by Teffi
“Yes, you’ll be in for it all right,” echoes the laundress. “Look! Her stores are nearly all gone! But it’s her own fault. How does she expect me to feed a man—a peasant—all winter long? You think it’s cheap feeding a peasant? Give him a potato and he wants butter too. Give him porridge and he’s got to have broth as well. Is a peasant ever going to try and eat less? All he cares about is stuffing his belly.”
The coachman nods sympathetically and even heaves a sigh, although he does half sense that the “peasant” in question might be himself. But that’s the way things are. Deep in his soul he feels a certain awe before this peasant nature of his.
“Yes, peasants are peasants. Is a peasant going to try and eat less?”
Then the slack-jawed girl brought out a samovar with green stains down its side.
“Come and have yourselves some tea!” she said.
The old woman began blinking and screwing up her eyes again.
“Who’s that you’re talking to? Who is it you’re calling to the table?”
“Why, you, Granny. And you, Grandpa.”
“Then that’s what you should say. There was a woman who called everyone to dinner with the words: ‘Come and sit yourselves down.’ But she didn’t say, ‘Let the baptized souls come and sit themselves down.’ So anyone who felt like it came to dinner: they crawled out from on top of the stove, from behind the stove, from the sleeping shelf, from the bench and from under the bench, all the unseen and unheard, all the unknown and undreamt of. Great big eyes peering, great big teeth clacking. ‘You called us,’ they said. ‘Now feed us.’ But what could she do? She could hardly feed such a crowd.”
“What happened? What did they all do?” asked the girl, goggle-eyed.
“What do you think?”
“What?”
“Well, they did what they do.”
“What did they do?”
“They all did what they had to do.”
“But what was it they had to do, Granny?”
“Ask too many questions—there’s no knowing who’ll answer.”
The girl hunched herself up in fright and looked away to one side.
“Why do you keep fidgeting?” The old woman was squinting at the girl’s bright pink skirt. “And you the name-day girl! Your name day is your saint’s feast day—it’s a holy day. The name day of the bee is the day of Saints Zosima and Savvaty. The bee may be a simple, humble creature—but all the same, on her name day she doesn’t buzz, she doesn’t sting. She just settles on a little flower and thinks about her guardian angel.”
“We pay our respects to the mare on the day of Saints Frolus and Laurus,” said the coachman, blowing on the tea he had poured out into his chipped saucer.
“The Feast of the Annunciation is the bird’s name day. She doesn’t weave her nest or peck for grain. She sings, but only softly and respectfully.”
“On Saint Vlas’s Day we pay our respects to the cattle,” said the coachman, still trying to get a word in.
“And the Feast of the Holy Spirit is the earth’s name day. On this day no one dares to trouble the earth. No one burrows or digs or picks flowers—none of that is allowed. Burying the dead is not allowed. It’s a great sin to insult the earth on her name day. The beasts understand this too—and on the Day of the Holy Spirit no beast will scratch the earth with a claw, or stamp it with a hoof, or strike it with a paw. It’s a great sin. Every beast knows about feast days. The glow-worm celebrates on St John the Baptist’s Day. He blows on his little flames and prays to his angel. Then it’s Saint Aquilina’s Day—the name day of red berries—that’s when your strawberries and raspberries and currants and brambles and cranberries and cowberries and all the other little forest berries celebrate their name day. On Saint Aquilina’s Day there’s not a wolf, fox or hare will lay a paw on a red berry. Even the bear’s afraid: why would he want to make trouble for himself? He doesn’t take a single step until he’s sniffed around and made sure he won’t be trampling on any berries.”
The girl seemed frightened again. She was looking away to one side, tucking her flat feet under her pink skirt. Snuffling and sighing.
The coachman also wanted to have his say.
He might not know many things. He had been in the army. A long time ago. They had had to push back the enemy. Then they had had to push on somewhere else. And somewhere else. Where? Who knows? No one can remember everything.
“Three years I was away. Then I came back home. ‘Hello, Fedorushka,’ says the wife, and the youngsters, too. And there in the corner, I see a cradle. And in the cradle a nursling. All right, I think, if it’s a nursling it’s a nursling. The next day I ask my eldest, ‘Who’s that there in the cradle?’ ‘That,’ she says, ‘is a little ’un.’ All right, if it’s a little ’un then it’s a little ’un. The day after that I ask my eldest, ‘So, where’d you get this little ’un?’ ‘Grandma,’ she says, ‘brought it.’ Well, if it was Grandma then it was Grandma. The child began to grow. I heard him being called Petka. All right then, Petka. He grew big. And last year Petka’s son got married. But I never did find out where this Petka came from. And now? Well, I doubt anyone can remember any more.”
“I can’t remember,” murmured the old woman. “I can’t remember the cow’s name day. It’s vexing not to know. I’ve grown old and forgetful. And it’s a sin to hurt someone’s feelings.”
They shut the gate behind the pink girl. The day was over. It was time to go to sleep.
It had been a difficult day. You can’t fall asleep straight away after a day like that. After guests have been round you always sleep poorly. The tea, and the talk, and the finery, and all the fuss.
“So when is the cow’s name day? Unless you know, you might say an unkind word to her on her name day—and that’s a sin. But the cow can’t say anything. She’ll keep her mouth shut. While up on high an angel will begin to weep…”
It’s hard being old! Hard!
Beyond the window the night is a deep blue. It calls something to mind—but just what, it is impossible to remember.
Softly rustle the reeds forgotten by the river.
The river has gone away; it has left the reeds behind.
1916
DUTY AND HONOUR
MARIA PAVLOVNA was an energetic woman who wore green neckties and told it like it was.
She called on Medina at eleven in the morning, before Medina had time to do her face and hair and when her defences would be at their weakest.
“Well, well,” said Maria Pavlovna, looking straight at the curling paper on top of her friend’s head. “This all looks very sweet. But perhaps I could trouble you to explain just who was walking you arm in arm across the street last night. Hmm?”
Medina widened her eyes, arched her naked brows and threw up her hands—that is, she drew upon all the meagre resources at her disposal to express surprise.
“Me? Last night? Arm in arm? I don’t understand!”
“You don’t understand? She doesn’t understand! Just wait until Ivan Sergeyevich gets back from his business trip—he’ll understand for you!”
Medina made to throw up her hands and widen her eyes again, but somehow this failed to achieve the desired effect, so she decided to look aggrieved instead.
“No, Maria, I well and truly don’t understand—whatever are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the way you’re taking advantage of your husband’s absence to run around with that clown Fasolnikov. Oh yes! Worse still—the two of you were talking together by the front door for a whole hour and a half. Very clever!”
“I assure you…” Medina stammered. “I assure you that I didn’t notice him in the least.”
“You didn’t notice that you were walking arm in arm with him? Heavens above! Save that for someone else!”
“I swear it’s true. I’m ever so scatterbrained!”
“Next time you should keep an eye on what’s happening right there by your own elbow. You were talking at the door for t
wo whole hours. The porter is sniggering. The drivers are sniggering. Anna Nikolayevna was going past and she saw everything. She says that she could see from a whole block away that Medina was in love. Now she’s spreading the news—all over town.”
Medina threw up her hands in horror.
“Me? In love? What nonsense!”
“Save that for someone else,” said Maria Pavlovna matter-of-factly. Lighting a cigarette, she asked, “Is he coming to your party tomorrow?”
“Of course not. Although I did invite him. How could I not invite him? So, it’s possible, after all, that he might come. He was at my name-day party, so why would he suddenly, now… Of course he’ll come.”
“Well done! Now you’ll have all your guests winking at one another behind your back. Extraordinarily clever! And you know what will happen next? As soon as Ivan Sergeyevich gets back, people will be sending him anonymous letters.”
Medina went quiet. “What do you mean?”
“Simple enough. Anna Nikolayevna will be the first to write. She’ll open his eyes for him.”
“What should I do?”
“I’m afraid that’s your problem. You must obey the voice of duty and honour.”
“And what does this voice say?”
“It says that you must write to your Fasolnikov and tell him that, first of all, you are a respectable woman, and, second, he must not call on you again.”
“Somehow that doesn’t sound right. ‘You see, I’m a respectable woman, so please don’t call on me any more…’ That makes it sound like he should only keep disreputable company!”
“Don’t try to wriggle out of it. You’ll be only too happy to write such a letter when Ivan Sergeyevich comes home, but by then it will be too late. As for me, I really don’t care one way or the other.”
Maria Pavlovna stood up, eloquently shook the creases from her dress and straightened her green necktie.
Now very agitated, Medina said, “Stop, Maria, for heaven’s sake! Tell me what to write!”
Maria Pavlovna sat down and lit another cigarette.
“Write: ‘Dear sir!’”
“You know best, but I can’t write ‘Dear sir’ to someone I’ve been on friendly terms with.”
“Well, then write: ‘Esteemed Nikolai Andreyich’.”
“Address a boy like that as ‘esteemed’? Heaven only knows what he’d make of it. In my opinion it would be better simply to write ‘Dear’.”
“Do you think so? Well, all right then. That will do. So then: ‘Dear Nikolai Andreyich! I have the honour of informing you that I am an honourable woman…’”
“You know best, but I can’t write like that. It sounds like an official document!”
“Then simply write: ‘I am an honourable woman, and I request that you…’”
“You know best, but it still doesn’t sound right.”
“Well, then write: ‘I hasten to inform you that I am an honourable woman.’”
“And he’ll say, ‘She kept silent for four months, but now, suddenly, she hastens to…’ Maria, my dear, don’t be angry! But perhaps we can put that at the end? Then, I assure you, it will carry even more of a punch!”
“Fine. Now write this: ‘Please do not take this wrong, but I beg you—do not come over tomorrow.’”
“You know best, but that sounds terribly crude. Maybe I should just call the whole thing off after all.”
“Do what duty and honour tell you to do.”
“And what do they tell me to do? Should I call the party off?”
“Certainly, call it off. In that case, write: ‘Please do not take this wrong, but I beg you, please, not to come over tomorrow, as the evening has been called off, and there will not be anyone here. Do not ask me to explain. Your sense of delicacy will help you to understand.’ That’s it. Sign it: ‘At your service’ and send it.”
“You know best, but somehow it’s a bit crude. What if I make it a little bit softer?”
“Go ahead—make it softer! And when Ivan Sergeyevich comes home, he’ll soften you up all right.”
“Really! You always see the worst in everything. The letter is, of course, very good, except… Please don’t be offended, but you have no sense of style. Sometimes it’s enough simply to move—or remove—even the simplest, least meaningful word, and the whole letter will begin to sound special. Yours somehow sounds common—but please don’t be offended.”
“What a fool you are! You can’t string two words together, but the way you go on about style!”
“Maybe I am a fool, and maybe I can’t string two words together, but are you really so very smart? See for yourself—the word ‘not’ is repeated four times in four lines. Do you really call that good style?”
“Four? Are you sure about that?”
“Yes, four.”
“Then take out one ‘not’ and we’re done. Now I really must run. I hope you’ll heed the voice of duty and honour. Send the letter right away.”
Maria Pavlovna patted her friend’s cheek indulgently and left. Medina sighed heavily and sat down to write a fair copy.
“Take out one ‘not’ and we’re done.”
She crossed out one ‘not’, copied the letter, and reread it:
Dear Nikolai Andreyich!
Please do not take this wrong, but I beg you, please, to come over tomorrow, as the evening has been called off, and there will not be anyone here. Do not ask me to explain. Your sense of delicacy will help you to understand.
At your service,
V. Medina.
She read it once again and was slightly taken aback.
“How strange! It doesn’t sound quite the same now, but Maria herself said to take out one ‘not’. In any case, it’s certainly improved the style.”
She perfumed the letter with Astris, put it in the post, and smiled an enlightened smile at herself in the mirror.
“How easy, really, it is to obey the voice of duty and honour!”
1913
PART II
1916–19: Rasputin, Revolution and Civil War
PETROGRAD MONOLOGUE
NO! No more! I’ve promised myself not to say another word about the question of food. Enough is enough! It’s become downright unbearable! No matter what one is talking about, one always ends up on the subject of food. As if there’s nothing else in the world of any interest.
What about beauty? What about art? What, for goodness’ sake, about love?
I ran into Michel recently. People always used to go on about him being such an aesthete; they used to say his soul was a sugared violet. Some violet! I was talking to him about Parsifal, but all he wanted to talk about was horse meat! Meat, meat, meat—a fine meeting of minds, I call it! It was dreadful. And I adore Parsifal! Have you seen the new production? It’s wonderful! I seem to have forgotten the name of the fellow with the big belly who sang Parsifal himself… But he was wonderful. Ah, how I love art! Not long ago I was at a World of Art1 exhibition. Have you ever seen Boris Grigoriev? Ah, what an artist! Subtle, piquant, delicious! Aesthetic erotica and erotic aesthetics! You know, whenever I look at his paintings, I feel he’s moving his brush not over the canvas, but over my body and soul. Honest to God. So there I was at the exhibition, standing in front of his painting. I closed my eyes so I could take it in better. Suddenly someone was grabbing hold of my arm. Madam Bunova! “Hurry!” she said. “Let’s go to the next room. An artist has painted these enormous apples. We must get his address and find out which cooperative he belongs to. There’s no way he could have conjured up something this wonderful just from his imagination!”
And do you know? They really were remarkable apples. I haven’t seen apples like that for a long time. Great big red apples. I wonder how much they would cost. I saw an apple a little like them at Yeliseyev’s,2 but it wasn’t the same—nothing like as big. But the way they pamper that apple you’d think it was Lina Cavalieri3—they bathe it and tart it up, and every morning the shop assistants give it a manicure. Although, wouldn
’t you know it, apparently that apple isn’t even for sale. The proprietors are waiting for the value of the rouble to go up.
And yesterday the Bolonkins’ cooperative was distributing rice… Oh, don’t say I’ve got back onto the subject of food! Well, I won’t do it again, I really won’t. I swear I won’t. One must take spiritual respite in beauty, in art.
Speaking of which, being beautiful these days is so difficult it’s just dreadful.
Can you imagine, even good face powder is impossible to get your hands on. Oh yes, it’s just dreadful! Madam Bolonkina says you can use face powder to make flatbread. You just mix it with either cold cream or lipstick. And it’s very tasty, only you feel sick for a long time afterwards. These days, we can take it that people are making flatbread from anything and everything. Madam Bunova’s brother says he’s made flatbread from window putty, and the recipe is ever so simple: you just pick it out of the window frame and eat it… Ah, goodness gracious, I’m going on about food again! I beg your pardon, it’s just a nervous tic—it will pass. After all, I gave you my word. One must take spiritual respite. These are such trying times. Yesterday I ran into a certain composer—such talent, such beauty! And can you imagine, he doesn’t have any money either. “I’m selling my entire collection of Persian rugs one by one,” he said. “That’s how I’m feeding myself. I’m like a moth, feeding on rugs.” Well, if you ask me, better rugs than horse meat. I’m so sick and tired of this horse meat that I can’t even bear to hear about it. But Madam Bolonkina eats it. She may pretend she doesn’t, but she certainly does. She recently invited us all over for roast beef. “I’ve got some wonderful roast beef,” she said. But when the maid was bringing it out to the table, instead of saying, “Your first course is ready,” she said, “Your horses are ready.” So much for her roast beef ! Oh dear, have I done it again? Good heavens, forgive me—I gave my word, after all. We shall talk about love, about art.
