Circus in line
A man performs in front of a huge line in a store: he dances a gypsy dance, he reads poetry, he shows jokes in his face. The people applaud the “people’s” artist without ceasing. Some people began throwing money at his feet. In short, it was a huge success with the public!
Here, with a basket loaded to the brim with groceries, a huge, red-faced woman rolls up to the man and starts screaming at the top of her lungs to the whole hall:
- Yeah, there you are, idiot! And I stare at him - I stare at him all around in vain, but he created a circus here! Disgraces me to the whole world! I told you to do what, huh?
- Get in line...
- Well, I... them... who are in line... and occupy them as best I can...
A city guy will never be the first in the countryside
Having lived for many years in an ordinary village in the Russian outback, my husband considers himself a real rural guy. However, his beloved wife likes to make fun of his former city habits.
Once she said directly in front of guests:
- Yes, you never knew what a cow looked like until you met me!...
And then he said - “Amen!”
An investigator from the district prosecutor's office, interrogating five repeat offenders - robbers who were taken to the hospital with injuries of varying severity, was quite surprised by what he saw.
Who did this to you, citizen robbers?
- You won’t believe it, the boss, they wanted to take the priest, well, the priest, to the gop-stop.
- Well?
- So much for you! We waylaid him, which means...
- Well?
- What are you talking about, that’s all well and good!
- Well?
- Well, they pinned him down in the alley.
- Well?
- Ugh, you prosecutor's wolf!
- But but but.
- In short, I say, throw off the golden cross, holy fool.
- Well?
- Wildebeest! He answers, that’s it, he doesn’t say peace, he says, I brought you, but a sword...
- And what's next?
- Then he said - “Amen!”
- Well?
- So much for you! After that “Amen” no one remembers a damn thing!
- Well well...
System administrator SOS
Office, morning... Everyone diligently pretends that they are working, but in reality they are surfing all sorts of “oddnoklassniki” and other sites. Suddenly everyone's internet goes out. We went to the admins - there was no boss... We started looking for admin Andrey, who could fix the Internet.
After a short search we found it. It turned out that Andrey accidentally locked himself in the server room and could not leave. And he turned off the Internet so that people would start looking for him...
Russians can
I recently bought an air bed.
The instructions in a dozen languages say: “Do not use while swimming!!!”
And only in Russian: “When swimming, hold on to the side straps.”
About the cell tower...
In one rather lively village, a cell phone tower was built in order to introduce the sprouts of civilization into this godforsaken corner.
A month later, the population filed a collective complaint with several hundred signatures that everyone began to experience headaches, deterioration in health, depression and all that...
The answer from the director was laconic: “We sympathize with your illnesses. But prepare for the worst - we will turn on the connection in a week..."
Decoy as a means of salvation
GIMS (State Inspectorate of Small Boats) is the water equivalent of traffic cops, they just went off the chain last Saturday-Sunday, apparently they also need to get the kids ready for school. Everyone who was on the river was checked and fined for the slightest non-compliance with established requirements. We started checking the boat, and as luck would have it, the man had everything - a first aid kit, documents, repair equipment, license plate number, life jacket...
And then it dawned on the Gimsovite: “Is there a whistle?!” (life jacket according to the rules is equipped with a whistle). The man freezes, the inspectors brighten with joy. And suddenly...
- Eat! There is a whistle!!!
The fisherman was apparently also a hunter - from his belongings in the boat he takes out a decoy that quacks at a duck...
In response to the objections of the Gimsovites, the man snapped that the tone of the whistle was not specified in the rules. He could even carry a flute with him...
Discount for veterans of the Battle of Kulikovo
I have a small scar on my face from a big accident. As for the majority of women, this is a reason for grief more than from the serious injuries received. But sometimes this defect also provides advantages.
I had my eye on a new bedroom, arrived with my daughter and son-in-law and hired a saleswoman. Just kidding, they say, how about discounts - after all, she is a pensioner, a participant in the Battle of Kulikovo. She approaches the director and asks him to give the customer a discount as a participant in the Battle of Kulikovo.
The director, with a very serious expression on his face and without any hint of humor, answers:
- With all due respect to your merits, I cannot lose more than three percent.
My daughter and I look at each other dumbfounded and feel like we’re about to laugh right in our faces. But they won’t understand. We leave the store and ask my son-in-law what this perestroika generation was taught in Ukraine. He is already in defense of the Motherland:
- You, Mom, in Russia, too, with your humor, have the opportunity to run into the same enlightened people.
Positions better education surrendered without a fight a long time ago.
Penetration depth
Yesenin, of course, is good. But…
My parents went to construction teams in their youth. And so, in Vladivostok they happened to talk with a saleswoman in a bookstore. By the way, there was tension with books in our city at that time. So, they stand in a group of students, looking at it, admiring it... And then they see Yesenin’s volume. Next dialogue:
Dad: Wow! You have Yesenin too?!
Saleswoman: Of course! Are you interested? I love him too! Although of course I was already disappointed...
Dad: What's wrong? (naturally, all ears are pricked up, an interesting debate is brewing!)
Saleswoman: Yes, he hasn’t written anything new for 20 years!
Pepper tasting
Yesterday my dad was at the market and sent me for some capsicums. I go up to grandma and ask:
- Hot pepper?
- Son, bitter one, take it!
I'm asking here:
- Can I try it?
- Yes, sure!
I bite off a small piece... Steam almost came out of my ears, my brain exploded from such bitterness! Well, here I think, let me joke, I’ll say that it’s not bitter. I throw it back without showing it, make a stupid face, and say that it’s not bitter. Granny, without thinking for a long time:
- How can that be, I tried it myself! - and bites off half and begins to chew...
Looking at her face, I give up... I turned around and a stool was flying after me, screaming!
Horns from the Caucasus
The story happened to me. We live in the Caucasus. A relative is coming to visit us, and my husband and I decided to give him a gift. We went into a souvenir store, picked out antlers, and asked the girl to pack them, while they went off to another department. We hear the seller shouting throughout the entire store: “Whose horns?” My husband rushes to the counter and shouts: “Mine!”
Everyone laughed for a very long time.
Scarce panties
This story was told to me by my grandmother, who, during the heyday of stagnation, when one of the most popular words was the word “scarcity,” worked in a canteen. Once during a break, when the canteen staff had dined amicably and were having a peaceful, well-fed conversation, an attractive middle-aged man entered the hall and offered everyone to buy a “very scarce product” - knitted panties. Women's and children's, plain and floral.
Grandma (then still a very lively, pretty aunt) was washing dishes at that time and had no idea about the sale. When a breathless waitress rushed into the kitchen and blurted out, “Run quickly into the hall, there’s a guy bringing panties,” she threw off her apron, grabbed the money and asked as she walked: “Who is this guy?” “Tall, in a coat,” the waitress exhaled and began happily looking at the purchases.
The break had ended by then, and two visitors entered the hall. The first one stood was a tall man in a gray coat. The grandmother quickly ran up to him, looked back at the second one and (not to look in front of people!) whispered loudly: “Follow me.” The man, of course, was surprised, but obediently followed the pretty woman into the utility room. In the middle of the corridor, grandma turned to him and said:
So show!
What to show? - the man was confused.
Like what? Cowards, of course! And everything you have there...
The dialogue was conducted in front of the manager’s door, who had successfully finished shopping and therefore quickly got involved in the situation. Looking into the face of the absolutely stunned visitor, she began to crawl under the table laughing... The grandmother, caught between the inarticulate mooing of the “salesman” and the barely restrained “sobs” of the manager, finally realized what had happened and began to laugh like crazy.
Poor visitor! He apparently completely lost his appetite and quietly retreated along the wall from the dining room. He was never seen there again...
When a German Shepherd Becomes a Threat for Bandits
My father told a case from practice when he worked as a district police officer. We went out to detain especially dangerous people and took a bunch of people with us. They even took one dog handler with the shepherd Jack. They ring the doorbell and the door opens to the standard “Neighbours Downstairs”.
The dog apparently sensed the beginning of a thriller and rushed ahead of all the participants in the operation. The only person blocking her way was the obese local police officer Zhenya from the neighboring district. A huge dog crawled between his legs and rushed into the apartment. However, Zhenya, out of surprise, sat on Jack’s back. So they entered the brothel. District police officer Zhenya, waving his service weapon and uttering heart-rending obscenities, is riding the fearless Jack.
Dad says that he has never seen especially dangerous people cry before. Even the handcuffs were of no use.
How to scare traffic cops
I was driving home yesterday by car. On the way, I bought two bottles of Buratino lemonade in glass. I left the store, climbed into the car, drank a cold drink, and, out of boredom, peeled the labels off the bottles. I slowly start to move away, but I don’t even have time to drive 30 meters before two traffic cops slow me down... You should have seen how their eyes lit up when they saw the glass bottle of “beer” in my hand. They stop me and run, with obvious joy on their faces. They say that drinking alcohol while driving is punishable by a huge fine, then and there...
I tell them that this is not beer at all, but lemonade. One of the traffic cops takes an open bottle and takes a sip. While he is tasting the drink, the second traffic cop takes the bottle and also takes a sip...
The devil pulled me to joke: “I can’t have beer - I have tuberculosis”... You should have seen the expression on their faces!
History is written with a quill pen
I studied at the Krasnodar Military Institute. We had a battalion commander - Colonel Liposky. In the fifth year, we wrote a diploma and, under the guise of writing one, went AWOL from morning until evening, supposedly to the library named after. A. S. Pushkin (central library in Krasnodar) for developing material. After 2 - 3 months, our brave battalion commander realized that there was something wrong smelling here. He built us up, carried out educational work in this regard, that unauthorized absences are bad, etc., etc. And finally, he uttered a phrase that the entire personnel of our brave 1st company “digested” for five minutes (I I remember it verbatim):
- I’ll show you the library named after Felix Edmundovich Pushkin!!! Go to the restaurant “Fisherman Sonya”, buy a goose there, tear out a feather from its ass and write fairy tales about the Bakhchisarai fountain!!!
The pause was 5 minutes...
Everyone knows the question from a teacher at the military department to a student who showed up wearing jeans:
- Why did they appear in clothes made by the most likely enemy?
But few people know the correct answer to this:
- It is the most likely trophy property.
Knowledge is power.
American physicist Arthur Compton once went to another city to conduct an important experiment there. He had the equipment for the experiment with him: four completely identical suitcases, two of which contained hollow spherical housings of electric motors, and the remaining two suitcases were tightly packed with lead bricks.
The porters at the station, having tried the “lead” suitcase, charged an incredible price for carrying it. Compton, in response to this, immediately grabbed two suitcases (with cases) and, waving them in the air, walked briskly along the platform. Following, four people per suitcase, came the ashamed porters.
A thief broke into Picasso's apartment. Picasso noticed him and the thief ran away. The police wanted to draw up an identikit, but Picasso said that he was still an artist and would draw a portrait of the criminal himself.
On the basis of this portrait, the next day fifteen people, two horses, four buses, a lamppost, a plate were arrested fried fish and a plane...
Cutie.
The newlywed invites his friends to look at his young wife:
- This is some kind of miracle! - he says, - she’s such a cutie - you can’t take your eyes off her!
Extremely intrigued, friends come to his house and see him bald, one-eyed, one leg shorter than the other, crooked teeth, erect ears...
The newlywed observes their reaction, shrugs and sighs:
- Well, if you don't like Picasso...
Robert Wood once noticed that the inside of a large spectroscope was covered with cobwebs. Being too long, it did not lend itself to normal cleaning methods.
Then Wood stuffed the cat inside the pipe. Placed in a hopeless position, the cat crawled through the entire pipe and cleaned it superbly, and then cleaned itself.
Take a break in time.
The famous dancer Vaslav Nijinsky was famous for his jumping. Thanks to his talent and training, he jumped so that in the middle of the flight he seemed to simply hover over the stage.
After one of the performances, Nijinsky was asked how he manages to stop in the air during a jump?
“Very simple,” Nijinsky answered, “I just jump up and at the top point I make a short pause.”
A real English game.
The great French actress Sarah Bernhardt, while in England, asked her driver to stop near a football field where a fierce match was taking place. She carefully watched the game for about ten minutes, then returned to the car and shared her impressions with the driver:
- What a wonderful game this cricket is! Real English!
Main reason.
Bernard Shaw was late for the performance, began to make his way to his place when the action was already underway, and the theater attendant warned the writer:
- Just don't make any noise.
- Are the spectators already asleep? - asked Shaw.
What's easier to change?
The director of one of the theaters approached Shaw with a request to shorten the play a little - after all, the provincial audience was late for the last train from the theater. Shaw sent a telegram: “Don’t change the play, change the train schedule.”
Play, musician...
Once, while in a restaurant, Bernard Shaw asked the conductor:
- Does your orchestra play according to requests from the public?
- Certainly.
- Ask him to play dominoes.
Fair price.
Bernard Shaw once went to the theater to watch a play by his colleague. The play was unsuccessful, and Shaw left after the first act. The director of the theater ordered to send him half the cost of the ticket with a note: “I am returning your money for the second act.” Shaw also responded with a note: “Where is the money for the first act?”
I found a scythe on a stone.
After watching his play, Shaw sent the leading actress a message: “Delightful, fantastic, divine...”. The actress responded in writing: “You are exaggerating.” Shaw telegraphed again: “I meant the play.” The actress's telegram read: "Me too."
Get into history.
Bernard Shaw was once hit by a cyclist; Shaw could not stay on his feet and fell. The cyclist began to apologize, Shaw responded with the following words:
- Young man, you just missed a wonderful opportunity to go down in history forever - as the murderer of Bernard Shaw!
One day Beethoven went to one of the Viennese eateries to have lunch. He knocked on the table and called the waiter. He didn’t come right away, but Beethoven knocked again and pulled out notebook and began to write. He was so engrossed in his work that he did not hear the waiter approach. He, knowing the composer, did not bother him and left.
When Beethoven finished working, he knocked on the table again and shouted: “Waiter, check.” He was very surprised when the waiter told him: “You haven’t ordered anything yet.”
Exchange of pleasantries.
One day Heinrich Heine received a huge parcel. Having opened it, he discovered a huge amount of paper in which a tiny box was wrapped, and in it a note in which the poet’s friend said: “I am healthy and cheerful.”
Shortly after this, this friend received a package in the mail, very large and very heavy. Having dragged it home, he opened it. Inside lay a huge stone and a note from Heine: “Dear friend, I read your message and a stone fell from my heart, which I am sending to you.”
Commas are a piece of cake.
The German poet Theodor Fontane once worked as an editor in Berlin. At this time, one young writer, who already considered himself a great master, sent him a poem. In the accompanying letter, the author wrote: “As a matter of principle, I do not use commas. In my opinion, they are not needed. I ask you to put them yourself where you see fit.”
Fontane sent the poem back to the author, writing in the cover letter: “I ask you, next time send only commas to the editor, I will write the poem myself.”
Paul Heise, a poet from Munich, was not only a cheerful person, but also had an excellent sense of humor.
One day he was riding on a crowded tram; he could barely move. Suddenly the tram jerked and one young man stepped on Paul Heise's foot. It would have been nothing, but he remained standing on his leg. The poet was not indignant, did not even pull out his leg. He just clapped young man on the shoulder and asked: “Please tell me how old are you?” The young man turned around and answered in surprise: “22 years old.” “I almost thought so, but at this age it’s time for you to stand on your own two feet,” said the poet.
The French king Ludwig XI committed many atrocities during his life. In his old age he was tormented by the fear of retribution. He saw all people as spies and murderers. One day an astrologer came to him. The king wanted to make sure of his art. But the astrologer was cautious and gave evasive answers. Then the king decided to trap him. He asked, “So you can predict the future?” “Yes, Your Majesty,” he replied. "Then answer. When will you die?" Having thought and understood what the king was up to, the astrologer replied: “8 days before you, Your Majesty.” And the king did not have the courage to slam the trap.
Portrait of Tamerlane.
The Mongolian prince Tamerlane, known for his cruelty, once ordered the artist to paint his portrait. The artist was scared because Tamerlane was one-eyed.
Drawing with one eye could cost you your head, and not fulfilling the order could cost you too.
Ingenuity came to the rescue. In all his splendor, in a beautiful dress, Tamerlane was depicted hunting with a bow aiming at a running doe. One eye was closed.
The great French writer Honore de Balzac loved to recognize the characters and destinies of people by their handwriting. Often he succeeded and he was proud of it.
One day one lady showed him a piece of paper from a letter and said: “Please look at this handwriting and tell me something about the owner of the handwriting. This letter was written by a 12-year-old boy.”
Balzac asked: “Aren’t you the mother of this child?” “No” was the answer. “Then we can speak frankly. Unfortunately, this child is very lazy and will not succeed in life.”
The lady laughed loudly. Balzac asked in surprise: “Why are you laughing?” The lady replied: “You wrote this letter to me when you were 12 years old.”
Do you want to live long, love humor and short stories?.. Then don’t rush to leave, because the shortest story, as lovers of black humor say, is an epitaph. I tried to transform this not very funny thought into my short humorous stories and funny miniatures with slight irony and sarcasm, so read them - they will only prolong your life. If short humor with irony is not to your liking, then read serious prose: - they are not long either...
Anatomy of life
Angela Kuzikova was jubilant... Of course! Now, after vegetating in the employment center and tedious searches suitable job, the years of study at the Humanitarian University of the Non-Black Earth Region and the Central Russian Upland seemed to her already a fleeting and insignificant event of her past life. She was in seventh heaven with happiness - she managed to get a long-awaited job in a new city newspaper. There, at first, Angela dealt with SMS complaints from citizens that were received by this publication. She received them, sorted them, processed them and prepared them for printing...
Vanka Zhukov 2
Vanka Zhukov or simply Wayne Sukoff, a twenty-two-year-old undergrowth, after paid and useless training at the volost business school of the district branch of the provincial branch of the new capital University for Bubble Inflating, was given to the people by his beloved grandfather, and ended up in a run-of-the-mill metropolitan office, where he gained experience and comprehended the life of office plankton.
Wayne Sukoff was almost an orphan and was raised in the village by his grandfather, but he looked like a smart guy and worked tirelessly. However, the rude office manager, who was also the owner of the office furniture and non-residential chambers, bullied him as he wanted, while violating labor laws and not paying overtime...
YouTube star
The little girl learned that crocodiles do not fly from her grandmother, who soon died. A year later, the baby was babbling in the gadget that her mother gave her, and the child really wanted to hear a “little humorous story” from this device.
Time passed, and the cutie girl learned that there are not only terrible crocodiles, but also kind domestic geese and ducks. The girl grew up, learned about the world, learned to pronounce words correctly, and now she liked to listen to short “humorous stories” on the Internet...
Labrador Petya
On this gloomy day, an albino Labrador named Pyotr Ivanovich wandered through deserted courtyards filled with cars, looking at his feet and not paying attention to what was happening around him. And only when crossing alleys and streets, he looked around so as not to fall under the wheels of passing incompetents and reckless drivers.
Near one house, relatively new, with a landscaped yard, he noticed a high entrance porch with tiled walls. Several inscriptions were clearly visible on them, painted with a blue aerosol, among which two stood out: “Vanya is bullshit...” and “SAM SUCKER!”...
National question
Karavaikin-son asks Karavaikin-father:
Dad, is it true that we descended from monkeys, huh?
Who told you this, son?
Romka Abramovich from our class.
Dad scratched his head and said:
It’s true, son, it’s true... We all came from them: Jews, Georgians, Russians, Uzbeks, and Kyrgyz... Everything!
And his son does not lag behind him: - How is this, how?!..
Wedding donkey
Lepyokhin always remembered his childhood when he heard one thing eastern name or an old joke about an old man from a distant village who was going to go by train to his relatives in the city with his beloved donkey. The old man and the donkey were, of course, not allowed into the carriage. Then he tied the obedient animal to the last carriage. And when the train arrived a day later at the desired station, the old man went to the rear of the train to fetch his donkey. But instead I saw on the rope only one donkey’s head with protruding ears and big eyes, bulging with horror and madness...
About love, sex and plagiarism
Karavaikin-son, towards the evening, began to look closely at Karavaikin-father and noticed that today his father good mood, asked him:
What is the difference between love, attraction and just sex?
Karavaykin's father looked at his son in bewilderment and, remembering that his son had turned sixteen in the spring, answered, restraining himself from dissatisfaction: “Why do you need this?”
“They gave me such a topic for an essay,” Karavaikin’s son calmly answered...
Optimistic tragedy 2
This was not the fat-assed vixen from the TV channel for visually impaired fans of TV series, and not the blonde lahudra with silicone tits ala Pamela from the WhatDamn channel, and not even the bitchy prostitute Klasha-BI with a flesh-colored latex ass from the WhatDamn-Plus channel. And this was a natural, corpulent woman, and she, like a statue of Corpulence, towered on the main square of the Earth.
She looked into the distance proudly, but not too purposefully, because she knew for sure that most admirers of portly women...
Unity Day
Sidorov woke up with a heavy head.
“Apparently, I slept…” he thought, but, looking at the ticking alarm clock, he muttered: “Yes, no, it looks like I didn’t sleep…”
Before waking up, he had an amazing dream... In a supermarket, he saw three-liter jars of vodka, in which pimply cucumbers were appetizingly green.
“Only in a dream can one dream of vodka in three-liter jars and even with pickles...” Sidorov reasoned soberly and even neighed quietly, like a horse from the smell of juicy hay...
Dog thoughts
Pyotr Ivanovich loved new year holidays... Garbage cans were emptied less often these days - they overflowed and looked richer than at other times. And there was no need to scour for a long time - you could profit from something without much effort.
Running along a slushy path, he stopped near a familiar house. There was a police car parked there and a small group of onlookers nearby, discussing something. Soon an ambulance arrived at this place, and the intrigued Pyotr Ivanovich approached the people...
God's gift
Hello, dear President!
A resident of our and your country is writing to you. A long time ago, when I lived in my native village called Bolshaya Derevnya and worked as a groom at the state farm “Path to Communism,” I wrote to your grandfather, dear Leonid Ilyich, in Moscow.
There is no state farm now - the state farm has died, just like our village... We now live in the city, as they say now, in New Moscow... That's right!.. Everything, as our grandfathers said, has come true: “Moscow is a Big Village!”
Thank you and your grandfather - we are now “Muscovites” and we have nothing to do with communism, you can say that it’s just a stone’s throw away! about this - I want to talk about our infection, about this very corruption that does not allow the people to breathe. I was especially outraged by the last incident about your minister bribing 20 kilos worth of dollars...
The Tale of Kuzma Mamai
Previously, back in Soviet time, Apollon Petrov worked as a journalist in a newspaper, and then as an editor in a book publishing house, so he knew the value of artistic expression in every sense.
Now, already retired, Apollon Petrov, under the pseudonym Kuzma Mamai, published couplets, quatrains and aphorisms on the Internet, flavored with obscenities, without receiving any fees for his verbal art, but at the same time experiencing great moral satisfaction.
“Brevity is the sister of talent, and swearing is his older brother! "- Petrov was now talking...
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About the genre of short humorous stories
Small, short stories, irony as a stylistic figure, and ironic prose itself are an expression of ridicule or slyness through allegory, when a word or statement takes on a meaning in the context of speech that is opposite or negating its literal meaning.
Humor is a special type of comic, combining ridicule and sympathy, an externally comic interpretation and internal involvement in what seems funny. Unlike the “destructive laughter” of satire and the “laughter of superiority” (including irony), in humor, under the guise of the funny, there is serious attitude to the subject of laughter, and even an excuse for the “eccentric”, which provides humor with a more holistic reflection of the essence of the phenomenon. Such humor, such irony, as a rule, are contained in small, short stories of ironic prose.
But about self-irony in encyclopedic dictionaries there is almost nothing, but I believe that everything is already clear here. In essence, this is the same irony, but only directed at oneself. Although most often self-irony, as an expression of one’s attitude towards one’s own personality in all senses, is rarely heard out loud, and if it is heard, it is usually done without witnesses.
Both the sense of humor and self-irony, especially when spoken out loud, are undoubtedly higher than ordinary irony, which sometimes turns into sarcasticness. There are many shades of humor and self-irony, but not many people have such human qualities... It’s like a talent, like a special gift.
There are plenty of forms for expressing all this wealth of human culture: these are catchphrases, sayings, proverbs, aphorisms, anecdotes, miniatures, novellas, small, short stories, novellas... There are enough examples, samples, one might say, standards of such creativity - there is no point in all of them list. True, there are clearly expressed forms and delightful places in such works as, for example, the novels of Ilf and Petrov, small, short stories by Averchenko, Zoshchenko, and more deeply hidden texts, but no less enchanting the reader, as, for example, in works of Babel or Andrei Platonov. In my opinion, all these concepts do not require an encyclopedic definition... Here, as they say, everything is clear to a hedgehog. Irony and humor are friends, so they can’t live without each other. They are like a sandwich, like bread and butter - always together, and if there is also a thin layer of self-irony, then it is almost like caviar added to this sandwich - extraordinary yummy!
POET
“Mr. Editor,” the visitor told me, looking down at his shoes in embarrassment, “I’m very ashamed that I’m bothering you.” When I think that I am taking away a minute of your precious time, my thoughts plunge into the abyss of gloomy despair... For God's sake, forgive me!
“Nothing, nothing,” I said affectionately, “don’t apologize.”
He sadly hung his head on his chest.
- No, whatever... I know I worried you. For me, who is not used to being annoying, this is doubly difficult.
- Don’t be shy! I am very happy. Unfortunately, your poems didn’t fit.
- These? Opening his mouth, he looked at me in amazement.
– These poems didn’t fit??!
- Yes Yes. These are the same ones.
– These poems??!! Beginning:
I wish she had a black curl
Scratch every morning
And so that Apollo does not get angry,
Kiss her hair...
These verses, you say, are not suitable?!
“Unfortunately, I must say that these particular poems will not work, and not any others.” Precisely those starting with words:
I wish she had a black lock...
- Why, Mr. Editor? After all, they are good.
- Agree. Personally, I had a lot of fun with them, but... they are not suitable for the magazine.
- Yes, you should read them again!
- But why? After all, I read.
- One more time!
To please the visitor, I read it one more time and expressed admiration with one half of my face and regret with the other that the poems would not be suitable after all.
- Hm... Then allow them... I'll read them! “I wish she had a black lock of hair...” I patiently listened to these verses again, but then said firmly and dryly:
- Poems are not suitable.
- Marvelous. You know what: I’ll leave you the manuscript, and you can read it later. Maybe it will do.
- No, why leave it?!
- Really, I’ll leave it. Would you like to consult someone, eh?
- No need. Keep them with you.
“I’m desperate that I’m taking up a second of your time, but...
- Goodbye!
He left, and I took up the book I was reading before. Having unfolded it, I saw a piece of paper placed between the pages.
“I wish she had a black curl
Scratch every morning
And so that Apollo does not get angry..."
- Oh, damn him! I forgot my nonsense... He will wander around again! Nikolai! Catch up with the man who was with me and give him this paper.
Nikolai rushed after the poet and successfully completed my instructions.
At five o'clock I went home for dinner.
While paying the cab driver, he put his hand in his coat pocket and felt some piece of paper there, which it is not known how it got into his pocket.
He took it out, unfolded it and read:
“I wish she had a black curl
Scratch every morning
And so that Apollo does not get angry,
Kiss her hair..."
Wondering how this thing got into my pocket, I shrugged, threw it on the sidewalk and went to lunch.
When the maid brought in the soup, she hesitated and came up to me and said:
“The chichas cook found a piece of paper with something written on it on the kitchen floor. Maybe it's necessary.
- Show me.
I took the piece of paper and read:
“I wish she had a black lo...”
I don't understand anything! You say in the kitchen, on the floor? The devil knows... Some kind of nightmare!
I tore the strange poems to shreds and sat down to dinner in a foul mood.
- Why are you so thoughtful? - asked the wife.
- I wish she had a black lo... Damn you!! It's okay, honey. I'm tired.
During dessert, the doorbell rang in the hall and called me... The doorman stood in the doorway and mysteriously beckoned to me with his finger.
- What's happened?
– Shh... Letter to you! It was ordered to say that from one young lady... That they really hope for you and that you will satisfy their expectations!..
The doorman winked at me in a friendly manner and chuckled into his fist.
Perplexed, I took the letter and examined it. It smelled of perfume, was sealed with pink sealing wax, and when I opened it with a shrug, there was a piece of paper on which was written:
“I would like a black curl for her...”
Everything from the first to the last line.
In a rage, I tore the letter into shreds and threw it on the floor. My wife came forward from behind me and, in ominous silence, picked up several scraps of the letter.
-Who is this from?
- Drop it! This is so... stupid. One very annoying person.
- Yes? And what is it written here?.. Hm... “Kiss”... “every morning”... “black... curl...” Scoundrel!
Pieces of the letter flew into my face. It wasn't particularly painful, but it was annoying.
Since dinner was ruined, I got dressed and, sad, went to wander the streets. At the corner, I noticed a boy near me, spinning around at my feet, trying to put something white, folded into a ball, into his coat pocket. I gave him a blow and, gnashing my teeth, ran away.
My soul was sad. After jostling around the noisy streets, I returned home and, on the threshold of the front doors, ran into a nanny who was returning from the cinema with four-year-old Volodya.
- Daddy! – Volodya shouted joyfully. - My uncle held me in his arms! A stranger... gave me a chocolate... gave me a piece of paper... Give it to dad, he says. Daddy, I ate some chocolate and brought you a piece of paper.
“I’ll whip you,” I shouted angrily, tearing out of his hands a piece of paper with the familiar words: “I wish I had a black curl for her...” “You’ll know from me!”
At the restaurant
Tricks! This is witchcraft! - I heard a phrase at the next table.
It was said by a gloomy man with a black, wet mustache and a glassy, perplexed gaze.
A black wet mustache, hair that had slipped almost over his eyebrows, and a glassy gaze unshakably proved that the owner of the listed treasures was a fool.
He was a fool in the literal and clear sense of the word.
One of his interlocutors poured himself a beer, rubbed his hands and said:
Nothing more than dexterity and dexterity of hands.
This is witchcraft! - the black man stubbornly stood his ground, sucking his mustache.
The man who stood for dexterity of hands looked satirically at the third of the company and exclaimed:
Fine! Do you want me to prove that there is no witchcraft here?
Black smiled gloomily.
Are you, what’s his name...pre-sti-di-zhi-da-tor?
Probably if I say so! Well, would you like me to offer a bet of a hundred rubles that I can cut off all your buttons in five minutes and sew them on?
The black one tugged at his vest button for some reason and said:
In five minutes? Cut and sew? It's incomprehensible!
Quite understandable! Well, a hundred rubles?
No, that's a lot! I only have five.
But I don’t care... You can have less - do you want three bottles of beer?
Black winked venomously.
You'll lose, won't you?
Who am I? We'll see!..
He extended his hand and shook the thin fingers of the black man, and the third of the company spread his hands.
Well, look at your watch and make sure it’s not more than five minutes!
We were all intrigued, and even the sleepy footman, who was sent for a plate and sharp knife, parted with his numb appearance.
One two Three! I'm starting!
The man who declared himself a magician took a knife, placed a plate, and cut off all the vest buttons into it.
Is it on the jacket too?
Why!.. On the back, on the sleeves, near the pockets.
Buttons clattered into the plate.
I have it on my trousers too! - the black one said, writhing with laughter. - And on the shoes!
OK OK! Well, I want to heal some of your buttons?.. Don’t worry, everything will be cut off!
Since the upper dress had lost its restraining element, it became possible to switch to the lower one.
When the last buttons on his trousers fell off, the black one gloatingly put his feet on the table.
The shoes have eight buttons. Let's see how you manage to sew them back?
The magician, no longer answering, feverishly worked with his knife.
He soon wiped his wet forehead and, placing a plate on the table on which, like unknown berries, lay multi-colored buttons and cufflinks, he grumbled:
Done, that's it!
The footman clasped his hands in admiration:
82 pieces. Clever!
Now go get me a needle and thread! - the magician commanded. - Alive, well!
Their drinking companion waved them in the air for hours and suddenly slammed the lid.
Late! Eat! Five minutes have passed. You lose!
The one to whom this applied threw the knife in annoyance.
Damn me! Lost!.. Well, there’s nothing to do!.. Man! Bring these gentlemen three bottles of beer at my expense and, by the way, tell me how much I should charge?
The black man turned pale.
Where are you going?
The magician yawned.
On the side... I want to sleep like a dog. You'll get tired in a day...
How about sewing buttons?
What? Why would I sew them on if I lost... I didn’t have time, my fault. The loss is set... All the best, gentlemen!
The black man stretched out his hands pleadingly behind the departing man, and with this movement all his clothes fell off, like the shells of a hatched chicken. He shyly pulled his trousers back and blinked his eyes in horror:
God! What will happen now?
I don’t know what happened to him.
I left with the third of the company, who probably left the man without buttons.
Not knowing each other, we stood opposite each other on the street corner and laughed without words for a long time.
The controller of the tea and powder department, Fyodor Ivanovich Aquinsky, went to the bathhouse, located two miles from the doghouse he hired, which only the heated imagination of the owner could consider a “dacha”...
Entering the bathhouse, Aquinas quickly undressed and, shuddering from the soft morning chill, carefully descended along the rickety, rickety ladder to the water. The bright sun, just washed by the predawn dew, cast faint warm reflections on the quiet water, like a mirror.
Some midge, not quite awake, flew headlong over the water itself and, barely touching it with its wing, caused slow, lazy circles that quietly spread across the surface.
Aquinas tested the temperature of the water with his bare foot and pulled away as if he had been burned. He bathed every day and every day for half an hour he gathered his courage, not daring to throw himself into the cold transparent moisture...
And he had just held his breath and stretched out his arms to jump absurdly, like a frog, when splashes of water and someone’s fuss were heard in the direction of the women’s bathing area.
Aquinas stopped and looked to the left.
Because of the gray partition greened below from the water, it appeared at first female hand, then a head, and finally a plump, tall blonde in a blue bathing suit emerged. Her beautiful white face turned pink from the cold, and when she waved her hand strongly, like a man, her high, lush breasts, barely covered with blue material, clearly appeared from the water.
Aquinas, looking at her, for some reason sighed, patted his moth-eaten beard with his bare hand and said to himself:
This is our customs officer's wife taking a bath. Wow, what a suit! I read that abroad, in some Riviera, both women and men swim together... What a thing!
When, after bathing, he pulled his pantaloons onto his skinny legs, he thought:
“Okay... let's say they bathe together... but what about undressing? So, no matter how you look at it, you need two rooms. They’ll make it up too!”
Arriving at the customs office, after the usual fuss in the warehouse, he sat down on a tea box and, asking his colleague Nitkin for a cigarette, took a puff of nasty cheap smoke with pleasure...
I was swimming today, Nitkin, in the morning and I saw our member Tarasikha swim out of the women’s bath... Well, I think she’ll see me and tell her husband... Laughter! It was very close. But abroad, in the Riviera, they say that men and women swim together... Gee!.. I wish I could go!
When, half an hour after this conversation, Nitkin was drinking vodka in the archive with the clerks, he, putting a piece of ham on a slice of bread, said, without addressing anyone:
That's the thing! Aquinas today swam in the river with the wife of our member Tarasova... He says that in some Riviera everyone is swimming together - both men and women. He says I’ll go to the Riviera. You’ll go, of course... You need money for this, my dear!
From what! - the warehouse Nibelung intervened. - His aunt, they say, is rich; maybe I can get it from my aunt...
The secretary's steps were heard, and the entire lunch company, like mice, ran away in different directions.
And at lunch, the forwarder Portupeev, pouring borscht into a plate, said to his wife, a small, dry woman with prickly eyes and blue, sinewy hands:
That's what things are like, Petrovna, at our customs! Aquinas, so that he was empty, got ready to go to hell in the middle of nowhere to the Riviera and lured Tarasov’s wife with him... He takes money from his aunt! And Tarasikha swam with him today and told him that this is how it is done abroad... Hehe!
Ah, shameless people! - Petrovna looked down chastely. - Well, we should go farther away, otherwise, they are starting debauchery here! But where should he go with her... She’s a healthy woman, and he’s like, ugh!
The next day, when the maid of the Tarasovs, who lived not far from the Portupeevs, came to Petrovna to ask as a neighbor for irons for her mistress’s skirts, Mrs. Portupeeva’s soul could not stand it:
So, did the Riviera need ironed skirts?
Oh, what are you doing! Such words! - the maid grinned, rolling her eyes, interpreting Petrovna’s phrase in a completely unknown way.
Well, yes! I suppose you don’t know...
She paused mournfully.
Ehma, our woman’s stupidity... And what did she find in him?
The maid, who still did not understand what was going on, widened her eyes...
Yes, your Marya Grigorievna is good, there’s nothing to say! Sniffed with the warehouse rat Aquinas! Good lover! Yes, sir. They agreed to run off to some stupid Riviera for a swim, and he promised to get money from his aunt... He’ll get it, of course! He'll steal money from his aunt, that's all!
The maid clasped her hands:
Is this true, Anisya Petrovna?
I will lie to you. The whole city is buzzing about it.
Oh, terrible!
The maid headlong, forgetting about the irons, rushed home and on the threshold of the kitchen ran into the member of the customs himself, who, without a frock coat or vest, was carrying water in a glass for the canary.
What's wrong with you, Miliktrisa Kirbitevna? - Tarasov sang, narrowing his eyes and taking the maid by the plump elbow. - You fly as if you are escaping from the ghosts of your ruined fans...
Leave it! - snapped the maid, who did not stand on ceremony during these random t?te-a-t?te. Here: private dates (French).- You won’t always let me pass!.. It would be better if they looked after the lady more tightly than with their hands...
The plump, imperturbable face of the customs officer immediately acquired a completely different expression.
Mr. Tarasov belonged to that well-known type of husband who will not let a single pretty woman pass without pinching her, while at the same time yawning in the company of his wife until his jaws dislocate and trying, at every opportunity, to replace the hearth with the inevitable screw or chemin de fer'om. By railroad (French).
But, sensing some hint of his wife’s adultery, these meek, harmless people turn into Othello with those characteristics and deviations from this type that are imposed by dusty offices and public places.
Tarasov dropped the glass of water and again grabbed the maid by the elbow, but in a different way.
What? What are you saying, you vile one? Repeat that?!!
Frightened by this unexpected transformation of a member of the customs, the maid blinked her eyes tearfully and looked down:
Master, Pavel Efimovich, here’s a cross for you, I have nothing to do with it! My business side! And as the whole city is already saying, so that nothing happens to me after... They will say - you helped! And I’m like before the Lord!..
Tarasov drank water from a jug standing on the table, and, lowering his head, said:
Tell us: with whom, how and when?..
The maid sensed the soil beneath her.
Yes, all with the same... rotten one! Fyodor Ivanovich, that last year he brought you crayfish as a gift... Here are the crayfish for you! And how cleverly they do it... Everything has already been agreed upon: he will steal money from his aunt’s chest of drawers - the aunt is rich - and they will go swimming together somewhere in the Riviera... What a shame, what a shame! We must think that they will move tomorrow with the evening train, my dears!..
* * *
Sitting at a rickety table a few steps from his doghouse, the inspector of the tea and loose leaf department, Aquinas, wrote something, tilting his head to the side and lovingly tracing out each word.
The tree under which the table stood ironically waved its dusty branches, and spots of light slid across the table, the paper and Aquinas’s gray head... His beard, as if glued, moved in the wind, and his general appearance seemed exhausted and lethargic.
It looked like someone had carelessly forgotten to pour it out to no one. the right thing- Aquinas - with mothballs and put in a chest for the summer... The moth ate Aquinas.
He wrote:
“Dear auntie! I dare to inform you that I am in complete bewilderment... Why? I'm asking you. However, I’ll tell you how it happened... Yesterday, the inspector Sychevoy said, approaching my table, that a member of the customs, Mr. Tarasov, was asking for me, the same one to whom last year, out of zeal, I brought a hundred crayfish. I went without thinking anything, and, imagine, he told me so many strange and terrible things that I didn’t understand anything... First he says: “You,” he says, “Aquinas, it seems, are going to the Riviera?” - “No way.” , - I answer... And he screams: “So that’s how it is!!! Don't lie! “You,” he says, “have trampled on the most sacred laws of nature and marriage!” You are shaking the foundations!! You burst into a normal hearth and created a whirlpool in which - I warn you - you will choke!“ These are terrible learned people they say vaguely... Then about you, auntie... “You,” he says, “decided to rob your aunt... your old aunt, and this is shameful!” immoral!!“ How could he know that for the second month now I have not sent you the usual ten rubles for maintenance? As I already explained to you, this happened because I paid for the dacha in advance for the whole summer. Tomorrow I will try to send you two months in advance. But still, I don’t understand. It's a shame! Now I’m fired from service... And for what? Some foundations, a whirlpool... About family life What he said is completely incomprehensible! As you know, aunty, I’m not married...”
Trip to the theater
With a deft, graceful movement, Kolya Kinzhalov lifted Lizochka Milovidova onto the tram platform, and then, after her, he jumped up just as gracefully.
Kolya Kinzhalov felt particularly overwhelmed that evening. He was wearing a new tuxedo and patent leather boots, bought for an extremely fortunate occasion, and was now going with Lizochka to the theater, which promised him many impressions, wonderful and excitingly interesting.
Pardon me, pardon me,” he politely but firmly said to the audience standing in the aisle, “let the lady go forward!”
A witty joke was already brewing in his mind, which he would say when receiving a ticket from the conductor. This was supposed to make Lizochka laugh, and, amused, she would cling even more tightly to his shoulder and look at him, the strong and smart Kolya Kinzhalov, with an even softer gaze...
Gentlemen, sorry! Let the lady walk forward and, for God's sake, don't push.
The carriage suddenly stopped.
Making a frightened face, Kolya Kinzhalov staggered, spread his arms, jumped and sat on the lap of some dozing man in a fur jacket, stepping painfully on his foot.
The gentleman perked up, pushed Kolya off him and said sternly:
And so that the devils take you! Bear!!
Kolya Kinzhalov’s heart swayed and sank somewhere far, far away...
He immediately, with terrifying clarity, felt that now, after this insult, something so terrible, so inevitable and so irreparable was about to happen, after which their trip, the theater, the new tuxedo, bought at an extremely successful occasion, patent leather boots and even Lizochka Milovidova herself - his first fragrant love.
He left Lizochka’s hand, turned his face, blazing with heat, towards the gentleman in the fur jacket and in a thin, broken voice, feeling Lizochka behind him, cried out:
That is... Who is this bear?!
You are a bear, the devils would tear you to pieces! With your paw you completely flattened my leg into a cake!
“Now we have to strike,” Kolya Kinzhalov thought feverishly quickly through his head. - With a fist or a palm? It’s better with your palm, because it’s considered a slap in the face... It’s more noble and insulting...”
Kolya took it out right hand from his pocket and said in a trembling voice:
If you dare to be offended, then I... dare to fight!! I'll show you now.
Immediately Kolya regretted that he did not hit his opponent right away: in such cases they usually don’t talk.
You will learn from me how to be offended!!
The gentleman jumped up and moved towards Kolya, and Kolya immediately saw that the gentleman was a whole head taller than him...
For such insults they beat... - Kolya burst out in a painful whisper.
Really? - the one who jumped up ironically drawled, unbuttoning his fur jacket. - Really? What if I now rip out your red ears and shove you under the bench like a mangy little bunny! A?!
Some of the audience, who were eagerly awaiting the start of the fight, laughed.
The workman in the tattered cap enthusiastically slapped his stomach and squealed:
Fight, brothers!
A true artist - he was interested not in the result of the work, but in its process...
The words, unforgettable for a lifetime, rang in Kolya Kinzhalov’s ears like two ringing slaps:
Red ears... mangy little bunny...
Falling into the abyss, Kolya, without knowing why, grabbed the gentleman by the hand and muttered pitifully:
No... I won’t leave this like this...
But he hunched over strangely and tiredly, yawned in Kolya’s face with offensive indifference and casually addressed the conductor:
Stables soon?
Stop now.
The gentleman shook off Colin's hand and, whistling, headed towards the exit.
Clinging to his fur jacket, Kolya followed the departing one and shouted in a crying voice, losing the remnants of his chivalry along the way:
No, you won’t leave like that... You insulted me...
Hey!! - he turned around threateningly. - What do you need?!
You swore, you insulted me, okay...
With one hand Kolya held the gentleman by the sleeve, and with the other he clumsily fumbled for his wallet in his tuxedo with stiff fingers.
Yeah... There you go! If you are a decent person!
Kolya took out the card and handed it to the gentleman in the fur jacket. The feeling of something unbearably shameful and nasty began to disappear, giving way to the consciousness that Kolya now thinks and acts like a decisive man and a gentleman with firm rules.
What kind of comedy is this?
This is not a comedy... this is my card with which I challenge you to a duel!
On due-el?!
The gentleman, without reading, patted the card over the fingers of his left hand, crumpled the card, threw the card on the floor, and said loudly and separately:
And he went out onto the platform, then deftly jumped off the step, even before the carriage stopped.
Kolya moved after him and, leaning over the railing, shouted:
What, are you scared, you scoundrel?! That's it! Otherwise I would have broken your crooked little legs! Coward, coward, scoundrel!!
It’s strange: Kolya Kinzhalov, it seems, did everything that a decent person should, but he returned to Lizochka with a strange and unpleasant feeling of a flogged person...
And she greeted him strangely: she pulled her hand away and said nervously:
Sit down!.. There's a free seat over there.
We drove in silence.
Kolya chewed his lips, swallowed copious amounts of saliva and began casually:
He's lucky that he escaped!.. Otherwise...
Then he smiled casually:
I also had a similar case in Yalta, only with a sadder outcome for that person... I also got on the tram in the same way and, imagine...
Kolya spoke loudly on purpose so that outsiders could hear him.
I get on the tram and, imagine...
Lisa’s neighbor, a retired military man, smiled and said, turning more to Lisa:
It’s just a pity that there is no tram in Yalta!
The delighted craftsman burst out laughing. Others smiled too.
Kolya bowed his head and began to button the already buttoned coat button.
That is, not a tram... but this very... what’s his name...
Airship? - someone suggested from the corner. Lizochka laughed loudly. Kolya smiled forcefully and joked:
Well... you can also say: balloon! Yes... I’m getting into the stagecoach, and he’s going to push me! “Apologize!” - “I don’t want to.” - “Apologize!” - “I don’t want to.” - “Yeah... don’t you want to?” I grabbed him and through the locked window - fuck! - and threw it away. They then charged me twelve rubles for the broken glass! Hehehehe...
Everyone was silent in embarrassment.
The fat merchant, Kolya’s neighbor, coughed and, leaning over, spat. The spit made a semicircle, landed on Kolya’s patent leather shoe and froze on it.
Lizochka saw this and noticed that Kolya saw it too. Kolya, in turn, felt that Lizochka knew the shameful state of his shoe, but instead of demanding an apology from the merchant, he slowly moved his foot under the bench and said gloomily, angrily:
And then there was this funny incident with me...
Okay, let’s go,” Lizochka jumped up nervously. - We should go here.
* * *
Kolya Kinzhalov and Lizochka, huddled under the light rain, silently walked towards the theater.
Kolya hated the theater, and the shoe, and Liza, and himself - mainly himself.
Someone was catching up with them from behind.
The wet workman suddenly jumped out of the darkness near the electric lantern and, walking sideways to Kolya, indignantly and contemptuously pointed his finger at his cheek.
Oh you! Chicken... Right there... Why didn't you whistle in his ear? Intellectuals!
The offended artisan sighed and disappeared into the darkness.
And Kolya leaned his shoulder against the electric pole and, no longer embarrassed by Lizochka’s presence, cried silently.
Mr. Editor,” the visitor told me, looking down at his shoes in embarrassment, “I’m very ashamed that I’m bothering you.” When I think that I am taking away a minute of your precious time, my thoughts plunge into the abyss of gloomy despair... For God's sake, forgive me!
“Nothing, nothing,” I said affectionately, “don’t apologize.”
He sadly hung his head on his chest.
No, whatever... I know I worried you. For me, who is not used to being annoying, this is doubly difficult.
Don't be shy! I am very happy. Unfortunately, your poems didn’t fit.
Opening his mouth, he looked at me in amazement.
These poems didn't fit??!
Yes Yes. These are the same ones.
These poems??!! Beginning:
I wish she had a black curl
Scratch every morning
And so that Apollo does not get angry,
Kiss her hair...
These poems, you say, won’t work?!
Unfortunately, I must say that it is these verses that will not work, and not any others. Precisely those starting with words:
I wish she had a black lock...
Why, Mr. Editor? After all, they are good.
Agree. Personally, I had a lot of fun with them, but... they are not suitable for the magazine.
Yes, you should read them again!
But why? After all, I read.
One more time!
To please the visitor, I read it one more time and expressed admiration with one half of my face and regret with the other that the poems would not be suitable after all.
Hm... Then allow them... I'll read them! “I would like a black curl for her...”
I patiently listened to these verses again, but then said firmly and dryly:
Poems don't fit.
Marvelous. You know what: I’ll leave you the manuscript, and you can read it later. Maybe it will do.
No, why leave it?!
Right, I'll leave it. Would you like to consult someone, eh?
No need. Keep them with you.
I'm desperate that I'm taking up a second of your time, but...
Goodbye!
He left, and I took up the book I was reading before. Having unfolded it, I saw a piece of paper placed between the pages. Read:
I wish she had a black curl
Scratch every morning
And so that Apollo doesn’t get angry...
Oh, damn it! I forgot my nonsense... He will wander around again! Nikolai! Catch up with the man who was with me and give him this paper.
Nikolai rushed after the poet and successfully completed my instructions.
At five o'clock I went home for dinner.
While paying the cab driver, he put his hand in his coat pocket and felt some piece of paper there, it is not known how it got into the pocket.
He took it out, unfolded it and read:
I wish she had a black curl
Scratch every morning
And so that Apollo does not get angry,
Kiss her hair...
Wondering how this thing got into my pocket, I shrugged, threw it on the sidewalk and went to lunch.
When the maid brought in the soup, she hesitated and came up to me and said:
The chichas cook found a piece of paper with something written on it on the kitchen floor. Maybe it's necessary.
I took the piece of paper and read:
- “I wish she had a black lo...” I don’t understand anything! You say in the kitchen, on the floor? The devil knows... Some kind of nightmare!
I tore the strange poems to shreds and sat down to dinner in a foul mood.
Why are you so thoughtful? - asked the wife.
I wish I had a black lo for her... Damn you!! It's okay, honey. I'm tired.
During dessert, the doorbell rang in the hall and called me... The doorman stood in the doorway and mysteriously beckoned to me with his finger.
What's happened?
Shh... Letter to you! It was ordered to say that from one young lady... That they really hope for you and that you will satisfy their expectations!..
The doorman winked at me in a friendly manner and chuckled into his fist.
Perplexed, I took the letter and examined it. It smelled of perfume, was sealed with pink sealing wax, and when I opened it with a shrug, there was a piece of paper on which was written:
“I would like a black curl for her...”
Everything from the first to the last line.
In a rage, I tore the letter into shreds and threw it on the floor. My wife came forward from behind me and, in ominous silence, picked up several scraps of the letter.
Who is this from?
Give it up! This is so... stupid. One very annoying person.
Yes? And what is it written here?.. Hm... “Kiss”... “every morning”... “black... curl...” Scoundrel!
Pieces of the letter flew into my face. It wasn't particularly painful, but it was annoying.
Since dinner was ruined, I got dressed and, sad, went to wander the streets. On the corner, I noticed a boy near me, spinning around at my feet, trying to put something white, folded into a ball, into his coat pocket. I gave him a blow and, gnashing my teeth, ran away.
My heart was sad. After jostling around the noisy streets, I returned home and, on the threshold of the front doors, ran into a nanny who was returning from the cinema with four-year-old Volodya.
Daddy! - Volodya shouted joyfully. - My uncle held me in his arms! A stranger... gave me a chocolate... gave me a piece of paper... Give it to dad, he says. Daddy, I ate some chocolate and brought you a piece of paper.
“I’ll whip you,” I shouted angrily, tearing out of his hands a piece of paper with the familiar words: “I wish she had a black lock of hair”... “You’ll know from me!”
My wife greeted me with disdain and contempt, but still considered it necessary to tell me:
There was one gentleman here without you. He apologized very much for the trouble that he brought the manuscript home. He left it for you to read. He gave me a lot of compliments - this is a real person who knows how to appreciate what others do not value, exchanging this “that” for corrupt creatures - and asked me to put in a good word for his poems. In my opinion, well, poetry is like poetry... Ah! When he read about curls, he looked at me like that...
I shrugged and went into the office. On the table lay the author’s familiar desire to kiss someone’s hair. I also discovered this desire in the box of cigars that stood on the shelf. Then this desire was discovered inside a cold chicken, which was condemned to serve us as dinner from lunch. How this desire got there, the cook could not really explain.
The desire to scratch someone's hair was noticed by me even when I threw back the blanket in order to go to bed. I adjusted the pillow. The same wish fell out of her.
* * *
In the morning, after a sleepless night, I got up and, taking the boots that the cook had cleaned, tried to pull them on my feet, but I couldn’t, since each one contained an idiotic desire to kiss someone’s hair.
I went into the office and, sitting down at the table, wrote a letter to the publisher asking to be relieved of my editorial duties.
I had to rewrite the letter because, while folding it, I noticed familiar handwriting on the back:
“I would like a black curl for her...”
Scary man
In one transport office (cargo transportation and insurance), tradesman Matvey Petrovich Khimikov served as an assistant accountant.
It was a man outside vertically challenged, with crooked legs, pale, dirty-colored eyes and large red hands. The reddish vegetation resembled sparse moss, sparingly covering some northern rock, and his chest was so sunken that only the ribs prevented it from touching his back, pushing Khimikov’s sides with such tenacity that characterizes the ribs of all skinny people.
It was outside. And inside Khimikov had the heart of a noble killer, an aristocrat of spirit and a seducer of beautiful women. Some lost soul of a knight of former times, who earned his livelihood with a sword, and his good spirits with the love of women, came across Khimikov and settled in him, preventing the unfortunate assistant accountant from living the way thousands of other assistant accountants live.
Khimikov dreamed of strange adventures, wild horse racing in the moonlight, shooting from muskets, robbing passing stagecoaches, gloomy taverns filled with suspicious characters with hats pulled down over their eyes, and some beauties whom Khimikov invariably spared, touched by their youth and tears. At the same time, they shouted to Khimikov from another table:
One place for household items. Write a receipt, two pounds three pounds.
Khimikov wrote a receipt, but when the office hours were over, he threw a long cloak over his shoulders, pulled a wide-brimmed hat over his eyes and, looking around, walked down the street, looking like a strange, stupid-looking robber.
Under his cloak he always kept a dagger just in case, and if he had been attacked on the way, the assistant accountant would have laughed an eerie, ominous laugh and would have plunged the dagger into the scoundrel’s chest to the very hilt.
But either the scoundrels had no time for him, or the crowded streets along which he proudly walked, causing everyone’s surprise, did not contain the type of scoundrels who pounce on travelers among the darkness of the people.
Khimikov arrived home safely, and with disgust ate a two-course lunch with eternal jelly for dessert. There was an eternal, stubborn struggle between him and his hostess over dinner.
“I don’t want your soup with a bowl,” he said offendedly. “Can’t you someday give me a simple scrambled egg, a piece of spit-roasted meat and a good sip of wine?”
He had long dreamed of spit-roasted meat and scrambled eggs, but the clueless housewife did not understand his ideals, making excuses for the lack of nutritional value of such a menu.
He wanted to do this.
Eat the meat with your hat pulled down over your eyes, wash it down with a good sip of wine, wrap yourself in a cloak and lie down on the carpet by the bed to get some sleep before your evening adventures.
But, since there was no spit-roasted meat and so on, a spectacular rest in a raincoat on the floor did not make sense, and the assistant accountant went on evening adventures without this.
The evening adventures consisted of Khimikov taking his eternal dagger, wrapping himself in a cloak and walking, looking around, to the Black Swan tavern.
He chose this tavern because he really liked its name “Black Swan”, because the scum of the city’s population gathered there and that the low, smoky rooms of the inn were conducive to all sorts of dreams of adventure.
Khimikov made his way to the far corner, sat down, draping himself in his cloak, and tried to sparkle his eyes from under his hat pulled down over them.
And he always looked around mysteriously, although no one was watching him and few were interested in this small figure in a theatrical black cloak and hat, with dull eyes peeping out from under it, which could not sparkle, despite the heroic efforts of their owner.
Having sat down, the assistant accountant clapped his hands and shouted in a broken voice:
Hey boy, call the innkeeper to see me! What does he have there?
“They are not there, sir,” the servant usually said. - They rarely come. What do you want? I can submit.
Give me some beer, just not in a bottle, but pour it into some kind of jug. Yes, order the cook there to fry a good scrambled egg. Ha ha! - he laughed roughly, slapping his pocket. - Old Matvey wants to go for a walk today: he did a good deal today.
The servant looked at him in amazement and then, returning to his former apathetic appearance, went to order scrambled eggs.
Khimikov’s “deal” was that he sold the wooden oil he had on commission to one of the merchant clients, but from the outside it seemed that the three rubles Khimikov earned were sprinkled with the blood of a robbed night traveler.
When they brought scrambled eggs and beer, he took the jug, looked it up to the light and, with the air of a chronic drunkard, said:
Good beer! There is something for Matvey to wet his throat with.
And at this time, he, small, thin, forgot about the office, “home places” and receipts, sitting under his huge hat and destroying a good scrambled egg, in full confidence that everyone was looking at him with some fear and superstitious reverence.
Around him, the city mob was noisy and swearing, he thought: “It would be nice to recruit a gang of about forty people and bring terror to the entire neighborhood. Who, they will fearfully ask, is in charge? You do not know? Old Matvey. This scary man! Then steal some princess..."
He fumbled under his cloak for a dagger that was located between the folds and, having found it, convulsively squeezed the hilt.
Having finished his scrambled eggs and beer, he paid, casually tossed a tip to the servant, and, draping himself in a cloak, left.
“It would be nice,” he thought, “if there was a horse tied at the door of the inn. I would jump up and gallop away."
And the assistant accountant felt such a surge of courage that he could commit robbery, murder, theft, but certainly from a rich person (“I would still give this money to those in need”).
If a beggar came across a beggar along the way, Khimikov took a silver coin from his pocket (despite the meager budget, he would never take out copper coin) and, throwing it with a lordly gesture, said:
Here... take it for yourself.
At the same time, he threw the coin on the ground, which caused great trouble for the beggar and caused a tedious search, but Khimikov understood charity only with the help of this spectacular gesture, never giving a coin into the hand of a beggar.
The assistant accountant had only one friend - the landlady's son Motka, in whose eyes horror and admiration for the assistant accountant froze once and for all.
He was nine years old. Every evening he looked forward to the moment when Khimikov, returning from the tavern, would knock on his mother’s door and shout:
Motya! Do you want to come to me?
Freezing with fear and curiosity, Motka timidly entered Khimikov’s room and sat down in the corner.
Khimikov walked thoughtfully from corner to corner, without taking off his cloak, and finally stopped in front of Motka.
Well, namesake... It was a hot day today.
Was? - asked Motka, trembling all over.
Khimikov laughed ominously, shook his head and, taking a dagger out of his pocket, pretended to wipe the blood off it.
Yes, brother... One of the merchants was pinched a little. There was not much gold, but silk fabrics and brocades were a miracle.
What did you do with the merchant? - pale Motka asked quietly.
Merchant? Ha ha! If he had not resisted, I would probably have let him go. But this scoundrel killed the best of my fellows - Laurendo, and I, ha ha, got even with him!
Did you shout? - Motka asked in a dying whisper, feeling the hair quietly moving on his head.
Didn't tut. No, what is this... This is fun compared to the case of the old woman Montmorency.
What... old woman? - Motka asked, clinging to the stove.
There was, brother, such an old woman... My fellows got wind that she had money. Okay, sir... We poisoned her dog, one of my gang got this witch's old servant drunk and opened the doors for us... But somehow the police sniffers got wind of it. Ha ha! That was some fun! I killed four... Well, I got it! For two weeks my fellows looked after me in the ravine.
Motka looked at the assistant accountant with eyes full of love and fearful admiration, and whispered with dry lips:
How many people... did you actually kill?
Khimikov thought:
Man... Twenty - twenty-five. I don't remember, really. And what?
I feel sorry for you that you will be boiling in a cauldron in the next world...
Khimikov winked and beat his thin thighs with his fists.
Nothing, brother, but here, in this world, I will have my fill... and then I can repent before death. I will give all my fortune to the monasteries and go barefoot to Jerusalem...
Khimikov wrapped himself in a cloak and walked gloomily from corner to corner.
Show me your dagger again,” Motka asked.
Here he is, an old friend,” Khimikov perked up, taking out a dagger from under his cloak. - I often quench his thirst. Ha ha! He loves fresh meat... Ha ha!
And he, ominously twirling the dagger, looked around, throwing the end of his cloak over his shoulder and pointing with a thin finger at the rust that appeared on the blade from dampness and sweaty hands.
Then Khimikov said:
Well, Motya, I’m tired after all these troubles. I'll go to bed.
And, wrapped in a cloak, he lay down, small, pale, on the carpet by the bed.
Why do you prefer gender? - Motka asked respectfully.
Uh, brother! You have to get used to it... It's still good. After nights in swamps or on tree branches, this is a royal bed.
And he, without waiting for Motka to leave, fell asleep in a heavy sleep.
Motka sat next to him for a long time, looking with love and fear into the face sparingly covered with red hair.
And it seemed doubly terrible to him that all of Khimikov was so small, pathetic and insignificant. And that underneath this insignificance lies a dangerous killer, adventurer and dice gambler.
Having looked at the face of the sleeping accountant's assistant, Motka carefully covered him with a blanket over his cloak, turned off the lamp and, on tiptoe, trying not to disturb the killer's heavy sleep, went to his room.
The assistant accountant of the Chemists, a noble adventurer, knight and adventurer, with all his soul attached to the things that have passed into eternity - smoky taverns, attacks on stagecoaches and masterful blows of a dagger - fell in love.
His ideal - a pale, slender countess sitting on a couch in an old manor house - was embodied in a girl without specific occupations - Polina Kozlova, if sometimes pale, it was not from noble origin, but from the sleepless nights she spent not entirely in accordance with code of ordinary virtue.
One day, when the wildly picturesque Khimikov was striding with long, decisive steps along the street, wrapped in his eternal cloak and covered with a monstrous hat, he heard a conversation ahead of him:
It’s even very tactless to pester unknown girls.
Madam, Marusya... I am sure that such a charming creature can only be called Marusya... Marusya! Do not add any chord to the dissonance of our fleeting meeting. Let me guide you. Where do you live?
Look what you want. I will never tell you, even if you walked me all the way to the house on Moskovskaya Street, number seven... Oh, what did I say! It seems I let it slip... No, forget, forget what I told you!
Khimikov considered eavesdropping the most ignoble thing, but when this conversation reached him, his courageous heart was filled with compassion for the persecuted and furious indignation against the vile persecutor.
Your Majesty! - he thundered, approaching the Don Juan and looking up at him. - Leave this defenseless girl, or you will have to deal with me!
The defenseless girl looked with some displeasure at the courageous Khimikov, and her gentleman angrily pulled out his hand and shouted:
Who the hell are you?
Scoundrel! I am the one whom Providence found necessary to send at a critical moment for this creature. Defend yourself!
Khimikov's opponent, a huge, fat blond man, clenched his fist, but the sight of little Khimikov, writhing madly at his feet with a dagger in his hand, forced him to retreat.
“The devil k-knows what it is,” he muttered, bouncing away from the pale, thin hand, which was furiously drawing intricate circles and figure eights around him with a dagger. “Devil knows... I absolutely don’t understand...” the blond mumbled dumbfoundedly and began with quick steps move away from Khimikov, who remained near the girl.
“Madam,” said Khimikov, taking off his strange black hat and lowering it to the ground. “I apologize if your ear was offended by a few harsh words that necessity forced me to utter.” Ha ha! - Khimikov laughed ominously. - The guy is obviously afraid of the smell of blood and cleverly avoided a little bloodletting... Ha ha ha!
Who are you? - asked the amazed Polina Kozlova, examining Khimikov.
Khimikov was embarrassed to say that his last name was Khimikov and that he served as an assistant accountant in a transport office. He lowered his head, threw the end of his cloak over his shoulder and, as if shaking something off himself, said:
Someday... when it is possible, a man with a black beard will appear to you, show you this dagger and tell you who I am... For now... madam, do not forget that this city is terrible. It is fraught with dangers completely unknown to you, and you need to have my bestial cunning and dexterity to avoid them. But you... How do your elderly parents risk letting you go on this terrible night... Would you find it convenient to deign to give me gracious permission to offer to accompany you to your home.
Well, you can,” Polina Kozlova grinned.
Khimikov took the girl by the arm and, looking fiercely at the passers-by he met, carefully led her down the street. After a hundred steps, he already learned that his companion had no parents and that her last name was Polina Kozlova.
So young and, alas, defenseless,” Khimikov whispered, touched by her story. - Grief over the loss of your venerable parents is mixed in my soul with the sweet hope of being useful to you in some way and taking upon my chest the blows of evil intrigue and the machinations of the enemy aimed at you...
“Take me for a ride in the car,” the girl said, narrowing her eyes at Khimikov.
According to his convictions, Khimikov hated cars, preferring the good old stagecoaches to them. But the desire of a woman was law for him.
Madam, your hand...
They drove for a long time, and then the girl got hungry and said that she wanted to go to a restaurant.
Khimikov didn’t say a word against her, but he decided to himself that if he didn’t have enough money in the restaurant, he would go out into the hallway and stab himself with a dagger there. It’s better to let a fatal secret hang over him than a prosaic refusal of dinner. In the restaurant office, the girl straightened her disheveled hair, walked up to Khimikov and, sitting on his thin, unsteady knees, kissed the assistant accountant on the cheek.
Khimikov’s heart fluttered and sank.
Court... Polina. Wow... you... fell in love with me! Oh, let this unexpectedly flared passion be the guarantee of my desire to devote my life to you from now on.
Give me a cigarette,” Polina asked, smoothing his thin red hair.
Graceful minx! Frolic orphan! - Khimikov exclaimed in ecstasy and pressed the girl to his chest.
After dinner, Khimikov escorted Polina home, at the entrance to her house he took off his hat, bowed low and respectfully and, kissing her hand, left, wrapped in his long cloak.
The confused girl looked after him in surprise, smiled and said:
Today I sleep alone.
This was the rarest and most curious incident in her life.
Khimikov lived a strange life.
The transport office, the Black Swan tavern, a good jug of beer - all of this was swallowed up by the young poetic feeling that burned in his skinny chest.
He often met with Polina and, knightly polite, slavishly fulfilled all the whims of the girl, who was very fond of cars and theatrical performances. The sinister adventurer's debts grew with dizzying speed, and a series of prosaic troubles befell his poor head. People in the office began to look askance at his carelessness in writing receipts and his constant requests for salary in advance. The landlady stopped receiving rent for the apartment and hardly fed Khimikov, who was withered from passion and deprivation.
And Khimikov, hungry, deprived of even a “good scrambled egg” at the Black Swan tavern, was looking forward to the evening when he could throw on a cloak and, taking a dagger and a mask (the mask appeared very recently as an attribute of a love affair), go on a date .
Polina Kozlova was a bad girl.
Khimikov was cheated on - he did not notice it. They laughed at Khimikov - he considered this an original expression of love, Khimikov was ruined - he was too poetic to pay attention to this...
And the crash came.
Like any adventurer, Khimikov valued his weapon most of all, and Khimikov treasured the dagger like the apple of his eye. But one day Polina said:
Bring some sweets tomorrow.
And the ruined Khimikov the next day, without hesitation, wrapped the dagger in paper and took it to the antique dealer.
What is this? - asked the surprised merchant.
Dagger. This is my old friend, who has served me more than one service,” Khimikov said sadly, wrapping his cloak around him.
“This is a simple knife for cutting books, not a dagger,” the merchant smiled. - What makes you think that he is a dagger? You can buy these for seven hryvnia anywhere. Even newer ones, not rusty.
The amazed Khimikov took his dagger and wandered home. The thought flashed through his head that today he might not go to Polina, but tomorrow he could say that a strange adventure had happened to him: some unknown people kidnapped him, took him away in a carriage and kept him for a day in a mysterious dungeon.
And the next day, since the issue of candy was not resolved, Khimikov decided to rob someone on the street.
He decided this without any hesitation or doubt. He considered robbing a rich man not a shameful thing at all, firmly standing in the point of view of the knights of past centuries, who were not particularly picky about complex issues of morality.
He immediately decided that if he robbed a large sum, he would give the excess to the poor.
Wrapped in a cloak, with a dagger in his hand, Khimikov that same evening went to the streets of the city, vigilantly looking around.
Everything was as it should be. The wind tore the hem of his cloak, the moon was hiding behind the clouds, and there were few passers-by. Khimikov hid in some cavity in the wall and began to wait.
Loud footsteps along the deserted street announced to the accountant's assistant that the prey was approaching. A gentleman appeared in the distance, dressed in an expensive coat and a shiny top hat. Khimikov convulsively clenched his dagger, slipped out of the ambush and appeared - small, in a huge hat, like a monstrous mushroom - in front of a passerby.
Ha ha ha! - he laughed with a terrible laugh. - Is there any money?
Poor fellow! - the gentleman said compassionately, pausing. - On such a cold night, begging for alms... It's terrible. You're wearing two kopecks, go warm up!
Khimikov clutched the two-kopeck note thrust into his hand and, feverishly chattering his teeth, began to run down the street. His head was spinning, and the robbery that ended so strangely filled his heart with resentment. Like a black, strange bird, he rushed down the street, and the wind, like wings, flapped the hem of his cloak and blew through the amazing assistant accountant.
Khimikov lay on his wretched bed, looking with a fixed gaze at the ceiling.
The inconsolable owner's son Motka sat next to him and, with tears on his dirty face, stroked Khimikov's pale hand.
Yes... brother... Motya,” Khimikov winked at him, “I’ve sinned a lot in my life, and now I’m paying back.”
“Mom said that maybe you won’t die,” Motka tried to make the terrible accountant happy.
No, brother... It's been lived, robbed, enough blood has been released. Motya, I had no friends except you. Do you want me to give you what is dearest to me - my dagger?
For a minute, Motka’s eyes sparkled with joy.
Thank you, Matvey Petrovich! I, too, when I grow up, will kill with it.
Ha ha ha! - Khimikov laughed ominously. - Here he is, my heir and successor of my work! Motya, wait until three people in raincoats come to you, with rifles in their hands, then start acting. Let the blood of the strong flow in defense of the weak.
He broke off the conversation and fell silent.
For some time now, Khimikov had been puzzling over the resolution of one question: what last dying words to say to him: there were many beautiful phrases, but Khimikov didn’t like all of them.
And he thought painfully.
The doctor and Motka’s mother bent over Khimikov.
Who is he? - the doctor asked in a whisper, looking in surprise at the huge hat and cloak hanging in the corner.
Doctor,” Khimikov said with difficulty, opening his eyes, “you will not be able to penetrate the secret of my birth.” Ha ha ha!
He grabbed his chest and croaked:
The souls of those I have ruined crowd before my eyes in a long line... But I will give an answer for them only before the throne of the Most High... Sleep, Red Matthew!
People of four dimensions
They're amazingly funny! - she said, smiling dreamily and absent-mindedly.
Not knowing whether a woman praises or blames in such cases, I answered, trying to be vague:
Absolutely right. - This can often be stated without the risk of making a mistake.
Sometimes they make me laugh.
“That’s nice of them,” I noted cautiously, trying to understand her.
You know, he is a real Othello.
Since until now we were talking about the old doctor, their family physician, I, surprised by this strange property of him, objected:
You would never have thought this!
She sighed.
Yes. And it’s terrible to realize that you are in the complete power of such a person. Sometimes I regret marrying him. I'm sure his head is still hurt.
Oh, you're talking about your husband! But he...
She looked at me in surprise.
It's not the husband's head that's hurt. He broke it himself.
Fell, or what?
Not really. He broke it for this young man.
Because last time We had a conversation about young people about three weeks ago, then “this young man,” if she did not call the doctor that way, was obviously a completely unknown person to me.
I looked at her helplessly and said:
Until you explain the reasons for the misfortune with the “young man,” the fate of this stranger will be foreign to my heart.
Oh, I forgot that you don’t know this case! About three weeks ago, we were walking with him from among the guests, you know, through the park. And he sat on the bench until we came across a strip of electric light. So pale and black-haired. These men can be surprisingly reckless at times. I was wearing a big black hat then, which suited me so well, and I was very flushed from walking. This madman looked at me carefully and suddenly, getting up from the bench, came up to us. You understand - I'm with my husband. This is madness. So young. And my husband, as I already told you, is a real Othello. She comes up and takes her husband by the sleeve. “Let me have a smoke,” he says. Alexander pulls his hand away, bends down to the ground faster than lightning and hits him on the head with some kind of brick - fuck! And the young man, like this very... sheaf, falls. Horror!
Was he really jealous of him for no reason?!
She shrugged.
I'm telling you, they are amazingly funny!
After saying goodbye to her, I left the house and ran into my husband on the street corner.
Bah! What an unexpected meeting! Why don't you even show your eyes?
“And I won’t show myself,” I joked. - They say you break your heads with bricks like roasted nuts.
He laughed.
Did your wife tell you? It’s good that a brick came to my hand. And then, think about it, I had fifteen hundred thousand dollars on me, my wife was wearing diamond earrings...
I flinched away from him.
But... what does earrings have to do with it?
After all, he could eat them with meat. The square is empty and the wilderness is desperate.
Do you think this is a robber?
No, attaché of the French embassy! A man approaches in a remote place, asks for a light and grabs my hand - it seems clear.
He fell silent offended.
So you... bricked it?
On the head. He didn’t even squeak... We understand these matters too.
You won't be able to keep up! - a voice came from behind me.
I looked back and saw my friend, whom I had not seen for three weeks.
Looking at him, I clasped my hands and couldn’t help but scream.
God! What happened to you?!
I just left the hospital today, I’m still weak.
But... for God's sake! What were you sick with?
He smiled faintly and asked in turn:
Tell me, haven’t you heard: in the last three weeks there have been no escapes from the insane asylum in our city?
Don't know. And what?
Well... were there any cases of an escaped madman attacking peaceful passers-by?
You shouldn’t be interested in such nonsense!.. Tell us better about yourself.
What! I was three weeks between life and death. Still have a scar.
I grabbed his hand and exclaimed with unexpected interest:
Are you talking about a scar? Three weeks ago? Weren't you sitting in the park then?
Well, yes. You probably read it in the newspaper? This is the most ridiculous incident of my life... I was sitting one warm, quiet evening in the park. Laziness, languor. I want to light a cigarette, damn it! There are no matches... Well, I think a kind soul will pass by, I’ll ask. Just ten minutes later a gentleman and a lady pass by. I didn’t look at her - a mug, it seems. But he smoked. I come up and touch him on the sleeve in the most polite way: “Let me light a cigarette.” And what do you think! This demoniac bends down to the ground, picks up something - and I, with a broken head, without memory, fly to the ground. Just think that this unfortunate defenseless woman walked with him, probably not even knowing what kind of bird it was.
I looked into his eyes and asked sternly:
Do you...really think you were dealing with a madman?
I am sure about that.
An hour and a half later, I was feverishly rummaging through old issues of the local newspaper and finally found what I needed. It was a small note in the chronicle of incidents: “Under the fumes of alcohol. Yesterday morning, watchmen cleaning the square noticed an unknown young man, who turned out to be a nobleman according to his passport, who, being very intoxicated, fell on the path of the square so unsuccessfully that he broke his head on a nearby brick. The grief of the unfortunate parents of this lost young man is beyond description..."
I am now standing on the cathedral bell tower, looking at groups of gray people moving along the street, reminiscent of ants, who converge, diverge, collide and again, without any purpose or plan, crawl away in all directions...
And I laugh, I laugh.
The story of one painting
From exhibition meetings
Until now, during random meetings with modernists, I looked at them with some fear: it seemed to me that such a modernist artist, in the middle of a conversation, would either unexpectedly bite me on the shoulder or ask for a loan.
But this strange feeling disappeared after the first close acquaintance with such an artist.
He turned out to be a man of an extremely peaceful character and a gentleman, although with an admixture of shameless lies.
I was then at one of the art exhibitions, the season of which is now in full swing, and spent the second half hour contemplating the strange picture hanging in front of me. This picture did not arouse a cheerful mood in me... There was a yellow stripe running across the entire canvas, on one side of which there were small black squiggles. The same squiggles, but in purple color, pleasantly diversified the tone at the bottom of the picture. The sun hung to the side, which would have been a very good astronomical luminary if it had not been one-sided and, moreover, blue.
The first assumption that flashed through me when looking at this picture was that this was a sea view. But the black squiggles at the top destroyed this assumption in the most merciless way.
“Eh! - I said to myself. “The crafty artist simply depicted the inside of a Norman hut...”
But the one-sided sun with its entire appearance and position denied this simple version.
I tried to look at the picture with my fist: the impression was concentrated, and the amazing picture became even more incomprehensible...
I resorted to a trick - I closed my eyes tightly and then, shaking my head, immediately opened them wide...
The one-sided sun still bubbled with its convex side and the squiggles hung with weary persistence - each in its place.
An unfamiliar young gentleman with a greenish face and such a wide tie had been hovering around me for about ten minutes now that I had to politely avoid him all the time. The young gentleman looked into my face, twitched his shoulder and generally expressed great pleasure at everything around him.
Damn it! - I grumbled, finally losing patience. - I would like to know the author of this picture... I would tell him...
The young master nodded his head happily.
Is it true? Do you like the picture?! I'm very glad that you can't tear yourself away from it. Others were cursing, and you... Let me shake your hand.
Who are you? - I asked abruptly.
Yes... Tell me,” I turned to him sternly. - What it is?
This? My God... "Beethoven's Fourteenth Violin Sonata, opus eighteen." The simplest sonata.
I carefully examined the picture again.
Eighteenth, you say? - I asked gloomily.
Yes, sir, the eighteenth.
Are you confused? Is this not Beethoven's Fifth Sonata, opus twenty-four?
He turned pale.
N-no... As far as I remember, this is the Fourteenth Sonata.
I looked at his green face in disbelief.
Explain to me... What changes would you make if you had to redo this opus two times higher?.. Or even pull the Sixth Sonata... Eh? Why should you and I, young man, be ashamed? How do you think?
He became worried.
This is not possible... You introduce a mathematical principle into the mood... This is a product of my personal experience! Approach this as you would the Fourteenth Sonata.
I smiled sadly.
Unfortunately, it is difficult for me to fulfill your proposal... Oh, very difficult! I won't see the fourteenth sonata.
Why?!!
Because there are only ten of them. Unfortunately, there are only ten Beethoven violin sonatas. The old man was a lazy fellow.
Why are you pestering me?! This means that this piece was played not on the violin, but on the cello!.. That's all! On high notes... I was worried.
It’s as if the old man set out to plot intrigues against you... There are only six cello sonatas he has concocted.
My interlocutor, dejected, stood with his head down and chipped away pieces of plaster from the statue.
“Don’t spoil the statues,” I asked.
He sighed.
He had such a look that I took pity on the lost impressionist.
You know... Let this stay between us. But on condition that you give me your word to improve and start leading a new, honest life. You will not exhibit such paintings, and I will remain silent about your experience. OK?
He wrinkled his green face into a grimace, but promised.
* * *
A week later I saw a new painting of his at another exhibition: “Tchaikovsky’s Seventh Fugue, op. 9, ed. SOUTH. Zimmerman."
He didn't keep his promise. Me too.
As soon as I remember my father, I imagine him climbing the stairs, with a lively, concerned face and sweeping movements, accompanied by several stalwart porters, burdened with a heavy burden.
This strange idea is born in the brain, probably because most often I had to see my father climbing the stairs, accompanied by groaning and swearing porters.
My father was amazing person. Everything about him was somehow original, not like others... He knew several languages, but they were strange languages that no one else needed: Romanian, Turkish, Bulgarian, Tatar. He knew neither French nor German. He had a voice, but when he sang, it was impossible to make out anything - it was such a thick, low voice. Some amazing rumble and rumble was heard, so low that it seemed to be coming out from under his feet. My father loved carpentry work - but it was also somehow useless - he only made wooden steamers. He tinkered with each steamboat for about a year, made it with all the details, and when he finished, he said, satisfied:
Such a thing can be sold for no less than fifteen rubles!
And the material cost thirty! - the mother picked up.
Keep quiet, Varya,” said the father. - You do not understand anything…
Of course,” the mother objected, smiling bitterly. - You understand a lot...
My father's main occupation was trade. But here he outdid himself in the strangeness and uselessness - from a commercial point of view, of the operations that took place in the store.
For my father, there was no better pleasure than lending goods to someone. A buyer who owed money to his father became his best friend... His father invited him into the shop, gave him tea, played checkers with him and was offended by his mother to the core if she, having learned about this, said:
It would be better if he gave the money than to play checkers.
“You don’t understand anything, Varya,” my father delicately objected. - He is very good man. Two daughters study at the gymnasium. I was in the war myself. You should listen to how he talks about military procedures.
What does that matter to us! You never know who was in the war - so why should everyone lend?
“You don’t understand anything, Varya,” my father said sadly and went into the barn to make a steamboat.
He had with me a good relationship, but we had different characters. I couldn’t understand his hobbies, I was skeptical about steamships, and when he gave me one, thinking of making me delighted with it, I coolly, with a bored look, touched some wooden thing on the bow of the tiny ship and walked away.
“You don’t understand anything, Vaska,” the father said, embarrassed.
I loved books, and he bought me half a dozen of some trumpeter pigeons. Why I should have admired the fact that their tails are not flat, but like a pipe, I still consider unclear. I had to get up early in the morning, give these pigeons food and water, which did not excite me at all. Three or four days later, I carried out a hellish plan - I opened the door of the pigeon box, thinking that the pigeons would fly away immediately. But the damned birds twirled their tails and sat peacefully in their place. However, the open door brought its benefits: that same night the cat strangled all the trumpeters, bringing me relief and my father grief and quiet tears.
Just as everything about my father was original, his passion for buying rare things was also original and unusual. The requirements that he made for this type of operation were the following: that the thing should surprise everyone around with its appearance, that it should be monumental, and that everyone would think that the thing was bought for five hundred rubles when only thirty were paid for it.
* * *
One day, on the stairs of the house where we lived, we heard the stomping of numerous feet, screams and grunting. We ran out onto the landing of the stairs and saw my father leading several porters, burdened with a large, strange-looking thing.
What it is? - the mother asked with concern.
The father's radiant face shone with the pride and hidden joy of a man who had planned a very nice surprise.
You’ll see,” he said, trembling with impatience. - Now let's install it.
When “it” was placed and the porters, blessed by the father, left, “it” turned out to be a colossal washbasin with a marble board that had burst in half and red cracked wood.
Well? - the father triumphantly addressed those around him. - How much would you value this thing?
What is it for? - asked the mother.
You don't understand anything, Varya. Alyosha, tell me, how much do you think this washbasin costs?
Alyosha - a flatterer, a hyperbolist and a false, sycophantic soul - clasped his ink-smeared hands and exclaimed unnaturally:
How lovely! What is the price? Four hundred twenty-five rubles!
Ha ha ha! - the father laughed triumphantly. - And you, Varya, how much can you tell me?
The mother shook her head skeptically.
Well... you can still give fifteen rubles for it.
You understand a lot! You can imagine - all this marble, mahogany and everything - costs only twenty-five rubles for the occasion. Now we'll try it! Marya! Water.
A bucket of water was poured into the monumental washstand... The pedal pressed with the foot did not cause a single drop of liquid to come out of the tap, but when we looked down, our feet were surrounded by a whole lake of water.
It's flowing! - said the father. - We need to call a locksmith. Marya! Run away.
The mechanic tinkered with the sink for half an hour, took six rubles for it and, on leaving, stole a hat from the front room.
The washbasin has taken up residence with us.
When father was not at home, everyone enjoyed washing themselves from the small wall washstand, but if this happened in front of father, he shouted, cursed, forced everyone to wash from his purchase and said:
You don't understand anything!
Everyone had reason to avoid the large washbasin. He had a malicious, disgusting disposition and fickle sympathies. Sometimes he showed a doglike affection for his sister Lisa and was allowed to wash himself off in a normal, ordinary way. Or he was friends with Alyosha, was attentive to him - submissive, like a child, he poured a transparent stream onto Alyosha’s black hands and did not allow himself obscene antics.
He did the same with all the others. As soon as you pressed the pedal, a horizontal stream of water flew out of the tap with a whistle and hit to a careless person in the stomach or chest; then the stream instantly dropped and, hiding, waited for the next pedal press. The man bent down and put his hands up, hoping to catch the damned stream in the very place where it hit.
But the stream did not sleep...
Seeing the bowed shoulders, it flew up like a fountain, fell down, doused the head and back of the head of a trusting person, instantly disappeared and, aiming at the legs, watered them so generously that the person, defeated by the washbasin, jumped to the side with a curse and ran away.
Sometimes the washbasin turned the stream, like a snake’s head, turned it, grimaced, and then it was necessary to run around this monumental rubbish in order to catch the evasive stream with your hands. Then we came up with the idea of making a formal raid on it: we stood around, extended a dozen hands, and the driven stream, no matter how it dodged, ended up with someone...
* * *
One day, a familiar stomping and groaning sound was heard on the stairs... It was the father, leading an army of porters, leading a new purchase.
It was a strange procession.
In front, three people were dragging a huge quadrangle with a hole in the middle, behind them two were carrying a strange chiseled rod, and behind them two more people were bringing up the rear with some kind of huge globe and a frosted glass hemisphere, the size of the roof of a small shed.
What is this? - the mother asked with secret fear.
“Lamp,” the father answered cheerfully.
I thought it was a stand for posters.
Isn’t it true,” the father picked up, “it’s an enormous thing.” I bargained for half an hour until they gave in to me.
The lamp was installed next to the washbasin. She was as tall as the ceiling and looked strange, extremely uncomfortable - heavy, ugly, looking like some kind of monstrous African plant.
Well, what do you think, Alyosha... How much is she worth?
Three thousand! - Alyosha said confidently.
Ha ha! What do you say, Varya?
The mother, sitting in a corner, cried silently. All the delight immediately disappeared from the father, and he, discouraged, approached his mother, bent down and tenderly kissed her on the head.
Eh, Varya! You do not understand anything! Vaska! How much do you think a lamp like this should cost?
“Seven thousand,” I said, walking around the lamp. - At least I would give that much for her, if only she would be removed from here.
You understand a lot! - the father was confused.
The lamp turned out to be from the same family as the washbasin. Kerosene (fourteen pounds); what was poured into it flowed, poisoned the air, and when the mechanic fixed it (the same one who stole the hat), the lamp drew in a huge black wick and never wanted to let it out. Pulled out with some tongs, the wick caught fire, but it started to smoke so much that the neighbors came to save us from the fire, offering free services to remove things and put out fires.
And the huge, immense lamp burned with a small, microscopic light, the kind that glows in the icon lamp, quietly crackled and sarcastically clicked its tiny red tongue.
Her father stood in front of her in silent delight.
* * *
One day the same noise, roar and screams were heard on the stairs.
What else? - the mother jumped out.
“A watch,” the father said, laughing happily.
This was the most amazing, the most unheard of thing my father bought.
Two hands rushed rapidly across the huge dial, regardless of time or the efforts of people who would try to keep them from doing so. Below, a colossal pendulum was swinging menacingly, making a swing of four arshins, and in front the entire mechanism was breathing hoarsely and heavily, like a hunted rhinoceros or a man half-smothered by a pillow...
Who made them? What kind of drunken, abnormal, alcohol-inflamed brain came up with the idea of building this ugly, clumsy apparatus, with all the parts, painfully, as if in delirium, exaggerated, with a move without logic and with a drunken disgusting breath inside, the breath of their creator, who, perhaps, has already died somewhere under the fence, tormented by delirium tremens, eaten away by rheumatism and gout.
The clock stood next to the washbasin and lamp, winked at each other and immediately understood how to behave in this house.
The pendulum swiftly rushed from wall to wall and kept trying to knock us off our feet as we rushed headlong past it... The mechanism grumbled, coughed and groaned like a dying man, and the hands frolicked on the dial, scattering, converging and spinning in a dashing Bacchic dance...
My father decided to subject us to the time shown by this clock, but he soon became convinced that we would have to have dinner at night, sleep at noon, and that within a week we would be expelled from the schools for showing up for lessons at eleven o’clock in the evening.
The watch came in handy for us as a sports device that had never been seen before... We took our three-year-old sister Olya, sat her on a colossal pendulum, and she, frantically clinging to the rod, rushed, trembling, frightened, from side to side, exciting the merriment of the surrounding youth.
Mother called this room “The Cursed Room.”
All day long the suffocating smell of kerosene could be heard from there, rivulets of water flowed from the washbasin onto the floor, and at night we were awakened and frightened by the terrible groans that the clock emitted, sometimes interspersing these groans with hoarse, ominous laughter and neighing.
One day, when we returned from school and crowded into our favorite room to have fun at about o’clock, we retreated, amazed, frightened: the room was empty, and only three painted quadrangles on the floor showed the places where my father’s purchases stood.
What did you do with them? - we asked the mother.
Sold it.
Did they give you a lot? - asked the hitherto silent father.
Three rubles. Only they didn’t give it, but I... So that they could be taken away. Nobody wanted to get involved with them for nothing...
The father lowered his head, and his suppressed whisper echoed echoingly through the empty room:
You understand a lot!
Now he is dead, my father.
Field work
(from the collection “Gilded Pills”)
This is finally the devil knows what it is!! There are no limits to this!!!
And the editor grabbed his own hair with his own hand.
What's happened? - I asked. - Anything on the Ministry of Public Education again?
Not really…
So, the Ministry of Finance?
No, no, no!
Understand. Of course, the Ministry of Internal Affairs?
Excuse me... Long-distance telephone, what does this refer to?
Department of Posts and Telegraphs.
Well... So that they have no bottom and no tires!! Imagine: again, not a sound from Moscow. Because something happened there - the newspaper should be published without a Moscow telephone. Oh, prrr!.. Listen: if you were a real journalist, you would investigate the reasons for such disgrace and bring it to the attention of society!!
What do you think... I’m not investigating? And I'm investigating.
That's nice. They say they steal telephone wire there.
Who is stealing?
The men there.
I’ll go today. I'll show you what a real journalist I am!
It was an early cold morning when I got off at a small intermediate station between the two capitals and quietly walked towards the nearest village.
I caught up with some lonely guy.
Hello, uncle!
Hello, nephew. Where will you be from?
From Piterburhu itself,” I answered in the most beautiful Russian. - Well, how are your people here... Are they living well?
Let's say it's nothing. Let's feed. The harvest, let's say, is nothing. The first harvest.
Prices like bread?
Yes the prices are reasonable. French rolls, as before, cost a nickel, and saits cost three.
That's not what I mean, uncle. I ask how the harvest was sold?
The harvest? Yes, one and a half rubles a pound.
Are you talking about rye?
Cheaper with rye. But there is no rye on it. Thank God it's galvanized.
What's galvanized?
Yes, it's a wire. There is no rye on it.
Oh my goodness! Do you sow bread?
No way. We don't play around.
I peered into the distance. Several men with braids over their shoulders wandered towards us.
What are they?
They are going to mow.
All ideas about agriculture were shaken in my brain and turned upside down.
Mow?! In January?
What do they do? Once hung, that means it’s ready.
Meanwhile, the villagers approached us singing. They apparently sang an old local song:
Oh, wire -
D-metallitskaya,
Eh, nurse
You are a man!..
I'll cut you off
Down from the pillar
I'll sell it in the city -
Daring guy!..
When they saw me, everyone took off their hats.
God help you! - I wished warmly.
Thank you for the kind words.
Are you going to work?
That's how it is, master.
It’s not possible for an Orthodox person to be without a job. Not such quitters, thank God.
Are you going to mow?
But what? At Eryomin’s site, the wire went up just yesterday.
How do you do this?
Eh, master, something rural work do not you know? First, they dig holes, then they put up pillars. Of course, we are waiting and watching closely. And when, then, the wire rises on the poles and matures, then we mow it down. The girls go into riots, the guys load them onto carts, we take them to the city. It's a simple matter. Agricultural.
“You would rather sow bread than do such “things”,” I hesitantly advised.
Eva! Something can be compared. Here you have grace: no grass, no drought; seeds - my God.
“I’ve been grinding,” interrupted the stern, earnest old man. - Also, sir, if you compare it with the grain industry, then our business is not honey either. First of all, they spend the whole winter lying on the stove, chewing carrot pies. And we work like the damned all year round. And even now things have gotten so bad that wire prices have begun to fall. Therefore, all the baptized people began to do this.
“And even worse,” the clumsy little man picked up. - Sometimes they don’t hang up the wire for three or five deniers. Is it possible?
“That’s true: it’s a disgrace,” supported the third man. - We also need to eat and drink. Sometimes you go outside the outskirts to the line and see what the hell the harvest is like here: only the pillars stick out. While they are still there they are going to hang the wire...
What is your administration looking at? - I asked. - What are the village authorities watching?!
Ana is watching.
Wow! Of course... You can hide from them. Now the oppression has become so bad that you just lie down and die. The severity has become great.
From whom?
Yes from the authorities.
Which ones?
Yes, the fishing certificate requires that it be chosen at the council. For cutting, as they say, telephone wire.
Moreover, there are rumors that the management will rent out plots for cutting. Didn't you hear, sir? How is it in St. Petersburg in this regard?
Don't know.
The gray-haired old man bent down to my ear and croaked:
What, you can’t hear there - they won’t give us subsidies? It's painfully tough.
And what? Poor food?
Undercut. The people multiply, but the line is still the same.
They’re sitting in the Duma there too,” the black-bearded man remarked with a venomous grimace, “but what they’re doing is unknown. If only they could draw one more line. Still, it would be more free.
What do they care? They are just filling their belly, but will they remember anything about the peasant hump?
Well, let's go, guys. There's no need to scratch your tongue. It's still dark before we need to get out. Otherwise we won’t even end up in riots.
And the villagers briskly walked towards the pillars, on which wire threads loomed like a thin, barely noticeable web.
The choir thundered, beating time:
Eh, wire
D-metallitskaya.
Eh, nurse
You are a man!..
The sun peeked out from behind a gray cloud and illuminated the working, black-earth, homespun Rus'.
