Skinny, long, narrow head, bald, wise expression.
He speaks only on practical topics, without jokes, jokes, or smiles. If he smiles, it will certainly be ironic, pulling the corners of his mouth down.
He occupies a modest position in emigration: he peddles perfumes and herrings. Perfume smells like herrings, and herrings smell like perfume.
Trading poorly. Convinces unconvincingly:
Are the perfumes bad? It's so cheap. For this very perfume in the store you will pay sixty francs, but I have nine. But they smell bad, so you sniff it quickly. And this is not what a person gets used to.
What? Does herring smell like cologne? It doesn't harm her taste. Not much. The Germans say they eat such cheese that it smells like a dead person. Nothing. They are not offended. Will you feel nauseous? I don't know, no one complained. No one died from nausea either. Nobody complained that they were dying.
He's grey, with red eyebrows. Red and moving. He loved to talk about his life. I understand that his life is an example of meaningful and correct actions. As he talks, he teaches and at the same time shows distrust of your intelligence and sensitivity.
Our surname is Vuryugin. Not Voryugin, as many allow themselves to joke, but Vuryugin, from a completely unknown root. We lived in Taganrog. They lived in such a way that no Frenchman, even in his imagination, could have such a life. Six horses, two cows. Vegetable garden, land. My father ran a shop. What? Yes, everything happened. If you want a brick, get a brick. If you want vegetable oil, have some oil. If you want a sheepskin coat, get a sheepskin coat. There was even a ready-made dress. Yes what! It’s not like here - it’s been vilified for a year, everything will become shiny. We had such materials as we never dreamed of here. Strong, with pile. And the styles are clever, wide, any artist can wear them - he can’t go wrong. Fashionable. Here, when it comes to fashion, I must say, they are rather weak. We put out brown leather boots in the summer. Ahah! in all the stores, ah-ah, the latest fashion. Well, I walk around, look, but just shake my head. I wore boots just like these twenty years ago in Taganrog. Look when. Twenty years ago, and fashion has only just arrived here. Fashionistas, nothing to say.
And how do the ladies dress? Did we really wear such cakes on our heads? Yes, we would be ashamed to go out in front of people with such a flatbread. We dressed fashionably, chicly. But here they have no idea about fashion.
They're bored. It's terribly boring. Metro and cinema. In Taganrog, would we wander around the metro like that? Several hundred thousand travel on the Paris metro every day. And you will assure me that they are all traveling on business? Well, you know, as they say, lie, but don’t lie. Three hundred thousand people a day, and everything is on point! Where are these things of theirs? How do they show themselves? In trading? Trade, excuse me, is stagnant. The work is also, excuse me, stagnant. So where, one wonders, are the things that cause three hundred thousand people to rush around the subway day and night, their eyes wide open? I’m surprised, in awe, but I don’t believe it.
In a foreign land, of course, it’s hard and you don’t understand a lot. Especially for a lonely person. Of course, you work during the day, but in the evenings you just go wild. Sometimes you go to the sink in the evening, look at yourself in the mirror and say to yourself:
“Vuryugin, Vuryugin! Are you a hero and a handsome man? Are you a trading house? And are you six horses, and are you two cows? Your life is lonely, and you have withered like a flower without a root.”
And now I have to tell you that I decided to somehow fall in love. As they say, it’s decided and signed. And there lived on our stairs in our Trezor hotel a young lady, very sweet and even, between you and me, pretty. Widow. And she had a five-year-old boy, a nice one. He was a very nice boy.
Wow, the lady made a little money by sewing, so she didn’t complain too much. And you know - our refugees - you invite her to drink tea, and she, like a thin accountant, just counts and recalculates everything: “Oh, they didn’t pay fifty there, but here they didn’t pay sixty, and the room is two hundred a month, and the metro is three francs.” per day." They count and subtract - the melancholy takes over. With a lady, it’s interesting that she says something nice about you, and not about her scores. Well, this lady was special. Everyone hums something, although she is not frivolous, but, as they say, with demands, with an approach to life. She saw that I had a button hanging by a thread on my coat, and immediately, without saying a word, she brought a needle and sewed it on.
Well, you know, further - more. I decided to fall in love. And a nice boy. I like to take everything seriously. And especially in a case like this. You need to be able to reason. I had no trifles in my head, but a legal marriage. He asked, among other things, if she had her own teeth. Even though she’s young, anything can happen. There was one teacher in Taganrog. She was also young, and then it turned out that she had a false eye.
Well, that means I’m taking a closer look at my lady and I’ve really weighed everything.
You can get married. And then one unexpected circumstance opened my eyes that I, as a decent and conscientious person, I will say more - a noble person, cannot marry her. Just think about it? - such an insignificant, seemingly insignificant incident, but it turned my whole life upside down.
And this is how it happened. We were sitting with her one evening, very cozy, remembering what kind of soups they had in Russia. They counted fourteen, but forgot about the peas. Well, it became funny. That is, of course she laughed, I don’t like to laugh. I was rather annoyed by the memory defect. So, we are sitting, remembering our former power, and the boy is right there.
Give me, - he says, - maman, caramel.
And she answers:
You can't do more, you've already eaten three.
And he whines - give it, give it.
And I say, nobly joking:
Come here, I'll spank you.
And she tell me the fatal point:
Well, where are you! You are a soft person, you won’t be able to spank him.
And then an abyss opened up at my feet.
Given my character, it is absolutely impossible to take on the upbringing of a baby at just the age when their brother is supposed to be torn. I can't take it upon myself. Will I ever get over it? No, I can't stand it. I don't know how to fight. So what? To destroy a child, the son of a beloved woman.
Excuse me, I say, Anna Pavlovna. Sorry, but our marriage is a utopia in which we will all drown. Because I cannot be your son’s real father and educator. Not only that, but I can’t rip it out even once.
I spoke very restrainedly, and not a single fiber on my face twitched. Perhaps the voice was slightly suppressed, but I can vouch for the fiber.
She, of course, - ah! Oh! Love and all that, and there’s no need to tear the boy down, he’s good enough anyway.
Good, I say, good, but it will be bad. And please don't insist. Be firm. Remember that I can't fight. You shouldn't play with your son's future.
Well, she, of course, the woman, of course, screamed that I was a fool. But things ended up going well, and I don’t regret it. I acted nobly and, for the sake of my own blindness of passion, did not sacrifice the young body of a child.
I pulled myself together completely. I gave her a day or two to calm down and came to explain sensibly.
Well, of course, a woman cannot perceive it. Charged "fool yes fool." Completely unfounded.
And so the story ended. And I can say - I’m proud. I forgot quite quickly, because I consider all sorts of memories unnecessary. For what? Should I pawn them at a pawnshop?
Well, after thinking about the situation, I decided to get married. Just not in Russian, sir. You must be able to reason. Where do we live? I ask you directly - where? In France. And since we live in France, that means we need to marry a French woman. I started looking.
I have a French friend here. Musyu Emelyan. Not exactly French, but he’s lived here for a long time and knows all the rules.
Well, this guy introduced me to one young lady. He works at the post office. Nice one. Just, you know, I look, and she has a very pretty figure. Thin, long. And the dress fits like a glove.
“Hey, I think it’s rubbish!”
No, I say, this one doesn’t suit me. I like it, there are no words, but you have to be able to reason. Such a thin, foldable girl can always buy herself a cheap dress - for seventy-five francs. But I bought a dress - but here you can’t hold it at home with your teeth. He will go dancing. Is this good? Am I getting married so that my wife can dance? No, I say, find me a model from another edition. More tightly. - And you can imagine - she was quickly found. It’s a small model, but it’s kind of, you know, a small tamper, and, as they say, you can’t buy back fat. But, in general, wow and also an employee. Don't think it's some kind of sledgehammer. No, she has curls and curls, and everything, just like the skinny ones. Only, of course, you can’t get a ready-made dress for her.
Having discussed and thought about all this, it means that I opened up to her, as I should, and marched to the mayor's office1.
And about a month later she asked for a new dress. I asked for a new dress, and I very willingly say:
Of course, will you buy something ready-made?
Here she blushed slightly and answered casually:
I don't like ready-made ones. They don't fit well. It’s better to buy me some blue material and let’s have it sewn.
I kiss her very willingly and go shopping. It’s like I’m buying the wrong color by mistake. It looks like dun, like horses are.
She was a little confused, but thanked her. It’s impossible - the first gift is easy to push away. He also understands his line.
And I am very happy about everything and recommend the Russian dressmaker to her. I knew her for a long time. She tore more expensively than a French woman, but she sewed so hard that you can't help but spit and whistle. I sewed a collar onto one client’s sleeve, and even argued about it. Well, this same couture sewed a dress for my lady. Well, you don’t need to go straight to the theater, it’s so funny! A dun chick, and that’s all. She, poor thing, tried to cry, and remade it, and repainted it - nothing helped. So the dress hangs on a nail, and the wife sits at home. She is French, she understands that you can’t make dresses every month. Well, we live a quiet family life. And very pleased. Why? But because you need to be able to reason.
Taught her how to cook cabbage rolls.
Happiness also does not come into your own hands. You need to know how to tackle it.
And everyone, of course, would like to, but not everyone can.
Virtuoso of feelings
The most interesting thing about this man is his posture.
He is tall, thin, and has a bare eagle head on his outstretched neck. He walks in the crowd with his elbows apart, swaying slightly at the waist and looking around proudly. And since at the same time he is usually taller than everyone else, it seems as if he is sitting astride a horse.
He lives in exile on some "crumbs", but, in general, not bad and neat. He rents a room with the right to use the salon and kitchen and loves to prepare his own special stewed pasta, which greatly captures the imagination of the women he loves.
His last name is Gutbrecht.
Lizochka met him at a banquet in favor of “cultural beginnings and continuations.”
He apparently mapped it out even before he was seated. She clearly saw how he, having galloped past her three times on an invisible horse, gave spurs and galloped to the manager and explained something to him, pointing at her, Lizochka. Then both of them, the rider and the manager, spent a long time looking at the tickets with their names laid out on plates, made some wise decisions, and in the end Lizochka turned out to be Gutbrecht’s neighbor.
Gutbrecht immediately, as they say, took the bull by the horns, that is, he squeezed Liza’s hand near the elbow and said to her with a quiet reproach:
Expensive! Well, why? Well, why not?
At the same time, his eyes became clouded underneath with a rooster film, so that Lizochka even got scared. But there was nothing to be afraid of. This technique, known to Gutbrecht as “number five” (“I work as number five”), was simply called “rotten eyes” among his friends.
Look! Gut has already used his rotten eyes!
He, however, instantly released Liza’s hand and said in the calm tone of a secular man:
We will start, of course, with herring.
And suddenly he turned his rotten eyes again and whispered in a voluptuous whisper:
God, how good she is!
And Lizotchka did not understand who this referred to - her or the herring, and could not eat from embarrassment.
Then the conversation began.
When we go to Capri, I will show you an amazing dog cave.
Lizochka was trembling. Why should she go to Capri with him? How amazing this gentleman is!
A tall plump lady of the caryatid type sat diagonally from her. Beautiful, majestic.
To divert the conversation away from the dog cave, Lizochka praised the lady:
Really, how interesting?
Gutbrecht turned his bare head contemptuously, turned away just as contemptuously and said:
Wow little face.
This “face” so surprisingly did not fit the lady’s majestic profile that Lizochka even laughed.
He pursed his lips into a bow and suddenly blinked like an offended child. He called it “doing a little thing.”
Babe! You're laughing at Vovochka!
Which Vovochka? - Lizochka was surprised.
Above me! I'm Vovochka! - the eagle's head pouted, pouting.
How strange you are! - Lizochka was surprised. “You’re old, but you act like a little kid.”
I am fifty years old! - Gutbrecht said sternly and blushed. He was offended.
Well, yes, that’s what I’m saying, you’re old! - Lizochka was sincerely perplexed.
Gutbrecht was also perplexed. He took six years off himself and thought “fifty” sounded very young.
“Darling,” he said and suddenly switched to “you.” - Darling, you are deeply provincial. If I had more time, I would take up your development.
Why are you suddenly talking... - Lizochka tried to be indignant.
But he interrupted her:
Be quiet. Nobody can hear us.
And he added in a whisper:
I myself will protect you from slander.
“I wish this lunch would end soon!” - thought Lizochka.
But then some speaker spoke, and Gutbrecht fell silent.
I live a strange but deep life! - he said when the speaker fell silent. - I devoted myself to psychoanalysis female love. It is difficult and painstaking. I carry out experiments, classify, draw conclusions. Lots of unexpected and interesting things. Of course, you know Anna Petrovna? The wife of our famous figure?
Of course, I know,” answered Lizochka. - A very respectable lady.
Gutbrecht grinned and, spreading his elbows, pranced in place.
So this most respectable lady is such a devil! Devilish temperament. The other day she came to see me on business. I handed her business papers and suddenly, without letting her come to her senses, I grabbed her by the shoulders and pressed my lips to hers. And if you only knew what happened to her! She almost lost consciousness! Completely unconscious, she gave me a smack and ran out of the room. The next day I had to go see her on business. She didn't accept me. Do you understand? She doesn't vouch for herself. You cannot imagine how interesting such psychological experiments are. I'm not Don Juan. No. I'm thinner! More spiritual. I am a virtuoso of feelings! Do you know Vera Ax? This proud, cold beauty?
Of course I do. I saw it.
Well, that's it. Recently I decided to wake up this marble Galatea! The opportunity soon presented itself, and I achieved my goal.
What are you talking about? - Lizochka was surprised. - Really? So why are you talking about this? Is it possible to tell!
I have no secrets from you. I wasn’t interested in her even for a single minute. It was a cold and cruel experiment. But it's so interesting that I want to tell you everything. There should be no secrets between us. So here it is. It was in the evening, at her house. I was invited to dinner for the first time. There was, among others, this big guy Stok or Strock, something like that. They also said about him that he had an affair with Vera Ax. Well, yes, this is gossip based on nothing. She is cold as ice and has only awakened to life for one moment. I want to tell you about this moment. So, after dinner (there were about six of us, all, apparently, her close friends) we went into the darkened living room. Of course, I’m next to Vera on the sofa. The conversation is general and uninteresting. Faith is cold and inaccessible. She is wearing an evening dress with a huge cutout at the back. And so I, without stopping small talk, quietly but imperiously extend my hand and quickly slap her several times on her bare back. If you only knew what happened to my Galatea! How suddenly this cold marble came to life! Indeed, just think: a person is in the house for the first time, in the salon of a decent and cold lady, in the company of her friends, and suddenly, not to say a bad word, that is, I want to say completely unexpectedly, such an intimate gesture. She jumped up like a tigress. She didn't remember herself. A woman woke up inside her, probably for the first time in her life. She squealed and with a quick movement threw a plop at me. I don’t know what would have happened if we were alone! What would the animated marble of her body be capable of? She was rescued by that vile fellow Stoke. Line. He yelled:
“Young man, you are an old man, but you behave like a boy,” and he kicked me out of the house.
We haven't met since then. But I know that she will never forget this moment. And I know that she will avoid meeting me. Poor thing! But are you quiet, my dear girl? You're afraid of me. Don't be afraid of Vovochka!
He made a “little boy”, pursing his lips into a bow and blinking his eyes.
Little Vovochka.
Stop it,” Lizochka said irritably. - They're looking at us.
Does it matter if we love each other? Ah, women, women. You are all on the same page. You know what Turgenev said, that is, Dostoevsky is a famous playwright and expert. "A woman needs to be surprised." Oh how true that is. My last novel... I surprised her. I threw money around like Croesus and was meek like Madonna. I sent her a decent bouquet of carnations. Then a huge box of chocolates. One and a half pounds, with a bow. And so, when she, intoxicated with her power, was already preparing to look at me as a slave, I suddenly stopped pursuing her. Do you understand? How it immediately hit her nerves. All this madness, flowers, candy, the project has an evening at the Paramount cinema and suddenly - stop. I wait a day or two. And suddenly a call. I knew it. She. A pale, trembling woman comes in... “I’ll be just a minute.” I take her face with both palms and say authoritatively, but still - out of delicacy - interrogatively: “Mine?”
She pulled me away...
And threw a splash? - Lizochka asked busily.
N-not really. She quickly regained control of herself. As an experienced woman, she realized that suffering awaited her. She pulled back and stammered with pale lips: “Please give me two hundred and forty-eight francs until Tuesday.”
So what? - asked Lizochka.
Well, nothing.
And then?
She took the money and left. I never saw her again.
And you didn’t give it away?
What a child you are! After all, she took the money to somehow justify her visit to me. But she controlled herself and immediately broke this fiery thread that stretched between us. And I completely understand why she avoids the meeting. After all, there is a limit to her strength. Behold, my dear child, what dark abysses of voluptuousness I have opened before your frightened eyes. What an amazing woman! What an exceptional impulse!
Lizochka thought about it.
Yes, of course,” she said. - But in my opinion, you would be better off with a splash. More practical. A?
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Copyright: Nadezhda Teffi
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...For laughter is joy, and therefore in itself is good.
Spinoza. "Ethics", part IV.Position XLV, scholium II.
Curry favor
Leshka’s right leg had been numb for a long time, but he did not dare change his position and listened eagerly. It was completely dark in the corridor, and through narrow gap The ajar door revealed only a brightly lit piece of wall above the kitchen stove. A large dark circle topped with two horns wavered on the wall. Leshka guessed that this circle was nothing more than the shadow of his aunt’s head with the ends of the scarf sticking up.
The aunt came to visit Leshka, whom only a week ago she had designated as a “boy for room services,” and was now conducting serious negotiations with the cook who was her patron. The negotiations were of an unpleasantly alarming nature, the aunt was very worried, and the horns on the wall rose and fell steeply, as if some unprecedented beast was goring its invisible opponents.
It was assumed that Leshka washes his galoshes in the front. But, as you know, man proposes, but God disposes, and Leshka, with a rag in his hands, listened behind the door.
“I realized from the very beginning that he was a bungler,” the cook sang in a rich voice. - How many times do I tell him: if you, guy, are not a fool, stay in front of your eyes. Don’t do shitty things, but stay in front of your eyes. Because Dunyashka scrubs. But he doesn’t even listen. Just now the lady was screaming again - she didn’t interfere with the stove and closed it with a firebrand.
The horns on the wall are agitated, and the aunt moans like an Aeolian harp:
- Where can I go with him? Mavra Semyonovna! I bought him boots, without drinking or eating, I gave him five rubles. For the alteration of the jacket, the tailor, without drinking or eating, tore off six hryvnia...
“No other way than to send him home.”
- Darling! The road, no food, no food, four rubles, dear!
Leshka, forgetting all precautions, sighs outside the door. He doesn't want to go home. His father promised that he would skin him seven times, and Leshka knows from experience how unpleasant that is.
“It’s still too early to howl,” the cook sings again. “So far, no one is chasing him.” The lady only threatened... But the tenant, Pyotr Dmitrich, is very interceding. Right behind Leshka. That's enough, Marya Vasilievna says, he's not a fool, Leshka. He, he says, is a complete idiot, there’s no point in scolding him. I really stand up for Leshka.
- Well, God bless him...
“But with us, whatever the tenant says is sacred.” Because he is a well-read person, he pays carefully...
- And Dunyashka is good! – the aunt twirled her horns. - I don’t understand people like this - telling lies on a boy...
- Truly! True. Just now I tell her: “Go open the door, Dunyasha,” affectionately, as if in a kind way. So she snorts in my face: “Grit, I’m not your doorman, open the door yourself!” And I sang everything to her here. How to open doors, so you, I say, are not a doorman, but how to kiss a janitor on the stairs, so you are still a doorman...
- Lord have mercy! From these years to everything I spied. The girl is young, she should live and live. One salary, no food, no...
- What do I need? I told her straight out: how to open doors, you’re not a doorman. She, you see, is not a doorman! And how to accept gifts from a janitor, she is a doorman. Yes, lipstick for the tenant...
Trrrrr...” the electric bell crackled.
- Leshka! Leshka! - the cook shouted. - Oh, you, you failed! Dunyasha was sent away, but he didn’t even listen.
Leshka held his breath, pressed himself against the wall and stood quietly until the angry cook swam past him, angrily rattling her starched skirts.
“No, pipes,” thought Leshka, “I won’t go to the village. I’m not a stupid guy, I’ll want to, so I’ll quickly curry favor. You can’t wipe me out, I’m not like that.”
And, waiting for the cook to return, he walked with decisive steps into the rooms.
“Be, grit, before our eyes. And what kind of eyes will I be when no one is ever home?
He walked into the hallway. Hey! The coat is hanging - a tenant of the house.
He rushed to the kitchen and, snatching the poker from the dumbfounded cook, rushed back into the rooms, quickly opened the door to the tenant’s room and went to stir the stove.
The tenant was not alone. With him was a young lady, wearing a jacket and a veil. Both shuddered and straightened up when Leshka entered.
“I’m not a stupid guy,” thought Leshka, poking the burning wood with a poker. “I’ll irritate those eyes.” I’m not a parasite - I’m all in business, all in business!..”
The firewood crackled, the poker rattled, sparks flew in all directions. The lodger and the lady were tensely silent. Finally, Leshka headed towards the exit, but stopped right at the door and began to anxiously examine the wet spot on the floor, then turned his eyes to the guest’s feet and, seeing the galoshes on them, shook his head reproachfully.
“Here,” he said reproachfully, “they left it behind!” And then the hostess will scold me.
The guest flushed and looked at the tenant in confusion.
“Okay, okay, go ahead,” he calmed embarrassedly.
And Leshka left, but not for long. He found a rag and returned to wipe the floor.
He found the lodger and his guest silently bending over the table and immersed in contemplation of the tablecloth.
“Look, they were staring,” thought Leshka, “they must have noticed the spot.” They think I don't understand! Found a fool! I understand everything. I work like a horse!”
And, approaching the thoughtful couple, he carefully wiped the tablecloth under the tenant’s very nose.
- What are you doing? - he was scared.
- Like what? I can't live without my eye. Dunyashka, the oblique devil, only knows a dirty trick, and she’s not the doorman to keep order... The janitor on the stairs...
- Get out! Idiot!
But the young lady frightenedly grabbed the tenant’s hand and spoke in a whisper.
“He’ll understand...” Leshka heard, “the servants... gossip...”
The lady had tears of embarrassment in her eyes, and in a trembling voice she said to Leshka:
- Nothing, nothing, boy... You don’t have to close the door when you go...
The tenant grinned contemptuously and shrugged.
Leshka left, but, having reached the front hall, he remembered that the lady asked not to lock the door, and, returning, opened it.
The tenant jumped away from his lady like a bullet.
“Eccentric,” Leshka thought as he left. “It’s light in the room, but he’s scared!”
Leshka walked into the hallway, looked in the mirror, and tried on the resident’s hat. Then he walked into the dark dining room and scratched the cupboard door with his nails.
- Look, you unsalted devil! You're here all day, like a horse, working, and all she knows is locking the closet.
I decided to go stir the stove again. The door to the resident's room was closed again. Leshka was surprised, but entered.
The tenant sat calmly next to the lady, but his tie was on one side, and he looked at Leshka with such a look that he only clicked his tongue:
“What are you looking at! I myself know that I’m not a parasite, I’m not sitting idly by.”
The coals are stirred, and Leshka leaves, threatening that he will soon return to close the stove. A quiet half-moan, half-sigh was his answer.
Leshka went and felt sad: he couldn’t think of any more work. I looked into the lady's bedroom. It was quiet there. The lamp glowed in front of the image. It smelled like perfume. Leshka climbed onto a chair, looked at the faceted pink lamp for a long time, crossed himself earnestly, then dipped his finger into it and oiled his hair above his forehead. Then he went to the dressing table and sniffed all the bottles in turn.
- Eh, what’s wrong! No matter how much you work, if you don’t see them, they don’t count as anything. At least break your forehead.
He wandered sadly into the hallway. In the dimly lit living room, something squeaked under his feet, then the bottom of the curtain swayed, followed by another...
"Cat! – he realized. - Look, look, back to the tenant’s room, again the lady will get mad, like the other day. You’re being naughty!..”
Joyful and animated, he ran into the treasured room.
- I am the damned one! I'll show you to hang around! I’ll turn your face right on its tail!..
The occupant had no face.
“Are you crazy, you unfortunate idiot!” - he shouted. -Who are you scolding?
“Hey, you vile one, just give him some slack, you’ll never survive,” Leshka tried. “You can’t let her into your room!” She's nothing but a scandal!..
The lady with trembling hands straightened her hat, which had slipped onto the back of her head.
“He’s kind of crazy, this boy,” she whispered in fear and embarrassment.
- Shoot, damn it! - and Leshka finally, to everyone’s reassurance, dragged the cat out from under the sofa.
“Lord,” the tenant prayed, “will you finally leave here?”
- Look, damn it, it’s scratching! It cannot be kept in rooms. Yesterday she was in the living room under the curtain...
And Leshka, at length and in detail, without hiding a single detail, without sparing fire and color, described to the amazed listeners all the dishonest behavior of the terrible cat.
His story was listened to in silence. The lady bent down and kept looking for something under the table, and the tenant, somehow strangely pressing Leshka’s shoulder, pushed the narrator out of the room and closed the door.
“I’m a smart guy,” Leshka whispered, letting the cat out onto the back stairs. - Smart and hard worker. I'll go close the stove now.
This time the tenant did not hear Leshkin’s steps: he stood in front of the lady on his knees and, bowing his head low and low to her legs, froze, without moving. And the lady closed her eyes and shrank her whole face, as if she was looking at the sun...
“What is he doing there? – Leshka was surprised. “Like he’s chewing a button on her shoe!” No... apparently he dropped something. I'll go look..."
He approached and bent down so quickly that the tenant, who suddenly perked up, hit him painfully with his forehead right on the eyebrow.
The lady jumped up all confused. Leshka reached under the chair, searched under the table and stood up, spreading his arms.
– There’s nothing there.
-What are you looking for? What do you finally want from us? - the tenant shouted in an unnaturally thin voice and blushed all over.
“I thought they dropped something... It’ll disappear again, like the brooch of that little dark lady who comes to you for tea... The day before yesterday, when I left, I, Lyosha, lost my brooch,” he turned directly to the lady , who suddenly began to listen to him very carefully, even opened her mouth, and her eyes became completely round.
- Well, I went behind the screen on the table and found it. And yesterday I forgot my brooch again, but it wasn’t I who put it away, but Dunyashka, so that means the end of the brooch...
“By God, it’s true,” Leshka reassured her. - Dunyashka stole it, damn it. If it weren't for me, she would have stolen everything. I clean everything up like a horse... by God, like a dog...
But they didn’t listen to him. The lady quickly ran into the hallway, the tenant behind her, and both disappeared behind the front door.
Leshka went to the kitchen, where, going to bed in an old trunk without a top, he said to the cook with a mysterious look:
- Tomorrow the slash is closed.
- Well! – she was joyfully surprised. - What did they say?
- Since I’m talking, it’s become, I know.
The next day Leshka was kicked out.
Dexterity of hands
On the doors of a small wooden booth, where local youth danced and performed charity performances on Sundays, there was a long red poster:
“Specially passing through, at the request of the public, a session of the grandest fakir of black and white magic.
The most amazing tricks, such as burning a handkerchief in front of one’s eyes, extracting a silver ruble from the nose of the most respectable public, and so on, contrary to nature.”
A sad head looked out of the side window and sold tickets.
It had been raining since the morning. The trees of the garden around the booth became wet, swollen, and were doused with gray, fine rain obediently, without shaking themselves off.
At the very entrance a large puddle bubbled and gurgled. Only three rubles worth of tickets were sold.
It was getting dark.
The sad head sighed, disappeared, and a small, shabby gentleman of indeterminate age crawled out of the door.
Holding his coat at the collar with both hands, he raised his head and looked at the sky from all sides.
- Not a single hole! Everything is gray! In Timashev there is a burnout, in Shchigra there is a burnout, in Dmitriev there is a burnout... In Oboyan there is a burnout, in Kursk there is a burnout... And where is there not a burnout? Where, I ask, is there no burnout? I sent an honorary card to the judge, to the head, to the police officer... I sent it to everyone. I'll go refill the lamps.
He glanced at the poster and couldn’t look away.
-What else do they want? An abscess in the head or what?
By eight o'clock they began to gather.
Either no one came to the places of honor, or servants were sent. Some drunks came to the standing places and immediately began to threaten that they would demand the money back.
By half past nine it became clear that no one else would come. And those who were sitting were all cursing so loudly and definitely that it became dangerous to delay any longer.
The magician put on a long frock coat, which became wider with each tour, sighed, crossed himself, took a box with mysterious accessories and went on stage.
He stood silently for a few seconds and thought:
“The fee is four rubles, kerosene is six hryvnia - that’s nothing, but the premises are eight rubles, so that’s something! Golovin's son has a place of honor - let him. But how will I leave and what will I eat, I’m asking you.
And why is it empty? I would flock to such a program myself.”
- Bravo! - one of the drunks yelled.
The magician woke up. He lit a candle on the table and said:
– Dear audience! Let me give you a preface. What you see here is not anything miraculous or witchcraft, which is disgusting to our Orthodox religion and even prohibited by the police. This doesn't even happen in the world. No! Far from it! What you will see here is nothing less than dexterity and dexterity of hands. I give you my word of honor that there will be no mysterious witchcraft here. Now you will see the extraordinary appearance of a hard-boiled egg in a completely empty scarf.
He rummaged in the box and took out a colorful scarf rolled into a ball. His hands were shaking slightly.
- Please see for yourself that the scarf is completely empty. Here I am shaking it out.
He shook out the handkerchief and stretched it with his hands.
“In the morning, one bun for a penny and tea without sugar,” he thought. “What about tomorrow?”
“You can be sure,” he repeated, “that there is no egg here.”
The audience began to stir and whisper. Someone snorted. And suddenly one of the drunks boomed:
- You're lying! Here's an egg.
- Where? What? – the magician was confused.
- And tied it to a scarf with a string.
The embarrassed magician turned over the handkerchief. Indeed, there was an egg hanging on a string.
- Oh, you! – someone spoke in a friendly manner. - If you go behind the candle, it wouldn’t be noticeable. And you climbed ahead! Yes, brother, you can’t.
The magician was pale and smiled crookedly.
“It’s true,” he said. “However, I warned you that this is not witchcraft, but purely sleight of hand.” Sorry, gentlemen...” his voice trembled and stopped.
- OK! OK!
– Now let’s move on to the next amazing phenomenon, which will seem even more amazing to you. Let one of the most respectable audience lend his handkerchief.
The public was shy.
Many had already taken it out, but after looking closely, they hastened to put it in their pockets.
Then the magician approached the head's son and extended his trembling hand.
“I could, of course, use my handkerchief, since it is completely safe, but you might think that I changed something.”
Golovin’s son gave him his handkerchief, and the magician unfolded it, shook it and stretched it.
- Please make sure! A completely intact scarf.
Golovin's son looked proudly at the audience.
- Now look. This scarf has become magical. So I roll it up into a tube, then I bring it to the candle and light it. Lit. The entire corner was burned off. Do you see?
The audience craned their necks.
- Right! - the drunk shouted. - It smells like burning.
“Now I’ll count to three and the scarf will be whole again.”
- Once! Two! Three!! Please take a look!
He proudly and deftly straightened out his handkerchief.
- A-ah! – the audience also gasped.
There was a huge burnt hole in the middle of the scarf.
- However! - Golovin’s son said and sniffled.
The magician pressed the handkerchief to his chest and suddenly began to cry.
- Gentlemen! Most respectable pu... No collection!.. Rain in the morning... didn’t eat... didn’t eat - a penny for a bun!
- But we’re nothing! God be with you! - the audience shouted.
- Damn us animals! The Lord is with you.
But the magician sobbed and wiped his nose with a magic handkerchief.
- Four rubles to collect... premises - eight rubles... oh-oh-oh-eighth... oh-oh-oh...
Some woman sobbed.
- That's enough for you! Oh my God! Turned my soul out! - they shouted all around.
A head in an oilskin hood poked its head through the door.
- What is this? Go home!
Everyone stood up anyway. We left. They sloshed through the puddles, were silent, and sighed.
“What can I tell you, brothers,” one of the drunks suddenly said clearly and loudly.
Everyone even paused.
- What can I tell you! After all, the scoundrel people have gone away. He will rip your money off you, and he will rip your soul out. A?
- Blow up! - someone hooted in the darkness.
- Exactly what to inflate. Come on! Who's with us? One, two... Well, march! People without any conscience... I also paid money that was not stolen... Well, we’ll show you! Zhzhiva.
Repentant
The old nanny, living in retirement in the general's family, came from confession.
I sat in my corner for a minute and was offended: the gentlemen were having dinner, there was a smell of something tasty, and I could hear the quick clatter of the maid serving the table.
- Ugh! Passionate is not Passionate, they don’t care. Just to feed your womb. You will sin unwillingly, God forgive me!
She got out, chewed, thought and went into the passage room. She sat down on the chest.
A maid passed by and was surprised.
- Why are you, nanny, sitting here? Exactly a doll! By God - exactly a doll!
- Think about what you are saying! – the nanny snapped. - Such days, and she swears. Is it appropriate to swear on such days? The man was at confession, but looking at you, you’ll have time to get dirty before communion.
The maid was scared.
- It's my fault, nanny! Congratulations on your confession.
- "Congratulations!" Nowadays they really congratulate! Nowadays they strive to offend and reproach a person. Just now their liqueur spilled. Who knows what she spilled. You won’t be smarter than God either. And the little lady says: “It’s probably the nanny who spilled it!” From such a age and such words.
– It’s even amazing, nanny! They are so small and already know everything!
- These children, mother, are worse than obstetricians! That's what they are, children of today. What do I care? I don't judge. I was at confession, now I'm up to tomorrow I won’t swallow poppy dewdrops, let alone... And you say – congratulations. There's an old lady fasting in the fourth week; I say to Sonechka: “Congratulate the little woman.” And she snorts: “Here you go!” I really need it!” And I say: “You have to respect the little woman!” The old woman will die and may be deprived of her inheritance.” Yes, if only I had some kind of woman, I would find something to congratulate every day. WITH good morning, grandma! Yes with good weather! Yes, happy holiday! Yes, happy birthday! Have a happy bite! What do I care? I don't judge. I’m going to take communion tomorrow, all I’m saying is that it’s not good and quite shameful.
- You should rest, nanny! - the maid fawned.
“I’ll stretch my legs and lie down in a coffin.” I'm taking a rest. There will be time for you to rejoice. They would have disappeared from the world long ago, but I won’t give myself to you. The young bone crunches on the teeth, and the old bone gets stuck in the throat. You won't eat it.
- And what are you, nanny! And everyone is just looking at you, as if to respect you.
- No, don’t tell me about respecters. You have respect, but no one respected me even from a young age, so in my old age it’s too late for me to be ashamed. Better than the coachman over there, go and ask where he took the lady the other day... That’s what you ask.
- Oh, what are you talking about, nanny! – the maid whispered and even squatted down in front of the old woman. -Where did he take it? I, by God, don’t tell anyone...
- Don’t be afraid. It's a sin to swear! For godlessness, you know how God will punish you! And he took me to a place where they show men moving. They move and sing. They spread out a sheet, and they move around on it. The little lady told me. You see, it’s not enough on her own, so she took the girl too. I would have found out myself, taken a good twig and driven it along Zakharyevskaya! There's just no one to tell. Do the people of today understand the lies? Nowadays, everyone only cares about themselves. Ugh! Whatever you remember, you will sin! Lord forgive me!
“The master is a busy man, of course, it’s hard for him to see everything,” the maid sang, modestly lowering her eyes. - They are pretty people.
- I know your master! I've known it since childhood! If I didn’t have to go to communion tomorrow, I would tell you about your master! Been like this since childhood! People are going to mass - ours has not yet recovered. People from the church are coming - ours is drinking tea and coffee. And I just can’t imagine how the Holy Mother, a lazy, free-spirited man, managed to reach the level of a general! I really think: he stole this rank for himself! Wherever he is, he stole it! There’s just no one to try! And I’ve been realizing for a long time that I stole it. They think: the nanny is an old fool, so with her everything is possible! Stupid, maybe even stupid. But not everyone can be smart, someone needs to be stupid.
The maid looked back at the door in fear.
- Our business, nanny, is official. God be with him! Let go! It's not for us to sort it out. Will you go to church early in the morning?
“I might not go to bed at all.” I want to come to church before everyone else. So that all sorts of rubbish does not get ahead of people. Every cricket knows its nest.
- Who is it that’s climbing?
- Yes, the old lady is alone here. Chilling, in which the soul is held. God forgive me, the scoundrel will come to the church before everyone else, and he will leave later than everyone else. One day he will outlast everyone. And I would like to sit down for a minute! All of us old women are surprised. No matter how hard you try, while the clock reads, you will sit down a little. And this vitriol is nothing other than on purpose. Is it enough to just survive! One old woman almost burned her handkerchief with a candle. And it’s a pity that it didn’t burn. Don't stare! Why stare! Is it indicated to stare? Tomorrow I’ll come before everyone else and stop it, so I’ll probably reduce the momentum. I can't see her! I’m on my knees today, and I keep looking at her. You're a viper, I think you're a viper! May your water bubble burst! It’s a sin, but there’s nothing you can do about it.
- It’s okay, nanny, now that you have confessed, you have forgiven all your sins to your priest’s ass. Now your darling is pure and innocent.
- Yes, the hell with it! Let go! This is a sin, but I must say: this priest confessed me poorly. When I went to the monastery with my aunt and princess, I can say that I confessed. He tortured me, tortured me, reproached me, reproached me, imposed three penances! I asked everything. He asked if the princess was thinking of renting out the meadows. Well, I repented and said that I don’t know. And this one is alive soon. Why am I sinful? Well, I say, father, what are my sins. The oldest women. I love Kofiy and quarrel with the servants. “Aren’t there any special ones,” he says? What are the special ones? Each person has his own special sin. That's it. And instead of trying and shaming him, he took a vacation and read it. That's all for you! I suppose he took the money. I suppose he didn’t give change because I didn’t have much! Ugh, God forgive me! If you remember, you will sin! Save and have mercy. Why are you sitting here? It would be better if I walked and thought: “How can I live like this and everything is not good?” Girl you are young! There's a crow's nest on her head! Have you thought about what days it is? On such days, let yourself be allowed to do so. And there is no way around you, shameless ones! Having confessed, I came, let me - I thought - I’ll sit quietly. Tomorrow I have to go and take communion. No. And then I got there. She came and said all sorts of nasty things, worse than anything. Damn washcloth, God forgive me. Look, I went with such force! Not long, mother! I know everything! Give it time, I’ll drink everything to the lady! - Go and rest. God forgive me, someone else will get attached!
We recently devoted an essay to the very colorful figure of A.V. Rumanov.
About 30 years ago he “shocked” the St. Petersburg salons with the “filigree Christ.”
Later, in the same salons, Rumanov dropped in his soft, rumbling almost baritone:
Teffi is meek... She is meek, - Teffi...
And he said to her:
Teffi, you are meek.
In the northern skies of the Neva capital, the star of a talented poetess, feuilletonist and - now this will be a revelation for many - the author of charming, gentle and completely original songs was already shining.
Teffi herself performed them in a small but pleasant voice to the accompaniment of her own guitar.
That’s how you see her - Teffi...
Wrapped in a warm, fur-trimmed robe, her legs comfortably crossed, she sits with a guitar on her lap in a deep chair by the fireplace, casting warm, quivering reflections...
Smart gray cat eyes look without blinking into the roaring flames of the fireplace and the guitar rings:
Angry cats gnawing
U evil people in our hearts
My feet are dancing
With red heels...
Teffi loved red shoes.
It has already been published. They talked about her. They were looking for her cooperation.
Rumanov again, with his beaver haircut.
In the Caucasian mineral waters he created a large resort newspaper and attracted the best St. Petersburg “forces.”
One of the first visits is to her, “meek Teffi.”
I invite you to Essentuki for two or three months. How many?
And without waiting for an answer, Rumanov somehow quietly and deftly fanned out several new credit cards with portraits of Catherine the Great on the table.
This is an advance!..
Take him away! I love rainbows in the sky, not on my desk - came the answer.
Rumanov was not at a loss. Like a magician, he instantly pulled out a heavy suede bag from somewhere and poured a ringing, sparkling stream of gold coins onto the table.
Nadezhda Aleksandrovna thoughtfully poured these coins through her fingers, like a child playing with sand.
A few days later she left for Essentuki and there immediately increased the circulation of the resort newspaper.
It was a long time ago, a very long time ago, but it was still...
Time makes its mark, they say.
Both time and the press are extremely lenient towards Teffi. Here in Paris she is almost the same as she was with a guitar by the fireplace in red shoes and a fur-trimmed robe.
And the smart eyes with a cat's gray yellowness and a cat's frame are exactly the same.
We talk about current politics:
What can you say, Nadezhda Aleksandrovna, about the “League of Nations”, about its acceptance into its fold Soviet Russia, or rather the Soviet government?
First a smile, then two dimples near the corners of the mouth. Long-familiar dimples that resurrected St. Petersburg...
What can I say? I'm not a politician, but a comedian. There is only one thing: Everyone’s attitude towards the “League of Nations” is painfully ironic, and therefore, what is the price of whether it recognizes someone or not. And, really, nothing has changed and will not change because she adorned Litvinov’s bald spot with her laurels from his, Litvinov’s, not quite “Roman profile.” A farce, albeit tragicomic, but still a farce...
Having finished with the League of Nations and Litvinov, we move on to the amnesty announced by the Bolsheviks.
Is it really announced by them? - Teffi doubted? - The Bolsheviks, at least, remain silent on this subject. It seems to me that this amnesty is like a mirage in the desert. Yes, yes, the distrustful, exhausted emigration, perhaps, itself invented this amnesty and is clutching at it... Muslims say: “a drowning person is ready to grab hold of a snake.”
What can you say about modern Germany?
But I’ll say this: I had a story called “The Demonic Woman.” He was lucky. A collection of my things under this general title was published in Poland. On German“The Demonic Woman” was also published. And then I find out: some cheeky young German took this story and put it under his own own name. I’m used to being reprinted without a fee, but I’m not used to having someone else’s name put under my stories. Friends advised calling the young, promising plagiarist to order. They advised me to contact prof. Luther... It seems that at the University of Leipzig he occupies a chair... A chair - now I’ll tell you what. Yes, Slavic literature. I wrote to him more in order to reassure my friends.
To my great surprise, Professor Luther responded. Yes, how! With what ardor! A whole thing has arisen. Found a promising one young man, lathered his head thoroughly, threatened: anything like that again, and within Germany no one would ever publish a single line of his. The royalties for The Demonic Woman were awarded in my favor. The young man wrote me a letter of repentance on several pages. Not only that, but the venerable Professor Luther himself apologized to me for it. The corporation of German writers and journalists apologized. In the end, I felt ashamed myself, why did I start this mess?...
And now, having finished with Germany. two words about reprints in general. A large Russian newspaper in New York got into the habit of “decorating” its basements with my feuilletons from “Renaissance.” I turned to the Canadian Society of Russian Journalists to protect my copyright. Thanks to them, they took care of me, but there was no point in it! In response to threats of prosecution, the aforementioned newspaper continues to use my feuilletons and the number of reprinted stories has reached an impressive figure of 33. Alas, my nice Canadian colleagues do not have the authority of the most touching and all-powerful Professor Luther.
I knew it! No “real” interview is complete without this. What am I working on? I’ll tell you frankly, without hiding, I’m writing an emigrant novel, where, although under pseudonyms, but very transparently, I bring out a whole phalanx of living people, pillars of emigration of a wide variety of professions and social positions. Will I spare my friends? Maybe yes, maybe no. Don't know. I once had something similar with Chateaubriand. He also announced the publication of the same portrait novel. The alarmed friends immediately organized themselves into a society whose goal was to create a monetary fund named after Chateaubriand. Something like a propitiatory sacrifice to a formidable, punishing deity... I wouldn’t have anything against it, Teffi adds with a smile, and I have absolutely nothing against such a friendly fund in favor of me, a sinner. However, isn't it time to end? I'm afraid that I'll take up a lot of space for my special one in the magazine “For You”!
Well, it turns out that it’s no longer “For you”, but “For me”. So what else? I'm obsessed with newbie authors. People from all over send their works with requests to publish them. And in order for the request to be valid, they dedicate all their stories to me. They think that Teffi, delighted with such attention, will immediately rush to the appropriate editorial offices and, with a Browning in hand, force young authors to publish, at least in anticipation of the publication of flattering dedications. Taking this opportunity, I inform all my ardent correspondents that I, well, am not at all vain! True, there are some good stories, but most often my young people write about what they don’t know. And what he knows, he is silent about. For example, an author from Morocco sent me a story...Who would you think of? About the Eskimos! Although I don’t particularly care about Eskimo life, I immediately sensed something was wrong.
From aspiring writers we move on to our Parisian professionals.
Tell me, I ask, Nadezhda Alexandrovna, how can we explain such a squabble among our brother? It would seem equally disadvantaged? Why?
Angry cats gnawing
In evil people, in the hearts...
What a memory you have! - Teffi was amazed and cat's eyes sparks flashed. - Why? Everyone is exhausted, there is no strength to endure anymore...
Great Lent. Moscow.
The church bell rings with a distant, dull roar. Even blows merge into a continuous heavy groan.
Through the door, open into a room murky in the pre-dawn darkness, one can see a shadowy figure moving under quiet, cautious rustling sounds. It either unsteadily stands out as a thick gray spot, then blurs again and completely merges with the muddy haze. The rustling noises subside, a floorboard creaked and another one creaked further away. Everything was quiet. It was the nanny who went to church for morning.
She is fasting.
This is where things get scary.
The girl curls up into a ball in her bed, barely breathing. And he listens and watches, listens and watches.
The hum becomes ominous. There is a feeling of defenselessness and loneliness. If you call, no one will come. What could happen? The night is ending, the roosters have probably already crowed at dawn, and all the ghosts have gone home.
And their “relatives” are in cemeteries, in swamps, in lonely graves under the cross, at the crossroads of remote roads near the forest edge. Now none of them dare touch a person; now they serve early mass and pray for all Orthodox Christians. So what's so scary about that?
But the eight-year-old soul does not believe the arguments of reason. The soul shrank, trembled and whimpered quietly. An eight-year-old soul does not believe that it is a bell buzzing. Later, during the day, she will believe, but now, in anguish, in defenseless loneliness, she “doesn’t know” that this is just good news. For her, this hum is an unknown thing. Something sinister. If melancholy and fear are translated into sound, then there will be this hum. If melancholy 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 a long time. for many years, for life. This creature will wake up at dawn from incomprehensible melancholy and fear. Doctors will prescribe her sedatives and advise her evening walks, open the window at night, quit smoking, sleep with a heating pad on the liver, sleep in an unheated room and much, much more will be advised to her. But nothing will erase from the soul the stamp of pre-dawn despair that has long been placed on it.
The girl was given the nickname “Kishmish”. Kishmish is a small Caucasian raisin. They probably called her that because short stature, small nose, small hands. In general, a trifle, small fry. By the age of thirteen, she will quickly stretch out, 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, in a grandiose, extraordinary way. Become, for example, a famous strongman, bend horseshoes, stop a madly racing troika in its tracks. It was also tempting to be a robber or, perhaps even better, an executioner. The executioner is more powerful than the robber, because he will win in the end. And could any of the adults, looking at the thin, fair-haired, short-haired girl quietly knitting a beaded ring, could it have occurred to anyone what menacing and powerful dreams were roaming in her head? By the way, there was another dream - to be a terrible ugly person, not just ugly, but such that people would be scared. She walked up to the mirror, squinted her eyes, stretched her mouth and stuck her tongue out to the side. At the same time, she first said in a bass voice, on behalf of the unknown gentleman, who does not see her face, but speaks into the back of her head:
- Let me invite you, madam, to a square dance.
Then a face was made, a full turn, and the answer to the gentleman followed:
- OK. Just kiss my crooked cheek first.
It was assumed that the gentleman runs away in horror. And then after him:
- Ha! Ha! Ha! Don't you dare!
Kishmish was taught science. At first - only the Law of God and penmanship.
They taught that every task must begin with prayer.
Kishmish liked this. But keeping in mind, by the way, the career of a robber, Kishmish became alarmed.
“And robbers,” asked Kishmish, “when they go to robber, should they also pray?”
The answer was unclear. They answered: “Don’t talk nonsense.” And Kishmish did not understand whether this meant that the robbers did not need to pray, or that they absolutely did, and this was so clear that it was stupid to ask about it.
When Kishmish grew up and went to confession for the first time, a turning point occurred in her soul. Terrible and powerful dreams faded.
The trio sang very well in fasting, “May my prayer be corrected.”
Three boys walked out into the middle of the church, stopped at the very altar and sang in angelic voices. And under these blissful sounds the soul was humbled and touched. I wanted to be white, light, airy, transparent, to fly away in the sounds and smoke of incense to the very dome where the white dove of the Holy Spirit spread its wings.
There was no place for a robber here. And it was not at all suitable for an executioner or even a strong man to be here. The ugly monster would stand behind a door somewhere and cover her face. It would be inappropriate to scare people here. Oh, if only it were possible to become a saint! How wonderful it would be! Being a saint is so beautiful, so tender. And this is above everything and above everyone. This is more important than all teachers and bosses and all governors.
But how to become a saint? We'll have to do miracles, but Kishmish didn't know how to do miracles one bit. But that’s not where they start. They start with a holy life. You need to become meek and kind, give everything to the poor, indulge in fasting and abstinence.
Now how to give everything to the poor? She has a new spring coat. First of all, give it away.
But how angry will mom be? It will be such a scandal and such a bashing that it’s scary to even think about. And mom will be upset, but a saint should not upset or upset anyone. Maybe give it to the poor and tell mom that the coat was just stolen? But a saint is not supposed to lie. Terrible situation. It’s easy for a robber to live. Lie as much as you like, and still laugh with an insidious laugh. So how were they made, these saints? The simple fact is that they were old - all at least sixteen years old, or even downright old. They didn’t have to listen to their mother. They directly took all their goods and immediately distributed them. This means you can’t start with this. This will come to an end. We must begin with meekness and obedience. And also from abstinence. You only need to eat black bread with salt, drink only water straight from the tap. And here again there is 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 me to drink raw water. But maybe when mom understands that Kishmish is a saint, she won’t make any obstacles?
How wonderful it is to be a saint. Now this is such a rarity. All your friends will be surprised:
- Why is there a glow over Kishmish?
- How, don’t you know? But she’s been a saint for a long time.
- Ah! Oh! It can't be.
- Yes, look for yourself.
And Kishmish sits and smiles meekly and eats black bread with salt.
The guests are jealous. They have no holy children.
- Or maybe she’s faking it?