“About Eternal Love” Nadezhda Teffi. Nadezhda Teffi about eternal love All about love

Nadezhda Teffi

ABOUT eternal love

It rained during the day. It's damp in the garden.

We sit on the terrace, watching the lights of Saint-Germain and Virofle shimmer far on the horizon. This distance from here, from our high forest mountain, seems like an ocean, and we can distinguish the lanterns of the pier, the flashes of the lighthouse, the signal lights of ships. The illusion is complete.

Through open doors salon we listen to the last melancholy-passionate chords of “The Dying Swan”, which the radio brought us from some alien country.

And again it’s quiet.

We sit in semi-darkness, a red eye rises, the light of a cigar flashes.

– Why are we silent, like Rockefeller digesting his lunch? “We didn’t set a record for living to be a hundred years old,” the baritone said in the semi-darkness.

– Is Rockefeller silent?

– It’s silent for half an hour after breakfast and half an hour after lunch. He began to remain silent at the age of forty. Now he is ninety-three. And he always invites guests to dinner.

- Well, what about them?

- They are also silent.

- What a fool!

- Why?

- Because they hope. If the poor man had decided to remain silent for the sake of digestion, everyone would have decided that it was impossible to make acquaintance with such a fool. And he probably feeds them some kind of hygienic carrot?

- Well, of course. Moreover, he chews each piece at least sixty times.

- Such an impudence!

- Let's talk about something tasty. Petronius, tell us some of your adventures.

The cigar flared up, and the one who was nicknamed Petronius here for his spats and ties that matched his suit, muttered in a lazy voice:

- Well, if you please. About what?

“Something about eternal love,” he said loudly. female voice. – Have you ever met eternal love?

- Well, of course. This is the only one I've ever met. All of them were exceptionally eternal.

- Yes you! Really? Tell me at least one case.

- One case? There are so many of them that it is difficult to choose directly.

- And all are eternal?

- All are eternal. Well, for example, I can tell you one little carriage adventure. This was, of course, a long time ago. It is not customary to talk about those that happened recently. So, this happened in prehistoric times, that is, before the war. I was traveling from Kharkov to Moscow. The ride is long and boring, but I am a kind person, fate took pity on me and sent me a pretty companion at the small station. I look - she’s strict, she doesn’t look at me, she’s reading a book, she’s nibbling on candy. Well, we finally got to talking. The lady turned out to be very, indeed, strict. Almost from the first sentence she told me that she loves her husband with eternal love, until the grave, amen.

Well, I think this is a good sign. Imagine that you meet a tiger in the jungle. You wavered and doubted your hunting skills and your abilities. And suddenly the tiger tucked its tail, climbed behind a bush and closed its eyes. So he chickened out. Clear. So, this love to the grave was the bush behind which my lady immediately hid.

Well, if he's afraid, he needs to act carefully.

“Yes, I say, madam, I believe and bow.” And why, tell me, should we live if we don’t believe in eternal love? And what horror is inconstancy in love! Today you have an affair with one, tomorrow with another, not to mention that it is immoral, but downright unpleasant. So much trouble and trouble. You will confuse that name - but they are all touchy, these “objects of love.” If you accidentally call Manechka Sonechka, the story will begin in such a way that you will not be happy with life. The name Sophia is definitely worse than Marya. Otherwise, you mix up the addresses and thank some fool for the raptures of love whom you haven’t seen for two months, and the “new girl” receives a letter that says in restrained tones that, unfortunately, the past cannot be returned. And in general, all this is terrible, although I, they say, know, of course, about all this only by hearsay, since I myself am only capable of eternal love, and eternal love has not yet turned up.

My lady is listening, she even opened her mouth. What a lovely lady. She became completely tamed and even started saying “you and I”:

- You and I understand, we believe...

Well, I, of course, “you and I,” but all in the most respectful tones, eyes downcast, quiet tenderness in my voice - in a word, “I’m working as number six.”

By twelve o'clock he had already moved to number eight and suggested having breakfast together.

At breakfast we became quite friendly. Although there was one problem - she talked a lot about her husband, all “my Kolya, my Kolya,” and there was no way to turn her away from this topic. I, of course, hinted in every possible way that he was unworthy of her, but I didn’t dare to press too hard, because this always causes protests, and protests were not in my favor.

By the way, about her hand - I already kissed her hand quite freely, as much as I wanted, and in any way I wanted.

And now we are approaching Tula, and suddenly it dawns on me:

- Listen, dear! Let's get out quickly and stay until the next train! I beg you! Quicker!

She was confused.

– What are we going to do here?

– How – what to do? – I shout, completely in a fit of inspiration. - Let's go to Tolstoy's grave. Yes Yes! The sacred duty of every cultured person.

- Hey, porter!

She became even more confused.

- So, you say... a cultural duty... of a sacred person...

And she herself drags a cardboard from the shelf.

As soon as we had time to jump out, the train started moving.

- What about Kolya? After all, he will come out to meet you.

“And Kolya,” I say, “we will send a telegram that you will arrive on the night train.”

- What if he...

- Well, there is something to talk about! He should also thank you for such a beautiful gesture. Visit the grave of the great elder during the days of general unbelief and the overthrow of the pillars.

He sat his lady down in the buffet and went to hire a cab. I asked the porter to arrange for some better reckless driver, so that it would be a pleasant ride.

The porter grinned.

“We understand,” he says. - You can enjoy it.

And so, the beast, I was so pleased that I even gasped: a troika with bells, just like on Maslenitsa. Well, so much the better. Go. We passed Kozlova Zaseka, I said to the driver:

- Maybe it’s better to tie up your bells? It’s somehow awkward with such ringing. After all, we are going to the grave.

But he doesn’t even listen.

“This,” he says, “is ignored by us.” There is no prohibition and no punishment; those who can do so can do so.

We looked at the grave and read the inscriptions of fans on the fence:

“There were Tolya and Mura”, “There were Sashka-Kanashka and Abrasha from Rostov”, “I love Marya Sergeevna Abinosova. Evgeniy Lukin", "M. D. and K.V. defeated the mug Kuzma Vostrukhin.”

Well different drawings- a heart pierced by an arrow, a face with horns, monograms. In a word, they honored the grave of the great writer.

We looked, walked around and rushed back.

It was still a long time before the train; we couldn’t sit at the station. We went to a restaurant, I asked a separate office: “Well, why, I say, should we show ourselves? We will also meet acquaintances, some underdeveloped vulgarities who do not understand the cultural needs of the spirit.”

We had a wonderful time. And when it was time to go to the station, my lady said:

“This pilgrimage made such an indelible impression on me that I will certainly repeat it, and the sooner the better.”

- Expensive! – I shouted. – Exactly – the sooner the better. We'll stay until tomorrow, in the morning we'll go to Yasnaya Polyana, and then on to the train.

- And the husband will remain as such. Since you love him with eternal love, does it really matter? After all, this is an unshakable feeling.

- And, in your opinion, there is no need to tell Kolya anything?

- Kole? Of course, we won’t tell Kolya anything. Why bother him?

The narrator fell silent.

The narrator sighed.

– We went to Tolstoy’s grave for three days in a row. Then I went to the post office and sent myself an urgent telegram: “Vladimir, come back immediately.” Signed: "Wife."

- Did you believe it?

- I believed it. I was very angry. But I said, “Darling, who can appreciate eternal love better than you and me? My wife just loves me with eternal love. We will respect her feelings." That's all.

“It’s time to sleep, gentlemen,” someone said.

- No, let someone else tell you. Madame G-ch, maybe you know something?

- I? About eternal love? I know a little story. Quite short. I had a pigeon on my farm, and I asked my servant, a Pole, to bring a dove from Poland for the pigeon. He brought it. The dove hatched the chicks and flew away. She was caught. She flew away again - apparently she was homesick. She abandoned her pigeon.

“Tout comme cher nous,” one of the listeners interjected.

– She abandoned a dove and two chicks. The dove began to warm them himself. But it was cold, winter, and the dove’s wings were shorter than those of the dove. The chicks are frozen. We threw them away. But the pigeon did not eat food for ten days, became weak, and fell from the pole. In the morning they found him dead on the floor. That's all.

- That's all? Well, let's go to bed.

“Yeah,” someone said, yawning. – This bird is an insect, that is, I wanted to say – a lower animal. She cannot reason and lives by lower instincts. Some kind of reflexes. Scientists are now studying them, these reflexes, and they will treat everyone, and there will be no longing for love, dying swans and crazy doves. Everyone will be like the Rockefellers, chew sixty times, remain silent and live to be a hundred years old. Is it really wonderful?

N. A. Teffi

All about love

La presse franèaise et étrangère

O. Zeluck, editor

Fairy Carabosse

Insurance

Two diaries

About eternal love

Mr. Furtenau's cat

Don Quixote and Turgenev's girl

Two novels with foreigners

Choosing a cross

Points of view

Trivial story

Psychological fact

Gentleman

Miracle of Spring

Blessed are the departed

Woman's share

Atmosphere of love

Easter story

Saleswoman's story

a wise man

Opened caches

Bright life

Virtuoso of feelings

The untold of Faust

The cabin was stuffy, with an unbearable smell of a hot iron and hot oilcloth. It was impossible to raise the curtain, because the window looked out onto the deck, and so, in the dark, angry and hasty, Platonov shaved and changed his clothes.

Once the ship moves, it will be cooler,” he consoled himself. It wasn't any better on the train either.

Dressed in a light suit and white shoes, and carefully combing his dark hair, thinning at the crown, he went out onto the deck. It was easier to breathe here, but the entire deck was burning from the sun and not the slightest movement of air was felt, despite the fact that the steamer was already trembling a little and the gardens and bell towers of the mountainous coast were quietly floating away, slowly turning.

The time was unfavorable for the Volga. End of July. The river was already shallow, the steamboats moved slowly, measuring the depth.

There were unusually few passengers in first class: a huge fat merchant in a cap with his wife, old and quiet, a priest, two dissatisfied elderly ladies,

Platonov walked around the ship several times.

A bit boring!

Although due to certain circumstances it was very convenient. Most of all he was afraid of meeting people he knew.

But, still, why is it so empty?

And suddenly, from the premises of the steamship salon, a rollicking chansonnet tune was heard. A hoarse baritone sang to the accompaniment of a rattling piano.

Platonov smiled and turned towards these pleasant sounds.

The ship's salon was empty... Only at the piano, decorated with a bouquet of colored feather grass, sat a stocky young man in a blue cotton shirt. He sat on a stool sideways, lowering his left knee to the floor, like a coachman on a beam, and with his elbows spread out, he also struck the keys somehow like a coachman (as if he was driving a troika).

"You have to be a little touchy-guy

A little strict

And he's ready!"

He shook his mighty mane of poorly combed blond hair.

"And to concessions

The little doves will go

And trawl-la-la-la

And troll-la."

He noticed Platonov and jumped up.

Allow me to introduce myself, Okulov, a cholera medical student.

Oh, yes - Platonov realized. - There are so few passengers. Cholera.

What the hell is cholera? They get too drunk, and then they get sick. I've been on and off for several flights and have not yet identified a single case.

The student Okulov’s face was healthy, red, darker than his hair, and the expression on it was that of a person who is preparing to punch someone in the face: his mouth is open, his nostrils are flared, his eyes are bulging. It’s as if nature recorded this penultimate moment and let the student continue throughout his life.

Yes, my dear, said the student. - Patented skinny. Not a single lady. And when he sits down, he’s such a freak that you get seasick in still water. Are you traveling for pleasure? It wasn't worth it. The river is rubbish. It's hot, it stinks. There is swearing on the piers. Captain - the devil knows what; He must be a drunkard, because he doesn’t drink vodka at the table. His wife is a girl - they have been married for four months. I tried with her like she was worth it. Stupid, my forehead is cracking. She decided to teach me. “From those who rejoice and chatter idly” and “benefit the people.” Just think - the mother is a commander! If you please see, from Vyatka with requests and spiritual twists. He spat and threw it away. But, you know, this tune? Pretty:

"From my flowers

Wonderful aroma..."

They sing in all the cafes.

He quickly turned around, sat down on the radio, shook his hair and drove off.

"Alas, mother

Oh, what is it..."

What a doctor! - thought Platonov and went to wander around the deck.

By lunchtime the passengers crawled out. That same Maotodont merchant and his wife, boring old women, a priest, two other merchant people and a person with long, stranded hair in dirty linen, in a copper pince-nez, with newspapers in his bulging pockets.

We dined on the deck, each at our own table. The captain also came, gray, puffy, gloomy, in a worn canvas jacket. With him is a girl of about fourteen, sleek, with a curled braid, in a chintz dress.

Platonov was already finishing his traditional boot when a doctor approached his table and shouted to the footman:

My device is here!

Please please! - Platonov invited him. - I am glad.

The medic sat down. I asked for vodka, herring,

Na-arshivaya river! - he began the conversation. - “Volga, Volga, in the spring with plenty of water, you don’t flood the fields like that”... Not like that. A Russian intellectual always teaches something. The Volga, you see, doesn’t flood like that. He knows better how to flood.

Excuse me,” Platonov interjected, “you seem to be confusing something.” However, I don’t really remember.

“I don’t remember myself,” the student agreed good-naturedly. Have you seen our fool?

What fool?

Yes mother commander. Here he is sitting with the captain. He doesn't look here on purpose. Outraged by my “cafe chanterie nature”

How? - Platonov was surprised. This girl? But she is no more than fifteen years old, sir.

No, a little more. Seventeen, or something. Is he any good? I told her, “It’s the same as marrying a badger. Why did the priest agree to marry you?” Ha ha! Badger with a booger! So what do you think? - I'm offended! What a fool!

The evening was quiet and pink. The colored lanterns on the buoys lit up, and the steamer magically, sleepily glided between them. The passengers scattered early to their cabins, only the closely loaded sawmills and carpenters were still busy on the lower deck, and the Tatar was whining a mosquito song.

On the bow, a white light shawl moved in the breeze and attracted Platonov.

The small figure of the captain's wife clung to the side and did not move.

Are you dreaming? - asked Platonov.

She shuddered and turned around in fear.

Oh! I thought this again...

Did you think this doctor? A? Really vulgar guy.

Then she turned her tender thin face to him with huge eyes, the color of which was already difficult to distinguish.

Platonov spoke in a serious tone that inspired confidence. He condemned the doctor very harshly for his chansonettes. He even expressed surprise that he could be interested in such vulgarities when fate gave him full opportunity to serve the holy cause of helping suffering humanity.

The little captain turned to him entirely, like a flower to the sun, and even opened her mouth,

The moon floated out, very young, not yet shining brightly, but hanging in the sky simply like a decoration. The river splashed a little. The forests of the mountainous shore were darkening. Quiet.

Platonov didn’t want to go into the stuffy cabin, and in order to keep that sweet, slightly white night face near him, he kept talking, talking in the most sublime themes, sometimes even ashamed of himself.

Well, what a healthy lie!

The dawn was already turning pink when, sleepy and spiritually touched, he went to bed.

The next day, it was the fateful twenty-third of July, when Vera Petrovna was supposed to board the ship - just for a few hours, for one night.

Regarding this meeting, thought up in the spring, he had already received a dozen letters and telegrams. It was necessary to coordinate his business trip to Saratov with her non-business trip to her friends on the estate. It seemed like a wonderful poetic meeting that no one would ever know about. Vera Petrovna's husband was busy building a distillery and could not see it through. Things went swimmingly.

The upcoming date did not worry Platonov. He hasn’t seen Vera Petrovna for three months now, and that’s a long time for flirting. Weathered. But still, the meeting seemed pleasant, as entertainment, as a break between the complex affairs of St. Petersburg and the unpleasant business meetings that awaited him in Saratov.

To shorten the time, he went to bed immediately after breakfast and slept until five o'clock. He combed his hair thoroughly, wiped himself with cologne, tidied up his cabin just in case, and went out on deck to inquire whether the same pier was coming soon. I remembered the captain’s wife, looked around, but couldn’t find her. Well, she has no use now.

At the small pier there was a carriage and some gentlemen and a lady in a white dress were fussing about.

Platonov decided that it would be prudent to hide, just in case. Maybe the husband himself accompanies you. He went behind the pipe and came out when the pier was already out of sight.

Arkady Nikolaevich!

Expensive!

Vera Petrovna is red, with hair stuck to her forehead - “eighteen miles in this heat!” - breathing heavily with excitement, she squeezed his hand.

Crazy... crazy... - he repeated, didn’t know what to say.

And suddenly, behind my back, a joyful cry from an unpleasantly familiar voice:

Tetichka! So suprise! Where are you going? - screamed the cholera student.

He wiped Platonov with his shoulder and, pressing against the confused lady, kissed her on the cheek.

This... let me introduce you... - she babbled with an expression of hopeless despair, - this is her husband’s nephew. Vasya Okulov.

Yes, we already know each other very well, the student was having fun good-naturedly. And you know, auntie, you got really fat in the village! By God! What sides! Just a pedestal!

Oh, leave it! - Vera Petrovna was babbling almost in tears.

I didn’t even know you knew each other! - the student continued to have fun. - Or maybe you met on purpose? Rendezvous? Ha ha ha! Come on, auntie, I'll show you your cabin. Goodbye, Monsieur Platonov. Shall we have lunch together?

All evening he never left a single step behind the unfortunate Vera Petrovna. Only at lunch did he have the brilliant idea of ​​going to the buffet himself to bake for some warm vodka. These few minutes were barely enough to express despair and love and hope that maybe at night the scoundrel would calm down.

When everyone is asleep, come on deck, to the chimney, I’ll be waiting,” Platonov whispered.

Just be careful for God's sake! He may gossip to his husband.

The evening turned out to be very boring. Vera Petrovna was nervous. Platonov was angry and both of them throughout the conversation tried to make it clear to the student that they met completely by accident and were very surprised by this circumstance.

The student was having fun, singing idiotic couplets and feeling like the life of the party.

Well, now sleep, sleep, sleep! - he ordered. - Tomorrow you have to get up early, there is no need to get tired. I am responsible for you to my uncle.

Vera Petrovna meaningfully shook Platonov’s hand and left, accompanied by her nephew.

Now “this one” will become attached, he thought about the little captain.

After waiting half an hour, he quietly went out onto the deck and headed towards the pipe.

She was already waiting for him, looking prettier in the foggy twilight, wrapped in a long dark veil.

Vera Petrovna! Expensive! Horrible!

It's horrible! It's horrible! - she whispered. - It was so hard to persuade my husband. He didn’t want me to go alone to the Severyakovs, he’s jealous of Mishka. I wanted to go in June, I pretended to be sick... In general, everything was so difficult, such torture...

Listen, Vera, dear! Let's go to my place! It's actually safer for me. We will sit quietly, quietly, without lighting the fire. I’ll just kiss your sweet eyes, I’ll just listen to your voice. After all, I only heard it in my dreams for so many months. Your voice! Is it possible to forget him! Faith! Tell me something!

E-te-te-te! - suddenly a hoarse bass voice sang above them,

Vera Petrovna quickly jumped to the side.

What is this? - continued the student, because, of course, it was him... - Fog, dampness, is it really possible to sit on the river at night? Ah ah ah! Hey auntie! So I’ll write everything to my uncle. Sleep, sleep, sleep! Nothing, nothing! Arkady Nikolaevich, send her to bed. Your stomach will get cold and you will get cholera.

So take risks! - the student did not let up. Dampness, fog!

What do you care? - Platonov got angry.

Like which one? I have to answer for her to my uncle. And it's too late. Sleep, sleep, sleep. I’ll see you off, auntie, and they’ll keep watch at the door all night, otherwise you’ll run out again and you’ll certainly get a cold in your stomach.

In the morning, after a very cold farewell (“She’s still sulking at me,” Platonov was perplexed), Vera Petrovna got off the ship.

In the evening, a light figure in a light dress approached Platonov herself.

You are sad? - she asked:

No. Why do you think so?

“But what about... your Vera Petrovna left,” her voice rang out unexpectedly boldly, as if with a challenge.

Platonov laughed:

But this is the aunt of your friend, the cholera student. She even looks like him - haven't you noticed?

And suddenly she laughed, so trustingly, like a child, that he himself felt simple and cheerful. And immediately this laughter seemed to make them friends and they began to have heart-to-heart conversations. And then Platonov found out that the captain was an excellent person and promised to let her go to Moscow in the fall to study,

No, no need to go to Moscow! - Platonov interrupted her. We need to go to St. Petersburg,

How why? Because I'm there!!

And she took his hand with her thin hands and laughed with happiness.

Overall it was a wonderful night. And already at dawn a heavy figure crawled out from behind the pipe and yawned and called:

Marusenok, midnight office! Time to sleep.

It was the captain.

And they spent another night on deck. The grown-up Moon showed Platonov Marusenka’s huge eyes, inspired and clear.

“Don’t forget my phone number,” he said to those amazing eyes. - You don't even have to say your name. I recognize you by your voice

How's that? Can't be! - she whispered admiringly. - Do you really know?

And what a wonderful life will begin after this phone! Theaters, of course, are the most serious - scientific lectures, exhibitions. Art is of great importance... And beauty. For example, her beauty...

And she listened! How I listened! And when something really amazed her, she would say so sweetly, so especially, “That’s how it is!”

Early in the morning he got out in Saratov. Boring business people were already waiting for him on the pier, making unnaturally friendly faces. Platonov thought that one of these friendly faces would have to be convicted of embezzlement, the other would be kicked out for idleness, and already preoccupied and angry in advance, he began to go down the stairs. Accidentally turning around, I saw her at the railing... She squinted her sleepy face and pressed her lips tightly, as if she was afraid to cry, but her eyes shone so huge and happy that he involuntarily smiled at them.

In Saratov, business was overwhelming during the day, and drunken stupor in the evening. In Ochkin’s café, which thundered throughout the Volga with merchant revelries, I had, as expected, to spend the evening with business people. Choirs sang - Gypsy, Hungarian, Russian. The eminent Volga merchant was showing off over the lackeys. While pouring forty-eight glasses, the footman accidentally splashed it on the tablecloth.

You don't know how to pour, you bastard!

The merchant tore the tablecloth, the fragments rattled, and champagne spilled on the carpet and chairs.

Pour first!

The smell of wine, cigar smoke, hubbub.

Rytka! Rytka! - the Hungarian women wheezed in sleepy voices.

At dawn, a wild, almost sheep-like roar was heard from the next office.

What's happened?

Mr. Apollosov is having fun. It is they who always gather all the waiters in the end and force them to sing in chorus.

They say: this Apollosov, a modest rural teacher, bought in installments from Heinrich Blok winning ticket and won seventy-five thousand. And as soon as he received the money, he settled down with Ochkin. Now the capital is coming to an end. He wants to leave everything here to the last penny. This is his dream. And then he will ask again old place, will live out his life as a village teacher and remember the luxurious life, as the waiters sang to him in chorus at dawn.

Well, where other than Russia and the soul of a Russian person will you find such “happiness”?

Autumn has passed. Winter has come.

Platonov's winter began difficult, with various unpleasant stories in business relations. I had to work a lot, and the work was nervous, restless and responsible.

And so, somehow expecting an important visit, he sat in his office. The phone rang.

Who's speaking?

Who am I"? - Platonov asked irritably. Sorry, I'm very busy.

Won't you find out? It's me.

“Oh, madam,” Platonov said with annoyance. - I assure you that I have absolutely no time to deal with riddles right now. I am really busy. Be kind enough to speak directly.

A! - Platonov guessed. Well, of course I found out. How can I not recognize your sweet voice, Vera Petrovna!

Silence. And then quietly and sadly, sadly:

Vera Petrovna? That's how... If so, then nothing... I don't need anything...

And suddenly he remembered:

Why, it's small! Little one on the Volga! Lord, what have I done? So offend the little one!

I found out! “I found out,” he shouted into the phone, surprised at both his joy and despair. - For God's sake! For God's sake! After all, I found out!

But no one responded anymore.

It was an excellent restaurant with kebabs, dumplings, suckling pig, sturgeon and an art program. Art program was not limited to just Russian numbers “Lapotochkas”, and “Bublichki”, and “Black Eyes”. Among the performers were black women, and Mexican women, and Spaniards, and gentlemen of a vaguely jazz tribe, singing obscure nasal words in all languages, moving their hips. Even obviously Russian artists, crossing themselves behind the scenes, sang an encore in French and English.

Dance numbers, which allowed the artists not to reveal their nationality, were performed by ladies with the most supernatural names: Takuza Muka. Rutuf Yay-yay. Ekama Yuya.

Dark, almost black, exotic women with long green eyes howled among them. There were rose-gold blondes and fiery redheads with brown skin. Almost all of them, down to the mulatto women, were, of course, Russian. With our talents, even this is not difficult to achieve. “Our sister poverty” will teach you the wrong thing.

The ambiance of the restaurant was gorgeous. This was the word that best defined her. Not luxurious, not lush, not sophisticated, but chic.

Colored lampshades, fountains, green aquariums with goldfish built into the walls, carpets, a ceiling painted with strange things, among which one could discern a bulging eye, a raised leg, a pineapple, a piece of a nose with a monocle stuck to it, or a crab's tail. It seemed to those sitting at the tables that all this was falling on their heads, but it seems that this was precisely the artist’s task.

The servants were polite and did not say to late guests:

The restaurant was visited by as many foreigners as Russians. And it was often seen how some Frenchman or Englishman, who had apparently already been to this establishment, brought friends with him and, with the expression on the face of a magician swallowing burning tow, poured the first glass of vodka into his mouth and, with his eyes bulging, stuck it in his mouth. throat like a pie. His friends looked at him as if he were a brave eccentric and, smiling incredulously, sniffed their glasses.

The French love to order pies. For some reason they are amused by this word, which they pronounce with an emphasis on “o”. This is very strange and inexplicable. In all Russian words, the French place emphasis, according to the nature of their language, on last word. In all of them - except for the word "pies".

Vava von Merzen, Musya Riven and Gogosya Livensky were sitting at the table. Gogosya was from the highest circle, albeit from the distant periphery; therefore, despite his sixty-five years, he continued to respond to the nickname Gogosya.

Vava von Mersen, also long grown into an elderly Varvara, in finely curled dry bucles of tobacco color, so thoroughly smoky that if they were cut and finely chopped, you could fill the pipe of some undemanding long-distance skipper with them.

Musya Riven was young, a child who had just been divorced for the first time, sad, sentimental and tender, which did not stop her from sipping vodka glass after glass, to no avail and unnoticed by either her or others.

Gogosya was a charming conversationalist. He knew everyone and spoke loudly and a lot about everyone, occasionally, in risky places in his speech, switching, according to the Russian habit, to French, partly so that “the servants would not understand,” partly because French indecency is piquant, and Russian is offensive to the ear.

Gogosya knew which restaurant, what exactly to order, shook hands with all the maitre d'hotels, knew the name of the cook and remembered what, where and when he ate.

He loudly applauded the successful numbers of the program and shouted in a lordly Basque:

Thank you brother!

Well done, girl!

He knew many of the visitors, made a welcoming gesture to them, and sometimes boomed to the whole room:

Comment ca va? Anna Petrovna en bonne santé?

In a word, he was a wonderful client, filling three-quarters of the room with his person alone.

Opposite them, against the other wall, she took a table interesting company. Three ladies. All three are more than elderly. Simply put - old women.

The conductor of the whole affair was small, dense, with her head screwed directly into the bust, without any hint of a neck. A large diamond brooch rested on her double chin. Gray, perfectly combed hair was covered with a coquettish black hat, cheeks powdered with pinkish powder, a very modestly browned mouth revealing bluish porcelain teeth. A magnificent silver fox fluffed up above her ears. The old woman was very elegant.

The other two were of little interest and were apparently invited by the smart old woman.

She chose both wine and dishes very carefully, and those invited, obviously “no fool,” sharply expressed their opinions and defended their positions. They started eating together, with the fire of real temperament. They walked intelligently and focused. They quickly became flushed. Home old woman she was all filled up, even turned a little blue, and her eyes bulged and became glassy. But all three were in a joyfully excited mood, like blacks who had just skinned an elephant, when joy requires continuation of the dance, and satiety brings them to the ground.

Funny old women! - said Vava von Merzen, pointing at fun company your lorgnette.

Yes,” Gogosya enthusiastically picked up. - Happy age. They no longer need to maintain the line, they no longer need to conquer someone, to please someone. If you have money and a good stomach, this is the happiest age. And the most carefree. You no longer need to build your life. All is ready,

Look at this one, the main one,” said Musya Riven, lowering the corners of her mouth contemptuously. - Just some kind of cheerful cow. I can see what she was like all her life.

“I guess I’ve lived well,” Gogosya said approvingly. - Live and let others live. Cheerful, healthy, rich. Maybe she was even pretty. Now, of course, it’s difficult to judge. A lump of pink fat.

I think I was stingy, greedy and stupid,” added Vava von Mersen. - Look how she eats, how she drinks, a sensual animal.

But still, someone probably loved her, and even married her,” Musya Riven said dreamily.

Someone just got married for money. You always assume romance, which never happens in life.

The conversation was interrupted by Tyulya Rovtsyn. He was from the same periphery of the circle as Gogosya, and therefore retained the name Tyulya until the age of sixty-three. Tulya was also sweet and pleasant, but poorer than Gogosi and all in a minor key. After chatting for a few minutes, he stood up, looked around and approached the cheerful old women. They were delighted to see him, as if they were an old friend, and seated him at their table.

Meanwhile, the program went on as usual.

A young man came out onto the stage, licked his lips like a cat who had eaten chicken, and, accompanied by the howling and intermittent tinkling of jazz, sang an English song with some kind of pleading womanish cooing. The words of the song were sentimental and even sad, the motive was monotonously sad. But jazz did its job without delving into these details, and it turned out as if a sad gentleman was tearfully talking about his love failures, and some madman was jumping unbridledly, roaring, whistling and hitting the whiny gentleman on the head with a copper tray.

Then two Spanish women danced to the same music. One of them squealed as she ran away, which greatly lifted the audience's spirits.

Then a Russian singer came out with French surname. First he sang a French romance, then an old Russian encore:

"Your meek slave, I will kneel.

"I do not fight against destructive fate,

"I am at the shame, at the bitterness of humiliation -

“I will do anything for the happiness of being with you.”

Listen! Listen! - Gogosya suddenly became wary. - Oh, so many memories! What a terrible tragedy is associated with this romance. Poor Kolya Izubov... Maria Nikolaevna Rutte... Count...

"When my gaze meets your eyes,

"I'm filled with painful delight"

The singer led out languidly.

“I knew them all,” Gogosya recalled. - This is a romance by Kolya Izubov. Lovely music. He was very talented. Sailor...

... "Thus reflects the blissful stars

A raging, bottomless ocean..."

The singer continued.

How charming she was! Both Kolya and the count were in love with her like crazy. And Kolya challenged the count to a duel. The Count killed him. Maria Nikolaevna's husband was then in the Caucasus. She returns, and then there is this scandal, and Maria Nikolaevna is caring for the dying Kolya. The Count, seeing that Maria Nikolaevna is with Kolya all the time, puts a bullet in his forehead, leaving her a suicide letter that he knew about her love for Kolya. The letter, of course, falls into the hands of the husband, and he demands a divorce. Maria Nikolaevna loves him passionately and is literally not to blame for anything. But Rutte doesn’t believe her and takes an appointment to Far East and leaves her alone. She is in despair, suffering madly, wants to go to a monastery. Six years later, her husband calls her to Shanghai. She flies there, reborn. Finds him dying. We lived together only for two months. I understood everything, loved her alone all the time and suffered. In general, this is such a tragedy that you are simply surprised. How did this little woman survive all this? Then I lost sight of her. I only heard that she got married and her husband was killed in the war. She, it seems, died too. Killed during the revolution. Tyulya knew her well, he even suffered at one time.

If, lady, you have a son, I will sew him a hat. One barrel is red, the other is yellow - ha-ha-ha! Well, if it’s a daughter, then you need a cap with lace.

IN last time She said such funny nonsense that even sad Ilka began to cheer up. Senka told me that some German had a goat, and that they hung a red woolen harness with bells around the goat’s neck. The bells are not like those on horses, but small, golden ones, and they sing just like that. So, Senka wants one bell, or cut off two and hide for the little one,

We'll tie him to a string, he'll wiggle his arms and be cheerful for the rest of his life. But in our city you still can’t buy bells. These are obviously imported. Cutting one off is no problem, they won’t notice. And if they notice, they won’t know who it is. Ha-ha-ha!

Senka is stupid and roguish, but she was so simple and cheerful that a lifetime would never part with her. But there was a serious obstacle to happiness with Senka. In her past there are two children and not a single husband. One child died in the village, the other “as if alive.” Ilka’s angry husband will not allow Senka to be hired.

She was already prepared to lie something, to portray Senka as a victim, but somehow she didn’t know how to approach this matter. The mere thought of talking with Stanya made my heart palpitate.

But, somehow, he himself spoke.

You need to find a nanny for your unborn child.

Ilka became agitated, gasped, and prepared to speak, but he continued:

But I was lucky,” he said solemnly. - I have appointed a teacher for the child. This is the sister of the pharmacist's wife. She herself is deprived of the opportunity to have her own family, she is ready to sacrifice herself for the interests of someone else's child.

God! - thought Ilka. - How terribly he speaks. Well, what are the child’s interests? How sad and scary everything is done.

This woman, or rather this girl, her name is Kazimira Karlovna, has never served before. We will have her first place. And what is very valuable is that she is hunchbacked.

Ilka’s lips turned pale.

Valuable? - she asked quietly.

Yes, it’s valuable,” he repeated and stubbornly stuck out his forehead. - You, of course, cannot understand this, although now, preparing for motherhood, you should be more sensitive to your duty,

He lit a cigarette and began shaking his knee.

Angry! - thought Ilka. - And what?

From the first days of life, a child must learn to love everything disadvantaged. He will become attached to his ugly teacher - she, fortunately, is extremely ugly, except bad figure, - and will suffer with her from the injections and ridicule of the vulgar crowd. This woman, or rather the girl, had already set the condition in advance that they would not force her to walk with her child in the park. She has already purchased a place for her grave in the cemetery and will take a stroller with her child there every day. I find this to be wonderful. In a park where passers-by will gasp and admire the child, they will only instill vanity in the young soul. What is this for? And she also made it a condition that no guests should be brought into the nursery. There is no point in showing the child. Yes, it’s probably also unpleasant for her to once again catch mocking glances on herself.

“I don’t understand anything,” said Ilka and blushed. - Why, suddenly, “mocking glances?” Who laughs at hunchbacks?

All! - the husband snapped. - You are the first. If you don't laugh, you don't approve. Yes, sir.

Ilka cried.

I don't understand your desire to surround your child with ugliness and suffering. For what? Why torture him? That he's an escaped convict, or what? Yes, perhaps he himself will be kind and compassionate.

Saints slept with lepers! - Stanya said gloomily.

Now you will be looking for a leper nanny! - Ilka shouted in despair. - Every time you give me these lepers. No, if I were a saint, I would not go to bed with a leper. I would give him my bed, and I would leave. A leper patient, he needs peace and comfort. And here you deign to huddle against the wall, and next to this bearded saint snores and emphasizes his selflessness. Not good. He does not love the leper, but himself. It is not about him that he cares, but about overcoming disgust in himself in the name of self-improvement. I will not give the child to lepers. Lie with them yourself.

She jumped up and, crying and bumping into chairs and the door lintel, went to her room and lay down. And she was shaking all over, as if she was shivering. And then drowsiness came and bells began to ring in the yard, not horse bells, but thin, sharp ones, probably goat bells, the ones that cheerful Senka stole for the baby. The bells rang and the terrible wheels rumbled. And suddenly a squeak, a squeal. Ilka got up, crept to the window and saw. She saw a huge ramble. The rear wheels are three times larger than the front wheels and are covered with thick iron. And in front of the rattletrap, huge rats roll around, roll over from their bellies to their backs - soft, fat, entangled in the red lines and squeaking. And he climbs out of the racket, looking for

I read a lot, but there are many such readers.

I’m not a philologist, so I can’t write serious reviews. Well, I understand the difference between a professional and the most advanced amateur...

Nevertheless, I am driven by the most passionate and strong love to books coupled with a desire to speak out.

In a word, I will try to make up for the lack of professionalism with my feelings and devote myself to books that belong to me financially, which I sometimes kiss and stroke, I am so attached to them.

I have loved Teffi for a long time and even allow myself to write a sign of identity between a writer and a person. Which, as a rule, is naive and wrong. Nevertheless, I am sure that Nadezhda Alexandrovna was a wonderful person.

Teffi. All about love.

I bought this book in a used bookstore on Allenby Street in Tel Aviv about ten years ago.
At the same time, I purchased two more old publications for a symbolic price: “Deceptions of the Heart and Mind” by Crebillon the Son and “Stories” by Hasek.
To be honest, I could easily do without both, but I had the same ones at home once in my childhood...

Teffi's book was published in Paris; in which year, I don’t know anymore. Then, apparently, it was handed over to the library of the trade union house of the city of Holon, to the department of new repatriates from the USSR.

How she got into the store is unknown. Either the library was abolished, or someone “read” the book, appropriated it, and then sold it along with other “trash” to a second-hand bookseller.

The stories in this collection are mainly dedicated to Russian emigrants in France.

Actually, they are dedicated to the ever-present themes of Teffi: “life, tears, and love,” in a humorous spirit.

But the heroes are Russians living in Paris.

The book was republished, but relatively recently, as I understand it.

Here's the link:

http://www.biblioclub.ru/book/49348/

The stories are very honest.

Homesickness often leads to idealization; therefore, emigrant writers, as a rule, present their compatriots in bright colors, demonizing " indigenous people", "aboriginals" and their customs.

Teffi is quite objective in this matter, because... it has a quality inherent in some smart people: laugh at yourself. These are the stories "The Groom", "The Wise Man", and especially - "Psychological Fact."
At this point I erased all my comments because they are completely unnecessary...

I did not find a version available for copying; the scanned pages are not easy to read.
Therefore, I partially quote from links... The links are also incomplete, so I apologize in advance...

In general, Teffi always treated women ironically. And this also appeals to me.

Sometimes this irony migrates into the grotesque (“Two Diaries”, “A Woman’s Lot”, “Scoundrels”)

Sometimes she is a little sad, and even very sad (“Nightmare”, “Atmosphere of Love”, “Easter Story”, “Bright Life”)

There are unexpected associations. In “The Saleswoman’s Tale”, if you change the details, you can remember O” Henry (in part of the lyrical stories about poor girls, such as “The Burning Lamp”).

There are absolutely “no humor”, sad stories, as a rule, they talk about loneliness.
"Mr. Furtenau's Cat", "The Miracle of Spring", and my favorite, "Two Novels with Foreigners".

Here you have Tokareva, and maybe the early T. Tolstaya...

I've thickened the colors a little. Very funny and psychologically accurate, as always with Teffi, the stories-situations dilute the “quiet twilight”.
This is “Time”, “Don Quixote and Turgenev’s Girl”, “The Choice of the Cross”, “A Banal Story”

And what are the names of the heroes worth:
Vava von Merzen, Dusya Brock, Bulbezov, Emil Kuritsa, Kavochka Busova...

Teffi’s balanced emotions really suit me. Chatting my teeth from horrors modern prose, it is extremely pleasant to sit somewhere on the grass - or under a blanket on the sofa - depending on the climate. Take the volume that is crumbling before your eyes (yes, exactly, before your eyes, this is not a hackneyed comparison, but the truth!) and start smiling.

And one more addition: I see that the audio book “All About Love” performed by Olga Aroseva has been released.

http://rutracker.org/forum/viewtopic.php?t=1005117

Probably interesting.

About eternal love Nadezhda Teffi

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Title: About eternal love

About the book “On Eternal Love” Nadezhda Teffi

Nadezhda Teffi’s wonderful collection of stories “About Eternal Love” introduces the reader to the vision of the theme of love and relationships between the sexes through the eyes of a satirist.

Nadezhda Teffi is a Russian writer who writes on topical issues. Her stories, feuilletons and essays are full of satirical, sharp statements, and at times a cynical look at familiar things.

The story “About Eternal Love,” included in the collection of the same name, demonstrates the difference in the perception of the theme of eternal love in the eyes of a man and a woman. A woman passionately desires romanticism in a relationship, and a man desires carnal pleasures. A woman perceives the concept of eternal love as something immortal and unshakable, for which one can die, and a man perceives it as temporary entertainment. A woman desires spiritual intimacy, but a man runs away from it, considering spiritual connection a trap.

Other works from the collection “On Eternal Love” are imbued with no less a share of realism, a cynical perception of reality and satire, characteristic of the writer’s pen. Her stories are topical and witty, despite the fact that they were written decades ago.

Teffi's hope has always been strong in small things literary forms, she managed to contain voluminous thoughts in a few lines, point out shortcomings, and ridicule them in a gentle form. The reader, getting acquainted with Teffi’s stories, involuntarily thinks about the vicissitudes of fate and the injustice that surrounds humanity and was created by its own hands.

After spending the second half of her life in exile, Nadezhda Teffi began to write less satirical feuilletons, turning to the topic of human relationships. She became bored with making fun of clumsy officials, thieving merchants and prim aristocrats and snobs. The theme of love and loneliness in a foreign land became the basis of her writing.

Teffi's stories are a lightness and grace of storytelling, a lot of psychological details, presented naturally, without embellishment. In the collection “On Eternal Love,” unbridled passions do not boil, but the author reveals many aspects of such a complex and multifaceted concept as love.

For readers who are still unfamiliar with the work of the Russian queen of satire Nadezhda Teffi, we recommend that you read touching, sweet and witty essays about love - so different, sometimes frankly funny and deadly sad, but full of irony and hope.

On our website about books lifeinbooks.net you can download for free or read online book“About Eternal Love” by Nadezhda Teffi in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and real pleasure from reading. Buy full version you can from our partner. Also, here you will find last news from literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For beginning writers there is a separate section with useful tips and recommendations, interesting articles, thanks to which you yourself can try your hand at literary crafts.

Annotation

Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi (Lokhvitskaya, married Buchinskaya; 1872–1952) - a brilliant Russian writer who began her creative path from poems and newspaper feuilletons and who, along with A. Averchenko, I. Bunin and other prominent representatives of the Russian emigration, left a significant literary heritage. Teffi's works, funny and sad, are always witty and good-natured, filled with love for the characters and understanding human weaknesses, compassion for troubles ordinary people. The reward for this is the herd people's love to Teffi and the title of “queen of laughter”.

Here the reader will find the collection “All About Love.”

Unfortunately, some of the stories are missing from the file.

http://ruslit.traumlibrary.net

Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi (Lokhvitskaya)

All about love

Insurance

Two diaries

About eternal love

Mr. Furtenau's cat

Don Quixote and Turgenev's girl

Two novels with foreigners

Choosing a cross

Points of view

Trivial story

Psychological fact

Gentleman

Miracle of Spring

Blessed are the departed

Woman's share

Atmosphere of love

Easter story

Saleswoman's story

a wise man

Opened caches

Bright life

Virtuoso of feelings

The untold of Faust

Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Teffi (Lokhvitskaya)

Collected works in five volumes

Volume 3. All about love. Town. Lynx

All about love

Flirting

The cabin was unbearably stuffy, smelling of a hot iron and hot oilcloth. It was impossible to raise the curtain, because the window looked out onto the deck, and so, in the dark, angry and hasty, Platonov shaved and changed his clothes.

“As soon as the ship moves, it will be cooler,” he consoled himself. “It wasn’t any sweeter on the train either.”

Dressed in a light suit and white shoes, and carefully combing his dark hair, thinning at the crown, he went out onto the deck. It was easier to breathe here, but the entire deck was burning from the sun, and not the slightest movement of air was felt, despite the fact that the steamer was already shaking slightly and the gardens and bell towers of the mountainous coast were quietly floating away, slowly turning.

The time was unfavorable for the Volga. End of July. The river was already shallow, the steamboats moved slowly, measuring the depth.

There were unusually few passengers in first class: a huge fat merchant in a cap with his wife, old and quiet, a priest, two disgruntled elderly ladies.

Platonov walked around the ship several times.

“It’s a bit boring!”

Although due to certain circumstances it was very convenient. Most of all he was afraid of meeting people he knew.

“But still, why is it so empty?”

And suddenly, from the premises of the steamship salon, a rollicking chansonnet tune was heard. A hoarse baritone sang to the accompaniment of a rattling piano. Platonov smiled and turned towards these pleasant sounds.

The steamship salon was empty... Only at the piano, decorated with a bouquet of colored feather grass, sat a stocky young man in a blue cotton shirt. He sat on a stool sideways, lowering his left knee to the floor, like a coachman on a bench, and, with his elbows dashingly apart, also somehow like a coachman (as if he was driving a troika), he struck the keys.

“You have to be a little touchy,

A little strict

And he's ready!

He shook his mighty mane of poorly combed blond hair.

"And to concessions

The doves will go

And trawl-la-la-la, And trawl-la."

He noticed Platonov and jumped up.

Allow me to introduce myself, Okulov, a cholera medical student.

Oh yes,” Platonov realized. - There are so few passengers. Cholera.

What the hell is cholera? They get too drunk - well, they get sick. I've been on and off for several flights and have not yet identified a single case.

The student Okulov’s face was healthy, red, darker than his hair, and the expression on it was that of a person who is preparing to punch someone in the face: his mouth is open, his nostrils are flared, his eyes are bulging. It’s as if nature recorded this penultimate moment and let the student continue throughout his life.

Yes, my dear,” said the student. - Patented skinny. Not a single lady. And when he sits down, he’s such a freak that you get seasick in still water. Well, are you traveling for pleasure? It wasn't worth it. The river is rubbish. It's hot, it stinks. There is swearing on the piers. Captain - God knows what; He must be a drunkard, because he doesn’t drink vodka at the table. His wife is a girl - they have been married for four months. I tried it with her, like she was worth it. Stupid, my forehead is cracking. She decided to teach me. “From those who rejoice and chatter idly” and “benefit the people.” Just think - mother-commander! If you please see, from Vyatka - with requests and emotional bends. He spat and threw it away. But, you know this tune! Pretty:

"From my flowers

Wonderful aroma...”

They sing in all the cafes.

He quickly turned around, sat down on the radio, shook his hair and drove off:

"Alas, mother,

Oh, what is it..."

“What a medic!” - thought Platonov and went to wander around the deck.

By lunchtime the passengers crawled out. The same mastodon merchant and his wife, boring old women, a priest, two other merchants and a person with long, stranded hair, in dirty linen, in copper pince-nez, with newspapers in his bulging pockets.

We dined on the deck, each at our own table. The captain also came, gray, puffy, gloomy, in a worn canvas jacket. With him is a girl of about fourteen, sleek, with a curled braid, in a chintz dress.

Platonov was already finishing his traditional boot when a doctor approached his table and shouted to the footman:

My device is here!

Please please! - Platonov invited him, - I’m very glad.

The medic sat down. I asked for vodka and herring.

Pa-arshaya river! - he started the conversation. - “Volga, Volga, in the spring with a lot of water you don’t flood the fields like that...” Not like that. A Russian intellectual always teaches something. The Volga, you see, doesn’t flood like that. He knows better how to flood.

Excuse me,” Platonov interjected, “you seem to be confusing something.” However, I don’t really remember.

“I don’t remember myself,” the student agreed good-naturedly. -Have you seen our fool?

What fool?

Yes to the mother commander. Here he is sitting with the captain. He doesn't look here on purpose. I am outraged by my “cafe-chant nature.”

How? - Platonov was surprised. - This girl? But she is no more than fifteen years old.

No, a little more. Seventeen or something. Is he any good? I told her: “It’s the same as marrying a badger. How did the priest agree to marry you?” Ha ha! Badger with a booger! So what do you think? I'm offended! What a fool!

The evening was quiet and pink. The colored lanterns on the buoys lit up, and the steamer magically, sleepily glided between them. The passengers scattered early to their cabins, only on the lower deck the closely loaded sawmills and carpenters were still busy and the Tatar whining his mosquito song.

On the bow, a white light shawl moved in the breeze and attracted Platonov.

The small figure of Kapiton’s wife clung to the side and did not move.

Are you dreaming? - asked Platonov.

She shuddered and turned around in fear.

Oh! I thought it was this one again...

Did you think this doctor? A? Truly a vulgar fellow.

Then she turned her tender thin face to him with huge eyes, the color of which was already difficult to distinguish.

Platonov spoke in a serious tone that inspired confidence. He condemned the doctor very harshly for his chansonettes. He even expressed surprise that he could be interested in such vulgarities when fate gave him full opportunity to serve the holy cause of helping suffering humanity.

The little captain turned to him entirely, like a flower to the sun, and even opened her mouth.

The moon emerged, very young, not yet shining brightly, but hanging in the sky just like a decoration. The river splashed a little. The forests of the mountainous shore were darkening.

Platonov didn’t want to go into a stuffy cabin, and in order to keep that sweet, slightly white night face near him, he kept talking, talking about the most lofty topics, sometimes even ashamed of himself: “What a bunch of nonsense!”

The dawn was already turning pink when, sleepy and spiritually touched, he went to bed.

The next day was that most fateful twenty-third of July, when Vera Petrovna was supposed to board the ship - just for a few hours, for one night.

About this date...