, seated her on a colossal pendulum, and, clutching convulsively at the rod, rushed about, trembling, frightened, from side to side, arousing the joy of the surrounding youth.

Mother called this room "The Cursed Room".

All day long there was a suffocating smell of kerosene, murmuring streams of water flowing from the washbasin onto the floor, and at night we were awakened and frightened by the terrible groans that the clock emitted, sometimes interspersing these groans with hoarse, sinister laughter and neighing.

Once, when we returned from school and poured into our favorite room to have fun at about o'clock, we retreated, amazed, frightened: the room was empty, and only three painted quadrangles on the floor showed the places where father's purchases stood.

What did you do with them? we asked the mother.

Sold.

Did you give a lot? asked the silent father.

Three rubles. Only they did not give, but I ... To be carried away. No one wanted to mess with them for nothing...

The father lowered his head, and his suppressed whisper echoed through the empty room:

You understand a lot!

Now he is dead, my father.

Field work

(from the collection "Gilded Pills")

This is finally what the hell it is!! This has no limits!!!

And the editor grabbed own hand in your own hair.

What's happened? I asked. - Again, something about the Ministry of Public Education?

Not really…

So the Ministry of Finance?

Yes, no, no!

Understand. Of course, the Ministry of the Interior?

Excuse me... Long-distance telephone, what does this refer to?

Office of Posts and Telegraphs.

Well ... So that they don’t have a bottom or a tire !! Imagine: again, not a sound from Moscow. Because something happened to them there - the newspaper should be published without a Moscow telephone. Oh, prrr! .. Listen, if you were a real journalist, you would investigate the reasons for such a disgrace and bring it to the attention of society !!

What do you think... I don't investigate? And I'm investigating.

That's nice. They say they steal telephone wire there.

Who is stealing?

The men there.

I'm going to go. I'll show you what a real journalist I am!

It was an early cold morning when, having got off at a small intermediate station between the two capitals, I quietly wandered towards the nearest village.

Caught up with some lonely man.

Hello, uncle!

Hello, nephew. Where will you be from?

From Peterburgh itself,” I answered in the most beautiful Russian. - Well, how are your people here ... Nothing lives?

Let's say it's nothing. We feed. Harvest, we will say, nothing. First harvest.

How are the prices for bread?

Yes, the prices are reasonable. French rolls, as before, for a nickel, and sais for three.

I'm not talking about that, uncle. I ask how the crop was sold?

Harvest something? Yes, one and a half rubles a pood.

Are you talking about rye?

Rye is cheaper. Yes, but there is no rye on it. Thank God it's galvanized.

What is galvanized?

Yes, wire. There is no rust on it.

Fu you lord! Do you sow bread?

Not at all. We don't play around.

I looked into the distance. Several men with braids over their shoulders were walking towards us.

What are they?

They're going to mow.

All the ideas about agriculture tottered in my brain and turned upside down.

Mow?! In January something?

What about them. As hung, so, then, and ready.

Meanwhile, the villagers approached us with songs. They sang, obviously, an old local song:

Oh you wire -
D-metallic,
Ah, nurse
You are a man!
I will cut you
Down from the pole
Selling in the city
Good guy!..

When they saw me, everyone took off their hats.

God help! I kindly wished.

Thank you for the kind words.

Are you going to work?

That's right, sir.

Something is possible for an Orthodox person without work. Don't be lazy, God bless you.

Are you going to mow?

But how. On the Eremin site, the wire rose yesterday.

How do you do it?

Oh, sir, something rural work do not you know? At first, it means that they dig holes, then they put up poles. Of course, we are waiting and watching. And when, then, the wire rises on poles, matures, then we mow it. The girls are twisting into riots, the guys are loading carts, we are taking them to the city. The matter is simple. Agricultural.

You would better bread they sowed what to do with such “things,” I advised timidly.

Eva! Something can be compared. Here is grace for you: no grass, no drought; seeds - no my God.

Shut up, - the strict, earnest old man interrupted. - Also, sir, if we compare it with the grain industry, then our business is also not honey. First of all, they lie on the stove all winter, chew pies with carrots. And we work all year round like damned. And even now such things have gone that the prices for wire have begun to fall. Therefore, all the baptized people began to do this.

And even worse, - picked up the clumsy peasant. - That way, sometimes three, five den wire is not hung. Is something possible?

That's right: one disgrace, - supported the third man. We also need to eat and drink. Sometimes you go outside the outskirts to the line, you look - what the hell is the harvest here: some poles stick out. While they are still there, they are going to hang the wire ...

What is your administration looking at? I asked. What are the rural authorities looking for?

Anna is watching.

Wow! More like... You'll hide from them. Now such an oppression has gone that fuck lie down and die. Strictness went big.

From whom?

Yes, from the boss.

What?

Yes, a trade certificate requires that they be elected in the council. On the subject of cutting, as they say, telephone wire.

Moreover, such rumors are circulating that the authorities will rent out plots for cutting off. Didn't you hear, sir? How in St. Petersburg in this respect?

Don't know.

The gray-haired old man leaned over to my ear and croaked:

And what, you can’t hear there - they won’t give us subsidies? It hurts really cool.

And what? Undergrowth?

Undercut. The people are multiplying, but the line is all the same.

They also sit there in the Duma, - the black-bearded man noticed with a venomous grimace, - but what they are doing is unknown. Wish I could draw one more line. Still, it would have been nicer.

What is it to them! They only stuff their belly, but will they remember something about the peasant hump?

Well go guys. What is there in vain scratching tongues. It's still dark to get out. And then we won’t add up to riots.

And the villagers briskly walked towards the pillars, on which wire threads loomed like a thin, barely noticeable cobweb.

The choir boomed, beating time:

Hey you wire
D-metal.
Eh, nurse
You are a man!

The sun peeked out from behind a blue-gray cloud and illuminated laboring, black-earth, homespun Rus'.