Nadezhda Teffi - Humorous stories (collection). Teffi stories

Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi (Nadezhda Lokhvitskaya, married to Buchinskaya) was a poet, memoirist, critic, publicist, but above all, one of the most famous satirical writers of the Silver Age, competing with Averchenko himself. After the revolution, Teffi emigrated, but in emigration her extraordinary talent blossomed even brighter. It was there that many of Teffi's classic stories were written, depicting the life and customs of the "Russian Diaspora" from a very unexpected side ...

The collection includes Teffi's stories of different years, written both at home and in Europe. A real gallery of funny, vivid characters passes before the reader, many of which are real contemporaries of the writer - people of art and political figures, famous "secular lionesses" and patrons of art, revolutionaries and their opponents.

Teffi
Humorous stories

... For laughter is joy, and therefore in itself is a blessing.

Spinoza. "Ethics", part IV.

Position XLV, scholium II.

Curry favor

Lesha's right leg was numb for a long time, but he did not dare to change his position and listened eagerly. It was completely dark in the corridor, and through the narrow crack of the half-open door, only a brightly lit piece of the wall above the stove was visible. On the wall, a large, dark circle, surmounted by two horns, hovered. Leshka guessed that this circle was nothing more than a shadow from the head of his aunt with the ends of the scarf sticking up.

The aunt came to visit Leshka, whom she had only a week ago assigned to the "boys for room services", and was now conducting serious negotiations with her protector cook. The negotiations were unpleasantly disturbing, the aunt was very worried, and the horns on the wall rose and fell steeply, as if some unprecedented animal butted its invisible opponents.

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

- I understood from the very beginning that he was a muddler, - the cook sang in a rich voice. - How many times I say to him: if you, guy, are not a fool, keep to your eyes. Don't do the fucking thing, but keep it in front of your eyes. Because - Dunyashka wipes it off. And he does not lead with his ear. Just now the lady was screaming again - he didn’t interfere in the stove and closed it with a firebrand.

The horns on the wall flutter, and the aunt groans like an aeolian harp:

- Where am I going with him? Mavra Semyonovna! I bought him boots, no pitot, no food, I gave five rubles. For a jacket for a tailor's alteration, no pitot, no food, six hryvnia ripped off ...

- Not otherwise how to send home.

- Darling! The road is not pitot, not eaten, four rubles, dear!

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

“It’s too early to howl,” the cook sings again. - So far, no one drives him. The lady only threatened ... But the tenant, Pyotr Dmitritch, is very much interceding. Straight up the mountain behind Leshka. He’s full of you, she says, Marya Vasilievna, he says, he’s not a fool, Leshka. He, he says, is a uniform adeot, and there is nothing to scold him. Downright mountain behind Leshka.

- Well, God forbid ...

- And with us, what the tenant says is sacred. Because he is a well-read person, he pays accurately ...

- And Dunyashka is good! - twirled the aunt with her horns. - I don’t understand such a people - to let the boy sneak in ...

- Truly! Truly. Just now I say to her: "Go open the door, Dunyasha," affectionately, as if kindly. So she snorts me in the face: "I, grit, you are not a doorman, open it yourself!" And I drank it all to her. How to open a door, so you, I say, are not a doorman, but how to kiss with a janitor on the stairs, so you are all a doorman ...

- Lord have mercy! From these years to all spying. The girl is young, to live and live. One salary, no pitot, no ...

- Me, what? I told her bluntly: how to open the door, you are not the doorman. She, you see, is not a doorman! And how to receive gifts from the janitor, she is the doorman. Yes, tenant lipstick ...

Trrrr ... - the electric bell crackled.

- Leshka! Leshka! Cried the cook. - Oh, you fail! Dunyasha was sent away, but he does not lead with his ear.

Leshka held his breath, pressed himself against the wall and stood quietly until the angry cook floated past him, rattling angrily with starch skirts.

“No, pipes,” thought Leshka, “I’m not going to the village. I’m not a fool, I want to, so I’ll curry favor.

And, having waited for the return of the cook, he set off with decisive steps into the rooms.

"Be, grit, in front of your eyes. And what kind of eyes will I be when no one is ever at home."

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

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

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

"I'm not a fool guy," thought Leshka, jabbing a poker into the burning wood.

The firewood crackled, the poker thundered, sparks flew in all directions. The tenant and the lady were tensely silent. Finally Leshka went to the exit, but at the very door he stopped and began to look anxiously at the damp spot on the floor, then turned his eyes to the guests' legs and, seeing galoshes on them, shook his head reproachfully.

When compiling the jubilee collection in honor of the 300th anniversary of the reign of the Romanov dynasty, the tsar was asked which of the Russian writers he would like to see included in it, Nicholas II replied: “Teffi! Only her!"

FELIETONS TEFFI

Born into a talented family

Her father, a famous lawyer, publisher and editor of the Judicial Gazette, was famous for his wit and oratory.

Mother loved poetry and knew Russian literature well. The family remembered the great-grandfather who wrote mystical poems.

It is not surprising that in such a family, three sisters - Maria (Mirra), Nadezhda and Elena - were noted for talents.

The sisters wrote poetry since their gymnasium years, dreamed of becoming famous writers, but at the family council they decided that they should not print poetry at the same time, so that there would be no envy and competition.

In fact, it happened - Nadezhda Lokhvitskaya began to publish regularly only in 1904, a year before Maria's early death.

In emigration

The beginning of the creative path

The first husband of the writer was the Pole Vladislav Buchinsky, he graduated from the Faculty of Law and served as a judge in Tikhvin.

After the birth of his first daughter in 1892, he left the service and the family settled on the estate near Mogilev. When two more children were born, Nadezhda divorced her husband and began her literary career in St. Petersburg.

Despite her love for poetry, Nadezhda Lokhvitskaya gained immense popularity not on the path of poetry.

Her his literary debut took place in the Sever magazine in 1901. It was a poem "I had a dream, crazy and beautiful," signed: Nadezhda Lokhvitskaya.

And in 1907, the Niva magazine published the one-act play The Women's Question, signed by Teffi. It was believed that the unusual pseudonym was borrowed from the tale of R. Kipling "How the first letter was written." The main character, the little daughter of a prehistoric man, was named Teffi.

Another explanation for the origin of the pseudonym is quite simple, it is set out in a short story.

“My portrait appeared in the newspapers with the signature“ Taffy ”. It's over. There was no retreat. So Teffi remained ",- Nadezhda Lokhvitskaya writes in the story "Pseudonym".

Since childhood, who loved to draw cartoons and write satirical poems, Teffi was carried away by writing feuilletons. She has regular readers.

Among those who were attracted by the writer's works was the Russian emperor Nicholas II, who remained a faithful admirer of her talent until the end of his days.

THE SUFFERING OF THE LAST YEARS

Life in exile

In 1920, together with a touring group, Teffi went south, and there, succumbing to panic, boarded a ship leaving Russia, engulfed in the flames of revolution.

On the ship was written her famous poem "To the Cape of joy, to the rocks of sorrow ...", which was included in the repertoire of A. Vertinsky.

With many hardships, Teffi reached Constantinople, and later settled in Paris, becoming a chronicler of the emigre life.

In the French capital, she felt like an old Parisian and arranged the first literary salon in a small hotel room.

Among its visitors are Alexei Tolstoy with his wife Natalia Krandievskaya, the St. Petersburg goddess Salome Andronikova.

In the 20-30s, Teffi's stories did not leave the pages of emigrant magazines and newspapers, books were published.

Contemporaries I. Bunin, A. Kuprin, F. Sologub, Sasha Cherny, D. Merezhkovsky, B. Zaitsev treated Teffi as a serious artist and highly appreciated her talent. Teffi's popularity remained high, she was the best satirist of the emigration.

From time to time, the writer was also recalled in Russia: her feuilletons under the heading "Ours Abroad" were reprinted by Pravda, occasionally collections of stories were published.

During the war years, the writer lived in hunger and cold. Books did not come out, there was nowhere to print stories.

In spite of everything, Teffi lived, worked, enjoyed life. And she was happy if she managed to make others laugh during those difficult times.

"To give a person the opportunity to laugh, - the writer thought, - no less important than giving alms or a piece of bread to a beggar. Laugh - and hunger is not so tormenting. He who sleeps has dinner, but, in my opinion, he who laughs eats his fill. " Worldly wisdom writers had no equal in sense of humor.

After the war

Parisian millionaire and philanthropist S. Atran agreed to pay a modest life pension to four elderly writers, among whom was Teffi.

"I have sent you eleven books for the capture and exploitation of tender hearts to maintain the rest of my days,"- the writer writes with a sense of humor.

These books were intended to be sold for her benefit among the wealthy people of New York - in this way, funds were obtained for Bunin for a number of years.

For the book, in which Teffi's autograph was pasted, they paid from 25 to 50 dollars. But with the death of S. Atran, the payment of a small pension was stopped.

The wealthy people of New York were abundantly supplied with Teffi's books, and the writer was no longer able to speak at evenings, earning money.

The last book of the writer "Earthly Rainbow" was published in New York shortly before her death.

The collection includes humorous - in the style of a writer - works, but there are also ones that reveal her soul.

“The day before yesterday I got (with great difficulty!) To Teffi, - Bunin wrote to the novelist M. Aldanov, - I feel sorry for her endlessly: everything is the same - a little it will become a little easier for her, lo and behold, again a heart attack. And all day, day after day, she lies alone in a cold, gloomy room. "

Inna ININA

The author considers it necessary to warn that the reader will not find these glorified heroic figures of the epoch being described with their deep significance in phrases, or exposing one or another political line, or any "illumination and conclusions" in the "Memoirs".

He will find only a simple and truthful story about the author's involuntary journey through the whole of Russia, along with a huge wave of people like him.

And he will find almost exclusively simple, unhistorical people who seemed funny or interesting, and adventures that seemed amusing, and if the author has to talk about himself, it is not because he considers his persona interesting for the reader, but only because he himself participated In the described adventures, he himself experienced impressions of both people and events, and if you remove this core, this living soul, from the story, then the story will be dead.

Moscow. Autumn. Cold.

My Petersburg life has been liquidated. "Russian Word" is closed. There are no prospects.

However, there is one prospect. Every day she appears in the form of a cross-eyed Odessa entrepreneur Guskin, who persuades me to go with him to Kiev and Odessa to arrange my literary performances.

He persuaded gloomily:

Did you eat a bun today? Well, you won't be tomorrow. Everyone who can go to Ukraine. Only nobody can. And I'm taking you, I pay you sixty percent of the gross tax, in the "London" hotel the best room is ordered by telegraph, on the seashore, the sun is shining, you read a story or two, take money, buy butter, ham, you are full and sit in a cafe. What do you have to lose? Ask about me - everyone knows me. My pseudonym is Guskin. I also have a last name, but it's terribly difficult. By golly, let's go! The best room in the "International" hotel.

You said - in "Londonskaya"?

Well, at Londonskaya. Is International bad for you?

I went and consulted. Many really wanted to go to Ukraine.

This pseudonym, Guskin, is kind of strange. What is strange? - experienced people answered. - No stranger than others. They are all like that, these small entrepreneurs.

Doubts were suppressed by Averchenko. It turns out that he was being taken to Kiev by some other pseudonym. Also on tour. We decided to leave together. Averchenkin's pseudonym was carrying two more actresses who were supposed to act out the sketches.

Well, you see! - Guskin exulted. - Now, just try to get out, and then everything will go like bread and butter.

I must say that I hate all kinds of public speaking. I can't even figure out to myself why. Idiosyncrasy. And then there's a pseudonym - Guskin with interest, which he calls "portnts". But all around they said: "Happy, you are going!", "Happy - in Kiev, cakes with cream." And even simply: "Happy ... with cream!"

Everything turned out so that it was necessary to go. And everyone around was bothering about leaving, and if they did not bother, having no hopes for success, then at least they dreamed. And people with hopes unexpectedly found in themselves Ukrainian blood, threads, connections.

My godfather had a house in Poltava.

And my surname, in fact, is not Nefedin, but Nehvedin, from Khvedko, a Little Russian root.

I love tsybula with bacon!

Popov is already in Kiev, Ruchkins, Melzones, Kokins, Pupins, Fiki, Shpruki. Everything is already there.

Guskin developed his activity.

Tomorrow at three o'clock I will bring you the most terrible commissar from the border station itself. Beast. Just stripped the whole Bat. I took everything away.

Well, if they undress the mice, so where can we slip through!

So I will bring him to get acquainted. You have to be nice with him, ask to let him through. I'll take him to the theater in the evening.

She began to bother about leaving. First, in some institution in charge of theatrical affairs. There, a very languid lady, in Cleo de Merode's hair, thickly sprinkled with dandruff and decorated with a shabby copper hoop, gave me permission to tour.

Then, in some kind of barracks, or some kind of barracks, in an endless queue, long, long hours. Finally, a soldier with a bayonet took my document and carried it to his superiors. And suddenly the door opened and "himself" came out. I don’t know who he was. But he was, as they said, "all in machine guns."

Are you so and so?

Yes, she admitted. (You can't deny it anyway.)

A writer?

I nod my head in silence. I feel that it's all over, - otherwise why did he jump out.

So, take the trouble to write your name in this notebook. So. Enter the date and year.

I write with a trembling hand. Forgot the number. Then I forgot the year. Someone's frightened whisper from behind suggested.

So-ak! - said "myself" gloomily.

He knitted his eyebrows. I read it. And suddenly his formidable mouth slowly went sideways in an intimate smile: - This is me ... I wanted for an autograph!

Very flattering!

The pass is given.

Guskin develops activities more and more. I dragged the commissar. The commissioner is terrible. Not a man, but a nose in boots. There are cephalopods. He was cross-legged. A huge nose to which two legs are attached. In one leg, obviously, the heart was placed, in the other digestion was performed. On the legs are yellow boots, laced up, above the knees. And it is clear that the commissar is worried about these boots and is proud. Here it is, the Achilles heel. She was in these boots, and the snake began to prepare its sting.

I was told that you love art ... - I start from afar and ... suddenly immediately, naively and femininely, as if not mastering with impulsively, she interrupted herself: - Oh, what wonderful boots you have!

The nose is reddened and slightly swollen.

Um ... art ... I love theaters, although I rarely have to ...

Amazing boots! There's something chivalrous about them. For some reason it seems to me that you are generally an extraordinary person!

No, why ... - the commissar defends himself weakly. - Suppose, since childhood, I loved beauty and heroism ... serving the people ...

“Heroism and service” are dangerous words in my case. Because of the ministry, the "Bat" was stripped. We must rather be based on beauty.

Oh no, no, don't deny! I feel a deeply artistic nature in you. You love art, you patronize its penetration into the masses of the people. Yes, in the thick, and in the thick, and in the thicket. Have you wonderful boots ... Such boots were worn by Torquato Tasso ... and even then not for sure. You are brilliant!

The last word decided everything. Two evening gowns and a bottle of perfume will be dropped as tools of production.

In the evening Guskin took the commissioner to the theater. There was an operetta "Catherine the Great" composed by two authors - Lolo and myself ...

The commissar loosened up, felt deeply and ordered me to convey that "art really has it behind it" and that I can carry everything that I need - he will "be silent, like a fish on ice."

I never saw the commissar again.

The last days of Moscow have passed stupidly and chaotically.

Kaza-Rosa, a former singer of the Ancient Theater, came from St. Petersburg. On these memorable days, a strange ability suddenly manifested itself in her: she knew what who had and who needed what.

She came, looked with black inspired eyes somewhere into space and said:

In Krivo-Arbatsky lane, on the corner, in the stern shop, there is still one and a half arshins of cambric. You definitely need to buy it.

I don’t need it.

No, you need to. In a month, when you return, there will be nothing left anywhere.

Another time, she came running out of breath:

You need to sew a velvet dress now!

You yourself know that you need it. At the corner in the mosque, the hostess sells a piece of curtain. I just ripped it off, completely fresh, right with nails. Wonderful evening dress will come out. You need. And such a case will never be presented.

The face is serious, almost tragic.

I hate the word "never" terribly. If they told me that, for example, I would never have a headache, I would probably be scared.

Today we'll talk about the funniest and most, probably, cutest books of 1910, thanks to which the gloomy year 1910, which is rather gloomy for Russian literature, is somehow illuminated for us by Teffi's kindness and condescension.

Teffi, Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Buchinskaya, nee L O Khvitskaya or Lokhv and tskaya. There are two versions of the pronunciation of this wonderful surname, Lokhv and tskaya is more common. She made her debut quite late in 1901, when she was already over 25 years old. But she considered it indecent to publish when her sister Mirra Lokhvitskaya, a romantic poetess who died early from tuberculosis, took over all the family's literary fame.

Teffi was always published under a pseudonym that she took from an old English fairy tale and for some reason it grew so that this woman, quite serious, sad, even in some respects tragic, no one else called. But as she herself writes in her memoirs about the Merezhkovskys: it wasn't long before I ceased to be this Teffi for them and became just Teffi.

When Nicholas II was asked which of the writers he would like to invite to speak at the three hundredth anniversary of the Romanov dynasty or to participate in the corresponding collection, he replied: "No one is needed, only Teffi." She was Nikolai's favorite author, Bunin's favorite author, and was highly valued in Soviet Russia as well, because her collections continued to be republished at the ZIF (Land and Factory) publishing house, without bringing her a dime. Naturally, the obligatory preface was written that there used to be such an incriminating satire, but in fact, the satirist denounced only himself, since he was a bourgeoisie. Now a revolution has happened, and we have another, our Soviet satire, but we can look back at the old one with a slight feeling of nostalgia and condescension.

I must say that Teffi is a very special humor, as well as the whole humor of "Satyricon", founded by Arkady Averchenko, was absolutely special. Averchenko managed to attract the most gifted people to literature, to cooperation, including, by the way, even Mayakovsky, who, in spite of all his nonconformism, all his protest against society, in the "Satyricon" was very willingly published in the most popular bourgeois magazine. True, without breaking down into a ladder, even there they demanded at least a decent poetic appearance from him. Teffi, Sasha Cherny, Arkady Bukhov, very often Kuprin with parodies, almost all the major poets and even Bunin sometimes and, of course, Green with wonderful stories - all found a fee and hospitable shelter with Averchenko. He somehow managed to involve everyone in the life of the best and most important Russian, not even a satirical, not even humorous, but just a literary magazine. But what was the fundamental novelty of Averchenkov's satire? Nobody has thought about this yet.

Many, by the way, wrote that in an era when gloom, murder, sick eroticism reigned in literature, when the mother-in-law was the only permitted topic in humor, Averchenko suddenly introduced into literature a supply of his southern, Kharkiv, his wonderful cheerfulness.

When, by the way, I asked Fazil Iskander, also a southerner, why Russian satirists and comedians, starting with Gogol, are all southerners who came to the north, he answered very fairly: “What else can a southerner do who has come from there, where everyone is happy with each other, in the north, where everyone greets each other with a painful grimace. Here humor becomes the only self-defense. "

I must say that Averchenko's humor is really a kind of self-defense. I would venture to say that humor is not social, not situational, not even verbal, it is ontological humor, I would venture to say, absurd humor, because the very foundations of being are subject to doubt and ridicule. And Teffi fit in very well there. Because Teffi writes about how essentially everything is funny, how absurd everything is. How pitiful and absurd are the fool's attempts to seem like a demonic woman, the mediocre attempts to seem like talent. She makes fun of and pity human nature, which is eternally puffed up instead of feeling deeply and sincerely.

In order to demonstrate Teffi's style, what Sasha Cherny called the secret of laughing words, I will quote, perhaps, her only story, which all fits into two minutes of reading and which shows us that amazing mixture of sarcasm, light disgust, ridicule and love, who lives in the works of Teffi. This is her most famous story "Agility of the Hands":

At the door of a small wooden booth, where local youth danced and staged charity performances on Sundays, there was a long red billboard: “Specially by the way, at the request of the public, a session of the most grandiose fakir of black and white magic. The most amazing tricks, such as: burning a handkerchief in front of our eyes, getting a silver ruble from the nose of a respectable public, and so on, contrary to nature. "

A head peeped out of the side window and sadly sold tickets. It had been raining since morning. The trees got wet, swollen, pouring down with a gray fine rain dutifully and without shaking themselves off. At the very entrance, a large puddle was bubbling and gurgling. Tickets were sold for only three rubles. It began to get dark. The sad head sighed, disappeared, and a shabby little gentleman of indeterminate age crawled out of the door. Holding his coat against the collar with both hands, he lifted his head and scanned the sky from all sides.

- Not a single hole! Everything is gray! Burnout in Timashev, burnout in Shchigra, burnout in Dmitriev ... burnout in Oboyan ... Where is burnout, I ask. The honorary card has been sent to the judge, sent to the head, to the police chief ... I'll go to fill the lamps.

He glanced at the poster and could not tear himself away.

- What else do they want? An abscess on your head, or what?

By eight o'clock they began to gather. Either no one came to places of honor, or a servant was sent. Some drunk people came to the standing places and immediately began to threaten, demanding money back. By half-past nine it became clear that no one else would come. Those who were sitting, loudly and definitely cursed, it was simply dangerous to delay further. The magician put on a long frock coat, which became wider with each tour, sighed, crossed himself, took a box with mysterious accessories and went on stage. For several seconds he stood in silence and thought:

“Gathering four rubles, kerosene six hryvnia, room eight rubles. Golovin's son is in a place of honor - let him, but how I leave and what I will eat, I ask you. Why is it empty? I would have flocked to such a program myself. "

- Brrravo! one of the drunks yelled. The magician woke up. I lit a candle on the table and said:

- Dear audience! Let me give you a preface. What you will see here is not something miraculous or witchcraft that is contrary to our Orthodox religion or even prohibited by the police. This does not even happen in the world. No! Far from it! What you will see here is nothing more than dexterity of the hands. I give you my word of honor that there will be no witchcraft here. Now you will see the appearance of a tough egg in a completely empty scarf.

He rummaged in the box and pulled out a motley handkerchief folded into a ball. His hands were shaking.

“Let me be sure that the handkerchief is completely empty. So I shake it.

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

“In the morning, one loaf and a glass of tea without sugar. And tomorrow what? - he thought.

- You can make sure there is no egg here.

The audience stirred, suddenly one of the drunks began to hum:

- You're lying! Here is the egg.

- Where? What? - the magician was confused.

- And tied to a handkerchief on a rope.

The embarrassed magician turned the handkerchief over. Indeed, an egg hung on a string.

- Oh you! - someone already spoke friendly. - You should go behind a candle, it would be so imperceptible. And you climbed forward! So, brother, you can't.

The magician was pale and smiled wryly.

“It really is,” he said. - I, however, warned that this is not witchcraft, but the dexterity of the hands. Excuse me, gentlemen ... - his voice stopped and trembled.

- Let's proceed to the next amazing phenomenon, which will seem even more amazing to you. Let one of the most respectable public lend me his handkerchief.

The audience was shy. Many had already been taken out, but after looking carefully, they hurried to hide. Then the magician went up to the son of the mayor and held out a trembling hand.

“I would, of course, take my own handkerchief, as it’s completely safe, but you might think that I changed something.

The son of the head gave his handkerchief and the magician shook it.

- Please be sure, absolutely a whole scarf.

The son of the head looked proudly at the audience.

- Now look, this scarf has become magical. Now I roll it up in a tube, bring it to the candle and light it. Is burning. The whole corner burned out. See?

The audience stretched their necks.

- Right! the drunk shouted. - Smells singed.

- And now I will count to three and - the handkerchief will be whole again.

- Once! Two! Three! Please be sure!

He proudly and deftly straightened the handkerchief.

- A-ah! - gasped the audience.

There was a huge burned hole in the middle of the handkerchief.

- But! - said the son of the head and sniffled. The magician put his handkerchief to his chest and began to cry.

- Gentlemen! Respectable audience ... No collection! ... Rain in the morning ... Wherever I get, everywhere. I haven't eaten since morning ... haven't eaten - a penny for a roll!

- Why, we are nothing! God is with you! - shouted the audience.

- Are we animals! The Lord is with you.

The magician sobbed and wiped his nose with a magic handkerchief.

- Four rubles to the collection ... room - eight ...

A woman sobbed.

- Yes, you are full! Oh my God! I turned my soul out! - shouted around.

A head in an oilcloth hood stuck through the door.

- What's this? Go home!

Everyone got up, went out, and spluttered in the puddles.

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

Everyone paused.

- After all, the scoundrel people went. He will rip off the money from you, he will turn your soul out of you. A?

- Blow up! - someone hooted in the gloom.

- Precisely to blow up. Who is with me? March! People without any conscience ... The money has been collected, not stolen ... Well, we'll show you! Alive ...

Here, in fact, this "Alive" in two "f", this is "Blow up! - someone hooted in the gloom ", this" tied an egg to a handkerchief on a rope "- this is precisely the secret of laughing words, stylistically very subtle play, which does not open immediately. But it's understandable that Teffi very freely combines and combines words from completely different linguistic layers, neologisms, clericalisms, some cute childish vulgarisms. All this forms a single hot stream for her. But the beauty, of course, is not in this lexical game, which should be much easier for any talented author after Chekhov. The beauty in particular is the outlook on life that Teffi has. It is in an amazing combination of light disgust, because everyone is a fool, and deepest compassion. Teffi wrote a lot and mainly, of course, the most serious, oddly enough, her text, which appeared already in exile. Because in emigration there are more reasons to feel sorry for everyone and, at the same time, to despise everyone. Of course, the best book about the Russian emigration is the collection of her feuilletons "Gorodok", where the town that gave the title to the book, this charming description of Russian Paris, a small town inside the huge Paris, it remains absolutely true today, but with that still difference, that many today live as emigrants in their own country. Likewise, they do not feel in place. Exactly the same eternal conversations: “Ke fer? Fer-to-ke ", it was after Teffi that" fer-to-ke? "," To do what? " This is a general lack of soil, and the impossibility of establishing some kind of communication inside this loneliness among the heroes of Teffi comes to the point that her heroes are tied to a fly, tied to a piece of sealing wax, which a person took out of Russia and this invisible mysterious friend spent his whole life next to him , and now suddenly lost. This apotheosis of loneliness, when there is not enough fly, to which he is attached, this is only Teffi could write. Almost all the memoirs about her that we have preserved, whoever remembers her, the most acrimonious people, remember Teffi as an angel. And therefore, when we think about her last years, poisoned by both illness and poverty, we must admit with horror that this woman was probably the most courageous and restrained person in emigration. We have not heard a single bad word from her. After parting with her daughters, who lived separately and lived a completely different life, having long since parted with her husband, living in general without a constant income, making up for emigre feuilletons and occasionally public readings, Teffi was one of the very few who, even for a second, did not think about the temptation of returning. When, in 1945, citizenship was restored to all emigrants with a broad gesture, and the Stalinist emissary Konstantin Simonov almost persuaded Bunin to return, he did not even try to persuade Teffi. Because for some reason it was clear to everyone about her from the very beginning that she was stylistically incompatible with the Soviet regime. And so as not to end on a sad note, we recall a little from the world history, processed by "Satyricon", from an absolutely brilliant text in which Teffi wrote the best part, she wrote Rome, Greece, Assyria, antiquity in general, all ancient history. Let's see how it looked. By the way, a lot has gone into the language here.

In Iran lived peoples whose names ended in "Yana": Baktryans and Medes, except for the Persians, who ended in "sy". The Bactrians and Medes quickly lost their courage and indulged in effeminacy, and the Persian king Astyages had a grandson Cyrus, who founded the Persian monarchy.

Having reached age, Cyrus defeated the Lydian king Croesus and began to fry him at the stake. During this procedure, Croesus suddenly exclaimed:

- Oh, Solon, Solon, Solon!

This greatly surprised the wise Cyrus.

- Such words, - he admitted to his friends, - I have not yet heard from those who are roasting.

He beckoned Croesus to him and began to ask what it meant. Then Croesus said that the Greek sage Solon had visited him. Wanting to throw dust in the eyes of the sage, Croesus showed him his treasures and, to tease, asked Solon whom he considered the happiest person in the world. If Solon were a gentleman, he would, of course, say "you, your majesty." But the sage was a simple and narrow-minded man, and blurted out that "before death, no one can say about himself that he is happy." Since Croesus was a tsar developed beyond his years, he immediately realized that after death people rarely talk, so you won't have to boast of your happiness, and he was very offended by Solon. This story greatly shocked the faint-hearted Cyrus. He apologized to Croesus and didn't even fry him.

As a matter of fact, it is only in this wonderful presentation that one can see to what extent Teffi is horrified by the cruelty and absurdity of the world, and how she nevertheless gently and condescendingly touches it.

The ancient Persians at first were distinguished by their courage and simplicity of morals. They taught their sons three subjects: ride a horse, shoot a bow and tell the truth. A young man who did not pass the exam in these subjects was not accepted into the civil service. Little by little, the Persians began to indulge in a pampered lifestyle. They stopped riding, forgot how to shoot a bow, and, idly spending time, only cut the truth. As a result, the Persian state quickly fell into decay. Previously, Persian youths ate only bread and vegetables. Depraved and disgruntled (330 BC), they demanded soup. Alexander the Great took advantage of this and conquered Persia.

Here, you see, the way Teffi works with a stamp, she also processes a gymnasium textbook: “indulged in effeminacy”, “telling the truth” and so on - she processes the stamps. But the way she approaches these cliches is also loving in her own way, this just arouses the reader's deepest gratitude and tenderness. And in general, if now you look at Russian literature not only of 1910, but of all the tenths, it becomes clear that Teffi was truly ready for the coming disasters, who understood everything about humanity and continued to love him. Maybe that's why only, from her and turned out to be a real writer of the Russian emigration. Not counting, of course, also Bunin, who was so afraid of death, and the further, the more that closer to death he wrote better and better.

As for, there was a question about the last years of Teffi's life. Teffi died in 1952 at a very old age, and did not lose her courage until the last moment. In particular, her note to her literary friend Boris Filimonov is known, this is also a paraphrase of the biblical already cliché, there is no greater love than someone who gives morphine to his friend. Indeed, Filimonov shared morphine, because she suffered greatly from pain in bones and joints. Perhaps the friendship with Filimonov is the kindest, most vivid memory of her last days. She survived it, unfortunately. Correspondence with Bunin, which lasted almost until the very end of the life of both, they both died almost simultaneously. Partly, of course, she was gladdened by the fact that they continued to know and republish her in the Soviet Union, for which she again did not receive a dime. She9 wrote quite a lot of autobiographical sketches, and that's what is surprising ... Now "Vagrius" has published, that is, not "Vagrius" already, but "Proseist" ... It is striking in them that she did not soften in old age. You see, you usually read some kind of sentimental sentimentality, some kindly timid chatter. All the previous assessments, the former vigilance, where did that go? Two people did not soften: Bunin, who continued to write with the same deadly precision, and Teffi, who continued to give out completely impartial assessments just as stubbornly. Here is her essay on the Merezhkovskys, that they were not really people, that their living people were not at all interested, that in Merezhkovsky's novels it is not people but ideas that act. This is not said very accurately, and even, perhaps, cruelly, but she thought so, she saw so. Everything she wrote, for example, about Alexei Tolstoy is a wonderful essay: Alyoshka, Alyoshka, you haven't changed a bit. This was written with absolute ruthlessness and Teffi saw how he lied, saw how he grew up, what he grew up to be a monstrous conformist in the USSR, but she forgave and loved for his talent, and said that everyone loved Alyoshka. That is, both love and vigilance have not gone anywhere. Remember Fitzgerald said: The most difficult thing is to combine two mutually exclusive thoughts in your head and act at the same time. Here Teffi managed to combine mutually exclusive things. This is incredible vigilance and yet love, all the same condescension. This is probably because all the people to her fabulously gifted beauty did not seem very happy, they seemed too small. This is the height of gaze that a gifted person can afford. And that's why it's so nice to think about her.

- In this case, is there something in common between Kuzmin and Teffi? Both concentrated on the joys of life.

It is, of course, and even they were friends. What is the common joy. The thing is, you know, I’ll tell you now. Kuzmin, who is also a comforter, lacked this moral rigor, which is very characteristic of Russian literature. He pitied people. And Teffi was sorry. There is no such irreconcilability in them. They do not have this malice. Because Kuzmin is an Old Believer, he is a Christian soul, and in spite of all his sins, all his passion for the courtly age, there is a lot of Christianity in him. There is a lot of primordial mercy towards man in him. And there is a lot of that in Teffi. I think that only they were real Christians. He, who all his life suffered from universal condemnation, and she, who all her life very severely suffered from obsessive-compulsive syndrome, this constant counting of windows, this is what Odoev described in detail, with his gambling addiction, the reading will take constant. Consider everything, the mass of obsessive rituals. She suffered from this, like all finely organized people. But with all this, of course, their worldview, both Kuzmin and her, is based on the deepest compassion for everyone. And by the way, what is more important, both songbirds. Both Kuzmin and she are pioneers of the author's song in Russia, because Teffi was the first to compose several author's songs with guitars, back in 1907 before any Vertinsky. And in the same way, Kuzmin, accompanying himself on the piano, sang these first author's songs:

If there is sunshine tomorrow

We will go to Fiesole,

If it rains tomorrow

We will find the other ...

All these light play songs, by the way, Teffi's songs, Kuzmin's songs are even textually very similar. Who wrote that three young pages were leaving their native shore forever? But this is Teffi, and Kuzmin could be completely free. And next time we will talk about Blok, about the most tragic book of his lyrics "Night Hours".

Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi said about herself to the nephew of the Russian artist Vereshchagin Vladimir: “I was born in St. Petersburg in spring, and as you know, our St. Petersburg spring is very changeable: now the sun is shining, now it is raining. That is why I, like on the pediment of an ancient Greek theater, have two faces: laughing and crying. "

Teffi's literary fate was surprisingly happy. By 1910, having become one of the most popular writers in Russia, she was published in the largest and most famous newspapers and magazines of St. Petersburg, her collection of poems "Seven Lights" (1910) was positively reviewed by N. Gumilyov, after another, collections of her stories come out. Teffi's sharpness is on everyone's lips. Her fame is so wide that even Teffi perfumes and Teffi sweets appear.

Nadezhda Alexandrovna Teffi.

At first glance, it seems that everyone understands what a fool is and why the fool the fool, the rounder.

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

What a fool, people say. - He always has trifles in his head! They think that a fool has trifles in his head someday!

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

Nadezhda Alexandrovna Teffi.

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

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

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

Nadezhda Alexandrovna Teffi.

We divide all people in relation to us into "ours" and "strangers".

Ours are those about whom we know for certain, how old they are and how much money they have.

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

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

You will meet, for example, a stranger on the street. He will smile at you affably and say:

Nadezhda Alexandrovna Teffi.

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

And since it happens for the most part with. people scattered and frivolous, then they, in their own way, in a frivolous way, and extricate themselves from a stupid situation.

But if such a misfortune slams a family man, a respectable person, it’s too little funny.

Nadezhda Alexandrovna Teffi.

It was a long time ago. That was four months ago.

We sat on a fragrant southern night on the banks of the Arno.

That is, we were not sitting on the shore - where could we sit there: it was damp and dirty, and even indecent, and we were sitting on the hotel balcony, but it is customary to say that for poetry.

The company was mixed - Russian-Italian.

Nadezhda Alexandrovna Teffi.

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

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

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

Nadezhda Alexandrovna Teffi.

Nadezhda Alexandrovna Teffi.

Ivan Matveich, sadly loosening his lips, watched with resigned longing as the doctor's hammer, bouncing resiliently, clicked on its thick sides.

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

One glass before breakfast and two before lunch. Cognac, - the patient answered sadly and sincerely.

Y-yes. All this will have to be abandoned. There you have a liver somewhere. Is it so possible?