Visiting the Turks. A humorous description of the journey of the spouses Nikolai Ivanovich and Glafira Semyonovna Ivanov through the Slavic lands to Constantinople
A fast train had just emerged from under the vast, glass-covered railway yard in Budapest and was heading south toward the Serbian border.
In a first-class carriage, in a separate compartment, fairly already littered with matches, cigarette butts, and orange fat man with a blond trimmed beard and a young woman, not bad-looking, with a beautiful bust, but also already beginning to loosen and expand in width. The man is dressed in a gray suit jacket with a travel bag over his shoulder and a black lambskin jacket on his head, a lady in a camel-colored woolen dress with unusual puffs on the sleeves and a felt hat with standing wings of some birdies. They sat alone in the compartment, sat opposite each other on the sofas, and each had a feather pillow in white pillowcases on the sofas. Anyone who has been abroad at least once would say on these pillows that they are Russians, because no one, except Russians, travels abroad with down pillows. That the man and the lady were Russians could be guessed from the lambskin skullcap on the man's head, and, finally, from the enameled metal teapot that stood on a raised table by the carriage window. Light wisps of steam came out from under the lid and from the spout of the teapot. In Budapest, in a railway canteen, they had just brewed tea in a teapot.
And in fact, the man and the lady were Russian. These were our old acquaintances, the spouses Nikolai Ivanovich and Glafira Semyonovna Ivanov, who had gone abroad for the third time and this time were heading to Constantinople, having promised themselves to visit both Serbian Belgrade and Bulgarian Sofia along the way.
At first, the Ivanovs were silent. Nikolai Ivanovich was picking his teeth with a feather and looking out the window at the fields spread out in front of him, already devoid of snow, carefully plowed and sorted, smooth as a billiards, fields with the stripes of winter crops already beginning to turn green. Glafira Semyonovna took a small silver box out of her bag, opened it, took a powder puff from there and powdered her flushed face, looking in a mirror built into the lid, and finally said:
- And why did you give me this Hungarian wine to drink! His face is puffed up like that.
“It’s impossible, mother, to be in Hungary and not drink Hungarian wine!” - answered Nikolai Ivanovich. - And then at home someone will ask - did they drink Hungarian when they passed through the gypsy kingdom? And what will we answer?! I even ate this paprika with klobs on purpose. Klobs, klobs ... Here we have klobs - just a steak with onion sauce and sour cream, and here klobs is zraza, chopped zraza.
“Firstly, we call steaks with onions and potato sauce not just clobs, but shnel-clobs,” objected Glafira Semyonovna. - And secondly…
- Yes, as if it does not matter!
- No, it doesn’t matter ... Schnel in German means soon, on hastily... And if klobs without shnel ...
Well, you love to argue! - Nikolai Ivanovich waved his hand and immediately changed the conversation: - Still, in this Hungarian kingdom they are well fed.
Look how well they fed us at Budapest station! And what a great restaurant. Well done gypsies.
- Yes, as if all the gypsies are here? Glafira Semyonovna doubted.
- Hungarians are gypsies. You heard them talking: cook... gakhach... cr... gr... tr... throat. Just exactly like our Chaldeans in various suburban nativity scenes. And they have eyes with a saucer, and black -haired faces.
- You lie, you lie! We saw a lot of blonds at the stations.
- So, after all, in our gypsy choirs there are not a black -haired gypsies. Suddenly, some will be born not in a mother, not in a father, but in a passing young man, so what can you do with her! And finally, we have just entered the gypsy kingdom. Wait, the further, the Black Sea, ”Nikolai Ivanovich authoritatively said, moved his lips and added:“ However, his mouth burns with this paprika.
Glafira Semyonovna shook her head.
- And you want to eat all sorts of rubbish! - she exclaimed.
- What kind of rubbish is this! A plant, a vegetable... You can't sit everywhere like you, only on the broth and on the steak. I went to travel, educate myself to do not to be wild man and know everything. On purpose, we go to unfamiliar states and go to get acquainted with all their articles. Now we are in Hungary - and that there is Hungarian, then give it.
- However, the fishzupe demanded at the buffet, but he did not eat.
“I tried anyway. I tried and I know that their fishzupe is rubbish. Fishzupe - fish soup. I thought that this was something like our fish soup or a village woman, because the Hungarians have a large Danube river at their side, so I thought that there were a lot of fish of all kinds, but it goes quite the opposite. In my opinion, this soup is made from herring heads, otherwise it is made from fish heads and tails. I had some gills floating in my plate. Salty, peppery ... sour ... - Nikolai Ivanovich recalled, grimaced and, taking a glass from the corner on the sofa, began to pour tea into it from the teapot.
“Br…” Glafira Semyonovna made a sound with her lips, shrugged her shoulders convulsively and added: “Wait a minute… they’ll feed you some more crocodile if you ask for different dishes.”
- Well, what then? .. I will be very glad. At the very least, in St. Petersburg I will tell everyone that I ate a crocodile. And everyone will know that I am educated person without prejudice, that he even reached the crocodile in food.
- Fi! Shut up! Shut up please! Glafira Semyonovna waved her hands. - I can’t even listen ... I hate ...
- I ate a turtle in Marseilles when we went from Paris to Nice for the third year, I ate a frog with white sauce in San Remo. Ate with you.
- Come on, they tell you!
“I swallowed a shell in Venice from a pink shell,” Nikolai Ivanovich boasted.
“If you don’t shut up, I’ll go to the bathroom and sit there!” I can not hear such abominations.
Nikolai Ivanovich fell silent and sipped tea from a glass. Glafira Semyonovna continued:
- And finally, if you ate such disgusting things, it was because you were drunk every time, and if you were sober, you would never have had enough for it.
– In Venice, I was drunk?! exclaimed Nikolai Ivanovich and choked on his tea. - In San Remo - yes ... When I ate a frog in San Remo - I was drunk. And in Venice...
Glafira Semyonovna jumped up from the sofa:
"Nikolai Ivanovich, I'm going to the lavatory!" If you mention this nasty thing again, I'm leaving. You know very well that I can't hear about her!
- Well, shut up, shut up. Sit down, - said Nikolai Ivanovich, put an empty glass on the table and began to light a cigarette.
“Brrr…” Glafira Semyonovna shuddered again, sat down, took an orange and began to peel it off the skin. - At least eat an orange, or something, - she added and continued: - And I'll tell you more. You reproach me that I don’t eat anything in restaurants abroad, except for broth and steak ... And when we come to the Turks, I won’t even eat steak with broth.
- So how is it? From what? Nikolai Ivanovich was surprised.
- Very simple. Because the Turks are Mohammedans, they eat horses and can fry horse meat steak for me, and their broth can be made from horse meat.
- Fu-fu! Here you are and hello! So what will you eat in Turkish land? After all, you will not find ham among the Turks. It is forbidden to them directly by their faith.
- I'm going to be a vegetarian. I will eat pasta, vegetables - peas, beans, potatoes. I will eat bread and tea.
- What are you, mother! - said Nikolai Ivanovich. “After all, we will stay in some European hotel in Constantinople. Pyotr Petrovich was in Constantinople and said that there are excellent hotels there that the French keep.
- The hotels, perhaps, are kept by the French, but the cooks are Turkish ... No, no, I already decided that.
“Can’t you tell horse meat from bull meat!”
- However, after all, you still need to take it in your mouth, chew it ... Ugh! No, no, that's what I decided, and you won't talk me out of it,' said Glafira Semyonovna firmly.
- Well, traveler! Yes, if you please, I will taste the meat for you,” Nikolai Ivanovich suggested.
- You? Yes, you will deliberately try to feed me horse meat. Do I know you. You are a mischievous.
“What an incredible woman! How did I prove that I am a mischievous?
– Shut up, please. I know you inside and out.
Nikolai Ivanovich spread his hands and bowed touchily to his wife.
- Studied through and through. I remember how you rejoiced in Naples when I mistakenly ate a mule over a table d'hôte - those damned snails, mistaking them for morels, - his wife nodded to him. “You must remember what happened to me then. However, I’ll take off my corset and lie down, ”she added. - The conductor was given a guilder in Vienna, so that no one would be allowed into our compartment, therefore, there is nothing for me to be at attention.
“Yes, of course, take off this collar of yours and all the girths,” Nikolai Ivanovich assented. “There is no one to flirt with here.
- Why, everyone thinks that someone would not have broken in.
- No no. If he took a guilder, he won't let anyone in. And finally, up to now he has kept his word and has not let anyone in to us.
Glafira Semyonovna unbuttoned her bodice and took off her corset, placing it under the pillow. But as soon as she lay down on the sofa, the door from the corridor opened and the conductor with tongs appeared in the compartment.
“Ich habe die Ehre…” he said in greeting. – Ihre Fahrkarten, mein Herr…
Nikolai Ivanovich looked at him and said:
- Glasha! Yes, the conductor is new! Not the same conductor.
“Novi, novi…” the conductor smiled as he cut the tickets.
- Speak Russian? Nikolai Ivanovich asked him joyfully.
- Little, sir.
- Slavic brother?
- Slavs, gentlemen, - the conductor bowed and spoke in German: - Maybe the Russian gentlemen want them to be alone in the compartment?
In explanation of his words, he showed the spouses his two fingers.
- Yes, yes ... - Nikolai Ivanovich nodded to him. - Their hebe ... Glasha! We'll have to give it to him too, otherwise he'll let passengers into our compartment. That conductor, the scoundrel, remained in Budapest.
“Of course, give us ... We can spend the night in the car,” I heard from Glafira Semyonovna. “But don’t give now, and then, otherwise this one will jump off at some station and have to give to the third one.
“I’ll give you a guilder!.. Their hebe is a guilder, but then…” said Nikolai Ivanovich.
“Nakher… Fuck…” added Glafira Semyonovna.
The conductor, obviously, did not believe, muttered something in German, in Slavonic, smiled and held his hand handful.
- Does not believe. Ah, brother-Slav! Who do you think we are! And we still freed you! Fine, fine. Here's half a guilder for you. And the rest later, in Belgrade ... We are now going to Belgrade, - Nikolai Ivanovich told him, took out a change from his wallet and gave it to him.
The conductor tossed the change into his palm and spread his arms.
“It’s not enough, sir… We pray for one guilder,” he said.
“Give him a guilder!” Let it fail. We must have peace for ourselves at night! Glafira Semyonovna shouted at her husband.
Nikolai Ivanovich scooped up some change from the conductor's palm, handed him a guilder, and said:
- Come on, choke, brother ...
The conductor bowed and, locking the compartment door, said:
- With God, sir.
Füliopsdzalals
The train rumbles and rumbles as it rushes through the Hungarian steppes. Occasionally, villages flash by, reminiscent of our Little Russian ones, with clay huts painted in White color, but without thatched roofs, but certainly with a tiled roof. Estates come across even less often - certainly with a small residential building and huge outbuildings. Glafira Semyonovna lies on the sofa and tries to fall asleep. Nikolai Ivanovich, armed with the book "Translator from Russian into Turkish", studies the Turkish language. He mutters:
- Hello - salam alaikum, thank you - shukur, it's expensive - plowing holes, what costs - not deer, bring - gaitir, goodbye - Allah is smart ... You can break your tongue. Where are these words to remember! - he says, looks up at the ceiling and repeats: - Allah is a master. You will remember Allah, and never this ysmarladyh. Ysmarladykh, ysmarladykh… Well, further… – he looks into the book. - "Put the samovar." Glafira Semyonovna! he exclaims. - In Turkey, they know about the samovar, which means we won’t have to suffer with tea anymore.
Glafira Semyonovna raised herself on her elbows and hurriedly asked:
- And how is the Turkish samovar?
- Put the samovar - "suyu kainat", therefore, the samovar - "kainat".
- It really needs to be remembered well. Kainat, kainat, kainat ... - Glafira Semyonovna said three times and again lay down on the pillow.
“But there are words and easy ones,” continued Nikolai Ivanovich, looking at the book. - Here, for example, tobacco - "tyutyun". Tyutyun is also called here. Luggage - "uruba", money - "couple", village - "key", hotel - "khan", horse - "at", cabman - "arabaji" ... These are the most necessary words, and they must be learned as soon as possible. Let's sing, - he suggested to his wife ...
- How to sing? she was surprised.
- Yes, so ... They say that when singing, words are most likely to be remembered.
- You're out of your mind! Sing on the train!
“But we’re on the sly… The wheels are rattling, the compartment is locked—no one will hear.”
“No, I won’t sing, and I won’t let you. I want to sleep…
- Well as you know. And here Railway difficult word in Turkish: "demirinol".
- I just don’t understand why you started learning Turkish words early in the morning! After all, we are going to Serbia first, we will stop in Belgrade, - said Glafira Semyonovna.
– And where is my book with Serbian words? I don't have such a book. Yes, finally, the Slavic brothers will understand us anyway. Did you see a conductor from the Slavs just now - in at its best Understood. After all, they have all our words, but only in some special manner. Yes, here you are ... - he pointed to the heating regulator in the car. - You see the inscriptions: “warm ... cold ...” And over there, near the gas burner, to reduce and add light: “light ... darkness ...” Isn’t this clear? Slavic brothers will understand.
The train slowed down and stopped at the station.
- Look at the station. What is the name of? asked Glafira Semyonovna.
“Scabatse… It’s Hungarian, or something… You definitely can’t make out anything,” he answered.
- Yes, after all, it is written in Latin letters.
- Latin, but impossible to pronounce ... Szazba ...
Glafira Semyonovna got up and began to read herself.
The inscription read: "Szabadsz?ll?s".
- I'm crazy, or something! - she read and added: - Well, language!
- I'm telling you that it's worse than Turkish. Gypsies ... And probably, like our gypsies, they are engaged in horse stealing, divination and horse trapping, as well as about where something is bad. Look at the sheepskin coats they're wearing! And faces, what faces! Quite bandits,” Nikolai Ivanovich pointed out to the Hungarian peasants in their picturesque costumes. “There, the women are here ... The hem of the dress is almost to the knees and men's boots with high tops made of unoiled yellow leather ...
Glafira Semyonovna looked out the window and said:
- Indeed, terrible ... You know, on the one hand, it's good that we are alone in the compartment, but on the other ...
– Are you afraid? Well... Don't be afraid... I have a dagger in my travel bag.
- What a dagger you have! Toy.
- So how is it a toy? Steel. You do not look that it is small, but if it is right and left ...
- Come on! You'll be the first one to get scared. Yes, I don’t say anything about the day ... Now it’s day, but we will have to spend the night in the car ...
And don't worry at night. You sleep well, and I will not sleep, sit and watch.
- Is that you? Yes, you will fall asleep first. Sleep while sitting.
“I won’t sleep, I tell you. In the evening I’ll brew strong tea for myself at the station ... I’ll get drunk - and tea at its best will drive away sleep. Finally, we are not alone in the car. Some Germans are sitting in the next compartment. There are three of them ... Is it in case of something? ..
- Are they Germans? Maybe the same big-eyed Hungarians?
- Germans, Germans. You heard that they spoke German just now.
“No, it’s better to get enough sleep during the day, and sit and not sleep at night,” said Glafira Semyonovna and began to lie down on the sofa.
And the train had long since left the station with a hard-to-pronounce name and raced through the Hungarian fields. Fields to the right, fields to the left, occasionally a village with a church with a single green dome, occasionally an orchard with apple tree trunks plastered with lime and clay and whitening in the sun.
Stop again. Nikolai Ivanovich looked through the window at the station façade and, seeing the inscription on the façade, said:
- Well, Glasha, such a name of the station, which is more difficult than the old one. "Fuliops..." he began to read and stuttered. - Fuliopsdzalals.
“You see where you brought me,” said the wife. – No wonder I did not want to go to Turkey.
“You can’t, dear, you can’t ... You need to travel all over Europe, and then you will be a civilized person.” But then, when we return home, there is something to brag about. And these station names are all to our advantage. We will tell you that we passed through such, they say, areas that you can’t even pronounce the name. The name of the station is written, but it is impossible to pronounce it in a real manner. You just have to write it down.
And Nikolai Ivanovich, taking out his notebook, copied into it the inscription located on the wall of the station: “F?l?psz?ll?s.
On the platform at the window of the carriage stood a boy, big-eyed and black as a beetle, holding out to the glass paper plates with sausages thickly sprinkled with chopped white paprika.
- Glafira Semyonovna! Shall we have hot sausages? Nikolai Ivanovich suggested to his wife. - They sell hot sausages.
- No no. You eat, but I don’t for anything ... - answered the wife. “Now I won’t go out to any station all the way to Belgrade to drink or eat. I can't eat anything from gypsy hands. How do you know what's chopped up in those sausages?
- But why should it be?
- No no.
"But what are you going to eat?"
– And we have cheese from Vienna, ham, rolls, oranges.
- And I'll eat sausages ...
- Eat, eat. You are a famous bastard.
Nikolai Ivanovich knocked on the boy's window, lowered the window and took sausages and a roll from him, but he had just given him two crowns and held out his hand for change, as the train started. The boy stopped counting the change, smiled, poked himself in the chest and shouted:
“Trinkgeld, trinkgeld, musyu…”
Nikolai Ivanovich had only to show him his fist.
What a gypsy! Didn't give up! - he said, turning to his wife, and began to eat sausages.
No, you won't!
The train rushes on as before, stopping at stations with names that are difficult to pronounce for non-Hungarians: Xenged, Kis-Keres, Kis-Zhalas. The train stopped at the Scabatka station for about fifteen minutes. Before arriving at it, the Slavic conductor entered the compartment and suggested whether the travelers would like to go to the buffet available at the station.
- Good fish, sir, good sheep meat ... - he praised.
- No thanks. You can't lure me with anything, - answered Glafira Semyonovna.
Here Nikolai Ivanovich went with a kettle to make tea for himself, drank beer, brought some small smoked fish and a box of chocolates, which he offered to his wife.
- Are you in your mind? Glafira Semyonovna shouted at him. “I will eat Hungarian chocolate!” It's probably paprika.
- Viennese, Viennese, darling ... You see, on the box there is a label: Wien.
Glafira Semyonovna looked at the box, sniffed it, opened it, took a bar of chocolate, sniffed again and began to eat.
– How are you going to eat something in Turkey? The husband shook his head.
I won't eat anything suspicious.
“Yes, everything can be suspicious.
- Well, that's my business.
From the station Scabatka, Slavic names of the stations began to come across: Topolia, Verbats.
At the Verbats station, Nikolai Ivanovich said to his wife:
- Glasha! Now you can drive without fear. We arrived in the Slavic land. Slavic brothers, not Hungarian gypsies… Just now there was Topolia station, and now Verbats… Poplar comes from poplar, Verbats comes from willow. So, food and drink are Slavic.
- No, no, you won't. There are black faces.
- Faces have nothing to do with it. After all, we, Russians, can get such faces that a child will become a relative. Let me, let me ... Yes, even the priest is standing and in the exact same cassock as ours, - pointed out Nikolai Ivanovich.
- Where's the pop? Glafira Semyonovna asked quickly, looking out the window.
- Yes, here ... In a black cassock with wide sleeves and a black kamilavka ...
- And really pop. Only he looks more like a French lawyer.
- A French lawyer should have a white tongue under his beard, on his chest, and the kamilavka is not like that.
– Yes, and here it is not like our priests. At the top, the bottom edges are rounded and finally black instead of purple. No, it must be a Hungarian lawyer.
- Priest, priest ... Haven't you seen them in pictures in such kamilavkas? Yes, he has a pectoral cross on his chest. Look, look, he escorts someone and kisses the way our priests kiss - from cheek to cheek.
- Well, if the pectoral cross is on the chest, then your truth is: pop.
- Pop, Slavic names of stations, so what else do you need? Therefore, we left the Hungarian land. Yes, there is a blond girl picking her nostril. Totally Slavic. Slavic type.
“Didn’t you say just now that a fair-haired girl can be born not into her mother, not into her father, but into a passing young fellow?” Glafira Semyonovna reminded her husband.
The train was leaving the station at that time. Glafira Semyonovna took a basket of provisions from a rope shelf, opened it, and began to make herself a ham sandwich.
“Eat your own food, bought in a real place, so much better,” she said and began to eat.
Indeed, the train was already racing through the fields of the so-called Old Serbia. Half an hour later, the conductor looked into the compartment and announced that the Neyzats station was about to arrive.
“Novi Sad…” he added at once, and Slavic name.
Current page: 1 (the book has 28 pages in total)
Nikolai Leikin
Visiting the Turks. A humorous description of the journey of the spouses Nikolai Ivanovich and Glafira Semyonovna Ivanov through the Slavic lands to Constantinople
© CJSC Publishing House Tsentrpoligraf, 2013
© Art design, CJSC "Publishing house Tsentrpoligraf", 2013
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© The electronic version of the book was prepared by LitRes
Don't be a wild man
A fast train had just emerged from under the vast, glass-covered railway yard in Budapest and was heading south toward the Serbian border.
In a first-class carriage, in a separate compartment, quite already littered with matches, cigarette butts and orange peels, sat a not yet old, rather plump man with a blond trimmed beard and a young woman, not bad-looking, with a beautiful bust, but also already beginning to loosen and spread out in width. The man is dressed in a gray suit jacket with a travel bag over his shoulder and a black lambskin jacket on his head, a lady in a camel-colored woolen dress with unusual puffs on the sleeves and a felt hat with standing wings of some birdies. They sat alone in the compartment, sat opposite each other on the sofas, and each had a feather pillow in white pillowcases on the sofas. Anyone who has been abroad at least once would say on these pillows that they are Russians, because no one, except Russians, travels abroad with down pillows. That the man and the lady were Russians could be guessed from the lambskin skullcap on the man's head, and, finally, from the enameled metal teapot that stood on a raised table by the carriage window. Light wisps of steam came out from under the lid and from the spout of the teapot. In Budapest, in a railway canteen, they had just brewed tea in a teapot.
And in fact, the man and the lady were Russian. These were our old acquaintances, the spouses Nikolai Ivanovich and Glafira Semyonovna Ivanov, who had gone abroad for the third time and this time were heading to Constantinople, having promised themselves to visit both Serbian Belgrade and Bulgarian Sofia along the way.
At first, the Ivanovs were silent. Nikolai Ivanovich was picking his teeth with a feather and looking out the window at the fields spread out in front of him, already devoid of snow, carefully plowed and sorted, smooth as a billiards, fields with the stripes of winter crops already beginning to turn green. Glafira Semyonovna took a small silver box out of her bag, opened it, took a powder puff from there and powdered her flushed face, looking in a mirror built into the lid, and finally said:
- And why did you give me this Hungarian wine to drink! His face is puffed up like that.
“It’s impossible, mother, to be in Hungary and not drink Hungarian wine!” - answered Nikolai Ivanovich. - And then at home someone will ask - did they drink Hungarian when they passed through the gypsy kingdom? And what will we answer?! I even ate this paprika with klobs on purpose. Klobs, klobs ... Here we have klobs - just a steak with onion sauce and sour cream, and here klobs is zraza, chopped zraza.
“Firstly, we call steaks with onions and potato sauce not just clobs, but shnel-clobs,” objected Glafira Semyonovna. - And secondly…
- Yes, as if it does not matter!
- No, it doesn’t matter ... Schnel in German means soon, in a hurry ... And if klobs is without a shnel ...
Well, you love to argue! - Nikolai Ivanovich waved his hand and immediately changed the conversation: - Still, in this Hungarian kingdom they are well fed. Look how well they fed us at Budapest station! And what a great restaurant. Well done gypsies.
- Yes, as if all the gypsies are here? Glafira Semyonovna doubted.
- Hungarians are gypsies. You heard them talking: cook... gakhach... cr... gr... tr... throat. Exactly like our Chaldeans in various suburban nativity scenes. And they have eyes with a saucer, and black -haired faces.
- You lie, you lie! We saw a lot of blonds at the stations.
- So, after all, in our gypsy choirs there are not a black -haired gypsies. Suddenly, some will be born not in a mother, not in a father, but in a passing young man, so what can you do with her! And finally, we have just entered the gypsy kingdom. Wait, the further, the Black Sea, ”Nikolai Ivanovich authoritatively said, moved his lips and added:“ However, his mouth burns with this paprika.
Glafira Semyonovna shook her head.
- And you want to eat all sorts of rubbish! - she exclaimed.
- What kind of rubbish is this! A plant, a vegetable... You can't sit everywhere like you, only on the broth and on the steak. I went to travel, to educate myself, so as not to be a wild man and to know everything. On purpose, we go to unfamiliar states and go to get acquainted with all their articles. Now we are in Hungary - and that there is Hungarian, then give it.
- However, the fishzupe demanded at the buffet, but he did not eat.
“I tried anyway. I tried and I know that their fishzupe is rubbish. Fishzupe - fish soup. I thought that this was something like our fish soup or a village woman, because the Hungarians have a large Danube river at their side, so I thought that there were a lot of fish of all kinds, but it goes quite the opposite. In my opinion, this soup is made from herring heads, otherwise it is made from fish heads and tails. I had some gills floating in my plate. Salty, peppery ... sour ... - Nikolai Ivanovich recalled, grimaced and, taking a glass from the corner on the sofa, began to pour tea into it from the teapot.
“Br…” Glafira Semyonovna made a sound with her lips, shrugged her shoulders convulsively and added: “Wait a minute… they’ll feed you some more crocodile if you ask for different dishes.”
- Well, what then? .. I will be very glad. At the very least, in St. Petersburg I will tell everyone that I ate a crocodile. And everyone will know that I am such an educated person without prejudice that I even reached the crocodile in food.
- Fi! Shut up! Shut up please! Glafira Semyonovna waved her hands. - I can’t even listen ... I hate ...
- I ate a turtle in Marseilles, when we went from Paris to Nice for the third year, I ate a frog with white sauce in San Remo. Ate with you.
- Come on, they tell you!
“I swallowed a shell in Venice from a pink shell,” Nikolai Ivanovich boasted.
“If you don’t shut up, I’ll go to the bathroom and sit there!” I can not hear such abominations.
Nikolai Ivanovich fell silent and sipped tea from a glass. Glafira Semyonovna continued:
- And finally, if you ate such disgusting things, it was because you were drunk every time, and if you were sober, you would never have had enough for it.
– In Venice, I was drunk?! exclaimed Nikolai Ivanovich and choked on his tea. - In San Remo - yes ... When I ate a frog in San Remo - I was drunk. And in Venice...
Glafira Semyonovna jumped up from the sofa:
"Nikolai Ivanovich, I'm going to the lavatory!" If you mention this nasty thing again, I'm leaving. You know very well that I can't hear about her!
- Well, shut up, shut up. Sit down, - said Nikolai Ivanovich, put an empty glass on the table and began to light a cigarette.
“Brrr…” Glafira Semyonovna shuddered again, sat down, took an orange and began to peel it off the skin. - At least eat an orange, or something, - she added and continued: - And I'll tell you more. You reproach me that I don’t eat anything in restaurants abroad, except for broth and steak ... And when we come to the Turks, I won’t even eat steak with broth.
- So how is it? From what? Nikolai Ivanovich was surprised.
- Very simple. Because the Turks are Mohammedans, they eat horses and can fry horse meat steak for me, and their broth can be made from horse meat.
- Fu-fu! Here you are and hello! So what will you eat in Turkish land? After all, you will not find ham among the Turks. It is forbidden to them directly by their faith.
- I'm going to be a vegetarian. I will eat pasta, vegetables - peas, beans, potatoes. I will eat bread and tea.
- What are you, mother! - said Nikolai Ivanovich. “After all, we will stay in some European hotel in Constantinople. Pyotr Petrovich was in Constantinople and said that there are excellent hotels there that the French keep.
- The hotels, perhaps, are kept by the French, but the cooks are Turkish ... No, no, I already decided that.
“Can’t you tell horse meat from bull meat!”
- However, after all, you still need to take it in your mouth, chew it ... Ugh! No, no, that's what I decided, and you won't talk me out of it,' said Glafira Semyonovna firmly.
- Well, traveler! Yes, if you please, I will taste the meat for you,” Nikolai Ivanovich suggested.
- You? Yes, you will deliberately try to feed me horse meat. Do I know you. You are a mischievous.
“What an incredible woman! How did I prove that I am a mischievous?
– Shut up, please. I know you inside and out.
Nikolai Ivanovich spread his hands and bowed touchily to his wife.
- Studied through and through. I remember how you rejoiced in Naples when I mistakenly ate a mule over a table d'hôte - those damned snails, mistaking them for morels, - his wife nodded to him. “You must remember what happened to me then. However, I’ll take off my corset and lie down, ”she added. - The conductor was given a guilder in Vienna, so that no one would be allowed into our compartment, therefore, there is nothing for me to be at attention.
“Yes, of course, take off this collar of yours and all the girths,” Nikolai Ivanovich assented. “There is no one to flirt with here.
- Why, everyone thinks that someone would not have broken in.
- No no. If he took a guilder, he won't let anyone in. And finally, up to now he has kept his word and has not let anyone in to us.
Glafira Semyonovna unbuttoned her bodice and took off her corset, placing it under the pillow. But as soon as she lay down on the sofa, the door from the corridor opened and the conductor with tongs appeared in the compartment.
“Ich habe die Ehre…” he said in greeting. – Ihre Fahrkarten, mein Herr…
Nikolai Ivanovich looked at him and said:
- Glasha! Yes, the conductor is new! Not the same conductor.
“Novi, novi…” the conductor smiled as he cut the tickets.
- Speak Russian? Nikolai Ivanovich asked him joyfully.
- Little, sir.
- Slavic brother?
- Slavs, gentlemen, - the conductor bowed and spoke in German: - Maybe the Russian gentlemen want them to be alone in the compartment?
In explanation of his words, he showed the spouses his two fingers.
- Yes, yes ... - Nikolai Ivanovich nodded to him. - Their hebe ... Glasha! We'll have to give it to him too, otherwise he'll let passengers into our compartment. That conductor, the scoundrel, remained in Budapest.
“Of course, give us ... We can spend the night in the car,” I heard from Glafira Semyonovna. “But don’t give now, and then, otherwise this one will jump off at some station and have to give to the third one.
“I’ll give you a guilder!.. Their hebe is a guilder, but then…” said Nikolai Ivanovich.
“Nakher… Fuck…” added Glafira Semyonovna.
The conductor, obviously, did not believe, muttered something in German, in Slavonic, smiled and held his hand handful.
- Does not believe. Ah, brother-Slav! Who do you think we are! And we still freed you! Fine, fine. Here's half a guilder for you. And the rest later, in Belgrade ... We are now going to Belgrade, - Nikolai Ivanovich told him, took out a change from his wallet and gave it to him.
The conductor tossed the change into his palm and spread his arms.
“It’s not enough, sir… We pray for one guilder,” he said.
“Give him a guilder!” Let it fail. We must have peace for ourselves at night! Glafira Semyonovna shouted at her husband.
Nikolai Ivanovich scooped up some change from the conductor's palm, handed him a guilder, and said:
- Come on, choke, brother ...
The conductor bowed and, locking the compartment door, said:
- With God, sir.
Füliopsdzalals
The train rumbles and rumbles as it rushes through the Hungarian steppes. From time to time, villages flash by, reminiscent of our Little Russian ones, with clay huts painted white, but without thatched roofs, but certainly with a tiled roof. Estates come across even less often - certainly with a small residential building and numerous huge outbuildings. Glafira Semyonovna lies on the sofa and tries to fall asleep. Nikolai Ivanovich, armed with the book "Translator from Russian into Turkish", studies the Turkish language. He mutters:
- Hello - salam alaikum, thank you - shukur, it's expensive - plowing holes, what costs - not deer, bring - gaitir, goodbye - Allah is smart ... You can break your tongue. Where are these words to remember! - he says, looks up at the ceiling and repeats: - Allah is a master. You will remember Allah, and never this ysmarladyh. Ysmarladykh, ysmarladykh… Well, further… – he looks into the book. - "Put the samovar." Glafira Semyonovna! he exclaims. - In Turkey, they know about the samovar, which means we won’t have to suffer with tea anymore.
Glafira Semyonovna raised herself on her elbows and hurriedly asked:
- And how is the Turkish samovar?
- Put the samovar - "suyu kainat", therefore, the samovar - "kainat".
- It really needs to be remembered well. Kainat, kainat, kainat ... - Glafira Semyonovna said three times and again lay down on the pillow.
“But there are words and easy ones,” continued Nikolai Ivanovich, looking at the book. - Here, for example, tobacco - "tyutyun". Tyutyun is also called here. Luggage - "uruba", money - "couple", village - "key", hotel - "khan", horse - "at", cabman - "arabaji" ... These are the most necessary words, and they must be learned as soon as possible. Let's sing, - he suggested to his wife ...
- How to sing? she was surprised.
- Yes, so ... They say that when singing, words are most likely to be remembered.
- You're out of your mind! Sing on the train!
“But we’re on the sly… The wheels are rattling, the compartment is locked—no one will hear.”
“No, I won’t sing, and I won’t let you. I want to sleep…
- Well as you know. But the railway is a difficult word in Turkish: “demirinol”.
- I just don’t understand why you started learning Turkish words early in the morning! After all, we are going to Serbia first, we will stop in Belgrade, - said Glafira Semyonovna.
– And where is my book with Serbian words? I don't have such a book. Yes, finally, the Slavic brothers will understand us anyway. You saw a conductor from the Slavs just now - you understood it in the best possible way. After all, they have all our words, but only in some special manner. Yes, here you are ... - he pointed to the heating regulator in the car. - You see the inscriptions: “warm ... cold ...” And over there, near the gas burner, to reduce and add light: “light ... darkness ...” Isn’t this clear? Slavic brothers will understand.
The train slowed down and stopped at the station.
- Look at the station. What is the name of? asked Glafira Semyonovna.
“Scabatse… It’s Hungarian, or something… You definitely can’t make out anything,” he answered.
- Yes, after all, it is written in Latin letters.
- Latin, but impossible to pronounce ... Szazba ...
Glafira Semyonovna got up and began to read herself. The inscription read: "Szabadszállás".
- I'm crazy, or something! - she read and added: - Well, language!
- I'm telling you that it's worse than Turkish. Gypsies ... And probably, like our gypsies, they are engaged in horse stealing, divination and horse trapping, as well as about where something is bad. Look at the sheepskin coats they're wearing! And faces, what faces! Quite bandits,” Nikolai Ivanovich pointed out to the Hungarian peasants in their picturesque costumes. “There, the women are here ... The hem of the dress is almost to the knees and men's boots with high tops made of unoiled yellow leather ...
Glafira Semyonovna looked out the window and said:
- Indeed, terrible ... You know, on the one hand, it's good that we are alone in the compartment, but on the other ...
– Are you afraid? Well... Don't be afraid... I have a dagger in my travel bag.
- What a dagger you have! Toy.
- So how is it a toy? Steel. You do not look that it is small, but if it is right and left ...
- Come on! You'll be the first one to get scared. Yes, I don’t say anything about the day ... Now it’s day, but we will have to spend the night in the car ...
And don't worry at night. You sleep well, and I will not sleep, sit and watch.
- Is that you? Yes, you will fall asleep first. Sleep while sitting.
“I won’t sleep, I tell you. In the evening I’ll brew strong tea for myself at the station ... I’ll get drunk - and tea at its best will drive away sleep. Finally, we are not alone in the car. Some Germans are sitting in the next compartment. There are three of them ... Is it in case of something? ..
- Are they Germans? Maybe the same big-eyed Hungarians?
- Germans, Germans. You heard that they spoke German just now.
“No, it’s better to get enough sleep during the day, and sit and not sleep at night,” said Glafira Semyonovna and began to lie down on the sofa.
And the train had long since left the station with a hard-to-pronounce name and raced through the Hungarian fields. Fields to the right, fields to the left, occasionally a village with a church with a single green dome, occasionally an orchard with apple tree trunks plastered with lime and clay and whitening in the sun.
Stop again. Nikolai Ivanovich looked through the window at the station façade and, seeing the inscription on the façade, said:
- Well, Glasha, such a name of the station, which is more difficult than the old one. "Fuliops..." he began to read and stuttered. - Fuliopsdzalals.
“You see where you brought me,” said the wife. – No wonder I did not want to go to Turkey.
“You can’t, dear, you can’t ... You need to travel all over Europe, and then you will be a civilized person.” But then, when we return home, there is something to brag about. And these station names are all to our advantage. We will tell you that we passed through such, they say, areas that you can’t even pronounce the name. The name of the station is written, but it is impossible to pronounce it in a real manner. You just have to write it down.
And Nikolai Ivanovich, taking out his notebook, copied into it the inscription located on the wall of the station: “Fülöpszállás”.
On the platform at the window of the carriage stood a boy, big-eyed and black as a beetle, holding out to the glass paper plates with sausages thickly sprinkled with chopped white paprika.
- Glafira Semyonovna! Shall we have hot sausages? Nikolai Ivanovich suggested to his wife. - They sell hot sausages.
- No no. You eat, but I don’t for anything ... - answered the wife. “Now I won’t go out to any station all the way to Belgrade to drink or eat. I can't eat anything from gypsy hands. How do you know what's chopped up in those sausages?
- But why should it be?
- No no.
"But what are you going to eat?"
– And we have cheese from Vienna, ham, rolls, oranges.
- And I'll eat sausages ...
- Eat, eat. You are a famous bastard.
Nikolai Ivanovich knocked on the boy's window, lowered the window and took sausages and a roll from him, but he had just given him two crowns and held out his hand for change, as the train started. The boy stopped counting the change, smiled, poked himself in the chest and shouted:
“Trinkgeld, trinkgeld, musyu…”
Nikolai Ivanovich had only to show him his fist.
What a gypsy! Didn't give up! - he said, turning to his wife, and began to eat sausages.
No, you won't!
The train rushes on as before, stopping at stations with names that are difficult to pronounce for non-Hungarians: Xenged, Kis-Keres, Kis-Zhalas. The train stopped at the Scabatka station for about fifteen minutes. Before arriving at it, the Slavic conductor entered the compartment and suggested whether the travelers would like to go to the buffet available at the station.
- Good fish, sir, good sheep meat ... - he praised.
- No thanks. You can't lure me with anything, - answered Glafira Semyonovna.
Here Nikolai Ivanovich went with a kettle to make tea for himself, drank beer, brought some small smoked fish and a box of chocolate into the car, which he offered to his wife.
- Are you in your mind? Glafira Semyonovna shouted at him. “I will eat Hungarian chocolate!” It's probably paprika.
- Viennese, Viennese, darling ... You see, on the box there is a label: Wien.
Glafira Semyonovna looked at the box, sniffed it, opened it, took a bar of chocolate, sniffed again and began to eat.
– How are you going to eat something in Turkey? The husband shook his head.
I won't eat anything suspicious.
“Yes, everything can be suspicious.
- Well, that's my business.
From the station Scabatka, Slavic names of the stations began to come across: Topolia, Verbats.
At the Verbats station, Nikolai Ivanovich said to his wife:
- Glasha! Now you can drive without fear. We arrived in the Slavic land. Slavic brothers, not Hungarian gypsies… Just now there was Topolia station, and now Verbats… Poplar comes from poplar, Verbats comes from willow. So, food and drink are Slavic.
- No, no, you won't. There are black faces.
- Faces have nothing to do with it. After all, we, Russians, can get such faces that a child will become a relative. Let me, let me ... Yes, even the priest is standing and in the exact same cassock as ours, - pointed out Nikolai Ivanovich.
- Where's the pop? Glafira Semyonovna asked quickly, looking out the window.
- Yes, here ... In a black cassock with wide sleeves and a black kamilavka ...
- And really pop. Only he looks more like a French lawyer.
- A French lawyer should have a white tongue under his beard, on his chest, and the kamilavka is not like that.
– Yes, and here it is not like our priests. At the top, the bottom edges are rounded and finally black instead of purple. No, it must be a Hungarian lawyer.
- Priest, priest ... Haven't you seen them in pictures in such kamilavkas? Yes, he has a pectoral cross on his chest. Look, look, he escorts someone and kisses how our priests kiss - from cheek to cheek.
- Well, if the pectoral cross is on the chest, then your truth is: pop.
- Pop, Slavic names of stations, so what else do you need? Therefore, we left the Hungarian land. Yes, there is a blond girl picking her nostril. Totally Slavic. Slavic type.
“Didn’t you say just now that a fair-haired girl can be born not into her mother, not into her father, but into a passing young fellow?” Glafira Semyonovna reminded her husband.
The train was leaving the station at that time. Glafira Semyonovna took a basket of provisions from a rope shelf, opened it, and began to make herself a ham sandwich.
“Eat your own food, bought in a real place, so much better,” she said and began to eat.
Indeed, the train was already racing through the fields of the so-called Old Serbia. Half an hour later, the conductor looked into the compartment and announced that the Neyzats station was about to arrive.
- Novi Sad ... - he immediately added the Slavic name.
- Glasha! You hear, this is quite a Slavic name! - Nikolai Ivanovich turned to his wife. - Slavic land? he asked the conductor.
- Slovenian, Slovenian, - he nodded, leaned over to Nikolai Ivanovich and began to explain to him in German that once it all belonged to Serbia, and now belongs to Hungary.
Nikolai Ivanovich listened and did not understand anything.
“God knows what he’s muttering!” - Nikolai Ivanovich shrugged his shoulders and exclaimed: - Slav brother! Why are you mumbling in German! Speak Russian! Pah you! Speak in your own way, in Slavic! So we can talk more freely.
The conductor understood and spoke Serbian. Nikolai Ivanovich listened to his speech and still did not understand anything.
“I don’t understand, brother-Slav…” he spread his hands. - The words seem to be ours, Russian, but I don’t understand anything. Well, go away! Leave! he waved his hand. - Thank you. Merci...
- With God, sir! The conductor bowed and closed the compartment door.
Here is the station New Garden. The name of the station is written on the station building in three languages: in Hungarian - Uj-Videk, in German - Neyzats and in Serbian - Novi Sad. Glafira Semyonovna immediately noticed the Hungarian inscription and said to her husband:
- Why are you fooling me! After all, we are still driving on Hungarian soil. There is the name of the station like: Uy-Videk ... After all, this is in Hungarian.
- Excuse me ... But what about the conductor? After all, he told you that this is already a Slavic land, ”Nikolai Ivanovich objected.
- Your conductor is lying.
"What's the point of lying to him?" And finally, you yourself see the inscription: Novi Sad.
“Look at the faces at the station. One is blacker than the other. Fathers! Yes, there is one Hungarian even in a white skirt.
- Where in a skirt? It's not in a skirt ... However, one of some, maybe, and wormed its way. And as for Black Sea, after all, the Serbs are black -haired.
A boy with two coffee pots and cups on a tray walked along the corridor of the car and offered coffee to those who wished.
– Would you like some coffee? - suggested Nikolai Ivanovich to his wife.
“Oh my God,” she shook her head. - I told you that while we are on Hungarian soil, I will not take crumbs in my mouth at any station.
– Why, you drank coffee in Budapest. The same Hungarian city.
– In Budapest! In Budapest, a magnificent Viennese restaurant, lackeys in tailcoats, with capul 1
Capul- men's hairstyle with curls hanging on the forehead, named after the French opera singer J. Capule.
And were there such a black man in skirts in Budapest or in sheepskin naginal salons? ..
The train sped off. On the right, hills began here and there. The area became mountainous. Here is the station again.
- Peterwerdein! the conductor shouts.
- Petroveredin! If you please, again, a completely Slavic city, - Nikolai Ivanovich points out to his wife at the inscription on the station building.
Glafira Semyonovna lies with her eyes closed and says:
- Don't wake me up. Give me a good night's sleep so that I can stay awake at night and be on guard. Look at the suspicious faces everywhere. How long until sin? We have a lot of money with us. I have diamonds with me.
- We traveled around Italy, and not such suspicious faces came across to us along the way, we even came across real bandits, but nothing happened. God was merciful.
And the train was running away from the station again. The hills grew into hefty mountains. Suddenly the train flew into the tunnel, and everything went dark.
- Ai! shrieked Glafira Semyonovna. - Nikolai Ivanovich! Where are you? Light the matches, light the...
- This is a tunnel, a tunnel ... calm down! shouted Nikolai Ivanovich, looking for matches, but there were no matches. - Glasha! Do you have matches? Where are you? Give a hand!
He looked for his wife with his hands, but did not find her in the compartment.
Soon, however, a gap appeared and the train pulled out of the tunnel. Glafira Semyonovna was not in the compartment. The door to the carriage corridor was open. He rushed into the corridor and saw his wife sitting in the middle compartment between two Germans in travel caps. On her chest she held her pebbled bag with money and diamonds.
- I ran away to them. I'm afraid in the dark. Why didn't you light the matches? These Monsieurs lit the matches at once. But I tripped on them and fell. They already lifted me up,” she added, rising. - I have to apologize. Sorry, monsieur. Her university is deranged ... - she said in French.
Nikolai Ivanovich shrugged his shoulders.
N. A. Leikin
GUESTS AT TUROK
Humorous description of the journey of the spouses Nikolai Ivanovich and Glafira Semyonovna Ivanov through the Slavic lands to Constantinople
The fast train had just left the vast, glass-roofed railway yard at Buda Pest and was speeding south towards the Serbian frontier.
In a first-class carriage, in a separate compartment, fairly already littered with matches, cigarette butts and orange peels, sat a not yet old, rather plump man with a blond trimmed beard and a young woman, not bad-looking, with a still beautiful bust, but also already beginning to loosen and spread out wide. The man is dressed in a gray jacket pair with a travel bag over his shoulder and a black lambskin skullcap on his head, a lady in a camel-colored woolen dress with unusual puffs on the sleeves and in a felt hat with standing wings of some birdies. They sat alone in the compartment, sat opposite each other on the sofas, and both had down pillows on the sofas in white pillowcases. Anyone who has been abroad at least once would now say that these pillows are Russian, because no one, except Russians, travels abroad with feather pillows. That the man and the lady were Russian could be guessed from the lambskin skullcap on the man's head, and finally from the enameled metal teapot that stood on a raised table by the carriage window. light streams of steam came out from under the lid and from the spout of the teapot. In Buda-Pest, at the railway cafeteria, they had just made tea for themselves in a teapot.
And in fact, the man and the lady were Russian. These were our old acquaintances, the spouses Nikolai Ivanovich and Glafira Semyonovna Ivanov, who had already gone abroad for the third time and this time were heading to Constantinople, having promised themselves to visit both Serbian Belgrade and Bulgarian Sofia along the way.
At first, the Ivanovs were silent. Nikolai Ivanovich was picking his teeth with a feather and looking out the window at the fields spread out in front of him, already devoid of snow, carefully plowed and sorted, smooth as billiards, fields, with strips of winter crops already beginning to turn green. Glafirazhe Semyonovna took a small silver box out of her bag, opened it, took some powder from it, and powdered her reddened face, looking in the mirror in the lid, and finally said:
And why did you only give me this Hungarian wine to drink! His face is so puffy.
It is impossible, mother, to be in Hungary and not drink Hungarian wine! answered Nikolai Ivanovich. - And then at home someone will ask - did they drink Hungarian when they passed through the gypsy kingdom? - and what will we answer! On purpose I even ate this paprika with klobs. Klobs, klobs ... Here we have klobs - just a steak with onion sauce and sour cream, and here klobs - zraza, chopped zraza.
Firstly, we call steaks with onions and potato sauce not just klobs, but shnel-klobs, objected Glafira Semyonovna. - And secondly...
Yes, it doesn't matter!
No, it doesn't matter... Schnell in German means - soon, hastily... And if klobs is without a schnel...
Well, you love to argue! Nikolai Ivanovich waved his hand and immediately changed the conversation. - But still, in this Hungarian kingdom they are well fed. Look how well they fed us at the Buda-Pest station! And what a great restaurant. Well done gypsies.
Is it like all gypsies are here? Glafira Semyonovna hesitated.
Hungarians are gypsies. You heard them talking: cook... gahach... kr... gr... tr... throat. Just like our Chaldeans in various suburban nativity scenes. And their eyes are with a saucer, and the face of a black man.
You lie, you lie! We saw a lot of fair-haired people at the stations.
So, and in our gypsy choirs there is not a black -faced gypsy. Suddenly some one is born not to a mother, not to a father, but to a passing young man, so what can you do with her! And finally, we have just entered the gypsy kingdom. Wait ahead, on the further, all the Black Sea will be, ”Nikolai Ivanovich said authoritatively, moved his lips and added:“ However, the mouth so burns with this paprika.
Glafira Semyonovna shook her head.
And you want to eat all sorts of rubbish! - she said.
What kind of rubbish is this! A plant, a vegetable... Don't just sit around like you, only on broth and steak. I went to travel, to educate myself, so as not to be a wild man and to know everything. We purposely go to unfamiliar states and go to get acquainted with all their articles. Now we are in Hungary and - what is Hungarian, then give it.
However, the fishzupe demanded at the buffet, but did not eat it himself.
And yet I tried. I tried it and I know that their fishzupe is rubbish. Fishzupe - fish soup. I thought it was something like our fish soup: or villagers, because the Hungarians have a big river Danube at their side, so I thought that there were a lot of fish of all kinds, but it comes out quite the opposite. In my opinion, this soup is made from herring heads, otherwise it’s made from fish heads and tails. I had some kind of gills floating in my plate. Salty, peppery ... sour ... Nikolai Ivanovich recalled, grimaced, and, taking a glass from a corner on the sofa, began to pour himself tea from the teapot into it.
Br... Glafira Semyonovna made a sound with her lips, shrugged her shoulders convulsively, and added:
Well, so what? ... I will be very glad. At the very least, in Petersburg I will tell everyone that I have eaten a crocodile. And everyone will know that I am such an educated person without prejudice that I have even reached a crocodile in my diet.
Fi! Shut up! Shut up please! Glafira Semyonovna waved her hands. - I can’t even listen ... I hate ...
The turtle was in Marseilles, when they went from Paris to Nice in the third year, the frog in white sauce in San Remo. With you, well.
Come on, they tell you!
I swallowed a shell in Venice from a pink shell, Nikolai Ivanovich boasted.
If you don't shut up, I'll go to the lavatory and sit there! I can't hear such abominations.
Nikolai Ivanovich fell silent and sipped his tea from a glass. Glafira Semyonovna continued:
And finally, if you ѣl such a disgusting thing, it was because you were drunk every time, and if you were sober, you would never be enough for it.
Was I drunk in Venice? exclaimed Nikolai Ivanovich and choked on his tea. - In San Remo - yes ... When I was in San Remo a frog ѣl - I was drunk. And in Venice...
N. A. Leikin
GUESTS AT TUROK
Humorous description of the journey of the spouses Nikolai Ivanovich and Glafira Semyonovna Ivanov through the Slavic lands to Constantinople
The fast train had just left the vast, glass-roofed railway yard at Buda Pest and was speeding south towards the Serbian frontier.
In a first-class carriage, in a separate compartment, fairly already littered with matches, cigarette butts and orange peels, sat a not yet old, rather plump man with a blond trimmed beard and a young woman, not bad-looking, with a still beautiful bust, but also already beginning to loosen and spread out wide. The man is dressed in a gray jacket pair with a travel bag over his shoulder and a black lambskin skullcap on his head, a lady in a camel-colored woolen dress with unusual puffs on the sleeves and in a felt hat with standing wings of some birdies. They sat alone in the compartment, sat opposite each other on the sofas, and both had down pillows on the sofas in white pillowcases. Anyone who has been abroad at least once would now say that these pillows are Russian, because no one, except Russians, travels abroad with feather pillows. That the man and the lady were Russian could be guessed from the lambskin skullcap on the man's head, and finally from the enameled metal teapot that stood on a raised table by the carriage window. light streams of steam came out from under the lid and from the spout of the teapot. In Buda-Pest, at the railway cafeteria, they had just made tea for themselves in a teapot.
And in fact, the man and the lady were Russian. These were our old acquaintances, the spouses Nikolai Ivanovich and Glafira Semyonovna Ivanov, who had already gone abroad for the third time and this time were heading to Constantinople, having promised themselves to visit both Serbian Belgrade and Bulgarian Sofia along the way.
At first, the Ivanovs were silent. Nikolai Ivanovich was picking his teeth with a feather and looking out the window at the fields spread out in front of him, already devoid of snow, carefully plowed and sorted, smooth as billiards, fields, with strips of winter crops already beginning to turn green. Glafirazhe Semyonovna took a small silver box out of her bag, opened it, took some powder from it, and powdered her reddened face, looking in the mirror in the lid, and finally said:
And why did you only give me this Hungarian wine to drink! His face is so puffy.
It is impossible, mother, to be in Hungary and not drink Hungarian wine! answered Nikolai Ivanovich. - And then at home someone will ask - did they drink Hungarian when they passed through the gypsy kingdom? - and what will we answer! On purpose I even ate this paprika with klobs. Klobs, klobs ... Here we have klobs - just a steak with onion sauce and sour cream, and here klobs - zraza, chopped zraza.
Firstly, we call steaks with onions and potato sauce not just klobs, but shnel-klobs, objected Glafira Semyonovna. - And secondly...
Yes, it doesn't matter!
No, it doesn't matter... Schnell in German means - soon, hastily... And if klobs is without a schnel...
Well, you love to argue! Nikolai Ivanovich waved his hand and immediately changed the conversation. - But still, in this Hungarian kingdom they are well fed. Look how well they fed us at the Buda-Pest station! And what a great restaurant. Well done gypsies.
Is it like all gypsies are here? Glafira Semyonovna hesitated.
Hungarians are gypsies. You heard them talking: cook... gahach... kr... gr... tr... throat. Just like our Chaldeans in various suburban nativity scenes. And their eyes are with a saucer, and the face of a black man.
You lie, you lie! We saw a lot of fair-haired people at the stations.
So, and in our gypsy choirs there is not a black -faced gypsy. Suddenly some one is born not to a mother, not to a father, but to a passing young man, so what can you do with her! And finally, we have just entered the gypsy kingdom. Wait ahead, on the further, all the Black Sea will be, ”Nikolai Ivanovich said authoritatively, moved his lips and added:“ However, the mouth so burns with this paprika.
Glafira Semyonovna shook her head.
And you want to eat all sorts of rubbish! - she said.
What kind of rubbish is this! A plant, a vegetable... Don't just sit around like you, only on broth and steak. I went to travel, to educate myself, so as not to be a wild man and to know everything. We purposely go to unfamiliar states and go to get acquainted with all their articles. Now we are in Hungary and - what is Hungarian, then give it.
However, the fishzupe demanded at the buffet, but did not eat it himself.
And yet I tried. I tried it and I know that their fishzupe is rubbish. Fishzupe - fish soup. I thought it was something like our fish soup: or villagers, because the Hungarians have a big river Danube at their side, so I thought that there were a lot of fish of all kinds, but it comes out quite the opposite. In my opinion, this soup is made from herring heads, otherwise it’s made from fish heads and tails. I had some kind of gills floating in my plate. Salty, peppery ... sour ... Nikolai Ivanovich recalled, grimaced, and, taking a glass from a corner on the sofa, began to pour himself tea from the teapot into it.
Br... Glafira Semyonovna made a sound with her lips, shrugged her shoulders convulsively, and added:
Well, so what? ... I will be very glad. At the very least, in Petersburg I will tell everyone that I have eaten a crocodile. And everyone will know that I am such an educated person without prejudice that I have even reached a crocodile in my diet.
Fi! Shut up! Shut up please! Glafira Semyonovna waved her hands. - I can’t even listen ... I hate ...
The turtle was in Marseilles, when they went from Paris to Nice in the third year, the frog in white sauce in San Remo. With you, well.
Come on, they tell you!
I swallowed a shell in Venice from a pink shell, Nikolai Ivanovich boasted.
If you don't shut up, I'll go to the lavatory and sit there! I can't hear such abominations.
Nikolai Ivanovich fell silent and sipped his tea from a glass. Glafira Semyonovna continued:
And finally, if you ѣl such a disgusting thing, it was because you were drunk every time, and if you were sober, you would never be enough for it.
Was I drunk in Venice? exclaimed Nikolai Ivanovich and choked on his tea. - In San Remo - yes ... When I was in San Remo a frog ѣl - I was drunk. And in Venice...
Glafira Semyonovna jumped up from the sofa.
Nikolai Ivanitch, I'm going to the lavatory! If you mention that nasty thing again, I'm leaving. You know very well that I can't hear about her!
Well, shut up, shut up. Sit down, said Nikolai Ivanovich, put the empty glass on the table and began lighting a cigarette.
Brr ... Glafira Semyonovna shuddered again, sat down, took the orange and began to peel it off the skin. - At least with an orange, or something, she added and continued: - And I'll tell you more. You reproach me that I am abroad, I don’t eat anything in restaurants, except for broth and steak ... And when we come to the Turks, I won’t even eat steak with broth.
That is, how is it? From what? Nikolai Ivanovich was surprised.
Very simple. From the fact that the Turks are Mohammedans, they eat horses and can fry a steak from horse meat for me, and their broth can be from horse meat.
Fu-fu! Here you are and hello! So what will you eat in the Turkish land? After all, you won’t find ham among the Turks. It is forbidden to them directly by their faith.
I will become a vegetarian. I will eat pasta, vegetables - peas, beans, potatoes. I will eat bread and tea.
What are you, mother! said Nikolai Ivanovich. “After all, we will stay in some European hotel in Constantinople. Pyotr Petrovich was in Constantinople and told me that there are excellent hotels there, which the French keep.
The hotels may be kept by the French, but the cooks are Turkish ... No, no, I already decided it that way.
Can't you tell horse meat from bull meat!
However, after all, you still need to take it in your mouth, chew it ... Pah! No, no, that's what I've decided, and you won't talk me out of it, said Glafira Semyonovna firmly.
Well traveler! Yes, if you please, I will taste the meat for you, suggested Nikolai Ivanovich.
You? Yes, you will deliberately try to feed me horse meat. Do I know you. You are a mischievous.
What an incredible woman! How did I prove that I am a mischievous?
Be quiet, please. I know you inside and out.
Nikolai Ivanovich spread his hands and bowed touchily to his wife.
