From her birth until her death, which took her in Paris at the age of 80, the legendary Teffi had two qualities that, at first glance, were mutually exclusive. She wrote so simply and clearly that she was understandable to high society, clerks, seamstresses, and lawyers. But at the same time, simplicity itself was not worth a penny.
However, otherwise the name of Nadezhda Lokhvitskaya, the great Teffi, would not have been inscribed in the history of literature of the 20th century in golden letters. And she entered it, left a colossal literary legacy, introduced the fashion for “female humor” and left, remaining a mystery even to her biographers.
Nadya was born in May 1872 in the family of St. Petersburg lawyer Alexander Lokhvitsky. The eldest daughter, Mashenka, or Mirra, served high hopes like a subtle lyricist.
Her poems were admired by Konstantin Balmont (clearly in love with Masha) and Igor Severyanin, who considered her his teacher. But at the age of 36, Mirra died of tuberculosis. Balmont named his daughter Mirra in memory of the poetess Lokhvitskaya. Well, the Lokhvitskys’ youngest daughter, Nadya, also began with poetry - elegant and filled with humor and slyness.
Many of them were wonderfully performed with a guitar and then migrated to the stage for many years - take, for example, the famous “Dwarf”:
My black dwarf kissed my feet,
He was always so affectionate and so sweet!
My bracelets, rings, brooches
He cleaned it and stored it in the chest.
But on a black day of sadness and anxiety
My dwarf suddenly stood up and grew taller:
In vain I kissed his feet -
And he left and took away the chest!
1946, France, outskirts of Paris. Meeting of the Soviet delegation with emigrant writers: Boris Panteleimonov is standing in the first row on the left, Konstantin Simonov is on his right, Nadezhda Teffi is sitting on the left, Ivan Bunin is sitting on the right, third in a row.
But then Nadezhda concentrated on prose. Having chosen the pseudonym Teffi, she wrote wonderful humorous works, which in itself was, and remains, a rarity - there are not many female comedians. Teffi's stories and feuilletons were read, and at the beginning of the 20th century, the world of Russian prose no longer only had the king of satire and humor - the brilliant Arkady Averchenko, but also found a queen - Teffi. To Averchenko's talent high society treated them slightly condescendingly, and treated Teffi with wariness, but readers voted for them by reading. And if Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy, for example, did not take Teffi too seriously, then Sofya Andreevna Tolstaya simply became engrossed in her works. And Teffi also became a heroine in the eyes of young people: they were the ones who tore issues of “Satyricon” and “Russian Word” out of their hands! And her first book, “Humorous Stories,” published in 1910, was reprinted ten times before the revolution! At the same time, she released the collection “Humanoids,” “Smoke without Fire,” “Carousel” and “And So It Became,” and theaters began staging her plays.
Before the revolution, both capitals of Russia - Moscow and St. Petersburg - went crazy for Teffi. They shot because of her, more than once, without even knowing her. Around her there was also a host of admirers, nicknamed “slaves,” - they fought among themselves for the right to sit or lie at the feet of the “mistress.”
Nicholas II himself, discussing what should be in the album for the 300th anniversary of the House of Romanov, exclaimed that Teffi definitely wants to see in it: “Taffy! Only her. You don't need anyone but her.
One Teffi! Chocolates “Taffy” and perfumes with the same name were sold out instantly. By the way, where did the name Teffi come from? Nadya searched for him for a long time, painfully thinking: “I need a name that would bring happiness. The best name is the name of some fool - fools are always happy.” One day she remembered such a fool, who was also lucky: his name was Stepan, or Steffy for the family. Having dropped the first letter of the name, “so that the fool does not become arrogant,” Nadya signed one of her plays: “Taffy.” At the premiere, a journalist asked her about the origin of the pseudonym, and she embarrassedly replied that it was “such a surname.” And someone suggested that the name was taken from Kipling’s song “Taffy of Wales.” Nadya laughed and... agreed with this version.
Circa 1925. Teffi during emigration
She seemed open, and she was. Only her personal life was tightly curtained from prying eyes - her personal life. Teffi never wrote about her. Maybe because she was too atypical for a woman in her circle. Only one thing is officially known: Nadezhda Lokhvitskaya early married a Pole, Vladislav Buchinsky, who, after graduating from the Faculty of Law, served as a judge in Tikhvin. Soon after the birth of the first child in the family (in 1892), he left the service and settled on his estate near Mogilev. In 1900, after the birth of her second daughter, Nadezhda suddenly separated from her husband, went to St. Petersburg and since then completely immersed herself in literary life.
Could a woman like Teffi live without love? It doesn't look like it. She was too lively to live without passions. But what could make her lonely? I would venture to make an assumption that occurred to me many years ago, when I just began to get interested in Teffi, which had just been reissued after perestroika.
Only secret love - without outcome, deep and doomed, could make her, brilliant, turn away from her admirers and choose loneliness. She was too smart to like mediocrity.
Her chosen one had to be, first of all, a talent with a capital T, an inexhaustible talent, bright in appearance, and also infinite...
not free. After all, Teffi would be cramped in happy love... Reading her memoirs, I involuntarily caught a special, incredibly warm intonation towards only one person with whom the writer was friends all her life. Yes, it seems to me that Teffi loved... Ivan Bunin.
And he, confused in his women, was in a sense blind... He admired Teffi, adored her, trusted her with his innermost things, but could not even think that her soul could belong to him.
Independent, with a sharp tongue, Teffi was a cult for lovers of non-aesthetic literature. It fit perfectly into the context of any literary evenings, including those organized by Fyodor Sologub.
At the same time, Teffi was socially active - for example, she defended the need for security artistic values: “We demanded the protection of the Hermitage and art galleries so that there are no ambushes or massacres there.” But nothing came of these efforts, and soon the February and then the October revolutions broke out, after which Teffi could not remain in her homeland. First she lived in Crimea, then in Constantinople, and then, in 1920, settled in Paris. She will have to experience all the difficulties that accompanied the life of almost any emigrant - endure need, lack of demand, suffer from nostalgia. Teffi described her condition, as well as the condition of most emigrants, in one of the notes published by a Parisian newspaper: “Our refugees are coming.
Exhausted, blackened from hunger, they eat up, calm down, look around, as if to establish a new life, and suddenly go out. Eyes dim, limp hands drop, and the soul turned to the east withers. We don’t believe in anything, we don’t expect anything, we don’t want anything.
They died. They feared death at home and died here. Here we are - death has been corrected by death. We only think about what is there now. We are only interested in what comes from there...”… The early 1920s in Paris is a magnificent French “Russian bottling”. Teffi was not alone in Paris: there were all her colleagues nearby, Bunin and Muromtseva, Berberova and Khodasevich, Gippius and Merezhkovsky. She wrote, and so successfully that in 1920 one of her works was republished by Pravda! Her plays were slowly staged, and her whole life flowed slowly - in isolation from the land on which she was born, even Teffi’s star slowly dimmed... She needed nourishment, injections of impressions, a shake-up. But all this was, as Averchenko wrote, “shards of something broken to pieces.”
Presumably 1916. At the height of the First World War, Teffi went to the front line many times and worked there as a nurse. In the photo she shows off trophies brought from the war, including a captured German rifle with a bayonet
And then those who were dear began to leave. By the time of the occupation of Paris by the troops of Nazi Germany, Teffi was no longer young. She did not leave the city, she bravely endured all the hardships, cold, hunger, nights in a bomb shelter. Sitting surrounded by exhausted people like her, Teffi counted her personal losses: the poet Khodasevich died before the war, Merezhkovsky passed away in 1941, Balmont in 1942... Bunin was and remained her joy.
And she was a joy to him. The life of the writer-genius was full of difficulties, and he found peace in communicating with Teffi - light, airy, wise and ironic. He was a brilliant prose writer, but not a literary comedian, and the way Teffi could make him laugh shocked him.
For example, Teffi wrote in the story “Town”: “The town was Russian, and a river flowed through it, which was called the Seine. Therefore, the residents of the town said so: we live poorly, like dogs on the Seine...” Bunin laughed homerically, forgetting about the problems.
They understood each other perfectly. But, I repeat, it is possible that Bunin did not see the main thing point-blank...
Once Bunin turned to Teffi jokingly: “Nadezhda Alexandrovna! I kiss your hands and other things!”
“Oh, thank you, Ivan Alekseevich, thank you! Thanks for the stuff. No one has kissed them for a long time!” - Teffi instantly sneered at herself.
She was always joking. Even when it hurt.
Writer Ivan Bunin in 1901
After the war, Teffi began to be actively printed in the USA. Paris lived with her witticisms. And in 1946, the Soviet delegation came to Paris specifically to provide explanations regarding the Government Decree on the return of Russian emigrants to their homeland. They talked a lot with Konstantin Simonov, which he would later describe in his memoirs, and Teffi’s heart would ache - how and where did everything she lived with a long time ago go... What was the joy of her life? People, as always, are just people. She knew how to find the good and the good in any person. I discovered that the demonic Fyodor Sologub is incredibly kind, and the cold Gippius is actually just wearing a mask, being sweet and gentle. She was concerned about people as individuals: “I dream,” she said shortly before her death, “to write about minor characters. Most of all I want to write about Alexei Alexandrovich Karenin, Anna’s husband.
We are terribly unfair to him!” And this is all Teffi.
She spent the last years of her life on a quiet street in Paris, Rue Boissiere, her eldest daughter Valentina (Valeria) Vladislavovna Grabovskaya, who lost her husband during the war, worked in London, the youngest, Elena Vladislavovna, a dramatic actress, lived in Warsaw. Having celebrated her next name day, a week later, on October 6, 1952, Teffi died. She was buried in the Russian cemetery of Sainte-Genevieve-des-Bois near Paris. There weren't many people. Bunin was buried right there a year later. Behind the academician's grave, Nobel laureate eleven people walked.
CIATATA
Nadezhda Lokhvitskaya, Teffi, writer
“Life, like fiction, is terribly tasteless. She can suddenly crumple, crumple, break off a beautiful, bright novel in the most ridiculous and absurd position, and attribute the ending from “Hamlet” to a stupid little vaudeville show...
TEFFY, NADEZHDA ALEXANDROVNA(real name - Lokhvitskaya, married name - Buchinskaya) (1872–1952), Russian writer. Born on May 9 (21), according to other sources - April 27 (May 9), 1872 in St. Petersburg (according to other sources - in Volyn province). Daughter of criminology professor, publisher of the journal “Court Bulletin” A.V. Lokhvitsky, sister of the poetess Mirra (Maria) Lokhvitskaya (“Russian Sappho”). The first humorous stories and a play were signed with the pseudonym Teffi Women's question(1907). The poems with which Lokhvitskaya made her debut in 1901 were published under her maiden name.
The origin of the pseudonym Teffi remains unclear. As indicated by herself, it goes back to the home nickname of the Lokhvitsky servant Stepan (Steffi), but also to the poems of R. Kipling “Taffy was a walesman / Taffy was a thief”. The stories and skits that appeared behind this signature were so popular in pre-revolutionary Russia that there was even “Taffy” perfume and candy.
As a regular author of the magazines “Satyricon” and “New Satyricon” (Taffy was published in them from the first issue, published in April 1908, until the ban on this publication in August 1918) and as the author of a two-volume collection Humorous stories (1910), followed by several more collections ( Carousel, Smoke without fire, both 1914, Unliving beast, 1916), Teffi gained a reputation as a witty, observant and good-natured writer. It was believed that she was distinguished by a subtle understanding of human weaknesses, kindness and compassion for her hapless characters.
Teffi's favorite genre is miniatures based on the description of an insignificant comic incident. She prefaced her two-volume work with an epigraph from Ethics B. Spinoza, who accurately determines the tone of many of her works: “For laughter is joy, and therefore in itself is good.” Brief period revolutionary sentiments, which in 1905 prompted the aspiring Teffi to collaborate in the Bolshevik newspaper " New life", did not leave a noticeable mark on her work. Attempts to write social feuilletons with topical issues, which the editors of the newspaper expected from Teffi, also did not bring significant creative results. Russian word", where it was published starting in 1910. The head of the newspaper, the "king of feuilletons" V. Doroshevich, taking into account the uniqueness of Teffi's talent, noted that "you cannot carry water on an Arabian horse."
At the end of 1918, together with the popular satirical writer A. Averchenko, Teffi left for Kyiv, where they were supposed to make public appearances, and after wandering around the south of Russia (Odessa, Novorossiysk, Yekaterinodar) for a year and a half, she reached Paris through Constantinople. In the book Memories(1931), which is not a memoir, but rather an autobiographical story, Teffi recreates the route of her wanderings and writes that she did not give up hope of a quick return to Moscow, although her attitude towards October Revolution she determined from the very beginning of events: “Of course, it was not death that I was afraid of. I was afraid of angry mugs with a flashlight pointed straight at my face, of stupid idiotic anger. Cold, hunger, darkness, the sound of rifle butts on the parquet, screams, crying, gunshots and the death of others. I'm so tired of all this. I didn't want this anymore. I couldn't take it anymore."
In the first issue of the newspaper " Latest news"(April 27, 1920) Teffi's story was published Ke-fer, and the phrase of his hero, the old general, who, looking around the Parisian square in confusion, mutters: “All this is good... but que faire? Fer-to-ke?” became a kind of password for those who found themselves in exile. Published in almost all prominent periodicals of Dispersion (newspapers “Common Deal”, “Vozrozhdenie”, “Rul”, “Segodnya”, magazines “Zveno”, “Modern Notes”, “Firebird”), Teffi published a number of books of stories ( Lynx, 1923, Book June, 1931, About tenderness. 1938), which showed new facets of her talent, as did the plays of this period ( moment of fate, 1937, written for the Russian Theater in Paris, Nothing of the kind, 1939, staged by N. Evreinov), and the only experience of the novel is Adventure novel (1931).
In Teffi’s prose and drama after emigration, sad, even tragic motives noticeably intensify. “They were afraid of the Bolshevik death - and died here,” says one of her first Parisian miniatures Nostalgia(1920). -... We only think about what is there now. We are only interested in what comes from there.” The tone of Teffi's story increasingly combines harsh and reconciled notes. According to the writer, hard time, which her generation is experiencing, still has not changed the eternal law that says that “life itself... laughs as much as it cries”: sometimes it is impossible to distinguish fleeting joys from sorrows that have become familiar.
In a world where many ideals that seemed unconditional until historical catastrophe struck have been compromised or lost, Teffi's true values remain childlike inexperience and a natural commitment to moral truth - a theme that dominates many of the stories that compose Book June and collection About tenderness, – and also selfless love. All about love(1946) is the title of one of Teffi’s last collections, which not only conveys the most whimsical shades of this feeling, but says a lot about Christian love, about the ethics of Orthodoxy, which has withstood the difficult tests that Russian history of the 20th century had in store for it. At the end of my creative journey - a collection earthly rainbow(1952) she did not have time to prepare for publication herself - Teffi completely abandoned sarcasm and satirical intonations, which were quite frequent both in her early prose and in the works of the 1920s. Enlightenment and humility before fate, which did not deprive Teffi’s characters of the gift of love, empathy and emotional responsiveness, determine the main note of her latest stories.
Teffi survived the Second World War and the occupation without leaving Paris. From time to time she agreed to give a reading of her works to the emigrant public, which became fewer and fewer every year. IN post-war years Teffi was busy with memoirs about her contemporaries - from Kuprin and Balmont to G. Rasputin.
😉 Greetings dear readers and guests of the site! Gentlemen, in the article “Taffy: biography, interesting facts and video” - about the life of the Russian writer and poetess, whom Emperor Nicholas II adored.
It is unlikely that any of the Russian writers or writers of the beginning of the last century could boast of enjoying the taste of chocolates with own name and a colorful portrait on the wrapper.
It could only be Teffi. Her maiden name was Nadezhda Lokhvitskaya. She had a rare gift for noticing funny moments in people's everyday lives and talentedly playing them out in her miniature stories. Teffi was proud that she could give people laughter, which in her eyes was equivalent to a piece of bread given to a beggar.
Teffi: short biography
Nadezhda Alexandrovna was born in the northern capital Russian Empire in the spring of 1872 in a noble family interested in literature. From a young age she wrote poetry and stories. In 1907, to attract good luck, she took the pseudonym Teffi.
The ascent to literary Olympus began with an ordinary poem published in the magazine “North” in 1901. And all-Russian fame fell upon her after the publication of two volumes of “Humorous Stories.” Emperor Nicholas II himself was proud of such a nugget of his empire.
From 1908 to 1918, sparkling fruits of the creativity of the humorist writer appeared in each issue of the magazines “Satyricon” and “New Satyricon”.
Biographers know little about the writer’s personal life. Teffi was married twice. The first legal spouse was the Pole Buchinsky. As a result, she broke up with him, despite having three children together.
The second union with the former banker Theakston was civil and lasted until his death (1935). Teffi sincerely believed that readers were only interested in her work, so she did not cover her personal life in her memoirs.
After the revolution of 1917, noblewoman Teffi tried to adapt to the new Bolshevik way of life. She even met with the leader of the world proletariat -. But the trickle of blood she saw flowing outside the gates of the commissariat in Odessa during her summer tour cut her life in two.
Caught up in a wave of emigration, Teffi ended up in Paris in 1920.
Life split in two
In the capital of France, Nadezhda Alexandrovna was surrounded by many talented compatriots: Bunin, Merezhkovsky, Gippius. This brilliant environment fueled her own talent. True, the humor was already mixed with a lot of bitterness, which flowed into her work from the surrounding joyless emigrant life.
Teffi turned out to be in great demand abroad. Her creations were published in publications in Paris, Rome, and Berlin.
She wrote about emigrants, nature, pets, and her distant homeland. Made literary portraits Russian celebrities, with whom she had ever met. Among them: Bunin, Kuprin, Sologub, Gippius.
In 1946, Teffi was offered an offer to return to her homeland, but she remained faithful. To support the elderly and sick writer, one of her millionaire admirers assigned her a small pension.
It was published in the USA in 1952 last book“Earthly Rainbow,” where Teffi summed up her life.
Nadezhda Alexandrovna lived to be 80 years old. She left the world, in her perception funny and at the same time tragic, on October 6, 1952. The writer left for posterity huge amount amazing poems, stories, plays.
Video
In this video additional and most interesting information“Taffy: biography of the writer”
In pre-revolutionary Russia, the name of the “queen of humor” Teffi (Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Lokhvitskaya) enjoyed enormous fame. The newspapers and magazines where she collaborated were obviously “doomed to success.” Even perfumes and “Taffy” sweets were produced. Among the admirers of her talent were people of all ages and classes. Her witticisms, funny phrases and words of the characters were picked up and spread throughout Russia, becoming popular.
In the 70-80s of the 19th century, daughters were growing up in the family of St. Petersburg lawyer Alexander Lokhvitsky. Parents - intelligent nobles - showed a keen interest in literature and passed it on to their children. Subsequently, the eldest, Maria, became the poetess Mirra Lokhvitskaya. Some of her poems were set to music. Their sound, as well as the personal charm of the author, captivated Igor Severyanin and Konstantin Balmont. The northerner considered the poetess one of his teachers, and Balmont dedicated poems to her. In memory of her, he named his daughter Mirra. Lokhvitskaya died early from tuberculosis and was buried in St. Petersburg in the Alexander Nevsky Lavra.
The poetess's sister became a humorist writer (a rare genre for a woman), and enjoyed recognition in Russia and then abroad. Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Lokhvitskaya (Buchinskaya) wrote under the pseudonym Teffi.
The beginning of her work is connected with poetry. Elegant and mysterious, they were easily perceived and memorized, they were read at evenings and kept in albums.
I had a crazy and beautiful dream,
It's like I believed you
And life called persistently and passionately
Me to work, to freedom and to struggle.
I woke up... Casting doubts,
An autumn day looked out my window,
And the rain rustled on the roof, singing,
That life has passed and that it’s funny to dream!..
..........................................................
My black dwarf kissed my feet,
He was always so affectionate and so sweet!
My bracelets, rings, brooches
He cleaned it and stored it in the chest.
But on a black day of sadness and anxiety
My dwarf suddenly stood up and grew taller:
In vain I kissed his feet -
And he left and took away the chest!
She also composed funny, crafty songs, came up with music for them and sang with a guitar. Nadezhda Aleksandrovna retained her passion for rhyme and guitar throughout her life. When her songs migrated to the stage, “Dwarf” was also in the performers’ repertoire.
Before emigrating, Teffi published his only poetry collection, “Seven Lights” (1910). In essence, Valery Bryusov sharply condemned him for the same thing: “If you like, there is a lot of beautiful, colorful, spectacular things in Teffi’s poems, but this is the beauty of expensive cosmetics, the beauty of the tenth copy, the effects of a clever director,” and Nikolai Gumilev sympathetically assessed: “The most pleasing thing about Teffi’s poems is their literary quality in in the best sense words". Later Alexander Vertinsky found in Teffi’s lyrics what he himself felt, including her poems in his repertoire: “To the cape of joy, to the rocks of sadness, to the islands of lilac birds - It doesn’t matter - no matter where we land, I won’t raise my heavy eyelashes...”
And yet, as a poet, Teffi was able to speak out not so much in lyrical, but in ironic and even sarcastic verses, which have not yet lost their freshness:
The century of materialism is hungry -
According to the precepts of Darwinism
Everyone is fighting.
The doctor sends his address to the newspapers,
And portraits for the exhibition -
Young poet.
Of the writers who are quick,
Together with Gorky on a postcard
Strives to take off.
And the prima donna dreams:
“Should I lose shamelessly
Gold and copper
Can I get poisoned from watermelon?
Or get captured by the Honghuzes,
To thunder?..”
In the spring of 1905, Teffi wrote an allegorical poem “Bees” (“We are poor bees, working bees! And night and day, needles still flicker in our exhausted hands!”), which someone sent to Lenin in Geneva, and it appeared there, in newspaper "Forward", however, under the title "Banner of Freedom". And in the fall, when the first legal Bolshevik newspaper “New Life” began to be published in St. Petersburg, it was reprinted here under its own title. “New Life” also published a caustic poem “Patron and Cartridges” about the decline of the career of St. Petersburg Governor-General Trepov. It was he who gave the troops sent against the rebellious workers a fierce order: “Don’t spare cartridges, don’t fire blank volleys.”
The poems were followed by stories and feuilletons. With enviable regularity they appeared on the pages of many newspapers and magazines. Long time Teffi collaborated in "Satyricon" (later "New Satyricon"); one of the founders, editor and regular author of the magazine was the tireless wit Arkady Averchenko. During the heyday of his creativity, he was called the “king” of humor. But in this genre, the “king” and “queen” worked differently. If Averchenko’s stories caused loud laughter, then Teffi’s were just funny. She used pastel colors and mixed a little sadness into the palette of humor.
Readers were captivated by the humorist's sharp gaze and sympathy for the characters - children, old people, widows, fathers of families, ladies: Humanized animals were also present in her stories. All over Russia, Teffi's new works were expected to appear, and the readership consisted of representatives of different social strata. Young people especially loved her.
Observant, sociable, independent in judgment, with high creative potential, she infected with optimism and brought a stream of revival into the literary and artistic atmosphere of St. Petersburg. Teffi took part in writers' meetings, concerts, charity events, commissions: And, of course, she visited the night tavern "Stray Dog", where one of the "slaves" happened to perform her songs on a small stage. At literary evenings with Fyodor Sologub, at the request of the owner, she regularly read her poems.
Most characteristic features Teffi had compassion and mercy. Over the years, these qualities declared themselves more and more loudly. She tried to see the bright beginning - kindness and tenderness where, it would seem, they were not there at all. Even in the soul of Fyodor Sologub, who was considered a “demon” and a “sorcerer,” she discovered a deeply hidden warmth. Teffi treated Zinaida Gippius in a similar way. They became close during the war, shortly after Merezhkovsky's death. In the cold Gippius - “White Devil” - Nadezhda Alexandrovna tried to discern something of herself. “Where is the approach to this soul? In every meeting I search, I search: Let’s search further,” she wrote. And, finally, she picked up “a certain key,” discovering in Gippius a simple, sweet, gentle person, hiding behind a cold, unkind, ironic mask.
Teffi spent 32 years in exile. In addition to Paris, her works were published in Berlin, Belgrade, Stockholm, and Prague. Throughout her life, she published at least 30 books (according to some sources 40), approximately half of which were published in exile. In addition to stories, feuilletons, plays, and poems, she has written stories and a novel. A special place in Teffi’s work is occupied by memories of Russian cultural figures - Z. Gippius, A. Kuprin, F. Sologub, Vs. Meyerhold, G. Chulkov. In turn, I. Bunin, Dm. Merezhkovsky, F. Sologub, G. Adamovich, B. Zaitsev, A. Kuprin left memories of the writer. Alexander Vertinsky used her lyrical poems in his songwriting.
In Teffi’s prose and drama after emigration, sad, even tragic motives noticeably intensify. “They were afraid of the Bolshevik death - and died here,” says one of her first Parisian miniatures, Nostalgia (1920). “... We only think about what is there now. We are only interested in what comes from there.” The tone of Teffi's story increasingly combines harsh and reconciled notes. In the writer’s view, the difficult time that her generation is going through still has not changed the eternal law that says that “life itself... laughs as much as it cries”: sometimes it is impossible to distinguish fleeting joys from sorrows that have become familiar.
In October 1952, Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi was buried in the Russian cemetery of Sainte-Genevieve des Bois near Paris.
.............................................................................
Teffi
Demonic woman
A demonic woman differs from an ordinary woman first of all
manner of dressing. She wears a black velvet cassock, a chain on her forehead,
bracelet on the leg, a ring with a hole "for potassium cyanide, which she
will certainly be sent next Tuesday", a stiletto behind the collar, rosary beads on
elbow and a portrait of Oscar Wilde on the left garter.
She also wears ordinary items of ladies' clothing, but not on
in the place where they are supposed to be. For example, the belt of a demonic woman
will allow himself to wear only on his head, an earring on his forehead or neck, a ring on
thumb, watch on foot.
At the table, the demonic woman does not eat anything. She never does anything at all
doesn't eat.
- Why?
The social position of a demonic woman can occupy the most
varied, but mostly she is an actress.
Sometimes it's just a divorced wife.
But she always has some kind of secret, some kind of anguish or something.
a gap that cannot be talked about, that no one knows and should not
know.
- Why?
Her eyebrows are raised like tragic commas and her eyes are half-lowered.
The gentleman escorting her from the ball and leading a languid conversation about
aesthetic erotica from the point of view of an erotic esthete, she suddenly says,
shaking all the feathers on his hat:
- We’re going to church, my dear, we’re going to church, quickly, quickly, quickly.
I want to pray and weep before the dawn has yet risen.
The church is locked at night.
The kind gentleman offers to sob right on the porch, but “she” is already
faded away. She knows that she is cursed, that there is no salvation, and humbly bows
head, burying his nose in a fur scarf.
- Why?
The demonic woman always feels a desire for literature.
And often secretly writes short stories and prose poems.
She doesn't read them to anyone.
- Why?
But he casually says that famous critic Alexander Alekseevich, having mastered
risking her life with her manuscript, read it and then cried all night and even,
It seems he was praying - the latter, however, is not certain. And two writers prophesy
she has a great future if she finally agrees to publish her
works. But the public will never be able to understand them, and it will not show
to their crowd.
- Why?
And at night, left alone, she unlocks the desk and takes out
sheets carefully copied on a typewriter and rubbed with an eraser for a long time
scribbled words;
"Return.", "To return."
- I saw the light of the clock at five in the morning in your window.
- Yes, I worked.
- You are ruining yourself! Expensive! Take care of yourself for us!
- Why?
At a table laden with delicious things, she lowers her eyes, drawn
irresistible force to the jellied pig.
“Marya Nikolaevna,” says her neighbor, a simple, not
demonic woman, with earrings in her ears and a bracelet on her hand, not on
some other place, - Marya Nikolaevna, please give me some wine.
The demonic one will cover her eyes with her hand and speak hysterically:
- Guilt! Guilt! Give me some wine, I'm thirsty! I'll thread! I drank yesterday! I
I drank three days ago and tomorrow... yes, I’ll drink tomorrow too! I want, I want, I want
guilt!
As a matter of fact, what’s so tragic about it, that the lady for three days in a row
drinks a little? But a demonic woman will be able to arrange things in such a way that
The hair on everyone's head will stand up.
- He drinks.
- How mysterious!
- And tomorrow, he says, I’ll drink...
A simple woman will start to eat, she will say!
- Marya Nikolaevna, please, a piece of herring. I love onions.
The demonic one will open her eyes wide and, looking into space, scream:
- Herring? Yes, yes, give me some herring, I want to eat herring, I want it, I
Want. Is this an onion? Yes, yes, give me some onions, give me a lot of everything, everything,
herrings, onions, I'm hungry, I want vulgarity, rather... more... more,
look everyone... I'm eating herring!
Basically, what happened?
I just worked up an appetite and craved something salty! And what an effect!
- Did you hear? Have you heard?
- Don't leave her alone tonight.
- And the fact that she will probably shoot herself with this same potassium cyanide,
which will be brought to her on Tuesday...
There are unpleasant and ugly moments in life when an ordinary
a woman, staring blankly at the bookcase, crumples a handkerchief in her hands and says
trembling lips:
- Actually, I won’t be here for long... only twenty-five.
rubles I hope that next week or in January... I will be able...
The demonic one will lie with her chest on the table, support her chin with both hands and
will look straight into your soul with mysterious, half-closed eyes:
- Why am I looking at you? I'll tell you. Listen to me, look at
me... I want - do you hear? - I want you to give it to me now, - you
do you hear? - now twenty-five rubles. I want it. Do you hear? - Want.
So that it’s you, it’s me, it’s me, it’s twenty-five rubles. I
Want! I'm a tvvvar!... Now go... go..., without turning around, leave
hurry, hurry... Ha-ha-ha!
Hysterical laughter must shake her entire being, even both beings -
her and him.
- Hurry... hurry, without turning around... leave forever, for the rest of your life,
for life... Ha ha ha!
And he will be “shocked” by his being and will not even realize that she is just
I intercepted the quarter from him without recoil.
- You know, she was so strange today..., mysterious. Said,
so that I don't turn around.
- Yes. There is a sense of mystery here.
- Maybe... she fell in love with me...
- !
- Secret! ......
..................................................................
Teffi
FLOWER WHITE
Our friends Z live outside the city.
- The air is better there.
This means that there is not enough money for bad air.
We went to visit them with a small group.
We left quite safely. Of course, except for the little things: they didn’t take the cigarettes, they lost their gloves and they forgot the key to the apartment. Then again - at the station we bought one less ticket than we needed. Well, what can we do? We got shortchanged. Although there were only four of us traveling. It was a little unpleasant that they were shortchanged, because in Hamburg there was a horse that very quickly counted even to six...
We also got out safely at the station we should have been at. Although they had sometimes gotten out on the road before (i.e., to be honest, at every station), but having learned about the mistake, they immediately climbed back into the carriage very efficiently.
Upon arrival at our destination, we experienced several unpleasant minutes: it suddenly turned out that no one knew Z’s address. Each relied on the other.
A quiet, gentle voice came to our rescue:
- And here they are!
This was daughter Z, eleven years old, bright, fair, with blond Russian pigtails, like I had when I was eleven (I cried a lot because of them, a lot was pulled for them1...).
The girl came to meet us.
- I didn’t think that you would come! - she told me.
- Why?
- Yes, mom kept saying that you would either miss the train or go in the wrong direction.
I was a little offended. I am a very neat person. Just recently, when M. invited me to a ball, I not only wasn’t late, but even showed up a whole week earlier...
- Oh, Natasha, Natasha! You don't know me yet!
The clear eyes looked at me carefully and dropped.
Relieved that we would now get to where we needed to be, we decided to first go and relax in some cafe, then go look for a cigarette, then try to telephone to Paris, then...
But the little white girl said seriously:
- This is absolutely impossible. Now we need to go home, where they are waiting for us. And we embarrassedly and obediently followed the girl in single file. At home they found the housewife working over the stove.
She looked into the saucepan in surprise.
- Natasha, quickly tell me your opinion - what did I get - roast beef or corned beef?
The girl looked.
- No, my miracle, this time it was beef stew. Z was overjoyed.
- That’s great! Who would have thought! It was noisy at lunch.
We all loved each other, everyone felt good, and that’s why we wanted to talk. Everyone was talking at once: some were talking about Sovremennye Zapiski, others were saying that you couldn’t pray for Lenin. Sin. The church does not pray for Judas. Someone talked about Parisian women and dresses, about Dostoevsky, about the letter “yat”, about the situation of writers abroad, about the Doukhobors, some of us wanted to tell how scrambled eggs are made in the Czech Republic, but never got around to it, although he didn’t speak when they stopped, they interrupted everyone.
And amid this chaos, a little white girl in an apron walked around the table, picked up a dropped fork, put the glass away from the edge, cared, was sick at heart, flashing her blond pigtails.
Once she came up to one of us and showed me some kind of ticket.
- Here, I want to teach you something. You run the house, right? So, when you take wine, ask for a ticket like this. If you accumulate a hundred tickets, you will be given half a dozen towels.
She interpreted, explained, and really wanted to help us live in the world.
- How wonderful it is here! - the hostess was happy. - After the Bolsheviks. Just think - a tap, and there is water in the tap! There's a stove, and there's wood in the stove!
- My miracle! - the girl whispered. “You eat, otherwise you’ll get a cold.”
We talked until dusk. The little white girl had been repeating something to everyone in turn for a long time, finally someone paid attention.
“You need to leave at seven o’clock, it’s time to go to the station soon.” They grabbed hold and ran.
At the station there is a last urgent conversation.
— Tomorrow we’ll buy a dress for Z, very modest, but impressive, black, but not too much, narrow, but so that it seems wide, and most importantly, so that it doesn’t get boring.
- Let's take Natasha, she will advise.
And again about “Modern Notes”, about Gorky, about French literature, about Rome...
And the little white girl walks around, says something, convinces. Someone finally listened:
— You need to cross to the other side through the bridge. Otherwise, the train will come, you will hurry, run and be late.
The next day in the store, two three-leaf mirrors reflect the slender figure of Z. A small saleswoman with an oily head and short legs throws one dress after another on her. A white girl sits on a chair, her hands decorously folded, and advises.
“Ah,” Z rushes between the mirror. - What a delight! Natasha, what don’t you advise? Look how beautiful it is, there is gray embroidery on the stomach. Speak your opinion quickly.
- No, my miracle, you can’t have this dress. How will you manage every day with a gray belly? If you had a lot of dresses, that would be a different matter. And that's impractical.
- Well, how right are you! - Z defends himself. But he doesn’t dare disobey. We're heading for the exit.
“Oh,” Z screams. “Oh, what collars!” This is my dream! Natasha, drag me past quickly so that I don’t get carried away.
The white girl takes her mother's hand with concern.
- And you turn away, and you look in the other direction, my miracle, over there, where the needles and threads are.
“You know, Z whispers to me,” pointing with his eyes at his daughter. “Yesterday she heard our conversation about Lenin and said to me in the evening: “And I pray for him every day. He says there is a lot of blood on him, it’s very difficult for his soul right now. “I can’t,” he says, “I pray.”
(Link. Paris. 1924. March 3)
.........................................................................
Teffi
SOMEWHERE IN THE REAR
Before starting hostilities, the boys herded fat Buba into the hallway and locked the door behind her.
Booba roared and squealed. She will roar and listen to see if her roar reached her mother. But mother sat quietly and did not respond to Bubin’s roar.
She walked through the front bunn and said reproachfully:
- Oh, how embarrassing! Such a big girl is crying.
“Leave me alone, please,” Buba interrupted her angrily. - I’m not crying to you, I’m crying to my mother.
As they say, a drop will gouge a stone. Eventually my mother appeared at the front door.
- What's happened? - she asked and blinked her eyes. “Your squealing will give me a migraine again.” Why are you crying?
- The boys don’t want to play with me. Boo-hoo!
Mom pulled the door handle.
- Locked? Open now! How dare you lock yourself away? Do you hear?
The door opened.
Two gloomy types, eight and five years old, both snub-nosed, both crested, silently sniffled.
- Why don’t you want to play with Buba? Aren't you ashamed to offend your sister?
“We are at war,” said the older guy. “Women are not allowed to go to war.”
“They don’t let me in,” the younger one repeated in a deep voice.
“What nonsense,” my mother reasoned, “play like she’s a general.” After all, this is not real war, this is a game, a realm of fantasy. My God, how tired I am of you!
The older guy looked at Buba from under his brows.
- What kind of general is she? She's wearing a skirt and crying all the time.
- Do the Scots wear skirts?
- So they don’t roar.
- How do you know?
The older guy was confused.
“You better go take some fish oil,” my mother called. - Do you hear, Kotka! Otherwise you'll evade again.
Kotka shook his head.
- No way! I don't agree with the previous price.
Kotka did not like fish oil. For each reception he was entitled to ten centimes. Kotka was greedy, he had a piggy bank, he often shook it and listened to his capital rattling around. He had no idea that his older brother, a proud lyceum student, had long ago learned to dig out some loot through the crack of his piggy bank with his mother’s nail file. But this work was dangerous and difficult, painstaking, and it was not often possible to earn extra money in this way for an illegal plot.
Kotka did not suspect this scam. He was not capable of this. He was just an honest businessman, he didn’t miss his goals and conducted open trade with his mother. He charged ten centimes for a spoonful of fish oil. To allow his ears to be washed, he demanded five centimes, and his nails to be cleaned - ten, at the rate of one centime per finger; to bathe with soap - he charged an inhuman price: twenty centimes, and reserving the right to squeal when his hair was washed and foam got into his eyes. For lately his commercial genius had developed so much that he demanded another ten centimes for getting out of the bath, otherwise he would sit and freeze, become weak, catch a cold and die.
- Yeah! Don't want him to die? Well, just give me ten centimes and nothing.
Once, even when he wanted to buy a pencil with a cap, he thought of a loan and decided to pay in advance for two baths and for separate ears, which are washed in the morning without a bath. But somehow things didn’t work out: my mother didn’t like it.
Then he decided to take it out on fish oil, which, everyone knows, is a terrible disgusting thing, and there are even those who cannot take it into their mouths at all. One boy said that as soon as he swallowed a spoon, this fat would come out through his nose, through his ears and through his eyes, and that this could even make him blind. Just think - such a risk, and all for ten centimes.
“I don’t agree at the previous price,” Kotka repeated firmly. “Life has become so expensive, it’s impossible to buy fish oil for ten centimes.” Don't want! Look for another fool to drink your fat, but I don’t agree.
- You're crazy! - Mom was horrified. - How do you answer? What is this tone?
“Well, ask whoever you want,” Kotka did not give up, “it’s impossible for such a price.”
- Well, just wait, dad will come, he’ll give it to you himself. You will see if he will reason with you for a long time.
Kotka didn’t particularly like this prospect. Dad was something like an ancient battering ram, which was brought to the fortress, which for a long time did not want to surrender. The battering ram hit the gates of the fortress, and dad went into the bedroom and took out from the chest of drawers the rubber belt that he wore on the beach, and whistled the belt through the air - zzhi-g! burn!
The fortress usually surrendered before the ram was launched.
But in in this case It meant a lot to stall for time. Will dad still come for dinner? Or maybe he will bring someone stranger with him. Or maybe he will be busy or upset with something and say to his mother:
- My God! Is it really impossible to even have lunch in peace?
Mom took Buba away.
“Come on, Bubochka, I don’t want you to play with these bad boys.” You good girl, play with your doll.
But Buba, although it was nice to hear that she was a good girl, did not want to play with the doll when the boys would fight the war and beat each other with sofa cushions. Therefore, although she went with her mother, she pulled her head into her shoulders and began to cry thinly.
Fat Buba had the soul of Joan of Arc, and then suddenly, if you please, twirl the doll! And, most importantly, it’s a shame that Petya, nicknamed Pichuga, is younger than her, and suddenly has the right to play in the war, but she doesn’t. Pichuga is despicable, lisping, illiterate, a coward and a suck-up. It is absolutely impossible to bear the humiliation from him. And suddenly Pichuga, together with Kotka, kick her out and lock the doors behind her. In the morning, when she went to look at their new cannon and stuck her finger into its mouth, this short man, a suck-up, a year younger than her, squealed in a pig’s voice and deliberately squealed abnormally loudly so that Kotka could hear from the dining room.
And so she sits alone in the nursery and bitterly reflects on her unsuccessful life.
And there is a war going on in the living room.
-Who will be the aggressor?
“I am,” Pichuga declares in a bass voice.
- You? “Okay,” Kotka agrees suspiciously quickly. - So, lie down on the sofa, and I will fuck you.
- Why? - Pichuga gets scared.
- Because the aggressor is a scoundrel, everyone scolds him, and hates him, and exterminates him.
- I don't want! - Pichuga weakly defends himself.
“It’s too late now, you said it yourself.”
Birdie is thinking.
- Fine! - he decides. - And then you will be the aggressor.
- OK. Lie down.
Birdie sighs and lies down on his stomach on the sofa. Kotka swoops down on him with a whoop and, first of all, rubs his ears and shakes him by the shoulders. The bird sniffles, endures and thinks:
"OK. But then I’ll show you.”
Kotka grabs a sofa cushion by the corner and hits Pichuga on the back with all his might. Dust flies from the pillow. The bird quacks.
- Here you go! Here you go! Don't be aggressive next time! - Kotka says and jumps, red and crested. "OK! - thinks Pichuga. “I tell you all this too.” Finally Kotka got tired.
“Okay, that’s enough,” he says, “get up!” Game over.
Birdie gets off the couch, blinks, and puffs.
- Well, now you are the aggressor. Lie down, I'll blow you up.
But Kotka calmly goes to the window and says:
- No, I'm tired, the game is over.
- How tired are you? - Pichuga screams.
The whole plan of revenge collapsed. The bird, silently groaning under the blows of the enemy in the name of enjoying the coming retribution, now helplessly opens its lips and is about to roar.
- Why are you crying? - asks Kotka. - Do you really want to play? Well, if you want to play, let's start the game from the beginning. You will be the aggressor again. Get down! since the game starts with you being the aggressor? Well! Understood!
- But then you? - Pichuga blooms.
- Well, of course. Well, go to bed quickly, I'll blow you up.
“Well, just wait,” thinks Pichuga and busily lies down with a sigh. And again Kotka rubs his ears and hits him with a pillow.
- Well, that's it for you, get up! Game over. I'm tired. I can’t beat you from morning to night, I’m tired.
- So go to bed quickly! - Pichuga is worried, rolling head over heels from the sofa. - Now you are the aggressor.
“The game is over,” Kotka says calmly. - I'm tired of it.
Birdie silently opens his mouth, shakes his head, and large tears run down his cheeks.
- Why are you crying? - Kotka asks contemptuously. - Do you want to start again?
“I want you to ag-res-quarrel,” Pichuga sobs. Kotka thought for a minute.
“Then the next game will be such that the aggressor hits himself.” He is evil and attacks everyone without warning. Go ask your mom if you don't believe me. Yeah! If you want to play, then lie down. And I will attack you without warning. Well, it's alive! Otherwise I'll change my mind.
But Pichuga was already roaring at the top of his lungs. He realized that he would never be able to triumph over the enemy. Some powerful laws always turn against him. One joy remained for him - to notify the whole world of his despair.
And he roared, squealed and even stamped his feet.
- My God! What are they doing here?
Mom ran into the room.
- Why did they tear the pillow? Who gave you permission to have a pillow fight? Kotka, did you kill him again? Why can’t you play like a human being, but certainly like escaped convicts? Kotka, go, you old fool, to the dining room and don’t you dare touch Pichuga. Birdie, vile fellow, howler monkey, go to the nursery.
In the nursery, Pichuga, continuing to sob, sat down next to Buba and carefully touched her doll’s leg. There was repentance in this gesture, there was humility and a consciousness of hopelessness. The gesture said: “I give up, take me with you.”
But Buba quickly moved the doll’s leg away and even wiped it with her sleeve - to emphasize her disgust for Pichuga.
- Don't you dare touch me, please! - she said with contempt. - You don’t understand the doll. You are a man. Here. So nothing!
....................................................................................
Teffi
FOOLS
At first glance, it seems as if everyone understands what a fool is and why the stupider the fool, the rounder he is.
However, if you listen and look closely, you will understand how often people make mistakes, mistaking the most ordinary stupid or stupid person for a fool.
“What a fool,” people say. - He always has trifles in his head!
They think that a fool ever has trifles in his head!
The fact of the matter is that a real complete fool is recognized first of all by his greatest and most unshakable seriousness. Most smart person may be flighty and act thoughtlessly - a fool constantly discusses everything; having discussed it, he acts accordingly and, having acted, knows why he did it this way and not otherwise.
If you consider a person acting recklessly to be a fool, you will make a mistake for which you will be ashamed for the rest of your life.
A fool always reasons.
A simple person, smart or stupid, it makes no difference, will say:
“The weather is bad today, but whatever, I’ll go for a walk.”
And the fool will judge:
— The weather is bad, but I’ll go for a walk. Why should I go? But because sitting at home all day is harmful. Why is it harmful? But simply because it is harmful.
A fool cannot tolerate any roughness of thought, no unclear questions, no unresolved problems. He decided everything a long time ago, understood and knows everything. He is a reasonable person, and in every issue he will make ends meet and round off every thought.
When meeting a real fool, a person is overcome by some kind of mystical despair. Because a fool is the germ of the end of the world. Humanity searches, poses questions, moves forward, and this is in everything: in science, in art, and in life, but a fool does not even see any question.
- What's happened? What are the questions?
He himself answered everything a long time ago and called it a day. In reasoning and rounding off, the fool is supported by three axioms and one postulate. Axioms:
1) Health is most important.
2) There would be money.
3) Why on earth.
Postulate:
That's how it should be.
Where the first ones don’t help, the last one will always help.
Fools usually get along well in life. From constant reasoning, their face acquires a deep and thoughtful expression over the years. They love to grow a big beard, work hard, and write in beautiful handwriting.
- A respectable person. Not a helipad, they say about a fool. - There’s just something about him... Too serious, or what?
Convinced in practice that he has comprehended all the wisdom of the earth, the fool takes upon himself the troublesome and thankless duty of teaching others. No one gives as much and diligent advice as a fool. And this is with all my heart, because when he comes into contact with people, he is always in a state of severe bewilderment:
- Why are they all confused, rushing about, fussing when everything is so clear and round? Apparently they don’t understand; I need to explain it to them.
- What's happened? What are you grieving about? Did your wife shoot herself? Well, this is very stupid of her. If the bullet, God forbid, had hit her in the eye, she could have damaged her vision. God forbid! Health is more important than anything!
- Is your brother crazy from unhappy love? He really surprises me. I wouldn't mind it for anything. Why on earth? If only there was money!
One fool I personally knew, the most perfect, as if drawn by a compass round shape, specialized exclusively in matters of family life.
- Every person should get married. Why? But because you need to leave offspring behind. Why do you need offspring? And that’s how it’s needed. And everyone should marry German women.
- Why on German women? - they asked him.
- Yes, that’s really necessary.
“But then, perhaps, there aren’t enough German women for everyone.”
Then the fool gets offended.
- Of course, everything can be turned into a funny side.
This fool lived permanently in St. Petersburg, and his wife decided to send her daughters to one of the St. Petersburg institutes.
The fool objected:
“It’s much better to give them to Moscow.” Why? But because it will be very convenient to visit them there. I got into the carriage in the evening, drove off, came back in the morning and visited. And when will you get together in St. Petersburg?
In society, fools are comfortable people. They know that young ladies need to be complimented, the hostess needs to be told: “You’re all busy,” and, besides, the fool won’t give you any surprises.
“I love Chaliapin,” the fool makes small talk. - Why? But because he sings well. Why does he sing well? Because he has talent. Why does he have talent? Simply because he is talented.
Everything is so round, good, comfortable. Not a hitch. Give it a boost and it will roll.
Fools often make careers, and they have no enemies. They are recognized by everyone as efficient and serious people.
Sometimes a fool has fun. But, of course, at the right time and in the right place. Somewhere on a name day. His fun lies in the fact that he will busily tell some joke and immediately explain why it is funny.
But he doesn't like to have fun. This brings him down in his own eyes.
The whole behavior of a fool, as well as his appearance, is so sedate, serious and personable that he is received with honor everywhere. He is willingly elected as the chairman of various societies, as a representative of some interests. Because a fool is decent. The whole soul of a fool seems to be licked by a wide cow's tongue. Round, smooth. It won't catch anywhere.
A fool deeply despises what he does not know. He sincerely despises it.
—Whose poems were you reading just now?
- Balmont.
- Balmont? Don't know. I haven't heard such a thing. I read Lermontov. But I don’t know any Balmont.
One feels that Balmont is to blame, that the fool does not know him.
- Nietzsche? Don't know. I haven't read Nietzsche.
And again in such a tone that one is ashamed of Nietzsche. Most fools read little. But there is a special variety that learns all its life. These are complete fools.
This name, however, is very incorrect, because in a fool, no matter how much he beats himself up, little is retained. Everything he absorbs with his eyes falls out of the back of his head.
Fools like to consider themselves great originals and say:
— In my opinion, music is sometimes very pleasant. I'm actually a big weirdo!
How more cultural country, the calmer and more secure the life of a nation, the rounder and more perfect the shape of its fools.
And often the circle closed by a fool in philosophy, or in mathematics, or in politics, or in art remains unbreakable for a long time. Until someone feels:
- Oh, how creepy! Oh, how round life has become!
And it will break the circle.
...................................................................................
Have you noticed how new advertisements are composed?
Every day their tone becomes more serious and impressive. Where previously it was offered, it is now required. Where previously it was advised, it is now suggested.
They wrote like this:
“We draw the attention of our most respectable customers to our delicately salted herring.”
Now:
“Always and everywhere demand our tender herring!”
And it feels like tomorrow will be:
“Hey you! Every morning, as soon as your eyes are torn, run after our herring.”
For a nervous and impressionable person, this is poison, because he cannot help but perceive these orders, these shouts that rain down on him at every step.
Newspapers, signs, advertisements on the streets - all this tugs, shouts, demands and orders.
You wake up in the morning after a dull, sleep-deprived St. Petersburg night, pick up a newspaper, and immediately receive a strict order on your defenseless and unstable soul:
“Buy it! Buy it! Buy it! Without wasting a minute, bricks from the Sigaev brothers!”
You don't need bricks. And what should you do with them in a small, cramped apartment? You will be kicked out into the street if you bring any rubbish into the rooms. You understand all this, but the order has been received, and how much mental strength must be spent not to jump out of bed and rush for the damned brick!
But now you have mastered your spontaneity and lie there for several minutes, broken and wiping cold sweat on your forehead.
Opened your eyes:
“Demand our signature everywhere in red ink: Berkenzon and son!”
You nervously call and shout to the frightened maid:
- Berkenzon and son! Alive! And in red ink! I know you!
And the eyes read:
“Before you move on, try our floral cologne, twelve thousand scents.”
“Twelve thousand smells! - your tired mind is horrified. - How long will it take! I’ll have to quit everything and resign.”
You are threatened with poverty and bitter old age. But duty comes first. You can't live until you've tried twelve thousand floral cologne scents.
You've already given in once. You gave in to Berkenzon and your son, and now there are no obstacles or obstacles for you.
The Sigaev brothers rushed over you, yesterday's tenderly salted herring and coffee "Appetite" emerged from somewhere, which should be demanded from all intelligent people of our century, and scissors of the simplest design, necessary for every honest family of the working class, and a cap with "any cockade" , which needs to be checked out from Warsaw without being “shelved”, and a tutorial on the balalaika, which needs to be bought today in all bookstores and other stores, because (oh, horror!) the stock is depleted, and a wallet with a stamp that can be just buy it this week for twenty-four kopecks, but if you miss the deadline, your entire fortune will not be enough to get hold of this little thing, which is necessary for every thinking person.
You jump up and crawl out of the house like crazy. Every minute counts!
You start with bricks and end with Professor Bekhterev, who, yielding to the fervent requests of your relatives, agrees to put you in an isolation ward.
The walls of the isolator are covered with soft felt, and banging your head against them will not cause serious injury to yourself.
I have strong character, and I struggled for a long time with the dangerous spell of advertising. But still, they played a very sad role in my life.
It was like this.
One morning I woke up in some kind of scary, anxious mood. It was as if I hadn't done something necessary or had forgotten something extremely important.
I tried to remember, but I can’t.
The anxiety does not go away, but everything grows, coloring all conversations, all books, the whole day.
I can’t do anything, I don’t hear anything that they tell me. I remember painfully and cannot remember.
Urgent work is not completed, and anxiety is joined by dull dissatisfaction with oneself and some kind of hopelessness.
I want to pour this mood into some real nasty stuff, and I say to the servants:
“It seems to me, Klasha, that you forgot something.” This is very bad. You see that I have no time, and you deliberately forget everything.
I know that I can’t forget on purpose, and I know that she knows that I know this. Besides, I'm lying on the sofa and running my finger over the pattern of the wallpaper; the occupation is not particularly necessary, and the word “once” sounds especially bad in such circumstances.
But that's what I need. This makes me feel better.
The day is boring and loose. Everything is uninteresting, everything is unnecessary, everything just interferes with remembering.
At five o'clock, despair drives me out into the street and forces me to buy shoes of the wrong color.
In the evening at the theater. So hard!
The play seems vulgar and unnecessary. Actors are parasites who don’t want to work.
He dreams of leaving, shutting himself up in the desert and, throwing away everything perishable, thinking and thinking until he remembers that great thing that is forgotten and torments.
At dinner, despair battles and overcomes the cold roast beef. I can't eat. I stand up and tell my friends:
- Ashamed! You drown yourself with this vulgarity (gesture towards the roast beef) so as not to remember the main thing.
And I left.
But the day is not over yet. I sat down at the table and wrote a whole series bad letters and ordered them to be sent immediately. I feel the results of this correspondence even now and, probably, will not erase them in my entire life!..
In bed I cried bitterly.
In one day my whole life was devastated. My friends realized how morally superior I am to them, and they will never forgive me for this. Everyone I encountered on this great day formed a certain unshakable opinion of me. And the mail carries my bad, that is, sincere and proud letters to all corners of the world.
My life is empty and I'm lonely. But it doesn't matter. Just to remember.
Oh! If only I could remember that important, necessary, needed, my only thing!
And I was already falling asleep, tired and sad, when suddenly, as if a golden wire had drilled through the dark hopelessness of my thoughts. I remembered.
I remembered what tormented me, what I had forgotten, for the sake of which I sacrificed everything, what I was drawn to and what I was ready to go for, like for guiding star to a new wonderful life.
This was the advertisement I read in yesterday's newspaper.
Frightened, depressed, I sat on my bed and, looking into the darkness of the night, repeated it word by word. I remembered everything. And will I ever forget!
“Never forget that Monopol linen is the most hygienic because it does not require washing.”
Here!
......................................................................
Teffi
Devil in a jar
Palm Tale
I was seven years old then.
All objects were big then, the days were long, and life was endless.
And the joys of this life were undeniable, whole and bright.
It was spring.
The sun was burning outside the window, leaving early and, leaving, he promised, blushing:
“I’ll stay longer tomorrow.”
Here they brought the blessed willows.
Palm holiday is better than green. In it the joy of spring is promised, and there it is fulfilled.
Stroke the hard, gentle fluff and gently break it apart. It has a green bud.
- It will be spring! Will!
IN Palm Sunday They brought me a jack-in-a-jar from the market.
A thin rubber film had to be pressed, and he danced.
Funny little devil. Funny. It is blue, the tongue is long, red, and there are green buttons on its bare belly.
The sun hit the glass, the little devil became transparent, laughed, sparkled, his eyes bulged.
And I laugh, and I spin around, I sing a song that was specially composed for the devil.
- Day-day-nonsense!
The words may be unfortunate, but very appropriate.
And they like the sun. It also sings, rings, plays with us.
And I spin faster and faster, and I press the rubber band with my finger faster and faster. The little devil jumps like mad, clanking his sides against the glass walls.
- Day-day-nonsense!
The thin film has torn and water is dripping. The devil stuck sideways, his eyes bulging.
I shook the devil into my palm and looked at it.
Ugly!
Thin and pot-bellied. The legs are thin and crooked. The tail is hooked, as if stuck to the side. And his eyes rolled out, angry, white, surprised.
“Nothing,” I say, “nothing.” I'll arrange it for you.
It was impossible to say “you” if he was so dissatisfied.
I put the cotton wool in a matchbox. The devil arranged it.
Covered it with a silk cloth. The rag does not hold on, it crawls and falls off the stomach.
And my eyes are angry, white, surprised that I’m stupid.
It's definitely my fault that he's pot-bellied.
She put the devil in her bed to sleep on a pillow. She herself lay down lower and slept on her fist all night.
In the morning I look and he’s just as angry and surprised at me.
The day was clear and sunny. Everyone went for a walk.
“I can’t,” she said, “I have a headache.”
And she stayed to babysit him.
I look out the window. Children come from church, say something, rejoice at something, care about something.
The sun jumps from puddle to puddle, from glass to glass. His bunnies ran “if I catch it, I catch it”! Jump-jump. They laugh and play.
Showed the line. His eyes bulged, he was surprised, he got angry, he didn’t understand anything, he was offended.
I wanted to sing to him about “a rubbish day,” but I didn’t dare.
She began to recite Pushkin to him:
I love you, Petra's creation,
I love your strict, slender appearance,
Neva sovereign current,
Its coastal granite...
The poem was serious, and I thought I would like it. And I read it intelligently and solemnly.
I finished, and it’s scary to look at him.
She looked: she was angry and her eyes were about to burst.
Is this really a bad thing? And I don’t know anything better.
I couldn't sleep at night. I feel he’s angry: how dare I lie on the bed too. Maybe it’s cramped for him, I don’t know.
She got down quietly.
“Don’t be angry, damn it, I’ll sleep in your matchbox.”
She found the box, lay down on the floor, and put the box under her side. “Don’t be angry, damn it, it’s very convenient for me.”
In the morning I was punished and my throat hurt. I sat quietly, lowered a beaded ring for him and was afraid to cry.
And he lay on my pillow, right in the middle, to make it softer, his nose sparkled in the sun and did not approve of my actions.
I made a ring for him from the brightest and most beautiful beads that can be found in the world.
She said embarrassedly:
- This is for you!
But the ring came to nothing. The devil’s paws were stuck straight to his sides, and you couldn’t put any ring on them.
- I love you, damn it! - I said.
But he looked with such evil surprise.
How dare I?!
And I was scared myself - how dare I! Maybe he wanted to sleep or was thinking about something important? Or maybe you can say “I love you” to him only after dinner?
I didn't know. I didn’t know anything and started crying.
And in the evening they put me to bed, gave me medicine and locked me up warm, very warm, but a chill ran down my back, and I knew that when the big ones left, I would get out of bed, find a damn jar, climb into it and sing a song about “ the day is rubbish” and I’ll be spinning all my life, I’ll be spinning all my endless life.
Maybe he'll like it?
...................................................
Teffi
BROOCH
The Sharikovs quarreled over the actress Krutomirskaya, who was so stupid that she didn’t even know how to distinguish female voice from a man, and one day, calling Sharikov on the phone, she screamed right into the ear of his wife who came to answer the call:
- Dear Hamlet! Your caresses burn in my body with an endless number of lights!
That same evening a bed was prepared for Sharikov in the office, and in the morning his wife sent him a note along with coffee:
“I don’t want to enter into any explanations. Everything is too clear and too vile. Anastasia Sharikova."
Since Sharikov himself, strictly speaking, also did not want to enter into any explanations, he did not insist, but only tried not to show his face to his wife for several days. He left early for work, dined at a restaurant, and spent the evenings with actress Krutomirskaya, often intriguing her with a mysterious phrase:
“You and I are damned anyway and can only seek salvation in each other.”
Krutomirskaya exclaimed:
- Hamlet! You have a lot of sincerity! Why didn't you go on stage?
Several days passed in this way, and then one morning, precisely on Friday the tenth, while getting dressed, Sharikov saw on the floor, near the sofa on which he was sleeping, a small brooch with a reddish stone.
Sharikov picked up the brooch, looked at it and thought:
— My wife doesn’t have such a thing. I know this for sure. Consequently, I shook it out of my dress myself. Is there anything else there?
He carefully shook out his coat and turned out all the pockets.
Where did she come from?
And suddenly he grinned slyly and winked at himself with his left eye.
The point was clear: Krutomirskaya herself put the brochure in his pocket, wanting to play a joke. Witty people They often joke like that - they’ll slip their thing to someone, and then they’ll say: “Come on, where’s my cigarette case or watch? Come on, let’s search Ivan Semenych.”
They will find it and laugh. This is very funny.
In the evening, Sharikov entered Krutomirskaya’s dressing room and, smiling slyly, handed her a brooch wrapped in paper.
- Let me present it to you, hehe!
- Well, what's this for! Why are you worried? — the actress delicately unwrapped the gift. But when she unfolded it and examined it, she suddenly threw it on the table and pouted:
- I don’t understand you! This is obviously a joke! Give this stuff to your maid. I don't wear silver crap with fake glass.
- With fake glass? - Sharikov was surprised. - But this is your brooch! And is there such a thing as fake glass?
Krutomirskaya began to cry and at the same time stamped her feet - playing two roles at once.
- I always knew that I was nothing to you! But I won’t allow you to play with a woman’s honor!.. Take this nasty thing! Take it! I don’t want to touch her: she might be poisonous!
No matter how much Sharikov convinced her of the nobility of his intentions, Krutomirskaya kicked him out.
As he was leaving, Sharikov still hoped that all this would be settled, but he heard someone shouting after him: “Right there! Hamlet has been found! Unfortunate bureaucrat!”
Here he lost hope.
The next day, hope was resurrected without any reason, by itself, and he again went to Krutomirskaya. But she did not accept him. He himself heard them say:
— Sharikov? Do not accept!
And what was worst of all was said by a male voice.
On the third day Sharikov came home for dinner and said to his wife:
- Darling! I know that you are a saint and I am a scoundrel. But you need to understand human soul!
- OK! - said the wife. “I’ve understood the human soul four times already!” Yes, sir! In September I understood when they snorted with Bonna, and at the Popovs’ dacha I understood, and last year when Maruska’s letter was found. Nothing, nothing! And because of Anna Petrovna, she also understood. Well, now that's it!
Sharikov folded his hands, as if he were going to communion, and said meekly:
- Just this time, forgive me! Natochka! I'm not asking for last time! Don't forgive for the past. God be with you! I really was a scoundrel, but now I swear to you that it's all over.
- Is it over? What is this?
And, taking a mysterious brooch out of her pocket, she brought it to Sharikov’s very nose. And, turning with dignity, she added:
- I would ask you not to bring home, at least, material evidence of your innocence - ha ha!.. I found this in your frock coat. Take this rubbish, it burns my hands!
Sharikov obediently hid the brochure in his vest pocket and thought about it all night. And in the morning he took decisive steps to his wife.
“I understand everything,” he said. - You want a divorce. I agree.
- I agree too! — the wife was unexpectedly happy.
Sharikov was surprised:
- Do you love someone else?
- May be.
Sharikov sniffled.
- He will never marry you.
- No, he’s getting married!
- I would like to see... Ha ha!
- In any case, this does not concern you.
Sharikov flared up:
- Excuse me! My wife's husband is none of my business. No, what is it like? A?
We were silent.
- In any case, I agree. But before we part completely, I would like to clarify one question. Tell me, who was with you on Friday evening?
Sharikova blushed a little and answered in an unnaturally honest tone:
— It’s very simple: Chibisov came in for a minute. He just asked where you were and immediately left. I didn't even undress at all.
— Wasn’t Chibisov sitting on the sofa in the office? - Sharikov slowly chanted, narrowing his eyes shrewdly.
- And what?
- Then everything is clear. The brooch you poked in my nose belongs to Chibisov. He lost her here.
- What nonsense! He doesn't wear brooches! He's a man!
“He doesn’t wear it on himself, but he wears it and gives it to someone else.” Some actress who has never even laid eyes on Hamlet. Ha ha! He wears brooches for her, and she scolds him for being a bureaucrat. The case is very famous! Ha ha! You can give him this treasure.
He threw the brooch on the table and left.
Sharikova cried for a long time. From eleven to a quarter to two. Then she packed the brochure in a perfume box and wrote a letter.
“I don’t want any explanations. Everything is too clear and too vile. By looking at the item I am sending you, you will understand that I know everything.
I remember with bitterness the words of the poet:
So this is where my destruction was hidden:
The bone threatened me with death.
In this case, the bone is you. Although, of course, there can be no talk of any death. I feel shame for my mistake, but I don't feel death. Farewell. For me, bow to the one who goes to see “Hamlet”, wearing a fifty-kopeck brooch.
Did you get the hint?
Forget it if you can!
A."
The answer to the letter came that same evening. Sharikova read it with her eyes round with rage.
“Dear Madam! I have read your hysterical message and take this opportunity to take my leave. You made a difficult ending easier for me. I gave the piece you sent, obviously to insult me, to the Swiss lady. Sic transit Catilina1. Evgeny Chibisov."
Sharikova smiled bitterly and asked herself, pointing to the letter:
- And this is what they call love?
Although no one called this letter love.
Then she called the maid:
- Where is the master?
The maid was upset about something and even cried.
- Go away! - she answered. — They packed the suitcase and told the janitor to mark it.
- Ahh! Fine! Let it go! Why are you crying?
The maid winced, covered her mouth with her hand and began to wail. At first you could only hear “wow-wow”, then the words:
-... Because of rubbish, God forgive me, because of fifty kopecks I destroyed a man... or...
- Who?
- Yes, my fiancé is Mitka, the clerk. He, the darling lady, gave me a brooch, and it was lost. I searched and searched and was knocked off my feet, but apparently the dashing man stole it. And Mitriy shouts: “You are confused! I thought you had accumulated capital, but is it possible for those who are lost to have capital? He coveted my money... wow-wow!
- What brochure? - Sharikova asked, getting cold.
- Like a new one, with a little red one, like a lollipop, so she can burst!
- What is this?
Sharikova stood there for so long, her eyes bulging at the maid, that she even got scared and became quiet.
Sharikova thought:
“We lived so well, everything was sewn and covered, and life was full. And then this damned brooch fell on our heads and, like a key, opened everything. Now there is no husband, no Chibisov. And the groom abandoned Fenka. And why is all this? How can I close this all again? What should I do?
And since she didn’t know what to do, she stamped her foot and shouted at the maid:
- Get out, you fool!
However, there was nothing else left!
.....................................................................
Poor Azra*
Every day across the Anichkov bridge,
Across the Fontanka River,
Slowly walks by
Virgo working in a bank.
Every day in the same place
On the corner, by the bookstore,
She meets someone's gaze -
The gaze is burning and motionless.
The virgin is languid, the virgin is strange,
Virgo is purely sweet:
She dreams of his figure
And a pea coat**.
And in the spring, when I got through
In the squares the greenery of the first grass,
The maiden suddenly stopped
On the corner, by the bookstore.
"Who are you? - she said, - open up!
If you want, I'll burst into flames
And we are together by law
Shall we surrender to Hymen?
He answered: “I don’t have enough time.
I'm an agent. I serve in the secret police
And appointed by the authorities,
To be on duty on the Fontanka."
And I would also look at a Russian man,
The cunning Yaroslavl, Tver fist,
So that he scratches with a special grip,
How only Russian men scratch, -
Left thumb
Under the right shoulder blade.
So that he goes with a basket to Okhotny Ryad,
The eyes squint slyly,
The beard is furrowed:
- Master! Buy a chicken!
- What a chicken! Old rooster.
- Old. Yes, yes, we can
Two years younger than you!
In front of the map of Russia
In a foreign country, in a strange old house
Her portrait is hung on the wall,
Her, who died like a beggar on straw,
In agony that has no name.
But here in the portrait she is all the same as before,
She's rich, she's young,
She's in her lush green robe,
The way she was always drawn.
I look at your face like an icon...
"Hallowed be it your name, murdered Rus'!
I will quietly touch your clothes with my hand
And with this hand I will cross myself.
* Azra is the image of the martyr of love in Stendhal’s book “On Love” and in Heinrich Heine’s poem “Azr”.
** There was a police department on Gorokhovaya Street in St. Petersburg, and its agents were called “pea coats.”
Thanks to Marisha Roshchina
Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Lokhvitskaya was born on April 24 (May 6), 1872 in St. Petersburg (according to other sources in the Volyn province) in the family of lawyer Alexander Vladimirovich Lokhvitsky (1830-1884). She studied at the gymnasium on Liteiny Prospekt.
In 1892, after the birth of her first daughter, she settled with her first husband, Vladislav Buchinsky, on his estate near Mogilev. In 1900, after the birth of her second daughter Elena and son Janek, she separated from her husband and moved to St. Petersburg, where she began literary career.
Published since 1901. In 1910, the publishing house “Rosehipnik” published the first book of poems, “Seven Lights,” and the collection “Humorous Stories.”
She was known for her satirical poems and feuilletons, and was a member of the permanent staff of the Satyricon magazine. Teffi's satire was often very original; Thus, the poem “From Mickiewicz” of 1905 is based on the parallel between Adam Mickiewicz’s well-known ballad “The Voevoda” and a specific, recent topical event. Teffi’s stories were systematically published in such authoritative Parisian newspapers and magazines as “The Coming Russia”, “Link”, “Russian Notes”, “Modern Notes”. Nicholas II was a fan of Teffi, and sweets were named after Teffi. At Lenin’s suggestion, stories from the 1920s, which described the negative aspects of emigrant life, were published in the USSR in the form of pirated collections until the writer made a public accusation.
After the closure of the newspaper “Russian Word” in 1918, where she worked, Teffi went to Kyiv and Odessa with literary performances. This trip brought her to Novorossiysk, from where in the summer of 1919 she went to Turkey. In the fall of 1919 she was already in Paris, and in February 1920 two of her poems appeared in a Parisian literary magazine, and in April she organized a literary salon. In 1922-1923 she lived in Germany.
From the mid-1920s she lived in a civil marriage with Pavel Andreevich Thixton (d. 1935).
She died on October 6, 1952 in Paris, two days later she was buried in the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral in Paris and buried in the Russian cemetery of Sainte-Genevieve-des-Bois.
She was called the first Russian humorist of the early 20th century, the “queen of Russian humor,” but she was never a supporter of pure humor, always combining it with sadness and witty observations of the life around her. After emigrating, satire and humor gradually ceased to dominate her work, and her observations of life acquired a philosophical character.
Nickname
There are several options for the origin of the nickname Teffi.
The first version was set out by the writer herself in the story “Pseudonym”. She did not want to sign her texts with a man’s name, as contemporary writers often did: “I didn’t want to hide behind a man’s pseudonym. Cowardly and cowardly. It’s better to choose something incomprehensible, neither this nor that. But - what? We need a name that would bring happiness. The best name is the name of some fool - fools are always happy.” She "remembered<…>one fool, truly excellent and, in addition, one who was lucky, which means that fate itself recognized him as an ideal fool. His name was Stepan, and his family called him Steffy. Having dropped the first letter out of delicacy (so that the fool would not become arrogant),” the writer “decided to sign her play “Taffy.” After the successful premiere of this play, in an interview with a journalist, when asked about the pseudonym, Teffi replied that “this is... the name of one fool... that is, such a surname.” The journalist noted that he was “told it was from Kipling.” Teffi, who remembered Kipling’s song “Taffy was a walshman / Taffy was a thief...” (Russian: Teffi from Wales, Teffi was a thief), agreed with this version..
The same version is voiced by the researcher of creativity Teffi E. Nitraur, indicating the name of an acquaintance of the writer as Stefan and specifying the title of the play - “The Women's Question”, and a group of authors under the general leadership of A. I. Smirnova, attributing the name Stepan to a servant in the Lokhvitsky house.
Another version of the origin of the pseudonym is offered by researchers of Teffi’s creativity E.M. Trubilova and D.D. Nikolaev, according to whom the pseudonym for Nadezhda Alexandrovna, who loved hoaxes and jokes, and was also the author of literary parodies and feuilletons, became part of literary game aimed at creating an appropriate image of the author.
There is also a version that Teffi took her pseudonym because her sister, the poetess Mirra Lokhvitskaya, who was called the “Russian Sappho,” was published under her real name.
Creation
Before emigration
Since childhood, Teffi has been interested in classical Russian literature. Her idols were A.S. Pushkin and L.N. Tolstoy, she was interested modern literature and painting, was friends with the artist Alexandre Benois. Teffi was also greatly influenced by N.V. Gogol, F.M. Dostoevsky and her contemporaries F. Sologub and A. Averchenko.
Nadezhda Lokhvitskaya began writing as a child, but her literary debut took place only at the age of thirty. Teffi’s first publication took place on September 2, 1901 in the magazine “North” - it was the poem “I had a dream, crazy and beautiful...”.
Teffi herself spoke about her debut like this: “They took my poem and took it to an illustrated magazine without telling me a word about it. And then they brought me an issue of the magazine where the poem was published, which made me very angry. I didn’t want to be published then, because one of my older sisters, Mirra Lokhvitskaya, had been publishing her poems with success for a long time. It seemed to me something funny if we all delved into literature. By the way, that’s how it happened... So - I was unhappy. But when the editors sent me a fee, it made the most gratifying impression on me.”
In 1905, her stories were published in the supplement to the Niva magazine.
During the years of the First Russian Revolution (1905-1907), Teffi composed topical poems for satirical magazines (parodies, feuilletons, epigrams). At the same time, the main genre of all her work was determined - a humorous story. First in the newspaper “Rech”, then in “Birzhevye Novosti” every Sunday issue Teffi’s literary feuilletons are published, which soon brought her all-Russian love.
In pre-revolutionary years, Teffi was very popular. She was a regular contributor to the magazines “Satyricon” (1908-1913) and “New Satyricon” (1913-1918), which were headed by her friend A. Averchenko.
The poetry collection “Seven Lights” was published in 1910. The book went almost unnoticed against the backdrop of the resounding success of Teffi's prose. In total, before emigrating, the writer published 16 collections, and throughout her life - more than 30. In addition, Teffi wrote and translated several plays. Her first play, “The Women's Question,” was staged by the St. Petersburg Maly Theater.
Her next step was the creation in 1911 of a two-volume book “Humorous Stories”, where she criticizes philistine prejudices, and also depicts the life of the St. Petersburg “demimonde” and the working people, in a word, petty everyday “nonsense”. Sometimes the author comes across representatives of the working people with whom the main characters come into contact; these are mostly cooks, maids, painters, represented as stupid and senseless creatures. Everyday life and routine are noticed by Teffi evilly and accurately. She prefaced her two-volume work with an epigraph from Benedict Spinoza’s “Ethics,” which accurately defines the tone of many of her works: “For laughter is joy, and therefore in itself is good.”
In 1912, the writer created the collection “And So It Became”, where she describes not the social type of the tradesman, but shows the ordinariness of gray everyday life, in 1913 - the collection “Carousel” (here we see the image common man, crushed by life) and “Eight Miniatures”, in 1914 - “Smoke without Fire”, in 1916 - “Life-Being”, “Inanimate Beast” (where the writer describes the feeling of tragedy and trouble in life; the positive ideal for Teffi here is children, nature, people).
The events of 1917 are reflected in the essays and stories “Petrograd Life”, “Managers of Panic” (1917), “Trading Rus'”, “Reason on a String”, “Street Aesthetics”, “In the Market” (1918), feuilletons “Dog Time” ", "A little about Lenin", "We believe", "We waited", "Deserters" (1917), "Seeds" (1918).
At the end of 1918, together with A. Averchenko, Teffi left for Kyiv, where their public performances were to take place, and after a year and a half of wandering around the Russian south (Odessa, Novorossiysk, Yekaterinodar) she reached Paris through Constantinople. Judging by the book “Memoirs”, Teffi did not intend to leave Russia. The decision was made spontaneously, unexpectedly for her: “The trickle of blood seen in the morning at the gates of the commissariat, the slowly creeping trickle across the sidewalk cuts the road to life forever. You can't step over it. It is impossible to go further. You can turn and run."
Teffi recalls that she was still hopeful of a quick return to Moscow, although she had determined her attitude towards the October Revolution long ago: “Of course, it wasn’t death that I was afraid of. I was afraid of angry mugs with a flashlight pointed directly at my face, of stupid idiotic anger. Cold, hunger, darkness, the sound of rifle butts on the parquet, screams, crying, gunshots and the death of others. I'm so tired of all this. I didn't want this anymore. I couldn't take it anymore."
In exile
Teffi's books continued to be published in Berlin and Paris, and exceptional success accompanied her until the end of her long life. In exile, she published more than a dozen books of prose and only two collections of poetry: “Shamram” (Berlin, 1923) and “Passiflora” (Berlin, 1923). Depression, melancholy and confusion in these collections are symbolized by the images of a dwarf, a hunchback, a crying swan, a silver ship of death, and a yearning crane. .
In exile, Teffi wrote stories depicting pre-revolutionary Russia, the same bourgeois life that she described in collections published in her homeland. The melancholic title “So We Lived” unites these stories, reflecting the collapse of emigration hopes for a return to the past, the complete futility of an unattractive life in a foreign country. In the first issue of the newspaper “Last News” (April 27, 1920), Teffi’s story “Ke fer?” was published. (French: “What to do?”), and the phrase of his hero, the old general, who, looking around the Parisian square in confusion, mutters: “All this is good... but que faire? Fer-to-ke?”, became a kind of password for those in exile.
The writer was published in many prominent periodicals of the Russian emigration (“Common Cause”, “Renaissance”, “Rul”, “Segodnya”, “Link”, “Modern Notes”, “Firebird”). Teffi published a number of books of stories - “Lynx” (1923), “The Book of June” (1931), “About Tenderness” (1938) - which showed new facets of her talent, as well as plays of this period - “Moment of Fate” 1937, “Nothing of the kind” "(1939) - and the only attempt at a novel - "An Adventure Romance" (1931). But she considered the collection of short stories “The Witch” to be her best book. The genre of the novel, indicated in the title, raised doubts among the first reviewers: the discrepancy between the “soul” of the novel (B. Zaitsev) and the title was noted. Modern researchers point to similarities with the adventure, picaresque, courtly, detective novel, as well as the mythical novel.
In Teffi's works of this time, sad, even tragic motives noticeably intensify. “They were afraid of the Bolshevik death - and died here. We only think about what is there now. We are only interested in what comes from there,” says one of her first Parisian miniatures, “Nostalgia” (1920). Teffi will only change her optimistic outlook on life in old age. Previously, she called 13 years her metaphysical age, but in one of her last Parisian letters a bitter note slips through: “All my peers are dying, but I am still living for something...”.
Second world war found Teffi in Paris, where she remained due to illness. She did not collaborate in any publications of the collaborators, although she was hungry and in poverty. From time to time she agreed to give a reading of her works to the emigrant public, which became smaller and smaller each time.
In the 1930s, Teffi turned to the memoir genre. She creates autobiographical stories “First Visit to the Editorial Office” (1929), “Pseudonym” (1931), “How I Became a Writer” (1934), “45 Years” (1950), as well as artistic essays - literary portraits famous people whom she happened to meet. Among them are G. Rasputin, V. Lenin, A. Kerensky, A. Kollontai, F. Sologub, K. Balmont, I. Repin, A. Averchenko, Z. Gippius, D. Merezhkovsky, L. Andreev, A. Remizov, A. Kuprin, I. Bunin, I. Severyanin, M. Kuzmin, V. Meyerhold. When creating images of famous people, Teffi highlights any trait or quality that seems to her the most striking, emphasizing the individuality of a person. The originality of literary portraits is due to the author’s intention “to tell... simply as about living people, to show how I saw them when our paths intertwined. They have all already left, and the wind is covering their earthly footprints with snow and dust. They have written and will write more and more about the work of each of them, but not many will show them as living people. I want to talk about my meetings with them, about their characters, quirks, friendships and enmities." Contemporaries perceived the book as “almost the best of what this talented and intelligent writer has given us so far” (I. Golenishchev-Kutuzov), as “an epilogue to a past and irrevocable life” (M. Tsetlin).
Teffi planned to write about the heroes of L.N. Tolstoy and M. Cervantes, who were ignored by critics, but these plans were not destined to come true. On September 30, 1952, Teffi celebrated her name day in Paris, and just a week later she died.
In the USSR, Teffi began to be reprinted only in 1966.
Bibliography
Publications prepared by Teffi
- Seven lights - St. Petersburg: Rosehip, 1910
- Humorous stories. Book 1. - St. Petersburg: Rosehip, 1910
- Humorous stories. Book 2 (Apes). - St. Petersburg: Rosehip, 1911
- And so it became. - St. Petersburg: New Satyricon, 1912
- Carousel. - St. Petersburg: New Satyricon, 1913
- Miniatures and monologues. T. 1. - St. Petersburg: ed. M. G. Kornfeld, 1913
- Eight miniatures. - Pg.: New Satyricon, 1913
- Smoke without fire. - St. Petersburg: New Satyricon, 1914
- Nothing like that, Pg.: New Satyricon, 1915
- Miniatures and monologues. T. 2. - Pg.: New Satyricon, 1915
- And so it became. 7th ed. - Pg.: New Satyricon, 1916
- Lifeless beast. - Pg.: New Satyricon, 1916
- Yesterday. - Pg.: New Satyricon, 1918
- Smoke without fire. 9th ed. - Pg.: New Satyricon, 1918
- Carousel. 4th ed. - Pg.: New Satyricon, 1918
- Black iris. - Stockholm, 1921
- Treasures of the earth. - Berlin, 1921
- Quiet backwater. - Paris, 1921
- This is how we lived. - Paris, 1921
- Lynx. - Paris, 1923
- Passiflora. - Berlin, 1923
- Shamran. Songs of the East. - Berlin, 1923
- Town. - Paris, 1927
- Book June. - Paris, 1931
- Adventure novel. - Paris, 1931
- Witch. - Paris, 1936
- About tenderness. - Paris, 1938
- Zigzag. - Paris, 1939
- All about love. - Paris, 1946
- Earthly rainbow. - New York, 1952
- Life and collar
Pirate editions
- Instead of politics. Stories. - M.-L.: ZiF, 1926
- Yesterday. Humorous stories. - Kyiv: Cosmos, 1927
- Tango of death. - M.: ZiF, 1927
- Sweet memories. -M.-L.: ZiF, 1927
Collected works
- Collected works [in 7 vols.]. Comp. and preparation texts by D. D. Nikolaev and E. M. Trubilova. - M.: Lakom, 1998-2005.
- Collection Op.: In 5 volumes - M.: TERRA Book Club, 2008
Other
- Ancient history / General history, processed by Satyricon. - St. Petersburg: ed. M. G. Kornfeld, 1912
Criticism
Teffi's works were treated extremely positively in literary circles. The writer and contemporary of Teffi, Mikhail Osorgin, considered her “one of the most intelligent and sighted modern writers.” Ivan Bunin, stingy with praise, called her “clever and wise” and said that her stories, truthfully reflecting life, were written “great, simply, with great wit, observation and wonderful mockery.”
Although Teffi’s poems were scolded by Valery Bryusov, considering them too “literary,” Nikolai Gumilyov noted about this: “The poetess speaks not about herself and not about what she loves, but about what she could be, and about that she could love. Hence the mask she wears with solemn grace and, it seems, irony.” In addition, her work was highly appreciated by Alexander Kuprin, Dmitry Merezhkovsky and Fyodor Sologub.
The Literary Encyclopedia 1929-1939 reports about the poetess in an extremely vague and negative way:
Culturologist N. Ya. Berkovsky: “Her stories are similar to her contemporaries, Bunin and Sologub, the same ugly, sick, terrible life, but in Teffi it is also funny, which does not destroy the overall aching impression. The stories about children who always end up enduring the suffering of adults (the abominations of adults) in Taffy’s stories are unpleasant: children are a hangover at someone else’s feast. What speaks about the small stature of this writer, despite all her talents, is the painful feeling evoked by her writings. I firmly believe that there is no art without optimism.”