Nadezhda Teffi: Humorous stories (collection). H
Nadezhda Alexandrovna Teffi spoke about herself to the nephew of the Russian artist Vereshchagin Vladimir: “I was born in St. Petersburg in the spring, and as you know, our St. Petersburg spring is very changeable: sometimes the sun shines, sometimes it rains. Therefore, I also have, as on the pediment of the ancient Greek theater, two faces: laughing and crying.
Surprisingly happy was the writer's fate Teffi. Already 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. after another, collections of her stories are published. Taffy witticisms are on everyone's lips. Her fame is so wide that even Teffi perfumes and Teffi candies appear.
Nadezhda Alexandrovna Teffi.
At first glance, it seems that everyone understands what a fool is and why a fool is the more stupid, the rounder.
However, if you listen and look closely, you will understand how often people are mistaken, taking 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 sometimes has trifles in his head!
The fact of the matter is that a real round fool is recognized, first of all, by his greatest and most unshakable seriousness. The smartest person can be windy and act thoughtlessly - a fool is constantly discussing everything; having discussed, he acts accordingly and, having acted, knows why he did it this way and not otherwise.
Nadezhda Alexandrovna Teffi.
People are very proud that in their everyday life there is a lie. Her black power is glorified by poets and playwrights.
“The darkness of low truths is dearer to us than the uplifting deceit,” 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, it will never go beyond the most ordinary human actions, because, like all such, it comes from a cause! and leads to the goal. What is extraordinary here?
Nadezhda Alexandrovna Teffi.
We divide all people in relation to us into "us" and "strangers".
Ours are those that we probably know about, how old they are and how much money they have.
The years and money of strangers are hidden from us completely and forever, and if for some reason this secret is revealed to us, strangers will instantly turn into their own, and this last circumstance is extremely disadvantageous for us, and here's why: they consider it their duty to cut the truth in your eyes without fail -womb, while strangers should delicately lie.
The more a person has 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 kindly and say:
Nadezhda Alexandrovna Teffi.
It certainly happens quite often that a person, having written two letters, seals them up by mixing up the envelopes. From this then all sorts of funny or unpleasant stories come out.
And since this happens for the most part with. scattered and frivolous people, then they, somehow in their own way, in a frivolous way, extricate themselves from a stupid situation.
But if such a misfortune slams a family man, a respectable one, then there’s not much fun here.
Nadezhda Alexandrovna Teffi.
It was a long time ago. This was four months ago.
We sat in the fragrant southern night on the banks of the Arno.
That is, we were not sitting on the shore - where to sit there: damp and dirty, and indecent, but we were sitting on the balcony of the hotel, but it’s customary to say so for poetry.
The company was mixed - Russian-Italian.
Nadezhda Alexandrovna Teffi.
A demonic woman differs from an ordinary woman primarily in her manner of dressing. She wears a black velvet cassock, a chain on her forehead, a bracelet on her leg, a ring with a hole “for the cyanide she will certainly bring next Tuesday”, a stiletto behind her collar, a rosary on her elbow and a portrait of Oscar Wilde on her left garter.
She also wears ordinary items of ladies' toiletry, 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 at all.
Nadezhda Alexandrovna Teffi.
Nadezhda Alexandrovna Teffi.
Ivan Matveitch, parting his lips mournfully, watched with submissive melancholy as the doctor's hammer, rebounding elastically, clicked on his thick sides.
Well, yes, said the doctor, and walked away from Ivan Matveitch. You can't drink, that's what. Do you drink a lot?
One glass before breakfast and two before dinner. Cognac, the patient answered sadly and sincerely.
N-yes. All this will have to be abandoned. There you have a liver somewhere. Is it possible?
Nadezhda Alexandrovna Buchinskaya (1876-1952). Author of talented humorous stories, psychological miniatures, sketches and everyday essays under a pseudonym taken from Kipling - Teffi. Younger sister of the famous poetess Mirra Lokhvitskaya. Debut September 2, 1901 in the illustrated weekly "North" poem "I had a dream, crazy and beautiful ...". The first book "Seven Lights" (1910) was a collection of poetry. 1910 - the beginning of Teffi's wide popularity, when after the collection "Seven Lights" two volumes of her "Humorous Stories" appear at once. Collection "Inanimate Beast" - 1916. In 1920, due to a coincidence, he ended up in émigré Paris. The last years of his life, Teffi suffers severely from a serious illness, and from loneliness, and from need. On October 6, 1952, Nadezhda Alexandrovna Teffi died. (from the preface by O. Mikhailov to Teffi's book "Stories", Publishing House "Khudozhestvennaya Literatura", Moscow, 1971) Taffy - " woman's book " The young esthete, stylist, modernist and critic German Ensky was sitting in his office, looking through a woman's book and getting angry. The woman's book was a plump novel, with love, blood, eyes and nights. "I love you!" the artist whispered passionately, clasping Lydia's flexible body..." "We are pushed towards each other by some mighty force against which we cannot fight!" "My whole life has been a premonition of this meeting..." "Are you laughing at me?" "I am so full of you that everything else has lost all meaning for me." Oh, vulgar! groaned Herman Yensky. - This artist will say so! "Mighty force pushes," and "you can't fight," and all other rot. Why, the clerk would be embarrassed to say that - the clerk from the haberdashery store, with whom this foolish woman probably started an affair, so that there was something to describe. "It seems to me that I have never loved anyone before ..." "It's like dream..." "Crazy!... I want to cuddle!..." - Ugh! I can't do it anymore! - And he threw the book away. - Here we are working, improving style, form, looking for a new meaning and new moods, throw it all into the crowd: look - a whole sky of stars above you, take what you want! No! They don't see anything, they don't want anything. But not slander, at least! cow's thoughts! He was so upset that he could no longer stay at home. He dressed and went to visit. Even on the way he felt a pleasant excitement, an unconscious foreboding of something bright and exciting. And when he entered the bright dining room and looked around at the tea party society, he already understood what he wanted and what he expected Vikulina was here, and alone, without a husband. The thief Ensky whispered to Vikulina: - You know, how strange, I had a premonition that I would meet you. - Yes? And how long? - For a long time. Hour ago. Or maybe for the rest of your life. Vikulina liked this. She blushed and said languidly: - I'm afraid you're just a Don Juan. Ensky looked at her embarrassed eyes, at her expectant, agitated face, and answered sincerely and thoughtfully: - You know, it seems to me now that I have never loved anyone. She half-closed her eyes, bent down a little towards him, and waited for him to say more. And he said: - I love you! Then someone called him, picked him up with some phrase, pulled him into a general conversation. And Vikulina turned away and also spoke, asked, laughed. Both have become the same as everyone here at the table, cheerful, simple - everything is in full view. Herman Yensky spoke intelligently, beautifully, and animatedly, but inwardly he fell silent and thought: “What was that? What was it? Why do the stars sing in my soul?" And, turning to Vikulina, he suddenly saw that she was again bending down and waiting. Then he wanted to tell her something bright and deep, listened to her expectation, listened to his soul and whispered with inspiration and passionately: "It's like a dream..." She half-closed her eyes again and smiled a little, all warm and happy, but he suddenly became alarmed. "What it is? What's the matter? he hesitated. - Or, maybe, I used to say this phrase some time ago, and spoke not lovingly, insincerely, and now I'm ashamed. I don’t understand anything.” He looked at Vikulina again, but she suddenly drew back and whispered hastily: “Be careful! said: "Forgive me! I'm so full of you that everything else has lost all meaning for me." I love and speak about my love so sincerely and simply that it cannot be either vulgar or ugly. Why am I in such pain?" And he said to Vikulina: "I don't know, maybe you're laughing at me... But I don't want to say anything. I can't. ", and he fell silent. He accompanied her home, and everything was decided. Tomorrow she will come to him. They will have beautiful happiness, unheard of and unseen. "It's like a dream!... She only feels a little sorry for her husband. But Herman Ensky he pressed her against him and persuaded her. “What are we to do, dear,” he said, “if some mighty force is pushing us towards each other, against which we cannot fight!” “Crazy!” she whispered. “Crazy!” he repeated. He returned home as if delirious. He walked from room to room, smiling, and the stars sang in his soul. "Tomorrow!" he whispered. "Tomorrow! Oh, what will happen tomorrow! And because all lovers are superstitious, he mechanically took the first book that came across from the table, opened it, poked it with his finger and read: “She was the first to wake up and asked quietly: “Don’t you despise me, Eugene?” “How strange! Ensky chuckled. - The answer is so clear, as if I asked fate aloud. What is this thing?" And the thing was quite simple. Simply the last chapter from a woman's book. He went out all at once, cringed and tiptoed away from the table. And the stars in his soul did not sing anything that night. Taffy - " Demonic Woman " A demonic woman differs from an ordinary woman primarily in her manner of dressing. She wears a black velvet cassock, a chain on her forehead, a bracelet on her leg, a ring with a hole "for the cyanide that will be sent to her next Tuesday," a stiletto behind her collar, a rosary on her elbow, and a picture of Oscar Wilde on her left garter. She also wears ordinary items of a ladies' toilet, only 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 on her neck, a ring on her thumb, a watch on her leg. At the table, the demonic woman does not eat anything. She doesn't eat at all. - For what? The social position of a demonic woman can occupy the most diverse, but for the most part she is an actress. Sometimes just a divorced wife. But she always has some kind of secret, some sort of tear, some kind of gap, which one cannot talk about, which no one knows and should not know. - For what? Her eyebrows are raised in tragic commas and her eyes are half-lowered. To the cavalier, who is seeing her off the ball and having a languid conversation about aesthetic erotica from the point of view of an erotic esthete, she suddenly says, trembling with all the feathers on her hat: - Let's go to church, my dear, let's go to church, hurry, hurry! , quicker. I want to pray and weep before the dawn breaks. The church is closed at night. The amiable gentleman offers to sob right on the porch, but the "one" has already faded away. She knows that she is cursed, that there is no escape, and bows her head obediently, burying her nose in a fur scarf. - For what? The demonic woman always feels the desire for literature. And often secretly writes short stories and poems in prose. She doesn't read them to anyone. - For what? But he casually says that the well-known critic Alexander Alekseevich, having mastered its manuscript with danger to his life, read it and then sobbed all night and even, it seems, prayed - the latter, however, is not certain. And two writers predict a great future for her if she finally agrees to publish her works. But the public will never be able to understand them, and it will not show them to the crowd. - For what? And at night, left alone, she unlocks the desk, takes out sheets carefully copied on a typewriter, and for a long time rubs the words drawn with an eraser: "Return," "To return." - I saw the light in your window at five o'clock in the morning. - Yes, I worked. - You're ruining yourself! Expensive! Take care of yourself for us! - For what? At a table laden with delicious things, she lowers her eyes, drawn by an irresistible force to the jellied pig. - Marya Nikolaevna, - her neighbor, a simple, not demonic woman, with earrings in her ears and a bracelet on her hand, and not in any other place, says to the hostess, - Marya Nikolaevna, please give me some wine. Demonic will close his eyes with his hand and speak hysterically: - Guilt! Guilt! Give me wine, I'm thirsty! I will drink! I drank yesterday! I drank the third day and tomorrow ... yes, and tomorrow I will drink! I want, I want, I want wine! Strictly speaking, why is it tragic that a lady drinks a little for three days in a row? But the demonic woman will be able to arrange things in such a way that everyone's hair on their heads will move. - Drinking. - How mysterious! - And tomorrow, he says, I will drink ... A simple woman will start to have a snack, she will say: - Marya Nikolaevna, please, a piece of herring. I love onions. Demonic eyes wide open and looking into space, yells: - Herring? Yes, yes, give me herrings, I want to eat herring, I want, I want. Is that an onion? Yes, yes, give me onions, give me a lot of everything, everything, herring, onions, I want to eat, I want vulgarity, rather ... more ... more, look everyone ... I eat herring! In essence, what happened? Just played out appetite and pulled on salty. And what an effect! - You heard? You heard? “Don't leave her alone tonight. - ? - And the fact that she will probably shoot herself with this same cyanide potassium that will be brought to her on Tuesday ... There are unpleasant and ugly moments in life when an ordinary woman, stupidly resting her eyes on the bookcase, crumples a handkerchief in her hands and says with trembling lips: - I, as a matter of fact, not for long ... only twenty-five rubles. I hope that next week or in January... I will be able to... The demonic one will lie down with her chest on the table, rest her chin with both hands and look straight into your soul with enigmatic, half-closed eyes: Why am I looking at you? I will tell you. Listen to me, look at me, I ... I want - do you hear? - I want you to give it to me now - do you hear? - Now twenty-five rubles. I want it. Do you hear? - Want. So that it would be you, precisely me, who would give exactly twenty-five roubles. I want! I'm a wvvvar!... Now go... go... without turning around, leave quickly, quickly... Ha-ha-ha! Hysterical laughter must shake her whole being, even both beings, hers and his. - Hurry ... hurry, without looking back ... go away forever, for life, for life ... Ha-ha-ha! And he "shocks" his being and does not even realize that she just intercepted his quarter without recoil. - You know, today she was so strange ... mysterious. She told me not to turn around. - Yes. There is a sense of mystery here. - Maybe... she fell in love with me... - ! - Mystery! Taffy - " About the Diary " A man always keeps a diary for posterity. "Here, he thinks, after death they will find it in the papers and appreciate it." In the diary, the man does not talk about any facts of external life. He only expounds his deep philosophical views on this or that subject. "January 5. How, in essence, does a person differ from a monkey or an animal? Is it only because he goes to the service and there he has to endure all sorts of troubles ..." "February 10. And our views on a woman! We are looking for there is fun and entertainment in it and, having found it, we leave it. But this is how a hippopotamus looks at a woman ... "" March 12. What is beauty? No one has yet asked this question. But, in my opinion, there is beauty nothing but a certain combination of lines and certain colors. And ugliness is nothing but a certain violation of certain lines and certain colors. But why, for the sake of a certain combination, are we ready for all sorts of madness, but for the sake of violation we do not lift a finger on a finger? Why combination is more important than violation? "April 5. What is a sense of duty? And is this feeling seized by a person when he pays a bill, or something else? Perhaps, after many thousands of years, when these lines fall into the eyes of some thinker, he will read them and will think about how I am his distant ancestor..." "April 6. People invented airplanes. Why? Can this stop the rotation of the earth around the sun even for one thousandth of a second? .." ---- A man likes to read from time to time your diary. Only, of course, not to his wife - the wife will not understand anything anyway. He reads his diary to a club friend, a gentleman he met on the run, a bailiff who came with a request "to indicate exactly what things in this house belong to you personally." But the diary is still being written not for these connoisseurs of human art, connoisseurs of the depths of the human spirit, but for posterity. ---- A woman always writes a diary for Vladimir Petrovich or Sergei Nikolaevich. Therefore, each always writes about his appearance. "December 5. Today I was especially interesting. Even on the street, everyone shuddered and turned to me." "January 5. Why do they all go crazy because of me? Although I really am very beautiful. Especially the eyes. They, by definition, are blue as the sky." "February 5. This evening I was undressing in front of the mirror. My golden body was so beautiful that I could not stand it, went to the mirror, reverently kissed my image right on the back of the head, where fluffy curls curl so playfully." "March 5. I myself know that I am mysterious. But what should I do if I am like that?" "April 5. Alexander Andreyevich said that I looked like a Roman hetaera and that I would gladly send ancient Christians to the guillotine and watch them being tormented by tigers. Am I really like that?" “May 5. I would like to die quite, very young, not older than 46 years old. Let them say on my grave: “She did not live long. No longer than a nightingale's song." "June 5. V. came again. He is mad, and I am cold as marble.” “June 6. V. is mad. He speaks amazingly beautifully. He says, "Your eyes are as deep as the sea." But even the beauty of these words does not excite me. Like it, but don't care." "July 6th. I pushed him away. But I am suffering. I became pale as marble, and my wide-open eyes quietly whisper: "For what, for what." Sergei Nikolaevich says that the eyes are the mirror of the soul. He's very smart and I'm afraid of him." "August 6th. Everyone finds that I have become even more beautiful. God! How will it end?" ---- A woman never shows her diary to anyone. She hides it in a closet, after wrapping it in an old capet. And only hints at its existence, who needs it. Then she even shows it, only, of course, from a distance, whoever needs it. Then he will let them hold him for a minute, and then, of course, they won’t take him away by force! And “whoever needs it” will read and find out how pretty she was on the fifth of April and what Sergei Nikolaevich and the crazy man said about her beauty. "And if "who needs it" has not noticed what is needed until now, then, having read the diary, he will certainly pay attention to what is needed. A woman's diary never passes into offspring. A woman burns it as soon as it is served his purpose.
Great post. Moscow.
The church bell hums with a distant dull rumble. Smooth blows merge into a continuous heavy groan.
Through the door, which is open to the cloudy pre-morning haze, one can see how, under quiet, cautious rustles, an obscure figure is moving. It either stands out unsteadily as a thick gray spot, then blurs again and completely merges with the muddy haze. The rustling subsides, a floorboard creaks and another one - away. Everything is quiet. It was the nanny who went to church in the morning.
She is fasting.
This is where it gets scary.
The girl curls up in her bed, barely breathing. And he listens and looks, listens and looks.
The hum becomes ominous. There is a sense of insecurity and loneliness. If you call, no one will come. What can happen? The night is ending, probably, the roosters have already sung dawn, and all the ghosts have gone home.
And their “friends” are in cemeteries, in swamps, in lonely graves under the cross, at the crossroads of deaf roads near the forest edge. Now none of them will dare to touch a person, now they serve early Mass and pray for all Orthodox Christians. So what's so terrible about it?
But the eight-year-old soul does not believe the arguments of reason. The soul shrinks, trembles and whimpers softly. The eight-year-old soul does not believe that this is a bell. Later, during the day, she will believe, but now, in anguish, in defenseless loneliness, she “does not know” that this is just a blessing. For her, this rumble is unknown. Something sinister. If longing and fear are translated into sound, then there will be this rumble. If longing and fear are translated into color, then there will be this unsteady gray haze.
And the impression of this pre-dawn melancholy will remain with this creature for many years, for a lifetime. This creature will wake up at dawn from an incomprehensible longing and fear. Doctors will prescribe sedatives for her, advise her on evening walks, open a window at night, stop smoking, sleep with a heating pad on her liver, sleep in an unheated room, and much, much more will advise her. But nothing will erase from the soul the stamp of predawn despair long imposed on it.
The girl was given the nickname "Kishmish". Kishmish is a small Caucasian raisin. She was nicknamed so, probably for her small stature, small nose, small hands. Generally, a trifle, a small fry. By the age of thirteen, she will quickly stretch, her legs will become long, and everyone will forget that she was once a sultana.
But, being a small sultana, she suffered greatly from this offensive nickname. She was proud and dreamed of advancing somehow and, most importantly, grandiosely, extraordinary. To become, for example, a famous strongman, to bend horseshoes, to stop a madly racing troika on the move. It also beckoned to be a robber, or, perhaps, even better - an executioner. The executioner is more powerful than the robber, because he will prevail in the end. And could any of the adults, looking at a thin, fair-haired, short-haired girl, quietly knitting a beaded ring, could it have occurred to anyone what formidable and imperious dreams were wandering in her head? By the way, there was another dream - it was to be a terrible ugly, not just ugly, but such that people were frightened. She went to the mirror, squinted her eyes, stretched her mouth and stuck out her tongue to one side. At the same time, she first pronounced in a bass, on behalf of an unknown gentleman, who does not see her face, but speaks in the back of her head:
- Allow me to invite you, madam, to a quadrille.
Then a face was made, a full turn, and the answer to the gentleman followed:
- OK. Just kiss my crooked cheek first.
The cavalier was supposed to run away in terror. And then after him:
– Ha! Ha! Ha! Don't you dare!
Kishmish was taught the sciences. At first - only the Law of God and calligraphy.
They taught that every work must begin with prayer.
Kishmish liked it. But referring, by the way, to the career of a robber, Kishmish became alarmed.
“And the robbers,” Kishmish asked, “when they go to rob, should they also pray?”
She was vaguely answered. They replied: "Don't talk nonsense." And Kishmish did not understand - did this mean that the robbers do not need to pray, or that they absolutely need to, and this is so clear that it is stupid to ask about it.
When Kishmish grew up and went to confession for the first time, a fracture occurred in her soul. Terrible and domineering dreams went out.
They sang the trio “May my prayer be corrected” very well.
Three boys went out into the middle of the church, stopped at the very altar and sang with angelic voices. And under these blissful sounds the soul was humbled, touched. I wanted to be white, light, airy, transparent, to fly away in the sounds and smokes of censers there, under the very dome, where the white dove of the Holy Spirit spread its wings.
There was no place for a robber here. And the executioner and even the strongman did not fit here at all. The ugly monster would have stood somewhere outside the door and would have covered her face. It would be inappropriate to scare people here. Ah, if only one could become a saint! How wonderful it would be! Being a saint is so beautiful, so tender. And this is above all and above all. This is more important than all teachers and bosses and all governors.
But how do you become a saint? You will have to do miracles, but Kishmish did not know how to do miracles in the least. But that's not where they start. Start with a holy life. You need to become meek, kind, distribute everything to the poor, indulge in fasting and abstinence.
Now, how to give everything to the poor? She has a new spring coat. Here it, first of all, and to give.
But why would mom be angry? It will be such a scandal and such a beating that it’s scary to think. And mom will be upset, and the saint should not upset or upset anyone. Maybe give it to the poor, and tell your mother that the coat was just stolen? But a saint is not supposed to lie. Terrible position. Here is a robber - it is easy for him to live. Lie as much as you like, and still laugh with insidious laughter. So how were they made, these saints? It's just that they were old - all at least sixteen years old, and even just old people. They didn't have to listen to their mother. They just took all their good and immediately distributed it. So you can't start with this. This will come to an end. We must begin with meekness and obedience. And more with abstinence. You only need to eat black bread with salt, drink - only water straight from the tap. And here again the trouble. The cook gossips that she drank raw water, and she will get it. There is typhus in the city, and my mother does not allow drinking raw water. But maybe when mom realizes that Kishmish is a saint, she won't make any obstacles?
And how wonderful it is to be a saint. Now this is such a rarity. All friends will be surprised:
- Why is it over Kishmish - radiance?
- How, don't you know? Yes, she's been a saint for a long time.
– Ah! Oh! It can not be.
- Yes, see for yourself.
And Kishmish sits and smiles meekly and eats black bread with salt.
The guests are envious. They don't have holy children.
Maybe she's faking it?
We recently devoted an essay to the very colorful figure of A. V. Rumanov.
About 30 years ago, he "shocked" the St. Petersburg salons with a "filigree Christ."
Later, in the same salons, Rumanov dropped his soft, rumbling almost baritone voice:
Teffi is meek ... She is meek, - Taffy ...
And he said to her:
Taffy, you are meek.
In the northern skies of the Neva capital, the star of a talented poetess, feuilletonist and, now this will be a revelation for many, was already shining, the author of charming, gentle and completely original songs.
Taffy herself performed them in a small but pleasant voice to the accompaniment of her own guitar.
So you see her - Taffy ...
Wrapped up in a warm, fur-trimmed cozy dressing gown, her legs comfortably tucked up, she sits with a guitar on her knees in a deep armchair by the fireplace, casting warm, quivering reflections ...
Clever gray cat's eyes look unblinkingly into the blazing flames of the fireplace and the guitar rings:
Angry cats gnaw
Evil people in their hearts
My feet are dancing
In red heels...
Taffy loved red shoes.
It has already been printed. They talked about her. She was looking for cooperation.
Again Rumanov, shorn with a beaver hedgehog.
On the Caucasian mineral waters, he created a large resort newspaper and attracted the best St. Petersburg "forces".
One of the first visits - to her, "meek Taffy."
I invite you to Essentuki for two or three months. How many?
And without waiting for an answer, Rumanov somehow imperceptibly and deftly put a few brand new credit cards with portraits of Catherine the Great on the table like a fan.
This is an advance!
Take it away! I love rainbows in the sky, not on my desk, came the reply.
Romanov did not lose his head. Like a conjurer, he instantly took out a heavy suede bag from somewhere and poured a jingling, sparkling stream of gold coins onto the table.
Nadezhda Alexandrovna thoughtfully poured these coins through her fingers, like a child playing with sand.
A few days later she left for Essentuki and there immediately raised the circulation of the resort newspaper.
It was a long, long time ago, but still...
Time puts a seal - they say.
Both time and the press are extremely lenient towards Teffi. Here in Paris, she is almost the same as she was with a guitar by the fireplace in red shoes and a fur-trimmed dressing gown.
And intelligent eyes with a cat's gray yellowness and in a cat's frame are exactly the same.
Talking about current politics:
What do you say, Nadezhda Alexandrovna, about the "League of the Nation", about its acceptance into its bosom of Soviet Russia, or rather the Soviet government?
First a smile, then two dimples near the corners of the mouth. For a long time, the familiar dimples that resurrected St. Petersburg ...
What can I say? I'm not a politician, but a humorist. Only one thing: Everyone has a painfully ironic attitude towards the "League of the Nation", and therefore, what is the price of whether it recognizes someone or does not recognize it. And, really, nothing has changed and will not change from the fact that she adorned Litvinov's bald patch with her laurels with his, Litvinov's, not quite "Roman profile." A farce, albeit a tragicomic one, but a farce nonetheless...
Having done away with the League of Nations and Litvinov, we move on to the amnesty declared by the Bolsheviks.
Is it true that they announced it? - Taffy hesitated? - The Bolsheviks, at least, keep silent on this subject. I think this amnesty is like a mirage in the desert. Yes, yes, the disbelieving, exhausted emigration, perhaps, invented this amnesty itself and grabs at it... The Muslims say: "The drowning man is ready to grab hold of the snake."
What can you say about modern Germany?
And here's what I'll say: I had a story "Demonic Woman". He got lucky. A collection of my works under this general title was published in Poland. The "Demonic Woman" was also printed in German. And now I find out: some cheeky young German, take this story and put it under your own name. I was used to being reprinted without a fee, but not used to having someone else's name under my stories. Friends advised to call the young, promising plagiarist to order. They also advised to contact Prof. Luther ... It seems that at the University of Leipzig he occupies a chair ... A chair - now I'll tell you what. Yes, Slavic literature. I wrote him more in order to reassure my friends.
To great surprise, Professor Luther responded. But how! With what fervor! A whole thing has come up. He found a promising young man, lathered his head well, threatened: something else like that, and within Germany no one would ever print a single line of it. The fee for the "Demonic Woman" was awarded in my favor. The young man wrote me a letter of repentance on several pages. Not only that, but the venerable Professor Luther himself apologized to me for him. The corporation of German writers and journalists apologized. In the end, she herself felt ashamed, why did she make this mess? ...
And now, having done away with Germany. two words about reprints, in general. A big Russian newspaper in New York got into the habit of "decorating" its cellars with my feuilletons from Vozrozhdeniye. I applied for the protection of my copyright to the Canadian Society of Russian Journalists. Thanks to them, they took care of me, but there is no sense from this! In response to threats to sue, the newspaper in question continues to use my feuilletons and the number of reprinted stories has reached an impressive figure of 33. Alas, my likeable Canadian colleagues do not have the authority of the touching and all-powerful Professor Luther.
I knew it! No "real" interview is complete without it. What am I working on? Frankly, without concealing, I am writing an emigrant novel, where, although under pseudonyms, but very transparently, I bring out a whole phalanx of living people, pillars of emigration of a wide variety of professions and social positions. Will I spare my friends? Maybe yes, maybe no. Don't know. I once had something similar with Chateaubriand. He also announced the publication of the same portrait novel. The alarmed friends immediately organized themselves into a society, the purpose of which was to create a money fund named after Chateaubriand. Something like a propitiatory sacrifice to a formidable, punishing deity ... Would have nothing against it, - Taffy adds with a smile - and I - absolutely nothing - against such a friendly fund in favor of me, a sinner. However, isn't it time to end? I'm afraid that I'll take a lot of space in the magazine "For You"!
It turns out, something good, no longer “For you”, but “For me”. So what else? Beginning authors overwhelm me. From everywhere their works are sent with a request to be printed. And in order for the request to be valid, they dedicate all their stories to me. They think that Teffi, delighted with such attention, will immediately rush to the appropriate editorial offices and, with a Browning in hand, force young authors to print, at least in anticipation of the publication of flattering dedications. I take this opportunity to inform all my ardent correspondents that I am, well, not at all conceited! True, not bad stories come across, but most often my youth writes about what they do not know. And what he knows, he is silent about it. For example, an author from Morocco sent me a story… Who would you think? About the Eskimos! In the Eskimo life, although I don’t particularly passion, however, I immediately sensed that something was wrong.
From novice writers we move on to our Parisian professionals.
Tell me, - I ask - Nadezhda Alexandrovna, how to explain such a squabble among our brother? It would seem equally destitute? Why?
Angry cats gnaw
In evil people, in the hearts ...
What memory do you have! - Taffy was amazed and sparks flared in the cat's eyes. - Why? Everyone is exhausted, there is no more strength to endure ...
Current page: 1 (total book has 10 pages) [available reading excerpt: 3 pages]
taffy
humorous stories
... For laughter is joy, and therefore in itself is good.
Spinoza. "Ethics", part IV.
Position XLV, scholia II.
Cursed
Leshka'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 slit of the half-open door one could see only a brightly lit piece of the wall above the kitchen stove. A large dark circle surmounted by two horns hovered on the wall. Lyoshka guessed that this circle was nothing more than a shadow from his aunt's head with the ends of the scarf sticking up.
The aunt had come to visit Lyoshka, whom she had identified only a week ago as "boys for room service," and was now in serious negotiations with the cook who had patronized her. The negotiations were of an unpleasantly disturbing nature, the aunt was very agitated, and the horns on the wall rose and fell steeply, as if some unseen beast butted their invisible opponents.
It was assumed that Lyoshka washes galoshes in the front. But, as you know, a person proposes, but God disposes, and Lyoshka, with a rag in his hands, was eavesdropping outside the door.
“I understood from the very beginning that he was a bungler,” the cook sang in a rich voice. - How many times I tell him: if you, guy, are not a fool, keep your eyes open. Don't do shit, but keep your eyes open. Because - Dunyashka scrubs. And he does not lead with his ear. This morning again the lady shouted - she didn’t interfere in the stove and closed it with a firebrand.
The horns on the wall are agitated, and the aunt groans like an aeolian harp:
"Where can I go with him?" Mavra Semyonovna! I bought him boots, not to eat, not to eat, I gave him five rubles. For a jacket for alteration, a tailor, not a drink, not eaten, ripped off six hryvnias ...
- No other way than to send home.
- Darling! The road, no food, no food, four roubles, dear!
Lyoshka, forgetting all the precautions, sighs outside the door. He doesn't want to go home. His father promised that he would bring down seven skins from him, and Leshka knows from experience how unpleasant it is.
“Well, it’s still too early to howl,” the cook sings again. “So far, no one is chasing him. The lady only threatened... But the tenant, Pyotr Dmitritch, is very protective. Right up the mountain for Leshka. Enough of you, says Marya Vasilievna, he says he is not a fool, Leshka. He, he says, is a uniform adeot, and there is nothing to scold him. Just a mountain for Leshka.
Well, God bless him...
- And with us, what the tenant says is sacred. Because he is a well-read person, he pays carefully ...
- And Dunya is good! - the aunt twisted her horns. - I don’t understand such a people - to let a sneak on a boy ...
- True! True. This morning I say to her: “Go open the doors, Dunyasha,” affectionately, as if in a kind way. So she snorts in my face: “I, grit, you are not a doorman, open it yourself!” And I drank it all to her. How to open doors, so you, I say, are not a porter, but how to kiss a janitor on the stairs, so you are all a doorman ...
- Lord have mercy! From these years to everything, dospying. The girl is young, to live and live. One salary, no pity, no...
- Me, what? I told her directly: how to open the doors, so you are not a doorman. She, you see, is not a doorman! And how to accept gifts from the janitor, so she is the doorman. Yes, tenant lipstick ...
Trrrr…” the electric bell crackled.
- Leshka-a! Leshka-a! cried the cook. - Oh, you, fail! Dunyasha was sent away, but he doesn’t even listen with his ear.
Lyoshka held his breath, pressed himself against the wall and stood quietly until an angry cook swam past him, angrily rattling starched skirts.
“No, pipes,” Leshka thought, “I won’t go to the village. I'm not a fool guy, I want to, I'll curry favor so quickly. Don't rub me, not like that."
And, having waited for the return of the cook, he went with resolute steps into the rooms.
“Be, grit, in front of your eyes. And in what eyes will I be when no one is ever at home.
He went into the front. Hey! The coat hangs - the tenant of the house.
He rushed to the kitchen and, snatching the poker from the dumbfounded cook, rushed back into the rooms, quickly threw open the door to the lodger's quarters, 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 Lyoshka entered.
"I'm not a fool," Leshka thought, jabbing a poker at the burning firewood. “I’ll wet those eyes.” I’m not a parasite - I’m all in business, all in business! .. "
Firewood crackled, the poker rattled, sparks flew in all directions. The tenant and the lady were tensely silent. Finally, Lyoshka headed for the exit, but at the very door he stopped and began to anxiously examine the damp spot on the floor, then turned his eyes to the guest's legs and, seeing galoshes on them, shook his head reproachfully.
“Here,” he said reproachfully, “they inherited it!” And then the hostess will scold me.
The guest blushed and looked at the tenant in bewilderment.
“All right, all right, go on,” he soothed embarrassedly.
And Lyoshka left, but not for long. He found a rag and returned to mop the floor.
He found the tenant and guest silently bent over the table and immersed in the contemplation of the tablecloth.
“Look, they stared,” Leshka thought, “they must have noticed the spot. They think I don't understand! Found the fool! I understand. I work like a horse!”
And, going up to the pensive couple, he diligently wiped the tablecloth under the very nose of the tenant.
- What are you? - he was afraid.
- Like what? I can't live without my eyes. Dunyashka, slash, knows only a sneak, and she is not a janitor to look after order ... A janitor on the stairs ...
- Go away! Idiot!
But the young lady, frightened, grabbed the tenant by the hand and began to whisper something.
- He will understand ... - Lyoshka heard, - servants ... gossip ...
The lady had tears of embarrassment in her eyes, and she said to Leshka in a trembling voice:
“Nothing, nothing, boy… You don’t have to close the doors when you go…”
The tenant smiled contemptuously and shrugged his shoulders.
Lyoshka left, but, having reached the front, he remembered that the lady asked not to lock the doors, and, returning, opened it.
The lodger bounced off his lady like a bullet.
“An eccentric,” Leshka thought, leaving. “It’s light in the room, and he gets scared!”
Lyoshka went into the hall, looked in the mirror, tried on the lodger's hat. Then he went into the dark dining room and scratched the cupboard door with his nails.
“Look, damn unsalted!” You're here all day, like a horse, work, and she only knows the closet locks.
I decided to go again to stir in the stove. The door to the tenant's room was closed again. Lyoshka was surprised, but he entered.
The tenant sat quietly next to the lady, but his tie was on one side, and he looked at Leshka with such a look that he only clicked his tongue:
“What are you looking at! I myself know that I am not a parasite, I do not sit idly by.”
The coals are stirred, and Lyoshka leaves, threatening that he will soon return to close the stove. A quiet half-groan-half-sigh was his answer.
Lyoshka went and got bored: you can’t think of any more work. I looked into the lady's bedroom. It was quiet there. The lamp was glowing in front of the icon. It smelled of perfume. Lyoshka climbed onto a chair, looked at the faceted pink lamp for a long time, devoutly crossed himself, then dipped his finger into it and oiled his hair over his forehead. Then he went to the dressing table and sniffed each bottle in turn.
- Eh, what's here! No matter how hard you work, if not in front of your eyes, they don’t count for anything. At least break your forehead.
He wandered sadly into the hallway. In the dim living room something squeaked under his feet, then a curtain fluttered from below, followed by another ...
"Cat! he thought. - Look, look, again to the tenant in the room, again the lady will be furious, like the other day. You're joking!.. "
Joyful and animated, he ran into the cherished room.
- I am the damned one! I'll show you how to roam! I'll turn your face on the tail! ..
There was no face on the tenant.
"You're out of your mind, you wretched idiot!" he shouted. - Who are you scolding?
“Hey, vile, just give me an indulgence, so after that you won’t survive,” Leshka tried. “You can’t let her into the rooms!” From her only a scandal! ..
The lady, with trembling hands, straightened her hat that had fallen to the back of her head.
"He's kind of crazy, this boy," she whispered, frightened and embarrassed.
- Get out, you damned one! - and Lyoshka finally, to everyone's reassurance, dragged the cat out from under the sofa.
“Lord,” the tenant pleaded, “will you leave here at last?”
- Look, damn it, it scratches! She cannot be kept in the rooms. She was yesterday in the living room under the curtain ...
And Lyoshka long and detailed, not concealing a single detail, not sparing fire and colors, described to the astonished listeners all the dishonorable behavior of a terrible cat.
His story was heard in silence. The lady bent down and kept looking for something under the table, and the tenant, somehow strangely pressing Leshkin's shoulder, forced the narrator out of the room and closed the door.
“I’m a smart guy,” Leshka whispered, releasing the cat onto the back stairs. - Smart and hard worker. I'm going to turn on the oven now.
This time the tenant did not hear Leshka's steps: he was kneeling in front of the lady and, bowing his head low to her legs, froze without moving. And the lady closed her eyes and her whole face cringed, as if looking at the sun ...
"What is he doing there? Lesha was surprised. - Like chewing on a button on her shoe! Not ... apparently, he dropped something. I'll go look for…”
He approached and bent down so quickly that the tenant, who suddenly perked up, hit him painfully with his forehead right on the brow.
The lady jumped up all confused. Lyoshka climbed under a chair, searched under the table and stood up, spreading his arms.
- There is nothing there.
- What are you looking for? What do you finally need from us? shouted the lodger in an unnaturally thin voice, and blushed all over.
- I thought they dropped something ... It will disappear again, like a brooch from that lady, from a black one, who goes to drink tea with you ... The third day, as I was leaving, I, grit, Lyosha, lost the brooch, - he turned directly to the lady , who suddenly began to listen to him very carefully, even opened her mouth, and her eyes became completely round.
- Well, I went behind the screen on the table and found it. And yesterday I forgot the brooch again, but it wasn’t I who cleaned it, but Dunyashka, - that’s the brooch, therefore, the end ...
“Honest to God, it’s true,” Lyoshka reassured her. - Dunyashka stole, slash. If it wasn't for me, she would steal everything. I clean everything like a horse ... by God, like a dog ...
But they didn't listen to him. The lady soon ran into the anteroom, the lodger behind her, and both hid behind the front door.
Lyoshka went into the kitchen, where, going to bed in an old chest without a top, he said to the cook with a mysterious air:
- Tomorrow, slash the lid.
- Well! she was surprised with joy. - What did they say?
- If I say, it has become, I know.
The next day, Leshka was kicked out.
Agility of hands
On the doors of a small wooden booth, in which on Sundays local youth danced and played charity performances, there was a long red poster:
“Specially passing through, at the request of the public, a session of the grandiose fakir from black and white magic.
The most amazing tricks, such as: burning a handkerchief in front of your eyes, extracting a silver ruble from the nose of the most respectable public, and so on, contrary to nature.
A sad head peeped out of the side window and sold tickets.
It has been raining since morning. The trees in the garden around the booth got wet, swollen, and drenched in gray fine rain obediently, without shaking 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 overcoat by the collar with both hands, he lifted his head and looked at the sky from all sides.
- Not a single hole! Everything is grey! A burnout in Timashev, a burnout in Shchigry, a burnout in Dmitriev... A burnout in Oboyan, a burnout in Kursk... And where is not a burnout? Where, I ask, is it not a burnout? I sent a ticket of honor to the judge, sent it to the head, sent it to the chief police officer ... sent it to everyone. I'm going to turn on the lights.
He glanced at the poster and couldn't tear himself away.
What else do they need? An abscess in the head or what?
By eight o'clock they began to gather.
Either no one came to places of honor, or servants were sent. Some drunks came to the standing places and immediately began to threaten that they would demand money back.
By half past ten it turned out that no one else would come. And those who were sitting were cursing so loudly and definitely that it became dangerous to delay it any longer.
The magician put on a long frock coat, which became wider with each tour, sighed, crossed himself, took a box with mysterious accessories and went on stage.
For a few seconds he stood silently and thought:
“The collection is four rubles, the kerosene is six hryvnias, that’s still nothing, but the room is eight rubles, so that’s what! Golovin's son is in a place of honor - let him. But how will I leave and what will I eat, I ask you.
And why is it empty? I myself would pour the crowd on such a program.
- Bravo! yelled one of the drunks.
The magician woke up. He lit a candle on the table and said:
- Dear audience! Let me preface you with a preface. What you will see here is not anything miraculous or witchcraft that is against our Orthodox religion and is even prohibited by the police. This doesn't even happen in the world. No! Far from it! What you will see here is nothing but the dexterity and agility of the hands. I give you my word of honor that there will be no mysterious witchcraft here. Now you will see the extraordinary appearance of a hard-boiled egg in a completely empty handkerchief.
He rummaged through the box and pulled out a colorful handkerchief folded into a ball. His hands shook slightly.
“Let me assure you that the handkerchief is completely empty. Here I am shaking it out.
He shook out the handkerchief and stretched it out with his hands.
“In the morning, one kopeck bun and tea without sugar,” he thought. “What about tomorrow?”
“You can make sure,” he repeated, “that there is no egg here.
The audience stirred and whispered. Someone snorted. And suddenly one of the drunks buzzed:
- You eat! Here is an egg.
- Where? What? - the magician was confused.
- And tied to a scarf on a string.
The embarrassed magician turned over the handkerchief. Indeed, an egg hung on a string.
- Oh you! Someone spoke in a friendly way. - You would go behind a candle, that would be imperceptible. And you got ahead! Yes, 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 only the agility of the hands. Excuse me, gentlemen…” His voice trembled and stopped.
- OK! OK!
“Now let’s move on to the next amazing phenomenon, which will seem even more amazing to you. Let someone from the most respectable audience lend his handkerchief.
The public was shy.
Many had already taken it out, but after looking carefully, they hurried to put it in their pockets.
Then the magician went up to Golovin's son and held out his trembling hand.
“I could, of course, have my handkerchief, as it is perfectly safe, but you might think that I changed something.
Golovin's son gave him his handkerchief, and the magician unfolded it, shook it and stretched it out.
- Please make sure! A complete scarf.
Golovin's son proudly looked at the audience.
- Now look. This scarf is magical. So I roll it up with a tube, now I bring it to a candle and light it. Lit. Burnt out the whole corner. See?
The audience craned their necks.
- Right! the drunk shouted. - Smells burnt.
- And now I will count to three and - the handkerchief will be whole again.
- Once! Two! Three!! Please take a look!
He proudly and deftly straightened his handkerchief.
- Ah! the audience gasped.
There was a huge burnt hole in the middle of the scarf.
- However! - said Golovin's son and snuffled his nose.
The magician pressed the handkerchief to his chest and suddenly burst into tears.
- Lord! Most respectable pu ... No collection! .. Rain in the morning ... did not eat ... did not eat - a penny for a bun!
- Why, we're nothing! God be with you! the audience screamed.
- Kill us beasts! The Lord is with you.
But the magician was sobbing and wiping his nose with a magic handkerchief.
- Four rubles fee ... room - eight rubles ... vo-o-o-eight ... o-o-o-o ...
Some woman sighed.
- Yes, you are full! Oh my God! Soul turned out! shouted all around.
A head in an oilcloth hood poked through the door.
- What is it? Go home!
Everyone got up anyway. They left. They splashed through the puddles, were silent, sighed.
“And what can I tell you, brothers,” one of the drunks suddenly said clearly and loudly.
Everyone even paused.
- What can I tell you! After all, the scoundrel people have gone away. He will take money from you, he will turn your soul out. A?
- Inflate! - someone hooted in the mist.
- Exactly what to inflate. Aida! Who is with us? One, two ... Well, march! Without any conscience, the people ... I also paid the money not stolen ... Well, we'll show them! Zhzhiva.
penitential
The old nanny, living at rest in the general's family, came from confession.
She sat for a moment in her corner and was offended: the gentlemen were having dinner, there was a smell of something tasty, and there was a quick clatter of the maid serving the table.
- Pah! Passionate not Passionate, they don't care. Just to feed your womb. Reluctantly you sin, God forgive me!
She got out, chewed, thought, and went into the passage room. Sat on a chest.
The maid passed by, surprised.
- And why are you sitting here, nanny? Exactly a doll! By God - exactly a doll!
- Think what you say! the nanny snapped. - Such days, and she swears. Is it shown to swear on such days. There was a man at confession, and, looking at you, you will have time to get dirty before communion.
The maid was scared.
- Guilty, nanny! Congratulations, confession.
- "Congratulations!" Today is congratulations! Nowadays they strive, as it were, to offend and reproach a person. Just now their liquor spilled. Who knows what she spilled. You won't be smarter than God either. And the little young lady says: “That’s right, the nanny spilled it!” From such years and such words.
- Surprising even, nanny! So small and already everyone knows!
- Noneshnye children, mother, worse than obstetricians! Here they are, noneshnie children. Me, what! I don't judge. I was at confession, now I won’t take a sip of poppy dew until tomorrow, let alone ... And you say - congratulations. There is an old lady in the fourth week of fasting; I say to Sonya: "Congratulate the grandmother." And she snorts: “Here it is! very necessary!" And I say: “Grandma must be respected! The grandmother will die, she can deprive her of her inheritance. Yes, if I had some kind of woman, yes, every day I would have found something to congratulate. Good morning, grandma! Yes, good weather! Yes, Happy Holidays! Yes, with callous name days! Have a happy bite! Me, what! I don't judge. Tomorrow I'm going to take communion, I'm only saying that it's not good and rather shameful.
- You should rest, nanny! the maid fawned.
“I’ll stretch my legs, I’ll lie down in the coffin. I'm resting. You will have time to rejoice. I would have long been out of the world, but here I am not given to you. The young bone on the teeth crunches, and the old one across the throat becomes. Don't swallow.
- And what are you, nanny! And everyone is just looking at you, as if to respect.
- No, don't talk to me about respecters. It’s your respecters, but no one respected me even from my youth, so it’s too late for me to be ashamed in my old age. You'd better go and ask the coachman where he drove the lady the other day ... Ask that.
- Oh, and what are you, nanny! the maid whispered, and even squatted down in front of the old woman. - Where did he take it? I'm, by God, no one ...
- Don't worry. To swear is a sin! For swearing, you know how God will punish! And he took me to a place where they show men moving. They move and sing. They spread the sheet, and they move along it. The little lady told me. By herself, you see, it’s not enough, so she was lucky with the girl. I would have found out myself, I would have taken a good twig and driven it along Zakharyevskaya! There's just no one to say. Does the current people understand sneak. Nowadays, everyone only cares about himself. Ugh! Whatever you remember, you will sin! Lord forgive me!
“The master is a busy man, of course, it’s hard for them to see through everything,” the maid sang modestly lowering her eyes. “They are nice people.
- I know your master! I know from childhood! If I didn't go to communion tomorrow, I would tell you about your master! Since childhood! People are going to mass - ours has not yet slept. People from the church are coming - our teas and coffees are drinking. And as soon as the Holy Mother dragged him to the general, a couch potato, a parasite, I can’t imagine! I already think: he stole this rank for himself! Wherever there is, but stole! There's just no one to try! And I've been thinking for a long time that I stole it. They think: the nanny is an old fool, everything is possible with her! It's stupid, maybe stupid. Yes, not everyone should be smart, someone needs to be stupid.
The maid glanced frightened at the door.
- Our business, nanny, official. God be with him! Let it go! We don't understand. Will you go to church early in the morning?
“I might not go to bed at all. I want to be the first to go to church. So that all rubbish does not climb ahead of people. Every cricket know your hearth.
- Who is climbing something?
- Yes, the old woman is alone here. Icy, what keeps the soul. Before everyone else, God forgive me, the bastard will come to the church, and after everyone else will leave. Kazhinny time will stop everyone. And Hosha would sit down for a minute! All of us old women are surprised. No matter how strong you are, while the clock is reading, you will sit down a little. And this echida is not otherwise than on purpose. Is it a static thing to survive so much! One old woman almost burned her handkerchief with a candle. And it's a shame it didn't catch on. Don't stare! Why stare! Is indicated to stare. I’ll come tomorrow before everyone else and stop it, so I suppose it will ease the force. I can't see her! Today I am on my knees, and I myself look at her. Echida you, I think, echida! To burst your water bubble! It's a sin, and there's nothing you can do about it.
- Nothing, nanny, now that you have confessed, all the sins of the priest were forgiven. Now your darling is pure and innocent.
- Yes, damn it! Let go! This is a sin, but I must say: this priest confessed me badly. That's when they went to the monastery with the aunt and the princess, so you can say that he confessed. Already he tortured me, tortured, reproached, reproached, imposed three penances! All asked. He asked if the princess was thinking of renting out the meadows. Well, I repented, said I don't know. And entot alive soon. What is wrong? Yes, I say, father, what sins I have. The oldest ones. I love coffee and quarrel with servants. “And special ones,” he says, “no?” And what are the special ones? Each person has his own special sin. That's what. And instead of trying and shaming him, he took and read the leave. That's all for you! Somehow he took the money. I suppose I didn’t give up, that I don’t have any special ones! Ugh, sorry sir! Remember, you are wrong! Save and have mercy. Why are you sitting here? It would be better to go and think: “How am I living like this, and everything is not going well?” You are young girl! There's a crow's nest curled on her head! Have you thought about the days. On such days, let yourself be allowed. And nowhere from you, shameless ones, there is no passage! Having confessed, I came, let me - I thought - I'll sit quietly. Tomorrow, after all, go to communion. No. And then she got there. She came, did all sorts of dirty tricks, whichever is worse. Damn bastard, God forgive me. Look, I went with what force! Not long, mother! I know everything! Give me time, I'll drink everything to the lady! - Go to rest. God forgive me, who else will be attached!
